The Murder at the Vicarage. Агата Кристи
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turned to me. ‘Did the girl hear anything?’
‘As far as I know she heard nothing,’ I said. ‘But you had better ask her.’
But at this moment Inspector Slack arrived, having come by car from Much Benham, two miles away.
All that I can say of Inspector Slack is that never did a man more determinedly strive to contradict his name. He was a dark man, restless and energetic in manner, with black eyes that snapped ceaselessly. His manner was rude and overbearing in the extreme.
He acknowledged our greetings with a curt nod, seized his subordinate’s notebook, perused it, exchanged a few curt words with him in an undertone, then strode over to the body.
‘Everything’s been messed up and pulled about, I suppose,’ he said.
‘I’ve touched nothing,’ said Haydock.
‘No more have I,’ I said.
The Inspector busied himself for some time peering at the things on the table and examining the pool of blood.
‘Ah!’ he said in a tone of triumph. ‘Here’s what we want. Clock overturned when he fell forward. That’ll give us the time of the crime. Twenty-two minutes past six. What time did you say death occurred, doctor?’
‘I said about half an hour, but—’
The Inspector consulted his watch.
‘Five minutes past seven. I got word about ten minutes ago, at five minutes to seven. Discovery of the body was at about a quarter to seven. I understand you were fetched immediately. Say you examined it at ten minutes to—Why, that brings it to the identical second almost!’
‘I don’t guarantee the time absolutely,’ said Haydock. ‘That is an approximate estimate.’
‘Good enough, sir, good enough.’
I had been trying to get a word in.
‘About that clock—’
‘If you’ll excuse me, sir, I’ll ask you any questions I want to know. Time’s short. What I want is absolute silence.’
‘Yes, but I’d like to tell you—’
‘Absolute silence,’ said the Inspector, glaring at me ferociously. I gave him what he asked for.
He was still peering about the writing table.
‘What was he sitting here for?’ he grunted. ‘Did he want to write a note—Hallo—what’s this?’
He held up a piece of notepaper triumphantly. So pleased was he with his find that he permitted us to come to his side and examine it with him.
It was a piece of Vicarage notepaper, and it was headed at the top 6.20.
‘Dear Clement’—it began—‘Sorry I cannot wait any longer, but I must …’
Here the writing tailed off in a scrawl.
‘Plain as a pikestaff,’ said Inspector Slack triumphantly. ‘He sits down here to write this, an enemy comes softly in through the window and shoots him as he writes. What more do you want?’
‘I’d just like to say—’ I began.
‘Out of the way, if you please, sir. I want to see if there are footprints.’
He went down on his hands and knees, moving towards the open window.
‘I think you ought to know—’ I said obstinately.
The Inspector rose. He spoke without heat, but firmly.
‘We’ll go into all that later. I’d be obliged if you gentlemen will clear out of here. Right out, if you please.’
We permitted ourselves to be shooed out like children.
Hours seemed to have passed—yet it was only a quarter-past seven.
‘Well,’ said Haydock. ‘That’s that. When that conceited ass wants me, you can send him over to the surgery. So long.’
‘The mistress is back,’ said Mary, making a brief appearance from the kitchen. Her eyes were round and agog with excitement. ‘Come in about five minutes ago.’
I found Griselda in the drawing-room. She looked frightened, but excited.
I told her everything and she listened attentively.
‘The letter is headed 6.20,’ I ended. ‘And the clock fell over and has stopped at 6.22.’
‘Yes,’ said Griselda. ‘But that clock, didn’t you tell him that it was always kept a quarter of an hour fast?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t. He wouldn’t let me. I tried my best.’
Griselda was frowning in a puzzled manner.
‘But, Len,’ she said, ‘that makes the whole thing perfectly extraordinary. Because when that clock said twenty past six it was really only five minutes past, and at five minutes past I don’t suppose Colonel Protheroe had even arrived at the house.’
We puzzled over the business of the clock for some time, but we could make nothing of it. Griselda said I ought to make another effort to tell Inspector Slack about it, but on that point I was feeling what I can only describe as ‘mulish’.
Inspector Slack had been abominably and most unnecessarily rude. I was looking forward to a moment when I could produce my valuable contribution and effect his discomfiture. I would then say in a tone of mild reproach:
‘If you had only listened to me, Inspector Slack …’
I expected that he would at least speak to me before he left the house, but to our surprise we learned from Mary that he had departed, having locked up the study door and issued orders that no one was to attempt to enter the room.
Griselda suggested going up to Old Hall.
‘It will be so awful for Anne Protheroe—with the police and everything,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I might be able to do something for her.’
I cordially approved of this plan, and Griselda set off with instructions that she was to telephone to me if she thought that I could be of any use or comfort to either of the ladies.
I now proceeded to ring up the Sunday School teachers, who were coming at 7.45 for their weekly preparation class. I thought that under the circumstances it would be better to put them off.
Dennis was the next person to arrive on the scene, having just returned from a tennis party. The fact that murder had taken place at the Vicarage seemed to afford him acute satisfaction.
‘Fancy being right on the spot in a murder case,’ he exclaimed. ‘I’ve always wanted to be right in the midst of one. Why have the police locked up the study? Wouldn’t one of the other door keys fit it?’
I refused to allow anything of the sort to be attempted. Dennis gave in with a bad grace. After extracting every possible detail from me he went out into the garden to look for footprints, remarking cheerfully that it was lucky it was only old Protheroe, whom everyone disliked.
His cheerful callousness rather grated on me, but I reflected that I was perhaps being hard on the boy. At Dennis’s age a detective story is one of the best things in life, and to find a real detective story, complete with corpse, waiting on one’s own front doorstep, so to speak, is bound to send a healthy-minded boy into the seventh heaven of enjoyment. Death means very little to a boy of sixteen.
Griselda came back in about an hour’s time. She had seen Anne Protheroe, having arrived just after the Inspector had broken the news to her.
On hearing that Mrs Protheroe had last seen her husband in the