Murder at the Vicarage (Miss Marple 1)

I put my hand into my pocket to look at the paper I had picked up once more. With it, I drew out the note that I had found in the letter box and which was still unopened.

Its appearance was horribly familiar. It was the same handwriting as the anonymous letter that had come that afternoon.

I tore it open.

I read it once—twice—unable to realize its contents.

I was beginning to read it a third time when the telephone rang. Like a man in a dream I picked up the receiver and spoke.

“Hallo?”

“Hallo.”

“Is that you, Melchett?”

“Yes, where are you? I’ve traced that call. The number is—”

“I know the number.”

“Oh, good! Is that where you are speaking from?”

“Yes.”

“What about that confession?”

“I’ve got the confession all right.”

“You mean you’ve got the murderer?”

I had then the strongest temptation of my life. I looked at the anonymous scrawl. I looked at the empty cachet box with the name of Cherubim on it. I remembered a certain casual conversation.

I made an immense effort.

“I—don’t know,” I said. “You’d better come round.”

And I gave him the address.

Then I sat down in the chair opposite Hawes to think.

I had two clear minutes to do so.

In two minutes’ time, Melchett would have arrived.

I took up the anonymous letter and read it through again for the third time.

Then I closed my eyes and thought….

Twenty-nine

I don’t know how long I sat there—only a few minutes in reality, I suppose. Yet it seemed as though an eternity had passed when I heard the door open and, turning my head, looked up to see Melchett entering the room.

He stared at Hawes asleep in his chair, then turned to me.

“What’s this, Clement? What does it all mean?”

Of the two letters in my hand I selected one and passed it to him. He read it aloud in a low voice.

“My dear Clement,—It is a peculiarly unpleasant thing that I have to say. After all, I think I prefer writing it. We can discuss it at a later date. It concerns the recent peculations. I am sorry to say that I have satisfied myself beyond any possible doubt as to the identity of the culprit. Painful as it is for me to have to accuse an ordained priest of the church, my duty is only too painfully clear. An example must be made and—”

He looked at me questioningly. At this point the writing tailed off in an undistinguishable scrawl where death had overtaken the writer’s hand.

Melchett drew a deep breath, then looked at Hawes.

“So that’s the solution! The one man we never even considered. And remorse drove him to confess!”

“He’s been very queer lately,” I said.

Suddenly Melchett strode across to the sleeping man with a sharp exclamation. He seized him by the shoulder and shook him, at first gently, then with increasing violence.

“He’s not asleep! He’s drugged! What’s the meaning of this?”

His eye went to the empty cachet box. He picked it up.

“Has he—”

“I think so,” I said. “He showed me these the other day. Told me he’d been warned against an overdose. It’s his way out, poor chap. Perhaps the best way. It’s not for us to judge him.”

But Melchett was Chief Constable of the County before anything else. The arguments that appealed to me had no weight with him. He had caught a murderer and he wanted his murderer hanged.

In one second he was at the telephone, jerking the receiver up and down impatiently until he got a reply. He asked for Haydock’s number. Then there was a further pause during which he stood, his ear to the telephone and his eyes on the limp figure in the chair.

“Hallo—hallo—hallo—is that Dr. Haydock’s? Will the doctor come round at once to High Street? Mr. Hawes. It’s urgent … what’s that?… Well, what number is it then?… Oh, sorry.”

He rang off, fuming.

“Wrong number, wrong number—always wrong numbers! And a man’s life hanging on it. HALLO—you gave me the wrong number … Yes—don’t waste time—give me three nine—nine, not five.”

Another period of impatience—shorter this time.

“Hallo—is that you, Haydock? Melchett speaking. Come to 19 High Street at once, will you? Hawes has taken some kind of overdose. At once, man, it’s vital.”

He rang off, strode impatiently up and down the room.

“Why on earth you didn’t get hold of the doctor at once, Clement, I cannot think. Your wits must have all gone wool gathering.”

Fortunately it never occurs to Melchett that anyone can possibly have different ideas on conduct to those he holds himself. I said nothing, and he went on:

“Where did you find this letter?”

“Crumpled on the floor—where it had fallen from his hand.”

“Extraordinary business—that old maid was right about its being the wrong note we found. Wonder how she tumbled to that. But what an ass the fellow was not to destroy this one. Fancy keeping it—the most damaging evidence you can imagine!”

“Human nature is full of inconsistencies.”

“If it weren’t, I doubt if we should ever catch a murderer! Sooner or later they always do some fool thing. You’re looking very under the weather, Clement. I suppose this has been the most awful shock to you?”

“It has. As I say, Hawes has been queer in his manner for some time, but I never dreamed—”

“Who would? Hallo, that sounds like a car.” He went across to the window, pushing up the sash and leaning out. “Yes, it’s Haydock all right.”

A moment later the doctor entered the room.

In a few succinct words, Melchett explained the situation.

Haydock is not a man who ever shows his feelings. He merely raised his eyebrows, nodded, and strode across to his patient. He felt his pulse, raised the eyelid and looked intently at the eye.

Then he turned to Melchett.

“Want to save him for the gallows?” he asked. “He’s pretty far gone, you know. It will be touch and go, anyway. I doubt if I can bring him round.”

“Do everything possible.”

“Right.”

He busied himself with the case he had brought with him, preparing a hypodermic injection which he injected into Hawes’s arm. Then he stood up.

“Best t

hing is to run him into Much Benham—to the hospital there. Give me a hand to get him down to the car.”

We both lent our assistance. As Haydock climbed into the driving seat, he threw a parting remark over his shoulder.

“You won’t be able to hang him, you know, Melchett.”

“You mean he won’t recover?”

“May or may not. I didn’t mean that. I mean that even if he does recover—well, the poor devil wasn’t responsible for his actions. I shall give evidence to that effect.”

“What did he mean by that?” asked Melchett as we went upstairs again.

I explained that Hawes had been a victim of encephalitis lethargica.

“Sleepy sickness, eh? Always some good reason nowadays for every dirty action that’s done. Don’t you agree?”

“Science is teaching us a lot.”

“Science be damned—I beg your pardon, Clement; but all this namby pambyism annoys me. I’m a plan man. Well, I suppose we’d better have a look round here.”

But at this moment there was an interruption—and a most amazing one. The door opened and Miss Marple walked into the room.

She was pink and somewhat flustered, and seemed to realize our condition of bewilderment.

“So sorry—so very sorry—to intrude—good evening, Colonel Melchett. As I say, I am so sorry, but hearing that Mr. Hawes was taken ill, I felt I must come round and see if I couldn’t do something.”

She paused. Colonel Melchett was regarding her in a somewhat disgusted fashion.

“Very kind of you, Miss Marple,” he said dryly. “But no need to trouble. How did you know, by the way?”

It was the question I had been yearning to ask!

“The telephone,” explained Miss Marple. “So careless with their wrong numbers, aren’t they? You spoke to me first, thinking I was Dr. Haydock. My number is three five.”

“So that was it!” I exclaimed.

There is always some perfectly good and reasonable explanation for Miss Marple’s omniscience.

“And so,” she continued. “I just came round to see if I could be of any use.”

“Very kind of you,” said Melchett again, even more dryly this time. “But nothing to be done. Haydock’s taken him off to hospital.”