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 succeeded 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 honeysweet 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….”
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 every one.”
“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.”
Every one leaned forward interestedly.
“Colonel Protheroe accused him of being an ignoramus.”
“How like Colonel Protheroe, and how absurd,” said Mrs. Price Ridley.