“They’re not doing so badly,” I said. “One of them, at all events, thinks she’s got there.”
“Our friend, Miss Marple, eh?”
“Our friend, Miss Marple.”
“Women like that always think they know everything,” said Colonel Melchett.
He sipped his whisky and soda appreciatively.
“It’s probably unnecessary interference on my part, asking,” I said. “But I suppose somebody has questioned the fish boy. I mean, if the murderer left by the front door, there’s a chance the boy may have seen him.”
“Slack questioned him right enough,” said Melchett. “But the boy says he didn’t meet anybody. Hardly likely he would. The murderer wouldn’t be exactly courting observation. Lots of cover by your front gate. He would have taken a look to see if the road was clear. The boy had to call at the Vicarage, at Haydock’s, and at Mrs. Price Ridley’s. Easy enough to dodge him.”
“Yes,” I said, “I suppose it would be.”
“On the other hand,” went on Melchett, “if by any chance that rascal Archer did the job, and young Fred Jackson saw him about the place, I doubt very much whether he’d let on. Archer is a cousin of his.”
“Do you seriously suspect Archer?”
“Well, you know, old Protheroe had his knife into Archer pretty badly. Lots of bad blood between them. Leniency wasn’t Protheroe’s strong point.”
“No,” I said. “He was a very ruthless man.”