Murder at the Vicarage - Agatha Christie [14]
‘Looks like it. Mean to say, what else can it be? Extraordinary business. Wonder who had a down on the poor old fellow. Of course I know he wasn’t popular, but one isn’t often murdered for that reason – worse luck.’
‘There’s one rather curious thing,’ I said. ‘I was telephoned for this afternoon to go to a dying parishioner. When I got there everyone was very surprised to see me. The sick man was very much better than he had been for some days, and his wife flatly denied telephoning for me at all.’
Haydock drew his brows together.
‘That’s suggestive – very. You were being got out of the way. Where’s your wife?’
‘Gone up to London for the day.’
‘And the maid?’
‘In the kitchen – right at the other side of the house.’
‘Where she wouldn’t be likely to hear anything that went on in here. It’s a nasty business. Who knew that Protheroe was coming here this evening?’
‘He referred to the fact this morning in the village street at the top of his voice as usual.’
‘Meaning that the whole village knew it? Which they always do in any case. Know of anyone who had a grudge against him?’
The thought of Lawrence Redding’s white face and staring eyes came to my mind. I was spared answering by a noise of shuffling feet in the passage outside.
‘The police,’ said my friend, and rose to his feet.
Our police force was represented by Constable Hurst, looking very important but slightly worried.
‘Good evening, gentlemen,’ he greeted us. ‘the Inspector will be here any minute. In the meantime I’ll follow out his instructions. I understand Colonel Protheroe’s been found shot – in the Vicarage.’
He paused and directed a look of cold suspicion at me, which I tried to meet with a suitable bearing of conscious innocence.
He moved over to the writing table and announced:
‘Nothing to be touched until the Inspector comes.’
For the convenience of my readers I append a sketch plan of the room.
He got out his note-book, moistened his pencil and looked expectantly at both of us.
I repeated my story of discovering the body. When he had got it all down, which took some time, he turned to the doctor.
‘In your opinion, Dr Haydock, what was the cause of death?’
‘Shot through the head at close quarters.’
‘And the weapon?’
‘I can’t say with certainty until we get the bullet out. But I should say in all probability the bullet was fired from a pistol of small calibre – say a Mauser .25.’
I started, remembering our conversation of the night before, and Lawrence Redding’s admission. The police constable brought his cold, fish-like eye round on me.
‘Did you speak, sir?’
I shook my head. Whatever suspicions I might have, they were no more than suspicions, and as such to be kept to myself.
‘When, in your opinion, did the tragedy occur?’
The doctor hesitated for a minute before he answered. Then he said:
‘The man has been dead just over half an hour, I should say. Certainly not longer.’
Hurst turned to me. ‘Did the girl hear anything?’
‘As far as I know she heard nothing,’ I said. ‘But you had better ask her.’
But at this moment Inspector Slack arrived, having come by car from Much Benham, two miles away.
All that I can say of Inspector Slack is that never did a man more determinedly strive to contradict his name. He was a dark man, restless and energetic in manner, with black eyes that snapped ceaselessly. His manner was rude and overbearing in the extreme.
He acknowledged our greetings with a curt nod, seized his subordinate’s note-book, perused it, exchanged a few curt words with him in an undertone, then strode over to the body.
‘Everything’s been messed up and pulled about, I suppose,’ he said.
‘I’ve touched nothing,’ said Haydock.
‘No more have I,’ I said.
The Inspector busied himself for some time peering at the things on the table and examining the pool of blood.
‘Ah!’ he said in a tone of triumph. ‘Here’s what we want. Clock overturned when he fell forward. That’ll give us the time of the crime. Twenty-two