I'm sure she's counting on you to make the thing a success.
I mean, you know so much about police work and procedure. The whole thing will fall flat if you don't go and help to make it a success.
After all, one must be neighbourly."
Mrs. Easterbrook put her synthetic blonde head on one side and opened her blue eyes very wide.
"Of course, if you put it like that, Laura..." Colonel Easterbrook twirled his grey moustache again, importantly, and looked with indulgence on his fluffy little wife.
Mrs. Easterbrook was at least thirty years younger than her husband.
"If you put it like that, Laura," he said.
"I really do think it's your duty, Archie," said Mrs. Easterbrook solemnly. IV The Chipping Cleghorn Gazette had also been delivered at Boulders, the picturesque three cottages knocked into one inhabited by Miss Hinchliffe and Miss Murgatroyd.
"Hinch?"
"What is it, Murgatroyd?"
"Where are you?"
"Henhouse."
"Oh."
Paddling gingerly through the long wet grass, Miss Amy Murgatroyd approached her friend.
The latter, attired in corduroy slacks and battledress tunic was conscientiously stirring in handfuls of balancer meal to a repellently steaming basin full of cooked potato peelings and cabbage stumps.
She turned her head with its short man-like crop and weatherbeaten countenance toward her friend.
Miss Murgatroyd, who was fat and amiable, wore a checked tweed skirt and a shapeless pullover of brilliant royal blue.
Her curly bird's nest of grey hair was in a good deal of disorder and she was slightly out of breath.
"In the Gazette," she panted.
"Just listen - what can it mean? 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."
She paused, breathless, as she finished reading, and awaited some authoritative pronouncement.
"Daft," said Miss Hinchliffe.
"Yes, but what do you think it means?"
"Means a drink, anyway," said Miss Hinchliffe.
"You think it's a sort of invitation?"
"We'll find out what it means when we get there," said Miss Hinchliffe.
"Bad sherry, I expect.
You'd better get off the grass, Murgatroyd.
You've got your bedroom slippers on still.
They're soaked."
"Oh, dear."
Miss Murgatroyd looked down ruefully at her feet.
"How many eggs today?"
"Seven.
That damned hen's still broody.
I must get her into the coop."
"It's a funny way of putting it, don't you think?" Amy Murgatroyd asked, reverting to the notice in the Gazette. Her voice was slightly wistful.
But her friend was made of sterner and more single-minded stuff.
She was intent on dealing with recalcitrant poultry and no announcement in a paper, however enigmatic, could deflect her.
She squelched heavily through the mud and pounced upon a speckled hen.
There was a loud and indignant squawking.
"Give me ducks every time," said Miss Hinchliffe.
"Far less trouble..." V
"Oo, scrumptious!" said Mrs. Harmon across the breakfast table to her husband, the Rev. Julian Harmon, "there's going to be a murder at Miss Blacklog's."
"A murder?" said her husband, slightly surprised.
"When?"
"This afternoon... at least, this evening.
6:30.
Oh, bad luck, darling, you've got your preparations for confirmation then. It is a shame.
And you do so love murders!"