should be removed—and so he removed him. One of those charming young men who have no moral sense.”
Colonel Melchett had been snorting impatiently for some time. Now he broke out.
“Absolute nonsense—the whole thing! Redding’s time is fully accounted for up to 6:45 and Haydock says positively Protheroe couldn’t have been shot then. I suppose you think you know better than a doctor. Or do you suggest that Haydock is deliberately lying—the Lord knows why?”
“I think Dr. Haydock’s evidence was absolutely truthful. He is a very upright man. And, of course, it was Mrs. Protheroe who actually shot Colonel Protheroe—not Mr. Redding.”
Again we stared at her. Miss Marple arranged her lace fichu, pushed back the fleecy shawl that draped her shoulders, and began to deliver a gentle old-maidish lecture comprising the most astounding statements in the most natural way in the world.
“I have not thought it right to speak until now. One’s own belief—even so strong as to amount to knowledge—is not the same as proof. And unless one has an explanation that will fit all the facts (as I was saying to dear Mr. Clement this evening) one cannot advance it with any real conviction. And my own explanation was not quite complete—it lacked just one thing—but suddenly, just as I was leaving Mr. Clement’s study, I noticed the palm in the pot by the window—and—well, there the whole thing was! Clear as daylight!”
“Mad—quite mad,” murmured Melchett to me.
But Miss Marple beamed on us serenely and went on in her gentle ladylike voice.
“I was very sorry to believe what I did—very sorry. Because I liked them both. But you know what human nature is. And to begin with, when