was a feeble kind of bluster. There was some commotion outside. A constable without a helmet brought in a note.
‘For the Vicar. It says very urgent on it.’
I tore it open and read:
‘Please—please—come to me. I don’t know what to do. It is all too awful. I want to tell someone. Please come immediately, and bring anyone you like with you.
Anne Protheroe.’
I gave Melchett a meaning glance. He took the hint. We all went out together. Glancing over my shoulder, I had a glimpse of Lawrence Redding’s face. His eyes were riveted on the paper in my hand, and I have hardly ever seen such a terrible look of anguish and despair in any human being’s face.
I remembered Anne Protheroe sitting on my sofa and saying: ‘I’m a desperate woman,’ and my heart grew heavy within me. I saw now the possible reason for Lawrence Redding’s heroic self-accusation.
Melchett was speaking to Slack.
‘Have you got any line on Redding’s movements earlier in the day? There’s some reason to think he shot Protheroe earlier than he says. Get on to it, will you?’
He turned to me and without a word I handed him Anne Protheroe’s letter. He read it and pursed up his lips in astonishment. Then he looked at me inquiringly.
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