“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 into 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 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 realised 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.
“Protheroe’s coming over to-morrow evening and we’re going over the accounts together,” I went on. “I must finish preparing my talk for the C.E.M.S. today. Looking up a reference, I became so engrossed in Canon Shirley’s Reality that I haven’t got on as well as I should. What are you doing this afternoon, Griselda?”
“My duty,” said Griselda. “My duty as the Vicaress. Tea and scandal at four-thirty.”
“Who is coming?”
Griselda ticked off on her fingers with a glow of virtue on her face.
“Mrs. Price Ridley, Miss Wetherby, Miss Hartnell, and that terrible Miss Marple.”
“I rather like Miss Marple,” I said. “She has, at least, a sense of humour.”
“She’s the worst cat in the village,” said Griselda. “And she always knows every single thing that happens – and draws the worst inferences from it.”
Griselda, as I have said, is much younger than I am. At my time of life, one knows that the worst is usually true.
“Well, don’t expect me in for tea, Griselda,” said Dennis.
“Beast!” said Griselda.
“Yes, but look here, the Protheroes really did ask me for tennis to day.”
“Beast!” said Griselda again.
Dennis beat a prudent retreat and Griselda and I went together into my study.
“I wonder what we shall have for tea,” said Griselda, seating herself on my writing-table. “Dr. Stone and Miss Cram, I suppose, and perhaps Mrs. Lestrange. By the way, I called on her yesterday, but she was out. Yes, I’m sure we shall have Mrs. Lestrange for tea. It’s so mysterious, isn’t it, her arriving like this and taking a house down here, and hardly every going outside it? Makes one think of detective stories. You know – ‘Who was she, the mysterious woman with the pale, beautiful face? What was her past history? Nobody knew. There was something faintly sinister about her.’ I believe Dr. Haydock knows something about her.”