I shook my head.
“She was quite positive that nobody did.”
“Yes, nobody whom she would call anybody – sounds mad but you see what I mean. But there might have been someone like a postman or a milkman or a butcher’s boy – someone whose presence would be so natural that you wouldn’t think of mentioning it.”
“You’ve been reading G. K. Chesterton,” I said, and Lawrence did not deny it.
“But don’t you think there’s just possibly something in the idea?”
“Well, I suppose there might be,” I admitted.
Without further ado, we made our way to Miss Marple’s. She was working in the garden, and called out to us as we climbed over the stile.
“You see,” murmured Lawrence, “she sees everybody.”
She received us very graciously and was much pleased with Lawrence’s immense rock, which he presented with all due solemnity.
“It’s very thoughtful of you, Mr. Redding. Very thoughtful indeed.”
Emboldened by this, Lawrence embarked on his questions. Miss Marple listened attentively.
“Yes, I see what you mean, and I quite agree, it is the sort of thing no one mentions or bothers to mention. But I can assure you that there was nothing of the kind. Nothing whatever.”
“You are sure, Miss Marple?”
“Quite sure.”
“Did you see any one go by the path into the wood that afternoon?” I asked. “Or come from it?”
“Oh! yes, quite a number of people. Dr. Stone and Miss Cram went that way – it’s the nearest way to the Barrow for them. That was a little after two o’clock. And Dr. Stone returned that way – as you know, Mr. Redding, since he joined you and Mrs. Protheroe.”
“By the way,” I said. “That shot – the one you heard, Miss Marple. Mr. Redding and Mrs. Protheroe must have heard it too.”
I looked inquiringly at Lawrence.
“Yes,” he said, frowning. “I believe I did hear some shots. Weren’t there one or two shots?”
“I only heard one,” said Miss Marple.
“It’s only the vaguest impression in my mind,” said Lawrence. “Curse it all, I wish I could remember. If only I’d known. You see, I was so completely taken up with – with -”
He paused, embarrassed.
I gave a tactful cough. Miss Marple with a touch of prudishness, changed the subject.
“Inspector Slack has been trying to get me to say whether I heard the shot after Mr. Redding and Mrs. Protheroe had left the studio or before. I’ve had to confess that I really could not say definitely, but I have the impression – which is growing stronger the more I think about it – that it was after.”
“Then that lets the celebrated Dr. Stone out anyway,” said Lawrence, with a sigh. “Not that there has ever been the slightest reason why he should be suspected of shooting old Protheroe.”
“Ah!” said Miss Marple. “But I always find it prudent to suspect everybody just a little. What I say is, you really never know, do you?”
This was typical of Miss Marple. I asked Lawrence if he agreed with her about the shot.
“I really can’t say. You see, it was such an ordinary sound. I should be inclined to think it had been fired when we were in the studio. The sound would have been deadened and – and one would have noticed it less there.”
For other reasons than the sound being deadened, I thought to myself!
“I must ask Anne,” said Lawrence. “She may remember. By the way, there seems to me to be one curious fact that needs explanation. Mrs. Lestrange, the Mystery Lady of St. Mary Mead, paid a visit to old Protheroe after dinner on Wednesday night. And nobody seems to have any idea what it was all about. Old Protheroe said nothing to either his wife or Lettice.”
“Perhaps the vicar knows,” said Miss Marple.
Now how did the woman know that I had been to visit Mrs. Lestrange that afternoon? The way she always knows things is uncanny.
I shook my head and said I could throw no light upon the matter.
“What does Inspector Slack think?” asked Miss Marple.
“He’s done his best to bully the butler – but apparently the butler wasn’t curious enough to listen at the door. So there it is – no one knows.”