The Complete Miss Marple Collection by Agatha Christie Page A

can’t help feeling it must have been some kind of an accident,” said Griselda. “Don’t you think so, Len? I mean his coming forward to give himself up looks like that.”
    Miss Marple leant forward eagerly.
    â€œHe gave himself up, you say?”
    â€œYes.”
    â€œOh!” said Miss Marple, with a deep sigh. “I am so glad—so very glad.”
    I looked at her in some surprise.
    â€œIt shows a true state of remorse, I suppose,” I said.
    â€œRemorse?” Miss Marple looked very surprised. “Oh, but surely, dear, dear Vicar, you don’t think that he is guilty?”
    It was my turn to stare.
    â€œBut since he has confessed—”
    â€œYes, but that just proves it, doesn’t it? I mean that he had nothing to do with it.”
    â€œNo,” I said. “I may be dense, but I can’t see that it does. If you have not committed a murder, I cannot see the object of pretending you have.”
    â€œOh, of course, there’s a reason!” said Miss Marple. “Naturally. There’s always a reason, isn’t there? And young men are so hot-headed and often prone to believe the worst.”
    She turned to Griselda.
    â€œDon’t you agree with me, my dear?”
    â€œI—I don’t know,” said Griselda. “It’s difficult to know what to think. I can’t see any reason for Lawrence behaving like a perfect idiot.”
    â€œIf you had seen his face last night—” I began.
    â€œTell me,” said Miss Marple.
    I described my homecoming while she listened attentively.
    When I had finished she said:
    â€œI know that I am very often rather foolish and don’t take in things as I should, but I really do not see your point.
    â€œIt seems to me that if a young man had made up his mind to the great wickedness of taking a fellow creature’s life, he would not appear distraught about it afterwards. It would be a premeditated and cold-blooded action and though the murderer might be a littleflurried and possibly might make some small mistake, I do not think it likely he would fall into a state of agitation such as you describe. It is difficult to put oneself in such a position, but I cannot imagine getting into a state like that myself.”
    â€œWe don’t know the circumstances,” I argued. “If there was a quarrel, the shot may have been fired in a sudden gust of passion, and Lawrence might afterwards have been appalled at what he had done. Indeed, I prefer to think that this is what did actually occur.”
    â€œI know, dear Mr. Clement, that there are many ways we prefer to look at things. But one must actually take facts as they are, must one not? And it does not seem to me that the facts bear the interpretation you put upon them. Your maid distinctly stated that Mr. Redding was only in the house a couple of minutes, not long enough, surely, for a quarrel such as you describe. And then again, I understand the Colonel was shot through the back of the head while he was writing a letter—at least that is what my maid told me.”
    â€œQuite true,” said Griselda. “He seems to have been writing a note to say he couldn’t wait any longer. The note was dated 6:20, and the clock on the table was overturned and had stopped at 6:22, and that’s just what has been puzzling Len and myself so frightfully.”
    She explained our custom of keeping the clock a quarter of an hour fast.
    â€œVery curious,” said Miss Marple. “Very curious indeed. But the note seems to me even more curious still. I mean—”
    She stopped and looked round. Lettice Protheroe was standing outside the window. She came in, nodding to us and murmuring “Morning.”
    She dropped into a chair and said, with rather more animation than usual:
    â€œThey’ve arrested Lawrence, I hear.”
    â€œYes,” said Griselda. “It’s been a great shock to us.”
    â€œI