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“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.<
