“Where did you get the pistol, Mrs. Protheroe?”
“The pistol! Oh, it was my husband’s. I got it out of the drawer of his dressing-table.”
“I see. And you took it with you to the Vicarage?”
“Yes. I knew he would be there—”
“What time was this?”
“It must have been after six—quarter—twenty past—something like that.”
“You took the pistol meaning to shoot your husband?”
“No—I—I meant it for myself.”
“I see. But you went to the Vicarage?”
“Yes. I went along to the window. There were no voices. I looked in. I saw my husband. Something came over me—and I fired.”
“And then?”
“Then? Oh, then I went away.”
“And told Mr. Redding what you had done?”
Again I noticed the hesitation in her voice before she said “Yes.”
“Did anybody see you entering or leaving the Vicarage?”
“No—at least, yes. Old Miss Marple. I talked to her for a few minutes. She was in her garden.”
She moved restlessly on the pillows.