“Very interesting. Very providential—if I may use the term. Yes, it brought you here in the nick of time.”
“In the nick of time for what?” I said bitterly.
Miss Marple looked surprised. “To save Mr. Hawes’ life, of course.”
“Don’t you think,” I said, “that it might be better if Hawes didn’t recover? Better for him—better for everyone. We know the truth now and—”
I stopped—for Miss Marple was nodding her head with such a peculiar vehemence that it made me lose the thread of what I was saying.
“Of course,” she said. “Of course! That’s what he wants you to think! That you know the truth—and that it’s best for everyone as it is. Oh, yes, it all fits in—the letter, and the overdose, and poor Mr. Hawes’s state of mind and his confession. It all fits in— but it’s wrong . …”
We stared at her.
“That’s why I am so glad Mr. Hawes is safe—in hospital—where no one can get at him. If he recovers, he’ll tell you the truth.”
“The truth?”
“Yes—that he never touched a hair of Colonel Protheroe’s head.”
“But the telephone call,” I said. “The letter—the overdose, it’s all so clear.”
“That’s what he wants you to think. Oh, he’s very clever! Keeping the letter and using it this way was very clever indeed.”
“Who do you mean,” I said, “by ‘he’?”
“I mean the murderer,” said Miss Marple.