“Just this. If there was anything to be seen yesterday evening Miss Marple saw it. I don’t mean anything necessarily connected with the crime—that she would think connected with the crime. I mean some outré or bizarre incident, some simple little happening that might give us a clue to the truth. Something that she wouldn’t think worth while mentioning to the police.”
“It’s possible, I suppose.”
“It’s worth trying anyhow. Clement, I’m going to get to the bottom of this business. For Anne’s sake, if nobody’s else. And I haven’t any too much confidence in Slack—he’s a zealous fellow, but zeal can’t really take the place of brains.”
“I see,” I said, “that you are that favourite character of fiction, the amateur detective. I don’t know that they really hold their own with the professional in real life.”
He looked at me shrewdly and suddenly laughed.
“What are you doing in the wood, padre?”
I had the grace to blush.
“Just the same as I am doing, I dare swear. We’ve got the same idea, haven’t we? How did the murderer come to the study? First way, along the lane and through the gate, second way, by the front door, third way—is there a third way? My idea was to see if there was any sign of the bushes being disturbed or broken anywhere near the wall of the Vicarage garden.”
“That was just my idea,” I admitted.
“I hadn’t really got down to the job, though,” continued Lawrence. “Because it occurred to me that I’d like to see Miss Marple first, to make