A M URDER I S A NNOUNCED
IB etween 7:30 and 8:30 every morning except Sundays, Johnnie Butt1 made the round of the village of ChippingCleghorn on his bicycle, whistling vociferously2 through his teeth, and alighting at each house or cottage to shovethrough 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 DailyGraphic; at Mrs. Swettenham’s he left The Times and the Daily Worker; at Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd’she left the Daily Telegraph and the New Chronicle; at Miss Blacklock’s he left the Telegraph, The Times and theDaily Mail.
At all these houses, and indeed at practically every house in Chipping Cleghorn, he delivered every Friday a copyof 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 killer3! Threecollieries idle. Twenty-three die of food poisoning in Seaside Hotel, etc.)most of the inhabitants of Chipping Cleghorn eagerly opened the Gazette and plunged4 into the local news. After acursory glance at Correspondence (in which the passionate5 hates and feuds6 of rural life found full play) nine out of tensubscribers then turned to the PERSONAL column. Here were grouped together higgledy-piggledy articles for Sale orWanted, frenzied7 appeals for Domestic Help, innumerable insertions regarding dogs, announcements concerningpoultry and garden equipment; and various other items of an interesting nature to those living in the small communityof Chipping Cleghorn.
This particular Friday, October 29th—was no exception to the rule—II
Mrs. Swettenham, pushing back the pretty little grey curls from her forehead, opened The Times, looked with alacklustre eye at the left-hand centre page, decided8 that, as usual, if there was any exciting news The Times hadsucceeded in camouflaging9 it in an impeccable manner; took a look at the Births, Marriages and Deaths, particularlythe 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 longtime ago, isn’t it?”
Her son grunted10, poured himself out a cup of coffee, helped himself to a couple of kippers, sat down at the tableand opened the Daily Worker which he propped11 up against the toast rack.
“Bull mastiff puppies,” read out Mrs. Swettenham. “I really don’t know how people manage to feed big dogsnowadays—I really don’t … H’m, Selina Lawrence is advertising12 for a cook again. I could tell her it’s just a waste oftime advertising in these days. She hasn’t put her address, only a box number—that’s quite fatal—I could have toldher so—servants simply insist on knowing where they are going. They like a good address … False teeth—I can’tthink why false teeth are so popular. Best prices paid … Beautiful bulbs. Our special selection. They sound rathercheap … Here’s a girl wants an ‘Interesting post—Would travel.’ I dare say! Who wouldn’t?… Dachshunds… I’venever really cared for dachshunds myself—I don’t mean because they’re German, because we’ve got over all that—Ijust don’t care for them, that’s all.—Yes, Mrs. Finch13?”
The door had opened to admit the head and torso of a grim-looking female in an aged14 velvet15 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 sniffed16, and withdrew.
“I’ve only just begun,” said Edmund, just as his mother remarked:
“I do wish you wouldn’t read that horrid17 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’tcome, 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 gointo the kitchen and do everything, one is simply sunk.”
“Well, why haven’t we an old Nannie? How remiss18 of you not to have provided me with one. What were youthinking about?”
“You had an ayah, dear.”
“No foresight,” murmured Edmund.
Mrs. Swettenham was once more deep in the Personal Column.
“Second hand Motor Mower19 for sale. Now I wonder … Goodness, what a price!… More dachshunds … ‘Do writeor communicate desperate Woggles.’ What silly nicknames people have … Cocker Spaniels… Do you rememberdarling Susie, Edmund? She really was human. Understood every word you said to her … Sheraton sideboard forsale. Genuine family antique. Mrs. Lucas, Dayas Hall … What a liar20 that woman is! Sheraton indeed …!”
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 youthink it’s a code for burglars?… More dachshunds! Really, I do think people have gone a little crazy about breedingdachshunds. I mean, there are other dogs. Your Uncle Simon used to breed Manchester Terriers. Such graceful21 littlethings. I do like dogs with legs … Lady going abroad will sell her navy two piece suiting … no measurements or pricegiven … 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 advertisementslike 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 pointed22 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 ahat. And somebody’s the victim and somebody else is a detective—and then they turn the lights out and somebodytaps you on the shoulder and then you scream and lie down and sham23 dead.”
“It sounds quite exciting.”
“Probably a beastly bore. I’m not going.”
“Nonsense, Edmund,” said Mrs. Swettenham resolutely24. “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 impatience25 over an article in TheTimes.
“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 at6:30 p.m. Friends please accept this, the only intimation.”
She paused triumphantly26. Colonel Easterbrook looked at her indulgently but without much interest.
“Murder Game,” he said.
“Oh.”
“That’s all it is. Mind you,” he unbent a little, “it can be very good fun if it’s well done. But it needs goodorganizing by someone who knows the ropes. You draw lots. One person’s the murderer, nobody knows who. Lightsout. Murderer chooses his victim. The victim has to count twenty before he screams. Then the person who’s chosen tobe the detective takes charge. Questions everybody. Where they were, what they were doing, tries to trip the realfellow up. Yes, it’s a good game—if the detective—er—knows something about police work.”
“Like you, Archie. You had all those interesting cases to try in your district.”
Colonel Easterbrook smiled indulgently and gave his moustache a complacent28 twirl.
“Yes, Laura,” he said. “I dare say I could give them a hint or two.”
And he straightened his shoulders.
“Miss Blacklock ought to have asked you to help her in getting the thing up.”
The Colonel snorted.
“Oh, well, she’s got that young cub29 staying with her. Expect this is his idea. Nephew or something. Funny idea,though, sticking it in the paper.”
“It was in the Personal Column. We might never have seen it. I suppose it is an invitation, Archie?”
“Funny kind of invitation. I can tell you one thing. They can count me out.”
“Oh, Archie,” Mrs. Easterbrook’s voice rose in a shrill30 wail31.
“Short notice. For all they know I might be busy.”
“But you’re not, are you, darling?” Mrs. Easterbrook lowered her voice persuasively32. “And I do think, Archie, thatyou really ought to go—just to help poor Miss Blacklock out. I’m sure she’s counting on you to make the thing asuccess. I mean, you know so much about police work and procedure. The whole thing will fall flat if you don’t goand help to make it a success. After all, one must be neighbourly.”
Mrs. Easterbrook put her synthetic33 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 fluffy34 little wife. Mrs. Easterbrook was at least thirty years younger than herhusband.
“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 Boulders35, the picturesque36 three cottages knocked into oneinhabited by Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd.
“Hinch?”
“What is it, Murgatroyd?”
“Where are you?”
“Henhouse.”
“Oh.”
Padding gingerly through the long wet grass, Miss Amy Murgatroyd approached her friend. The latter, attired37 incorduroy slacks and battledress tunic38, was conscientiously39 stirring in handfuls of balancer meal to a repellentlysteaming basin full of cooked potato peelings and cabbage stumps40.
She turned her head with its short man-like crop and weather-beaten countenance41 toward her friend.
Miss Murgatroyd, who was fat and amiable42, wore a checked tweed skirt and a shapeless pullover of brilliant royalblue. Her curly bird’s nest of grey hair was in a good deal of disorder43 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 authoritative44 pronouncement.
“Daft,” said Miss Hinchcliffe.
“Yes, but what do you think it means?”
“Means a drink, anyway,” said Miss Hinchcliffe.
“You think it’s a sort of invitation?”
“We’ll find out what it means when we get there,” said Miss Hinchcliffe. “Bad sherry, I expect. You’d better get offthe grass, Murgatroyd. You’ve got your bedroom slippers45 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, reverting46 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 dealing48 with recalcitrantpoultry and no announcement in a paper, however enigmatic, could deflect49 her.
She squelched50 heavily through the mud and pounced51 upon a speckled hen. There was a loud and indignantsquawking.
“Give me ducks every time,” said Miss Hinchcliffe. “Far less trouble….”
V“Oo, scrumptious!” said Mrs. Harmon across the breakfast table to her husband, the Rev47. Julian Harmon, “there’sgoing to be a murder at Miss Blacklock’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 confirmationthen. It is a shame. And you do so love murders!”
“I don’t really know what you’re talking about, Bunch.”
Mrs. Harmon, the roundness of whose form and face had early led to the soubriquet of “Bunch” being substitutedfor her baptismal name of Diana, handed the Gazette across the table.
“There. All among the second-hand52 pianos, and the old teeth.”
“What a very extraordinary announcement.”
“Isn’t it?” said Bunch happily. “You wouldn’t think that Miss Blacklock cared about murders and games andthings, would you? I suppose it’s the young Simmonses put her up to it—though I should have thought Julia Simmonswould find murders rather crude. Still, there it is, and I do think, darling, it’s a shame you can’t be there. Anyway, I’llgo and tell you all about it, though it’s rather wasted on me, because I don’t really like games that happen in the dark.
They frighten me, and I do hope I shan’t have to be the one who’s murdered. If someone suddenly puts a hand on myshoulder and whispers, ‘You’re dead,’ I know my heart will give such a big bump that perhaps it really might kill me!
Do you think that’s likely?”
“No, Bunch. I think you’re going to live to be an old, old woman—with me.”
“And die on the same day and be buried in the same grave. That would be lovely.”
Bunch beamed from ear to ear at this agreeable prospect53.
“You seem very happy, Bunch?” said her husband, smiling.
“Who’d not be happy if they were me?” demanded Bunch, rather confusedly. “With you and Susan and Edward,and all of you fond of me and not caring if I’m stupid … And the sun shining! And this lovely big house to live in!”
The Rev. Julian Harmon looked round the big bare dining room and assented54 doubtfully.
“Some people would think it was the last straw to have to live in this great rambling55 draughty place.”
“Well, I like big rooms. All the nice smells from outside can get in and stay there. And you can be untidy and leavethings about and they don’t clutter56 you.”
“No labour-saving devices or central heating? It means a lot of work for you, Bunch.”
“Oh, Julian, it doesn’t. I get up at half past six and light the boiler57 and rush around like a steam engine, and byeight it’s all done. And I keep it nice, don’t I? With beeswax and polish and big jars of Autumn leaves. It’s not reallyharder to keep a big house clean than a small one. You go round with mops and things much quicker, because yourbehind isn’t always bumping into things like it is in a small room. And I like sleeping in a big cold room—it’s so cosyto snuggle down with just the tip of your nose telling you what it’s like up above. And whatever size of house you livein, you peel the same amount of potatoes and wash up the same amount of plates and all that. Think how nice it is forEdward and Susan to have a big empty room to play in where they can have railways and dolls’ tea-parties all over thefloor and never have to put them away? And then it’s nice to have extra bits of the house that you can let people haveto live in. Jimmy Symes and Johnnie Finch—they’d have had to live with their in-laws otherwise. And you know,Julian, it isn’t nice living with your in-laws. You’re devoted58 to Mother, but you wouldn’t really have liked to start ourmarried life living with her and Father. And I shouldn’t have liked it, either. I’d have gone on feeling like a little girl.”
Julian smiled at her.
“You’re rather like a little girl still, Bunch.”
Julian Harmon himself had clearly been a model designed by Nature for the age of sixty. He was still about twenty-five years short of achieving Nature’s purpose.
“I know I’m stupid—”
“You’re not stupid, Bunch. You’re very clever.”
“No, I’m not. I’m not a bit intellectual. Though I do try … And I really love it when you talk to me about booksand history and things. I think perhaps it wasn’t an awfully59 good idea to read aloud Gibbon to me in the evenings,because if it’s been a cold wind out, and it’s nice and hot by the fire, there’s something about Gibbon that does, rather,make you go to sleep.”
Julian laughed.
“But I do love listening to you, Julian. Tell me the story again about the old vicar who preached about Ahasuerus.”
“You know that by heart, Bunch.”
“Just tell it me again. Please.”
Her husband complied.
“It was old Scrymgour. Somebody looked into his church one day. He was leaning out of the pulpit and preachingfervently to a couple of old charwomen. He was shaking his finger at them and saying, ‘Aha! I know what you arethinking. You think that the Great Ahasuerus of the First Lesson was Artaxerxes the Second. But he wasn’t!’ And thenwith enormous triumph, ‘He was Artaxerxes the Third.’”
It had never struck Julian Hermon as a particularly funny story himself, but it never failed to amuse Bunch.
Her clear laugh floated out.
“The old pet!” she exclaimed. “I think you’ll be exactly like that some day, Julian.”
Julian looked rather uneasy.
“I know,” he said with humility60. “I do feel very strongly that I can’t always get the proper simple approach.”
“I shouldn’t worry,” said Bunch, rising and beginning to pile the breakfast plates on a tray. “Mrs. Butt told meyesterday that Butt, who never went to church and used to be practically the local atheist61, comes every Sunday now onpurpose to hear you preach.”
She went on, with a very fair imitation of Mrs. Butt’s super-refined voice:
“‘And Butt was saying only the other day, Madam, to Mr. Timkins from Little Worsdale, that we’d got real culturehere in Chipping Cleghorn. Not like Mr. Goss, at Little Worsdale, who talks to the congregation as though they werechildren who hadn’t had any education. Real culture, Butt said, that’s what we’ve got. Our Vicar’s a highly educatedgentleman—Oxford, not Milchester, and he gives us the full benefit of his education. All about the Romans and theGreeks he knows, and the Babylonians and the Assyrians, too. And even the Vicarage cat, Butt says, is called after anAssyrian king!’ So there’s glory for you,” finished Bunch triumphantly. “Goodness, I must get on with things or I shallnever get done. Come along, Tiglath Pileser, you shall have the herring bones.”
Opening the door and holding it dexterously62 ajar with her foot, she shot through with the loaded tray, singing in aloud and not particularly tuneful voice, her own version of a sporting song.
“It’s a fine murdering day, (sang Bunch)
And as balmy as May
And the sleuths from the village are gone.”
A rattle63 of crockery being dumped in the sink drowned the next lines, but as the Rev. Julian Harmon left the house,he heard the final triumphant27 assertion:
“And we’ll all go a’murdering today!”
点击
收听单词发音
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1
butt
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| n.笑柄；烟蒂；枪托；臀部；v.用头撞或顶 | |
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vociferously
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| adv.喊叫地，吵闹地 | |
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killer
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| n.杀人者，杀人犯，杀手，屠杀者 | |
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plunged
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| v.颠簸( plunge的过去式和过去分词 )；暴跌；骤降；突降 | |
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passionate
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| adj.热情的，热烈的，激昂的，易动情的，易怒的，性情暴躁的 | |
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feuds
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| n.长期不和，世仇( feud的名词复数 ) | |
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frenzied
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| a.激怒的；疯狂的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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camouflaging
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| v.隐蔽( camouflage的现在分词 )；掩盖；伪装，掩饰 | |
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grunted
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| （猪等）作呼噜声( grunt的过去式和过去分词 )； （指人）发出类似的哼声； 咕哝着说 | |
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propped
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| 支撑，支持，维持( prop的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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advertising
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| n.广告业；广告活动 a.广告的；广告业务的 | |
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finch
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| n.雀科鸣禽(如燕雀，金丝雀等) | |
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aged
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| adj.年老的，陈年的 | |
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velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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sniffed
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| v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的过去式和过去分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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horrid
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| adj.可怕的；令人惊恐的；恐怖的；极讨厌的 | |
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remiss
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| adj.不小心的，马虎 | |
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mower
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| n.割草机 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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sham
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| n./adj.假冒(的)，虚伪(的) | |
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resolutely
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| adj.坚决地，果断地 | |
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impatience
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| n.不耐烦，急躁 | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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triumphant
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| adj.胜利的，成功的；狂欢的，喜悦的 | |
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complacent
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| adj.自满的；自鸣得意的 | |
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cub
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| n.幼兽，年轻无经验的人 | |
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shrill
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| adj.尖声的；刺耳的；v尖叫 | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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persuasively
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| adv.口才好地；令人信服地 | |
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synthetic
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| adj.合成的，人工的；综合的；n.人工制品 | |
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fluffy
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| adj.有绒毛的，空洞的 | |
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boulders
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| n.卵石( boulder的名词复数 )；巨砾；（受水或天气侵蚀而成的）巨石；漂砾 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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attired
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| adj.穿着整齐的v.使穿上衣服，使穿上盛装( attire的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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tunic
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| n.束腰外衣 | |
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conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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stumps
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| （被砍下的树的）树桩( stump的名词复数 )； 残肢； （板球三柱门的）柱； 残余部分 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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amiable
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| adj.和蔼可亲的，友善的，亲切的 | |
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disorder
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| n.紊乱，混乱；骚动，骚乱；疾病，失调 | |
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authoritative
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| adj.有权威的，可相信的；命令式的；官方的 | |
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slippers
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| n. 拖鞋 | |
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reverting
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| 恢复( revert的现在分词 )； 重提； 回到…上； 归还 | |
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rev
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| v.发动机旋转，加快速度 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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deflect
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| v.(使)偏斜，(使)偏离，(使)转向 | |
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50
squelched
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| v.发吧唧声，发扑哧声( squelch的过去式和过去分词 )；制止；压制；遏制 | |
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51
pounced
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| v.突然袭击( pounce的过去式和过去分词 )；猛扑；一眼看出；抓住机会（进行抨击） | |
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52
second-hand
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| adj.用过的，旧的，二手的 | |
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prospect
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| n.前景，前途；景色，视野 | |
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assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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rambling
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| adj.[建]凌乱的，杂乱的 | |
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clutter
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| n.零乱，杂乱；vt.弄乱，把…弄得杂乱 | |
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boiler
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| n.锅炉；煮器(壶，锅等) | |
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devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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humility
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| n.谦逊，谦恭 | |
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61
atheist
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| n.无神论者 | |
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dexterously
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| adv.巧妙地，敏捷地 | |
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rattle
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| v.飞奔，碰响；激怒；n.碰撞声；拨浪鼓 | |
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