Murder at the Vicarage (Miss Marple 1)

“No.”

“Did you interfere in any way with the clock?”

“I never touched the clock. I seem to remember a clock lying overturned on the table, but I never touched it.”

“Now as to this pistol of yours, when did you last see it?”

Lawrence Redding reflected. “It’s hard to say exactly.”

“Where do you keep it?”

“Oh, in a litter of odds and ends in the sitting room in my cottage. On one of the shelves of the bookcase.”

“You left it lying about carelessly?”

“Yes. I really didn’t think about it. It was just there.”

“So that anyone who came to your cottage could have seen it?”

“Yes.”

“And you don’t remember when you last saw it?”

Lawrence drew his brows together in a frown of recollection.

“I’m almost sure it was there the day before yesterday. I remember pushing it aside to get an old pipe. I think it was the day before yesterday—but it may have been the day before that.”

“Who has been to your cottage lately?”

“Oh! Crowds of people. Someone is always drifting in and out. I had a sort of tea party the day before yesterday. Lettice Protheroe, Dennis, and all their crowd. And then one or other of the old Pussies comes in now and again.”

“Do you lock the cottage up when you go out?”

“No; why on earth should I? I’ve nothing to steal. And no one does lock their house up round here.”

“Who looks after your wants there?”

“An old Mrs. Archer comes in every morning to ‘do for me’ as it’s called.”

“Do you think she would remember when the pistol was there last?”

“I don’t know. She might. But I don’t fancy conscientious dusting is her strong point.”

“It comes to this—that almost anyone might have taken that pistol?”

“It seems so—yes.”

The door opened and Dr. Haydock came in with Anne Protheroe.

She started at seeing Lawrence. He, on his part, made a tentative step towards her.

“Forgive me, Anne,” he said. “It was abominable of me to think what I did.”

“I—” She faltered, then looked appealingly at Colonel Melchett. “Is it true, what Dr. Haydock told me?”

“That Mr. Redding is cleared of suspicion? Yes. And now what about this story of yours, Mrs. Protheroe? Eh, what about it?”

She smiled rather shamefacedly.

“I suppose you think it dreadful of me?”

“Well, shall we say—very foolish? But that’s all over. What I want now, Mrs. Protheroe, is the truth—the absolute truth.”

She nodded gravely.

“I will tell you. I suppose you know about—about everything.”

“Yes.”

“I was to meet Lawrence—Mr. Redding—that evening at the studio. At a quarter past six. My husband and I drove into the village together. I had some shopping to do. As we parted he mentioned casually that he was going to see the Vicar. I couldn’t get word to Lawrence, and I was rather uneasy. I—well, it was awkward meeting him in the Vicarage garden whilst my husband was at the Vicarage.”

Her cheeks burned as she said this. It was not a pleasant moment for her.

“I reflected that perhaps my husband would not stay very long. To find this out, I came along the back lane and into the garden. I hoped no one would see me, but of course old Miss Marple had to be in her garden! She stopped me and we said a few words, and I explained I was going to call for my husband. I felt I had to say something. I don’t know whether she believed me or not. She looked rather—funny.

“When I left her, I went straight across to the Vicarage and round the corner of the house to the study window. I crept up to it very softly, expecting to hear the sound of voices. But to my surprise there were none. I just glanced in, saw the room was empty, and hurried across the lawn and down to the studio where Lawrence joined me almost at once.”

“You say the room was empty, Mrs. Protheroe?”

“Yes, my husband was not there.”

“Extraordinary.”

“You mean, ma’am, that you didn’t see him?” said the Inspector.

“No, I didn’t see him.”

Inspector Slack whispered to the Chief Constable, who nodded.

“Do you mind, Mrs. Protheroe, just showing us exactly what you did?”

“Not at all.”

She rose, Inspector Slack pushed open the window for her, and she stepped out on the terrace and round the house to the left.

Inspector Slack beckoned me imperiously to go and sit at the writing table.

Somehow I didn’t much like doing it. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling. But, of course, I complied.

Presently I heard footsteps outside, they paused for a minute, then retreated. Inspector Slack indicated to me that I could return to the other side of the room. Mrs. Protheroe reentered through the window.

“Is that exactly how it was?” asked Colonel Melchett.

“I think exactly.”

“Then can you tell us, Mrs. Protheroe, just exactly where the Vicar was in the room when you looked in?” asked Inspector Slack.

“The Vicar? I—no, I’m afraid I can’t. I didn’t see him.”

Inspector Slack nodded.

“That’s how you didn’t see your husband. He was round the corner at the writing desk.”

“Oh!” she paused. Suddenly her eyes grew round with horror. “It wasn’t there that—that—”

“Yes, Mrs. Protheroe. It was while he was sitting there.”

“Oh!” She quivered.

He went on with his questions.

“Did you know, Mrs. Protheroe, that Mr. Redding had a pistol?”

“Yes. He told me so once.”

“Did you ever have that pistol in your possession?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Did you know where he kept it?”

“I’m not sure. I think—yes, I think I’ve seen it on a shelf in his cottage. Didn’t you keep it there, Lawrence?”

“When was the last time you were at the cottage, Mrs. Protheroe?”

“Oh! About three weeks ago. My husband and I had tea there with him.”

“And you have not been there since?”

“No. I never went there. You see, it would probably cause a lot of talk in the village.”

“Doubtless,” said Colonel Melchett dryly. “Where were you in the habit of seeing Mr. Redding, if I may ask?”

“He used to come up to the Hall. He was painting Lettice. We—we often met in the woods afterwards.”

Colonel Melchett nodded.

“Isn’t that enough?” Her voice was suddenly broken. “It’s so awful—having to tell you all these things. And—and there wasn’t anything wrong about it. There wasn’t—indeed, there wasn’t. We were just friends. We—we couldn’t help caring for each other.”

She looked pleadingly at Dr. Haydock, and that softhearted man stepped forward.

“I really think, Melchett,” he said, “that Mrs. Protheroe has had enough. She’s had a great shock—in more ways than one.”

The Chief Constable nodded.

“There is really nothing more I want to ask you, Mrs. Protheroe,” he said. “Thank you for answering my questions so frankly.”

“Then—then I may go?”

“Is your wife in?” asked Haydock. “I think Mrs. Protheroe would like to see her.”

“Yes,” I said, “Griselda is in. You’ll find her in the drawing room.”

She and Haydock left the room together and Lawrence Redding with them.

Colonel Melchett had pursed up his lips and was playing with a paper knife. Slack was looking at the note. It was then that I mentioned Miss Marple’s theory. Slack looked closely at it.

“My word,” he said, “I believe the old lady’s right. Look here, sir, don’t you see?—these figures are written