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“Of course, I wouldn’t dream of saying any of this to Colonel Melchett—such an autocratic man, isn’t he?—and poor Inspector Slack—well, he’s exactly like the young lady in the boot shop who wants to sell you patent leather because she’s got it in your size, and doesn’t take any notice of the fact that you want brown calf.”
That, really, is a very good description of Slack.
“But you, Mr. Clement, know, I’m sure, quite as much about the crime as Inspector Slack. I thought, if we could work together—”
“I wonder,” I said. “I think each one of us in his secret heart fancies himself as Sherlock Holmes.”
Then I told her of the three summonses I had received that afternoon. I told her of Anne’s discovery of the picture with the slashed face. I also told her of Miss Cram’s attitude at the police station, and I described Haydock’s identification of the crystal I had picked up.
“Having found that myself,” I finished up, “I should like it to be important. But it’s probably got nothing to do with the case.”
“I have been reading a lot of American detective stories from the library lately,” said Miss Marple, “hoping to find them helpful.”
“Was there anything in them about picric acid?”
“I’m afraid not. I do remember reading a story once, though, in which a man was poisoned by picric acid and lanoline being rubbed on him as an ointment.”
“But as nobody has been poisoned here, that doesn’t seem to enter into the question,” I said.
Then I took up my schedule and handed it to her.
“I’ve tried,” I said, “to recapitulate the facts of the case as clearly as possible.”
MY SCHEDULE
Thursday, 21st inst.
12:30 p.m.—Colonel Protheroe alters his appointment from six to six fifteen. Overheard by half village very probably.
12:45—Pistol last seen in its proper place. (But this is doubtful, as Mrs. Archer had previously said she could not remember.)
5:30 (approx.)—Colonel and Mrs. Protheroe leave Old Hall for village in car.
5:30 Fake call put through to me from the North Lodge, Old Hall.
6:15 (or a minute or two earlier)—Colonel Protheroe arrives at Vicarage. Is shown into study by Mary.
6:20—Mrs. Protheroe comes along back lane and across garden to study window. Colonel Protheroe not visible.
6:29—Call from Lawrence Redding’s cottage put through to Mrs. Price Ridley (according to Exchange).
6:30–6:35—Shot heard. (Accepting telephone call time as correct.) Lawrence Redding, Anne Protheroe and Dr. Stone’s evidence seem to point to its being earlier, but Mrs. P.R. probably right.
6:45—Lawrence Redding arrives Vicarage and finds the body.
6:48—I meet Lawrence Redding.
6:49—Body discovered by me.
6:55—Haydock examines body.
NOTE.—The only two people who have no kind of alibi for 6:30–6:35 are Miss Cram and Mrs. Lestrange. Miss Cram says she was at the barrow, but no confirmation. It seems reasonable, however, to dismiss her from case as there seems nothing to connect her with it. Mrs. Lestrange left Dr. Haydock’s house some time after six to keep an appointment. Where was the appointment, and with whom? It could hardly have been with Colonel Protheroe, as he expected to be engaged with me. It is true that Mrs. Lestrange was near the spot at the time the crime was committed, but it seems doubtful what motive she could have had for murdering him. She did not gain by his death, and the Inspector’s theory of blackmail I cannot accept. Mrs. Lestrange is not that kind of woman. Also it seems unlikely that she should have got hold of Lawrence Redding’s pistol.
“Very clear,” said Miss Marple, nodding her head in approval. “Very clear indeed. Gentlemen always make such excellent memoranda.”
“You agree with what I have written?” I asked.
“Oh, yes—you have put it all beautifully.”
I asked her the question then that I had been meaning to put all along.
“Miss Marple,” I said. “Who do you suspect? You once said that there were seven people.”
“Quite that, I should think,” said Miss Marple absently. “I expect every one of us suspects someone different. In fact, one can see they do.”
She didn’t ask me who I suspected.
“The point is,” she said, “that one must provide an explanation for everything. Each thing has got to be explained away satisfactorily. If you have a theory that fits every fact—well, then, it must be the right one. But that’s extremely difficult. If it wasn’t for that note—”
“The note?” I said, surprised.
“Yes, you remember, I told you. That note has worried me all along. It’s wrong, somehow.”
“Surely,” I said, “that is explained now. It was written at six thirty five and another hand—the murderer’s—put the misleading 6:20 at the top. I think that is clearly established.”
“But even then,” said Miss Marple, “it’s all wrong.”
“But why?”
“Listen.” Miss Marple leant forward eagerly. “Mrs. Protheroe passed my garden, as I told you, and she went as far as the study window and she looked in and she didn’t see Colonel Protheroe.”
“Because he was writing at the desk,” I said.
“And that’s what’s all wrong. That was at twenty past six. We agreed that he wouldn’t sit down to say he couldn’t wait any longer until after half past six—so, why was he sitting at the writing table then?”
“I never thought of that,” I said slowly.
“Let us, dear Mr. Clement, just go over it again. Mrs. Protheroe comes to the window and she thinks the room is empty—she must have thought so, because otherwise she would never have gone down to the studio to meet Mr. Redding. It wouldn’t have been safe. The room must have been absolutely silent if she thought it was empty. And that leaves us three alternatives, doesn’t it?”
“You mean—”
“Well, the first alternative would be that Colonel Protheroe was dead already—but I don’t think that’s the most likely one. To begin with he’d only been there about five minutes and she or I would have heard the shot, and secondly, the same difficult
y remains about his being at the writing table. The second alternative is, of course, that he was sitting at the writing table writing a note, but in that case it must have been a different note altogether. It can’t have been to say he couldn’t wait. And the third—”
“Yes?” I said.
“Well, the third is, of course, that Mrs. Protheroe was right, and that the room was actually empty.”
“You mean that, after he had been shown in, he went out again and came back later?”
“Yes.”
“But why should he have done that?”
Miss Marple spread out her hands in a little gesture of bewilderment.
“That would mean looking at the case from an entirely different angle,” I said.
“One so often has to do that—about everything. Don’t you think so?”
I did not reply. I was going over carefully in my mind the three alternatives that Miss Marple had suggested.
With a slight sigh the old lady rose to her feet.
“I must be getting back. I am very glad to have had this little chat—though we haven’t got very far, have we?”
“To tell you the truth,” I said, as I fetched her shawl, “the whole thing seems to me a bewildering maze.”
“Oh! I wouldn’t say that. I think, on the whole, one theory fits nearly everything. That is, if you admit one coincidence—and I think one coincidence is allowable. More than one, of course, is unlikely.”
“Do you really think that? About the theory, I mean?” I asked, looking at her.
“I admit that there is one flaw in my theory—one fact that I can’t get over. Oh! If only that note had been something quite different—”
She sighed and shook her head. She moved towards the window and absentmindedly reached up her hand and felt the rather depressed-looking plant that stood in a stand.
