She arrived in the village before two, and drove straight to the church. She did not know how much time she had at her disposal, but the grave she sought was in a far corner of the churchyard, and she found it easily. Miss Foxley had done her sister proud, Mrs. Bradley considered. A headstone of Purbeck marble inscribed with large clear lettering indicated that Bella Foxley, aged forty-five years, was at rest, and added a pious expectation that she was also at peace.
"Curious," said Mrs. Bradley aloud. If the diary were correct, Bella Foxley at the time of her death must have been at least forty-eight, and her sister Tessa somewhat older. She shook her head in admonitory fashion at the tombstone, and walked along a gravel path to a small wicket gate which led to the vicarage.
There was tennis going on on the vicarage lawn. In fact, it seemed that some kind of fête or a garden party was in progress. The vicar, a handsome, florid man, with curly hair going grey, a round, cheerful face and a grey alpaca jacket with grey flannel trousers, was among what appeared to be the female nobility and gentry of the place, handing cups of coffee. The remains of a cold collation set out on trestle tables in the shade, and now being taken away and generally cleared up by what Mrs. Bradley correctly assumed to be the vicar's wife, daughters and maidservants, explained the presence of the coffee, and just as Mrs. Bradley left the path to make her way across the lawn a small band of musicians carrying those instruments usually associated with the classical kinds of jazz, made its appearance at the front gate which led from the road.
"Heavens!" thought Mrs. Bradley. "Just my luck to arrive in the middle of a jamboree."
By this time, needless to say, she had been seen. There was proceeding a swift conference between the vicar and his wife. The latter then advanced, as it were, to the fray.
"Were you looking for anybody?" she asked.
"Well, I particularly wanted to speak to the vicar, but I am afraid I've come at an inconvenient time," said Mrs. Bradley, making polite motions of backing out again.
"Oh, well, if it is very important ..." said the vicar's wife, adding gently, "I don't think we know you, do we?"
"Lor' lumme, mother. I do!" exclaimed a young man who had come leaping across a couple of flower beds. "It's Carey Lestrange's Aunt Adela, or I'm a Hottentot."
He seized Mrs. Bradley's yellow claw and pump-handled it ecstatically. Mrs. Bradley, who had met a good many of her favourite nephew's friends, very easily placed this one.
"You must be Ronald," she said. The young man enthusiastically agreed that this was so, and informed his mother that he and Aunt Adela had knocked 'em cold on Boatrace Night by performing, with a crowd of assorted Londoners, the community dance known as the Lambeth Walk, this up the Haymarket at a quarter to twelve or thereabouts.
"And but that she can run like a deer, and has admission to the brightest little speak-easy I ever expect to attend," concluded the young man, this time on a rare, lyrical note, "we should have been up before the beaks in the morning as sure as eggs. Old Squiffy was, and received a fortnight without the option for taking a policeman's boots off."
Mrs. Bradley, aware that this panegyric was not having, from her point of view, too gracious an effect on Ronald's mother, was relieved to see that the vicar was approaching. Ronald, catching her eye, hastily informed his mother that he had been talking rot, as usual, presented Mrs. Bradley formally, and, when his father had been introduced, observed that he would leave them together, as he was required to make up a four at tennis.
"A very charming, high-spirited boy," said Mrs. Bradley in obituary tones. "My nephew Carey, whom he mentioned, is very fond of him."
"Carey? Then you must be—— Good heavens, Millicent!" said the vicar, "this is Mrs. Bradley. You know, I've often talked about her. Don't you remember that Carey was telling us about some of her cases when he was here? Do come along and have some coffee, Mrs. Bradley. Have you had lunch?"
Mrs. Bradley said that she had.
"That's fine," said the Vicar, absent-mindedly. He walked beside her to the deck-chairs. "Don't tell me we have a murderer in Pond," he added, pleased at his own joke.