Murder at the Vicarage - Agatha Christie [51]
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 inadmissable – 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