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

‘Thank you, miss,’ said the Inspector. ‘That’s all I want to know.’

‘How queer,’ said Lettice. ‘It seems so uninteresting.’

She moved towards the Fiat.

The Inspector touched his forehead in a surreptitious manner.

‘A bit wanting?’ he suggested.

‘Not in the least,’ I said. ‘But she likes to be thought so.’

‘Well, I’m off to question the maids now.’

One cannot really like Slack, but one can admire his energy.

We parted company and I inquired of Reeves if I could see Mrs Protheroe. ‘She is lying down, sir, at the moment.’

‘Then I’d better not disturb her.’

‘Perhaps if you would wait, sir, I know that Mrs Protheroe is anxious to see you. She was saying as much at luncheon.’

He showed me into the drawing-room, switching on the electric lights since the blinds were down.

‘A very sad business all this,’ I said.

‘Yes, sir.’ His voice was cold and respectful.

I looked at him. What feelings were at work under that impassive demeanour. Were there things that he knew and could have told us? There is nothing so inhuman as the mask of the good servant.

‘Is there anything more, sir?’

Was there just a hint of anxiety to be gone behind that correct expression?

‘There’s nothing more,’ I said.

I had a very short time to wait before Anne Protheroe came to me. We discussed and settled a few arrangements and then:

‘What a wonderfully kind man Dr Haydock is!’ she exclaimed.

‘Haydock is the best fellow I know.’

‘He has been amazingly kind to me. But he looks very sad, doesn’t he?’

It had never occurred to me to think of Haydock as sad. I turned the idea over in my mind.

‘I don’t think I’ve ever noticed it,’ I said at last.

‘I never have, until today.’

‘One’s own troubles sharpen one’s eyes sometimes,’ I said.

‘That’s very true.’ She paused and then said:

‘Mr Clement, there’s one thing I absolutely cannot make out. If my husband were shot immediately after I left him, how was it that I didn’t hear the shot?’

‘They have reason to believe that the shot was fired later.’

‘But the 6.20 on the note?’

‘Was possibly added by a different hand – the murderer’s.’

Her cheek paled.

‘It didn’t strike you that the date was not in his handwriting?’

‘How horrible!’

‘None of it looked like his handwriting.’

There was some truth in this observation. It was a somewhat illegible scrawl, not so precise as Protheroe’s writing usually was.

‘You are sure they don’t still suspect Lawrence?’

‘I think he is definitely cleared.’

‘But, Mr Clement, who can it be? Lucius was not popular, I know, but I don’t think he had any real enemies. Not – not that kind of enemy.’

I shook my head. ‘It’s a mystery.’

I thought wonderingly of Miss Marple’s seven suspects. Who could they be?

After I took leave of Anne, I proceeded to put a certain plan of mine into action.

I returned from Old Hall by way of the private path. When I reached the stile, I retraced my steps, and choosing a place where I fancied the undergrowth showed signs of being disturbed, I turned aside from the path and forced my way through the bushes. The wood was a thick one, with a good deal of tangled undergrowth. My progress was not very fast, and I suddenly became aware that someone else was moving amongst the bushes not very far from me. As I paused irresolutely, Lawrence Redding came into sight. He was carrying a large stone.

I suppose I must have looked surprised, for he suddenly burst out laughing.

‘No,’ he said, ‘it’s not a clue, it’s a peace offering.’

‘A peace offering?’

‘Well, a basis for negotiations, shall we say? I want an excuse for calling on your neighbour, Miss Marple, and I have been told there is nothing she likes so much as a nice bit of rock or stone for the Japanese gardens she makes.’

‘Quite true,’ I said. ‘But what do you want with the old lady?’

‘Just this. If there was anything to be seen yesterday evening Miss Marple saw it. I don’t mean anything necessarily connected with the crime – that she would think connected with the crime. I mean some outré or bizarre incident, some simple little happening that might give us a clue to the truth. Something that she wouldn’t think worth while mentioning to the police.’

‘It’s possible, I suppose.’