Chapter 3 third chapter

"Damn spinster!" said Griselda as soon as the door had closed. She made a face in the direction of the departing guest, then looked at me and laughed, "Len, do you really suspect that I'm having an affair with Lawrence Redding?" "Of course not, my dear." "But you thought Miss Marple was implying that. So you rose to my defense, which was wonderful, like—like an angry tiger." A wave of uneasiness passed through my heart.A priest of the Church of England must never be in a state described as a raging tiger. "I felt compelled to call it a day," I said, "but Griselda, I wish you'd be careful with your words."

"Do you mean the cannibal story?" she asked, "or the hint that Lawrence might draw me a respectable tree? When he drew me I wore a thick cloak with a high fur collar— - the pope's innocuous attire - the sensual flesh covered up! In fact, everything is innocent. Lawrence never even thought of making love to me - I don't know why reason." "Of course because he knew you were a married woman—" "Stop being old-fashioned, Len. You know very well that for a young man to marry an attractive young woman with an old husband is a godsend. There must be some other reason - not that I'm not attractive - I'm not Unattractive."

"Surely you don't want him to have sex with you?" "Oh—no," said Griselda, with more hesitation than I had imagined. "If he falls in love with Lettice Protheroe—" "Miss Marple doesn't seem to think so." "Miss Marple may be mistaken." "She's never wrong. That old bastard is always right." She paused, gave me a quick sideways glance, and added, "You trust me, don't you? I'm Say, there's nothing between Lawrence and me." "My dear Griselda," I said in surprise, "of course."

My wife came up and kissed me. "I hope you won't be so gullible, Len. You'll believe anything I say." "I would like that. But, my dear, I do have to beg you to keep your tongue and your words to yourself. Remember, these women have too little sense of humor to take everything seriously." "What they need," Griselda said, "is a little bit of depravity in their lives. Then they won't be so busy poking about depravity in other people's lives." After saying this, she left the room.I glanced at my watch and hurried out to make some visits that were due earlier in the day.

The church service on Wednesday night was sparsely attended as usual, but when I emerged from the church after undressing in the vestry, the church was empty except for a woman standing there gazing at one of our doors.We have some very old and beautiful stained glass and the church itself is well worth seeing.She turned at the sound of my steps, and I saw Mrs. Lestrands. We both hesitated for a moment, then I said: "I hope you enjoy our little church." "I'm admiring the window panes," she said. Her voice was pleasant, very deep, yet very clear, a chiseled clarity.She added:

"Unfortunately, I did not see your wife yesterday." We talked about church for a while.She was evidently a well-bred woman with knowledge of the church's history and architecture.We left the church together and went home along the path, for one of the roads to the vicarage passed her house.When we got to the door, she said cheerfully: "Come in, will you? Tell me what you think of the arrangement of my room." I accepted the invitation.I couldn't help feeling relieved that the brass dining table and Burmese statues had been removed from the house, which had once belonged to an Anglo-Indian colonel.The house is very simply furnished, but has a refined taste.The indoor atmosphere makes people feel harmonious and peaceful.

Yet I wondered more and more what it was that brought such a woman as Mrs. Lestrands to St. Mary Mead.It is quite obvious that she is a woman of experience, but it is strange to bury herself in a village. The light in her living room gave me my first chance to take a good look at her. She was a tall woman with reddish blond hair.Her eyebrows and eyelashes were dark, whether it was due to her makeup or nature.If this is the result of dressing up as I think it must be very artistically done.When he fell into deep thought, a secret expression appeared on his face.Her eyes were the most distinctive eyes I've ever seen--they were almost golden in color.

She was well dressed and had the grace and naturalness of a cultured woman.Yet there was something jarring and bewildering about her. You will feel that she is an enigma.I'm reminded of that word Griselda used - ominous.This statement is of course absurd, but is it really that absurd?A thought popped into my head: "This woman will have no scruples." Our conversation covered the usual topics—paintings, books, old churches.I do not know why, however, and I have the strong impression that Mrs. Lestrands wanted to talk to me of something quite different in nature. Once or twice I caught her staring at me with curious hesitation, as if she couldn't make up her mind.I noticed that she kept the conversation as personal as possible, not mentioning her husband or relatives at all.

However, there was always that strange eagerness and longing in her eyes, as if to say: "May I tell you? I want to do this. Can you help me?" However, the look eventually faded away.Maybe it was all my hallucination just now.I felt she didn't need me anymore, so I got up and said goodbye.I looked back again as I was leaving the door and saw she was looking at me with puzzled, suspicious eyes.I suddenly said another sentence: "If there's anything I can do for you..." She said defensively, "It's very kind of you—" We were both silent.Then she said:

"I wish I knew what to do. It's so hard. Oh no, no one can help me. But thank you for your sincerity." This seemed to be the last word, so I had to go.But when I left, I was still wondering.In this place of St. Mary Mead we are not accustomed to mysteries. This is the case.But when I came out of that gate, I was attacked.Miss Hartnell was very good at attacking people in a violent and clumsy way. "I see you!" she exclaimed, with clumsy humor. "I'm very excited. Nah, you can tell us everything." "tell what?" "The mysterious lady! Is she a widow or where is the husband?"

"I really have nothing to say. She didn't tell me." "It's so strange! I thought she would mention something now and then. Although she must have a reason for not saying anything, she almost does, doesn't she?" "I really don't see that." "Ah! But you are too naive, as the venerable Miss Marple says, my dear clergyman. Tell me, did she know Dr. Haydock?" "She didn't mention him, so I don't know." "Really? So, what are you talking about?" "Paintings, music, and books," I said honestly. Miss Hartnell, whose conversation was often personal, now looked suspicious.While she was hesitating to ask her next sentence, I said good night and slipped away. I called on a family on the outskirts of the village, and then went back to the vicarage by the garden gate.On the way back, I passed the "dangerous place" of Miss Marple's garden.However, I could not see how the news of my visit to Mrs. Lestrands could possibly reach her ears, and I felt quite at ease. When I opened the garden door, it seemed to me that I was about to step into the shed in the garden that young Lawrence Redding used as a studio, and see for myself how Griselda's portrait was painted. I attach here a simplified diagram to reveal subsequent events.Only necessary details are shown in the figure.I don't think anyone will be in the studio at all.No sound inside caught my attention, and I don't think my steps would make a sound on the grass. I opened the door, but stopped awkwardly at the door.Because there are two people in the studio: a man is hugging a woman and kissing passionately. They are the artist Laurence Redding and Mrs Protheroe. I hurried out and went back to my study.I sat down in a chair, took out my pipe, and thought over the matter.The secret I discovered just now shocked me a lot.Especially after talking to Lettice that afternoon, I am sure that a certain sympathy grew between her and the young man.And, I believe she thinks so herself.I'm sure she was unaware of the artist's love affair with her stepmother. Nasty love triangle.I'm kind of in awe of Miss Marple.She was not deceived, on the contrary, her suspicion of the truth was quite accurate.I completely misunderstood her meaningful glance at Griselda. It never occurred to me that Mrs. Protheroe would have anything to do with it.Mrs. Protheroe is always associated with Caesar's wife—a smoky, chaste wife whom no one suspects of falling into passion. I was meditating here when a knock on the study window woke me up. I get up and go.Mrs. Protheroe stood outside.I opened the French windows and she walked in without waiting for an invitation, hurried across the room and sat down on the sofa. I felt that I had never really seen her clearly before.The demure, chaste woman I knew was gone, replaced by a panting, flustered young woman.For the first time I saw, Anne Protheroe was beautiful. She was a brunette woman with a pale face and deep-set gray eyes. She was flushed now, and her breasts rose and fell violently, as if a statue had come to life.I blinked and watched this change in front of me. "I think you'd better come," she said. "You—did you see what happened?" I nod. She said very calmly: "We are consensual..." Even in the midst of this apparent panic and annoyance, there was a faint smile on the corner of her mouth.It was the kind of laugh that a woman only makes when she sees something wonderful. I still don't say a word.She quickly added: "I suppose it's a crime to you, isn't it?" "Can you expect me to say anything else, Mrs. Protheroe?" "Oh no, I don't think so." I continued, trying to keep my voice as gentle as possible: "You are a married woman—" She interrupts me: "Oh! I know--I know--you think I haven't thought it all over? I'm really not a bad woman--I'm not. It's not--not what you might imagine .” I said solemnly: "I am happy for this." She timidly asked: "Will you tell my husband?" I said coldly: "There seems to be a general perception that it's impossible for a priest to act like a gentleman. That's not the case." She gave me a grateful look. "I'm so unlucky, oh! I'm so unlucky. I can't bear it. I can't bear it. I don't know what to do." Her voice rose, with a slightly hysterical tone. "You don't know what my life's been like. I've sucked with Lucius from the start. No woman would be happy with him. I wish he was dead . . . horrible, but I'm really... I'm desperate, to tell you I'm desperate." She looked up at the window in sudden surprise. "What's the matter? I think I heard someone? Maybe Lawrence." I went to the window, which I thought wasn't closed securely.I went out and looked down into the garden, but there was no one there.However, I'm almost sure I heard something too.Or, it was her affirmation that made me so affirmed.I went back into the house again and saw her leaning forward, with her head bowed, looking desperate. She added: "Don't know what to do. I don't know what to do." I walked over and sat beside her.I said what I believed to be my duty to say, and tried to do so with the necessary conviction, while recalling with discomfiture that, just that morning, I had expressed my feelings aloud, saying that there was no Colonel Thurlow's world would be a better world. Above all, I advised her not to do anything reckless.Leaving her family and her husband was a dangerous step. I don't think I convinced her.My experience tells me that it is almost useless to persuade anyone who is in love, but I do think that my words gave her some comfort. She thanked me when she got up to leave.And promised to take my words into consideration. Even so, I was quite disturbed when she was gone.I feel, so far, that I have misread the character of Anne Protheroe.Now, she strikes me as a woman who is desperate, the kind of woman who would take a risk when the passion hits.