Murder at the Vicarage - Agatha Christie [12]
‘You forget,’ I said. ‘My calling obliges me to respect one quality above all others – the quality of mercy.’
‘Well, I’m a just man. No one can deny that.’
I did not speak, and he said sharply:
‘Why don’t you answer? A penny for your thoughts, man.’
I hesitated, then I decided to speak.
‘I was thinking,’ I said, ‘that when my time comes, I should be sorry if the only plea I had to offer was that of justice. Because it might mean that only justice would be meted out to me…’
‘Pah! What we need is a little militant Christianity. I’ve always done my duty, I hope. Well, no more of that. I’ll be along this evening, as I said. We’ll make it a quarter past six instead of six, if you don’t mind. I’ve got to see a man in the village.’
‘That will suit me quite well.’
He flourished his stick and strode away. Turning, I ran into Hawes. I thought he looked distinctly ill this morning. I had meant to upbraid him mildly for various matters in his province which had been muddled or shelved, but seeing his white strained face, I felt that the man was ill.
I said as much, and he denied it, but not very vehemently. Finally he confessed that he was not feeling too fit, and appeared ready to accept my advice of going home to bed.
I had a hurried lunch and went out to do some visits. Griselda had gone to London by the cheap Thursday train.
I came in about a quarter to four with the intention of sketching the outline of my Sunday sermon, but Mary told me that Mr Redding was waiting for me in the study.
I found him pacing up and down with a worried face. He looked white and haggard.
He turned abruptly at my entrance.
‘Look here, sir. I’ve been thinking over what you said yesterday. I’ve had a sleepless night thinking about it. You’re right. I’ve got to cut and run.’
‘My dear boy,’ I said.
‘You were right in what you said about Anne. I’ll only bring trouble on her by staying here. She’s – she’s too good for anything else. I see I’ve got to go. I’ve made things hard enough for her as it is, heaven help me.’
‘I think you have made the only decision possible,’ I said. ‘I know that it is a hard one, but believe me, it will be for the best in the end.’
I could see that he thought that that was the kind of thing easily said by someone who didn’t know what he was talking about.
‘You’ll look after Anne? She needs a friend.’
‘You can rest assured that I will do everything in my power.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ He wrung my hand. ‘You’re a good sort, Padre. I shall see her to say goodbye this evening, and I shall probably pack up and go tomorrow. No good prolonging the agony. Thanks for letting me have the shed to paint in. I’m sorry not to have finished Mrs Clement’s portrait.’
‘Don’t worry about that, my dear boy. Goodbye, and God bless you.’
When he had gone I tried to settle down to my sermon, but with very poor success. I kept thinking of Lawrence and Anne Protheroe.
I had rather an unpalatable cup of tea, cold and black, and at half-past five the telephone rang. I was informed that Mr Abbott of Lower Farm was dying and would I please come at once.
I rang up Old Hall immediately, for Lower Farm was nearly two miles away and I could not possibly get back by six-fifteen. I have never succeeded in learning