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 thehead of the table. She wore country tweeds—and with them, rather incon-gruously, a choker necklace of large false pearls. She was reading LaneNorcott in the Daily Mail. Julia Simmons was languidly glancing throughthe Telegraph. Patrick Simmons was checking up on the crossword in TheTimes. Miss Dora Bunner was giving her attention wholeheartedly to thelocal 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 quitedistinctly. But whatever can it mean?”

“If you’d let me see, Dora dear—”

Miss Bunner obediently surrendered the paper into Miss Blacklock’soutstretched hand, pointing to the item with a tremulous forefinger.

“Just look, Letty.”

Miss Blacklock looked. Her eyebrows went up. She threw a quick scru-tinizing 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. Friendsplease 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 theyoung man at the other end of the table.

Patrick Simmons’ disclaimer came quickly.

“No, indeed, Aunt Letty. Whatever put that idea into your head? Whyshould I know anything about it?”

“I wouldn’t put it past you,” said Miss Blacklock grimly. “I thought itmight 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 atan 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 itmean?”

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 avery stupid sort of joke. And in very bad taste.”

Her flabby cheeks quivered indignantly, and her shortsighted eyessparkled with indignation.

Miss Blacklock smiled at her.

“Don’t work yourself up over it, Bunny,” she said. “It’s just somebody’sidea of humour, but I wish I knew whose.”

“It says today,” pointed out Miss Bunner. “Today at 6:30 p.m. What doyou 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 apologetic-ally. “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 havehalf the village up here, agog with curiosity. I’d better make sure we’ve gotsome sherry in the house.”