“But the shot?” objected the colonel. “You didn’t hear the shot?”
“There is, I believe, an invention called a Maxim silencer. So I gather from detective stories. I wonder if, possibly, the sneeze that the maid, Clara, heard might have actually been the shot? But no matter. Mrs. Protheroe is met at the studio by Mr. Redding. They go in together – and, human nature being what it is, I’m afraid they realise that I shan’t leave the garden till they come out again!”
I had never liked Miss Marple better than at this moment, with her humorous perception of her own weakness.
“When they do come out, their demeanour is gay and natural. And there, in reality, they made a mistake. Because if they had really said good-bye to each other, as they pretended, they would have looked very different. But you see, that was their weak point. They simply dare not appear upset in any way. For the next ten minutes they are careful to provide themselves with what is called an alibi, I believe. Finally Mr. Redding goes to the Vicarage, leaving it as late as he dares. He probably saw you on the footpath from far away and was able to time matters nicely. He picks up the pistol and the silencer, leaves the forged letter with the time on it written in a different ink and apparently in a different handwriting. When the forgery is discovered it will look like a clumsy attempt to incriminate Anne Protheroe.
“But when he leaves the letter, he finds the one actually written by Colonel Protheroe – something quite unexpected. And being a very intelligent young man, and seeing that this letter may come in very useful to him, he takes it away with him. He alters the hands of the clock to the same time as the letter – knowing that it is always kept a quarter of an hour fast. The same idea – attempt to throw suspicion on Mrs. Protheroe. Then he leaves, meeting you outside the gate, and acting the part of someone nearly distraught. As I say, he is really most intelligent. What would a murderer who had committed a crime try to do? Behave naturally, of course. So that is just what Mr. Redding does not do. He gets rid of the silencer, but marches into the police station with the pistol and makes a perfectly ridiculous self-accusation which takes everybody in.”
There was something fascinating in Miss Marple’s resumé of the case. She spoke with such certainty that we both felt that this way and in no other could the crime have been committed.
“What about the shot heard in the wood?” I asked. “Was that the coincidence to which you were referring earlier this evening?”
“Oh! dear, no.” Miss Marple shook her head briskly. “That wasn’t a coincidence – very far from it. It was absolutely necessary that a shot should be heard – otherwise suspicion of Mrs. Protheroe might have continued. How Mr. Redding arranged it, I don’t quite know. But I understand that picric acid explodes if you drop a weight on it, and you will remember, dear vicar, that you met Mr. Redding carrying a large stone just in the part of the wood where you picked up that crystal later. Gentlemen are so clever at arranging things – the stone suspended above the crystals and then a time fuse – or do I mean a slow match? Something that would take about twenty minutes to burn through – so that the explosion would come about 6.30 when he and Mrs. Protheroe had come out of the studio and were in full view. A very safe device because what would there be to find afterwards – only a big stone! But even that he tried to remove – when you came upon him.”
“I believe you are right,” I exclaimed, remembering the start of surprise Lawrence had given on seeing me that day. It had seemed natural enough at the time, but now…
Miss Marple seemed to read my thoughts, for she nodded her head shrewdly.
“Yes,” she said, “it must have been a very nasty shock for him to come across you just then. But he turned it off very well – pretending he was bringing it to me for my rock gardens. Only -” Miss Marple became suddenly very emphatic. “It was the wrong sort of stone for my rock gardens! And that put me on the right track!”