"Unsolved mysteries." Raymond West blew out a puff of smoke and repeated the words with a deliberate, awkward pleasure. "Unsolved mysteries." He looked around with satisfaction. The room was old, with wide black beams crossing the ceiling, and furnished with good, old furniture that suited him. Hence Raymond West's approving glance. He was a professional writer and liked the impeccable atmosphere. His Aunt Jane's house had always pleased him as the perfect setting for her personality. He looked across at the fireplace, where his aunt sat upright in the large armchair. Miss Marple wore a dress of black brocade, particularly tight around the waist. A fine lace fell like a waterfall over the bust. She wore short black lace gloves and a black lace cap rested atop her mass of snow-white hair. Miss Marple was knitting—something white, soft, and fluffy. Her pale blue eyes, kind and gentle, inspected her nephew and his guests with mild pleasure. Her gaze first stopped on Raymond himself, awkwardly carefree, then on Joyce Lebrier, the artist with short black hair and strange coffee-green eyes, and finally on the well-groomed man of the world, Sir Henry Clidderring.
There were two other people in the room, Dr. Pender, the elderly parish priest, and Mr. Pedrick, the lawyer, a thin, small man who looked over his glasses rather than through them. Miss Marple devoted a brief moment of attention to all these people and returned to her knitting with a gentle smile. Mr. Pedrick cleared his throat for a moment, as he always did when preparing to make a remark. "What did you say, Raymond? Unsolved mysteries? Yes, what do you mean?" "He doesn't mean anything," said Joyce Lebrier. "Raymond just likes the sound of the words and the voice that pronounces them." Raymond West gave her a disapproving look, and she threw back her head and laughed.