Griselda is a very irritating woman. On leaving the luncheon table, I
had felt myself to be in a good mood for preparing a really forceful
address for the Church of England Men's Society. Now I felt restless
and disturbed.
Just when I was really settling down to it, Lettice Protheroe drifted
in.
I use the word "drifted" advisedly. I have read novels in which young
people are described as bursting with energy--_joie de vivre_, the
magnificent vitality of youth. Personally, all the young people I come
across have the air of amiable wraiths.
Lettice was particularly wraith-like this afternoon. She is a pretty
girl, very tall and fair and completely vague. She drifted through the
French window, absently pulled off the yellow beret she was wearing,
and murmured vaguely with a kind of far-away surprise.
"Oh! It's you."
There is a path from Old Hall through the woods which comes out by our
garden gate, so that most people coming from there come in at that
gate and up to the study window instead of going a long way round by
the road and coming to the front door. I was not surprised at Lettice
coming in this way, but I did a little resent her attitude.
If you come to a Vicarage, you ought to be prepared to find a Vicar.
She came in and collapsed in a crumpled heap in one of my big arm
chairs. She plucked aimlessly at her hair, staring at the ceiling.
"Is Dennis anywhere about?"
"I haven't seen him since lunch. I understood he was going to play
tennis at your place."
"Oh!" said Lettice. "I hope he isn't. He won't find anybody there."
"He said you'd asked him."
"I believe I did. Only that was Friday. And today's Tuesday."
"It's Wednesday," I said.
"Oh! how dreadful," said Lettice. "That means that I've forgotten to go
to lunch with some people for the third time."
Fortunately it didn't seem to worry her much.
"Is Griselda anywhere about?"
"I expect you'll find her in the studio in the garden--sitting to
Lawrence Redding."
"There's been quite a shemozzle about him," said Lettice. "With Father,
you know. Father's dreadful."
"What was the she--whatever it was, about?" I inquired.
"About his painting me. Father found out about it. Why shouldn't I be
painted in my bathing dress? If I go on a beach in it, why shouldn't I
be painted in it?"
Lettice paused and then went on.
"It's really absurd--Father forbidding a young man the house. Of
course, Lawrence and I simply shriek about it. I shall come and be done
here in your studio."
"No, my dear," I said. "Not if your father forbids it."
"Oh! dear," said Lettice sighing. "How tiresome everyone is. I feel
shattered. Definitely. If only I had some money I'd go away, but
without it I can't. If only Father would be decent and die, I should be
all right."
"You must not say things like that, Lettice."
"Well, if he doesn't want me to want him to die, he shouldn't be so
horrible over money. I don't wonder Mother left him. Do you know for
years I believed she was dead. What sort of a young man did she run
away with? Was he nice?"
"It was before your father came to live here."
"I wonder what's become of her. I expect Anne will have an affair with
someone soon. Anne hates me--she's quite decent to me, but she hates
me. She's getting old and she doesn't like it. That's the age you break
out, you know."
I wondered if Lettice was going to spend the entire afternoon in my
study.
"You haven't seen my gramophone records, have you?" she asked.
"No."
"How tiresome. I know I've left them somewhere. And I've lost the dog.
And my wristwatch is somewhere, only it doesn't much matter because it
won't go. Oh! dear, I am so sleepy. I can't think why, because I didn't
get up till eleven. But life's very shattering, don't you think? Oh!
dear, I must go. I'm going to see Dr. Stone's barrow at three o'clock."
I glanced at the clock and remarked that it was now five and twenty to
four.
"Oh! is it? How dreadful if they've waited or if they've gone without
me. I suppose I'd better go down and do something about it."
She got up and drifted out again murmuring over her shoulder.
"You'll tell Dennis, won't you?"
I said "Yes" mechanically, only realizing too late that I had no
idea what it was I was to tell Dennis. But I reflected that in all
probability it did not matter. I fell to cogitating on the subject of
Dr. Stone, a well known archæologist who had recently come to stay
at the Blue Boar, while he superintended the excavation of a barrow
situated on Colonel Protheroe's property. There had already been
several disputes between him and the Colonel. I was amused at his
appointment to take Lettice to see the operations.
It occurred to me that Lettice Protheroe was something of a minx.
I wondered how she would get on with the archæologist's secretary,
Miss Cram. Miss Cram is a healthy young woman of twenty-five, noisy
in manner, with a high colour, fine animal spirits and a mouth that
always seems to have more than its full share of teeth.
Village opinion is divided as to whether she is no better than she
should be, or else a young woman of iron virtue who purposes to become
Mrs. Stone at an early opportunity. She is in every way a great
contrast to Lettice.
I could imagine that the state of things at Old Hall might not be too
happy. Colonel Protheroe had married again some five years previously.
The second Mrs. Protheroe was a remarkably handsome woman in a rather
unusual style. I had always guessed that the relations between her and
her stepdaughter were not too happy.
I had one more interruption. This time, it was my curate, Hawes. He
wanted to know the details of my interview with Protheroe. I told him
that the Colonel had deplored his "Romish tendencies," but that the
real purpose of his visit had been on quite another matter. At the same
time, I entered a protest of my own, and told him plainly that he must
conform to my ruling. On the whole, he took my remarks very well.
I felt rather remorseful, when he had gone, for not liking him better.
These irrational likes and dislikes that one takes to people are, I am
sure, very unchristian.
With a sigh, I realized that the hands of the clock on my writing table
pointed to a quarter to five, a sign that it was really half past four,
and I made my way to the drawing room.
Four of my parishioners were assembled there with teacups. Griselda sat
behind the tea table trying to look natural in her environment, but
only succeeding in looking more out of place than usual.
I shook hands all round and sat down between Miss Marple and Miss
Wetherby.
Miss Marple is a white-haired old lady with a gentle appealing
manner--Miss Wetherby is a mixture of vinegar and gush. Of the two Miss
Marple is much the more dangerous.
"We were just talking," said Griselda in a honey-sweet voice, "about
Dr. Stone and Miss Cram."
A ribald rhyme concocted by Dennis shot through my head.
"Miss Cram doesn't give a damn."
I had a sudden yearning to say it out loud and observe the effect, but
fortunately I refrained.
Miss Wetherby said tersely:
"No nice girl would do it," and shut her thin lips disapprovingly.
"Do what?" I inquired.
"Be a secretary to an unmarried man," said Miss Wetherby in a horrified
tone.
"Oh! my dear," said Miss Marple. "_I_ think married ones are the worst.
Remember poor Mollie Carter."
"Married men living apart from their wives are, of course, notorious,"
said Miss Wetherby.
"And even some of the ones living with their wives," murmured Miss
Marple. "I remember--"
I interrupted these unsavoury reminiscences.
"But surely," I said, "in these days a girl can take a post in just the
same way as a man does."
"To come away to the country? And stay at the same hotel?" said Mrs.
Price Ridley in a severe voice.
Miss Wetherby murmured to Miss Marple in a low voice:
"And all the bedrooms on the same floor...."
They exchanged glances.
Miss Hartnell, who is weather-beaten and jolly and much dreaded by the
poor, observed in a loud, hearty voice:
"The poor man will be caught before he knows where he is. He's as
innocent as a babe unborn, you can see that."
Curious what turns of phrase we employ. None of the ladies present
would have dreamed of alluding to an actual baby till it was safely in
the cradle, visible to all.
"Disgusting, I call it," continued Miss Hartnell with her usual
tactlessness. "The man must be at least twenty-five years older than
she is."
Three female voices rose at once making disconnected remarks about the
Choir Boys' Outing, the regrettable incident at the last Mothers'
Meeting, and the draughts in the Church. Miss Marple twinkled at
Griselda.
"Don't you think," said my wife, "that Miss Cram may just like having
an interesting job, and that she considers Dr. Stone just as an
employer?"
There was a silence. Evidently none of the four ladies agreed. Miss
Marple broke the silence by patting Griselda on the arm.
"My dear," she said, "you are very young. The young have such innocent
minds."
Griselda said indignantly that she hadn't got at all an innocent mind.
"Naturally," said Miss Marple, unheeding of the protest, "you think the
best of everyone."
"Do you really think she wants to marry that bald-headed, dull man?"
"I understand he is quite well off," said Miss Marple. "Rather a
violent temper, I'm afraid. He had quite a serious quarrel with Colonel
Protheroe the other day."
Everyone leaned forward interestedly.
"Colonel Protheroe accused him of being an ignoramus."
"How like Colonel Protheroe, and how absurd," said Mrs. Price Ridley.
"Very like Colonel Protheroe, but I don't know about it being absurd,"
said Miss Marple. "You remember the woman who came down here and
said she represented Welfare, and after taking subscriptions she was
never heard of again, and proved to have nothing whatever to do with
Welfare. One is so inclined to be trusting and take people at their own
valuation."
I should never have dreamed of describing Miss Marple as trusting.
"There's been some fuss about that young artist, Mr. Redding, hasn't
there?" asked Miss Wetherby.
Miss Marple nodded.
"Colonel Protheroe turned him out of the house. It appears he was
painting Lettice in her bathing dress."
Suitable sensation!
"I always _thought_ there was something between them," said Mrs. Price
Ridley. "That young fellow is always mouching off up there. Pity the
girl hasn't got a mother. A stepmother is never the same thing."
"I daresay Mrs. Protheroe does her best," said Miss Hartnell.
"Girls are so sly," deplored Mrs. Price Ridley.
"Quite a romance, isn't it?" said the softer hearted Miss Wetherby.
"He's a very good-looking young fellow."
"But loose," said Miss Hartnell. "Bound to be. An artist! Paris!
Models! The Altogether!"
"Painting her in her bathing dress," said Mrs. Price Ridley.
"Not quite nice."
"He's painting me too," said Griselda.
"But not in your bathing dress, dear," said Miss Marple.
"It might be worse," said Griselda solemnly.
"Naughty girl," said Miss Hartnell, taking the joke broadmindedly.
Everybody else looked slightly shocked.
"Did dear Lettice tell you of the trouble?" asked Miss Marple of me.
"Tell me?"
"Yes. I saw her pass through the garden and go round to the study
window."
Miss Marple always sees everything. Gardening is as good as a smoke
screen, and the habit of observing birds through powerful glasses can
always be turned to account.
"She mentioned it, yes," I admitted.
"Mr. Hawes looked worried," said Miss Marple. "I hope he hasn't been
working too hard."
"Oh!" cried Miss Wetherby excitedly. "I quite forgot. I knew I had some
news for you. I saw Dr. Haydock coming out of Mrs. Lestrange's cottage."
Everyone looked at each other.
"Perhaps she's ill," suggested Mrs. Price Ridley.
"It must have been very sudden, if so," said Miss Hartnell. "For I saw
her walking round her garden at three o'clock this afternoon, and she
seemed in perfect health."
"She and Dr. Haydock must be old acquaintances," said Mrs. Price
Ridley, "He's been very quiet about it."
"It's curious," said Miss Wetherby, "that he's never _mentioned_ it."
"As a matter of fact--" said Griselda in a low, mysterious voice, and
stopped.
Everyone leaned forward excitedly.
"I happen to _know_," said Griselda impressively. "Her husband was a
missionary. Terrible story. _He was eaten_, you know. Actually eaten.
And she was forced to become the Chief's head wife. Dr. Haydock was
with an expedition and rescued her."
For a moment excitement was rife, then Miss Marple said reproachfully,
but with a smile:
"Naughty girl!"
She tapped Griselda reprovingly on the arm.
"Very unwise thing to do, my dear. If you make up these things,
people are quite likely to believe them. And sometimes that leads to
complications."
A distinct frost had come over the assembly. Two of the ladies rose to
take their departure.
"I wonder if there _is_ anything between young Lawrence Redding and
Lettice Protheroe," said Miss Wetherby. "It certainly looks like it.
What do you think, Miss Marple?"
Miss Marple seemed thoughtful.
"I shouldn't have said so myself. Not _Lettice_. _Quite_ another
person, I should have said."
"But Colonel Protheroe must have thought--"
"He has always struck me as rather a stupid man," said Miss Marple.
"The kind of man who gets the wrong idea into his head and is obstinate
about it. Do you remember Joe Bucknell who used to keep the Blue Boar?
Such a to-do about his daughter carrying on with young Bailey. And all
the time it was that minx of a wife of his."
She was looking full at Griselda as she spoke, and I suddenly felt a
wild surge of anger.
"Don't you think, Miss Marple," I said, "that we're all inclined to let
our tongues run away with us too much? Charity thinketh no evil, you
know. Inestimable harm may be done by the foolish wagging of tongues in
ill-natured gossip."
"Dear Vicar," said Miss Marple, "you are so unworldly. I'm afraid that,
observing human nature for as long as I have done, one gets not to
expect very much from it. I daresay idle tittle-tattle is very wrong
and unkind, but it is so often true, isn't it?"
That last Parthian shot went home.