I winced.
“And then there was the tennis racquet,” continued Miss Marple.
“The tennis racquet?”
“Yes, the one Mrs. Price Ridley’s Clara saw lying on the grass by the Vicarage gate. That looked as though Mr. Dennis had got back earlier from his tennis party than he said. Boys of sixteen are so very susceptible and so very unbalanced. Whatever the motive – for Lettice’s sake or for yours, it was a possibility. And then, of course, there was poor Mr. Hawes and you – not both of you naturally – but alternatively, as the lawyers say.”
“Me?” I exclaimed in lively astonishment.
“Well, yes. I do apologise – and indeed I never really thought – but there was the question of these disappearing sums of money. Either you or Mr. Hawes must be guilty, and Mrs. Price Ridley was going about everywhere hinting that you were the person in fault – Principally because you objected so vigorously to any kind of inquiry into the matter. Of course, I myself was always convinced it was Mr. Hawes – he reminded me so much of that unfortunate organist I mentioned; but all the same one couldn’t be absolutely sure -”
“Human nature being what it is,” I ended grimly.
“Exactly. And then, of course, there was dear Griselda.”
“But Mrs. Clement was completely out of it,” interrupted Melchett. “She returned by the 6.50 train.”
“That’s what she said,” retorted Miss Marple. “One should never go by what people say. The 6.50 was half an hour late that night. But at a quarter-past seven I saw her with my own eyes starting for Old Hall. So it followed that she must have come by the earlier train. Indeed she was seen; but perhaps you know that?”
She looked at me inquiringly.
Some magnetism in her glance impelled me to hold out the last anonymous letter, the one I had opened so short a time ago. It set out in detail that Griselda had been seen leaving Lawrence Redding’s cottage by the back window at twenty past six on the fatal day.
I said nothing then or at any time of the dreadful suspicion that had for one moment assailed my mind. I had seen it in nightmare terms – a past intrigue between Lawrence and Griselda, the knowledge of it coming to Protheroe’s ears, his decision to make me acquainted with the facts – and Griselda, desperate, stealing the pistol and silencing Protheroe. As I say – a nightmare only – but invested for a few long minutes with a dreadful appearance of reality.
I don’t know whether Miss Marple had any inkling of all this. Very probably she had. Few things are hidden from her.
She handed me back the note with a little nod.
“That’s been all over the village,” she said. “And it did look rather suspicious, didn’t it? Especially with Mrs. Archer swearing at the inquest that the pistol was still in the cottage when she left at midday.”
She paused a minute and then went on.
“But I’m wandering terribly from the point. What I want to say – and I believe it my duty – is to put my own explanation of the mystery before you. If you don’t believe it – well, I shall have done my best. Even as it is, my wish to be quite sure before I spoke may have cost poor Mr. Hawes his life.”
Again she paused, and when she resumed, her voice held a different note. It was less apologetic, more decided.
“That is my own explanation of the facts. By Thursday afternoon the crime had been fully planned down to the smallest detail. Lawrence Redding first called on the vicar, knowing him to be out. He had with him the pistol which he concealed in that pot in the stand by the window. When the vicar came in, Lawrence explained his visit by a statement that he had made up his mind to go away. At five-thirty, Lawrence Redding telephoned from the North Lodge to the vicar, adopting a woman’s voice (you remember what a good amateur actor he was).
“Mrs. Protheroe and her husband had just started for the village. And – a very curious thing (though no one happened to think of it that way) – Mrs. Protheroe took no hand-bag with her. Really a most unusual thing for a woman to do. Just before twenty past six she passes my garden and stops and speaks, so as to give me every opportunity of noticing that she has no weapon with her and also that she is quite her normal self. They realised, you see, that I am a noticing kind of person. She disappears round the corner of the house to the study window. The poor colonel is sitting at the desk writing his letter to you. He is deaf, as we all know. She takes the pistol from the bowl where it is waiting for her, comes up behind him and shoots him through the head, throws down the pistol and is out again like a flash, and going down the garden to the studio. Nearly any one would swear that there couldn’t have been time!”