The Murder at the Vicarage. Агата Кристи
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said Miss Marple. ‘You say he has confessed? Oh! dear, I see I have been sadly at sea—yes, sadly at sea.’
‘I can’t help feeling it must have been some kind of an accident,’ said Griselda. ‘Don’t you think so, Len? I mean his coming forward to give himself up looks like that.’
Miss Marple leant forward eagerly.
‘He gave himself up, you say?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh!’ said Miss Marple, with a deep sigh. ‘I am so glad—so very glad.’
I looked at her in some surprise.
‘It shows a true state of remorse, I suppose,’ I said.
‘Remorse?’ Miss Marple looked very surprised. ‘Oh, but surely, dear, dear Vicar, you don’t think that he is guilty?’
It was my turn to stare.
‘But since he has confessed—’
‘Yes, but that just proves it, doesn’t it? I mean that he had nothing to do with it.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘I may be dense, but I can’t see that it does. If you have not committed a murder, I cannot see the object of pretending you have.’
‘Oh, of course, there’s a reason!’ said Miss Marple. ‘Naturally. There’s always a reason, isn’t there? And young men are so hot-headed and often prone to believe the worst.’
She turned to Griselda.
‘Don’t you agree with me, my dear?’
‘I—I don’t know,’ said Griselda. ‘It’s difficult to know what to think. I can’t see any reason for Lawrence behaving like a perfect idiot.’
‘If you had seen his face last night—’ I began.
‘Tell me,’ said Miss Marple.
I described my homecoming while she listened attentively.
When I had finished she said:
‘I know that I am very often rather foolish and don’t take in things as I should, but I really do not see your point.
‘It seems to me that if a young man had made up his mind to the great wickedness of taking a fellow creature’s life, he would not appear distraught about it afterwards. It would be a premeditated and cold-blooded action and though the murderer might be a little flurried and possibly might make some small mistake, I do not think it likely he would fall into a state of agitation such as you describe. It is difficult to put oneself in such a position, but I cannot imagine getting into a state like that myself.’
‘We don’t know the circumstances,’ I argued. ‘If there was a quarrel, the shot may have been fired in a sudden gust of passion, and Lawrence might afterwards have been appalled at what he had done. Indeed, I prefer to think that this is what did actually occur.’
‘I know, dear Mr Clement, that there are many ways we prefer to look at things. But one must actually take facts as they are, must one not? And it does not seem to me that the facts bear the interpretation you put upon them. Your maid distinctly stated that Mr Redding was only in the house a couple of minutes, not long enough, surely, for a quarrel such as you describe. And then again, I understand the Colonel was shot through the back of the head while he was writing a letter—at least that is what my maid told me.’
‘Quite true,’ said Griselda. ‘He seems to have been writing a note to say he couldn’t wait any longer. The note was dated 6.20, and the clock on the table was overturned and had stopped at 6.22, and that’s just what has been puzzling Len and myself so frightfully.’
She explained our custom of keeping the clock a quarter of an hour fast.
‘Very curious,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Very curious indeed. But the note seems to me even more curious still. I mean—’
She stopped and looked round. Lettice Protheroe was standing outside the window. She came in, nodding to us and murmuring ‘Morning.’
She dropped into a chair and said, with rather more animation than usual:
‘They’ve arrested Lawrence, I hear.’
‘Yes,’ said Griselda. ‘It’s been a great shock to us.’
‘I never really thought anyone would murder father,’ said Lettice. She was obviously taking a pride in letting no hint of distress or emotion escape her. ‘Lots of people wanted to, I’m sure. There are times when I’d have liked to do it myself.’
‘Won’t you have something to eat or drink, Lettice?’ asked Griselda.
‘No, thank you. I just drifted round to see if you’d got my beret here—a queer little yellow one. I think I left it in the study the other day.’
‘If you did, it’s there still,’ said Griselda. ‘Mary never tidies anything.’
‘I’ll go and see,’ said Lettice, rising. ‘Sorry to be such a bother, but I seem to have lost everything else in the hat line.’
‘I’m afraid you can’t get it now,’ I said. ‘Inspector Slack has locked the room up.’
‘Oh! what a bore! Can’t we get in through the window?’
‘I’m afraid not. It is latched on the inside. Surely, Lettice, a yellow beret won’t be much good to you at present?’
‘You mean mourning and all that? I shan’t bother about mourning. I think it’s an awfully archaic idea. It’s a nuisance about Lawrence—yes, it’s a nuisance.’
She got up and stood frowning abstractedly.
‘I suppose it’s all on account of me and my bathing dress. So silly, the whole thing …’
Griselda opened her mouth to say something, but for some unexplained reason shut it again.
A curious smile came to Lettice’s lips.
‘I think,’ she said softly, ‘I’ll go home and tell Anne about Lawrence being arrested.’
She went out of the window again. Griselda turned to Miss Marple.
‘Why did you step on my foot?’
The old lady was smiling.
‘I thought you were going to say something, my dear. And it is often so much better to let things develop on their own lines. I don’t think, you know, that that child is half so vague as she pretends to be. She’s got a very definite idea in her head and she’s acting upon it.’
Mary gave a loud knock on the dining-room door and entered hard upon it.
‘What is it?’ said Griselda. ‘And Mary, you must remember not to knock on doors. I’ve told you about it before.’
‘Thought you might be busy,’ said Mary. ‘Colonel Melchett’s here. Wants to see the master.’
Colonel Melchett is Chief Constable of the county. I rose at once.
‘I thought you wouldn’t like my leaving him in the hall, so I put him in the drawing-room,’ went on Mary. ‘Shall I clear?’
‘Not yet,’ said Griselda. ‘I’ll ring.’
She turned to Miss Marple and I left the room.
Colonel Melchett is a dapper little man with a habit of snorting suddenly and unexpectedly. He has red hair and rather keen bright blue eyes.
‘Good morning, Vicar,’ he said. ‘Nasty business, eh? Poor old Protheroe. Not that I liked him. I didn’t. Nobody did, for that matter. Nasty bit of work