Miss Marple 3-Book Collection 1: The Murder at the Vicarage, The Body in the Library, The Moving Finger

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 anyone 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. Anyone’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 17 (#ulink_ab693630-0e20-5835-9dc4-fd21bfc6b3e8)

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.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean that it shows that call was put through deliberately to get you out of the way. Therefore the murder was carefully planned in advance. If it had been just a harmless practical joke, the fingerprints wouldn’t have been wiped off so carefully.’

‘No. I see that.’

‘It also shows that the murderer was well acquainted with Old Hall and its surroundings. It wasn’t Mrs Protheroe who put that call through. I’ve accounted for every moment of her time that afternoon. There are half a dozen other servants who can swear that she was at home till five-thirty. Then the car came round and drove Colonel Protheroe and her to the village. The Colonel went to see Quinton, the vet, about one of the horses. Mrs Protheroe did some ordering at the grocers and at the fish shop, and from there came straight down the back lane where Miss Marple saw her. All the shops agree she carried no handbag with her. The old lady was right.’

‘She usually is,’ I said mildly.

‘And Miss Protheroe was over at Much Benham at 5.30.’

‘Quite so,’ I said. ‘My nephew was there too.’

‘That disposes of her. The maid seems all right – a bit hysterical and upset, but what can you expect? Of course, I’ve got my eye on the butler – what with giving notice and all. But I don’t think he knows anything about it.’

‘Your inquiries seem to have had rather a negative result, Inspector.’

‘They do and they do not, sir. There’s one very queer thing has turned up – quite unexpectedly, I may say.’

‘Yes?’

‘You remember the fuss that Mrs Price Ridley, who lives next door to you, was kicking up yesterday morning? About being rung up on the telephone?’

‘Yes?’ I said.

‘Well, we traced the call just to calm her – and where on this earth do you think it was put through from?’

‘A call office?’ I hazarded.

‘No, Mr Clement. That call was put through from Mr Lawrence Redding’s cottage.’

‘What?’ I exclaimed, surprised.

‘Yes. A bit odd, isn’t it? Mr Redding had nothing to do with it. At that time, 6.30, he was on his way to the Blue Boar with Dr Stone in full view of the village. But there it is. Suggestive, eh? Someone walked into that empty cottage and used the telephone, who was it? That’s two queer telephone calls in one day. Makes you think there’s some connection between them. I’ll eat my hat if they weren’t both put through by the same person.’

‘But with what object?’

‘Well, that’s what we’ve got to find out. There seems no particular point in the second one, but there must be a point somewhere. And you see the significance? Mr Redding’s house used to telephone from. Mr Redding’s pistol. All throwing suspicion on Mr Redding.’

‘It would be more to the point to have put through the first call from his house,’ I objected.

‘Ah, but I’ve been thinking that out. What did Mr Redding do most afternoons? He went up to Old Hall and painted Miss Protheroe. And from his cottage he’d go on his motor bicycle, passing through the North Gate. Now you see the point of the call being put through from there. The murderer is someone who didn’t know about the quarrel and that Mr Redding wasn’t going up to Old Hall any more.’

I reflected a moment to let the Inspector’s points sink into my brain. They seemed to me logical and unavoidable.

‘Were there any fingerprints on the receiver in Mr Redding’s cottage?’ I asked.

‘There were not,’ said the Inspector bitterly. ‘That dratted old woman who goes and does for him had been and dusted them off yesterday morning.’ He reflected wrathfully for a few minutes. ‘She’s a stupid old fool, anyway. Can’t remember when she saw the pistol last. It might have been there on the morning of the crime, or it might not. “She couldn’t say, she’s sure.” They’re all alike!

‘Just as a matter of form, I went round and saw Dr Stone,’ he went on. ‘I must say he was pleasant as could be about it. He and Miss Cram went up to that mound – or barrow – or whatever you call it, about half-past two yesterday, and stayed there all the afternoon. Dr Stone came back alone, and she came later. He says he didn’t hear any shot, but admits he’s absent-minded. But it all bears out what we think.’

‘Only,’ I said, ‘you haven’t caught the murderer.’

‘H’m,’ said the Inspector. ‘It was a woman’s voice you heard through the telephone. It was in all probability a woman’s voice Mrs Price Ridley heard. If only that shot hadn’t come hard on the close of the telephone call – well, I’d know where to look.’

‘Where?’

‘Ah! That’s just what it’s best not to say, sir.’

Unblushingly, I suggested a glass of old port. I have some very fine old vintage port. Eleven o’clock in the morning is not the usual time for drinking port, but I did not think that mattered with Inspector Slack. It was, of course, cruel abuse of the vintage port, but one must not be squeamish about such things.

When Inspector Slack had polished off the second glass, he began to unbend and become genial. Such is the effect of that particular port.

‘I don’t suppose it matters with you, sir,’ he said. ‘You’ll keep it to yourself ? No letting it get round the parish.’

I reassured him.

‘Seeing as the whole thing happened in your house, it almost seems as though you have a right to know.’