Murder at the Vicarage (Miss Marple 1)

Then I spoke to him very earnestly. I begged him to leave St. Mary Mead. By remaining there, he could only bring greater unhappiness on Anne Protheroe than was already her lot. People would talk, the matter would get to Colonel Protheroe’s ears—and things would be made infinitely worse for her.

Lawrence protested.

“Nobody knows a thing about it except you, padre.”

“My dear young man, you underestimate the detective instinct of village life. In St. Mary Mead everyone knows your most intimate affairs. There is no detective in England equal to a spinster lady of uncertain age with plenty of time on her hands.”

He said easily that that was all right. Everyone thought it was Lettice.

“Has it occurred to you,” I asked, “that possibly Lettice might think so herself?”

He seemed quite surprised by the idea. Lettice, he said, didn’t care a hang about him. He was sure of that.

“She’s a queer sort of girl,” he said. “Always seems in a kind of dream, and yet underneath I believe she’s really rather practical. I believe all that vague stuff is a pose. Lettice knows jolly well what she’s doing. And there’s a funny vindictive streak in her. The queer thing is that she hates Anne. Simply loathes her. And yet Anne’s been a perfect angel to her always.”

I did not, of course, take his word for this last. To infatuated young men, their inamorata always behaves like an angel. Still, to the best of my observation, Anne had always behaved to her step-daughter with kindness and fairness. I had been surprised myself that afternoon at the bitterness of Lettice’s tone.

We had to leave the conversation there, because Griselda and Dennis burst in upon us and said I was not to make Lawrence behave like an old fogy.

“Oh dear!” said Griselda, throwing herself into an armchair. “How I would like a thrill of some kind. A murder—or even a burglary.”

“I don’t suppose there’s anyone much worth burgling,” said Lawrence, trying to enter into her mood. “Unless we stole Miss Hartnell’s false teeth.”

“They do click horribly,” said Griselda. “But you’re wrong about there being no one worthwhile. There’s some marvellous old silver at Old Hall. Trencher salts and a Charles II Tazza—all kinds of things like that. Worth thousands of pounds, I believe.”

“The old man would probably shoot you with an army revolver,” said Dennis. “Just the sort of thing he’d enjoy doing.”

“Oh, we’d get in first and hold him up!” said Griselda. “Who’s got a revolver?”

“I’ve got a Mauser pistol,” said Lawrence.

“Have you? How exciting. Why do you have it?”

“Souvenir of the war,” said Lawrence briefly.

“Old Protheroe was showing the silver to Stone today,” volunteered Dennis. “Old Stone was pretending to be no end interested in it.”

“I thought they’d quarrelled about the barrow,” said Griselda.

“Oh, they’ve made that up!” said Dennis. “I can’t think what people want to grub about in barrows for, anyway.”

“The man Stone puzzles me,” said Lawrence. “I think he must be very absentminded. You’d swear sometimes he knew nothing about his own subject.”

“That’s love,” said Dennis. “Sweet Gladys Cram, you are no sham. Your teeth are white and fill me with delight. Come, fly with me, my bride to be. And at the Blue Boar, on the bedroom floor—”

“That’s enough, Dennis,” I said.

“Well,” said Lawrence Redding, “I must be off. Thank you very much, Mrs. Clement, for a very pleasant evening.”

Griselda and Dennis saw him off. Dennis returned to the study alone. Something had happened to ruffle the boy. He wandered about the room aimlessly, frowning and kicking the furniture.

Our furniture is so shabby already that it can hardly be damaged further, but I felt impelled to utter a mild protest.

“Sorry,” said Dennis.

He was silent for a moment and then burst out:

“What an absolutely rotten thing gossip is!”

I was a little surprised. “What’s the matter?” I asked.

“I don’t know whether I ought to tell you.”

I was more and more surprised.

“It’s such an absolutely rotten thing,” Dennis said again. “Going round and saying things. Not even saying them. Hinting them. No, I’m damned—sorry—if I’ll tell you! It’s too absolutely rotten.”

I looked at him curiously, but I did not press him further. I wondered very much, though. It is very unlike Dennis to take anything to heart.

Griselda came in at that moment.

“Miss Wetherby’s just rung up,” she said. “Mrs. Lestrange went out at a quarter past eight and hasn’t come in yet. Nobody knows where she’s gone.”

“Why should they know?”

“But it isn’t to Dr. Haydock’s. Miss Wetherby does know that, because she telephoned to Miss Hartnell who lives next door to him and who would have been sure to see her.”

“It is a mystery to me,” I said, “how anyone ever gets any nourishment in this place. They must eat their meals standing up by the window so as to be sure of not missing anything.”

“And that’s not all,” said Griselda, bubbling with pleasure. “They’ve found out about the Blue Boar. Dr. Stone and Miss Cram have got rooms next door to each other, BUT”—she waved an impressive forefinger—“no communicating door!”

“That,” I said, “must be very disappointing to everybody.”

At which Griselda laughed.

Thursday started badly. Two of the ladies of my parish elected to quarrel about the church decorations. I was called in to adjudicate between two middle-aged ladies, each of whom was literally trembling with rage. If it had not been so painful, it would have been quite an interesting physical phenomenon.

Then I had to reprove two of our choir boys for persistent sweet sucking during the hours of divine service, and I had an uneasy feeling that I was not doing the job as wholeheartedly as I should have done.

Then our organist, who is distinctly “touchy,” had taken offence and had to be smoothed down.

And four of my poorer parishioners declared open rebellion against Miss Hartnell, who came to me bursting with rage about i

t.

I was just going home when I met Colonel Protheroe. He was in high good humour, having sentenced three poachers, in his capacity as magistrate.

“Firmness,” he shouted in his stentorian voice. He is slightly deaf and raises his voice accordingly as deaf people often do. “That’s what’s needed nowadays—firmness! Make an example. That rogue Archer came out yesterday and is vowing vengeance against me, I hear. Impudent scoundrel. Threatened men live long, as the saying goes. I’ll show him what his vengeance is worth next time I catch him taking my pheasants. Lax! We’re too lax nowadays! I believe in showing a man up for what he is. You’re always being asked to consider a man’s wife and children. Damned nonsense. Fiddlesticks. Why should a man escape the consequences of his acts just because he whines about his wife and children? It’s all the same to me—no matter what a man is—doctor, lawyer, clergyman, poacher, drunken wastrel—if you catch him on the wrong side of the law, let the law punish him. You agree with me, I’m sure.”

“You forget,” I said. “My calling obliges me to respect one quality above all others—the quality of mercy.”

“Well, I’m a just man. No one can deny that.”

I did not speak, and he said sharply:

“Why don’t you answer? A penny for your thoughts, man.”

I hesitated, then I decided to speak.

“I was thinking,” I said, “that when my time comes, I should be sorry if the only plea I had to offer was that of justice. Because it might mean that only justice would be meted out to me….”

“Pah! What we need is a little militant Christianity. I’ve always done my duty, I hope. Well, no more of that. I’ll be along this evening, as I said. We’ll make it a quarter past six instead of six, if you don’t mind. I’ve got to see a man in the village.”

“That will suit me quite well.”

He flourished his stick and strode away. Turning, I ran into Hawes. I thought he looked distinctly ill this morning. I had meant to upbraid him mildly for various matters in his province which had been muddled or shelved, but seeing his white strained face, I felt that the man was ill.