longer, and felt he must confess—about the misappropriations of the church funds.”
“What?”
“Yes—and that, under Providence, is what has saved his life. (For I hope and trust it is saved. Dr. Haydock is so clever.) As I see the matter, Mr. Redding kept this letter (a risky thing to do, but I expect he hid it in some safe place) and waited till he found out for certain to whom it referred. He soon made quite sure that it was Mr. Hawes. I understand he came back here with Mr. Hawes last night and spent a long time with him. I suspect that he then substituted a cachet of his own for one of Mr. Hawes, and slipped this letter in the pocket of Mr. Hawes’ dressing-gown. The poor young man would swallow the fatal cachet in all innocence—after his death his things would be gone through and the letter found and everyone would jump to the conclusion that he had shot Colonel Protheroe and taken his own life out of remorse. I rather fancy Mr. Hawes must have found that letter tonight just after taking the fatal cachet. In his disordered state, it must have seemed like something supernatural, and, coming on top of the vicar’s sermon, it must have impelled him to confess the whole thing.”
“Upon my word,” said Colonel Melchett. “Upon my word! Most extraordinary! I—I—don’t believe a word of it.”
He had never made a statement that sounded more unconvincing. It must have sounded so in his own ears, for he went on:
“And can you explain the other telephone call—the one from Mr. Redding’s cottage to Mrs. Price Ridley?”
“Ah!” said Miss Marple. “That is what I call the coincidence. Dear Griselda sent that call—she and Mr. Dennis between them, I fancy. They had heard the rumours Mrs. Price Ridley was circulating about the vicar,