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

‘You don’t think it might be someone else wearing the gardener’s boots?’

‘No, I don’t!’ said Inspector Slack in a discouraging way.

It would take more than that to discourage Dennis, however.

He held out a couple of burnt matches.

‘I found these by the Vicarage gate.’

‘Thank you,’ said Slack, and put them in his pocket.

Matters appeared now to have reached a deadlock.

‘You’re not arresting Uncle Len, are you?’ inquired Dennis facetiously.

‘Why should I?’ inquired Slack.

‘There’s a lot of evidence against him,’ declared Dennis. ‘You ask Mary. Only the day before the murder he was wishing Colonel Protheroe out of the world. Weren’t you, Uncle Len?’

‘Er –’ I began.

Inspector Slack turned a slow suspicious stare upon me, and I felt hot all over. Dennis is exceedingly tiresome. He ought to realize that a policeman seldom has a sense of humour.

‘Don’t be absurd, Dennis,’ I said irritably.

The innocent child opened his eyes in a stare of surprise.

‘I say, it’s only a joke,’ he said. ‘Uncle Len just said that any one who murdered Colonel Protheroe would be doing the world a service.’

‘Ah!’ said Inspector Slack, ‘that explains something the maid said.’

Servants very seldom have any sense of humour either. I cursed Dennis heartily in my mind for bringing the matter up. That and the clock together will make the Inspector suspicious of me for life.

‘Come on, Clement,’ said Colonel Melchett.

‘Where are you going? Can I come, too?’ asked Dennis.

‘No, you can’t,’ I snapped.

We left him looking after us with a hurt expression. We went up to the neat front door of Mrs Price Ridley’s house and the Inspector knocked and rang in what I can only describe as an official manner. A pretty parlourmaid answered the bell.

‘Mrs Price Ridley in?’ inquired Melchett.

‘No, sir.’ The maid paused and added: ‘She’s just gone down to the police station.’

This was a totally unexpected development. As we retraced our steps Melchett caught me by the arm and murmured:

‘If she’s gone to confess to the crime, too, I really shall go off my head.’

Chapter 13 (#ulink_ecb6a412-39e9-56a0-bd51-bfb09189d3c5)

I hardly thought it likely that Mrs Price Ridley had anything so dramatic in view, but I did wonder what had taken her to the police station. Had she really got evidence of importance, or that she thought of importance, to offer? At any rate, we should soon know.

We found Mrs Price Ridley talking at a high rate of speed to a somewhat bewildered-looking police constable. That she was extremely indignant I knew from the way the bow in her hat was trembling. Mrs Price Ridley wears what, I believe, are known as ‘Hats for Matrons’ – they make a speciality of them in our adjacent town of Much Benham. They perch easily on a superstructure of hair and are somewhat overweighted with large bows of ribbon. Griselda is always threatening to get a matron’s hat.

Mrs Price Ridley paused in her flow of words upon our entrance.

‘Mrs Price Ridley?’ inquired Colonel Melchett, lifting his hat.

‘Let me introduce Colonel Melchett to you, Mrs Price Ridley,’ I said. ‘Colonel Melchett is our Chief Constable.’

Mrs Price Ridley looked at me coldly, but produced the semblance of a gracious smile for the Colonel.

‘We’ve just been round to your house, Mrs Price Ridley,’ explained the Colonel, ‘and heard you had come down here.’

Mrs Price Ridley thawed altogether.

‘Ah!’she said,‘I’m glad some notice is being taken of the occurrence. Disgraceful, I call it. Simply disgraceful.’

There is no doubt that murder is disgraceful, but it is not the word I should use to describe it myself. It surprised Melchett too, I could see.

‘Have you any light to throw upon the matter?’ he asked.

‘That’s your business. It’s the business of the police. What do we pay rates and taxes for, I should like to know?’

One wonders how many times that query is uttered in a year!

‘We’re doing our best, Mrs Price Ridley,’ said the Chief Constable.

‘But the man here hadn’t even heard of it till I told him about it!’ cried the lady.

We all looked at the constable.

‘Lady been rung up on the telephone,’ he said. ‘Annoyed. Matter of obscene language, I understand.’

‘Oh! I see.’ The Colonel’s brow cleared. ‘We’ve been talking at cross purposes. You came down here to make a complaint, did you?’

Melchett is a wise man. He knows that when it is a question of an irate middle-aged lady, there is only one thing to be done – listen to her. When she had said all that she wants to say, there is a chance that she will listen to you.

Mrs Price Ridley surged into speech.

‘Such disgraceful occurrences ought to be prevented. They ought not to occur. To be rung up in one’s own house and insulted – yes, insulted. I’m not accustomed to such things happening. Ever since the war there has been a loosening of moral fibre. Nobody minds what they say, and as to the clothes they wear –’

‘Quite,’ said Colonel Melchett hastily. ‘What happened exactly?’

Mrs Price Ridley took breath and started again.

‘I was rung up –’