Murder at the Vicarage

  “You know, dear Mr. Clement, this should be watered oftener. Poor thing, it needs it badly. Your maid should water it every day. I suppose it is she who attends to it?”

  “As much,” I said, “as she attends to anything.”

  “A little raw at present,” suggested Miss Marple.

  “Yes,” I said. “And Griselda steadily refuses to attempt to sack her. Her idea is that only a thoroughly undesirable maid will remain with us. However, Mary herself gave us notice the other day.”

  “Indeed. I always imagined she was very fond of you both.”

  “I haven’t noticed it,” I said. “But, as a matter of fact, it was Lettice Protheroe who upset her. Mary came back from the inquest in rather a temperamental state and found Lettice here and—well, they had words.”

  “Oh!” said Miss Marple. She was just about to step through the window when she stopped suddenly, and a bewildering series of changes passed over her face.

  “Oh, dear!” she muttered to herself. “I have been stupid. So that was it. Perfectly possible all the time.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  She turned a worried face upon me.

  “Nothing. An idea that has just occurred to me. I must go home and think things out thoroughly. Do you know, I believe I have been extremely stupid—almost incredibly so.”

  “I find that hard to believe,” I said gallantly.

  I escorted her through the window and across the lawn.

  “Can you tell me what it is that has occurred to you so suddenly?” I asked.

  “I would rather not—just at present. You see, there is still a possibility that I may be mistaken. But I do not think so. Here we are at my garden gate. Thank you so much. Please do not come any further.”

  “Is the note still a stumbling block?” I asked, as she passed through the gate and latched it behind her.

  She looked at me abstractedly.

  “The note? Oh! Of course that wasn’t the real note. I never thought it was. Goodnight, Mr. Clement.”

  She went rapidly up the path to the house, leaving me staring after her.

  I didn’t know what to think.

  Twenty-seven

  Griselda and Dennis had not yet returned. I realized that the most natural thing would have been for me to go up to the house with Miss Marple and fetch them home. Both she and I had been so entirely taken up with our preoccupation over the mystery that we had forgotten anybody existed in the world except ourselves.

  I was just standing in the hall, wondering whether I would not even now go over and join them, when the doorbell rang.

  I crossed over to it. I saw there was a letter in the box, and presuming that this was the cause of the ring, I took it out.

  As I did so, however, the bell rang again, and I shoved the letter hastily into my pocket and opened the front door.

  It was Colonel Melchett.

  “Hallo, Clement. I’m on my way home from town in the car. Thought I’d just look in and see if you could give me a drink.”

  “Delighted,” I said. “Come into the study.”

  He pulled off the leather coat that he was wearing and followed me into the study. I fetched the whisky and soda and two glasses. Melchett was standing in front of the fireplace, legs wide apart, stroking his closely cropped moustache.

  “I’ve got one bit of news for you, Clement. Most astounding thing you’ve ever heard. But let that go for the minute. How are things going down here? Any more old ladies hot on the scent?”

  “They’re not doing so badly,” I said. “One of them, at all events, thinks she’s got there.”

  “Our friend, Miss Marple, eh?”

  “Our friend, Miss Marple.”

  “Women like that always think they know everything,” said Colonel Melchett.

  He sipped his whisky and soda appreciatively.

  “It’s probably unnecessary interference on my part, asking,” I said. “But I suppose somebody has questioned the fish boy. I mean, if the murderer left by the front door, there’s a chance the boy may have seen him.”

  “Slack questioned him right enough,” said Melchett. “But the boy says he didn’t meet anybody. Hardly likely he would. The murderer wouldn’t be exactly courting observation. Lots of cover by your front gate. He would have taken a look to see if the road was clear. The boy had to call at the Vicarage, at Haydock’s, and at Mrs. Price Ridley’s. Easy enough to dodge him.”

  “Yes,” I said, “I suppose it would be.”

  “On the other hand,” went on Melchett, “if by any chance that rascal Archer did the job, and young Fred Jackson saw him about the place, I doubt very much whether he’d let on. Archer is a cousin of his.”

  “Do you seriously suspect Archer?”

  “Well, you know, old Protheroe had his knife into Archer pretty badly. Lots of bad blood between them. Leniency wasn’t Protheroe’s strong point.”

  “No,” I said. “He was a very ruthless man.”

  “What I say is,” said Melchett, “Live and let live. Of course, the law’s the law, but it never hurts to give a man the benefit of the doubt. That’s what Protheroe never did.”

  “He prided himself on it,” I said.

  There was a pause, and then I asked:

  “What is this ‘astounding bit of news’ you promised me?”

  “Well, it is astounding. You know that unfinished letter that Protheroe was writing when he was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “We got an expert on it—to say whether the 6:20 was added by a different hand. Naturally we sent up samples of Protheroe’s handwriting. And do you know the verdict? That letter was never written by Protheroe at all.”

  “You mean a forgery?”

  “It’s a forgery. The 6:20 they think is written in a different hand again—but they’re not sure about that. The heading is in a different ink, but the letter itself is a forgery. Protheroe never wrote it.”

  “Are they certain?”

  “Well, they’re as certain as experts ever are. You know what an expert is! Oh! But they’re sure enough.”

  “Amazing,” I said. Then a memory assailed me.

  “Why,” I said, “I remember at the time Mrs. Protheroe said it wasn’t like her husband’s handwriting at all, and I took no notice.”

  “Really?”

  “I thought it one of those silly remarks women will make. If there seemed one thing sure on earth it was that Protheroe had written that note.”

  We looked at each other.

  “It’s curious,” I said slowly. “Miss Marple was saying this evening that that note was all wrong.”

  “Confound the woman, she couldn’t know more about it if she had committed the murder herself.”

  At that moment the telephone bell rang. There is a queer kind of psychology about a telephone bell. It rang now persistently and with a kind of sinister significance.

  I went over and took up the receiver.

  “This is the Vicarage,” I said. “Who’s speaking?”

  A strange, high-pitched hysterical voice came over the wire:

  “I want to confess,” it said. “My God, I want to confess.”

  “Hallo,” I said, “hallo. Look here you’ve cut me off. What number was that?”

  A languid voice said it didn’t know. It added that it was sorry I had been troubled.

  I put down the receiver, and turned to Melchett.

  “You once said,” I remarked, “that you would go mad if anyone else accused themselves of the crime.”

  “What about it?”

  “That was someone who wanted to confess … And the Exchange has cut us off.”

  Melchett dashed over and took up the receiver.

  “I’ll speak to them.”

  “Do,” I said. “You may have some effect. I’ll leave you to it. I’m going out. I’ve a fancy I recognized that voice.”

  Twenty-eight

  I hurried down the village street. It was eleven o’clock, and at eleven o’clo
ck on a Sunday night the whole village of St. Mary Mead might be dead. I saw, however, a light in a first floor window as I passed, and, realizing that Hawes was still up, I stopped and rang the doorbell.

  After what seemed a long time, Hawes’s landlady, Mrs. Sadler, laboriously unfastened two bolts, a chain, and turned a key and peered out at me suspiciously.

  “Why, it’s Vicar!” she exclaimed.

  “Good evening,” I said. “I want to see Mr. Hawes. I see there’s a light in the window, so he’s up still.”

  “That may be. I’ve not seen him since I took up his supper. He’s had a quiet evening—no one to see him, and he’s not been out.”

  I nodded, and passing her, went quickly up the stairs. Hawes has a bedroom and sitting room on the first floor.

  I passed into the latter. Hawes was lying back in a long chair asleep. My entrance did not wake him. An empty cachet box and a glass of water, half full, stood beside him.

  On the floor, by his left foot, was a crumpled sheet of paper with writing on it. I picked it up and straightened it out.

  It began: “My dear Clement—”

  I read it through, uttered an exclamation and shoved it into my pocket. Then I bent over Hawes and studied him attentively.

  Next, reaching for the telephone which stood by his elbow, I gave the number of the Vicarage. Melchett must have been still trying to trace the call, for I was told that the number was engaged. Asking them to call me, I put the instrument down again.

  I put my hand into my pocket to look at the paper I had picked up once more. With it, I drew out the note that I had found in the letter box and which was still unopened.

  Its appearance was horribly familiar. It was the same handwriting as the anonymous letter that had come that afternoon.

  I tore it open.

  I read it once—twice—unable to realize its contents.

  I was beginning to read it a third time when the telephone rang. Like a man in a dream I picked up the receiver and spoke.

  “Hallo?”

  “Hallo.”

  “Is that you, Melchett?”

  “Yes, where are you? I’ve traced that call. The number is—”

  “I know the number.”

  “Oh, good! Is that where you are speaking from?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about that confession?”

  “I’ve got the confession all right.”

  “You mean you’ve got the murderer?”

  I had then the strongest temptation of my life. I looked at the anonymous scrawl. I looked at the empty cachet box with the name of Cherubim on it. I remembered a certain casual conversation.

  I made an immense effort.

  “I—don’t know,” I said. “You’d better come round.”

  And I gave him the address.

  Then I sat down in the chair opposite Hawes to think.

  I had two clear minutes to do so.

  In two minutes’ time, Melchett would have arrived.

  I took up the anonymous letter and read it through again for the third time.

  Then I closed my eyes and thought….

  Twenty-nine

  I don’t know how long I sat there—only a few minutes in reality, I suppose. Yet it seemed as though an eternity had passed when I heard the door open and, turning my head, looked up to see Melchett entering the room.

  He stared at Hawes asleep in his chair, then turned to me.

  “What’s this, Clement? What does it all mean?”

  Of the two letters in my hand I selected one and passed it to him. He read it aloud in a low voice.

  “My dear Clement,—It is a peculiarly unpleasant thing that I have to say. After all, I think I prefer writing it. We can discuss it at a later date. It concerns the recent peculations. I am sorry to say that I have satisfied myself beyond any possible doubt as to the identity of the culprit. Painful as it is for me to have to accuse an ordained priest of the church, my duty is only too painfully clear. An example must be made and—”

  He looked at me questioningly. At this point the writing tailed off in an undistinguishable scrawl where death had overtaken the writer’s hand.

  Melchett drew a deep breath, then looked at Hawes.

  “So that’s the solution! The one man we never even considered. And remorse drove him to confess!”

  “He’s been very queer lately,” I said.

  Suddenly Melchett strode across to the sleeping man with a sharp exclamation. He seized him by the shoulder and shook him, at first gently, then with increasing violence.

  “He’s not asleep! He’s drugged! What’s the meaning of this?”

  His eye went to the empty cachet box. He picked it up.

  “Has he—”

  “I think so,” I said. “He showed me these the other day. Told me he’d been warned against an overdose. It’s his way out, poor chap. Perhaps the best way. It’s not for us to judge him.”

  But Melchett was Chief Constable of the County before anything else. The arguments that appealed to me had no weight with him. He had caught a murderer and he wanted his murderer hanged.

  In one second he was at the telephone, jerking the receiver up and down impatiently until he got a reply. He asked for Haydock’s number. Then there was a further pause during which he stood, his ear to the telephone and his eyes on the limp figure in the chair.

  “Hallo—hallo—hallo—is that Dr. Haydock’s? Will the doctor come round at once to High Street? Mr. Hawes. It’s urgent … what’s that?… Well, what number is it then?… Oh, sorry.”

  He rang off, fuming.

  “Wrong number, wrong number—always wrong numbers! And a man’s life hanging on it. HALLO—you gave me the wrong number … Yes—don’t waste time—give me three nine—nine, not five.”

  Another period of impatience—shorter this time.

  “Hallo—is that you, Haydock? Melchett speaking. Come to 19 High Street at once, will you? Hawes has taken some kind of overdose. At once, man, it’s vital.”

  He rang off, strode impatiently up and down the room.

  “Why on earth you didn’t get hold of the doctor at once, Clement, I cannot think. Your wits must have all gone wool gathering.”

  Fortunately it never occurs to Melchett that anyone can possibly have different ideas on conduct to those he holds himself. I said nothing, and he went on:

  “Where did you find this letter?”

  “Crumpled on the floor—where it had fallen from his hand.”

  “Extraordinary business—that old maid was right about its being the wrong note we found. Wonder how she tumbled to that. But what an ass the fellow was not to destroy this one. Fancy keeping it—the most damaging evidence you can imagine!”

  “Human nature is full of inconsistencies.”

  “If it weren’t, I doubt if we should ever catch a murderer! Sooner or later they always do some fool thing. You’re looking very under the weather, Clement. I suppose this has been the most awful shock to you?”

  “It has. As I say, Hawes has been queer in his manner for some time, but I never dreamed—”

  “Who would? Hallo, that sounds like a car.” He went across to the window, pushing up the sash and leaning out. “Yes, it’s Haydock all right.”

  A moment later the doctor entered the room.

  In a few succinct words, Melchett explained the situation.

  Haydock is not a man who ever shows his feelings. He merely raised his eyebrows, nodded, and strode across to his patient. He felt his pulse, raised the eyelid and looked intently at the eye.

  Then he turned to Melchett.

  “Want to save him for the gallows?” he asked. “He’s pretty far gone, you know. It will be touch and go, anyway. I doubt if I can bring him round.”

  “Do everything possible.”

  “Right.”

  He busied himself with the case he had brought with him, preparing a hypodermic injection which he injected into Hawes’s arm. Then he stood up.

  “Best t
hing is to run him into Much Benham—to the hospital there. Give me a hand to get him down to the car.”

  We both lent our assistance. As Haydock climbed into the driving seat, he threw a parting remark over his shoulder.

  “You won’t be able to hang him, you know, Melchett.”

  “You mean he won’t recover?”

  “May or may not. I didn’t mean that. I mean that even if he does recover—well, the poor devil wasn’t responsible for his actions. I shall give evidence to that effect.”

  “What did he mean by that?” asked Melchett as we went upstairs again.

  I explained that Hawes had been a victim of encephalitis lethargica.

  “Sleepy sickness, eh? Always some good reason nowadays for every dirty action that’s done. Don’t you agree?”

  “Science is teaching us a lot.”

  “Science be damned—I beg your pardon, Clement; but all this namby pambyism annoys me. I’m a plan man. Well, I suppose we’d better have a look round here.”

  But at this moment there was an interruption—and a most amazing one. The door opened and Miss Marple walked into the room.

  She was pink and somewhat flustered, and seemed to realize our condition of bewilderment.

  “So sorry—so very sorry—to intrude—good evening, Colonel Melchett. As I say, I am so sorry, but hearing that Mr. Hawes was taken ill, I felt I must come round and see if I couldn’t do something.”

  She paused. Colonel Melchett was regarding her in a somewhat disgusted fashion.

  “Very kind of you, Miss Marple,” he said dryly. “But no need to trouble. How did you know, by the way?”

  It was the question I had been yearning to ask!

  “The telephone,” explained Miss Marple. “So careless with their wrong numbers, aren’t they? You spoke to me first, thinking I was Dr. Haydock. My number is three five.”

  “So that was it!” I exclaimed.

  There is always some perfectly good and reasonable explanation for Miss Marple’s omniscience.

  “And so,” she continued. “I just came round to see if I could be of any use.”

  “Very kind of you,” said Melchett again, even more dryly this time. “But nothing to be done. Haydock’s taken him off to hospital.”