The Murder at the Vicarage by Agatha Christie Page A

still seems to me that
     digging up people that are dead and have been dead for hundreds of years isn't Ñ well, it
     seems a bit nosey, doesn't it? And there's Dr. Stone so wrapped up in it all that half the
     time he'd forget his meals if it wasn't for me.”
    “Is he at the barrow this morning?” asked Griselda.
    Miss Cram shook her head.
    “A bit under the weather this morning,” she explained. “Not up to doing any work. That
     means a holiday for little Gladys.”
    “I'm sorry,” I said.
    “Oh! it's nothing much. There's not going to be a second death. But do tell me, Mr.
     Clement, I hear you've been with the police all morning. What do they think?”
    “Well,” I said slowly, “there is still a little Ñ uncertainty.”
    “Ah!” cried Miss Cram. “Then they don't think it is Mr. Lawrence Redding after all. So
     handsome, isn't he? Just like a movie star. And such a nice smile when he says
     good?morning to you. I really couldn't believe my ears when I heard the police had
     arrested him. Still, one has always heard they're very stupid Ñ the county police.”
    “You can hardly blame them in this instance,” I said. ''Mr. Redding came in and gave
     himself up."
    “What?” the girl was clearly dumbfounded. “Well Ñ of all the poor fish! If I'd committed a
     murder, I wouldn't go straight off and give myself up. I should have thought Lawrence
     Redding would have had more sense. To give in like that! What did he kill Protheroe for?
     Did he say? Was it just a quarrel?”
    “It's not absolutely certain that he did kill him,” I said.
    “But surely Ñ if he says he has Ñ why really, Mr. Clement, he ought to know.”
    “He ought to, certainly,” I agreed. “But the police are not satisfied with his story.”
    “But why should he say he'd done it if he hasn't?”
    That was a point on which I had no intention of enlightening Miss Cram. Instead I said
     rather vaguely:
    “I believe that in all prominent murder cases, the police receive numerous letters from
     people accusing themselves of the crime.”
    Miss Cram's reception of this piece of information was:
    “They must be chumps!” in a tone of wonder and scorn.
    “Well,” she said with a sigh, “I suppose I must be trotting along.” She rose. “Mr. Redding
     accusing himself of the murder will be a bit of news for Dr. Stone.”
    “Is he interested? ” asked Griselda.
    Miss Cram furrowed her brows perplexedly.
    “He's a queer one. You never can tell with him. All wrapped up in the past. He'd a hundred
     times rather look at a nasty old bronze knife out of one of those humps of ground than he
     would see the knife Crippen cut up his wife with, supposing he had a chance to.”
    “Well,” I said, “I must confess I agree with him.”
    Miss Cram's eyes expressed incomprehension and slight contempt. Then, with reiterated
     good?byes, she took her departure.
    “Not such a bad sort, really,” said Griselda, as the door closed behind her. “Terribly
     common, of course, but one of those big, bouncing, good?humoured girls that you can't
     dislike. I wonder what really brought her here?”
    “Curiosity.”
    “Yes, I suppose so. Now, Len, ten me all about it. I'm simply dying to hear.”
    I sat down and recited faithfully all the happenings of the morning, Griselda
     interpolating the narrative with little exclamations of surprise and interest.
    “So it was Anne Lawrence was after all along! Not Lettice. How blind we've all been! That
     must have been what old Miss Marple was hinting at yesterday. Don't you think so?”
    “Yes,” I said, averting my eyes.
    Mary entered.
    “There's a couple of men here Ñ come from a newspapers so they say. Do you want to see
     them?”
    “No,” I said, “certainly not. Refer them to Inspector Slack at the police station.”
    Mary nodded and turned away.
    “And when you've got rid of them, I said, come back here. There's something I want to ask
     you.”
    Mary nodded