Tied Up in Tinsel

Three — Happy Christmas

When Colonel Forrester read the message on the paper he behaved in much the same way as his nephew before him. That is to say for some seconds he made no move and gave no sign of any particular emotion. Then he turned rather pink and said to Hilary, “Can I have a word with you, old boy?” He folded the paper and his hands were unsteady.

“Yes, of course —” Hilary began when his aunt loudly interjected, “No!”

“B, you must let me…”

“No. If you’ve been made an Object,” she said, “I want to know how, I said…”

“I heard you. No, B. No, my dear. It’s not suitable.”

“Nonsense. Fred, I insist…” She broke off and in a completely changed voice said, “Sit down, Fred. Hilary!”

Hilary went quickly to his uncle. They helped him to the nearest chair. Mrs. Forrester put her hand in his breast pocket and took out a small phial. “Brandy,” she said and Hilary fetched it from the tray Mervyn had left in the room.

Mr. Smith said to Troy, “It’s ’is ticker. He takes turns.”

He went to the far end of the room and opened a window. The North itself returned, stirring the tree and turning the kissing bough.

Colonel Forrester sat with his eyes closed, his hair ruffled and his breath coming short. “I’m perfectly all right,” he whispered. “No need to fuss.”

“Nobody’s fussing,” his wife said. “You can shut that window, if you please, Smith.”

Cressida gave an elaborate and prolonged shiver. “Thank God for that, at least,” she muttered to Troy, who ignored her.

“Better,” said the Colonel without opening his eyes. The others stood back.

The group printed an indelible image across Troy’s field of observation: an old man with closed eyes, fetching his breath short; Hilary, elegant in plum-coloured velvet and looking perturbed; Cressida, lounging discontentedly and beautifully in a golden chair; Mrs. Forrester, with folded arms, a step or two removed from her husband and watchful of him. And coming round the Christmas tree, a little old cockney in a grand smoking jacket.

In its affluent setting and its air of dated formality the group might have served as subject matter for some Edwardian problem-painter: Orchardson or, better still, the Hon. John Collier. And the title? “The Letter.” For there it lay where the Colonel had dropped it, in exactly the right position on the carpet, the focal point of the composition.

To complete the organization of this hopelessly obsolete canvas, Mr. Smith stopped short in his tracks while Mrs. Forrester, Hilary and Cressida turned their heads and looked, as he did, at the white paper on the carpet.

And then the still picture animated. The Colonel opened his eyes. Mrs. Forrester took five steps across the carpet and picked up the paper.

“Aunt Bed —!” Hilary protested but she shut him up with one of her looks.

The paper had fallen on its face. She reversed it and read and — a phenomenon that is distressing in the elderly — blushed to the roots of her hair.

“Aunt Bed —?”

Her mouth shut like a trap. An extraordinary expression came into her face. Fury? Troy wondered. Fury certainly but something else? Could it possibly be some faint hint of gratification? Without a word she handed the paper to her nephew.

As Hilary read it his eyebrows rose. He opened his mouth, shut it, reread the message, and then, to Troy’s utter amazement, made a stifled sound and covered his mouth. He stared wildly at her, seemed to pull himself together, and in a trembling voice said, “This is — no — I mean — this is preposterous. My dear Aunt Bed!”

“Don’t call me that,” shouted his aunt.

“I’m most dreadfully sorry. I always do — oh! Oh! I see.”

“Fred. Are you better?”

“I’m all right now, thank you, B. It was just one of my little go’s. It wasn’t — that thing that brought it on, I do assure you. Hilly’s quite right, my dear. It is preposterous. I’m very angry, of course, on your account, but it is rather ridiculous, you know.”

“I don’t know. Outrageous, yes. Ridiculous, no. This person should be horsewhipped.”

“Yes, indeed. But I’m not quite up to horsewhipping, B, and in any case one doesn’t know who to whip.”

“One can find out, I hope.”

“Yes, well, that’s another story. Hilly and I must have a good talk.”

“What you must do is go to bed,” she said.

“Well — perhaps. I do want to be all right for tomorrow, don’t I? And yet — we were going to do the tree and I love that.”

“Don’t be a fool, Fred. We’ll ring for Moult. Hilary and he can —”

“I don’t want Hilary and Moult. There’s no need. I’ll go upstairs backwards if you like. Don’t fuss, B.” Colonel Forrester stood up. He made Troy a little bow. “I am so awfully sorry,” he said, “for being such a bore.”

“You’re nothing of the sort.”

“Sweet of you. Good-night. Good-night, Cressida, my dear. Good-night, Bert. Ready, B?”

“He’s the boss, after all,” Troy thought as he left on his wife’s arm. Hilary followed them out.

“What a turn-up for the books,” Mr. Smith remarked. “Oh dear!”

Cressida dragged herself out of her chair. “Everybody’s on about the Forrester bit,” she complained. “Nobody seems to remember I’ve been insulted. We’re not even allowed to know what this one said. You know. What was written. They could hardly call Aunt B a sinful lady, could they? Or could they?”

“Not,” said Mr. Smith, “with any marketing potential they couldn’t.”

“I’m going to bed,” Cressida said, trailing about the room. “I want a word with Hilary. I’ll find him upstairs, I suppose. Good-night, Mrs. Alleyn.”

“Do we just abandon all this — the tree and so on?”

“I daresay he’ll do it when he comes down. It’s not late, after all, is it? Good-night, Mr. Smith.”

“ ’Nighty-night, Beautiful,” said Mr. Smith. “Not to worry. It’s a funny old world but we don’t care, do we?”

“I must say I do, rather. You know?” said Cressida and left them.

“Marvellous!” Mr. Smith observed and poured himself a drink. “Can I offer you anything, Mrs. A?”

“Not at the moment, thank you. Do you think this is all a rather objectionable practical joke?”

“Ah! That’s talking. Do I? Not to say practical joke, exactly, I don’t. But in a manner of speaking…”

He broke off and looked pretty sharply at Troy. “Upset your apple-cart a bit, has it?”

“Well —”

“Here! You haven’t been favoured, yourself? Have you?”

“Not with a message.”

“With something, though?”

“Nothing that matters,” said Troy, remembering her promise to Mervyn and wishing Mr. Smith was not quite so sharp.

“Keeping it to yourself?” he said. “Your privilege of course, but whatever it is if I was you I’d tell ’Illy. Oh, well. It’s been a long day and all. I wouldn’t say no to a bit of kip, myself.” He sipped his drink. “Very nice,” he said, “but the best’s to come.”

“The best?”

“My nightcap. Know what it is? Barley water. Fact. Barley water with a squeeze of lemon. Take it every night of my life. Keeps me regular and suits my fancy. ’Illy tells that permanent spectre of his to set it up for me in my room.”

“Nigel?”

“That’s right. The bloodless wonder.”

“What’s your opinion of the entourage, Mr. Smith?”

“Come again?”

“The setup? At Halberds?”

“Ah. I get you. Well, now: it’s peculiar. Look at it any way you like, it’s eccentric. But then in a manner of speaking, so’s ’Illy. It suits him. Mind, if he’d set ’imself up with a bunch of smashers and grabbers or job-buyers or magsmen or any of that lot, I’d of spoke up very strong against. But murderers — when they’re oncers, that is. — they’re different.”

“My husband agrees with you.”

“And he ought to know, didn’t ’e? Now, you won’t find Alf Moult agreeing with that verdict. Far from it.”

“You think he mistrusts the staff?”

“Hates their guts, if you’ll pardon me. He comes of a class that likes things to be done very, very regular and respectable does Alf Moult. Soldier-servant. Supersnob. I know. I come from the one below myself: not up to his mark, he’d think, but near enough to know how he ticks. Scum of the earth, he calls them. If it wasn’t that he can’t seem to detect any difference between the Colonel and Almighty God, he’d refuse to demean hisself by coming here and consorting with them.”

Mr. Smith put down his empty glass, wiped his fingers across his mouth and twinkled. “Very nice,” he said. “You better come and see my place one of these days. Get ’Illy to bring you. I got one or two works might interest you. We do quite a lot in the old master lurk ourselves. Every now and then I see something I fancy and I buy it in. What’s your opinion of Blake?”

“Blake?”

“William. Tiger, tiger.”

“Superb.”

“I got one of ’is drawings.”

“Have you, now!”

“Come and take a butcher’s.”

“Love to,” said Troy. “Thank you.”

Hilary came in overflowing with apologies. “What you must think of us!” he exclaimed. “One nuisance treads upon another’s heels. Judge of my mortification.”

“What’s the story up to date, then?” asked Mr. Smith.

“Nothing more, really, except that Cressida has been very much disturbed.”

“What a shame. But she’s on the road to recovery, I see.”

“What do you see?”

“It was worse when they favoured the blood red touch. Still and all, you better wipe it off.”

“What a really dreadful old man you are, Uncle Bert,” said Hilary, without rancour but blushing and using his handkerchief.

“I’m on me way to me virtuous couch. If I find a dirty message under the door I’ll scream. Good-night, all.”

They heard him whistling as he went upstairs.

“You’re not going just yet, are you?” Hilary said to Troy. “Please don’t or I’ll be quite sure you’ve taken umbrage.”

“In that case I’ll stay.”

“How heavenly cool you are. It’s awfully soothing. Will you have a drink? No? I shall. I need one.” As he helped himself Hilary said, “Do you madly long to know what was in Uncle Flea’s note?”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“It’s not really so frightful.”

“It can’t be since you seemed inclined to laugh.”

“You are a sharp one, aren’t you? As a matter of fact, it said quite shortly that Uncle Flea’s a cuckold spelt with three k’s. It was the thought of Aunt Bed living up to her pet name that almost did for me. Who with, one asks oneself? Moult?”

“No wonder she was enraged.”

“My dear, she wasn’t. Not really. Basically she was as pleased as Punch. Didn’t you notice how snappy she got when Uncle Flea said it was ridiculous?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You may as well, I promise you.”

Troy giggled.

“Of course she’d love it if Uncle Flea did go into action with a horsewhip. I can never understand how it’s managed, can you? It would be so easy to run away and leave the horsewhipper laying about him like a ringmaster without a circus.”

“I don’t think it’s that kind of horsewhip. It’s one of the short jobs like a jockey’s. You have to break it in two when you’ve finished and contemptuously throw the pieces at the victim.”

“You’re wonderfully well informed, aren’t you?”

“It’s only guesswork.”

“All the same, you know, it’s no joke, this business. It’s upset my lovely Cressida. She really is cross. You see, she’s never taken to the staff. She was prepared to put up with them because they do function quite well, don’t you think? But unfortunately she’s heard of the entire entourage of a Greek millionaire who died the other day, all wanting to come to England because of the Colonels. And now she’s convinced it was Nigel who did her message and she’s dead set on making a change.”

“You don’t think it was Nigel?”

“No. I don’t think he’d be such an ass.”

“But if — I’m sorry but you did say he was transferred to Broadmoor.”

“He’s as sane as sane can be. A complete cure. Oh, I know the message to Cressida is rather in his style but I consider that’s merely a blind.”

“Do you!” Troy said thoughtfully.

“Yes, I do. Just as — well — Uncle Flea’s message is rather in Blore’s vein. You remember Blore slashed out at the handsome busboy who had overpersuaded Mrs. Blore. Well, it came out in evidence that Blore made a great to-do about being a cuckold. The word cropped up all over his statements.”

“How does he spell it?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“What is your explanation?”

“To begin with I don’t countenance any notion that both Nigel and Blore were inspired, independently, to write poison-pen notes on the same sort of paper (it’s out of the library), in the same sort of capital letters.”

(Or, thought Troy, that Mervyn was moved at the same time to set a booby-trap.)

“—Or, equally,” Hilary went on, “that one of the staff wrote the messages to implicate the other two. They get on extremely well together, all of them.”

“Well, then?”

“What is one left with? Somebody’s doing it. It’s not me and I don’t suppose it’s you.”

“No.”

“No. So we run into a reductio ad absurdum, don’t we? We’re left with a most improbable field. Flea. Bed. Cressida. Uncle Bert.”

“And Moult?”

“Good Heavens,” said Hilary. “Uncle Bert’s fancy! I forgot about Moult. Moult, now. Moult.”

“Mr. Smith seems to think —”

“Yes, I daresay.” Hilary glanced uneasily at Troy and began to walk about the room as if he were uncertain what to say next. “Uncle Bert,” he began at last, “is an oddity. He’s not a simple character. Not at all.”

“No?”

“No. For instance there’s his sardonic-East-End-character act. ‘I’m so artful, you know, I’m a cockney.’ He is a cockney, of course. Vintage barrow-boy. But he’s put himself in inverted commas and comes out of them whenever it suits him. You should hear him at the conference table. He’s as articulate as the next man and, in his way, more civilized than most.”

“Interesting.”

“Yes. He’s got a very individual sense of humour, has Uncle Bert.”

“Tending towards black comedy?”

“He might have invented the term. All the same,” Hilary said, “he’s an astute judge of character and I–I can’t pretend he isn’t, although —”

He left this observation unfinished. “I think I’ll do the tree,” he said. “It settles one’s nerves.”

He opened the lid of the packing-case that had been placed near the tree.

Mr. Smith had left ajar the double doors into the great hall from whence there now came sounds of commotion. Somebody was stumbling rapidly downstairs and making ambiguous noises as he came. A slither was followed by an oath and an irregular progress across the hall. The doors burst wide open and in plunged Mr. Smith: an appalling sight.

He was dressed in pyjamas and a florid dressing gown. One foot was bare, the other slippered. His sparse hair was disordered. His eyes protruded. And from his open mouth issued dollops of foam.

He retched, gesticulated, and contrived to speak.

“Poisoned!” he mouthed. “I been poisoned.”

An iridescent bubble was released from his lips. It floated towards the tree, seemed to hang for a moment like an ornament from one of the boughs.

“Soap,” Hilary said. “It’s soap, Uncle Bert. Calm yourself for Heaven’s sake and wash your mouth out. Go to a downstairs cloakroom, I implore you.”

Mr. Smith incontinently bolted.

“Hadn’t you better see to him?” Troy asked.

“What next, what next! How inexpressibly distasteful. However.”

Hilary went. There followed a considerable interval, after which Troy heard them pass through the hall on their way upstairs. Soon afterwards Hilary returned looking deeply put out.

“In his barley water,” he said. “The strongest possible solution of soap. Carnation. He’s been hideously sick. This settles it.”

“Settles —?”

“It’s some revolting practical joker. No, but it’s too bad! And in the pocket of his pyjama jacket another of these filthy notes. ‘What price Arsnic.’ He might have died of fright.”

“How is he, in fact?”

“Wan but recovering. In a mounting rage.”

“Small blame to him.”

“Somebody shall smart for this,” Hilary threatened.

“I suppose it couldn’t be the new boy in the kitchen?”

“I don’t see it. He doesn’t know their backgrounds. This is somebody who knows about Nigel’s sinful lady and Blore’s being a cuckold and Vincent’s slip over the arsenical weedkiller.”

“And Mervyn’s booby-trap,” Troy said before she could stop herself. Hilary stared at her.

“You’re not going to tell me —? You are!”

“I promised I wouldn’t. I suppose these other jobs sort of let me out but — all right, there was an incident. I’m sure he had nothing to do with it. Don’t corner me.”

Hilary was silent for some time after this. Then he began taking boxes of Christmas tree baubles out of the packing case.

“I’m going to ignore the whole thing,” he said. “I’m going to maintain a masterly inactivity. Somebody wants me to make a big scene and I won’t. I won’t upset my stall. I won’t have my Christmas ruined. Sucks-boo to whoever it may be. It’s only ten to eleven, believe it or not. Come on, let’s do the tree.”

They did the tree. Hilary had planned a golden colour scheme. They hung golden glass baubles, big in the lower branches and tapering to miniscule ones at the top, where they mounted a golden angel. There were festoons of glittering gold tinsel and masses of gilded candles. Golden stars shone in and out of the foliage. It was a most fabulous tree.

“And I’ve even gilded the people in the crib,” he said. “I hope Aunt Bed won’t object. And just you wait till the candles are lit.”

“What about the presents? I suppose there are presents?”

“The children’s will be in golden boxes brought in by Uncle Flea, one for each family. And ours, suitably wrapped, on a side table. Everybody finds their own because Uncle Flea can’t read the labels without his specs. He merely tows in the boxes in a little golden car on runners.”

“From outside? Suppose it’s a rough night?”

“If it’s too bad we’ll have to bring the presents in from the hall.”

“But the Colonel will still come out of the storm?”

“He wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.” With some hesitation Troy suggested that Colonel Forrester didn’t seem very robust and was ill-suited to a passage, however brief, through the rigours of a midwinter storm, clad, she understood, in gold lamé. Hilary said he could wear gloves. Noticing, perhaps, that she was not persuaded, he said Vincent would hold an umbrella over the Colonel and that in any case it wouldn’t do for his wig and crown of mistletoe to get wet although, he added, a sprinkling of snow would be pretty. “But of course it would melt,” he added. “And that could be disastrous.”

Hilary was perched on the top of the stepladder. He looked down through green foliage and golden baubles at Troy.

“You don’t approve,” he said. “You think I’m effete and heartless and have lost my sense of spiritual values.”

This came uncomfortably near to what in fact Troy had been thinking.

“You may be right,” he went on before she could produce an answer. “But at least I don’t pretend. For instance, I’m a snob. I set a lot of importance on my being of ancient lineage. I wouldn’t have proposed to my lovely, lovely Cressida if she’d had a tatty origin. I value family trees even more than Christmas trees. And I love being rich and able to have a truly golden tree.”

“Oh,” Troy said, “I’ve nothing but praise for the golden tree.”

“I understand you perfectly. You must pray for me in the chapel tomorrow.”

“I’m not qualified.”

Hilary said, “Never mind about all that. I’ve been keeping the chapel as a surprise. It really is quite lovely.”

“Are you a Christian?”

“In the context,” said Hilary, “it doesn’t arise. Be an angel and hand up a bauble.”

It was midnight when they had completed their work. They stood at the other end of the long room before the dying fire and admired it.

“There will be no light but the candles,” Hilary said. “It will be perfectly magical. A dream-tree. I hope the children will be enchanted, don’t you?”

“They can’t fail. I shall go to bed, now, I think.”

“How nice it’s been, doing it with you,” he said, linking his arm in hers and leading her down the room. “It has quite taken away all that other beastly nonsense. Thank you so much. Have you admired Nigel’s kissing bough?”

They were under it. Troy looked up and was kissed.

“Happy Christmas,” said Hilary.

She left him there and went up to her room.

When she opened her wardrobe she was surprised to hear a murmur of voices in the Forresters’ room. It was distant and quite indistinguishable but as she hung up her dress she heard footsteps tread towards her and the Colonel’s voice, close at hand, said very loudly and most decisively: “No, my dear, that is absolutely final. And if you don’t, I will.”

A door slammed. Troy had a picture of Mrs. Forrester banging her way into their bathroom but a moment later had to reverse this impression into one of her banging her way back into the bedroom. Her voice rose briefly and indistinctly. The Colonel’s footfall receded. Troy hastily shut the wardrobe door and went to bed.

Christmas day came in with a wan glint of sunshine. The view from Troy’s bedroom might have been framed by robins, tinsel and holly. Snow took the sting out of a landscape that could have been set up during the night for Hilary’s satisfaction.

As she dressed, Troy could hear the Forresters shouting to each other next door and concluded that the Colonel was back on his usual form. When she opened her wardrobe she heard the now familiar jangle of coat hangers on the other side.

“Good-morning!” Troy shouted. She tapped on the common wall. “Happy Christmas!” she cried.

A man’s voice said, “Thank you, madam. I’ll tell the Colonel and Mrs. Forrester.”

Moult.

She heard him go away. There was a distant conjunction of voices and then he returned, discreetly tapping on the wall.

“The Colonel and Mrs. Forrester’s compliments, madam, and they would be very happy if you would look in.”

“In five minutes,” Troy shouted. “Thank you.”

When she made her call she found Colonel and Mrs. Forrester in bed and bolt upright under a green-lined umbrella of the sort associated with Victorian missionaries and Empire builders. The wintry sun lay across their counterpane. Each wore a scarlet dressing gown the skirts of which were deployed round the wearer like some monstrous calyx. They resembled gods of a sort.

In unison they wished Troy a Happy Christmas and invited her to sit down.

“Being an artist,” Mrs. Forrester said, “you will not find it out-of-the-way to be informally received.”

At the far end of the room a door into their bathroom stood open and beyond that a second door into a dressing-room where Moult could be seen brushing a suit.

“I had heard,” said Troy, “about the umbrella.”

“We don’t care for the sun in our eyes. I wonder,” said Mrs. Forrester, “if I might ask you to shut the bathroom door. Thank you very much. Moult has certain prejudices which we prefer not to arouse. Fred, put in your aid. I said put in your aid.”

Colonel Forrester, who had smiled and nodded a great deal without seeming to hear anything much, found his hearing aid on his bedside table and fitted it into his ear.

“It’s a wonderful invention,” he said. “I’m a little worried about wearing it tonight, though. But, after all, the wig’s awfully long. A Druid with a visible hearing aid would be too absurd, don’t you think?”

“First of all,” Mrs. Forrester began, “were there any developments after we went to bed?”

“We’re dying to know,” said the Colonel.

Troy told them about Mr. Smith and. the soap. Mrs. Forrester rubbed her nose vexedly. “That’s very tiresome,” she said. “It upsets my theory. Fred, it upsets my theory.”

“Sickening for you, B.”

“And yet, does it? I’m not so sure. It might be a ruse, you know, I said…”

“I’m wearing my aid, B.”

“What,” Troy asked, “is your theory?”

“I was persuaded that Smith wrote the letters.”

“But surely…”

“He’s a good creature in many ways but his sense of humour is coarse and he dislikes Cressida Tottenham.”

“B, my dear, I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“No you’re not. You’re afraid I’m right. He doesn’t think she’s good enough for Hilary. Nor do I.”

“Be that as it may, B —”

“Be that as it is, you mean. Don’t confuse me, Fred.”

“— Bert Smith would certainly not write that disgraceful message to me. About you.”

“I don’t agree. He’d think it funny.”

The Colonel looked miserable. “But it’s not,” he said.

“Hilary thought it funny,” Mrs. Forrester said indignantly and turned to Troy. “Did you? I suppose Hilary told you what it said.”

“In general terms.”

“Well? Funny?”

Troy said, “At the risk of making myself equally objectionable I’m afraid I’ve got to confess that —”

“Very well. You need go no further.” Mrs. Forrester looked at her husband and remarked, astoundingly. “Impertinent, yes. Unfounded, of course. Preposterous, not so farfetched as you may suppose.”

A reminiscent gleam, Troy could have sworn, came into Mrs. Forrester’s eye.

“I don’t believe Bert would make himself sick,” the Colonel urged.

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Mrs. Forrester said darkly. “However,” she continued with a wave of her hand, “that is unimportant. What I wished to talk to you about, Mrs. Alleyn, is the line I hope we shall all take in this matter. Fred and I have decided to ignore it. To dismiss it —” she swept her arm across the Colonel, who blinked and drew back “— entirely. As if it had never been. We refuse to give the perpetrator of these insults, the satisfaction of paying them the slightest attention. We hope you will join us in this stand.”

“Because,” her husband added, “it would only spoil everything— the tree and so on. We’re having a rehearsal after church and one must give one’s full attention.”

“And you’re quite recovered, Colonel?”

“Yes, yes, quite, thank you. It’s my old ticker, you know. A leaky valve or some nonsense of that sort, the quacks tell me. Nothing to fuss about.”

“Well,” Troy said, getting up, “I’ll agree — mum’s the word.”

“Good. That settles that. I don’t know how this gel of yours is going to behave herself, Fred.”

“She’s not mine, B.”

“She was your responsibility.”

“Not now, though.” The Colonel turned towards Troy but did not look at her. His face was pink. He spoke rapidly as if he had memorized his observations and wished to get rid of them. “Cressida,” he explained, “is the daughter of a young fellow in my regiment. Germany. 1950. We were on an exercise and my jeep overturned.” Here the Colonel’s eyes filled with tears. “And do you know this dear fellow got me out? I was pinned face down in the mud and he got me out and then the most dreadful things happened. Collapse. Petrol. And I promised him I’d keep an eye on the child.”

“Luckily,” said Mrs. Forrester, “she was well provided for. School in Switzerland and all that. I say nothing of the result.”

“Her mother died, poor thing. In childbirth.”

“And now,” said Mrs. Forrester, suddenly shutting up their umbrella with a definite snap, “now she’s in some sort of actressy business.”

“She’s an awfully pretty girl, don’t you think?”

“Lovely,” said Troy warmly and went down to breakfast.

Hilary was busy during the morning, but Troy did a certain amount of work on the portrait before making herself ready for church.

When she looked through the library windows that gave on the great courtyard, she got quite a shock. Nigel had completed his effigy. The packing case was mantled in frozen snow and on top of it, sharply carved and really quite impressive in his glittering iciness, lay Hilary’s Bill-Tasman ancestor, his hands crossed, rather like flatfish, on his breast.

At half-past ten, the monk’s bell rang fast and exuberantly in its tower as if its operator was a bit above himself. Troy made her way downstairs and across the hall and, following instructions, turned right into the corridor which served the library, the breakfast-room, the boudoir, Hilary’s study and, as it now transpired, the chapel.

It was a superb chapel. It was full, but by no means too full, of treasures. Its furniture, including monstrance and candlesticks, quattrocento confessional — the lot — was in impeccable taste and, no doubt, awfully valuable.

Troy experienced a frightful desire to hang crinkly paper garlands on some insipid plaster saint.

Blore, Mervyn, Nigel, Vincent, Kittiwee and the Boy were already seated. They were supplemented by a cluster of odd bodies whom she supposed to be outside workers at Halberds and their wives and children. Hilary and Cressida were in the front pew. The rest of the houseparty soon assembled and the service went through with High Church decorum. The prison chaplain gave a short, civilized sermon. Colonel Forrester, to Troy’s surprise and pleasure, played the lovely little organ for the seasonable hymns. Hilary read the gospel, and Mr. Smith, with surprising aplomb and the full complement of aitches, the epistle.

At three o’clock that afternoon the ceremony of the tree was rehearsed.

It was all very thoroughly planned. The guests would assemble in the library, Troy’s portrait and impedimenta having been removed for the occasion to Hilary’s study. Vincent, with umbrella and a charming little baroque car on runners, loaded with Christmas boxes, would be stationed outside the drawing-room windows. At eight o’clock recorded joybells would usher in the proceedings. The children would march in procession two-by-two from the library across the hall to the drawing-room, where they would find the golden tree blazing in the dark. The adults would follow.

These manoeuvres executed, Colonel Forrester, fully accoutred as a Druid, would emerge from the little cloakroom next the drawing-room, where Cressida had helped to make him up. He would slip through a door into the entrance porch and from there into the wintry courtyard. Here he would effect a liaison with Vincent. The recorded music, sleigh bells, snorts and cries of “Whoa!” would be released. The french windows, flung open from within by Blore and Mervyn, would admit the Colonel towing his gilded car. To a fanfare (“Of trumpets also and shawms,” Hilary said) he would encircle the tree and then, abandoning his load, would bow to his audience, make one or two esoteric gestures, and retire to the limbo from whence he had come. He would then pick up his skirts and bolt back through the hall and into the cloakroom, where with Cressida’s help he would remove his beard, moustache and eyebrows, his wig, his boots and his golden gown. In due course he would appear in his native guise among the guests.

The rehearsals did not go through without incidents, most of which were caused by the extreme excitability of the Colonel himself. Troy became very anxious about him, and Mrs. Forrester, whose presence he had feebly tried to prevent, finally put her foot down and told Hilary that if he wanted his uncle to perform that evening he must stop making him run about like a madman. She would not be answerable for the consequences, she said, if he did not. She then removed her husband to rest in his room, obliging him, to his mild annoyance, to ascend the stairs backwards and stop for ten seconds at every fifth step.

Cressida, who seemed to be extremely unsettled, drifted up to Troy and watched this protracted exit.

The Colonel begged them not to wait, and at Cressida’s suggestion they went together to the boudoir.

“There are moments,” Cressida said, “when I catch myself wondering if this house is not a loony-bin. Well, I mean, look at it. It’s like one of those really trendy jobs. You know, the happening thing. We did them in Organic-Expressivists.”

“What are Organic-Expressivists?” Troy asked.

“You can’t really explain O-E. You know. You can’t say it’s ‘about’ that or the other thing. An O-E Exposure is one thing for each of us and another for each of the audience. One simply hopes there will be a spontaneous emotional release,” Cressida rapidly explained. “Zell — our director — well not a director in the establishment sense — he’s our source — he puts enormous stress on spontaneity.”

“Are you rejoining the group?”

“No. Well, Hilary and I are probably getting married in May, so if we do there wouldn’t really be much point, would there? And anyway the O-E’s in recess at the moment. No lolly.”

“What did you yourself do in the performances?”

“At first I just moved about getting myself released and then Zell felt I ought to develop the yin-yang bit, if that’s what it’s called. You know, the male-female bit. So I did. I wore a kind of net trouser-token on my left leg and I had long green crepe-hair pieces stuck to my left jaw. I must say I hated the spirit-gum. You know, on your skin? But it had an erotic-seaweed connotation that seemed to communicate rather successfully.”

“What else did you wear?”

“Nothing else. The audiences met me. You know? Terribly well. It’s because of my experience with crepe hair that I’m doing Uncle Fred’s beard. It’s all ready-made and only has to be stuck on.”

“I do hope he’ll be all right.”

“So do I. He’s all uptight about it, though. He’s fantastic, isn’t he? Not true. I’m way up there over him and Auntie B. I think he’s the mostest. You know? Only I don’t exactly send Auntie B, I’m afraid.”

She moved gracefully and irritably about the beautiful little room. She picked up an ornament and put it down again with the half-attention of an idle shopper.

“There’s been a row in the kitchen,” she said. “Did you know? This morning?”

“Not I.”

“About me, in a sort of way. Kittiwee was on about me and his ghastly cats and the others laughed at him and — I don’t know exactly — but it all got a bit out of hand. Moult was mixed up in it. They all hate Moult like poison.”

“How do you know about it?”

“I heard. Hilly asked me to look at the flowers that have been sent. The flower-room’s next the servants’ hall only we’re meant to call it the staff common-room. They were at it hammer-and-tongs. You know. Yelling. I was just wondering whether I ought to tell Hilly when I heard Moult come into the passage. He was shouting back at the others. He said, ‘You lot! You’re no more than a bloody squad of bloody thugs,’ and a good deal more. And Blore roared like a bull for Moult to get out before one of them did him over. And I’ve told Hilly. I thought he might have told you, he likes you so much.”

“No.”

“Well, anyway, let’s face it; I’m not prepared to marry into a permanent punch-up. I mean it’s just crazy. It’s not my scene. If you’d heard! Do you know what Blore said? He said: ‘One more crack out of you and I’ll bloody block your light.’ ”

“What do you suppose that means?”

“I know what it sounded like,” Cressida said. “It sounded like murder. And I mean that. Murder.”

It was at this point that Troy began to feel really disturbed. She began to see herself, as if she was another person, alone among strangers in an isolated and falsely luxurious house and attended by murderers. That, she thought, like it or lump it, is the situation. And she wished with all her heart she was out of it and spending her Christmas alone in London or with any one of the unexceptionable friends who had so warmly invited her.

The portrait was almost finished. Perhaps quite finished. She was not sure it hadn’t reached the state when somebody with wisdom should forcibly remove her from it and put it out of her reach. Her husband had been known to perform this service, but he was twelve thousand miles away and unless, as sometimes happened, his job in the Antipodes came to a quick end, would not be home for a week. The portrait was not dry enough to pack. She could arrange for it to be sent to the framers and she could tell Hilary she would leave — when? Tomorrow? He would think that very odd. He would smell a rat. He would conclude that she was afraid and he would be dead right. She was.

Mr. Smith had said that he intended returning to London the day after tomorrow. Perhaps she could leave with him. At this point Troy saw that she would have to take a sharp look at herself. It was an occasion for what Cressida would probably call maintaining her cool.

In the first place she must remember that she was often overcome, in other people’s houses, by an overpowering desire to escape, a tyrannical restlessness as inexplicable as it was embarrassing. Every nerve in her body would suddenly telegraph “I must get out of this.” It could happen, even in a restaurant, where, if the waiter was slow with the bill, Troy suffered agonies of frustration. Was her present most ardent desire to be gone no more than the familiar attack exacerbated by the not inconsiderable alarms and eccentricities of life at Halberds? Perhaps Hilary’s domestics were, after all, as harmless as he insisted. Had Cressida blown up a servants’ squabble into a display of homicidal fury?

She reminded herself of the relatively quick recovery of the Forresters from the incidents and, until the soap episode, of Mr. Smith. She took herself to task, tied her head in a scarf, put on her overcoat, and went for a short walk.

The late afternoon was icily cold and still, the darkening sky was clear and the landscape glittered. She looked more closely at Nigel’s catafalque, which was now frozen as hard as its marble progenitor in the chapel. Really Nigel had been, very clever with his kitchen instruments. He had achieved a sharpness and precision far removed from the blurred clumsiness of the usual snow effigy. Only the northern aspect, Troy thought, had been partly defaced by the wind and occasional drifts of rain and even there it was the snow-covered box steps that had suffered rather than the effigy itself. Somebody should photograph it, she thought, before the thaw comes.

She walked as far as the scarecrow. It was tilted sideways, stupid and motionless, at the impossible angle in which the wind had left it. A disconsolate thrush sat on its billycock hat.

By the time she had returned, tingling, to the warm house, Troy had so far got over her impulsive itch as to postpone any decision until the next day. She even began to feel a reasonable interest in the party.

And indeed Halberds simmered with expectation. In the enormous hall with its two flights of stairs, giant swags of fir, mistletoe and holly caught up with scarlet tassels hung in classic loops from the gallery and picture rails. Heroic logs blazed and crackled in two enormous fireplaces. The smell was superb.

Hilary was there, with a written timetable in his hand, issuing final instructions to his staff. He waved gaily to Troy and invited her to stay and listen.

“Now! Blore! To go over it once more,” Hilary was saying. “You will make sure the drawing-room door is locked. Otherwise we shall have children screaming in before they should. When everybody is here (you’ve got your guest list) check to make sure Vincent is ready with the sledge. You wait until half-past seven when the first recorded bells will be played and Colonel Forrester will come downstairs and go into the cloakroom near the drawing-room, where Miss Tottenham will put on his beard.”

“Choose your words, sweetie,” Cressida remarked. “I’d look a proper Charlie, wouldn’t I?”

Kittiwee sniggered.

“Miss Tottenham,” Hilary said, raising his voice, “will help the Colonel with his beard. You now check that Nigel is at hand to play his part and at a quarter to eight you tap on the door of the cloakroom near the drawing-room to let Colonel Forrester and Miss Tottenham know we are ready. Yes?”

“Yes, sir. Very good, sir.”

“You and Nigel then light the candles on the tree and the kissing bough. That’s going to take a little time. Be sure you get rid of the stepladder and turn off all the lights. Most important. Very well. That done, you tell Nigel to return to the record player in the hall here. Nigel: at five to eight precisely, you increase the indoor recording of the bells. Plenty of volume, remember. We want the house to be full of bells. Now! Mervyn! When you hear the bells, unlock the drawing-room doors and, I implore you, be sure you have the key to hand.”

“I’ve got it on me, sir.”

“Good. Very well. You, Blore, come to the library and announce the tree. Full voice, you know, Blore. Give it everything, won’t you?”

“Sir.”

“You and Mervyn, having thrown open the drawing-room doors, go right through the room to the french windows. Check that the Colonel is ready outside. Vincent will by this time be with him and will flash his torch. Wait by the windows. Now, then. The crucial moment,” Hilary excitedly continued, “has arrived. When everybody has come in and settled in their places — I shall see to that and I daresay Mrs. Alleyn will be very kind and help me — you, Blore, stand in the window where Vincent can see you and give him his signal. Vincent, be ready for this. You must keep out of sight with the sleigh, until the last moment. When the inside bells stop, bring the sleigh into the courtyard, where you will join the Colonel. And when you get your signal, the sound effects for the entrance will be turned on. The loudspeakers,” Hilary explained to Troy, “are outside for greater verisimilitude. And now, now Blore! Keep your heads, you and Mervyn, I implore you. Coolness is all. Coolness and coordination. Wait for your own voice shouting ‘Whoa’ on the loudspeakers, wait for the final cascade of sleigh bells and then — and only then — fling wide the french windows and admit the Colonel with his sledge. Vincent, you must watch the Colonel like a lynx for fear that in his zeal he tries to effect an entrance before we are ready for him. Make certain he removes his gloves. Take them off him at the last moment. He has to wear them because of chilblains. See he’s well en train beforehand with the tow-ropes of his sledge over his shoulders. He may show a hideous tendency to tie himself up in them like a parcel. Calm him.”

“Do my best, sir,” said Vincent, “but he does show the whites of his eyes, like, when he gets up to the starting cage.”

“I know. I depend on your tact, Vincent. Miss Tottenham will see him out of the cloakroom and you take over in the courtyard. After that he’s all yours.”

“Thank you, sir,” said Vincent dubiously.

“Those,” said Hilary, surveying his troops, “are my final words to you. That is all. Thank you.” He turned to Troy. “Come and have tea,” he said. “It’s in the boudoir. We help ourselves. Rather like the Passover with all our loins, such as they are, girded up. I do hope you’re excited. Are you?”

“Why — yes,” she agreed, surprised to find that it was so, “I am. I’m very excited.”

“You won’t be disappointed, I promise. Who knows,” said Hilary, “but what you won’t look back on tonight as a unique experience. There, now!”

“I daresay I shall,” Troy said, humouring him.