The Murder at the Vicarage by Agatha Christie Page B

again.
    It was some few minutes before she returned.
    “Had a job getting rid of them,” she said. “Persistent. You never saw anything like it.
     Wouldn't take no for an answer.”
    “I expect we shall be a good deal troubled with them,” I said. ''Now, Mary, what I want to
     ask you is this: Are you quite certain you didn't hear the shot yesterday evening?"
    “The shot what killed him? No, of course I didn't. If I had of done, I should have gone in
     to see what had happened.”
    “Yes, but Ñ'' I was remembering Miss Marple's statement that she had heard a shot ”in the
     wood.“ I changed the form of my question. ”Did you hear any other shot Ñ one down in the
     wood, for instance?"
    “Oh! that.” The girl paused. “Yes, now I come to think of it, I believe I did. Not a lot
     of shots, just one. Queer sort of bang it was.”
    “Exactly,” I said. “Now what time was that?”
    “Time?”
    “Yes, time.”
    “I couldn't say, I'm sure. Well after tea?time. I do know that.”
    “Can't you get a little nearer than that?”
    “No, I can't. I've got my work to do, haven't I? I can't go on looking at clocks the whole
     time Ñ and it wouldn't be much good anyway Ñ the alarm loses a good three?quarters every
     day, and what with putting it on and one thing and another, I'm never exactly sure what
     time it is.”
    This perhaps explains why our meals are never punctual. They are sometimes too late and
     sometimes bewilderingly early.
    “Was it long before Mr. Redding came?”
    “No, it wasn't long. Ten minutes Ñ a quarter of an hour Ñ not longer than that.”
    I nodded my head, satisfied.
    “Is that all?” said Mary. “Because what I mean to say is I've got the joint in the oven
     and the pudding boiling over as likely as not.”
    “That's all right. You can go.”
    She left the room, and I turned to Griselda.
    “Is it quite out of the question to induce Mary to say sir or ma'am?”
    “I have told her. She doesn't remember. She's just a raw girl, remember?”
    “I am perfectly aware of that,” I said. “But raw things do not necessarily remain raw for
     ever. I feel a tinge of cooking might be induced in Mary.”
    “Well, I don't agree with you,” said Griselda. “You know how little we can afford to pay a
     servant. If once we got her smartened up at all, she'd leave. Naturally. And get higher
     wages. But as long as Mary can't cook and has those awful manners well, we're safe, nobody
     else would have her.”
    I perceived that my wife's methods of housekeeping were not so entirely haphazard as I had
     imagined. A certain amount of reasoning underlay them. Whether it was worth while having a
     maid at the price of her not being able to cook, and having a habit of throwing dishes and
     remarks at one with the same disconcerting abruptness, was a debatable matter.
    “And anyway,” continued Griselda, “you must make allowances for her manners being worse
     than usual just now. You can't expect her to feel exactly sympathetic about Colonel
     Protheroe's death when he jailed her young man.”
    “Did he jail her young man?”
    “Yes, for poaching. You know, that man, Archer. Mary has been walking out with him for two
     years.”
    “I didn't know that.”
    “Darling Len, you never know anything.”
    “It's queer,” I said, “that every one says the shot came from the woods.”
    “I don't think it's queer at all,” said Griselda. “You see, one so often does hear shots
     in the wood. So naturally, when you do hear a shot, you just assume as a matter of course
     that it
    
    
     is
    
    
     in the woods. It probably just sounds a bit louder than usual. Of course, if one were in
     the next room, you'd realize that it was in the house, but from Mary's kitchen with the
     window right the other side of the house, I don't believe you'd ever think of such a
     thing.”
    The door opened again.
    “Colonel Melchett's back,” said Mary. “And that police inspector with