1 Every morning except Sunday, from 7:30 to 8:30, Jonny Bart always rode his bicycle around the village of Chipping Crighorn, screaming loudly between his teeth Whistling, throwing the morning papers ordered from Mr. Totman, the stationer's keeper in the High Street, to every house - mansions and burrows, or slipping papers through the letter slots in the doors. .So he sent The Times and the Daily Mail to the home of Colonel Easterbrook and his wife. In Swettenham, he left the Times and the Daily Worker; Miss Chicliffe and Miss Murgatroyd sent The Daily Telegraph and The New Chronicle. To Miss Blacklock's were The Telegraph, The Times and The Daily Mail.

Every Friday, he delivered to these subscribers - virtually every household in the village - a copy of the North Benham News and the Chipping Crighorn News, the latter known locally as "News". Therefore, every Friday morning, most of the residents in the village glanced at the headlines of the big newspaper as usual (The international situation is critical! The United Nations is meeting today! The blonde typist was killed, and the police searched for the murderer! Three idle coal diggers. Twenty-three people died of food poisoning at the Seaside Hotel, etc.) Most of the residents of Chipping Crighorn eagerly opened the News and dived headfirst into the local news.The newsletter column vividly expresses the unforgettable kindness and resentment, old hatred and new hatred in rural life.After a quick glance at this column, nine times out of ten subscribers are transferred to the personal newsletter section.The column is a hodgepodge of articles about everything from sellers to buyers to helpers urgently needed, as well as countless dog inserts, poultry and garden equipment notices; Tidbits, of interest to those who live in the small place of Chipping Crighorn.

This Friday, October 29, was no different than any other. 2 Mrs Swettenham brushed back a small lock of pretty gray locks from her forehead and opened The Times. Her dull eyes flicked to the left-centre page, as usual, to see if there was any exciting news, for such news the Times had a tendency to give an unassailable veneer.Next comes the Births, Marriages, and Obituaries columns, especially the latter; after this column, the task is accomplished.Putting down the Times, she hastily grabbed the Chipping Crighorn News. After a while, her son Edmund walked in, and she was already reading the newsletter with great interest.

"Good morning, dear," said Mrs. Swettenham. "The Smedleys are selling their Daimler, built in 1935. 1935 was a long time ago. Right?" With a muttering in his mouth, her son poured himself a cup of coffee, took two pieces of kipper, sat down at the table, and opened the Daily Worker, leaning it against the toaster. "Bull-sized juveniles," read Mrs. Swettenham, "I can't figure out how people feed big dogs these days--I can't figure out . . . oh, Selina Lawrence is advertising for a cook again. I'm going to tell her that advertising is a waste of time these days. She didn't put up an address, only a P.O. box number—that's a big mistake—I should have reminded her, servant Be sure to know where to work. They all like houses in good locations... Dentures - I don't understand why dentures are so popular.

Beautiful bulb...best price, special selection.Sounds like a bargain... Here's a girl looking for an 'interesting job, willing to travel,'.Good guy! Who wouldn't? ... German Spaniels... I've never really liked German Spaniels myself - I don't mean because they're German, not because we suffer so much from Germans - just don't, that's all That's all.What's the matter, Mrs. Finch? " The upper body of a woman is exposed through the door, wearing a velvet beret like that of an old woman. "Good morning, ma'am," said Mrs. Finch, "may I take it?"

"Not yet. We haven't finished," said Mrs. Swettenham, "not quite," she added, flatteringly. Mrs. Finch glanced at Edmund and the newspaper he was reading, snorted before exiting the restaurant. "I'm just getting started," Edmund said.Then his mother said, "I hope you don't read that dreadful paper, Edmund, which Mrs. Finch doesn't like at all." "I don't see how my politics have anything to do with Mrs. Finch." "Nothing really," Mrs. Swettenham held on, "because you're not a workman. You don't do any work."

"That's not true at all," said Edmund, indignantly. "I'm writing a book." "I mean real work," said Mrs. Swettenham. "Mrs. Finch is important. If she hates us and doesn't come to work, who do we go to?" "Advertise in the Izvestia," said Edmund, with a small grin. "I told you it wouldn't work. Oh, for God's sake, these days unless there's an old nanny in the house who cooks and does the housework, you're screwed." "By the way, why doesn't our family have an old nanny? You never got me a nanny when I was a kid. How irresponsible you were. What did you think then?"

"You have an aunt, dear." "Lack of foresight," murmured Edmund. Mrs. Swettenham was buried deep in the personal newsletter again. "For sale of used electric weed machines. I want to know... oh my god, what!... German terrier again... 'Vogels who can write and talk, and the dollar is unmatched.' People pay for dogs these days As stupid as the name says it is... the long-haired lop dog who does not make mistakes... Do you remember our dog dear Su Yin, Edmund? He is really human. You It understands every word... Sheraton style sideboard for sale. Authentic family heirloom antique. Contact: Mrs. Lucas of Dayas House... that woman is a big liar! Her Sheraton It’s very polite…”

Swettenham snorted loudly, and read on. "It's all a misunderstanding, dear. Endless love. Friday as usual." F...probably a lover's quarrel—or a burglar's code, don't you think? ...More German Spaniels!Seriously, I've seen people go nuts with German Spaniels.I mean there are other dogs.Your Uncle Simon used to have Manchester Terriers - what a beautiful little thing.I adore dogs with legs...the lady who is going abroad sells a two piece navy blue suit...no size or price listed...wedding notice "No! It's a murder notice.What?How strange, unheard of!Edmund, Edmund, listen to this...' Announcement: A murder will take place in the paddock on Friday, October 29, at six-thirty in the evening.

Friends, please accept this invitation without further notice. 'It's unusual!Edmund! " "What?" Edmund looked up. "Friday, October 29th...well, that's today." "Let me see." The son took the newspaper from her. "But what does that mean?" asked Mrs. Swettenham, curiously. Edmund rubbed his nose suspiciously. "I guess some kind of party. Murder game-one or something." "Oh," said Mrs. Swettenham dubiously, "it seems so queer in such a way. To post such an advertisement. This is not the style of Letitia Blacklock. I always thought she was a clever woman." "Perhaps the bright young men of her family made it."

"Late notice. Just today. Do you think we should go?" "The notice said 'Friends please accept this invitation without further notice,'" her son pointed out. "Come on, it's tedious to send out invitations in such a fancy way." Mrs. Swettenham said clearly. "Well, mother, you don't have to go" "Yes," Mrs. Swettenham agreed. The two sides were silent for a moment. "Do you really want this last piece of bread, Edmund?" "I think it's more important for me to be properly nourished than for that old hag to clear the table" "Shh, honey, she'll hear... Edmund, how about the murder game?" "I don't know the specifics... They put some papers on your body or something... No, I think it's from a hat, someone is a victim, someone is a detective"" and then They lose all the lights and then someone taps you on the shoulder and you scream and lie on the ground and play dead." "Sounds pretty exciting" "I'm afraid it's too much talking. I won't be going." "Nonsense, Edmund," said Mrs. Swettenham, determined, "I must go, and you must come with me. It is settled." "Archie," said Mrs. Easterbrook to her husband, "listen to this. . . . Colonel Easterbrook was deaf to it, for an article in The Times had driven him to the point of snorting. . "The trouble with these guys," he said, "is that they don't know anything about what's really going on in India! No first-hand information!" "Yes, dear, yes." "If they knew, they wouldn't be writing such nonsense." "Yes, that's right, Archie. Listen to this.' Announcement: A murder will take place in the paddock at 6.30pm on Friday, October 29th (today). Please accept this, friends. Invitation without further notice'" She stopped like a phoenix.Easterbrook looked at her complacently, but without much interest. "Murder game," he said. "Oh." "Please note, that's it," he said without easing up. "It's fun if it's well organized. But it needs to be carefully organized by experts. Everyone draws lots, one of them is the murderer, and the others don't know who it is. Deng Yi close, the murderer begins to choose whom to strike. The victim will count to twenty before screaming. Then the chosen detective takes over and starts questioning everyone. Where were they and what were they doing when the murder happened, in order to find out The real murderer. Yes, it's a fun game—if the detective—er—knows anything about what the police do." "Like you, Archie. You used to do a lot of cases in your district." Colonel Easterbrook smiled accommodatingly, and twisted his mustache smugly. "Yes, Laura," he said, "I dare say I could give them a hint or two." As he spoke, he straightened his shoulders. "Miss Blacklock should ask you to help her sort it out." The colonel snorted. "Oh, yes, she's got a baby living with her. Guess that's his idea. Her nephew or something. However, it is a wonderful trick to publish in the newspaper. " "Personal newsletter, we probably won't see it. I suppose it's an invitation, Archie?" "Ridiculous invitation. One thing I can tell you, they don't count me in." "Hey, Archie," Mrs Easterbrook raised her voice, and there was a hint of whining in her voice. "Too short notice. Besides they know I might be busy." "But you're not busy, are you, my dear?" said Mrs. Easterbrook, in a low voice, earnestly, "and I think, Archie, that you must go—just do Miss Blacklock a favor." Get busy. I'm sure she's counting on you to make things right. I mean you know police department work and procedures so well. If you don't help make it work, the whole thing goes to hell.Besides, one has to have a sense of neighborliness.” Mrs. Easterbrook had her fair head on one side, and her blue eyes were wide open. "Of course, if you say so, Laura..." Colonel Easterbrook twisted his gray moustache seriously again, and looked dotingly at the dainty and charming Mrs.Mrs. Easterbrook was at least thirty years younger than her husband. "Since you say so, Laura," he said. "I do think it is your duty, Archie," said Mrs Easterbrook solemnly. 4 The Chipping Crighorn News was also sent to Gravel Heights.It was a picturesque three-way cabin, now joined together, inhabited by Miss Hinchcliffe and Miss Murgatroyd. "Hinch?" "What's the matter, Murgatroyd?" "Where are you?" "In the (again bird) shed." "Oh." Miss Murgatroyd walked briskly across the long wet grass toward her friend. The latter, in corduroy trousers and a military tunic, was stirring earnestly in a steaming basin filled with boiled potato skins and cabbage heads, and in her other hand a handful of Ingredients, she added ingredients as she stirred them. She turned to her friend.Her hair was cut short, like a man's crew cut, and her face was weather-beaten. Miss Murgatroyd was plump and kindly, in a plaid skirt and a fine red and blue jumper, but of poor shape.Her gray mane was like a bird's nest—a mess.She was slightly out of breath. "It's in the Izvestia," she said out of breath, "listen to it—what on earth does it mean? ' Announcement: A Murder . . . will take place in the paddock at 6:30 p.m. on Friday, October 29th (which is today).Friends, please accept this invitation without further notice. '" After reading, she paused, out of breath, for authoritative advice. "Stupid," said Miss Hinchcliffe. "Yes, but what do you think it means?" "I mean a drink anyway," said Miss Hinchcliffe. "You see this as an invitation?" "You'll see what that means when you go," said Miss Hinchcliffe, "I reckon the sherry will be bad. You'd better get off the grass, Murgatroyd.You're still wearing bedroom slippers, they'll get soaked. " "Oh, my dear," Miss Murgatroyd looked ruefully at her feet, "how many eggs are there today?" "Seven. That damn hen (and bird) is still hatching. I've got to cage her" "It's hilarious to advertise like that, don't you think?" Amy Murgatroyd revisited "The News The notice in the newspaper, asked, her voice was a little bit of can't stop. But her friend has a heart of iron and has nothing else to do.She was determined to deal with the unruly poultry, and no newspaper announcement, however mysterious, could change her course. She stomped across the mud and slapped a mud-spattered hen (the bird) until the (bird) screamed loudly and angrily. "If it's feeding the ducks," said Miss Hinchcliffe, "it's much less trouble." Oh, great! said Mrs. Harmon to her husband, the Reverend Julian Harmon, who sat across the table. "There's going to be a murder at Miss Blacklock's." " "A murder?" asked her husband, slightly startled. "When?" "This afternoon...at least tonight at six-thirty, oh, what a blessing, my dear, it's a coincidence that you're going to be laying hands on tonight. But you're so fond of murders!" "I really don't understand what you're talking about, Yuanyuan." Mrs. Harmon has a round body and a round face, so the name Diana she took at her christening has long been "round". This random number replaces.She passed the Izvestia across the table. "There. Right there with the used pianos and the false teeth." "What an extraordinary announcement" "Isn't it?" Yuanyuan said cheerfully, "You don't think Miss Blacklock likes murder or murder games, do you? I guess it was the young Simmons brothers and sisters who encouraged her Yes, although you can imagine Julie Kie would find the murder pretty brutal. But it's written there anyway. I really think it's a pity you can't go, dear. Well I'm going, and I'll tell you the whole thing when I get back, though It's useless for me to go because I really don't like games played in the dark. They scare me. I really hope I'm not the one who got murdered. If someone suddenly put a hand on my shoulder and whispered to me 'You're dead. 'I knew my heart would pound and it would kill me!Do you think this is possible? " "No, Yuanyuan, I think you'll live long until you're a very old woman—and with me." "And they died on the same day and were buried in the same tomb. How beautiful it is!" Thinking of this pleasant future, Yuanyuan became radiant. "You seem very happy, Yuanyuan?" her husband smiled. "Who can be unhappy if it's us?" Yuanyuan felt very confused, so she asked, "There are you, Susan and Edward, and you all like me, and you don't think I'm stupid...and Mingmei Sunshine! And there is such a lovely big house to live in!" Pastor Julian Harmon looked around the large restaurant with few furniture, and agreed without hesitation. "One would think that living in such a big, messy place with drafty walls is a necessity." "But I like a spacious room. All the scents of the wild come in from the outside and stay here. Here, things can be piled up without seeming cluttered." "No labor-saving fixtures or central heating, either? That means a lot of work for you, Yuanyuan." "Hey, Julian, it's nothing. I get up at six-thirty, fire up the boiler, and go round and round like a steam engine, and by eight, it's all done. And I'm in good hands, aren't I?" I also use beeswax for the varnish and big pots of autumn leaves. It's not that much harder to run a big house than a small house. It's also a lot faster to mop the tables because there's nothing bumping behind you Yes, but in a small house it's always bumping and bumping, and besides, I like sleeping in a big cold room—how nice it is to lie down comfortably and have the tip of your nose tell you what the sky is like. Cozy. No matter the size of the house, there are as many potatoes to peel and dishes to wash. Then think how comfortable Edward and Susan are playing in the big room. "How nice is it for them to be able to put toy rails and tea party toys on the floor and never have to pick them up? Then it would be nice to have a few extra rooms for others to live in.Like Jimmy Semmes and Jonny Finch, they had to live in the home of their parents-in-law.And you know, Julian, it's not nice living with your father-in-law.You are very loyal to your mother, but you don't really want to live with your parents after you get married.I don't want to either.Then I would feel like a little girl. " Julian smiled at her. "You still look like a little girl, Yuanyuan." For a man of sixty, Julian Harmon himself was a model of nature's creation, for he looked twenty-five years younger than he was. "I know I'm stupid—" "You are not stupid, Yuanyuan, you are very smart." "No, I'm not clever. Although I try my best... I like to listen to you when you tell me about books, history and other things. I think you may not be a A very good idea, for there is something in Gibbon's book which makes one sleepy when it is cold and windy outside and it is warm and comfortable round the fire." Julian laughed. "But I do like to hear you read, Julian. Tell me the story of the old preacher preaching Ahsullus." "You can recite it, Yuanyuan." "Tell me more, please," her husband obeyed. "This is an old vicar named Scrimgul. One day someone came to his church and he was leaning on the pulpit and preaching to two old housewives. He shook them Pointing a finger, he said, 'Aha: I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that Ahasules the Great from the first lesson is Artaxerxes II. But he's not!' Quan Sheng said, "He is Horta Xerxes III." Julian himself never thought this was a particularly funny story, but it always made Yuanyuan laugh. Her clear laughter has floated out. "Poor old darling," she cried, "I think you'll be exactly like him one day, Julian." Julian looked rather uncomfortable. "I know," he humbly echoed, "I do feel strongly that I can never find the easy and proper way." "I'm not worried," Yuanyuan said, standing up and stacking the breakfast plates on a large tray, "Mrs. Bart told me yesterday that Bart, who never went to church in the past and always regarded himself as a local metatheist, Now I go to church every Sunday to listen to your sermon." She imitated Bart's overly affected tune perfectly, and went on: "'And one day, ma'am, my Bart said to Mr. Timkins from little Wasdale, we Chipping Crighorn There is real culture here. Unlike Mr. Gross of Little Wasdale, who spoke to his parishioners as if they were uneducated children.Real culture, says Bart, that's what makes us strong here.Our vicar is a very educated gentleman"' at Oxford, not Milchester, and he gave us all the benefits of his education. What did he know of the Romans, the Greeks Well, the Babylonians, the Assyrians, and even the holy cat, Bart said, was named after an Assyrian king!' So, this is your glory." Yuanyuan ended triumphantly Her words, "For God's sake, I've got to work, or I'll never get done. Here, Tigras Pierise, here's your herring bones." She pushed the door open, put her foot against it deftly to make it ajar, and then walked away with a tray full of cutlery, singing as she walked, a little out of tune, but she made up the song herself. A playful song: Today is a good time to murder, like a mild May day. The policeman in the village disappeared, and the clattering of china into the sink drowned out the next sentence, but as Julian Harmon left home, he heard the last libretto, full of triumph and boldness: Murder staged today.