“Then that lets the celebrated Dr. Stone out anyway,” said Lawrence, with a sigh. “Not that there has ever been the slightest reason why he should be suspected of shooting poor old Protheroe.”
“Ah!” said Miss Marple. “But I always find it prudent to suspect everybody just a little. What I say is, you really never know , do you?”
This was typical of Miss Marple. I asked Lawrence if he agreed with her about the shot.
“I really can’t say. You see, it was such an ordinary sound. I should be inclined to think it had been fired when we were in the studio. The sound would have been deadened and—one would have noticed it less there.”
For other reasons than the sound being deadened, I thought to myself.
“I must ask Anne,” said Lawrence. “She may remember. By the way, there seems to me to be one curious fact that needs explanation. Mrs. Lestrange, the Mystery Lady of St. Mary Mead, paid a visit to old Protheroe after dinner on Wednesday night. And nobody seems to have any idea what it was all about. Old Protheroe said nothing to either his wife or Lettice.”
“Perhaps the vicar knows,” said Miss Marple.
Now how did the woman know that I had been to visit Mrs. Lestrange that afternoon? The way she always knows things is uncanny.
I shook my head and said I could throw no light upon the matter.
“What does Inspector Slack think?” asked Miss Marple.
“He’s done his best to bully the butler—but apparently the butler wasn’t curious enough to listen at the door. So there it is—no one knows.”