Miss Hartnell’s face turned redder. In someone less truculent, her demeanour might have been called embarrassed.
“I’d knocked and rung,” she explained. “Twice. If not three times. And it occurred to me suddenly that the bell might be out of order.”
She was, I was glad to note, unable to look me in the face when saying this. The same builder builds all our houses and the bells he installs are clearly audible when standing on the mat outside the front door. Both Miss Hartnell and I knew this perfectly well, but I suppose decencies have to be preserved.
“Yes?” I murmured.
“I didn’t want to push my card through the letter box. That would seem so rude, and whatever I am, I am never rude.”
She made this amazing statement without a tremor.
“So I thought I would just go round the house and—and tap on the window pane,” she continued unblushingly. “I went all round the house and looked in at all the windows, but there was no one in the house at all.”
I understood her perfectly. Taking advantage of the fact that the house was empty, Miss Hartnell had given unbridled rein to her curiosity and had gone round the house examining the garden and peering in at all the windows to see as much as she could of the interior. She had chosen to tell her story to me, believing that I should be a more sympathetic and lenient audience than the police. The clergy are supposed to give the benefit of the doubt to their parishioners.
I made no comment on the situation. I merely asked a question.
“What time was this, Miss Hartnell?”