horses. Mrs. Protheroe did some ordering at the grocers and at the fish shop, and from there came straight down the back lane where Miss Marple saw her. All the shops agree she carried no handbag with her. The old lady was right.”
“She usually is,” I said mildly.
“And Miss Protheroe was over at Much Benham at 5:30.”
“Quite so,” I said. “My nephew was there too.”
“That disposes of her. The maid seems all right—a bit hysterical and upset, but what can you expect? Of course, I’ve got my eye on the butler—what with giving notice and all. But I don’t think he knows anything about it.”
“Your inquiries seem to have had rather a negative result, inspector.”
“They do and they do not, sir. There’s one very queer thing has turned up—quite unexpectedly, I may say.”
“Yes?”
“You remember the fuss that Mrs. Price Ridley, who lives next door to you, was kicking up yesterday morning? About being rung up on the telephone?”
“Yes?” I said.
“Well, we traced the call just to calm her—and where on this earth do you think it was put through from?”
“A call office?” I hazarded.
“No, Mr. Clement. That call was put through from Mr. Lawrence Redding’s cottage.”