Miss Marple, however, gave her nephew away by remarking:
“Raymond and I have been discussing nothing else all through dinner.”
“I take a great interest in all the local news,” said Raymond hastily. He smiled benignly and tolerantly at Miss Marple.
“Have you a theory, Mr. West?” asked Griselda.
“Logically,” said Raymond West, again flourishing his cigarette, “only one person could have killed Protheroe.”
“Yes?” said Griselda.
We hung upon his words with flattering attention.
“The vicar,” said Raymond, and pointed an accusing finger at me.
I gasped.
“Of course,” he reassured me, “I know you didn’t do it. Life is never what it should be. But think of the drama—the fitness—churchwarden murdered in the vicar’s study by the vicar. Delicious!”
“And the motive?” I inquired.
“Oh! That’s interesting.” He sat up—allowed his cigarette to go out. “Inferiority complex, I think. Possibly too many inhibitions. I should like to write the story of the affair. Amazingly complex. Week after week, year after year, he’s seen the man—at vestry meetings—at choirboys’ outings—handing round the bag in church—bringing it to the altar. Always he dislikes the man—always he chokes down his dislike. It’s unchristian, he won’t encourage it. And so it festers underneath, and one day—”
He made a graphic gesture.