“Very probably,” I said. “But you were going on to say something?”
“I decided that this time I wouldn’t go near any wretched inspector. After all, a clergyman is a gentleman—at least some are,” she added.
I gathered that the qualification was intended to include me.
“If I can help you in any way,” I began.
“It’s a matter of duty,” said Miss Hartnell, and closed her mouth with a snap. “I don’t want to have to say these things. No one likes it less. But duty is duty.”
I waited.
“I’ve been given to understand,” went on Miss Hartnell, turning rather red, “that Mrs. Lestrange gives out that she was at home all the time—that she didn’t answer the door because—well, she didn’t choose. Such airs and graces. I only called as a matter of duty, and to be treated like that!”
“She has been ill,” I said mildly.
“Ill? Fiddlesticks. You’re too unworldly, Mr. Clement. There’s nothing the matter with that woman. Too ill to attend the inquest indeed! Medical certificate from Dr. Haydock! She can wind him round her little finger, everyone knows that. Well, where was I?”
I don’t quite know. It is difficult with Miss Hartnell to know where narrative ends and vituperation begins.
“Oh! about calling on her that afternoon. Well, it’s fiddlesticks to say she was in the house. She wasn’t. I know.”
“How can you possibly know?”