Murder at the Vicarage (Miss Marple 1)

It occurred to me that Lettice Protheroe was something of a minx. I wondered how she would get on with the archaeologist’s secretary, Miss Cram. Miss Cram is a healthy young woman of twenty-five, noisy in manner, with a high colour, fine animal spirits and a mouth that always seems to have more than its full share of teeth.

Village opinion is divided as to whether she is no better than she should be, or else a young woman of iron virtue who purposes to become Mrs. Stone at an early opportunity. She is in every way a great contrast to Lettice.

I could imagine that the state of things at Old Hall might not be too happy. Colonel Protheroe had married again some five years previously. The second Mrs. Protheroe was a remarkably handsome woman in a rather unusual style. I had always guessed that the relations between her and her stepdaughter were not too happy.

I had one more interruption. This time, it was my curate, Hawes. He wanted to know the details of my interview with Protheroe. I told him that the Colonel had deplored his “Romish tendencies” but that the real purpose of his visit had been on quite another matter. At the same time, I entered a protest of my own, and told him plainly that he must conform to my ruling. On the whole, he took my remarks very well.

I felt rather remorseful when he had gone for not liking him better. These irrational likes and dislikes that one takes to people are, I am sure, very unChristian.

With a sigh, I realized that the hands of the clock on my writing table pointed to a quarter to five, a sign that it was really half past four, and I made my way to the drawing room.

Four of my parishioners were assembled there with teacups. Griselda sat behind the tea table trying to look natural in her environment, but only succeeded in looking more out of place than usual.

I shook hands all round and sat down between Miss Marple and Miss Wetherby.

Miss Marple is a white-haired old lady with a gentle, appealing manner—Miss Wetherby is a mixture of vinegar and gush. Of the two Miss Marple is much the more dangerous.

“We were just talking,” said Griselda in a honeysweet voice, “about Dr. Stone and Miss Cram.”

A ribald rhyme concocted by Dennis shot through my head.

“Miss Cram doesn’t give a damn.”

I had a sudden yearning to say it out loud and observe the effect, but fortunately I refrained. Miss Wetherby said tersely:

“No nice girl would do it,” and shut her thin lips disapprovingly.

“Do what?” I inquired.

“Be a secretary to an unmarried man,” said Miss Wetherby in a horrified tone.

“Oh! my dear,” said Miss Marple. “I think married ones are the worst. Remember poor Mollie Carter.”

“Married men living apart from their wives are, of course, notorious,” said Miss Wetherby.

“And even some of the ones living with their wives,” murmured Miss Marple. “I remember….”

I interrupted these unsavoury reminiscences.

“But surely,” I said, “in these days a girl can take a post in just the same way as a man does.”

“To come away to the country? And stay at the same hotel?” said Mrs. Price Ridley in a severe voice.

Miss Wetherby murmured to Miss Marple in a low voice:

“And all the bedrooms on the same floor….”

Miss Hartnell, who is weather-beaten and jolly and much dreaded by the poor, observed in a loud, hearty voice:

“The poor man will be caught before he knows where he is. He’s as innocent as a babe unborn, you can see that.”

Curious what turns of phrase we employ. None of the ladies present would have dreamed of alluding to an actual baby till it was safely in the cradle, visible to all.

“Disgusting, I call it,” continued Miss Hartnell, with her usual tactlessness. “The man must be at least twenty-five years older than she is.”

Three female voices rose at once making disconnected remarks about the Choir Boys’ Outing, the regrettable incident at the last Mother’s Meeting, and the draughts in the church. Miss Marple twinkled at Griselda.

“Don’t you think,” said my wife, “that Miss Cram may just like having an interesting job? And that she considers Dr. Stone just as an employer?”

There was a silence. Evidently none of the four ladies agreed. Miss Marple broke the silence by patting Griselda on the arm.

“My dear,” she said, “you are very young. The young have such innocent minds.”

Griselda said indignantly that she hadn’t got at all an innocent mind.

“Naturally,” said Miss Marple, unheeding of the protest, “you think the best of everyone.”

“Do you really think she wants to marry that baldheaded dull man?”

“I understand he is quite well off,” said Miss Marple. “Rather a violent temper, I’m afraid. He had quite a serious quarrel with Colonel Protheroe the other day.”

Everyone leaned forward interestingly.

“Colonel Protheroe accused him of being an ignoramus.”

“How like Colonel Protheroe, and how absurd,” said Mrs. Price Ridley.

“Very like Colonel Protheroe, but I don’t know about it being absurd,” said Miss Marple. “You remember the woman who came down here and said she represented Welfare, and after taking subscriptions she was never heard of again and proved to having nothing whatever to do with Welfare. One is so inclined to be trusting and take people at their own valuation.”

I should never have dreamed of describing Miss Marple as trusting.

“There’s been some fuss about that young artist, Mr. Redding, hasn’t there?” asked Miss Wetherby.

Miss Marple nodded.

“Colonel Protheroe turned him out of the house. It appears he was painting Lettice in her bathing dress.”

“I always thought there was something between them,” said Mrs. Price Ridley. “That young fellow is always mouching off up there. Pity the girl hasn’t got a mother. A stepmother is never the same thing.”

“I dare say Mrs. Protheroe does her best,” said Miss Hartnell.

“Girls are so sly,” deplored Mrs. Price Ridley.

“Quite a romance, isn’t it?” said the softerhearted Miss Wetherby. “He’s a very good-looking young fellow.”

“But loose,” said Miss Hartnell. “Bound to be. An artist! Paris! Models! The Altogether!”

“Painting her in her bathing dress,” said Mrs. Price Ridley. “Not quite nice.”

“He’s painting me too,” said Griselda.

“But not in your bathing dress, dear,” said Miss Marple.

“It might be worse,” said Griselda solemnly.

“Naughty girl,” said Miss Hartnell, taking the joke broad-mindedly. Everybody else looked slightly shocked.

“Did dear Lettice tell you of the trouble?” asked Miss Marple of me.

“Tell me?”

“Yes. I saw her pass through the garden and go round to the study window.”

Miss Marple always sees everything. Gardening is as good as a smoke screen, and the habit of observing birds through powerful glasses can always be turned to account.

“She mentioned it, yes,” I admitted.

“Mr. Hawes looked worried,” said Miss Marple. “I hope he hasn’t been working too hard.”

“Oh!” cried Miss Wetherby excitedly. “I quite forgot. I knew I had some news for you. I saw Dr. Haydock coming out of Mrs. Lestrange’s cottage.”

Everyone looked at each other.

“Perhaps she’s ill,” suggested Mrs. Price Ridley.

“It must have been very sudden, if so,” said Miss Hartnell. “For I saw her walking round her garden at three o’clock this afternoon, and she seemed in perfect health.”

“She and Dr. Haydock must be old acquaintances,” said Mrs. Price Ridley. “He’s been very quiet about it.”

“It’s curious,” said Miss Wetherby, “that he’s never mentioned it.”

“As a matter of fact—” said Griselda in a low, mysterious voice, and stopped. Everyone leaned fo

rward excitedly.

“I happen to know,” said Griselda impressively. “Her husband was a missionary. Terrible story. He was eaten, you know. Actually eaten. And she was forced to become the chief’s head wife. Dr. Haydock was with an expedition and rescued her.”

For a moment excitement was rife, then Miss Marple said reproachfully, but with a smile: “Naughty girl!”

She tapped Griselda reprovingly on the arm.

“Very unwise thing to do, my dear. If you make up these things, people are quite likely to believe them. And sometimes that leads to complications.”