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I said as much, and he denied it, but not very vehemently. Finally he confessed that he was not feeling too fit, and appeared ready to accept my advice of going home to bed.
I had a hurried lunch and went out to do some visits. Griselda had gone to London by the cheap Thursday train.
I came in about a quarter to four with the intention of sketching the outline of my Sunday sermon, but Mary told me that Mr. Redding was waiting for me in the study.
I found him pacing up and down with a worried face. He looked white and haggard.
He turned abruptly at my entrance.
“Look here, sir. I’ve been thinking over what you said yesterday. I’ve had a sleepless night thinking about it. You’re right. I’ve got to cut and run.”
“My dear boy,” I said.
“You were right in what you said about Anne. I’ll only bring trouble on her by staying here. She’s—she’s too good for anything else. I see I’ve got to go. I’ve made things hard enough for her as it is, heaven help me.”
“I think you have made the only decision possible,” I said. “I know that it is a hard one, but believe me, it will be for the best in the end.”
I could see that he thought that that was the kind of thing easily said by someone who didn’t know what he was talking about.
“You’ll look after Anne? She needs a friend.”
“You can rest assured that I will do everything in my power.”
“Thank you, sir.” He wrung my hand. “You’re a good sort, Padre. I shall see her to say good-bye this evening, and I shall probably pack up and go tomorrow. No good prolonging the agony. Thanks for letting me have the shed to paint in. I’m sorry not to have finished Mrs. Clement’s portrait.”
“Don’t worry about that, my dear boy. Good-bye, and God bless you.”
When he had gone I tried to settle down to my sermon, but with very poor success. I kept thinking of Lawrence and Anne Protheroe.
I had rather an unpalatable cup of tea, cold and black, and at half past five the telephone rang. I was informed that Mr. Abbott of Lower Farm was dying and would I please come at once.
I rang up Old Hall immediately, for Lower Farm was nearly two miles away and I could not possibly get back by six fifteen. I have never succeeded in learning to ride a bicycle.
I was told, however, that Colonel Protheroe had just started out in the car, so I departed, leaving word with Mary that I had been called away, but would try to be back by six thirty or soon after.
Five
It was nearer seven than half past six when I approached the Vicarage gate on my return. Before I reached it, it swung open and Lawrence Redding came out. He stopped dead on seeing me, and I was immediately struck by his appearance. He looked like a man who was on the point of going mad. His eyes stared in a peculiar manner, he was deathly white, and he was shaking and twitching all over.
I wondered for a moment whether he could have been drinking, but repudiated the idea immediately.
“Hallo,” I said, “have you been to see me again? Sorry I was out. Come back now. I’ve got to see Protheroe about some accounts—but I dare say we shan’t be long.”
“Protheroe,” he said. He began to laugh. “Protheroe? You’re going to see Protheroe? Oh, you’ll see Protheroe all right! Oh, my God—yes!”
I stared. Instinctively I stretched out a hand towards him. He drew sharply aside.
“No,” he almost cried out. “I’ve got to get away—to think. I’ve got to think. I must think.”
He broke into a run and vanished rapidly down the road towards the village, leaving me staring after him, my first idea of drunkenness recurring.
Finally I shook my head, and went on to the Vicarage. The front door is always left open, but nevertheless I rang the bell. Mary came, wiping her hands on her apron.
“So you’re back at last,” she observed.
“Is Colonel Protheroe here?” I asked.
“In the study. Been here since a quarter past six.”
“And Mr. Redding’s been here?”
“Come a few minutes ago. Asked for you. I told him you’d be back at any minute and that Colonel Protheroe was waiting in the study, and he said he’d wait too, and went there. He’s there now.”
“No, he isn’t,” I said. “I’ve just met him going down the road.”
“Well, I didn’t hear him leave. He can’t have stayed more than a couple of minutes. The mistress isn’t back from town yet.”
I nodded absentmindedly. Mary beat a retreat to the kitchen quarters and I went down the passage and opened the study door.
After the dusk of the passage, the evening sunshine that was pouring into the room made my eyes blink. I took a step or two across the floor and then stopped dead.
For a moment I could hardly take in the meaning of the scene before me.
Colonel Protheroe was lying sprawled across my writing table in a horrible unnatural position. There was a pool of some dark fluid on the desk by his head, and it was slowly dripping on to the floor with a horrible drip, drip, drip.
I pulled myself together and went across to him. His skin was cold to the touch. The hand that I raised fell back lifeless. The man was dead—shot through the head.
I went to the door and called Mary. When she came I ordered her to run as fast as she could and fetch Dr. Haydock, who lives just at the corner of the road. I told her there had been an accident.
Then I went back and closed the door to await the doctor’s coming.
Fortunately, Mary found him at home. Haydock is a good fellow, a big, fine, strapping man with an honest, rugged face.
His eyebrows went up when I pointed silently across the room. But, like a true doctor, he showed no signs of emotion. He bent over the dead man, examining him rapidly. Then he straightened himself and looked across at me.
“Well?” I asked.
“He’s dead right enough—been dead half an hour, I should say.”
“Suicide?”
“Out of the question, man. Look at the position of the wound. Besides, if he shot himself, where’s the weapon?”
True enough, there was no sign of any such thing.
“We’d better not mess around with anything,” said Haydock. “I’d better ring up the police.”
He picked up the receiver and spoke into it. He gave the facts as curtly as possible and then replaced the telephone and came across to where I was sitting.
“This is a rotten business. How did you come to find him?”
I explained. “Is—is it murder?” I asked rather faintly.
“Looks like it. Mean to say, what else can it be? Extraordinary business. Wonder who had a down on the poor old fellow. Of course I know he wasn’t popular, but one isn’t often murdered for that reason—worse luck.”
“There’s one rather curious thing,” I said. “I was telephoned for this afternoon to go to a dying parishioner. When I got there everyone was very surprised to see me. The sick man was very much better than he had been for some days, and his wife flatly denied telephoning for me at all.”
Haydock drew his brows together.
“That’s suggestive—very. You were being got out of the way. Where’s your wife?”
“Gone up to London for the day.”
“And the maid?”
“In the kitchen—right at the other side of the house.”
“Where she wouldn’t be likely to hear anything that went on in here. It’s a nasty business. Who knew that Protheroe was coming here this evening?”
“He referred to the fact this morning in the village street at the top of his voice as usual.”
“Meaning that the whole village knew it? Which they always do in any case. Know of anyone who had a grudge against him?”
The thought of Lawrence Redding’s white face and staring eyes came to my mind. I was spared answering by a noise of shuffling feet in the passage outside.
“The police,” said my friend, and rose to his feet.
Our
police force was represented by Constable Hurst, looking very important but slightly worried.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” he greeted us. “the Inspector will be here any minute. In the meantime I’ll follow out his instructions. I understand Colonel Protheroe’s been found shot—in the Vicarage.”
He paused and directed a look of cold suspicion at me, which I tried to meet with a suitable bearing of conscious innocence.
He moved over to the writing table and announced:
“Nothing to be touched until the Inspector comes.”
For the convenience of my readers I append a sketch plan of the room.
He got out his notebook, moistened his pencil and looked expectantly at both of us.
I repeated my story of discovering the body. When he had got it all down, which took some time, he turned to the doctor.
“In your opinion, Dr. Haydock, what was the cause of death?”
“Shot through the head at close quarters.”
“And the weapon?”
“I can’t say with certainty until we get the bullet out. But I should say in all probability the bullet was fired from a pistol of small calibre—say a Mauser .25.”
I started, remembering our conversation of the night before, and Lawrence Redding’s admission. The police constable brought his cold, fish-like eye round on me.
