“That Mr. Redding is cleared of suspicion? Yes. And now what about this story of yours, Mrs. Protheroe? Eh, what about it?”
She smiled rather shamefacedly.
“I suppose you think it dreadful of me?”
“Well, shall we say—very foolish? But that’s all over. What I want now, Mrs. Protheroe, is the truth—the absolute truth.”
She nodded gravely.
“I will tell you. I suppose you know about—about everything.”
“Yes.”
“I was to meet Lawrence— Mr. Redding—that evening at the studio. At a quarter past six. My husband and I drove into the village together. I had some shopping to do. As we parted he mentioned casually that he was going to see the vicar. I couldn’t get word to Lawrence, and I was rather uneasy. I—well, it was awkward meeting him in the Vicarage garden whilst my husband was at the Vicarage.”
Her cheeks burned as she said this. It was not a pleasant moment for her.
“I reflected that perhaps my husband would not stay very long. To find this out, I came along the back lane and into the garden. I hoped no one would see me, but of course old Miss Marple had to be in her garden! She stopped me and we said a few words, and I explained I was going to call for my husband. I felt I had to say something. I don’t know whether she believed me or not. She looked rather—funny.
“When I left her, I went straight across to the Vicarage and round the corner of the house to the study window. I crept up to it very softly, expecting to hear the sound of voices. But to my surprise there were