As I latched the gate, it occurred to me that I would just step down to the shed in the garden which young Lawrence Redding was using as a studio, and see for myself how Griselda’s portrait was progressing.
I append a rough sketch here which will be useful in the light of after happenings, only sketching in such details as are necessary.
PLAN A
I had no idea there was any one in the studio. There had been no voices from within to warn me, and I suppose that my own footsteps made no noise upon the grass.
I opened the door and then stopped awkwardly on the threshold. For there were two people in the studio, and the man’s arms were round the woman and he was kissing her passionately.
The two people were the artist, Lawrence Redding, and Mrs. Protheroe.
I backed out precipitately and beat a retreat to my study. There I sat down in a chair, took out my pipe, and thought things over. The discovery had come as a great shock to me. Especially since my conversation with Lettice that afternoon, I had felt fairly certain that there was some kind of understanding growing up between her and the young man. Moreover, I was convinced that she herself thought so. I felt positive that she had no idea of the artist’s feelings for her stepmother.
A nasty tangle. I paid a grudging tribute to Miss Marple. She had not been deceived but had evidently suspected the true state of things with a fair amount of accuracy. I had entirely misread her meaning glance at Griselda.
I had never dreamed of considering Mrs. Protheroe in the matter. There has always been rather a suggestion of Cæsar’s wife about Mrs. Protheroe – a quiet, self-contained woman whom one would not suspect of any great depths of feeling.
I had got to this point in my meditations when a tap on my study window aroused me. I got up and went to it. Mrs. Protheroe was standing outside. I opened the window and she came in, not waiting for an invitation on my part. She crossed the room in a breathless sort of way and dropped down on the sofa.
I had the feeling that I had never really seen her before. The quiet self-contained woman that I knew had vanished. In her place was a quick-breathing, desperate creature. For the first time I realised that Anne Protheroe was beautiful.
She was a brown-haired woman with a pale face and very deep set grey eyes. She was flushed now and her breast heaved. It was as though a statue had suddenly come to life. I blinked my eyes at the transformation.
“I thought it best to come,” she said. “You – you saw just now?” I bowed my head.
She said very quietly: “We love each other…”
And even in the middle of her evident distress and agitation she could not keep a little smile from her lips. The smile of a woman who sees something very beautiful and wonderful.
I still said nothing, and she added presently:
“I suppose to you that seems very wrong?”
“Can you expect me to say anything else, Mrs. Protheroe?”
“No – no, I suppose not.”
I went on, trying to make my voice as gentle as possible:
“You are a married woman -”
She interrupted me.
“Oh! I know – I know. Do you think I haven’t gone over all that again and again? I’m not a bad woman really – I’m not. And things aren’t – aren’t – as you might think they are.”
I said gravely: “I’m glad of that.”
She asked rather timorously:
“Are you going to tell my husband?”
I said rather dryly:
“There seems to be a general idea that a clergyman is incapable of behaving like a gentleman. That is not true.”
She threw me a grateful glance.
“I’m so unhappy. Oh! I’m so dreadfully unhappy. I can’t go on. I simply can’t go on. And I don’t know what to do.” Her voice rose with a slightly hysterical note in it. “You don’t know what my life is like. I’ve been miserable with Lucius from the beginning. No woman could be happy with him. I wish he were dead… It’s awful, but I do… I’m desperate. I tell you, I’m desperate.” She started and looked over at the window.