Tuppence drove on looking for the way in. There didn’t seem to be one. A fairly high wall shielded it from the road.
The house was on her right now. She stopped the car and walked back on to the bridge and looked at what she could see of the house from there.
Most of the tall windows were shuttered with green shutters.
The house had a very quiet and empty look. It looked peaceful and kindly in the setting sun. There was nothing to suggest that anyone lived in it. She went back to the car and drove a little farther. The wall, a moderately high one, ran along to her right.
The left hand side of the road was merely a hedge giving on green fields.
Presently she came to a wrought iron gate in the wall. She parked the car by the side of the road, got out and went over to look through the ironwork of the gate. By standing on tiptoe she could look over it. What she looked into was a garden. The place was certainly not a farm now, though it might have been once. Presumably it gave on fields beyond it. The garden was tended and cultivated. It was not particularly 6dy but it looked as though someone was trying rather unsuccessfully to keep it tidy.
From the iron gate a circular path curved through the garden and round to the house. This must be presumably the front door, though it didn’t look like a front door. It was inconspicuous though sturdy – a back door. The house looked quite different from this side. To begin with, it was not empty.
People lived there. Windows were open, curtains fluttered at them, a garbage pail stood by the door. At the far end of the garden Tuppence could see a large man digging, a big elderly man who dug slowly and with persistence. Certainly looked at from here the house held no enchantment, no artist would have wanted particularly to paint it. It was just a house and somebody lived in it. Tuppence wondered. She hesitated.
Should she go on and forget the house altogether? No, she could hardly do that, not after all the trouble she had taken.
What time was it? She looked at her watch but her watch had stopped. The sound of a door opening came from inside. She peered through the gate again.
The door of the house had opened and a woman came out.
She put down a milk bottle and then, straightening up, glanced towards the gate. She saw Tuppence and hesitated for a moment, and then seeming to make up her mind, she came down the path towards the gate. ‘Why,’ said Tuppence to herself, ‘why, it’s a friendly witch!’
It was a woman of about fifty. She had long straggly hair which when caught by the wind, flew out behind her. It reminded Tuppence vaguely of a picture (by Nevinson?) of a young witch on a broomstick. That is perhaps why the term witch had come into her mind. But there was nothing young or beautiful about this woman. She was middle-aged, with a lined face, dressed in a rather slipshod way. She had a kind of steeple hat perched on her head and her nose and her chin came up towards each other. As a description she could have been sinister but she did not look sinister. She seemed to have a beaming and boundless good will. ‘Yes,’ thought Tuppence, ‘you’re exactly like a witch, but you’re a friendly witch. I expect you’re what they used to call a “white witch”.’
The woman came down in a hesitating manner to the gate and spoke. Her voice was pleasant with a faint country burr in it of some kind.
‘Were you looking for anything?’ she said.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Tuppence, ‘you must think it very rude of me looking into your garden in this way, but – but I wondered about this house.’
‘Would you like to come in and look round the garden?’ said the friendly witch.
‘Well – well – thank you but I don’t want to bother you.’ ‘Oh, it’s no bother. I’ve nothing to do. Lovely afternoon, isn’t it?’