“Well,” I said slowly, “there is still a little – uncertainty.”
“Ah!” cried Miss Cram. “Then they don’t think it is Mr. Lawrence Redding after all. So handsome, isn’t he? Just like a movie star. And such a nice smile when he says good-morning to you. I really couldn’t believe my ears when I heard the police had arrested him. Still, one has always heard they’re very stupid – the county police.”
“You can hardly blame them in this instance,” I said. ”Mr. Redding came in and gave himself up.”
“What?” the girl was clearly dumbfounded. “Well – of all the poor fish! If I’d committed a murder, I wouldn’t go straight off and give myself up. I should have thought Lawrence Redding would have had more sense. To give in like that! What did he kill Protheroe for? Did he say? Was it just a quarrel?”
“It’s not absolutely certain that he did kill him,” I said.
“But surely – if he says he has – why really, Mr. Clement, he ought to know.”
“He ought to, certainly,” I agreed. “But the police are not satisfied with his story.”
“But why should he say he’d done it if he hasn’t?”
That was a point on which I had no intention of enlightening Miss Cram. Instead I said rather vaguely:
“I believe that in all prominent murder cases, the police receive numerous letters from people accusing themselves of the crime.”
Miss Cram’s reception of this piece of information was:
“They must be chumps!” in a tone of wonder and scorn.
“Well,” she said with a sigh, “I suppose I must be trotting along.” She rose. “Mr. Redding accusing himself of the murder will be a bit of news for Dr. Stone.”
“Is he interested? ” asked Griselda.
Miss Cram furrowed her brows perplexedly.
“He’s a queer one. You never can tell with him. All wrapped up in the past. He’d a hundred times rather look at a nasty old bronze knife out of one of those humps of ground than he would see the knife Crippen cut up his wife with, supposing he had a chance to.”
“Well,” I said, “I must confess I agree with him.”
Miss Cram’s eyes expressed incomprehension and slight contempt. Then, with reiterated good-byes, she took her departure.
“Not such a bad sort, really,” said Griselda, as the door closed behind her. “Terribly common, of course, but one of those big, bouncing, good-humoured girls that you can’t dislike. I wonder what really brought her here?”
“Curiosity.”
“Yes, I suppose so. Now, Len, ten me all about it. I’m simply dying to hear.”
I sat down and recited faithfully all the happenings of the morning, Griselda interpolating the narrative with little exclamations of surprise and interest.
“So it was Anne Lawrence was after all along! Not Lettice. How blind we’ve all been! That must have been what old Miss Marple was hinting at yesterday. Don’t you think so?”
“Yes,” I said, averting my eyes.
Mary entered.
“There’s a couple of men here – come from a newspapers so they say. Do you want to see them?”
“No,” I said, “certainly not. Refer them to Inspector Slack at the police station.”
Mary nodded and turned away.
“And when you’ve got rid of them, I said, come back here. There’s something I want to ask you.”
Mary nodded again.
It was some few minutes before she returned.
“Had a job getting rid of them,” she said. “Persistent. You never saw anything like it. Wouldn’t take no for an answer.”
“I expect we shall be a good deal troubled with them,” I said. ”Now, Mary, what I want to ask you is this: Are you quite certain you didn’t hear the shot yesterday evening?”
“The shot what killed him? No, of course I didn’t. If I had of done, I should have gone in to see what had happened.”
“Yes, but -” I was remembering Miss Marple’s statement that she had heard a shot “in the wood.” I changed the form of my question. “Did you hear any other shot – one down in the wood, for instance?”
“Oh! that.” The girl paused. “Yes, now I come to think of it, I believe I did. Not a lot of shots, just one. Queer sort of bang it was.”