The Murder at the Vicarage

To
Rosalind

I

It is difficult to know quite where to begin this story, but I have fixed my choice on a certain Wednesday at luncheon at the Vicarage. The conversation, though in the main irrelevant to the matter in hand, yet contained one or two suggestive incidents which influenced later developments.

I had just finished carving some boiled beef (remarkably tough by the way) and on resuming my seat I remarked, in a spirit most unbecoming to my cloth, that anyone who murdered Colonel Protheroe would be doing the world at large a service.

My young nephew, Dennis, said instantly:

“That’ll be remembered against you when the old boy is found bathed in blood. Mary will give evidence, won’t you, Mary? And describe how you brandished the carving knife in a vindictive manner.”

Mary, who is in service at the Vicarage as a stepping-stone to better things and higher wages, merely said in a loud, businesslike voice, “Greens,” and thrust a cracked dish at him in a truculent manner.

My wife said in a sympathetic voice: “Has he been very trying?”

I did not reply at once, for Mary, setting the greens on the table with a bang, proceeded to thrust a dish of singularly moist and unpleasant dumplings under my nose. I said, “No, thank you,” and she deposited the dish with a clatter on the table and left the room.

“It is a pity that I am such a shocking housekeeper,” said my wife, with a tinge of genuine regret in her voice.

I was inclined to agree with her. My wife’s name is Griselda—a highly suitable name for a parson’s wife. But there the suitability ends. She is not in the least meek.

I have always been of the opinion that a clergyman should be unmarried. Why I should have urged Griselda to marry me at the end of twenty-four hours’ acquaintance is a mystery to me. Marriage, I have always held, is a serious affair, to be entered into only after long deliberation and forethought, and suitability of tastes and inclinations is the most important consideration.

Griselda is nearly twenty years younger than myself. She is most distractingly pretty and quite incapable of taking anything seriously. She is incompetent in every way, and extremely trying to live with. She treats the parish as a kind of huge joke arranged for her amusement. I have endeavoured to form her mind and failed. I am more than ever convinced that celibacy is desirable for clergy. I have frequently hinted as much to Griselda, but she has only laughed.

“My dear,” I said, “if you would only exercise a little care—”

“I do sometimes,” said Griselda. “But, on the whole, I think things go worse when I’m trying. I’m evidently not a housekeeper by nature. I find it better to leave things to Mary and just make up my mind to be uncomfortable and have nasty things to eat.”

“And what about your husband, my dear?” I said reproachfully, and proceeding to follow the example of the devil in quoting Scripture for his own ends I added: “She looketh to the ways of her household …”

“Think how lucky you are not to be torn to pieces by lions,” said Griselda, quickly interrupting. “Or burnt at the stake. Bad food and lots of dust and dead wasps is really nothing to make a fuss about. Tell me more about Colonel Protheroe. At any rate the early Christians were lucky enough not to have churchwardens.”

“Pompous old brute,” said Dennis. “No wonder his first wife ran away from him.”

“I don’t see what else she could do,” said my wife.

“Griselda,” I said sharply. “I will not have you speaking in that way.”

“Darling,” said my wife affectionately. “Tell me about him. What was the trouble? Was it Mr. Hawes’s becking and nodding and crossing himself every other minute?”

Hawes is our new curate. He has been with us just over three weeks. He has High Church views and fasts on Fridays. Colonel Protheroe is a great opposer of ritual in any form.

“Not this time. He did touch on it in passing. No, the whole trouble arose out of Mrs. Price Ridley’s wretched pound note.”

Mrs. Price Ridley is a devout member of my congregation. Attending early service on the anniversary of her son’s death, she put a pound note in the offertory bag. Later, reading the amount of the collection posted up, she was pained to observe that one ten-shilling note was the highest item mentioned.

She complained to me about it, and I pointed out, very reasonably, that she must have made a mistake.

“We’re none of us so young as we were,” I said, trying to turn it off tactfully. “And we must pay the penalty of advancing years.”

Strangely enough, my words only seemed to incense her further. She said that things had a very odd look and that she was surprised I didn’t think so also. And she flounced away and, I gather, took her troubles to Colonel Protheroe. Protheroe is the kind of man who enjoys making a fuss on every conceivable occasion. He made a fuss. It is a pity he made it on a Wednesday. I teach in the Church Day School on Wednesday mornings, a proceeding that causes me acute nervousness and leaves me unsettled for the rest of the day.

“Well, I suppose he must have some fun,” said my wife, with the air of trying to sum up the position impartially. “Nobody flutters round him and calls him the dear vicar, and embroiders awful slippers for him, and gives him bed-socks for Christmas. Both his wife and his daughter are fed up to the teeth with him. I suppose it makes him happy to feel important somewhere.”

“He needn’t be offensive about it,” I said with some heat. “I don’t think he quite realized the implications of what he was saying. He wants to go over all the Church accounts—in case of defalcations—that was the word he used. Defalcations! Does he suspect me of embezzling the Church funds?”

“Nobody would suspect you of anything, darling,” said Griselda. “You’re so transparently above suspicion that really it would be a marvellous opportunity. I wish you’d embezzle the S.P.G. funds. I hate missionaries—I always have.”

I would have reproved her for that sentiment, but Mary entered at that moment with a partially cooked rice pudding. I made a mild protest, but Griselda said that the Japanese always ate half-cooked rice and had marvellous brains in consequence.

“I dare say,” she said, “that if you had a rice pudding like this every day till Sunday, you’d preach the most marvellous sermon.”

“Heaven forbid,” I said with a shudder.