Mrs. Swettenham sniffed and then continued her reading:
“All a mistake, darling. Undying love. Friday as usual.—J … I suppose they’ve had a lovers’ quarrel—or do you think it’s a code for burglars?… More dachshunds! Really, I do think people have gone a little crazy about breeding dachshunds. I mean, there are other dogs. Your Uncle Simon used to breed Manchester Terriers. Such graceful little things. I do like dogs with legs … Lady going abroad will sell her navy two piece suiting … no measurements or price given … A marriage is announced—no, a murder. What? Well, I never! Edmund, Edmund, listen to this….
A murder is announced and will take place on Friday, October 29th, at Little Paddocks at 6:30 p.m. Friends please accept this, the only intimation.
What an extraordinary thing! Edmund!”
“What’s that?” Edmund looked up from his newspaper.
“Friday, October 29th … Why, that’s today.”
“Let me see.” Her son took the paper from her.
“But what does it mean?” Mrs. Swettenham asked with lively curiosity.
Edmund Swettenham rubbed his nose doubtfully.
“Some sort of party, I suppose. The Murder Game—That kind of thing.”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Swettenham doubtfully. “It seems a very odd way of doing it. Just sticking it in the advertisements like that. Not at all like Letitia Blacklock who always seems to me such a sensible woman.”
“Probably got up by the bright young things she has in the house.”
“It’s very short notice. Today. Do you think we’re just supposed to go?”
“It says ‘Friends, please accept this, the only intimation,’” her son pointed out.
“Well, I think these newfangled ways of giving invitations are very tiresome,” said Mrs. Swettenham decidedly.
“All right, Mother, you needn’t go.”
“No,” agreed Mrs. Swettenham.
There was a pause.
“Do you really want that last piece of toast, Edmund?”
“I should have thought my being properly nourished mattered more than letting that old hag clear the table.”
“Sh, dear, she’ll hear you … Edmund, what happens at a Murder Game?”
“I don’t know, exactly … They pin pieces of paper upon you, or something … No, I think you draw them out of a hat. And somebody’s the victim and somebody else is a detective—and then they turn the lights out and somebody taps you on the shoulder and then you scream and lie down and sham dead.”
“It sounds quite exciting.”
“Probably a beastly bore. I’m not going.”
“Nonsense, Edmund,” said Mrs. Swettenham resolutely. “I’m going and you’re coming with me. That’s settled!”
III
“Archie,” said Mrs. Easterbrook to her husband, “listen to this.”
Colonel Easterbrook paid no attention, because he was already snorting with impatience over an article in The Times.
“Trouble with these fellows is,” he said, “that none of them knows the first thing about India! Not the first thing!”
“I know, dear, I know.”
“If they did, they wouldn’t write such piffle.”
“Yes, I know. Archie, do listen.
A murder is announced and will take place on Friday, October 29th (that’s today), at Little Paddocks at 6:30 p.m. Friends please accept this, the only intimation.”