My first call was on Miss Hartnell. She must have been watching me from the window, for before I had time to ring she had opened the front door, and clasping my hand firmly in hers, had led me over the threshold.
“So good of you to come. In here. More private.”
We entered a microscopic room, about the size of a hencoop. Miss Hartnell shut the door and with an air of deep secrecy waved me to a seat (there were only three). I perceived that she was enjoying herself.
“I’m never one to beat about the bush,” she said in her jolly voice, the latter slightly toned down to meet the requirements of the situation. “You know how things go the rounds in a village like this.”
“Unfortunately,” I said, “I do.”
“I agree with you. Nobody dislikes gossip more than I do. But there it is. I thought it my duty to tell the police inspector that I’d called on Mrs. Lestrange the afternoon of the murder and that she was out. I don’t expect to be thanked for doing my duty, I just do it. Ingratitude is what you meet with first and last in this life. Why, only yesterday that impudent Mrs. Baker—”
“Yes, yes,” I said, hoping to avert the usual tirade. “Very sad, very sad. But you were saying.”
“The lower classes don’t know who are their best friends,” said Miss Hartnell. “I always say a word in season when I’m visiting. Not that I’m ever thanked for it.”
“You were telling the inspector about your call upon Mrs. Lestrange,” I prompted.
“Exactly—and by the way, he didn’t thank me. Said he’d ask for information when he wanted it—not those words exactly, but that was the spirit. There’s a different class of men in the police force nowadays.”