The Murder at the Vicarage. Агата Кристи

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      He was silent for a moment and then burst out:

      ‘What an absolutely rotten thing gossip is!’

      I was a little surprised. Dennis does not usually take that attitude.

      ‘What’s the matter?’ I asked.

      ‘I don’t know whether I ought to tell you.’

      I was more and more surprised.

      ‘It’s such an absolutely rotten thing,’ Dennis said again. ‘Going round and saying things. Not even saying them. Hinting them. No, I’m damned—sorry—if I’ll tell you! It’s too absolutely rotten.’

      I looked at him curiously, but I did not press him further. I wondered very much, though. It is very unlike Dennis to take anything to heart.

      Griselda came in at that moment.

      ‘Miss Wetherby’s just rung up,’ she said. ‘Mrs Lestrange went out at a quarter past eight and hasn’t come in yet. Nobody knows where she’s gone.’

      ‘Why should they know?’

      ‘But it isn’t to Dr Haydock’s. Miss Wetherby does know that, because she telephoned to Miss Hartnell who lives next door to him and who would have been sure to see her.’

      ‘It is a mystery to me,’ I said, ‘how anyone ever gets any nourishment in this place. They must eat their meals standing up by the window so as to be sure of not missing anything.’

      ‘And that’s not all,’ said Griselda, bubbling with pleasure. ‘They’ve found out about the Blue Boar. Dr Stone and Miss Cram have got rooms next door to each other, BUT’—she waved an impressive forefinger—‘no communicating door!’

      ‘That,’ I said, ‘must be very disappointing to everybody.’

      At which Griselda laughed.

      Thursday started badly. Two of the ladies of my parish elected to quarrel about the church decorations. I was called in to adjudicate between two middle-aged ladies, each of whom was literally trembling with rage. If it had not been so painful, it would have been quite an interesting physical phenomenon.

      Then I had to reprove two of our choir boys for persistent sweet sucking during the hours of divine service, and I had an uneasy feeling that I was not doing the job as wholeheartedly as I should have done.

      Then our organist, who is distinctly ‘touchy’, had taken offence and had to be smoothed down.

      And four of my poorer parishioners declared open rebellion against Miss Hartnell, who came to me bursting with rage about it.

      I was just going home when I met Colonel Protheroe. He was in high good-humour, having sentenced three poachers, in his capacity as magistrate.

      ‘Firmness,’ he shouted in his stentorian voice. He is slightly deaf and raises his voice accordingly as deaf people often do. ‘That’s what’s needed nowadays—firmness! Make an example. That rogue Archer came out yesterday and is vowing vengeance against me, I hear. Impudent scoundrel. Threatened men live long, as the saying goes. I’ll show him what his vengeance is worth next time I catch him taking my pheasants. Lax! We’re too lax nowadays! I believe in showing a man up for what he is. You’re always being asked to consider a man’s wife and children. Damned nonsense. Fiddlesticks. Why should a man escape the consequences of his acts just because he whines about his wife and children? It’s all the same to me—no matter what a man is—doctor, lawyer, clergyman, poacher, drunken wastrel—if you catch him on the wrong side of the law, let the law punish him. You agree with me, I’m sure.’

      ‘You forget,’ I said. ‘My calling obliges me to respect one quality above all others—the quality of mercy.’

      ‘Well, I’m a just man. No one can deny that.’

      I did not speak, and he said sharply:

      ‘Why don’t you answer? A penny for your thoughts, man.’

      I hesitated, then I decided to speak.

      ‘I was thinking,’ I said, ‘that when my time comes, I should be sorry if the only plea I had to offer was that of justice. Because it might mean that only justice would be meted out to me …’

      ‘Pah! What we need is a little militant Christianity. I’ve always done my duty, I hope. Well, no more of that. I’ll be along this evening, as I said. We’ll make it a quarter past six instead of six, if you don’t mind. I’ve got to see a man in the village.’

      ‘That will suit me quite well.’

      He flourished his stick and strode away. Turning, I ran into Hawes. I thought he looked distinctly ill this morning. I had meant to upbraid him mildly for various matters in his province which had been muddled or shelved, but seeing his white strained face, I felt that the man was ill.

      I said as much, and he denied it, but not very vehemently. Finally he confessed that he was not feeling too fit, and appeared ready to accept my advice of going home to bed.

      I had a hurried lunch and went out to do some visits. Griselda had gone to London by the cheap Thursday train.

      I came in about a quarter to four with the intention of sketching the outline of my Sunday sermon, but Mary told me that Mr Redding was waiting for me in the study.

      I found him pacing up and down with a worried face. He looked white and haggard.

      He turned abruptly at my entrance.

      ‘Look here, sir. I’ve been thinking over what you said yesterday. I’ve had a sleepless night thinking about it. You’re right. I’ve got to cut and run.’

      ‘My dear boy,’ I said.

      ‘You were right in what you said about Anne. I’ll only bring trouble on her by staying here. She’s—she’s too good for anything else. I see I’ve got to go. I’ve made things hard enough for her as it is, heaven help me.’

      ‘I think you have made the only decision possible,’ I said. ‘I know that it is a hard one, but believe me, it will be for the best in the end.’

      I could see that he thought that that was the kind of thing easily said by someone who didn’t know what he was talking about.

      ‘You’ll look after Anne? She needs a friend.’

      ‘You can rest assured that I will do everything in my power.’

      ‘Thank you, sir.’ He wrung my hand. ‘You’re a good sort, Padre. I shall see her to say goodbye this evening, and I shall probably pack up and go tomorrow. No good prolonging the agony. Thanks for letting me have the shed to paint in. I’m sorry not to have finished Mrs Clement’s portrait.’

      ‘Don’t worry about that, my dear boy. Goodbye, and God bless you.’

      When he had gone I tried to settle down to my sermon, but with very poor success. I kept thinking of Lawrence and Anne Protheroe.

      I had rather an unpalatable СКАЧАТЬ