The Murder at the Vicarage

It is difficult to know quite where to begin this story, but I have fixed my choice on a certain Wednesday at luncheon at the Vicarage. The conversation, though in the main irrelevant to the matter in hand, yet contained one or two suggestive incidents which influenced later developments.

I had just finished carving some boiled beef (remarkably tough by the way) and on resuming my seat I remarked, in a spirit most unbecoming to my cloth, that anyone who murdered Colonel Protheroe would be doing the world at large a service.

My young nephew, Dennis, said instantly:

“That’ll be remembered against you when the old boy is found bathed in blood. Mary will give evidence, won’t you, Mary? And describe how you brandished the carving knife in a vindictive manner.”

Mary, who is in service at the Vicarage as a stepping-stone to better things and higher wages, merely said in a loud, businesslike voice, “Greens,” and thrust a cracked dish at him in a truculent manner.

My wife said in a sympathetic voice: “Has he been very trying?”

I did not reply at once, for Mary, setting the greens on the table with a bang, proceeded to thrust a dish of singularly moist and unpleasant dumplings under my nose. I said, “No, thank you,” and she deposited the dish with a clatter on the table and left the room.

“It is a pity that I am such a shocking housekeeper,” said my wife, with a tinge of genuine regret in her voice.

I was inclined to agree with her. My wife’s name is Griselda⁠—a highly suitable name for a parson’s wife. But there the suitability ends. She is not in the least meek.

It was nearer seven than half-past six when I approached the Vicarage gate on my return. Before I reached it, it swung open and Lawrence Redding came out. He stopped dead on seeing me, and I was immediately struck by his appearance. He looked like a man who was on the point of going mad. His eyes stared in a peculiar manner, he was deathly white, and he was shaking and twitching all over.

I wondered for a moment whether he could have been drinking, but repudiated the idea immediately.

“Hullo,” I said, “have you been to see me again? Sorry I was out. Come back now. I’ve got to see Protheroe about some accounts⁠—but I dare say we shan’t be long.”

“Protheroe,” he said. He began to laugh. “Protheroe? You’re going to see Protheroe? Oh! you’ll see Protheroe all right. Oh! my God⁠—yes!”

I stared. Instinctively I stretched out a hand towards him. He drew sharply aside.

“No,” he almost cried out. “I’ve got to get away⁠—to think. I’ve got to think. I must think.”

He broke into a run and vanished rapidly down the road towards the village, leaving me staring after him, my first idea of drunkenness recurring.

Finally I shook my head, and went on to the Vicarage. The front door is always left open, but nevertheless I rang the bell. Mary came, wiping her hands on her apron.

“So you’re back at last,” she observed.

“Is Colonel Protheroe here?” I asked.

“In the study. Been here since a quarter past six.”

“And Mr. Redding’s been here?”

“It’s best to get it over quickly, isn’t it?” she said. She gave a queer, half-pathetic little smile. “I suppose you’re the person I ought to say it to, Colonel Melchett. You see, it was I who killed my husband.”

Colonel Melchett said gently:

“My dear Mrs. Protheroe⁠—”

“Oh! It’s quite true. I suppose I’ve said it rather bluntly, but I never can go into hysterics over anything. I’ve hated him for a long time, and yesterday I shot him.”

She lay back on the pillows and closed her eyes.

“That’s all. I suppose you’ll arrest me and take me away. I’ll get up and dress as soon as I can. At the moment I am feeling rather sick.”

“Are you aware, Mrs. Protheroe, that Mr. Lawrence Redding has already accused himself of committing the crime?”

Anne opened her eyes and nodded brightly.

“I know. Silly boy. He’s very much in love with me, you know. It was frightfully noble of him⁠—but very silly.”

“Well?”

“If you were to tell Mr. Redding what Mrs. Protheroe has done and then explain that you don’t really believe it is her. And then if you were to go to Mrs. Protheroe and tell her that Mr. Redding is all right⁠—why then, they might each of them tell you the truth. And the truth is helpful, though I dare say they don’t know very much themselves, poor things.”

“It’s all very well, but they are the only two people who had a motive for making away with Protheroe.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, Colonel Melchett,” said Miss Marple.

“Why, can you think of anyone else?”

“Oh! yes, indeed. Why,” she counted on her fingers, “one, two, three, four, five, six⁠—yes, and a possible seven. I can think of at least seven people who might be very glad to have Colonel Protheroe out of the way.”

The colonel looked at her feebly.

“Seven people? In St. Mary Mead?”

Miss Marple nodded brightly.

“Mind you I name no names,” she said. “That wouldn’t be right. But I’m afraid there’s a lot of wickedness in the world. A nice honourable upright soldier like you doesn’t know about these things, Colonel Melchett.”

I thought the Chief Constable was going to have apoplexy.

She closed the door and returned to me on tiptoe.

“It’s just rather a curious thing that happened last night,” she explained. “I thought you would like to hear about it, though at the moment it doesn’t seem to make sense. I felt very wakeful last night⁠—wondering about all this sad business. And I got up and looked out of my window. And what do you think I saw?”

I looked, inquiring.

“Gladys Cram,” said Miss Marple, with great emphasis. “As I live, going into the wood with a suitcase.”

“A suitcase?”

“Isn’t it extraordinary? What should she want with a suitcase in the wood at twelve o’clock at night?”

We both stared at each other.

“You see,” said Miss Marple, “I dare say it has nothing to do with the murder. But it is a Peculiar Thing. And just at present we all feel we must take notice of Peculiar Things.”

“Perfectly amazing,” I said. “Was she going to⁠—er⁠—sleep in the barrow by any chance?”

“She didn’t, at any rate,” said Miss Marple. “Because quite a short time afterwards she came back, and she hadn’t got the suitcase with her.”

We stared at each other again.