said. ‘It’s just somebody’s idea of humour, but I wish I knew whose.’
‘It says today,’ pointed out Miss Bunner. ‘Today at 6.30 p.m. What do you 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 apologetically. ‘You know we always call it delicious death.’
Miss Blacklock smiled a little absent-mindedly.
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 have half the village up here, agog with curiosity. I’d better make sure we’ve got some sherry in the house.’
‘You are worried, aren’t you, Lotty?’
Miss Blacklock started. She had been sitting at her writing-table, absent-mindedly drawing little fishes on the blotting paper. She looked up into the anxious face of her old friend.
She was not quite sure what to say to Dora Bunner. Bunny, she knew, mustn’t be worried or upset. She was silent for a moment or two, thinking.
She and Dora Bunner had been at school together. Dora then had been a pretty, fair-haired, blue-eyed rather stupid girl. Her being stupid hadn’t mattered, because her gaiety and high spirits and her prettiness had made her an agreeable companion. She ought, her friend thought, to have married some nice Army officer, or a country solicitor. She had so many good qualities—affection, devotion, loyalty. But life had been unkind to Dora Bunner. She had had to earn her living. She had been painstaking but never competent at anything she undertook.
The two friends had lost sight of each other. But six months ago a letter had come to Miss Blacklock, a rambling, pathetic letter. Dora’s health had given way. She was living in one room, trying to subsist on her old age pension. She endeavoured to do needlework, but her fingers were stiff with rheumatism. She mentioned their schooldays—since then life had driven them apart—but could—possibly—her old friend help?
Miss Blacklock had responded impulsively. Poor Dora, poor pretty silly fluffy Dora. She had swooped down upon Dora, had carried her off, had installed her at Little Paddocks with the comforting fiction that ‘the housework is getting too much for me. I need someone to help me run the house.’ It was not for long—the doctor had told her that—but sometimes she found poor old Dora a sad trial. She muddled everything, upset the temperamental foreign ‘help’, miscounted the laundry, lost bills and letters—and sometimes reduced the competent Miss Blacklock to an agony of exasperation. Poor old muddle-headed Dora, so loyal, so anxious to help, so pleased and proud to think she was of assistance—and, alas, so completely unreliable.
She said sharply:
‘Don’t, Dora. You know I asked you—’
‘Oh,’ Miss Bunner looked guilty. ‘I know. I forgot. But—but you are, aren’t you?’
‘Worried? No. At least,’ she added truthfully, ‘not exactly. You mean about that silly notice in the Gazette?’
‘Yes—even if it’s a joke, it seems to me it’s a—a spiteful sort of joke.’
‘Spiteful?’
‘Yes. It seems to me there’s spite there somewhere. I mean—it’s not a nice kind of joke.’
Miss Blacklock looked at her friend. The mild eyes, the long obstinate mouth, the slightly upturned nose. Poor Dora, so maddening, so muddle-headed, so devoted and such a problem. A dear fussy old idiot and yet, in a queer way, with an instinctive sense of values.
‘I think you’re right, Dora,’ said Miss Blacklock. ‘It’s not a nice joke.’
‘I don’t like it at all,’ said Dora Bunner with unsuspected vigour. ‘It frightens me.’ She added, suddenly: ‘And it frightens you, Letitia.’
‘Nonsense,’ said Miss Blacklock with spirit.
‘It’s dangerous. I’m sure it is. Like those people who send you bombs done up in parcels.’
‘My dear, it’s just some silly idiot trying to be funny.’
‘But it isn’t funny.’
It wasn’t really very funny … Miss Blacklock’s face betrayed her thoughts, and Dora cried triumphantly, ‘You see. You think so, too!’
‘But Dora, my dear—’
She broke off. Through the door there surged a tempestuous young woman with a well-developed bosom heaving under a tight jersey. She had on a dirndl skirt of a bright colour and had greasy dark plaits wound round and round her head. Her eyes were dark and flashing.
She said gustily:
‘I 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.’
