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 Phillipa doesn’t know. The only woman in Chipping Cleghorn who doesn’t, I bet.’
Phillipa looked at him inquiringly.
‘Here you behold,’ said Patrick dramatically, waving a hand, ‘the scene of a murder!’
Phillipa Haymes looked faintly puzzled.
‘Here,’ Patrick indicated the two big bowls of chrysanthemums, ‘are the funeral wreaths and these dishes of cheese straws and olives represent the funeral baked meats.’
Phillipa looked inquiringly at Miss Blacklock.
‘Is it a joke?’ she asked. ‘I’m always terribly stupid at seeing jokes.’
‘It’s a very nasty joke,’ said Dora Bunner with energy. ‘I don’t like it at all.’
‘Show her the advertisement,’ said Miss Blacklock. ‘I must go and shut up the ducks. It’s dark. They’ll be in by now.’
‘Let me do it,’ said Phillipa.
‘Certainly not, my dear. You’ve finished your day’s work.’
‘I’ll do it, Aunt Letty,’ offered Patrick.
‘No, you won’t,’ said Miss Blacklock with energy. ‘Last time you didn’t latch the door properly.’
‘I’ll do it, Letty dear,’ cried Miss Bunner. ‘Indeed, I should love to. I’ll just slip on my goloshes—and now where did I put my cardigan?’
But Miss Blacklock, with a smile, had already left the room.
‘It’s no good, Bunny,’ said Patrick. ‘Aunt Letty’s so efficient
