say—a nightmare only—but invested for a few long minutes with a dreadful appearance of reality.
I don’t know whether Miss Marple had any inkling of all this. Very probably she had. Few things are hidden from her.
She handed me back the note with a little nod.
“That’s been all over the village,” she said. “And it did look rather suspicious, didn’t it? Especially with Mrs. Archer swearing at the inquest that the pistol was still in the cottage when she left at midday.”
She paused a minute and then went on.
“But I’m wandering terribly from the point. What I want to say—and believe it my duty—is to put my own explanation of the mystery before you. If you don’t believe it—well, I shall have done my best. Even as it is, my wish to be quite sure before I spoke may have cost poor Mr. Hawes his life.”
Again she paused, and when she resumed, her voice held a different note. It was less apologetic, more decided.
“That is my own explanation of the facts. By Thursday afternoon the crime had been fully planned down to the smallest detail. Lawrence Redding first called on the vicar, knowing him to be out. He had with him the pistol which he concealed in that pot in the stand by the window. When the vicar came in, Lawrence explained his visit by a statement that he had made up his mind to go away. At five-thirty, Lawrence Redding telephoned from the North Lodge to the vicar, adopting a woman’s voice (you remember what a good amateur actor he was).
“ Mrs. Protheroe and her husband had just started for the village. And—a very curious thing (though no one happened to think of it that way)—