寓所谜案19

Eighteen

The inquest was held that afternoon (Saturday) at two o’clock at the BlueBoar. The local excitement was, I need hardly say, tremendous. There hadbeen no murder in St. Mary Mead for at least fifteen years. And to havesomeone like Colonel Protheroe murdered actually in the Vicarage study issuch a feast of sensation as rarely falls to the lot of a village population.

Various comments floated to my ears which I was probably not meant tohear.

“There’s Vicar. Looks pale, don’t he? I wonder if he had a hand in it.

’Twas done at Vicarage, after all.” “How can you, Mary Adams? And himvisiting Henry Abbott at the time.” “Oh! But they do say him and the Col-onel had words. There’s Mary Hill. Giving herself airs, she is, on accountof being in service there. Hush, here’s coroner.”

The coroner was Dr. Roberts of our adjoining town of Much Benham. Hecleared his throat, adjusted his eyeglasses, and looked important.

To recapitulate all the evidence would be merely tiresome. LawrenceRedding gave evidence of finding the body, and identified the pistol as be-longing to him. To the best of his belief he had seen it on the Tuesday, twodays previously. It was kept on a shelf in his cottage, and the door of thecottage was habitually unlocked.

Mrs. Protheroe gave evidence that she had last seen her husband atabout a quarter to six when they separated in the village street. Sheagreed to call for him at the Vicarage later. She had gone to the Vicarageabout a quarter past six, by way of the back lane and the garden gate. Shehad heard no voices in the study and had imagined that the room wasempty, but her husband might have been sitting at the writing table, inwhich case she would not have seen him. As far as she knew, he had beenin his usual health and spirits. She knew of no enemy who might have hada grudge against him.

I gave evidence next, told of my appointment with Protheroe and mysummons to the Abbotts.’ I described how I had found the body and mysummoning of Dr. Haydock.

“How many people, Mr. Clement, were aware that Colonel Protheroewas coming to see you that evening?”

“A good many, I should imagine. My wife knew, and my nephew, andColonel Protheroe himself alluded to the fact that morning when I methim in the village. I should think several people might have overheardhim, as, being slightly deaf, he spoke in a loud voice.”

“It was, then, a matter of common knowledge? Anyone might know?”

I agreed.

Haydock followed. He was an important witness. He described carefullyand technically the appearance of the body and the exact injuries. It washis opinion that the deceased had been shot at approximately 6:20 to 6:30—certainly not later than 6:35. That was the outside limit. He was positiveand emphatic on that point. There was no question of suicide, the woundcould not have been self-inflicted.

Inspector Slack’s evidence was discreet and abridged. He described hissummons and the circumstances under which he had found the body. Theunfinished letter was produced and the time on it—6:20—noted. Also theclock. It was tacitly assumed that the time of death was 6:22. The policewere giving nothing away. Anne Protheroe told me afterwards that shehad been told to suggest a slightly earlier period of time than 6:20 for hervisit.

Our maid, Mary, was the next witness, and proved a somewhat trucu-lent one. She hadn’t heard anything, and didn’t want to hear anything. Itwasn’t as though gentlemen who came to see the Vicar usually got shot.

They didn’t. She’d got her own jobs to look after. Colonel Protheroe had ar-rived at a quarter past six exactly. No, she didn’t look at the clock. Sheheard the church chime after she had shown him into the study. Shedidn’t hear any shot. If there had been a shot she’d have heard it. Well, ofcourse, she knew there must have been a shot, since the gentleman wasfound shot—but there it was. She hadn’t heard it.

The coroner did not press the point. I realized that he and ColonelMelchett were working in agreement.

Mrs. Lestrange had been subpoenaed to give evidence, but a medicalcertificate, signed by Dr. Haydock, was produced saying she was too ill toattend.

There was only one other witness, a somewhat doddering old woman.

The one who, in Slack’s phrase, “did for” Lawrence Redding.

Mrs. Archer was shown the pistol and recognized it as the one she hadseen in Mr. Redding’s sitting room “over against the bookcase, he kept it,lying about.” She had last seen it on the day of the murder. Yes—in answerto a further question—she was quite sure it was there at lunchtime onThursday—quarter to one when she left.

I remembered what the Inspector had told me, and I was mildly sur-prised. However vague she might have been when he questioned her, shewas quite positive about it now.

The coroner summed up in a negative manner, but with a good deal offirmness. The verdict was given almost immediately:

Murder by Person or Persons unknown.

As I left the room I was aware of a small army of young men withbright, alert faces and a kind of superficial resemblance to each other. Sev-eral of them were already known to me by sight as having haunted theVicarage the last few days. Seeking to escape, I plunged back into the BlueBoar and was lucky enough to run straight into the archaeologist, Dr.

Stone. I clutched at him without ceremony.

“Journalists,” I said briefly and expressively. “If you could deliver mefrom their clutches?”

“Why, certainly, Mr. Clement. Come upstairs with me.”

He led the way up the narrow staircase and into his sitting room, whereMiss Cram was sitting rattling the keys of a typewriter with a practisedtouch. She greeted me with a broad smile of welcome and seized the op-portunity to stop work.

“Awful, isn’t it?” she said. “Not knowing who did it, I mean. Not but thatI’m disappointed in an inquest. Tame, that’s what I call it. Nothing whatyou might call spicy from beginning to end.”

“You were there, then, Miss Cram?”

“I was there all right. Fancy your not seeing me. Didn’t you see me? Ifeel a bit hurt about that. Yes, I do. A gentleman, even if he is a clergyman,ought to have eyes in his head.”

“Were you present also?” I asked Dr. Stone, in an effort to escape fromthis playful badinage. Young women like Miss Cram always make me feelawkward.

“No, I’m afraid I feel very little interest in such things. I am a man verywrapped up in his own hobby.”

“It must be a very interesting hobby,” I said.

“You know something of it, perhaps?”

I was obliged to confess that I knew next to nothing.

Dr. Stone was not the kind of man whom a confession of ignorancedaunts. The result was exactly the same as though I had said that the ex-cavation of barrows was my only relaxation. He surged and eddied intospeech. Long barrows, round barrows, stone age, bronze age, paleolithic,neolithic kistvaens and cromlechs, it burst forth in a torrent. I had little todo save nod my head and look intelligent—and that last is perhaps overoptimistic. Dr. Stone boomed on. He was a little man. His head was roundand bald, his face was round and rosy, and he beamed at you throughvery strong glasses. I have never known a man so enthusiastic on so littleencouragement. He went into every argument for and against his own pettheory—which, by the way, I quite failed to grasp!

He detailed at great length his difference of opinion with Colonel Pro-theroe.

“An opinionated boor,” he said with heat. “Yes, yes, I know he is dead,and one should speak no ill of the dead. But death does not alter facts. Anopinionated boor describes him exactly. Because he had read a few books,he set himself up as an authority—against a man who has made a lifelongstudy of the subject. My whole life, Mr. Clement, has been given up to thiswork. My whole life—”

He was spluttering with excitement. Gladys Cram brought him back toearth with a terse sentence.

“You’ll miss your train if you don’t look out,” she observed.

“Oh!” The little man stopped in mid speech and dragged a watch fromhis pocket. “Bless my soul. Quarter to? Impossible.”

“Once you start talking you never remember the time. What you’d dowithout me to look after you, I really don’t know.”

“Quite right, my dear, quite right.” He patted her affectionately on theshoulder. “This is a wonderful girl, Mr. Clement. Never forgets anything. Iconsider myself extremely lucky to have found her.”

“Oh! Go on, Dr. Stone,” said the lady. “You spoil me, you do.”

I could not help feeling that I should be in a material position to add mysupport to the second school of thought—that which foresees lawful matri-mony as the future of Dr. Stone and Miss Cram. I imagined that in her ownway Miss Cram was rather a clever young woman.

“You’d better be getting along,” said Miss Cram.

“Yes, yes, so I must.”

He vanished into the room next door and returned carrying a suitcase.

“You are leaving?” I asked in some surprise.

“Just running up to town for a couple of days,” he explained. “My oldmother to see tomorrow, some business with my lawyers on Monday. OnTuesday I shall return. By the way, I suppose that Colonel Protheroe’sdeath will make no difference to our arrangements. As regards the bar-row, I mean. Mrs. Protheroe will have no objection to our continuing thework?”

“I should not think so.”

As he spoke, I wondered who actually would be in authority at Old Hall.

It was just possible that Protheroe might have left it to Lettice. I felt that itwould be interesting to know the contents of Protheroe’s will.

“Causes a lot of trouble in a family, a death does,” remarked Miss Cram,with a kind of gloomy relish. “You wouldn’t believe what a nasty spiritthere sometimes is.”

“Well, I must really be going.” Dr. Stone made ineffectual attempts tocontrol the suitcase, a large rug and an unwieldy umbrella. I came to hisrescue. He protested.

“Don’t trouble—don’t trouble. I can manage perfectly. Doubtless therewill be somebody downstairs.”

But down below there was no trace of a boots or anyone else. I suspectthat they were being regaled at the expense of the Press. Time was gettingon, so we set out together to the station, Dr. Stone carrying the suitcase,and I holding the rug and umbrella.

Dr. Stone ejaculated remarks in between panting breaths as we hurriedalong.

“Really too good of you—didn’t mean—to trouble you … Hope we shan’tmiss—the train—Gladys is a good girl—really a wonderful girl—a verysweet nature—not too happy at home, I’m afraid—absolutely—the heartof a child—heart of a child. I do assure you, in spite of—difference in ourages—find a lot in common….”

We saw Lawrence Redding’s cottage just as we turned off to the station.

It stands in an isolated position with no other houses near it. I observedtwo young men of smart appearance standing on the doorstep and acouple more peering in at the windows. It was a busy day for the Press.

“Nice fellow, young Redding,” I remarked, to see what my companionwould say.

He was so out of breath by this time that he found it difficult to say any-thing, but he puffed out a word which I did not at first quite catch.

“Dangerous,” he gasped, when I asked him to repeat his remark.

“Dangerous?”

“Most dangerous. Innocent girls—know no better—taken in by a fellowlike that—always hanging round women … No good.”

From which I deduced that the only young man in the village had notpassed unnoticed by the fair Gladys.

“Goodness,” ejaculated Dr. Stone. “The train!”

We were close to the station by this time and we broke into a fast sprint.

A down train was standing in the station and the up London train was justcoming in.

At the door of the booking office we collided with a rather exquisiteyoung man, and I recognized Miss Marple’s nephew just arriving. He is, Ithink, a young man who does not like to be collided with. He prides him-self on his poise and general air of detachment, and there is no doubt thatvulgar contact is detrimental to poise of any kind. He staggered back. Iapologized hastily and we passed in. Dr. Stone climbed on the train and Ihanded up his baggage just as the train gave an unwilling jerk and started.

I waved to him and then turned away. Raymond West had departed, butour local chemist, who rejoices in the name of Cherubim, was just settingout for the village. I walked beside him.

“Close shave that,” he observed. “Well, how did the inquest go, Mr.

Clement?”

I gave him the verdict.

“Oh! So that’s what happened. I rather thought that would be the ver-dict. Where’s Dr. Stone off to?”

I repeated what he had told me.

“Lucky not to miss the train. Not that you ever know on this line. I tellyou, Mr. Clement, it’s a crying shame. Disgraceful, that’s what I call it.

Train I came down by was ten minutes late. And that on a Saturday withno traffic to speak of. And on Wednesday—no, Thursday—yes, Thursday itwas—I remember it was the day of the murder because I meant to write astrongly-worded complaint to the company—and the murder put it out ofmy head—yes, last Thursday. I had been to a meeting of the Pharmaceut-ical Society. How late do you think the 6:50 was? Half an hour. Half anhour exactly! What do you think of that? Ten minutes I don’t mind. But ifthe train doesn’t get in till twenty past seven, well, you can’t get home be-fore half past. What I say is, why call it the 6:50?”

“Quite so,” I said, and wishing to escape from the monologue I brokeaway with the excuse that I had something to say to Lawrence Reddingwhom I saw approaching us on the other side of the road.

 

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