Murder at the Vicarage by Agatha Christie
“That’s a very ingenious idea,” I said.
“It would be the only way to do it, wouldn’t it? And if so, of course, as you say, once the substitution had been accomplished there wouldn’t have been any reason for murdering Colonel Protheroe—quite the reverse.”
“Exactly,” I said. “That’s what I said.”
“Yes, but I just wondered—I don’t know, of course—and Colonel Protheroe always talked a lot about doing things before he actually did do them, and, of course, sometimes never did them at all, but he did say—”
“Yes?”
“That he was going to have all his things valued—a man down from London. For probate—no, that’s when you’re dead—for insurance. Someone told him that was the thing to do. He talked about it a great deal, and the importance of having it done. Of course, I don’t know if he had made any actual arrangements, but if he had….”
“I see,” I said slowly.
“Of course, the moment the expert saw the silver, he’d know, and then Colonel Protheroe would remember having shown the things to Dr. Stone—I wonder if it was done then—legerdemain, don’t they call it? So clever—and then, well, the fat would be in the fire, to use an old-fashioned expression.”
“I see your idea,” I said. “I think we ought to find out for certain.”
I went once more to the telephone. In a few minutes I was through to Old Hall and speaking to Anne Protheroe.
“No, it’s nothing very important. Has the Inspector arrived yet? Oh! Well, he’s on his way. Mrs. Protheroe, can you tell me if the contents of Old Hall were ever valued? What’s that you say?”
Her answer came clear and prompt. I thanked her, replaced the receiver, and turned to Miss Marple.
“That’s very definite. Colonel Protheroe had made arrangements for a man to come down from London on Monday—tomorrow—to make a full valuation. Owing to the Colonel’s death, the matter has been put off.”
“Then there was a motive,” said Miss Marple softly.
“A motive, yes. But that’s all. You forget. When the shot was fired, Dr. Stone had just joined the others, or was climbing over the stile in order to do so.”
“Yes,” said Miss Marple thoughtfully. “So that rules him out.”
Twenty-four
I returned to the Vicarage to find Hawes waiting for me in my study. He was pacing up and down nervously, and when I entered the room he started as though he had been shot.
“You must excuse me,” he said, wiping his forehead. “My nerves are all to pieces lately.”
“My dear fellow,” I said, “you positively must get away for a change. We shall have you breaking down altogether, and that will never do.”
“I can’t desert my post. No, that is a thing I will never do.”
“It’s not a case of desertion. You are ill. I’m sure Haydock would agree with me.”
“Haydock—Haydock. What kind of a doctor is he? An ignorant country practitioner.”
“I think you’re unfair to him. He has always been considered a very able man in his profession.”
“Oh! Perhaps. Yes, I dare say. But I don’t like him. However, that’s not what I came to say. I came to ask you if you would be kind enough to preach tonight instead of me. I—I really do not feel equal to it.”
“Why, certainly. I will take the service for you.”
“No, no. I wish to take the service. I am perfectly fit. It is only the idea of getting up in the pulpit, of all those eyes staring at me….”
He shut his eyes and swallowed convulsively.
It is clear to me that there is something very wrong indeed the matter with Hawes. He seemed aware of my thoughts, for he opened his eyes and said quickly:
“There is nothing really wrong with me. It is just these headaches—these awful racking headaches. I wonder if you could let me have a glass of water.”
“Certainly,” I said.
I went and fetched it myself from the tap. Ringing bells is a profitless form of exercise in our house.
I brought the water to him and he thanked me. He took from his pocket a small cardboard box, and opening it, extracted a rice paper capsule, which he swallowed with the aid of the water.
“A headache powder,” he explained.
I suddenly wondered whether Hawes might have become addicted to drugs. It would explain a great many of his peculiarities.
“You don’t take too many, I hope,” I said.
“No—oh, no. Dr. Haydock warned me against that. But it is really wonderful. They bring instant relief.”
Indeed he already seemed calmer and more composed.
He stood up.
“Then you will preach tonight? It’s very good of you, sir.”
“Not at all. And I insist on taking the service too. Get along home and rest. No, I won’t have any argument. Not another word.”
He thanked me again. Then he said, his eyes sliding past me to the window:
“You—have been up at Old Hall today, haven’t you, sir?”
“Yes.”
“Excuse me—but were you sent for?”
I looked at him in surprise, and he flushed.
“I’m sorry, sir. I—I just thought some new development might have arisen and that was why Mrs. Protheroe had sent for you.”
I had not the faintest intention of satisfying Hawes’s curiosity.
“She wanted to discuss the funeral arrangements and one or two other small matters with me,” I said.
“Oh! That was all. I see.”
I did not speak. He fidgeted from foot to foot, and finally said:
“Mr. Redding came to see me last night. I—I can’t imagine why.”
“Didn’t he tell you?”
“He—he just said he thought he’d look me up. Said it was a bit lonely in the evenings. He’s never done such a thing before.”
“Well, he’s supposed to be pleasant company,” I said, smiling.
“What does he want to come and see me for? I don’t like it.” His voice rose shrilly. “He spoke of dropping in again. What does it all mean? What idea do you think he has got into his head?”
“Why should you suppose he has any ulterior motive?” I asked.
“I don’t like it,” repeated Hawes obstinately. “I’ve never gone against him in any way. I never suggested that he was guilty—even when he accused himself I said it seemed most incomprehensible. If I’ve had suspicions of anybody it’s been of Archer—never of him. Archer is a totally different proposition—a godless irreligious ruffian. A drunken blackguard.”
“Don’t you think you’re being a little harsh?” I said. “After all, we really know very little about the man.”
“A poacher, in and out of prison, capable of anything.”
“Do you really think he shot Colonel Protheroe?” I asked curiously.
Hawes has an inveterate dislike of answering yes or no. I have noticed it several times lately.
“Don’t you think yourself, sir, that it’s the only possible solution?”
“As far as we know,” I said, “there’s no evidence of any kind against him.”
“His threats,” said Hawes eagerly. “You forget about his threats.”
I am sick and tired of hearing about Archer’s threats. As far as I can make out, there is no direct evidence that he ever made any.
“He was determined to be revenged on Colonel Protheroe. He primed himself with drink and then shot him.”
“That’s pure supposition.”
“But you will admit that it’s perfectly probable?”
“No, I don’t.”
“Possible, then?”
“Possible, yes.”
Hawes glanced at me sideways.
“Why don’t you think it’s probable?”
“Because,” I said, “a man like Archer wouldn’t think of shooting a man with a pistol. It’s the wrong weapon.”
Hawes seemed taken aback by my argument. Evidently it wasn’t the objection he had expected.<
“Do you really think the objection is feasible?” he asked doubtingly.
“To my mind it is a complete stumbling block to Archer’s having committed the crime,” I said.
In face of my positive assertion, Hawes said no more. He thanked me again and left.
I had gone as far as the front door with him, and on the hall table I saw four notes. They had certain characteristics in common. The handwriting was almost unmistakably feminine, they all bore the words, “By hand, Urgent,” and the only difference I could see was that one was noticeably dirtier than the rest.
Their similarity gave me a curious feeling of seeing—not double but quadruple.
Mary came out of the kitchen and caught me staring at them.
“Come by hand since lunchtime,” she volunteered. “All but one. I found that in the box.”
I nodded, gathered them up and took them into the study.
The first one ran thus:
“Dear Mr. Clement,—Something has come to my knowledge which I feel you ought to know. It concerns the death of poor Colonel Protheroe. I should much appreciate your advice on the matter—whether to go to the police or not. Since my dear husband’s death, I have such a shrinking from every kind of publicity. Perhaps you could run in and see me for a few minutes this afternoon.
Yours sincerely,
Martha Price Ridley.”
I opened the second:
“Dear Mr. Clement,—I am so troubled—so excited in my mind—to know what I ought to do. Something has come to my ears that I feel may be important. I have such a horror of being mixed up with the police in any way. I am so disturbed and distressed. Would it be asking too much of you, dear Vicar, to drop in for a few minutes and solve my doubts and perplexities for me in the wonderful way you always do?
Forgive my troubling you,
Yours very sincerely,
Caroline Wetherby.”
The third, I felt, I could almost have recited beforehand.
“Dear Mr. Clement,—Something most important has come to my ears. I feel you should be the first to know about it. Will you call in and see me this afternoon some time? I will wait in for you.”
This militant epistle was signed “Amanda Hartnell.”
I opened the fourth missive. It has been my good fortune to be troubled with very few anonymous letters. An anonymous letter is, I think, the meanest and cruellest weapon there is. This one was no exception. It purported to be written by an illiterate person, but several things inclined me to disbelieve that assumption.
“Dear Vicar,—I think you ought to know what is Going On. Your lady has been seen coming out of Mr. Redding’s cottage in a surreptitious manner. You know wot i mean. The two are Carrying On together. i think you ought to know.
A Friend.”
I made a faint exclamation of disgust and crumpling up the paper tossed it into the open grate just as Griselda entered the room.
“What’s that you’re throwing down so contemptuously?” she asked.
“Filth,” I said.
Taking a match from my pocket, I struck it and bent down. Griselda, however, was too quick for me. She had stooped down and caught up the crumpled ball of paper and smoothed it out before I could stop her.
She read it, gave a little exclamation of disgust, and tossed it back to me, turning away as she did so. I lighted it and watched it burn.
Griselda had moved away. She was standing by the window looking out into the garden.
“Len,” she said, without turning round.
“Yes, my dear.”
“I’d like to tell you something. Yes, don’t stop me. I want to, please. When—when Lawrence Redding came here, I let you think that I had only known him slightly before. That wasn’t true. I—had known him rather well. In fact, before I met you, I had been rather in love with him. I think most people are with Lawrence. I was—well, absolutely silly about him at one time. I don’t mean I wrote him compromising letters or anything idiotic like they do in books. But I was rather keen on him once.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I asked.
“Oh! Because! I don’t know exactly except that—well, you’re foolish in some ways. Just because you’re so much older than I am, you think that I—well, that I’m likely to like other people. I thought you’d be tiresome, perhaps, about me and Lawrence being friends.”
“You’re very clever at concealing things,” I said, remembering what she had told me in that room less than a week ago, and the ingenuous way she had talked.
“Yes, I’ve always been able to hide things. In a way, I like doing it.”
Her voice held a childlike ring of pleasure to it.
“But it’s quite true what I said. I didn’t know about Anne, and I wondered why Lawrence was so different, not—well, really not noticing me. I’m not used to it.”
There was a pause.
“You do understand, Len?” said Griselda anxiously.
“Yes,” I said, “I understand.”
But did I?
Twenty-five
I found it hard to shake off the impression left by the anonymous letter. Pitch soils.
However, I gathered up the other three letters, glanced at my watch, and started out.
I wondered very much what this might be that had “come to the knowledge” of three ladies simultaneously. I took it to be the same piece of news. In this, I was to realize that my psychology was at fault.
I cannot pretend that my calls took me past the police station. My feet gravitated there of their own accord. I was anxious to know whether Inspector Slack had returned from Old Hall.
I found that he had, and further, that Miss Cram had returned with him. The fair Gladys was seated in the police station carrying off matters with a high hand. She denied absolutely having taken the suitcase to the woods.
“Just because one of these gossiping old cats had nothing better to do than look out of her window all night you go and pitch upon me. She’s been mistaken once, remember, when she said she saw me at the end of the lane on the afternoon of the murder, and if she was mistaken then, in daylight, how can she possibly have recognized me by moonlight?
“Wicked it is, the way these old ladies go on down here. Say anything, they will. And me asleep in my bed as innocent as can be. You ought to be ashamed of yourselves, the lot of you.”
“And supposing the landlady of the Blue Boar identifies the suitcase as yours, Miss Cram?”
“If she says anything of the kind, she’s wrong. There’s no name on it. Nearly everybody’s got a suitcase like that. As for poor Dr. Stone, accusing him of being a common burglar! And he has a lot of letters after his name.”
“You refuse to give us any explanation, then, Miss Cram?”
“No refusing about it. You’ve made a mistake, that’s all. You and your meddlesome Marples. I won’t say a word more—not without my solicitor present. I’m going this minute—unless you’re going to arrest me.”
For answer, the Inspector rose and opened the door for her, and with a toss of the head, Miss Cram walked out.
“That’s the line she takes,” said Slack, coming back to his chair. “Absolute denial. And, of course, the old lady may have been mistaken. No jury would believe you could recognize anyone from that distance on a moonlit night. And, of course, as I say, the old lady may have made a mistake.”
“She may,” I said, “but I don’t think she did. Miss Marple is usually right. That’s what makes her unpopular.”
The Inspector grinned.
“That’s what Hurst says. Lord, these villages!”
“What about the silver, Inspector?”
“Seemed to be perfectly in order. Of course, that meant one lot or the other must be a fake. There’s a very good man in Much Benham, an authority on old silver. I’ve phoned over to him and sent a car to fetch him. We’ll soon know which is which. Either the burglary was an accomplished fact, or else it was only planned. Doesn’t make a frightful lot of difference either way—I
“I wondered,” I said.
“A pity about Mr. Redding. It’s not often you find a man who goes out of his way to oblige you.”
“I suppose not,” I said, smiling slightly.
“Women cause a lot of trouble,” moralized the Inspector.
He sighed and then went on, somewhat to my surprise: “Of course, there’s Archer.”
“Oh!” I said, “You’ve thought of him?”
“Why, naturally, sir, first thing. It didn’t need any anonymous letters to put me on his track.”
“Anonymous letters,” I said sharply. “Did you get one, then?”
“That’s nothing new, sir. We get a dozen a day, at least. Oh, yes, we were put wise to Archer. As though the police couldn’t look out for themselves! Archer’s been under suspicion from the first. The trouble of it is, he’s got an alibi. Not that it amounts to anything, but it’s awkward to get over.”
“What do you mean by its not amounting to anything?” I asked.
“Well, it appears he was with a couple of pals all the afternoon. Not, as I say, that that counts much. Men like Archer and his pals would swear to anything. There’s no believing a word they say. We know that. But the public doesn’t, and the jury’s taken from the public, more’s the pity. They know nothing, and ten to one believe everything that’s said in the witness box, no matter who it is that says it. And of course Archer himself will swear till he’s black in the face that he didn’t do it.”
“Not so obliging as Mr. Redding,” I said with a smile.