Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 52, No. 7 & 8, July/August 2007

“I had no idea she was ordering things on the Internet, Inspector. And especially not things of this nature. She must have assembled it herself. She was a competent woman and in superb condition as you can see from the... the remains.”

“Calm yourself, sir. Come along now, come along, do. Take my kerchief, sir, and dry those tears. Youngster (to the apple-cheeked constable gazing at me with wondering eyes), run along and fetch a cup of tea for this bereaved gentleman.”

Leaving day came and went in a great flurry of giant girlfriends, suitcases, and taxis. I waved them off at the door and wished them well of Deauville, which is full of French people, French plumbing, and, no doubt, French germs. Good luck to them, and to the French.

The Appliance arrived the next day, as promised. I was doing the washing up and taking the opportunity to organize the kitchen drawers. No one can accuse me of being a fussy man, but Petunia’s habit of putting knives in the fork compartment of the cutlery drawer was something about which I had had occasion to speak to her more than once. I am surely not overstating the case when I say that that sort of thing, taken to its ultimate, can only end in chaos and anarchy and the breakdown of our social fabric. The same is true in our bedroom. A sock drawer, I have quietly and gently explained to Petunia several times, is by definition for socks, no? Otherwise it would be called something other than a Sock Drawer, no? But Petunia’s so-called sock drawer is a travesty, packed with brassieres, knickers, leg warmers, and things with straps and buckles into whose functions I am far too fastidious to inquire — in short, everything but socks.

I went to the door. There was a man there who wore a smart brown uniform, and behind him there was a matching truck.

This man looked at the flowered pinafore that I had donned to avoid splashing my trousers and had forgotten to take off. He said, in a very truculent manner, “Mrs. Melchett, is it?”

I bit back the sharp retort that came to me. “What is it?” I said shortly.

“Packages for Mrs. Melchett.”

“Oh, great heavens,” I said with impatience, “what has she been and gawn and ordered now?” I was quite proud of this, establishing as it would at the inquest, my complete ignorance of Petunia’s activities. The characterization was drawn from my role of Cruet the butler in a production of The Spouse Trap, that celebrated mystery play by Tabitha Crustie, which we had performed with some success at the Church Hall the winter before. My portrayal of Cruet had been singled out for special praise in the local press.

The delivery man handed me a clipboard. I looked at the delivery note clipped to it. There were ten packages noted there. “All this?” I said, not having to feign surprise. The Appliance must be more sturdy than I thought.

“I hope you’re feeling strong, Mrs. Melchett,” said the delivery man, making far too much of what had been a feeble joke to begin with, “cos I can tell you that this lot weighs a mucking ton.” As he spoke, one package hurtled out of the back of the van and crashed to the ground. There seemed to be some large animal in there. So much for employing a courier service whose name is clearly pronounced “Oops!”

It took me half an hour and cost me ten pounds to persuade the man and his assistant, or “mate,” as they apparently call them, who was a large, dim-witted youth and not a trained orangutan as I had feared, to transport the packages the paltry few yards into the hall. So much for the free market. But farther than that they would not go. Even the offer of a further five pounds would not incite them to descend into the basement. That, it seemed, was against all custom and practice. The fellow even invoked the Workman’s Compensation Regulations, with which dread authority there was, it appeared, no arguing. So the packages remained in the hall.

It took me the rest of the day to haul them down to the basement. They weighed, as the man had said and if I might stray briefly into the vernacular, which normally I abhor, a mucking ton.

But at length, I had them all arrayed in size order. The heaviest, a wooden packing case, which had given me much grief and a nasty graze on my shin, contained, when I managed to pry it open with a hammer and chisel, the large electric motor, complete with cabling. After this, I went upstairs to have a cup of tea and a nice sit down. My head was throbbing, and I had a nasty little wavy pattern dancing in my left eye, usually the sign of an oncoming migraine, something that often afflicted me when Petunia had insisted on a particularly large helping of greens. I decided to prepare something to eat and have an early night. The morrow, I would begin.

The following morning, my tea and toast, without Petunia there to immolate it, was perfect. There were no dabs of butter or smears of marmalade on the tablecloth as is normal when Petunia breaks her fast. And my tea was perfection. I am not in the least obsessive, my worst enemy could not say that, but when I take my tea in the morning the single lump of sugar that I allow myself must be upright in the very center of the cup as I pour on the tea. If not, the day is ruined.