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Redding, and Redding didn't seem to
     know what he was talking about at first and then denied point blank using anything of the
     kind. And I suppose one can take his word for it.”
    “Yes, indeed, poor devil.”
    “Damned young fool,” said Colonel Melchett. “Sorry, Clement. But he really is! Somehow one
     can't get used to thinking of him as a murderer.”
    “Any motive?” asked Haydock, taking a final draught of coffee and pushing back his chair.
    “He says they quarrelled and he lost his temper and shot him.”
    “Hoping for manslaughter, eh?” The doctor shook his head. “That story doesn't hold water.
     He stole up behind him as he was writing and shot him through the head. Precious little
     'quarrel' about that.”
    “Anyway, there wouldn't have been time for a quarrel,” I said, remembering Miss Marple's
     words. “To creep up, shoot him, alter the clock hands back to 6.20, and leave again would
     have taken him all his time. I shall never forget his face when I met him outside the
     gate, or the way he said, 'You want to see Protheroe Ñ oh! you'll see him all right!' That
     in itself ought to have made me suspicious of what had just taken place a few minutes
     before.”
    Haydock stared at me.
    “What do you mean Ñ what had just taken place? When do you think Redding shot him?”
    “A few minutes before I got to the house.”
    The doctor shook his head.
    “Impossible. Plumb impossible. He'd been dead much longer than that.”
    “But, my dear man,” cried Colonel Melchett, “you said yourself that half an hour was only
     an approximate estimate.”
    “Half an hour, thirty?five minutes, twenty?five minutes, twenty minutes Ñ possibly, but
     less, no. Why, the body would have been warm when I got to it.”
    We stared at each other. Haydock's face had changed. It had gone suddenly grey and old. I
     wondered at the change in him.
    “But, look here, Haydock.” The colonel found his voice. “If Redding admits shooting him at
     a quarter to seven Ñ”
    Haydock sprang to his feet.
    “I tell you it's impossible,” he roared. “If Redding says he killed Protheroe at a quarter
     to seven, then Redding lies. Hang it all, I tell you I'm a doctor, and I know. The blood
     had begun to congeal.”
    “If Redding is lying,” began Melchett. He stopped, shook his head.
    “We'd better go down to the police station and see him,” he said.

The Murder at the Vicarage

Chapter VIII
    We were rather silent on our way down to the police station. Haydock drew behind a little
     and murmured to me:
    “You know I don't like the look of this. I don't like it. There's something here we don't
     understand.”
    He looked thoroughly worried and upset.
    Inspector Slack was at the police station and presently we found ourselves face to face
     with Lawrence Redding.
    He looked pale and strained but quite composed Ñ marvellously so, I thought, considering
     the circumstances. Melchett snorted and hummed, obviously nervous.
    “Look here, Redding,” he said, “I understand you made a statement to Inspector Slack here.
     You state you went to the Vicarage at approximately a quarter to seven, found Protheroe
     there, quarrelled with him, shot him, and came away. I'm not reading it over to you, but
     that's the gist of it.”
    “Yes.”
    “I'm going to ask a few questions. You've already been told that you needn't answer them
     unless you choose. Your solicitor Ñ”
    Lawrence interrupted.
    “I've nothing to hide. I killed Protheroe.”
    “Ah! well Ñ” Melchett snorted. “How did you happen to have a pistol with you?”
    Lawrence hesitated. “It was in my pocket.”
    “You took it with you to the Vicarage?”
    “Yes.”
    “Why?”
    “I always take it.”
    He had hesitated again before answering, and I was absolutely sure that he was not
     speaking the truth.
    “Why did you put the clock back?”
    “The clock?” He seemed puzzled.
    “Yes, the hands pointed to 6.22.”
    A look of fear