Between 7.30 and 8.30 every morning except Sundays, Johnnie Butt made the round of the village of Chipping Cleghorn on his bicycle, whistling vociferously through his teeth, and alighting at each house or cottage to shove through the letterbox such morning papers as had been ordered by the occupants of the house in question from Mr Totman, stationer, of the High Street. Thus, at Colonel and Mrs Easterbrook’s he delivered The Times and the Daily Graphic; at Mrs Swettenham’s he left The Times and the Daily Worker; at Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd’s he left the Daily Telegraph and the News Chronicle; at Miss Blacklock’s he left the Telegraph, The Times and the Daily Mail.
At all these houses, and indeed at practically every house in Chipping Cleghorn, he delivered every Friday a copy of the North Benham News and Chipping Cleghorn Gazette, known locally simply as ‘the Gazette’.
Thus, on Friday mornings, after a hurried glance at the headlines in the daily paper
(International situation critical! U.N.O. meets today! Bloodhounds seek blonde typist’s killer! Three collieries idle. Twenty-three die of food poisoning in Seaside Hotel, etc.)
most of the inhabitants of Chipping Cleghorn eagerly opened the Gazette and plunged into the local news. After a cursory glance at Correspondence (in which the passionate hates and feuds of rural life found full play) nine out of ten subscribers then turned to the PERSONAL column. Here were grouped together higgledy-piggledy articles for Sale or Wanted, frenzied appeals for Domestic Help, innumerable insertions regarding dogs, announcements concerning poultry and garden equipment; and various other items of an interesting nature to those living in the small community of Chipping Cleghorn.
This particular Friday, October 29th—was no exception to the rule—
Mrs Swettenham, pushing back the pretty little grey curls from her forehead, opened The Times, looked with a lacklustre eye at the left-hand centre page, decided that, as usual, if there was any exciting news The Times had succeeded in camouflaging it in an impeccable manner; took a look at the Births, Marriages and Deaths, particularly the latter; then, her duty done, she put aside The Times and eagerly seized the Chipping Cleghorn Gazette.
When her son Edmund entered the room a moment later, she was already deep in the Personal Column.
‘Good morning, dear,’ said Mrs Swettenham. ‘The Smedleys are selling their Daimler. 1935—that’s rather a long time ago, isn’t it?’
Her son grunted, poured himself out a cup of coffee, helped himself to a couple of kippers, sat down at the table and opened the Daily Worker which he propped up against the toast rack.
‘Bull mastiff puppies,’ read out Mrs Swettenham. ‘I really don’t know how people manage to feed big dogs nowadays—I really don’t … H’m, Selina Lawrence is advertising for a cook again. I could tell her it’s just a waste of time advertising in these days. She hasn’t put her address, only a box number—that’s quite fatal—I could have told her so—servants simply insist on knowing where they are going. They like a good address … False teeth—I can’t think why false teeth are so popular. Best prices paid … Beautiful bulbs. Our special selection. They sound rather cheap … Here’s a girl wants an “Interesting post—Would travel.” I dare say! Who wouldn’t?… Dachshunds … I’ve never really cared for dachshunds myself—I don’t mean because they’re German, because we’ve got over all that—I just don’t care for them, that’s all.—Yes, Mrs Finch?’
The door had opened to admit the head and torso of a grim-looking female in an aged velvet beret.
‘Good morning, Mum,’ said Mrs Finch. ‘Can I clear?’
‘Not yet. We haven’t finished,’ said Mrs Swettenham. ‘Not quite finished,’ she added ingratiatingly.
Casting a look at Edmund and his paper, Mrs Finch sniffed, and withdrew.
‘I’ve only just begun,’ said Edmund, just as his mother remarked:
‘I do wish you wouldn’t read that horrid paper, Edmund. Mrs Finch doesn’t like it at all.’
‘I don’t see what my political views have to do with Mrs Finch.’
‘And it isn’t,’ pursued Mrs Swettenham, ‘as though you were a worker. You don’t do any work at all.’
‘That’s not in the least true,’ said Edmund indignantly. ‘I’m writing a book.’
‘I meant real work,’ said Mrs Swettenham. ‘And Mrs Finch does matter. If she takes a dislike to us and won’t come, who else could we get?’
‘Advertise in the Gazette,’ said Edmund, grinning.
‘I’ve just told you that’s no use. Oh dear me, nowadays unless one has an old Nannie in the family, who will go into the kitchen and do everything, one is simply sunk.’
‘Well, why haven’t we an old Nannie? How remiss of you not to have provided me with one. What were you thinking about?’
‘You had an ayah, dear.’
‘No foresight,’ murmured Edmund.
Mrs Swettenham was once more deep in the Personal Column.
‘Second hand Motor Mower for sale. Now I wonder … Goodness, what a price!… More dachshunds … “Do write or communicate desperate Woggles.” What silly nicknames people have … Cocker Spaniels … Do you remember darling Susie, Edmund? She really was human. Understood every word you said to her … Sheraton sideboard for sale. Genuine family antique. Mrs Lucas, Dayas Hall … What a liar that woman is! Sheraton indeed …!’
Mrs Swettenham sniffed and then continued her reading:
‘All a mistake, darling. Undying love. Friday as usual.—J … I suppose they’ve had a lovers’ quarrel—or do you think it’s a code for burglars?… More dachshunds! Really, I do think people have gone a little crazy about breeding dachshunds. I mean, there are other dogs. Your Uncle Simon used to breed Manchester Terriers. Such graceful little things. I do like dogs with legs … Lady going abroad will sell her navy two piece suiting … no measurements or price given … A marriage is announced—no, a murder. What? Well, I never! Edmund, Edmund, listen to this …
‘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.
‘What an extraordinary thing! Edmund!’
‘What’s that?’ Edmund looked up from his newspaper.
‘Friday, October 29th … Why, that’s today.’
‘Let me see.’ Her son took the paper from her.
‘But what does it mean?’ Mrs Swettenham asked with lively curiosity.
Edmund Swettenham rubbed his nose doubtfully.
‘Some sort of party, I suppose. The Murder Game—that kind of thing.’
‘Oh,’ said Mrs Swettenham doubtfully. ‘It seems a very odd way of doing it. Just sticking it in the advertisements like that. Not at all like Letitia Blacklock who always seems to me such a sensible woman.’
‘Probably got up by the bright young things she has in the house.’
‘It’s very short