Murder at the Vicarage by Agatha Christie
“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
We were all rather excited.
“You’ve examined the note for fingerprints, of course,” said the Chief Constable.
“What do you think, Colonel? No fingerprints on the note at all. Fingerprints on the pistol those of Mr. Lawrence Redding. May have been some others once, before he went fooling round with it and carrying it around in his pocket, but there’s nothing clear enough to get hold of now.”
“At first the case looked very black against Mrs. Protheroe,” said the Colonel thoughtfully. “Much blacker than against young Redding. There was that old woman Marple’s evidence that she didn’t have the pistol with her, but these elderly ladies are often mistaken.”
I was silent, but I did not agree with him. I was quite sure that Anne Protheroe had had no pistol with her since Miss Marple had said so. Miss Marple is not the type of elderly lady who makes mistakes. She has got an uncanny knack of being always right.
“What did get me was that nobody heard the shot. If it was fired then—somebody must have heard it—wherever they thought it came from. Slack, you’d better have a word with the maid.”
Inspector Slack moved with alacrity towards the door.
“I shouldn’t ask her if she heard a shot in the house,” I said. “Because if you do, she’ll deny it. Call it a shot in the wood. That’s the only kind of shot she’ll admit to hearing.”
“I know how to manage them,” said Inspector Slack, and disappeared.
“Miss Marple says she heard a shot later,” said Colonel Melchett thoughtfully. “We must see if she can fix the time at all precisely. Of course it may be a stray shot that had nothing to do with the case.”
“It may be, of course,” I agreed.
The Colonel took a turn or two up and down the room.
“Do you know, Clement,” he said suddenly, “I’ve a feeling that this is going to turn out a much more intricate and difficult business than any of us think. Dash it all, there’s something behind it.” He snorted. “Something we don’t know about. We’re only beginning, Clement. Mark my words, we’re only beginning. All these things, the clock, the note, the pistol—they don’t make sense as they stand.”
I shook my head. They certainly didn’t.
“But I’m going to get to the bottom of it. No calling in of Scotland Yard. Slack’s a smart man. He’s a very smart man. He’s a kind of ferret. He’ll nose his way through to the truth. He’s done several very good things already, and this case will be his chef d’oeuvre. Some men would call in Scotland Yard. I shan’t. We’ll get to the bottom of this here in Downshire.”
“I hope so, I’m sure,” I said.
I tried to make my voice enthusiastic, but I had already taken such a dislike to Inspector Slack that the prospect of his success failed to appeal to me. A successful Slack would, I thought, be even more odious than a baffled one.
“Who has the house next door?” asked the Colonel suddenly.
“You mean at the end of the road? Mrs. Price Ridley.”
“We’ll go along to her after Slack has finished with your maid. She might just possibly have heard something. She isn’t deaf or anything, is she?”
“I should say her hearing is remarkably keen. I’m going by the amount of scandal she has started by ‘just happening to overhear accidentally.’”
“That’s the kind of woman we want. Oh! here’s Slack.”
The Inspector had the air of one emerging from a severe tussle.
“Phew!” he said. “That’s a tartar you’ve got, sir.”
“Mary is essentially a girl of strong character,” I replied.
“Doesn’t like the police,” he said. “I cautioned her—did what I could to put the fear of the law into her, but no good. She stood right up to me.”
“Spirited,” I said, feeling more kindly towards Mary.
“But I pinned her down all right. She heard one shot—and one shot only. And it was a good long time after Colonel Protheroe came. I couldn’t get her to name a time, but we fixed it at last by means of the fish. The fish was late, and she blew the boy up when he came, and he said it was barely half past six anyway, and it was just after that she heard the shot. Of course, that’s not accurate, so to speak, but it gives us an idea.”
“H’m,” said Melchett.
“I don’t think Mrs. Protheroe’s in this after all,” said Slack, with a note of regret in his voice. “She wouldn’t have had time, to begin with, and then women never like fiddling about with firearms. Arsenic’s more in their line. No, I don’t think she did it. It’s a pity!” He sighed.
Melchett explained that he was going round to Mrs. Price Ridley’s, and Slack approved.
“May I come with you?” I asked. “I’m getting interested.”
I was given permission, and we set forth. A loud “Hie” greeted us as we emerged from the Vicarage gate, and my nephew, Dennis, came running up the road from the village to join us.
“Look here,” he said to the Inspector, “what about that footprint I told you about?”
“Gardener’s,” said Inspector Slack laconically.
“You don’t think it might be someone else wearing the gardener’s boots?”
“No, I don’t!” said Inspector Slack in a discouraging way.
It would take more than that to discourage Dennis, however.
He held out a couple of burnt matches.
“I found these by the Vicarage gate.”
“Thank you,” said Slack, and put them in his pocket.
Matters appeared now to have reached a deadlock.
“You’re not arresting Uncle Len, are you?” inquired Dennis facetiously.
“Why should I?” inquired Slack.
“There’s a lot of evidence against him,” declared Dennis. “You ask Mary. Only the day before the murder he was wishing Colonel Protheroe out of the world. Weren’t you, Uncle Len?”
“Er—” I began.
Inspector Slack turned a slow suspicious stare upon me, and I felt hot all over. Dennis is exceedingly tiresome. He ought to realize that a policeman seldom has a sense of humour.
“Don’t be absurd, Dennis,” I said irritably.
The innocent child opened his eyes in a stare of surprise.
“I say, it’s only a joke,” he said. “Uncle Len just said that any one who murdered Colonel Protheroe would be doing the world a service.”
“Ah!” said Inspector Slack, “that explains something the maid said.”
Servants very seldom have any sense of humour either. I cursed Dennis heartily in my mind for bringing the matter up. That and the clock together will make the Inspector suspicious of me for life.
“Come on, Clement,” said Colonel Melchett.
“Where are you going? Can I come, too?” asked Dennis.
“No, you can’t,” I snapped.
We left him looking after us with a hurt expression. We went up to the neat front door of Mrs. Price Ridley’s house and the Inspector knocked and rang in what I can only describe as an official manner. A pretty parlourmaid answered the bell.
“Mrs. Price Ridley in?” inquired Melchett.
“No, sir.” The maid paused and added: “She’s just gone down to the police station.”
This was a totally unexpected development. As we retraced our steps Melchett caught me by the arm and murmured:
“If she’s gone to confess to the crime, too, I really shall go off my head.”
Thirteen
I hardly thought it likely that Mrs. Price Ridley had anything so dramatic in view, but I did wonder what had taken her to the police station. Had she really got evidence of importance, or that she thought of importance, to offer? At any rate, we should soon know.
We found Mrs. Price Ridley talking at a high rate of speed to a somewhat bewildered-looking police constable. That she was extremely indignant I knew from the way the bow in her hat was trembling. Mrs. Price Ridley wears what, I believe,
Mrs. Price Ridley paused in her flow of words upon our entrance.
“Mrs. Price Ridley?” inquired Colonel Melchett, lifting his hat.
“Let me introduce Colonel Melchett to you, Mrs. Price Ridley,” I said. “Colonel Melchett is our Chief Constable.”
Mrs. Price Ridley looked at me coldly, but produced the semblance of a gracious smile for the Colonel.
“We’ve just been round to your house, Mrs. Price Ridley,” explained the Colonel, “and heard you had come down here.”
Mrs. Price Ridley thawed altogether.
“Ah!” she said, “I’m glad some notice is being taken of the occurrence. Disgraceful, I call it. Simply disgraceful.”
There is no doubt that murder is disgraceful, but it is not the word I should use to describe it myself. It surprised Melchett too, I could see.
“Have you any light to throw upon the matter?” he asked.
“That’s your business. It’s the business of the police. What do we pay rates and taxes for, I should like to know?”
One wonders how many times that query is uttered in a year!
“We’re doing our best, Mrs. Price Ridley,” said the Chief Constable.
“But the man here hadn’t even heard of it till I told him about it!” cried the lady.
We all looked at the constable.
“Lady been rung up on the telephone,” he said. “Annoyed. Matter of obscene language, I understand.”
“Oh! I see.” The Colonel’s brow cleared. “We’ve been talking at cross purposes. You came down here to make a complaint, did you?”
Melchett is a wise man. He knows that when it is a question of an irate middle-aged lady, there is only one thing to be done—listen to her. When she had said all that she wants to say, there is a chance that she will listen to you.
Mrs. Price Ridley surged into speech.
“Such disgraceful occurrences ought to be prevented. They ought not to occur. To be rung up in one’s own house and insulted—yes, insulted. I’m not accustomed to such things happening. Ever since the war there has been a loosening of moral fibre. Nobody minds what they say, and as to the clothes they wear—”