‘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.’
‘Just what I feel myself,’ I said.
‘Well, then, sir, what about the lady who called on Colonel Protheroe the night before the murder?’
‘Mrs Lestrange,’ I cried, speaking rather loud in my astonishment.
The Inspector threw me a reproachful glance.
‘Not so loud, sir. Mrs Lestrange is the lady I’ve got my eye on. You remember what I told you – blackmail.’
‘Hardly a reason for murder. Wouldn’t it be a case of killing the goose that laid the golden eggs? That is, assuming that your hypothesis is true, which I don’t for a minute admit.’
The Inspector winked at me in a common manner.
‘Ah! She’s the kind the gentlemen will always stand up for. Now look here, sir. Suppose she’s successfully blackmailed the old gentleman in the past. After a lapse of years, she gets wind of him, comes down here and tries it on again. But, in the meantime, things have changed. The law has taken up a very different stand. Every facility is given nowadays to people prosecuting for blackmail – names are not allowed to be reported in the press. Suppose Colonel Protheroe turns round and says he’ll have the law on her. She’s in a nasty position. They give a very severe sentence for blackmail. The boot’s on the other leg. The only thing to do to save herself is to put him out good and quick.’
I was silent. I had to admit that the case the Inspector had built up was plausible. Only one thing to my mind made it inadmissible – the personality of Mrs Lestrange.
‘I don’t agree with you, Inspector,’ I said. ‘Mrs Lestrange doesn’t seem to me to be a potential blackmailer. She’s – well, it’s an old-fashioned word, but she’s a – lady.’
He threw me a pitying glance.
‘Ah! well, sir,’ he said tolerantly, ‘you’re a clergyman. You don’t know half of what goes on. Lady indeed! You’d be surprised if you knew some of the things I know.’
‘I’m not referring to mere social position. Anyway, I should imagine Mrs Lestrange to be a déclassée. What I mean is a question of – personal refinement.’
‘You don’t see her with the same eyes as I do, sir. I may be a man – but I’m a police officer, too. They can’t get over me with their personal refinement. Why, that woman is the kind who could stick a knife into you without turning a hair.’
Curiously enough, I could believe Mrs Lestrange guilty of murder much more easily than I could believe her capable of blackmail.
‘But, of course, she can’t have been telephoning to the old lady next door and shooting Colonel Protheroe at one and the same time,’ continued the Inspector.
The words were hardly out of his mouth when he slapped his leg ferociously.
‘Got it,’ he exclaimed. ‘That’s the point of the telephone call. Kind of alibi. Knew we’d connect it with the first one. I’m going to look into this. She may have bribed some village lad to do the phoning for her. He’d never think of connecting it with the murder.’
The Inspector hurried off.
‘Miss Marple wants to see you,’ said Griselda, putting her head in. ‘She sent over a very incoherent note – all spidery and underlined. I couldn’t read most of it. Apparently she can’t leave home herself. Hurry up and go across and see her and find out what it is. I’ve got my old women coming in two minutes or I’d come myself. I do hate old women – they tell you about their bad legs and sometimes insist on showing them to you. What luck that the inquest is this afternoon! You won’t have to go and watch the Boys’ Club Cricket Match.’
I hurried off, considerably exercised in my mind as to the reason for this summons.
I found Miss Marple in what, I believe, is described as a fluster. She was very pink and slightly incoherent.
‘My nephew,’ she explained. ‘My nephew, Raymond West, the author. He is coming down today. Such a to-do. I have to see to everything myself. You cannot trust a maid to air a bed properly, and we must, of course, have a meat meal tonight. Gentlemen require such a lot of meat, do they not? And drink. There certainly should be some drink in the house – and a siphon.’
‘If I can do anything –’ I began.
‘Oh! How very kind. But I did not mean that. There is plenty of time really. He brings his own pipe and tobacco, I am glad to say. Glad because it saves me from knowing which kind of cigarettes are right to buy. But rather sorry, too, because it takes so long for the smell to get out of the curtains. Of course, I open the window and shake them well very early every morning. Raymond gets up very late – I think writers often do. He writes very clever books, I believe, though people are not really nearly so unpleasant as he makes out. Clever young men know so little of life, don’t you think?’
‘Would you like to bring him to dinner at the Vicarage?’ I asked, still unable to gather why I had been summoned.
‘Oh! No, thank you,’ said