V“Oo, scrumptious!” said Mrs. Harmon across the breakfast table to herhusband, the Rev. Julian Harmon, “there’s going to be a murder at MissBlacklock’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 youdo 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 tothe soubriquet of “Bunch” being substituted for her baptismal name of Di-ana, 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 Blacklockcared about murders and games and things, would you? I suppose it’s theyoung Simmonses put her up to it—though I should have thought JuliaSimmons 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 allabout it, though it’s rather wasted on me, because I don’t really like gamesthat happen in the dark. They frighten me, and I do hope I shan’t have tobe the one who’s murdered. If someone suddenly puts a hand on myshoulder and whispers, ‘You’re dead,’ I know my heart will give such a bigbump 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—withme.”

“And die on the same day and be buried in the same grave. That wouldbe 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 con-fusedly. “With you and Susan and Edward, and all of you fond of me andnot caring if I’m stupid … And the sun shining! And this lovely big house tolive in!”

The Rev. Julian Harmon looked round the big bare dining room and as-sented doubtfully.

“Some people would think it was the last straw to have to live in thisgreat rambling draughty place.”

“Well, I like big rooms. All the nice smells from outside can get in andstay there. And you can be untidy and leave things about and they don’tclutter you.”

“No labour-saving devices or central heating? It means a lot of work foryou, Bunch.”

“Oh, Julian, it doesn’t. I get up at half past six and light the boiler andrush around like a steam engine, and by eight it’s all done. And I keep itnice, don’t I? With beeswax and polish and big jars of Autumn leaves. It’snot really harder to keep a big house clean than a small one. You go roundwith mops and things much quicker, because your behind isn’t alwaysbumping into things like it is in a small room. And I like sleeping in a bigcold room—it’s so cosy to snuggle down with just the tip of your nosetelling 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 ofplates and all that. Think how nice it is for Edward and Susan to have a bigempty room to play in where they can have railways and dolls’ tea-partiesall over the floor and never have to put them away? And then it’s nice tohave extra bits of the house that you can let people have to live in. JimmySymes and Johnnie Finch—they’d have had to live with their in-laws oth-erwise. And you know, Julian, it isn’t nice living with your in-laws. You’redevoted to Mother, but you wouldn’t really have liked to start our marriedlife living with her and Father. And I shouldn’t have liked it, either. I’dhave 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 forthe age of sixty. He was still about twenty-five years short of achievingNature’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 reallylove it when you talk to me about books and history and things. I thinkperhaps it wasn’t an awfully good idea to read aloud Gibbon to me in theevenings, because if it’s been a cold wind out, and it’s nice and hot by thefire, there’s something about Gibbon that does, rather, make you go tosleep.”

Julian laughed.

“But I do love listening to you, Julian. Tell me the story again about theold 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. Hewas leaning out of the pulpit and preaching fervently to a couple of oldcharwomen. He was shaking his finger at them and saying, ‘Aha! I knowwhat you are thinking. You think that the Great Ahasuerus of the First Les-son was Artaxerxes the Second. But he wasn’t!’ And then with enormoustriumph, ‘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 someday, Julian.”

Julian looked rather uneasy.

“I know,” he said with humility. “I do feel very strongly that I can’t al-ways get the proper simple approach.”

“I shouldn’t worry,” said Bunch, rising and beginning to pile the break-fast plates on a tray. “Mrs. Butt told me yesterday that Butt, who neverwent to church and used to be practically the local atheist, comes everySunday now on purpose to hear you preach.”

She went on, with a very fair imitation of Mrs. Butt’s super- refinedvoice:

“‘And Butt was saying only the other day, Madam, to Mr. Timkins fromLittle Worsdale, that we’d got real culture here in Chipping Cleghorn. Notlike Mr. Goss, at Little Worsdale, who talks to the congregation as thoughthey 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 aboutthe Romans and the Greeks he knows, and the Babylonians and the Assyri-ans, too. And even the Vicarage cat, Butt says, is called after an Assyrianking!’ So there’s glory for you,” finished Bunch triumphantly. “Goodness, Imust get on with things or I shall never get done. Come along, TiglathPileser, you shall have the herring bones.”

Opening the door and holding it dexterously ajar with her foot, she shotthrough with the loaded tray, singing in a loud and not particularly tune-ful 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 tri-umphant assertion:

“And we’ll all go a’murdering today!”