A Murder Is Announced (25 page)

“There's gratitude for you,” said Patrick. “After all I did for that girl.”

“Nearly landed me in prison on a murder charge—that's what your forgetfulness nearly did for me,” said Julia. “I shall never forget that evening when your sister's letter came. I really thought I was for it. I couldn't see any way out.”

“As it is,” she added musingly, “I think I shall go on the stage.”

“What? You, too?” groaned Patrick.

“Yes. I might go to Perth. See if I can get your Julia's place in the Rep there. Then, when I've learnt my job, I shall go into theatre management—and put on Edmund's plays, perhaps.”

“I thought you wrote novels,” said Julian Harmon.

“Well, so did I,” said Edmund. “I began writing a novel. Rather good it was. Pages about an unshaven man getting out of bed and what he smelt like, and the grey streets, and a horrible old woman with dropsy and a vicious young tart who dribbled down her chin—
and they all talked interminably about the state of the world and wondered what they were alive for. And suddenly I began to wonder too … And then a rather comic idea occurred to me … and I jotted it down—and then I worked up rather a good little scene … All very obvious stuff. But somehow, I got interested … And before I knew what I was doing I'd finished a roaring farce in three acts.”

“What's it called?” asked Patrick. “
What the Butler Saw?
”

“Well, it easily might be … As a matter of I've called it
Elephants Do Forget.
What's more, it's been accepted and it's going to be produced!”

“Elephants Do Forget,” murmured Bunch. “I thought they didn't?”

The Rev. Julian Harmon gave a guilty start.

“My goodness. I've been so interested. My
sermon!
”

“Detective stories again,” said Bunch. “Real-life ones this time.”

“You might preach on Thou Shall Do No Murder,” suggested Patrick.

“No,” said Julian Harmon quietly. “I shan't take that as my text.”

“No,” said Bunch. “You're quite right, Julian. I know a much nicer text, a happy text.” She quoted in a fresh voice, “For lo the Spring is here and the Voice of the Turtle is heard in the Land—I haven't got it quite right—but you know the one I mean. Though why a
turtle
I can't think. I shouldn't think turtles have got nice voices at all.”

“The word turtle,” explained the Rev. Julian Harmon, “is not very happily translated. It doesn't mean a reptile but the turtle dove. The Hebrew word in the original is—”

Bunch interrupted him by giving him a hug and saying:

“I know one thing—
You
think that the Ahasuerus of the Bible
is Artaxerxes the Second, but between you and me it was Artaxerxes the Third.”

As always, Julian Harmon wondered why his wife should think that story so particularly funny.

“Tiglath Pileser wants to go and help you,” said Bunch. “He ought to be a very proud cat.
He
showed us how the lights fused.”

“W
e ought to order some papers,” said Edmund to Phillipa upon the day of their return to Chipping Cleghorn after the honeymoon. “Let's go along to Totman's.”

Mr. Totman, a heavy-breathing, slow-moving man, received them with affability.

“Glad to see you back, sir.
And
madam.”

“We want to order some papers.”

“Certainly sir. And your mother is keeping well, I hope? Quite settled down at Bournemouth?”

“She loves it,” said Edmund, who had not the faintest idea whether this was so or not, but like most sons, preferred to believe that all was well with those loved, but frequently irritating beings, parents.

“Yes, sir. Very agreeable place. Went there for my holiday last year. Mrs. Totman enjoyed it very much.”

“I'm glad. About papers, we'd like—”

“And I hear you have a play on in London, sir. Very amusing, so they tell me.”

“Yes, it's doing very well.”

“Called
Elephants Do Forget,
so I hear. You'll excuse me, sir, asking you, but I always thought that they
didn't
—forget, I mean.”

“Yes—yes, exactly—I've begun to think it was a mistake calling it that. So many people have said just what you say.”

“A kind of natural-history fact, I've always understood.”

“Yes—yes. Like earwigs making good mothers.”

“Do they indeed, sir? Now, that's a fact I
didn't
know.”

“About the papers—”

“
The Times,
sir, I think it was?” Mr. Totman paused with pencil uplifted.

“The
Daily Worker,
” said Edmund firmly. “And the
Daily Telegraph,
” said Phillipa. “And the
New Statesman,
” said Edmund. “The
Radio Times,
” said Phillipa. “The
Spectator,
” said Edmund. “The
Gardener's Chronicle,
” said Phillipa.

They both paused to take breath.

“Thank you, sir,” said Mr. Totman. “
And
the
Gazette,
I suppose?”

“No,” said Edmund.

“No,” said Phillipa.

“Excuse me, you
do
want the
Gazette?
”

“No.”

“No.”

“You mean”—Mr. Totman liked to get things perfectly clear—“You
don't
want the
Gazette!
”

“No, we don't.”

“Certainly not.”

“You don't want the
North Benham News and the Chipping Cleghorn Gazette
—”

“No.”

“You don't want me to send it along to you every week?”

“
No.
” Edmund added: “Is that quite clear now?”

“Oh, yes, sir—yes.”

Edmund and Phillipa went out, and Mr. Totman padded into his back parlour.

“Got a pencil, Mother?” he said. “My pen's run out.”

“Here you are,” said Mrs. Totman, seizing the order book. “I'll do it. What do they want?”

“
Daily Worker, Daily Telegraph, Radio Times, New Statesman, Spectator
—let me see—
Gardener's Chronicle.
”

“
Gardener's Chronicle,
” repeated Mrs. Totman, writing busily. “And the
Gazette.
”

“They don't want the
Gazette.
”

“What?”

“They don't want the
Gazette.
They said so.”

“Nonsense,” said Mrs. Totman. “You don't hear properly. Of course they want the
Gazette!
Everybody has the
Gazette.
How else would they know what's going on round here?”