‘Just like the other afternoon at the Vicarage,’ said Bunch. ‘That’s what startled you so, wasn’t it, Aunt Jane?’
‘Yes, my dear. I’ve been puzzling about those lights. I’d realized that there were two lamps, a pair, and that one had been changed for the other—probably during the night.’
‘That’s right,’ said Craddock. ‘When Fletcher examined that lamp the next morning it was, like all the others, perfectly in order, no frayed flex or fused wires.’
‘I’d understood what Dora Bunner meant by saying it had been the shepherdess the night before,’ said Miss Marple, ‘but I fell into the error of thinking, as she thought, that Patrick had been responsible. The interesting thing about Dora Bunner was that she was quite unreliable in repeating things she had heard—she always used her imagination to exaggerate or distort them, and she was usually wrong in what she thought—but she was quite accurate about the things she saw. She saw Letitia pick up the violets—’
‘And she saw what she described as a flash and a crackle,’ put in Craddock.
‘And, of course, when dear Bunch spilt the water from the Christmas roses on to the lamp wire—I realized at once that only Miss Blacklock herself could have fused the lights because only she was near that table.’
‘I could kick myself,’ said Craddock. ‘Dora Bunner even prattled about a burn on the table where someone had “put their cigarette down”—but nobody had even lit a cigarette…And the violets were dead because there was no water in the vase—a slip on Letitia’s part—she ought to have filled it up again. But I suppose she thought nobody would notice and as a matter of fact Miss Bunner was quite ready to believe that she herself had put no water in the vase to begin with.’
He went on:
‘She was highly suggestible, of course. And Miss Blacklock took advantage of that more than once. Bunny’s suspicions of Patrick were, I think, induced by her.’
‘Why pick on me?’ demanded Patrick in an aggrieved tone.
‘It was not, I think, a serious suggestion—but it would keep Bunny distracted from any suspicion that Miss Blacklock might be stage managering the business. Well, we know what happened next. As soon as the lights went and everyone was exclaiming, she slipped out through the previously oiled door and up behind Rudi Scherz who was flashing his torch round the room and playing his part with gusto. I don’t suppose he realized for a moment she was there behind him with her gardening gloves pulled on and the revolver in her hand. She waits till the torch reaches the spot she must aim for—the wall near which she is supposed to be standing. Then she fires rapidly twice and as he swings round startled, she holds the revolver close to his body and fires again. She lets the revolver fall by his body, throws her gloves carelessly on the hall table, then back through the other door and across to where she had been standing when the lights went out. She nicked her ear—I don’t quite know how—’
‘Nail scissors, I expect,’ said Miss Marple. ‘Just a snip on the lobe of the ear lets out a lot of blood. That was very good psychology, of course. The actual blood running down over her white blouse made it seem certain that she had been shot at, and that it had been a near miss.’
‘It ought to have gone off quite all right,’ said Craddock. ‘Dora Bunner’s insistence that Scherz had definitely aimed at Miss Blacklock had its uses. Without meaning it, Dora Bunner conveyed the impression that she’d actually seen her friend wounded. It might have been brought in Suicide or Accidental Death. And the case would have been closed. That it was kept open is due to Miss Marple here.’
‘Oh, no, no.’ Miss Marple shook her head energetically. ‘Any little efforts on my part were quite incidental. It was you who weren’t satisfied, Mr Craddock. It was you who wouldn’t let the case be closed.’
‘I wasn’t happy about it,’ said Craddock. ‘I knew it was all wrong somewhere. But I didn’t see where it was wrong, till you showed me. And after that Miss Blacklock had a real piece of bad luck. I discovered that that second door had been tampered with. Until that moment, whatever we agreed might have happened—we’d nothing to go upon but a pretty theory. But that oiled door was evidence. And I hit upon it by pure chance—by catching hold of a handle by mistake.’