I accepted the invitation. Little Gates had formerly belonged to an Anglo-Indian colonel, and I could not help feeling relieved by the disappearance of the brass tables and Burmese idols. It was furnished now very simply, but in exquisite taste. There was a sense of harmony and rest about it.
Yet I wondered more and more what had brought such a woman as Mrs. Lestrange to St. Mary Mead. She was so very clearly a woman of the world that it seemed a strange taste to bury herself in a country village.
In the clear light of her drawing-room I had an opportunity of observing her closely for the first time.
She was a very tall woman. Her hair was gold with a tinge of red in it. Her eyebrows and eyelashes were dark, whether by art or by nature I could not decide. If she was, as I thought, made up, it was done very artistically. There was something Sphinxlike about her face when it was in repose and she had the most curious eyes I have ever seen – they were almost golden in shade.
Her clothes were perfect and she had all the ease of manner of a well-bred woman, and yet there was something about her that was incongruous and baffling. You felt that she was a mystery. The word Griselda had used occurred to me – sinister. Absurd, of course, and yet – was it so absurd? The thought sprang unbidden into my mind: “This woman would stick at nothing.”
Our talk was on most normal lines – pictures, books, old churches. Yet somehow I got very strongly the impression that there was something else – something of quite a different nature that Mrs. Lestrange wanted to say to me.
I caught her eyes on me once or twice, looking at me with a curious hesitancy, as though she were unable to make up her mind. She kept the talk, I noticed, strictly to impersonal subjects. She made no mention of a husband or of friends or relations.
But all the time there was that strange urgent appeal in her glance. It seemed to say: “Shall I tell you? I want to. Can’t you help me?”
Yet in the end it died away – or perhaps it had all been my fancy. I had the feeling that I was being dismissed. I rose and took my leave. As I went out of the room, I glanced back and saw her staring after me with a puzzled, doubtful expression. On an impulse I came back:
“If there is anything I can do -”
She said doubtfully: “It’s very kind of you -”
We were both silent. Then she said:
“I wish I knew. It’s very difficult. No, I don’t think any one can help me. But thank you for offering to do so.”
That seemed final, so I went. But as I did so, I wondered. We are not used to mysteries in St. Mary Mead.
So much is this the case that as I emerged from the gate I was pounced upon. Miss Hartnell is very good at pouncing in a heavy and cumbrous way.
“I saw you!” she exclaimed with ponderous humour. “And I was so excited. Now can you tell us all about it.”
“About what?”
“The mysterious lady! Is she a widow or has she a husband somewhere?”
“I really couldn’t say. She didn’t tell me.”
“How very peculiar. One would think she would be certain to mention something casually. It almost looks, doesn’t it, as though she had a reason for not speaking?”
“I really don’t see that.”
“Ah! but as dear Miss Marple says, you are so unworldly, dear vicar. Tell me, has she known Dr. Haydock long?”
“She didn’t mention him, so I don’t know.”
“Really? But what did you talk about then?”
“Pictures, music, books,” I said truthfully.
Miss Hartnell, whose only topics of conversation are the purely personal, looked suspicious and unbelieving. Taking advantage of a momentary hesitation on her part as to how to proceed next, I bade her good-night and walked rapidly away.
I called in at a house farther down the village and returned to the Vicarage by the garden gate, passing, as I did so, the danger point of Miss Marple’s garden. However, I did not see how it was humanly possible for the news of my visit to Mrs. Lestrange to have yet reached her ears, so I felt reasonably safe.