II

Mrs. Swettenham, pushing back the pretty little grey curls from her fore-head, opened The Times, looked with a lacklustre eye at the left- handcentre page, decided that, as usual, if there was any exciting news TheTimes had succeeded in camouflaging it in an impeccable manner; took alook at the Births, Marriages and Deaths, particularly the latter; then, herduty done, she put aside The Times and eagerly seized the Chipping Cleg-horn Gazette.

When her son Edmund entered the room a moment later, she wasalready deep in the Personal Column.

“Good morning, dear,” said Mrs. Swettenham. “The Smedleys are sellingtheir 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 acouple of kippers, sat down at the table and opened the Daily Workerwhich he propped up against the toast rack.

“Bull mastiff puppies,” read out Mrs. Swettenham. “I really don’t knowhow 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 awaste of time advertising in these days. She hasn’t put her address, only abox number—that’s quite fatal—I could have told her so—servants simplyinsist on knowing where they are going. They like a good address … Falseteeth—I can’t think why false teeth are so popular. Best prices paid … Beau-tiful bulbs. Our special selection. They sound rather cheap … Here’s a girlwants an ‘Interesting post — Would travel.’ I dare say! Who wouldn’t?…Dachshunds… I’ve never really cared for dachshunds myself — I don’tmean because they’re German, because we’ve got over all that — I justdon’t care for them, that’s all.—Yes, Mrs. Finch?”

The door had opened to admit the head and torso of a grim-looking fe-male 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 fin-ished,” she added ingratiatingly.

Casting a look at Edmund and his paper, Mrs. Finch sniffed, and with-drew.

“I’ve only just begun,” said Edmund, just as his mother remarked:

“I do wish you wouldn’t read that horrid paper, Edmund. Mrs. Finchdoesn’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 abook.”

“I meant real work,” said Mrs. Swettenham. “And Mrs. Finch does mat-ter. 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 hasan old Nannie in the family, who will go into the kitchen and doeverything, one is simply sunk.”

“Well, why haven’t we an old Nannie? How remiss of you not to haveprovided 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 aprice!… More dachshunds … ‘Do write or communicate desperate Woggles.’

What silly nicknames people have … Cocker Spaniels… Do you rememberdarling Susie, Edmund? She really was human. Understood every wordyou 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 supposethey’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 aboutbreeding dachshunds. I mean, there are other dogs. Your Uncle Simonused to breed Manchester Terriers. Such graceful little things. I do likedogs with legs … Lady going abroad will sell her navy two piece suiting … nomeasurements 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, Oc-tober 29th, at Little Paddocks at 6:30 p.m. Friends pleaseaccept 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 do-ing it. Just sticking it in the advertisements like that. Not at all like LetitiaBlacklock 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 notice. Today. Do you think we’re just supposed to go?”

“It says ‘Friends, please accept this, the only intimation,’” her son poin-ted out.

“Well, I think these newfangled ways of giving invitations are very tire-some,” said Mrs. Swettenham decidedly.

“All right, Mother, you needn’t go.”

“No,” agreed Mrs. Swettenham.

There was a pause.

“Do you really want that last piece of toast, Edmund?”

“I should have thought my being properly nourished mattered morethan letting that old hag clear the table.”

“Sh, dear, she’ll hear you … Edmund, what happens at a Murder Game?”

“I don’t know, exactly … They pin pieces of paper upon you, or some-thing … No, I think you draw them out of a hat. And somebody’s the victimand somebody else is a detective—and then they turn the lights out andsomebody taps you on the shoulder and then you scream and lie downand sham dead.”

“It sounds quite exciting.”

“Probably a beastly bore. I’m not going.”

“Nonsense, Edmund,” said Mrs. Swettenham resolutely. “I’m going andyou’re coming with me. That’s settled!”