Murder at the Vicarage - Agatha Christie [70]
I went across and kneeled down, thrusting the bushes aside with both hands. A glint of shiny brown surface rewarded me. Full of excitement, I thrust my arm in and with a good deal of difficulty I extracted a small brown suitcase.
I uttered an ejaculation of triumph. I had been successful. Coldly snubbed by Constable Hurst, I had yet proved right in my reasoning. Here without doubt was the suitcase carried by Miss Cram. I tried the hasp, but it was locked.
As I rose to my feet I noticed a small brownish crystal lying on the ground. Almost automatically, I picked it up and slipped it into my pocket.
Then grasping my find by the handle, I retraced my steps to the path.
As I climbed over the stile into the lane, an agitated voice near at hand called out:
‘Oh! Mr Clement. You’ve found it! How clever of you!’
Mentally registering the fact that in the art of seeing without being seen, Miss Marple had no rival, I balanced my find on the palings between us.
‘That’s the one,’ said Miss Marple ‘I’d know it anywhere.’
This, I thought, was a slight exaggeration. There are thousands of cheap shiny suitcases all exactly alike. No one could recognize one particular one seen from such a distance away by moonlight, but I realized that the whole business of the suitcase was Miss Marple’s particular triumph and, as such, she was entitled to a little pardonable exaggeration.
‘It’s locked, I suppose, Mr Clement?’
‘Yes. I’m just going to take it down to the police station.’
‘You don’t think it would be better to telephone?’
Of course unquestionably it would be better to telephone. To stride through the village, suitcase in hand, would be to court a probably undesirable publicity.
So I unlatched Miss Marple’s garden gate and entered the house by the French window, and from the sanctity of the drawing-room with the door shut, I telephoned my news.
The result was that Inspector Slack announced he would be up himself in a couple of jiffies.
When he arrived it was in his most cantankerous mood.
‘So we’ve got it, have we?’ he said. ‘You know, sir, you shouldn’t keep things to yourself. If you’d any reason to believe you knew where the article in question was hidden, you ought to have reported it to the proper authorities.’
‘It was a pure accident,’ I said. ‘The idea just happened to occur to me.’
‘And that’s a likely tale. Nearly three-quarters of a mile of woodland, and you go right to the proper spot and lay your hand upon it.’
I would have given Inspector Slack the steps in reasoning which led me to this particular spot, but he had achieved his usual result of putting my back up. I said nothing.
‘Well?’ said Inspector Slack, eyeing the suitcase with dislike and would be indifference, ‘I suppose we might as well have a look at what’s inside.’
He had brought an assortment of keys and wire with him. The lock was a cheap affair. In a couple of seconds the case was open.
I don’t know what we had expected to find – something sternly sensational, I imagine. But the first thing that met our eyes was a greasy plaid scarf. The Inspector lifted it out. Next came a faded dark blue overcoat, very much the worse for wear. A checked cap followed.
‘A shoddy lot,’ said the Inspector.
A pair of boots very down at heel and battered came next. At the bottom of the suitcase was a parcel done up in newspaper.
‘Fancy shirt, I suppose,’ said the Inspector bitterly, as he tore it open.
A moment later he had caught his breath in surprise.
For inside the parcel were some demure little silver objects and a round platter of the same metal.
Miss Marple gave a shrill exclamation of recognition.
‘The trencher salts,’ she exclaimed. ‘Colonel Protheroe’s trencher salts, and the Charles II tazza. Did you ever hear of such a thing!’
The Inspector had got very red.
‘So that was the game,’ he muttered. ‘Robbery. But I can’t make it out. There’s been no mention of these things being missing.’
‘Perhaps they