The Murder at the Vicarage-4
The Murder at the Vicarage
Chapter Four
I had entirely forgotten that we had asked Lawrence Ridding to
dinner that night. When Griselda burst in and scolded me, pointing out that it lacked two
minutes to dinnertime, I was quite taken aback.
"I hope everything will be all right," Griselda called up the
stairs after me. "I’ve thought over what you said at lunch and I’ve really
thought of some quite good things to eat."
I may say, in passing, that out evening meal amply bore out
Griselda’s assertion that things went much worse when she tried than when she
didn’t. The menu was ambitious in conception, and Mary seemed to have taken a
perverse pleasure in seeing how best she could alternate undercooking and overcooking.
Some oysters which Griselda had ordered, and which would seem to be beyond the reach of
incompetence, we were unfortunately not able to sample, as we had nothing in the house to
open them with – an omission which was discovered only when the moment for eating
them arrived.
I had rather doubted whether Lawrence Redding would put in an
appearance. He might very easily have sent an excuse. However, he arrived punctually
enough, and the four of us went in to dinner.
Lawrence Redding has an undeniably attractive personality. He is, I
suppose, about thirty years of age. He has dark hair, but his eyes are of a brilliant,
almost starling blue. He is the kind of man who does everything well. He is good at games,
and excellent shot, a good amateur actor, and can tell a first – rate story. He is
capable of making any party go. He has, I thin, Irish blood in his veins. He is not at all
one’s idea of the typical artist. Yet I believe he is a clever painter in the modern
style. I know very little of painting myself.
It was only natural that on this particular evening he should appear a
shade distrait. On the whole, he carried off things very well. I don’t think
Criselda or Dennis noticed anything wrong. Probably I should not have noticed anything
myself if I had not known beforehand.
Griselda and Dennis were particularly gay – full of jokes about
Dr. Stone and Miss Cram – the Local Scandal! It suddenly came home to me with
something of a gang that Dennis is nearer Griselda’s age than I am. He calls me Uncle
Len but her Griselda. It gave me, somehow, a lonely feeling.
I must, I think, have been upset by Mrs. Protheroe, I’m not
usually given to such unprofitable reflections.
Griselda and Dennis went rather far now and then, but I hadn’t the
heart to check them. I have always thought it a pit that the mere presence of a clergyman
should have a damping effect.
Lawrence took a gay part in the conversation. Nevertheless I was aware
of his eyes continually straying to where I sat, and I was not surprised when after dinner
he maneuvered to get me into the study.
As soon as we were alone, his manner changed. His face became grave and
anxious. He looked almost haggard.
"You’ve surprised our secret, sir," he said. "What
are you going to do about it?"
I could speak far more plainly to Redding than I could to Mrs.
Protheroe, and I did so. He took it very well.
"Of course," he said when I had finished. "You’re
bound to say all this. You’re a parson. I don’t mean that in any way
offensively. As a matter of fact, I think you’re probably right. But this isn’t
the usual sort of things between Anne and me."
I told him that people had been saying that particular phrase since the
dawn of time, and a queer little smile creased his lips.
"You mean everyone thinks their case is unique? Perhaps so. But
one thing you must believe."
He assured me that so far – "there was nothing wrong in
it." Anne, he said, was one of the truest and most loyal women that ever lived. What
was going to happen he didn’t know. 
"If this were only a book," he said gloomily, "the old
man would die – and a good riddance to everybody."
I reproved him.
"Oh! I didn’t mean I was going to stick him in the back with
a knife, though I’d offer my best thanks to anyone else who did so. There’s not
a soul in the wold who’s got a good word to say for him. I rather wonder the first
Mrs. Protheroe didn’t do him in. I met her once, years ago, and she looked quite
capable of it. One of those calm, dangerous women. He goes blustering along, stirring up
trouble everywhere, mean as the devil, and with a particularly nasty temper. You
don’t know what Anne has had to stand from him. If I had a penny in the world
I’d take her away without any more ado."
Then I spoke to him very earnestly. I begged him to leave St. Mary
Mead. By remaining there he could only bring greater unhappiness on Anne Protheroe than
was already her lot. People would talk; the matter would get to Colonel Protheroe’s
ears – and things would be made infinitely worse for her.
Lawrence protested.
"Nobody knows a thing about it except you, padre."
"My dear young man, you underestimate the detective instinct of
village life. In St. Mary Mead everyone knows your most intimate affairs. There is no
detective in England equal to a spinster lady of uncertain age with plenty of time on her
hands."
He said easily that that was all right. Everyone thought it was
Lettice.
"Has it occurred to you," I asked, "that possibly
Lettice might think so herself?"
He seemed quite surprised by the idea. Lettice, he said, didn’t
care a hang about him. He was sure of that.
"She’s a queer sort of girl," he said. "Always
seems in a kind of dream, and yet underneath I believe she’s really rather practical.
I believe all that vague stuff is a pose. Lettice knows jolly well what she’s doing.
And there’s a funny vindictive streak in her. The queer thing is that she hates Anne.
Simply loathes her. And yet Anne’s been a perfect angel to her always."
I did not, of course, take his word of this last. To infatuated young
men, heir inamorata always behaves like an angel. Still, to the best of my observation,
Anne had always behaved to her stepdaughter with kindness and fairness. I had seen
surprised myself that afternoon at the bitterness of Lettice’s tone.
We had to leave the conversation there, because Griselda and Dennis
burst in upon us and said I was not to make Lawrence behave like an old fogy.
"Oh, dear," said Griselda, throwing herself into an armchair.
"How I would like a thrill of some kind. A murder – or even a burglary."
"I don’t suppose there’s anyone much worth
burgling," said Lawrence, trying to enter into her mood. "Unless we stole Miss
Hartnell’s false teeth."
"They do click horribly," said Griselda. "But
you’re wrong about thee being no one worth while. There’s some marvelous old
silver at Old Hall. Trencher salts and a Charles the Second tazza – all kinds
of things like that. Worth thousands of pounds, I believe."
"The old man would probably shoot you with an army revolver,"
said Dennis. "Just the sort of thing he’d enjoy doing."
"Oh! We’d get in first and hold him up," said Griselda.
"Who’s got a revolver?"
"I’ve got a Mauser pistol," said Lawrence.
"Have you? How exciting! Why do you have it?"
"Souvenir of the war," said Lawrence briefly.
"Old Protheroe was showing the silver to Stone today,"
volunteered Dennis. Old Stone was pretending to be no end interested in it."
"I thought they’d quarreled about the barrow," said
Griselda.
"Oh, they’ve made that up," said Dennis. "I
can’t think what people want to grub about in barrows for, anyway."
"That man Stone puzzles me," said Lawrence. "I think he
must be very absent – minded. You’d swear sometimes he knew nothing about his
own subject."
"That’s love," said Dennis. "Sweet Gladys Cram, you
are no sham. Your teeth are white and fill me with delight. Come, fly with me, my bride to
be. And at the Blue Boar, on the bedroom floor…"
"That’s enough, Dennis," I said.
"Well," said Lawrence Redding, "I must be off. Thank you
very much, Mrs. Clement, for a very pleasant evening."
Griselda and Dennis saw him off. Dennis returned to the study alone.
Something had happened to ruffle the boy. He wandered about the room aimlessly, frowning
and kicking the furniture.
Our furniture is so shabby already that it can hardly be damaged
further, but I felt impelled to utter a mild protest.
"Sorry," said Dennis.
He was silent for a moment and then burst out "What an absolutely
rotten thing gossip is!"
I was a little surprised. Dennis does not usually take that attitude.
"What’s the matter?" I asked.
"I don’t know whether I ought to tell you."
I was more and more surprised.
"It’s such an absolutely rotten thing," Dennis said
again. "Going round and saying things. Not even saying them. Hinting them. NO,
I’m damned – sorry – if I’ll tell you! It’s too absolutely
rotten."
I looked at him curiously but I did not press him further. I wondered
very much, though. It is very unlike Dennis to take anything to heart.
Griselda came in at that moment.
"Miss Wetherby’s just rung up," she said. "Mrs.
Lestrange went out at a quarter past eight and hasn’t come in yet. Nobody knows where
she’s gone."
"Why should they know?"
"But it isn’t to Doctor Haydock’s. Miss Wetherby does
know that, because she telephoned to Miss Hartnell who lives next door to him and who
would have been sure to see her."
"It is a mystery to me," I said, "how anyone ever gets
any nourishment in this place. They must eat their meals standing up by the window so as
to be sure of not missing anything."
"And that’s not all," said Griselda bubbling with
pleasure. "They’ve found out about the Blue Boar. Doctor Stone and Miss Cram
have got rooms next door to each other but…" she waved an impressive
forefinger – "no communicating door!"
"That," I said, "must be very disappointing to
everybody."
At which Griselda laughed.
Thursday started badly. Two of the ladies of my parish elected to
quarrel about the church decorations. I was called in to adjudicate between tow middle
– age ladies, each of whom was literally trembling with rage. If it had not been so
painful, it would have been quite an interesting physical phenomenon.
Then I had to reprove two of our choirboys for persistent sweet sucking
during the hours of diving service, and I had an uneasy feeling that I was not doing the
job as wholeheartedly as I should have done.
Then out organist, who is distinctly "touchy," had taken
offense and had to be smoothed down.
And four of my poorer parishioners declared open rebellion against Miss
Hartnell who came to me bursting with rage about it.
I was just going home when I met Colonel Protheroe. He was in high good
humor having sentenced three poachers, in his capacity as magistrate.
"Firmness," he shouted in his stentorian voice. He is
slightly deaf and raises his voice accordingly as deaf people often do. "That’s
what’s needed nowadays – firmness! Make an example. That rogue Archer came out
yesterday and is vowing vengeance against me, I hear. Impudent scoundrel. Threatened men
live long, as the saying goes. I’ll show him what his vengeance is worth, next time I
catch him taking my pheasants. Lax! We’re too lax nowadays! I believe in showing a
man up for what he is. You’re always being asked to consider a man’s wife and
children. Damned nonsense. Fiddlesticks. Why should a man escape the consequences of his
acts just because he whines about his wife and children? It’s all the same to me
– no matter what a man is – doctor, lawyer, clergyman, poacher, drunken wastrel
– if you catch him on the wrong side of the law, let the law punish him. You agree
with me, I’m sure."
"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 little militant Christianity. I’ve
always done my duty, I hope. Well, not 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 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 here to say good-by 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’msorry not to have finished Mrs. Clement’s portrait."
"Don’t worry about that, my dear boy. Good-by, 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 to ride a bicycle.
I was told, however, that Colonel Protheroe had just started out in the
car, so I departed, leaving word with Mary that I had been called away but would try to be
back by sit – thirty or soon after.
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