A Murder is Announced. Agatha Christie
can speak to you, yes, please, no?’
Miss Blacklock sighed.
‘Of course, Mitzi, what is it?’
Sometimes she thought it would be preferable to do the entire work of the house as well as the cooking rather than be bothered with the eternal nerve storms of her refugee ‘lady help’.
‘I tell you at once—it is in order, I hope? I give you my notices and I go—I go at once!’
‘For what reason? Has somebody upset you?’
‘Yes, I am upset,’ said Mitzi dramatically. ‘I do not wish to die! Already in Europe I escape. My family they all die—they are all killed—my mother, my little brother, my so sweet little niece—all, all they are killed. But me I run away—I hide. I get to England. I work. I do work that never—never would I do in my own country—I—’
‘I know all that,’ said Miss Blacklock crisply. It was, indeed, a constant refrain on Mitzi’s lips. ‘But why do you want to leave now?’
‘Because again they come to kill me!’
‘Who do?’
‘My enemies. The Nazis! Or perhaps this time it is the Bolsheviks. They find out I am here. They come to kill me. I have read it—yes—it is in the newspaper!’
‘Oh, you mean in the Gazette?’
‘Here, it is written here.’ Mitzi produced the Gazette from where she had been holding it behind her back. ‘See—here it says a murder. At Little Paddocks. That is here, is it not? This evening at 6.30. Ah! I do not wait to be murdered—no.’
‘But why should this apply to you? It’s—we think it is a joke.’
‘A joke? It is not a joke to murder someone.’
‘No, of course not. But my dear child, if anyone wanted to murder you, they wouldn’t advertise the fact in the paper, would they?’
‘You do not think they would?’ Mitzi seemed a little shaken. ‘You think, perhaps, they do not mean to murder anyone at all? Perhaps it is you they mean to murder, Miss Blacklock.’
‘I certainly can’t believe anyone wants to murder me,’ said Miss Blacklock lightly. ‘And really, Mitzi, I don’t see why anyone should want to murder you. After all, why should they?’
‘Because they are bad peoples … Very bad peoples. I tell you, my mother, my little brother, my so sweet niece …’
‘Yes, yes.’ Miss Blacklock stemmed the flow, adroitly. ‘But I cannot really believe anyone wants to murder you, Mitzi. Of course, if you want to go off like this at a moment’s notice, I can’t possibly stop you. But I think you will be very silly if you do.’
She added firmly, as Mitzi looked doubtful:
‘We’ll have that beef the butcher sent stewed for lunch. It looks very tough.’
‘I make you a goulash, a special goulash.’
‘If you prefer to call it that, certainly. And perhaps you could use up that rather hard bit of cheese in making some cheese straws. I think some people may come in this evening for drinks.’
‘This evening? What do you mean, this evening?’
‘At half-past six.’
‘But that is the time in the paper? Who should come then? Why should they come?’
‘They’re coming to the funeral,’ said Miss Blacklock with a twinkle. ‘That’ll do now, Mitzi. I’m busy. Shut the door after you,’ she added firmly.
‘And that’s settled her for the moment,’ she said as the door closed behind a puzzled-looking Mitzi.
‘You are so efficient, Letty,’ said Miss Bunner admiringly.
‘Well, here we are, all set,’ said Miss Blacklock. She looked round the double drawing-room with an appraising eye. The rose-patterned chintzes—the two bowls of bronze chrysanthemums, the small vase of violets and the silver cigarette-box on a table by the wall, the tray of drinks on the centre table.
Little Paddocks was a medium-sized house built in the early Victorian style. It had a long shallow veranda and green shuttered windows. The long, narrow drawing-room which lost a good deal of light owing to the veranda roof had originally had double doors at one end leading into a small room with a bay window. A former generation had removed the double doors and replaced them with portieres of velvet. Miss Blacklock had dispensed with the portieres so that the two rooms had become definitely one. There was a fireplace each end, but neither fire was lit although a gentle warmth pervaded the room.
‘You’ve had the central heating lit,’ said Patrick.
Miss Blacklock nodded.
‘It’s been so misty and damp lately. The whole house felt clammy. I got Evans to light it before he went.’
‘The precious precious coke?’ said Patrick mockingly.
‘As you say, the precious coke. But otherwise there would have been the even more precious coal. You know the Fuel Office won’t even let us have the little bit that’s due to us each week—not unless we can say definitely that we haven’t got any other means of cooking.’
‘I suppose there was once heaps of coke and coal for everybody?’ said Julia with the interest of one hearing about an unknown country.
‘Yes, and cheap, too.’
‘And anyone could go and buy as much as they wanted, without filling in anything, and there wasn’t any shortage? There was lots of it there?’
‘All kinds and qualities—and not all stones and slates like what we get nowadays.’
‘It must have been a wonderful world,’ said Julia, with awe in her voice.
Miss Blacklock smiled. ‘Looking back on it, I certainly think so. But then I’m an old woman. It’s natural for me to prefer my own times. But you young things oughtn’t to think so.’
‘I needn’t have had a job then,’ said Julia. ‘I could just have stayed at home and done the flowers, and written notes … Why did one write notes and who were they to?’
‘All the people that you now ring up on the telephone,’ said Miss Blacklock with a twinkle. ‘I don’t believe you even know how to write, Julia.’
‘Not in the style of that delicious “Complete Letter Writer” I found the other day. Heavenly! It told you the correct way of refusing a proposal of marriage from a widower.’
‘I doubt if you would have enjoyed staying at home as much as you think,’ said Miss Blacklock. ‘There were duties, you know.’ Her voice was dry. ‘However, I don’t really know much about it. Bunny and I,’ she smiled affectionately at Dora Bunner, ‘went into the labour market early.’
‘Oh, we did, we did indeed,’ agreed Miss Bunner. ‘Those naughty, naughty children. I’ll never forget them. Of course, Letty was clever. She was a business woman, secretary to a big financier.’
The door opened and Phillipa Haymes came in. She was tall and fair and placid-looking. She looked round the room in surprise.
‘Hallo,’ she said. ‘Is it a party? Nobody told me.’
‘Of course,’ cried Patrick. ‘Our