A Murder Is Announced Read Free Page A

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.
    â€œThe old pet!” she exclaimed. “I think you’ll be exactly like that some day, Julian.”
    Julian looked rather uneasy.
    â€œI know,” he said with humility. “I do feel very strongly that I can’t always get the proper simple approach.”
    â€œI 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:
    â€œâ€˜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.
    â€œIt’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:
    â€œAnd we’ll all go a’murdering today!”

Two
B REAKFAST AT L ITTLE P ADDOCKS
    I
    A t 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.
    â€œLetty— Letty —have you seen this? Whatever can it mean?”
    â€œWhat’s the matter, Dora?”
    â€œThe most extraordinary advertisement. It says Little Paddocks quite distinctly. But whatever can it mean? ”
    â€œIf 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.
    â€œJust 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.
    â€œA 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