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 books and history and things. I think perhaps it wasn’t an awfully 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 preaching fervently to a couple of old charwomen. He was shaking his finger at them and saying, “Aha! I know what you are thinking. You think that the Great Ahasuerus of the First Lesson was Artaxerxes the Second. But he wasn’t!” And then with 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 humility. ‘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 me yesterday that Butt, who never went to church and used to be practically the local atheist, comes every Sunday now on purpose 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 culture here in Chipping Cleghorn. Not like Mr Goss, at Little Worsdale, who talks to the congregation as though they were children who hadn’t had any education. Real culture, Butt said, that’s what we’ve got. Our Vicar’s a highly educated gentleman—Oxford, not Milchester, and he gives us the full benefit of his education. All about the Romans and the Greeks he knows, and the Babylonians and the Assyrians, too. And even the Vicarage cat, Butt says, is called after an Assyrian king!” So there’s glory for you,’ finished Bunch triumphantly. ‘Goodness, I must get on with things or I shall never get done. Come along, Tiglath Pileser, you shall have the herring bones.’
Opening the door and holding it dexterously ajar with her foot, she shot through with the loaded tray, singing in a loud 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 rattle of crockery being dumped in the sink drowned the next lines, but as the Rev. Julian Harmon left the house, he heard the final triumphant assertion:
‘And we’ll all go a’murdering today!’
Chapter 2
Breakfast at Little Paddocks
At Little Paddocks also, breakfast was in progress.
Miss Blacklock, a woman of sixty odd, the owner of the house, sat at the head of the table. She wore country tweeds—and with them, rather incongruously, a choker necklace of large false pearls. She was reading Lane Norcott in the Daily Mail. Julia Simmons was languidly glancing through the Telegraph. Patrick Simmons was checking up on the crossword in The Times. Miss Dora Bunner was giving her attention wholeheartedly to the local weekly paper.
Miss Blacklock gave a subdued chuckle, Patrick muttered: ‘Adherent—not adhesive—that’s where I went wrong.’
Suddenly a loud cluck, like a startled hen, came from Miss Bunner.
‘Letty—Letty—have you seen this? Whatever can it mean?’
‘What’s the matter, Dora?’
‘The most extraordinary advertisement. It says Little Paddocks quite distinctly. But whatever can it mean?’