“Henhouse.”
“Oh.”
Padding gingerly through the long wet grass, Miss Amy Murgatroyd approached her friend. The latter, attired in corduroy slacks and battledress tunic, was conscientiously stirring in handfuls of balancer meal to a repellently steaming basin full of cooked potato peelings and cabbage stumps.
She turned her head with its short man-like crop and weather-beaten countenance toward her friend.
Miss Murgatroyd, who was fat and amiable, wore a checked tweed skirt and a shapeless pullover of brilliant royal blue. Her curly bird’s nest of grey hair was in a good deal of disorder and she was slightly out of breath.
“In the Gazette,” she panted. “Just listen—what can it mean?
A murder is announced … and will take place on Friday, October 29th, at Little Paddocks at 6:30 p.m. Friends please accept this, the only intimation.”
She paused, breathless, as she finished reading, and awaited some authoritative pronouncement.
“Daft,” said Miss Hinchcliffe.
“Yes, but what do you think it means?”
“Means a drink, anyway,” said Miss Hinchcliffe.
“You think it’s a sort of invitation?”
“We’ll find out what it means when we get there,” said Miss Hinchcliffe. “Bad sherry, I expect. You’d better get off the grass, Murgatroyd. You’ve got your bedroom slippers on still. They’re soaked.”
“Oh, dear.” Miss Murgatroyd looked down ruefully at her feet. “How many eggs today?”
“Seven. That damned hen’s still broody. I must get her into the coop.”
“It’s a funny way of putting it, don’t you think?” Amy Murgatroyd asked, reverting to the notice in the Gazette. Her voice was slightly wistful.
But her friend was made of sterner and more single-minded stuff. She was intent on dealing with recalcitrant poultry and no announcement in a paper, however enigmatic, could deflect her.
She squelched heavily through the mud and pounced upon a speckled hen. There was a loud and indignant squawking.
“Give me ducks every time,” said Miss Hinchcliffe. “Far less trouble….”
V
“Oo, scrumptious!” said Mrs. Harmon across the breakfast table to her husband, the Rev. Julian Harmon, “there’s going to be a murder at Miss Blacklock’s.”
“A murder?” said her husband, slightly surprised. “When?”
“This afternoon … at least, this evening. 6:30. Oh, bad luck, darling, you’ve got your preparations for confirmation then. It is a shame. And you do so love murders!”
“I don’t really know what you’re talking about, Bunch.”
Mrs. Harmon, the roundness of whose form and face had early led to the soubriquet of “Bunch” being substituted for her baptismal name of Diana, handed the Gazette across the table.
“There. All among the second-hand pianos, and the old teeth.”
“What a very extraordinary announcement.”
“Isn’t it?” said Bunch happily. “You wouldn’t think that Miss Blacklock cared about murders and games and things, would you? I suppose it’s the young Simmonses put her up to it—though I should have thought Julia Simmons would find murders rather crude. Still, there it is, and I do think, darling, it’s a shame you can’t be there. Anyway, I’ll go and tell you all about it, though it’s rather wasted on me, because I don’t really like games that happen in the dark. They frighten me, and I do hope I shan’t have to be the one who’s murdered. If someone suddenly puts a hand on my shoulder and whispers, ‘You’re dead,’ I know my heart will give such a big bump that perhaps it really might kill me! Do you think that’s likely?”
“No, Bunch. I think you’re going to live to be an old, old woman—with me.”
“And die on the same day and be buried in the same grave. That would be lovely.”
Bunch beamed from ear to ear at this agreeable prospect.
“You seem very happy, Bunch?” said her husband, smiling.
“Who’d not be happy if they were me?” demanded Bunch, rather confusedly. “With you and Susan and Edward, and all of you fond of me and not caring if I’m stupid … And the sun shining! And this lovely big house to live in!”
The Rev. Julian Harmon looked round the big bare dining room and assented doubtfully.
“Some people would think it was the last straw to have to live in this great rambling draughty place.”
“Well, I like big rooms. All the nice smells from outside can get in and stay there. And you can be untidy and leave things about and they don’t clutter you.”
“No labour-saving devices or central heating? It means a lot of work for you, Bunch.”
“Oh, Julian, it doesn’t. I get up at half past six and light the boiler and rush around like a steam engine, and by eight it’s all done. And I keep it nice, don’t I? With beeswax and polish and big jars of Autumn leaves. It’s not really harder to keep a big house clean than a small one. You go round with mops and things much quicker, because your behind isn’t always bumping into things like it is in a small room. And I like sleeping in a big cold room—it’s so cosy to snuggle down with just the tip of your nose telling you what it’s like up above. And whatever size of house you live in, you peel the same amount of potatoes and wash up the same amount of plates and all that. Think how nice it is for Edward and Susan to have a big empty room to play in where they can have railways and dolls’ tea-parties all over the floor and never have to put them away? And then it’s nice to have extra bits of the house that you can let people have to live in. Jimmy Symes and Johnnie Finch—they’d have had to live with their in-laws otherwise. And you know, Julian, it isn’t nice living with your in-laws. You’re devoted to Mother, but you wouldn’t really have liked to start our married life living with her and Father. And I shouldn’t have liked it, either. I’d have gone on feeling like a little girl.”
Julian smiled at her.
“You’re rather like a little girl still, Bunch.”
Julian Harmon himself had clearly been a model designed by Nature for the age of sixty. He was still about twenty-five years short of achieving Nature’s purpose.
“I know I’m stupid—”
“You’re not stupid, Bunch. You’re very clever.”
“No, I’m not. I’m not a bit intellectual. Though I do try … And I really love it when you talk to me about books and history and things. I think perhaps it wasn’t an awfully good idea to read aloud Gibbon to me in the evenings, because if it’s been a cold wind out, and it’s nice and hot by the fire, there’s something about Gibbon that does, rather, make you go to sleep.”
Julian laughed.
“But I do love listening to you, Julian. Tell me the story again about the old vicar who preached about Ahasuerus.”
“You know that by heart, Bunch.”
“Just tell it me again. Please.”
Her husband complied.
“It was old Scrymgour. Somebody looked into his church one day. He was leaning out of the pulpit and preaching fervently to a couple of old charwomen. He was shaking his finger at them and saying, ‘Aha! I know what you are thinking. You think that the Great Ahasuerus of the First Lesson was Artaxerxes the Second. But he wasn’t!’ And then with enormous triumph, ‘He was Artaxerxes the Third.’”
It had never struck Julian Hermon as a particularly funny story himself, but it never failed to amuse Bunch.
Her clear laugh floated out.
“The old pet!” she exclaimed. “I think you’ll be exactly like that some day, Julian.”
Julian looked rather uneasy.
“I know,” he said with humility. “I do feel very strongly that I can’t always get the proper simple approach.”
“I shouldn’t worry,” said Bunch, rising and beginning to pile the breakfast plates on a tray. “Mrs. Butt told me yesterday that Butt, who never went to church and used to be practically the local atheist, comes every Sunday now on purpose to hear you preach.”
She
went on, with a very fair imitation of Mrs. Butt’s super-refined voice:
“‘And Butt was saying only the other day, Madam, to Mr. Timkins from Little Worsdale, that we’d got real culture here in Chipping Cleghorn. Not like Mr. Goss, at Little Worsdale, who talks to the congregation as though they were children who hadn’t had any education. Real culture, Butt said, that’s what we’ve got. Our Vicar’s a highly educated gentleman—Oxford, not Milchester, and he gives us the full benefit of his education. All about the Romans and the Greeks he knows, and the Babylonians and the Assyrians, too. And even the Vicarage cat, Butt says, is called after an Assyrian king!’ So there’s glory for you,” finished Bunch triumphantly. “Goodness, I must get on with things or I shall never get done. Come along, Tiglath Pileser, you shall have the herring bones.”
Opening the door and holding it dexterously ajar with her foot, she shot through with the loaded tray, singing in a loud and not particularly tuneful voice, her own version of a sporting song.
“It’s a fine murdering day, (sang Bunch)
And as balmy as May
And the sleuths from the village are gone.”
A rattle of crockery being dumped in the sink drowned the next lines, but as the Rev. Julian Harmon left the house, he heard the final triumphant assertion:
“And we’ll all go a’murdering today!”
Two
BREAKFAST AT LITTLE PADDOCKS
I
At Little Paddocks also, breakfast was in progress.
Miss Blacklock, a woman of sixty odd, the owner of the house, sat at the head of the table. She wore country tweeds—and with them, rather incongruously, a choker necklace of large false pearls. She was reading Lane Norcott in the Daily Mail. Julia Simmons was languidly glancing through the Telegraph. Patrick Simmons was checking up on the crossword in The Times. Miss Dora Bunner was giving her attention wholeheartedly to the local weekly paper.
Miss Blacklock gave a subdued chuckle, Patrick muttered: “Adherent—not adhesive—that’s where I went wrong.”
Suddenly a loud cluck, like a startled hen, came from Miss Bunner.
“Letty—Letty—have you seen this? Whatever can it mean?”
“What’s the matter, Dora?”
“The most extraordinary advertisement. It says Little Paddocks quite distinctly. But whatever can it mean?”
“If you’d let me see, Dora dear—”
Miss Bunner obediently surrendered the paper into Miss Blacklock’s outstretched hand, pointing to the item with a tremulous forefinger.
“Just look, Letty.”
Miss Blacklock looked. Her eyebrows went up. She threw a quick scrutinizing glance round the table. Then she read the advertisement out loud.
“A murder is announced and will take place on Friday, October 29th, at Little Paddocks at 6:30 p.m. Friends please accept this, the only intimation.”
Then she said sharply: “Patrick, is this your idea?”
Her eyes rested searchingly on the handsome devil-may-care face of the young man at the other end of the table.
Patrick Simmons’ disclaimer came quickly.
“No, indeed, Aunt Letty. Whatever put that idea into your head? Why should I know anything about it?”
“I wouldn’t put it past you,” said Miss Blacklock grimly. “I thought it might be your idea of a joke.”
“A joke? Nothing of the kind.”
“And you, Julia?”
Julia, looking bored, said: “Of course not.”
Miss Bunner murmured: “Do you think Mrs. Haymes—” and looked at an empty place where someone had breakfasted earlier.
“Oh, I don’t think our Phillipa would try and be funny,” said Patrick. “She’s a serious girl, she is.”
“But what’s the idea, anyway?” said Julia, yawning. “What does it mean?”
Miss Blacklock said slowly, “I suppose—it’s some silly sort of hoax.”
“But why?” Dora Bunner exclaimed. “What’s the point of it? It seems a very stupid sort of joke. And in very bad taste.”
Her flabby cheeks quivered indignantly, and her shortsighted eyes sparkled with indignation.
Miss Blacklock smiled at her.
“Don’t work yourself up over it, Bunny,” she said. “It’s just somebody’s idea of humour, but I wish I knew whose.”
“It says today,” pointed out Miss Bunner. “Today at 6:30 p.m. What do you think is going to happen?”
“Death!” said Patrick in sepulchral tones. “Delicious death.”
“Be quiet, Patrick,” said Miss Blacklock as Miss Bunner gave a little yelp.
“I only meant the special cake that Mitzi makes,” said Patrick apologetically. “You know we always call it delicious death.”
Miss Blacklock smiled a little absentmindedly.
Miss Bunner persisted: “But Letty, what do you really think—?”
Her friend cut across the words with reassuring cheerfulness.
“I know one thing that will happen at 6:30,” she said dryly. “We’ll have half the village up here, agog with curiosity. I’d better make sure we’ve got some sherry in the house.”
II
“You are worried, aren’t you Lotty?”
Miss Blacklock started. She had been sitting at her writing-table, absentmindedly drawing little fishes on the blotting paper. She looked up into the anxious face of her old friend.
She was not quite sure what to say to Dora Bunner. Bunny, she knew, mustn’t be worried or upset. She was silent for a moment or two, thinking.
She and Dora Bunner had been at school together. Dora then had been a pretty, fair-haired, blue-eyed rather stupid girl. Her being stupid hadn’t mattered, because her gaiety and high spirits and her prettiness had made her an agreeable companion. She ought, her friend thought, to have married some nice Army officer, or a country solicitor. She had so many good qualities—affection, devotion, loyalty. But life had been unkind to Dora Bunner. She had had to earn her living. She had been painstaking but never competent at anything she undertook.
The two friends had lost sight of each other. But six months ago a letter had come to Miss Blacklock, a rambling, pathetic letter. Dora’s health had given way. She was living in one room, trying to subsist on her old age pension. She endeavoured to do needlework, but her fingers were stiff with rheumatism. She mentioned their schooldays—since then life had driven them apart—but could—possibly—her old friend help?
Miss Blacklock had responded impulsively. Poor Dora, poor pretty silly fluffy Dora. She had swooped down upon Dora, had carried her off, had installed her at Little Paddocks with the comforting fiction that “the housework is getting too much for me. I need someone to help me run the house.” It was not for long—the doctor had told her that—but sometimes she found poor old Dora a sad trial. She muddled everything, upset the temperamental foreign “help,” miscounted the laundry, lost bills and letters—and sometimes reduced the competent Miss Blacklock to an agony of exasperation. Poor old muddle-headed Dora, so loyal, so anxious to help, so pleased and proud to think she was of assistance—and, alas, so completely unreliable.
She said sharply:
“Don’t, Dora. You know I asked you—”
“Oh,” Miss Bunner looked guilty. “I know. I forgot. But—but you are, aren’t you?”
“Worried? No. At least,” she added truthfully, “not exactly. You mean about that silly notice in the Gazette?”
“Yes—even if it’s a joke, it seems to me it’s a—a spiteful sort of joke.”
“Spiteful?”
“Yes. It seems to me there’s spite there somewhere. I mean—it’s not a nice kind of joke.”
Miss Blacklock looked at her friend. The mild eyes, the long obstinate mouth, the slightly upturned nose. Poor Dora, so maddening, so muddle-headed, so devoted and such a problem. A dear fussy old idiot and yet, in a queer way, with an instinctive sense of value.
“I think you’re right, Dora,” said Miss Blacklock. “It’s not a nice jok
e.”
“I don’t like it at all,” said Dora Bunner with unsuspected vigour. “It frightens me.” She added, suddenly: “And it frightens you, Letitia.”
“Nonsense,” said Miss Blacklock with spirit.
“It’s dangerous. I’m sure it is. Like those people who send you bombs done up in parcels.”
“My dear, it’s just some silly idiot trying to be funny.”
“But it isn’t funny.”
It wasn’t really very funny … Miss Blacklock’s face betrayed her thoughts, and Dora cried triumphantly, “You see. You think so, too!”
“But Dora, my dear—”
She broke off. Through the door there surged a tempestuous young woman with a well-developed bosom heaving under a tight jersey. She had on a dirndl skirt of a bright colour and had greasy dark plaits wound round and round her head. Her eyes were dark and flashing.
She said gustily:
“I can speak to you, yes, please, no?”
Miss Blacklock sighed.
“Of course, Mitzi, what is it?”
Sometimes she thought it would be preferable to do the entire work of the house as well as the cooking rather than be bothered with the eternal nerve storms of her refugee “lady help.”
“I tell you at once—it is in order, I hope? I give you my notices and I go—I go at once!”
“For what reason? Has somebody upset you?”
“Yes, I am upset,” said Mitzi dramatically. “I do not wish to die! Already in Europe I escape. My family they all die—they are all killed—my mother, my little brother, my so sweet little niece—all, all they are killed. But me I run away—I hide. I get to England. I work. I do work that never—never would I do in my own country—I—”
“I know all that,” said Miss Blacklock crisply. It was, indeed, a constant refrain on Mitzi’s lips. “But why do you want to leave now?”
“Because again they come to kill me!”
“Who do?”
“My enemies. The Nazis! Or perhaps this time it is the Bolsheviks. They find out I am here. They come to kill me. I have read it—yes—it is in the newspaper!”
“Oh, you mean in the Gazette?”
The Complete Miss Marple Collection Page 60
