rel="nofollow" href="#litres_trial_promo">Chapter 19: Reconstruction of the Crime
Chapter 20: Miss Marple is Missing
Chapter 23: Evening at the Vicarage
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
