“I have another idea,” said Griselda. “Suppose, Len, that the clock had already been put back – no, that comes to the same thing – how stupid of me!”
“It hadn’t been altered when I left,” I said. “I remember comparing it with my watch. Still, as you say, that has no bearing on the present matter.”
“What do you think, Miss Marple?” asked Griselda.
“My dear, I confess I wasn’t thinking about it from that point of view at all. What strikes me as so curious, and has done from the first, is the subject matter of that letter.”
“I don’t see that,” I said. ”Colonel Protheroe merely wrote that he couldn’t wait any longer -”
“At twenty minutes past six?” said Miss Marple. “Your maid, Mary, had already told him that you wouldn’t be in till half-past six at the earliest, and he had appeared to be quite willing to wait until then. And yet at twenty past six he sits down and says he ‘can’t wait any longer.'”
I stared at the old lady, feeling an increased respect for her mental powers. Her keen wits had seen what we had failed to perceive. It was an odd thing – a very odd thing.
“If only,” I said, “the letter hadn’t been dated -”
Miss Marple nodded her head.
“Exactly,” she said. “If it hadn’t been dated!”
I cast my mind back, trying to recall that sheet of notepaper and the blurred scrawl, and at the top that neatly printed 6.20. Surely these figures were on a different scale to the rest of the letter. I gave a gasp.
“Supposing,” I said, “it wasn’t dated. Supposing that round about 6.30 Colonel Protheroe got impatient and sat down to say he couldn’t wait any longer. And as he was sitting there writing, someone came in through the window -”
“Or through the door,” suggested Griselda.
“He’d hear the door and look up.”
“Colonel Protheroe was rather deaf, you remember,” said Miss Marple.
“Yes, that’s true. He wouldn’t hear it. Whichever way the murderer came, he stole up behind the colonel and shot him. Then he saw the note and the clock and the idea came to him. He put 6.20 at the top of the letter and he altered the clock to 6.22. It was a clever idea. It gave him, or so he would think, a perfect alibi.”
“And what we want to find,” said Griselda, “is someone who has a cast-iron alibi for 6.20, but no alibi at all for – well, that isn’t so easy. One can’t fix the time.”
“We can fix it within very narrow limits,” I said. “Haydock places 6.30 as the outside limit of time. I suppose one could perhaps shift it to 6.35 from the reasoning we have just been following out, it seems clear that Protheroe would not have got impatient before 6.30. I think we can say we do know pretty well.”
“Then that shot I heard – yes, I suppose it is quite possible. And I thought nothing about it – nothing at all. Most vexing. And yet, now I try to recollect, it does seem to me that it was different from the usual sort of shot one hears. Yes, there was a difference.”
“Louder?” I suggested.
No, Miss Marple didn’t think it had been louder. In fact, she found it hard to say in what way it had been different, but she still insisted that it was.
I thought she was probably persuading herself of the fact rather than actually remembering it, but she had just contributed such a valuable new outlook to the problem that I felt highly respectful towards her.
She rose, murmuring that she must really get back – it had been so tempting just to run over and discuss the case with dear Griselda. I escorted her to the boundary wall and the back gate and returned to find Griselda wrapped in thought.
“Still puzzling over that note?” I asked.
“No.”
She gave a sudden shiver and shook her shoulders impatiently.
“Len, I’ve been thinking. How badly someone must have hated Anne Protheroe!”
“Hated her?”
“Yes. Don’t you see? There’s no real evidence against Lawrence – all the evidence against him is what you might call accidental. He just happens to take it into his head to come here. If he hadn’t – well, no one would have thought of connecting him with the crime. But Anne is different. Suppose someone knew that she was here at exactly 6.20 – the clock and the time on the letter – everything pointing to her. I don’t think it was only because of an alibi it was moved to that exact time – I think there was more in it than that – a direct attempt to fasten the business on her. If it hadn’t been for Miss Marple saying she hadn’t got the pistol with her and noticing that she was only a moment before going down to the studio – Yes, if it hadn’t been for that…” She shivered again. “Len, I feel that someone hated Anne Protheroe very much. I – I don’t like it.”