“I expect someone overheard something, though, don’t you?” said Miss Marple. “I mean, somebody always does. I think that is where Mr. Redding might find out something.”
“But Mrs. Protheroe knows nothing.”
“I didn’t mean Anne Protheroe,” said Miss Marple. “I meant the women servants. They do so hate telling anything to the police. But a nice-looking young man – you’ll excuse me, Mr. Redding – and one who has been unjustly suspected – oh! I’m sure they’d tell him at once.”
“I’ll go and have a try this evening,” said Lawrence with vigour. “Thanks for the hint, Miss Marple. I’ll go after – well, after a little job the vicar and I are going to do.”
It occurred to me that we had better be getting on with it.
I said good-bye to Miss Marple and we entered the woods once more.
First we went up the path till we came to a new spot where it certainly looked as though someone had left the path on the right-hand side. Lawrence explained that he had already followed this particular trail and found it led nowhere, but he added that we might as well try again. He might have been wrong.
It was, however, as he had said. After about ten or twelve yards any sign of broken and trampled leaves petered out. It was from this spot that Lawrence had broken back towards the path to meet me earlier in the afternoon.
We emerged on the path again and walked a little farther along it. Again we came to a place where the bushes seemed disturbed. The signs were very slight but, I thought, unmistakable. This time the trail was more promising. By a devious course, it wound steadily nearer to the Vicarage. Presently we arrived at where the bushes grew thickly up to the wall. The wall is a high one and ornamented with fragments of broken bottles on the top. If any one had placed a ladder against it, we ought to find traces of their passage.
We were working our way slowly along the wall when a sound came to our ears of a breaking twig. I pressed forward, forcing my way through a thick tangle of shrubs – and came face to face with Inspector Slack.
“So it’s you,” he said. “And Mr. Redding. Now what do you think you two gentlemen are doing?”
Slightly crestfallen, we explained.
“Quite so,” said the inspector. “Not being the fools we’re usually thought to be, I had the same idea myself. I’ve been here over an hour. Would you like to know something?”
“Yes,” I said meekly.
“Whoever murdered Colonel Protheroe didn’t come this way to do it! There’s not a sign either on this side of the wall, nor the other. Whoever murdered Colonel Protheroe came through the front door. There’s no other way he could have come.”
“Impossible,” I cried.
“Why impossible? Your door stands open. Any one’s only got to walk in. They can’t be seen from the kitchen. They know you’re safely out of the way, they know Mrs. Clement is in London, they know Mr. Dennis is at a tennis party. Simple as A B C. And they don’t need to go or come through the village. Just opposite the Vicarage gate is a public footpath, and from it you can turn into these same woods and come out whichever way you choose. Unless Mrs. Price Ridley were to come out of her front gate at that particular minute, it’s all clear sailing. A great deal more so than climbing over walls. The side windows of the upper story of Mrs. Price Ridley’s house do overlook most of that wall. No, depend upon it, that’s the way he came.”
It really seemed as though he must be right.
CHAPTER XVII
Inspector Slack came round to see me the following morning. He is, I think, thawing towards me. In time, he may forget the incident of the clock.
“Well, sir,” he greeted me. “I’ve traced that telephone call that you received.”
“Indeed?” I said eagerly.
“It’s rather odd. It was put through from the North Lodge of Old Hall. Now that lodge is empty, the lodgekeepers have been pensioned off and the new lodgekeepers aren’t in yet. The place was empty and convenient – a window at the back was open. No fingerprints on the instrument itself – it had been wiped clear. That’s suggestive.”