Still, she was glad to be able to get out to the shops after a day or two of being cooped up indoors. She paused for a moment to glance up at the pale, watery sun that hung low in the midafternoon sky and then, just as she was about to take her next step, she heard her front door opening behind her. She turned around.

“Don’t forget to pick up one or two navel oranges,” Florence Semble called out to her. “I need the zest for that new shortbread recipe I want to try.” Florence had recently moved in with Mrs. Lloyd as something of a cross between a companion and a lodger and had happily taken on the responsibility for cooking their meals. Mrs. Lloyd considered the fact that Florence loved baking a delicious bonus.

Mrs. Lloyd raised a gloved hand to acknowledge she had heard and then, reaching the safety of the stone wall that separated her house on Rosemary Lane from the street, she clung to the wall to steady herself while she unlatched the wrought-iron gate. Stepping onto the pavement, she closed the gate carefully behind her, and after hearing the satisfying click of the latch settling into place, she turned toward the High Street and set off eagerly, not knowing she was headed for a date with destiny.

An active, robust woman in her mid-sixties, Mrs. Lloyd favoured the old-fashioned look of a crisp white blouse paired with a pleated skirt, and on chilly days like this one, a buttoned-up cardigan underneath her winter coat. Now retired from her life’s work as postmistress of the North Wales town of Llanelen, Mrs. Lloyd liked to think she took good care of herself mentally and physically: her permed grey hair was washed and set every Monday at 9 A.M. and she treated herself to a weekly manicure at the Happy Hands manicure salon every Thursday afternoon so her hands would look their best on her bridge night. Today was that day.