The Murder at the Vicarage

CHAPTER 8

We were rather silent on our way down to the police station. Haydock drew behind a little and murmured to me:

‘You know I don’t like the look of this. I don’t like it. There’s something here we don’t understand.’

He looked thoroughly worried and upset.

Inspector Slack was at the police station and presently we found ourselves face to face with Lawrence Redding.

He looked pale and strained but quite composed—marvellously so, I thought, considering the circumstances. Melchett snorted and hummed, obviously nervous.

‘Look here, Redding,’ he said, ‘I understand you made a statement to Inspector Slack here. You state you went to the Vicarage at approximately a quarter to seven, found Protheroe there, quarrelled with him, shot him, and came away. I’m not reading it over to you, but that’s the gist of it.’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m going to ask you a few questions. You’ve already been told that you needn’t answer them unless you choose. Your solicitor—’

Lawrence interrupted.

‘I’ve nothing to hide. I killed Protheroe.’

‘Ah! well—’ Melchett snorted. ‘How did you happen to have a pistol with you?’

Lawrence hesitated. ‘It was in my pocket.’

‘You took it with you to the Vicarage?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I always take it.’

He had hesitated again before answering, and I was absolutely sure that he was not speaking the truth.

‘Why did you put the clock back?’

‘The clock?’ He seemed puzzled.

‘Yes, the hands pointed to 6.22.’

A look of fear sprang up in his face.

‘Oh! that—yes. I—I altered it.’

Haydock spoke suddenly.

‘Where did you shoot Colonel Protheroe?’

‘In the study at the Vicarage.’

‘I mean in what part of the body?’

‘Oh!—I—through the head, I think. Yes, through the head.’

‘Aren’t you sure?’

‘Since you know, I can’t see why it is necessary to ask me.’

It was a feeble kind of bluster. There was some commotion outside. A constable without a helmet brought in a note.

‘For the Vicar. It says very urgent on it.’

I tore it open and read:

‘Please—please—come to me. I don’t know what to do. It is all too awful. I want to tell someone. Please come immediately, and bring anyone you like with you.

Anne Protheroe.’

I gave Melchett a meaning glance. He took the hint. We all went out together. Glancing over my shoulder, I had a glimpse of Lawrence Redding’s face. His eyes were riveted on the paper in my hand, and I have hardly ever seen such a terrible look of anguish and despair in any human being’s face.

I remembered Anne Protheroe sitting on my sofa and saying: ‘I’m a desperate woman,’ and my heart grew heavy within me. I saw now the possible reason for Lawrence Redding’s heroic self-accusation.

Melchett was speaking to Slack.

‘Have you got any line on Redding’s movements earlier in the day? There’s some reason to think he shot Protheroe earlier than he says. Get on to it, will you?’

He turned to me and without a word I handed him Anne Protheroe’s letter. He read it and pursed up his lips in astonishment. Then he looked at me inquiringly.