Cram.
‘Yes, yes, so I must.’
He vanished into the room next door and returned carrying a suitcase.
‘You are leaving?’ I asked in some surprise.
‘Just running up to town for a couple of days,’ he explained. ‘My old mother to see tomorrow, some business with my lawyers on Monday. On Tuesday I shall return. By the way, I suppose that Colonel Protheroe’s death will make no difference to our arrangements. As regards the barrow, I mean. Mrs Protheroe will have no objection to our continuing the work?’
‘I should not think so.’
As he spoke, I wondered who actually would be in authority at Old Hall. It was just possible that Protheroe might have left it to Lettice. I felt that it would be interesting to know the contents of Protheroe’s will.
‘Causes a lot of trouble in a family, a death does,’ remarked Miss Cram, with a kind of gloomy relish. ‘You wouldn’t believe what a nasty spirit there sometimes is.’
‘Well, I must really be going.’ Dr Stone made ineffectual attempts to control the suitcase, a large rug and an unwieldy umbrella. I came to his rescue. He protested.
‘Don’t trouble – don’t trouble. I can manage perfectly. Doubtless there will be somebody downstairs.’
But down below there was no trace of a boots or anyone else. I suspect that they were being regaled at the expense of the Press. Time was getting on, so we set out together to the station, Dr Stone carrying the suitcase, and I holding the rug and umbrella.
Dr Stone ejaculated remarks in between panting breaths as we hurried along.
‘Really too good of you – didn’t mean – to trouble you…Hope we shan’t miss – the train – Gladys is a good girl – really a wonderful girl – a very sweet nature – not too happy at home, I’m afraid – absolutely – the heart of a child – heart of a child. I do assure you, in spite of – difference in our ages – find a lot in common…’
We saw Lawrence Redding’s cottage just as we turned off to the station. It stands in an isolated position with no other houses near it. I observed two young men of smart appearance standing on the doorstep and a couple more peering in at the windows. It was a busy day for the Press.
‘Nice fellow, young Redding,’ I remarked, to see what my companion would say.
He was so out of breath by this time that he found it difficult to say anything, but he puffed out a word which I did not at first quite catch.
‘Dangerous,’ he gasped, when I asked him to repeat his remark.
‘Dangerous?’
‘Most dangerous. Innocent girls – know no better – taken in by a fellow like that – always hanging round women…No good.’
From which I deduced that the only young man in the village had not passed unnoticed by the fair Gladys.
‘Goodness,’ ejaculated Dr Stone. ‘The train!’
We were close to the station by this time and we broke into a fast sprint. A down train was standing in the station and the up London train was just coming in.
At the door of the booking office we collided with a rather exquisite young man, and I recognized Miss Marple’s nephew just arriving. He is, I think, a young man who does not like to be collided with. He prides himself on his poise and general air of detachment, and there is no doubt that vulgar contact is detrimental to poise of any kind. He staggered back. I apologized hastily and we passed in. Dr Stone climbed on the train and I handed up his baggage just as the train gave an unwilling jerk and started.
I waved to him and then turned away. Raymond West had departed, but our local chemist, who rejoices in the name of Cherubim, was just setting out for the village. I walked beside him.
‘Close shave that,’ he observed. ‘Well, how did the inquest go, Mr Clement?’
I gave him the verdict.
‘Oh! So that’s what happened. I rather thought that would be the verdict. Where’s Dr Stone off to?’
I repeated what he had told me.
‘Lucky not to miss the train. Not that you ever know on this line. I tell you, Mr Clement, it’s a crying shame. Disgraceful, that’s what I call it. Train I came down by was ten minutes late. And that on a Saturday with no traffic to speak of. And on Wednesday – no, Thursday – yes, Thursday it was – I remember it was the day of the murder because I meant to write a strongly-worded complaint to the company – and the murder put it out of my head – yes, last Thursday. I had been to a meeting of the Pharmaceutical Society. How late do you think the 6.50 was? Half an hour. Half an hour exactly! What do you think of that? Ten minutes I don’t mind. But if the train doesn’t get in till twenty past seven, well, you can’t get home before half-past. What I say is, why call it the 6.50?’
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