Tied Up in Tinsel

Four — The Tree and the Druid

Bells everywhere. The house sang with their arbitrary clamour: it might have been the interior of some preposterous belfry. Nigel was giving zealous attention to his employer’s desire for volume.

“Whang-whang-whang-whang,” yelled an overstimulated little boy making extravagant gestures and grimaces. Sycophantic little girls screamed their admiration in his face. All the children leapt to their feet and were pounced upon by their parents, assisted by Hilary and Troy. Three of the parents who were also warders at the Vale began to walk purposefully about the room, and with slightly menacing authority soon reformed the childish rabble into a mercurial crocodile.

“Bells, bells, bells, bells!” shouted the children, like infant prodigies at grips with Edgar Allan Poe.

Blore entered, contemplated his audience, fetched a deep breath, and bellowed: “The Tree, Sir.”

An instant quiet was secured. The bells having given a definitive concerted crash hummed into silence. All the clocks in the house and the clock in the stable tower struck eight and then, after a second or two, the bells began again, very sweetly, with the tune of St. Clement Dane.

“Come along,” said Hilary.

With the chanciness of their species the children suddenly became angelic. Their eyes grew as round as saucers, their lips parted like rosebuds, they held hands and looked enchanting. Even the overstimulated little boy calmed down.

Hilary, astonishingly, began to sing. He had a vibrant alto voice and everybody listened to him.

Two and two they walked, out of the library, into the passage, through the great hall now illuminated only by firelight, and since the double doors of the drawing-room stood wide open, into the enchantment that Hilary had prepared for them.

And really, Troy thought, it was an enchantment. It was breathtaking. At the far end of this long room, suspended in darkness, blazed the golden Christmas tree alive with flames, stars and a company of angels. It quivered with its own brilliance and was the most beautiful tree in all the world.

The children sat on the floor in the light of the tree. Their elders — guests and the household staff — moved to the far end of the room and were lost in shadow.

Troy thought, “This is Uncle Flea’s big thing and here, in a moment, will come Uncle Flea.”

Hilary, standing before the children, raised his hands for quiet and got it. From outside in the night came sounds that might have been made by insubstantial flutes piping in the north wind. Electronic music, Troy thought, and really almost too effective: it raised goose-pimples, it turned one a little cold. But through this music came the jingle of approaching sleigh bells. Closer and closer to an insistent rhythm until they were outside the french windows. Nothing could be seen beyond the tree, but Hilary in his cunning had created an arrival. Now came the stamp of hooves, the snorts, the splendid cries of “Whoa.” Troy didn’t so much as think of Blore.

The windows were opened.

The tree danced in the cold air, everything stirred and glittered: the candle flames wavered, the baubles tinkled.

The windows were shut.

And round the tree, tugging his golden car on its runners, came the Druid.

Well, Troy thought, it may be a shameless concoction of anachronisms and Hilary’s cockeyed sense of fantasy, but it works.

The Druid’s robe, stiff, wide-sleeved and enveloping, was of gold lamé. His golden hair hung about his face in formal strands and his golden beard spread like a fan across his chest. A great crown of mistletoe shaded his eyes, which were spangled and glinted in the dark. He was not a comic figure. He was strange. It was as if King Lear had been turned into Ole-Luk-Oie the Dream God. He circled the tree three times to the sound of trumpets and pipes.

Then he dropped the golden cords of his car. He raised his arms, made beckoning gestures, and bowed with extended hands.

Unfortunately he had forgotten to remove his gloves, which were of the sensible knitted kind.

“Fred. Your gloves, I said —”

But he was gone. He had returned from whence he came. A further incursion of cold air, the windows were shut, the bells receded.

He was gone.

The joyful pandemonium that now broke out among the children was kept within reasonable bounds by Hilary and Troy, who had become a sort of A.D.C. to the action. The names of the families were emblazoned in glitter on the boxes and the children broke into groups, found, delved, and exclaimed. Mervyn stood by the tree with an extinguisher, watching the candles. Hilary signalled to Nigel, who switched on the lights by a wall table where the grown-up presents were assembled. Troy found herself alongside Mrs. Forrester.

“He was splendid,” Troy cried. “He was really splendid.”

“Forgot his gloves. I knew he would.”

“It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter in the least.”

“It will to Fred,” said Mrs. Forrester. And after a moment: “I’m going to see him.” Or Troy thought that was what she said. The din was such that even Mrs. Forrester’s well-projected observations were hard to hear. Hilary’s adult visitors and the household staff were now opening their presents. Nigel had begun to circulate with champagne cocktails. To Troy they seemed to be unusually potent.

Cressida was edging her way towards them. At Hilary’s request she wore her dress of the previous night, the glittering trouser suit that went so admirably with his colour scheme. She raised her arm and signalled to Mrs. Forrester over the heads of the intervening guests. Something slightly less lackadaisical than usual in her manner held Troy’s attention. She watched the two women meet in the crowd. Cressida stooped her head. The heavy swag of her pale hair swung across her face and hid it but Mrs. Forrester was caught by the wall light. Troy saw her frown and set her mouth. She hurried to the door, unceremoniously shoving herself through groups of visitors.

Cressida made for Troy.

“I say,” she said, “was he all right? I tried to see but I couldn’t get a good look.”

“He was splendid.”

“Good. You spotted him, of course?”

“What?”

“Spotted him, I said — Great Grief!” Cressida ejaculated, “I’m beginning to talk like Aunt Bed. You saw, didn’t you?”

“Saw? What?”

“Him.”

“Who?”

“Moult.”

“Moult?”

“You don’t tell me,” Cressida bawled, “that you didn’t realize? Sharp as you are and all.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“It wasn’t—” An upsurge of laughter among the guests drowned Cressida’s next phrase but she advanced her lovely face towards Troy’s and screamed, “It was Moult. The Druid was Moult.”

“Moult!”

“Uncle Flea’s had a turn. Moult went on for the part.”

“Good Lord! Is he all right?”

“Who?”

“Uncle — Colonel Forrester?”

“I haven’t seen him. Aunt B’s gone up. I expect so. It seems he got overexcited again.”

“Oh!” Troy cried out. “I am so sorry.”

“I know. Still,” Cressida shouted, “just one of those things. You know.”

Nigel appeared before them with his champagne cocktails.

“Drink up,” Cressida said, “and have another with me. I need it. Do.”

“All right. But I think there’s rather a lot of brandy in them, don’t you?”

“There’d better be.”

Hilary broke through the crowd to thank Troy for her present, a wash drawing she had made of the scarecrow field from her bedroom window. He was, she could see, as pleased as Punch: indistinguishable thanks poured out of him. Troy watched his odd hitched-up mouth (like a camel’s, she thought) gabbling away ecstatically.

At last he said, “It all went off nicely, don’t you think, except for Uncle Flea’s gloves? How he could!”

Troy and Cressida, one on each side of him, screamed their intelligence. Hilary seemed greatly put out and bewildered. “Oh no!” he said. “You don’t tell me! Moult!” And then after further ejaculations, “I must say he managed very creditably. Dear me, I must thank him. Where is he?”

The overstimulated little boy appeared before them. He struck an attitude and blew a self-elongating paper squeaker into Hilary’s face. Toy trumpets, drums and whistles were now extremely prevalent.

“Come here,” Hilary said. He took Cressida and Troy by their arms and piloted them into the hall, shutting the doors behind them. The children’s supper was laid out in great splendour on a long trestle table. Kittiwee, the Boy and some extra female helps were putting final touches.

“That’s better,” Hilary said. “I must go and see Uncle Flea. He’ll be cut to the quick over this. But first tell me, Cressida darling, what exactly happened?”

“Well, I went to the cloakroom as arranged, to do his makeup. Moult was there already, all dressed up for the part. It seems he went to their rooms to help Uncle Fred and found him having a turn. Moult gave him whatever he has, but it was as clear as clear he couldn’t go on for the show. He was in a great taking on. You know? So they cooked it up that Moult would do it. He’d heard all about it over and over again, of course, he’d seen the rehearsals and knew the business. So when Uncle Fred had simmered down and had put his boots up and all that (he wouldn’t let Moult get Aunt B), Moult put on the robe and wig and came down. And I slapped on his whiskers and crown and out he went into the courtyard to liaise with Vincent.”

“Splendid fellow.”

“He really did manage all right, didn’t he? I came in for his entrance. I couldn’t see him awfully well because of being at the back but he seemed to do all the things. And then when he eggzitted I returned to the cloakroom and helped him clean up. He was in a fuss to get back to Uncle Fred and I said I’d tell Aunt B. Which I did.”

“Darling, too wonderful of you. Everybody has clearly behaved with the greatest expedition and aplomb. Now, I must fly to poorest Flea and comfort him.”

He turned to Troy. “What a thing!” he exclaimed. “Look! Both you darlings, continue in your angelic ways like loves and herd the children in here to their supper. Get Blore to bellow at them. As soon as they’re settled under the eyes of these splendid ladies, Blore and the staff will be ready for us in the dining-room. He’ll sound the gong. If I’m late don’t wait for me. Get the grown-ups into the dining-room. There are place cards but it’s all very informal, really. And ask Blore to start the champagne at once. Au revoir, au ’voir, ’voir,” cried Hilary, running upstairs and wagging his hand above his head as he went.

“All jolly fine,” Cressida grumbled. “I’m worn to a frazzle. But still. Come on.”

She and Troy carried out Hilary’s instructions and presently the adult party was seated round the dinner table. Troy found herself next to her acquaintance of the moors, Major Marchbanks, who said politely that this was a piece of luck for him.

“I was too shy to say so when we met the other afternoon,” he said, “but I’m a great admirer of your work. I’ve actually got one of your pictures, and who do you suppose gave it to me?”

“I can’t imagine.”

“Can’t you? Your husband.”

“Rory!”

“We are old friends. And associates. He gave it to me on the occasion of my marriage. And long before yours, I expect. He may not have even met you then.”

“I don’t paint in the same way now.”

“But it’s been a development, I venture? Not an abandonment?”

“Well,” said Troy, liking him, “I choose to think so.”

Mr. Smith was on her other side. He had heard about Moult’s gallant effort and was greatly intrigued. Troy could feel him there at her left elbow, waiting to pounce. Several times he made a rather sly ejaculation of “Oi,” but as Major Marchbanks was talking she disregarded it. When she was free she turned and found Mr. Smith with his thumbs in his armholes and his head on one side, contemplating her. He gave her a sideways chuck of his head and a click of his tongue. “Oi,” he repeated. Troy had taken a certain amount of champagne. “Oi, yourself,” she replied.

“Turn up for the books, Alf Moult making like he was Nebuchadnezzar in a bathrobe.”

Troy stared at him. “You know, you’re right,” she said. “There was something distinctly Blakean. Disallowing the bathrobe.”

“Where’s he got to?”

“He’s up with the Colonel, I think.”

“ ’E’s meant to be doling out mince pies to the little angels.”

“That’s as it may be,” Troy said darkly and drank some more champagne.

Hilary had arrived and had sat down beside a lady on Major Marchbanks’ left. He looked slightly put out. Mr. Smith called up the table to him. “ ’Ow’s the Colonel?” and he said, “Better, thank you,” rather shortly.

“The old lady’s keeping him company, then?”

“Yes.” Hilary added some appropriate general remarks about his uncle’s disappointment and signalled to Blore, who bent over him with a majordomo’s air. None of the servants, Troy thought, seemed to be at all put out by the presence of so many of Her Majesty’s penal servants. Perhaps they enjoyed displaying for them in their new roles.

Hilary spoke quietly to Blore but Blore, who seemed incapable of quiet utterance, boomingly replied, “He’s not there, sir,” and after a further question: “I couldn’t say, sir. Shall I enquire?”

“Do,” said Hilary.

Blore made a slight, majestic signal to Mervyn, who left the room.

“That’s peculiar,” said Mr. Smith. “Where’s Alf gone to hide ’is blushes?”

“How do you know it’s Moult they’re talking about?”

“They said so, di’n they?”

“I didn’t hear them.”

“It’s peculiar,” Mr. Smith repeated. He leant back in his chair and fixed his beady regard upon Hilary. He did not pick his teeth. Troy felt that this was due to some accidental neglect in his interpretation of the role for which he so inscrutably cast himself.

She drank some more champagne. “Tell me,” she began recklessly, “Mr. Smith. Why do you — or do you —”

But Mr. Smith was paying no attention to Troy. His attention was fixed upon Mervyn, who had returned and was speaking to Blore. Blore again bent over his employer.

“Moult, sir,” he intoned, “is not on duty in the hall.”

“Why the devil not!” Hilary snapped quite loudly.

“I’m sure I can’t say, sir. He received instructions, sir. Very clear.”

“All right, well find him, Blore. He’s wanted with the Colonel. Mrs. Forrester won’t leave the Colonel by himself. Go on, Blore. Find him. Go yourself.”

Blore’s eyebrows mounted his forehead. He inclined, returned to Mervyn, and raised a finger at Nigel, with whom he finally left the dining-room. Mervyn remained in sole command.

Hilary looked round his table and said, laughingly, and in French, something about the tyranny of one’s dependents which, Troy imagined, was incomprehensible to all but a fraction of his guests.

She turned to Major Marchbanks. She was now fairly certain within herself that she would be showing great strength of character if she were to refuse any more champagne. She looked severely at her glass and found it was full. This struck her as being exquisitely funny but she decided not to interfere with it.

“Who,” asked Major Marchbanks, “is Moult?”

Troy was glad to find that she was able to give him a coherent answer. “Do you,” she asked, “find this party very extraordinary?”

“Oh, but completely fantastic,” he said, “when one looks at it objectively. I mean four hours ago I was doing the honours at the Vale Christmas feast and here I am with three of my warders, drinking Bill-Tasman’s champagne and waited upon by a company of you know what.”

“One of them — Blore, I think — was actually at the Vale, wasn’t he?”

“Oh yes. He’s an Old Boy. I recommended him. With appropriate warnings, you know. I really think he rather likes displaying his waiter’s expertise for us Vale persons. He was at the top of his profession, was Blore.”

“He’s given me a morsel too much to drink,” Troy said carefully.

Major Marchbanks looked at her and burst out laughing. “You don’t tell me you’re tiddly?”

“That would be going too far, which is what I hope I haven’t. Gone,” Troy added with dignity.

“You seem all right to me.”

“Good.”

“I say,” Hilary said, leaning towards Troy and speaking across the intervening guests, “isn’t it too boring about Moult? Aunt Bed won’t budge until he relieves her.”

“What can he be doing?”

“Flown with success, I daresay, and celebrating it. Here’s to your bright eyes,” Hilary added and raised his glass to her.

Troy said. “Look. I’ll nip up and relieve Mrs. Forrester. Do let me.”

“I can’t possibly —”

“Yes, you can. I’ve finished my lovely dinner. Don’t stir, please, anybody,” said Troy and was up and away with a celerity that greatly pleased her. “At least,” she thought, “I’m all right on my pins.”

In the hall the children’s supper party was breaking up and they were being drafted back into the drawing-room. Here they would collect their presents, move to the library, and gradually be put in order for departure. On their account the party would be an early one.

At the foot of the stairs Troy encountered Blore.

“Have you found Moult?” she asked.

“No, madam,” Blore said, making a sour face. “I don’t understand it at all, madam. It’s very peculiar behaviour.”

(“So,” Troy irrelevantly thought, “is killing a busboy while you’re carving a wing-rib.”)

She said, “I’m going up to relieve Mrs. Forrester.”

“Very kind, I’m sure, madam. And too bad, if I may say so, that you should be put upon.”

“Not a bit of it,” said Troy lightly.

“Moult!” Blore said. He actually spoke softly but with such a wealth of venom that Troy was quite taken aback. She continued upstairs and finding herself a bit swimmy in the head, went first to her own room. There she took two aspirins, put a cold sponge on the back of her neck, opened her window, stuck her head out, and gasped.

Two snowflakes touched her face: like the Ice Maiden’s fingers in Hans Andersen. The moon was up. She paused for one moment to look at the deadened landscape it offered, and then shut her window, drew her curtains, and went to call on the Forresters.

Colonel Forrester was in bed and awake. He was propped up by pillows and had the look of a well-washed patient in a children’s ward. Mrs. Forrester sat before the fire, knitting ferociously.

“Thought you might be Moult,” she said.

Troy explained her errand. At first it looked as if Mrs. Forrester was going to turn her down flat. She didn’t want any dinner, she announced, and in the same breath said they could send up a tray.

“Do go, B,” her husband said. “I’m perfectly well. You only fuss me, my dear. Sitting angrily about.”

“I don’t believe for a moment they’ve really looked for him, I said —”

“All right, then. You look. Go and stir everybody up. I bet if you go, they’ll find him.”

If this was cunning on the part of the Colonel, it was effective. Mrs. Forrester rammed her knitting into a magenta bag and rose.

“It’s very kind of you,” she snarled at Troy. “More than that yellow doll of Hilary’s thought of offering. Thank you. I shall not be long.”

When she had gone the Colonel bit his underlip, hunched his shoulders, and made big eyes at Troy. She made the same sort of face back at him and he gave a little giggle.

“I do so hate fusses,” he said, “don’t you?”

“Yes, I do rather. Are you really feeling better?”

“Truly. And I’m beginning to get over my disappointment though you must admit it was provoking for me, wasn’t it?”

“Absolutely maddening.”

“I hoped you’d understand. But I’m glad Moult did it nicely.”

“When did you decide to let him?”

“Oh — at the last moment. I was actually in the dressing-room, putting on my robe. I got a bit stuck inside it as one can, you know, with one’s arms above one’s head and one’s mouth full of material, and I rather panicked and had a Turn. Bad show. It was a crisis. There had to be a quick decision. So I told him to carry on,” said the Colonel as if he described a tight corner in a military engagement, “and he did. He put me in here and made me lie down and then he went back to the dressing-room to put on the robe. And carried on. Efficiently, you thought?”

“Very. But it’s odd of him not to come back, isn’t it?”

“Of course it is. He should have reported at once. Very poor show indeed,” said the Colonel, drawing himself up in bed and frowning.

“You don’t think he could have gone straight to your dressing-room to take off the robe? There’s a door from the passage into the dressing-room, isn’t there?”

“Yes. But he should have made his report. There’s no excuse.”

“Would you mind if I just looked in the dressing-room? To see if the robe is there?”

“Do, do, do, do,” said the Colonel.

But there was no golden robe in the dressing-room which, as far as Troy could judge, was in perfect order. A little crimson room, it was, with a flock wallpaper and early Victorian furniture. Heavy red curtains on brass rings were drawn across the windows. It might have been a room in Bleak House, and no doubt that was exactly the impression Hilary had intended it to make. She looked in the cupboards and drawers and even under the bed, where she found a rather battered tin box with “Col. F. F. Forrester” painted in white letters on it. Remembering Hilary’s remarks upon their normal luggage she supposed this must contain the Forresters’ valuables.

Somewhere, a long way off, a car door slammed. She thought she could hear voices.

She half opened the curtains and heard more doors slam and engines start up. The guests were leaving. Rays from invisible headlamps played across the snowy prospect, horns sounded, voices called.

Troy rattled the curtains shut and returned to the Colonel.

“Not there,” she said. “I suppose he left it in the cloakroom downstairs. I must ask Cressida — she’ll know. She took his whiskers off.”

“Well, I’m jolly furious with Moult,” said the Colonel, rather drowsily. “I shall have to discipline him, I can see that.”

“Did he show himself to you? In the robe? Before he went downstairs?”

“Eh? Did he, now? Well, yes, but — Well, in point of fact I dozed off after my Turn. I do that, you know,” said the Colonel, his voice trailing away into a drone. “After my Turns. I do doze off.”

He did so now, gently puffing his cheeks in and out and making little noises that reminded Troy of a baby.

It was very quiet in the bedroom. The last car had left and Troy imagined the houseparty standing round the drawing-room fire talking over the evening. Or perhaps, she thought, they are having a sort of hunt-for-Moult game. Or perhaps he’s been found sleeping it off in some forgotten corner.

The Colonel himself now slept very soundly and peacefully and Troy thought there was really no need for her to stay any longer. She turned off all the lights except the bedside lamp and went downstairs.

She found a sort of public meeting going on in the hall. The entire staff was assembled in a tight, apprehensive group being addressed by Hilary. Mrs. Forrester balefully sat beside him as if she was in the chair. Mr. Smith, smoking a cigar, stood on the outskirts like a heckler. Cressida, looking exhausted, was stretched in a porter’s chair with her arms dangling and her feet half out of her golden sandals.

“— and all I have to tell you,” Hilary was saying, “is that he must be found. He must be somewhere and he must be found. I know you’ve got a lot to do and I’m sorry and really it’s too ridiculous but there it is. I don’t know if any of you have suggestions to make. If you have I’d be glad to hear them.”

From her place on the stairs Troy looked at Hilary’s audience. Blore. Mervyn. Nigel. Vincent. Kittiwee. The Boy. Standing further back, a clutch of extra helpers, male and female, brought in for the occasion. Of these last, one could only say that they looked tired and puzzled.

But the impression was very different when she considered the regular staff. Troy was sure she hadn’t concocted this impression and she didn’t think it stemmed from preknowledge. If she hadn’t known anything about their past, she believed, she would still have thought that in some indefinable way the staff had closed their ranks and that fear had inspired them to do so. If they had picked up death masks of their faces and clapped them over their own, they could scarcely have been less communicative. This extravagant notion was given a kind of validity by the fact that — surely — they were all most uncommonly pale? They stared straight in front of themselves as if they were on parade.

“Well,” Hilary said, “Blore? You’re the chief of staff. Any ideas?”

“I’m afraid not, sir. We have made, I think I may say, sir, a thorough search of the premises. Very thorough, sir.”

“Who,” Mrs. Forrester snapped out, “saw him last?”

“Yes. All right. Certainly, Aunt Bed. Good question,” said Hilary, who was clearly flustered.

There was a considerable pause before Cressida said: “Well, I’ve said, sweeties, haven’t I? When he eggzitted after his thing I went back as arranged to the cloakroom and he came in from the outside porch and I took off his robe, wig and makeup and he said he’d go and report to Uncle Fred and I went back to the party.”

“Leaving him there?” Hilary and Mrs. Forrester asked in unison.

“Like I said, for Heaven’s sake. Leaving him there.”

Nobody had paid any attention to Troy. She sat down on the stairs and wondered what her husband would make of the proceedings.

“All right. Yes. Good. All right,” said poor Hilary. “So far so good. Now then. Darling, you therefore came into the hall, here, didn’t you, on your way to the drawing-room?”

“I didn’t do an Uncle Tom’s Cabin, darling, and take to the snow.”

“Of course not. Ha-ha. And — let me see — the people in charge of the children’s supper were here, weren’t they?” Hilary looked appealingly in their direction. “Kitti — Cooke — and all his helpers?“ he wheedled.

“That’s right,” said Cressida. “Busy as bees.” She closed her eyes.

“And I expect,” Hilary said, “some of you remember Miss Tottenham coming into the hall, don’t you?”

Kittiwee said huffily, “Well, sir, I’m sure we were very busy round the supper table at the far end of the hall and, personally speaking, I didn’t take notice to anythink but my work. However, sir, I do call the incident to mind because of a remark that was passed.”

“Oh?” Hilary glanced at Cressida who didn’t open her eyes.

“I asked him,” she said, “if his bloody cats were shut up.”

“Yes, I see.”

Mrs. Forrester adjusted her thick-lensed spectacles to look at Cressida.

“The thing is,” Hilary hurried on, “did any of you happen to notice Moult when he came out of the cloakroom there? After Miss Tottenham? Because he must have come out and he ought to have gone up the right-hand flight of the stairs to the Colonel’s room and then returned to help with the children.”

Hilary’s reference to the stairs caused his audience to shift their attention to them and discover Troy. Mrs. Forrester ejaculated: “Has he—?” and Troy said quickly, “No. Not a sign. The Colonel’s quite all right and fast asleep.”

Nobody, it transpired, had seen Moult come out of the cloakroom or go anywhere. Kittiwee again pointed out that the hall was large and dark and they were all very busy. When asked if they hadn’t wondered why Moult didn’t turn up to do his job, Blore replied with unmistakable spitefulness that this didn’t surprise them in the least.

“Why?” Mrs. Forrester barked.

Kittiwee simpered and Blore was silent. One of the women tittered.

Mr. Smith removed his cigar from his mouth. “Was ’e sozzled?” he asked of nobody in particular, and as there was no response added, “What I mean, did ’e take a couple to celebrate ’is triumph?”

“That’s a point,” Cressida conceded. She opened her eyes. “He was in a tizzy about going on for the part. It was pretty silly, really, because after all — no dialogue. Round the tree, business with arms, and off. Still, he was nervous. And when I fixed his whiskers I must say it was through a pretty thick Scotch mist.”

“There y’are,” said Mr. Smith.

“Aunt Bed — does Moult sometimes —?”

“Occasionally,” said Mrs. Forrester.

“I think he had it on him,” Cressida said. “That’s only my idea, mind. But he sort of patted himself — you know?”

Hilary said, “He was already wearing the robe when you went in to make him up, wasn’t he?”

“That’s right. He put it on upstairs, he said, for Uncle Fred to see.”

“Which he didn’t,” Troy said. “He’d gone to sleep.”

“Moult didn’t say anything about that. Though, mind you,” Cressida added, “I was only with him for a matter of a minute. There was nothing to fixing his beard: a couple of spots of spirit gum and Bob was your uncle. But I did notice he was all uptight. He was in no end of a taking-on. Shaking like a leaf, he was.”

“Vincent!” Hilary suddenly exclaimed, and Vincent gave a perceptible start. “Why didn’t I think of you! You saw Moult, outside, when he left the drawing-room, didn’t you? After his performance?”

Vincent, almost indistinguishably, acknowledged that he did.

“Well — what about it? Did he say anything or — or — look anything — or do anything? Come on, Vincent?”

But no. It appeared that Vincent had not even noticed it was Moult. His manner suggested that he and Moult were not on such terms that the latter would have divulged his secret. He had emerged from his triumph into the icy cold, hunched his shoulders against the wind, and bolted from the courtyard into the porch. Vincent saw him enter the little cloakroom.

“Which gets us nowhere,” Mrs. Forrester said with a kind of stony triumph.

“I don’t know why there’s all the carry-on, ’Illy,” said Mr. Smith. “Alf Moult’s sleeping it orf.”

“Where?” Mrs. Forrester demanded.

“Where, where, where! Anywhere. You don’t tell me there’s not plenty of lay-bys for a spot of kip where nobody’s thought of looking! ’Ow about the chapel?”

“My dear Uncle Bert — surely —”

“Or all them old stables and what-’ave-you at the back. Come orf it!”

“Have you —?” Hilary asked his staff.

“I looked in the chapel,” Mrs. Forrester announced.

“Has anybody looked — well — outside. The laundries and so on?”

It appeared not. Vincent was dispatched to do this. “If ’e’s there,” Troy heard him mutter “ ’e’ll ’ave froze.”

“What about the top story? The attics?” Mr. Smith asked.

“No, sir. We’ve looked,” said Blore, addressing himself exclusively to Hilary. It struck Troy that the staff despised Mr. Smith for the same reason that they detested Moult.

A silence followed: mulish on the part of the staff, baffled on the part of the houseparty, exhausted on all counts. Hilary finally dismissed the staff. He kept up his grand seignorial role by thanking his five murderers, congratulating them upon their management of the party and hoping, he said, that their association would continue as happily throughout the coming year. Those of the temporary helpers who live in the district he excused from further duties.

The houseparty then retired to the boudoir, it being, Hilary said, the only habitable room in the house.

Here, after a considerable amount of desultory speculation and argument, everybody but Troy, who found she detested the very sight of alcohol, had a nightcap. Hilary mixed two rum toddies and Mrs. Forrester said she would take them up to her room. “If your uncle’s awake,” she said. “He’ll want one. II he isn’t—”

“You’ll polish them both off yourself, Auntie?”

“And why not?” she said. “Good-night, Mrs. Alleyn. I am very much obliged to you. Good-night, Hilary. Good-night, Smith.” She looked fixedly at Cressida. “Good-night,” she said.

“What have I done?” Cressida demanded when Mrs. Forrester had gone. “Honestly, darling, your relations!”

“Darling, you know Auntie Bed, none better. One can only laugh.”

“Heh, heh, heh. Anyone’d think I’d made Moult tight and then hidden him in the boot cupboard.” Cressida stopped short and raised a finger. “A propos,” she said. “Has anybody looked in the cupboards?”

“Now, my darling child, why on earth should he be in a cupboard? You talk,” said Hilary, “as if he were a Body,” and then looked extremely perturbed.

“If you ask my opinion which you haven’t,” said Mr. Smith, “I think you’re all getting yourselves in a muck sweat about nothing. Don’t you lose any sleep over Alf Moult. He knows how to look after ’imself, none better. And since it’s my practice to act as I speak I’ll wish you good-night. Very nice show, ’Illy, and none the worse for being a bit of a mock-up. Wouldn’t of done for the pipe-and-tabor lot, would it? Bells, Druids, Holy Families and angels! What a combination! Oh dear! Still, the kids appreciated it so we don’t care, do we? Well. Bye, bye, all.”

When he had gone Hilary said to Troy, “You see what I mean about Uncle Bert? In his way he’s a purist.”

“Yes, I do see.”

“I think he’s fantastic,” said Cressida. “You know? There’s something basic. The grass-roots thing. You believe in him. Like he might be out of Genêt.”

“My darling girl, what dreadful nonsense you do talk! Have you so much as read Genêt?”

“Hilly! For Heaven’s sake — he’s where O-E begins.”

Hilary said with unusual acerbity, “And I’m afraid he’s where I leave off.”

“Of course I’ve known all along you’ll never get the message.”

Troy thought, “This is uncomfortable. They’re going to have a row,” and was about to leave them to it when Cressida suddenly laughed and wound her arms round Hilary’s neck. He became very still. She drew his head down and whispered. They both laughed. Their embrace became so explicit that Troy thought on the whole she had better evaporate and proceeded to do so.

At the door she half turned, wondering if she should throw out a jolly good-night. Hilary, without releasirig Cressida, lifted his face and gave Troy not so much a smile as the feral grimace of an antique Hylaeus. When she had shut the door behind her she thought: that was the sort of thing one should never see.

On her way through the hall she found a great clearance had been made and could hear voices in the drawing-room. Well, she thought, Hilary certainly has it both ways. He gets all the fun of setting up his party and none of the tedious aftermath. That’s done for him by his murderers.

She reached her room, with its well-tended fire, turned-down bed and impeccably laid-out dressing gown, pyjamas and slippers. She supposed Nigel had found time to perform these duties, and found this a disagreeable reflection.

She hung her dress in the wardrobe and could just catch the drone of the Forresters’ voices joined, it seemed, in no very urgent conversation. Troy was wide awake and restless. Too much had happened and happened inconclusively over the last few days. The anonymous messages, which, with astonishment, she realized she had almost forgotten. The booby-trap, Cressida’s report of the row in the staff common-room. Uncle Flea’s turns. Moult as Druid. The disappearance of Moult. Should these elements, wondered Troy, who had been rereading her Forster, connect? What would Rory think? He was fond of quoting Forster. “Only connect. Only connect.” What would he make of all this? And now, in a flash, Troy was perfectly certain that he would think these were serious matters.

As sometimes happens in happy marriages, Troy and her husband, when parted, often found that before one of them wrote or cabled or telephoned, the other was visited by an intensified awareness, a kind of expectation. She had this feeling very vividly now and was glad of it. Perhaps in the morning there would be news.

She heard midnight strike and a moment later Cressida, humming the “Bells of St. Clement’s,” passed the door on her way to her room at the south end of the corridor.

Troy yawned. The bedroom was overheated and at last she was sleepy. She went to her window, slipped through the curtains without drawing them, and opened it at the top. The north wind had risen and the rumour of its progress was abroad in the night. Flights of cloud were blown across the heavens. The moon was high now, casting a jetty shadow from the house across the snow. It was not a deserted landscape, for round the corner of the east wing came Vincent and his wheelbarrow and in the barrow the dead body of the Christmas tree denuded of its glory. He plodded on until he was beneath the Forresters’ windows and then turned into the shadow and was swallowed. She heard a swish and tinkle as he tipped his load into the debris of the ruined conservatory.

Shivering and immoderately tired, she went to bed and to sleep.