Tied Up in Tinsel

Five — Alleyn

Troy woke next morning at the sound of Nigel’s discreet attentions to her fire. He had placed her early tea tray by her bed.

She couldn’t make up her mind, at once, to speak to him, but when he opened her window curtains and let in the reflected pallor of snow she wished him good morning.

He paused, blinking his white eyelashes, and returned the greeting.

“Is it still snowing?” she asked.

“Off and on, madam. There was sleet in the night but it changed to snow, later.”

“Has Moult appeared?”

“I believe not, madam.”

“How very odd, isn’t it?”

“Yes, madam. Will that be all, madam?”

“Yes, thank you.”

“Thank you, madam.”

But it’s all phony, Troy thought. He turns it on. He didn’t talk like that when he made rocking-horses and wax effigies. Before he reached the door she said, “I think you made a wonderful job of that catafalque.”

He stopped. “Ta,” he said.

“I don’t know how you managed to get such precision and detail with a medium like snow.”

“It was froze.”

“Even so. Have you ever sculpted? In stone?”

“It was all working from moulds like. But I always had a fancy to carve.”

“I’m not surprised.”

He said, “Ta,” again. He looked directly at her and went out.

Troy bathed and dressed and took her usual look at the landscape. Everywhere except in areas close to the house, a coverlet of snow. Not a footprint to be seen. Over on the far left the canvas-covered bulldozers and their works were mantled. Every tree was a Christmas tree. Somebody had re-erected the scarecrow, or perhaps with a change in the wind it had righted itself. It looked, if anything, more human than before. Quite a number of birds had settled on it.

Troy found Hilary and Mr. Smith at breakfast. Hilary lost no time in introducing the Moult theme.

“No Moult! It really is beyond a joke, now,” he said. “Even Uncle Bert agrees, don’t you, Uncle Bert?”

“I give you in, it’s a rum go,” he conceded. “Under existing circs, it’s rather more than that. It’s upsetting.”

“What do you mean by ‘existing circs’?”

“Ask yourself.”

“I asked you.”

Mervyn came in with a fresh supply of toast.

“Pas devant les domestiques,” quoted Mr. Smith.

Mervyn withdrew. “Why not before them?” Hilary asked crossly.

“Use your loaf, boy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Uncle Bert.”

“No? Ah: Fancy.”

“Oh, blast everything!” said Hilary. He turned to Troy. “He really isn’t on the premises,” he said. “Not in the house or the outbuildings. If he wandered into the grounds somewhere, he didn’t go off the drive or swept paths because there aren’t any unaccountable footprints in the snow.”

“Could he have got into the back of one of the cars and gone to sleep and been driven away unnoticed?”

“He’d have woken up and declared himself by now, surely?”

“It’s an idea, though,” said Mr. Smith. “What say he got into the boot of the station wagon from the Vale and come to behind bars? That’d be a turn-up for the books, wouldn’t it?”

“Excessively droll,” said Hilary sourly. “Well!” he said, throwing up his hands, “what’s the next step? I don’t know! The Fleas are becoming difficult, I can tell you that much. I looked in on them and found Aunt Bed trying to valet Uncle Flea and getting it all wrong. Aunt Bed’s in a rage because she can’t put her jewelry away.”

“Why can’t she?”

“It seems she keeps it in their locked tin box with all their securities under the bed in the dressing-room.”

“I know,” said Troy. “I saw it.”

“Well, Moult’s got the key.”

“They’re potty,” said Mr. Smith definitively. “What I mean, potty. What I mean, look at it! Carts her stuff round, and it’s good stuff, mind, some of it’s very nice stuff. Carts it round in a flipping tin box and gives the key to a bloody disappearing act. No, what I mean, I arstyou!”

“All right, Uncle Bert. All right. We all know the Fleas go their own way. That’s beside the point. What we have to decide —”

The door was flung open and Mrs. Forrester entered in a temper. She presented a strange front to the breakfast table. She was attired in her usual morning apparel: a Harris tweed skirt, a blouse and three cardigans, the uppermost being puce in colour. Stuck about this ensemble at eccentric angles were any number of brooches. Round her neck hung the elaborate Victorian necklace which had been the pièce de résistance of her last night’s toilet. She wore many rings and several bracelets. A watch, suspended from a diamond and emerald bow, was pinned to her breast. She twinkled and glittered like — the comparison was inevitable — a Christmas tree.

“Look at me,” she unnecessarily demanded.

“Aunt B,” Hilary said, “we do. With astonishment.”

“As well you might. Under the circumstances, Hilary, I feel obliged to keep my Lares and Penates about me.”

“I would hardly describe —”

“Very well. They are not kitchen utensils. That I grant you. The distinction, however, is immaterial.”

“You didn’t sport all that hardware last night, Mrs. F,” Mr. Smith suggested.

“I did not. I had it brought out and I made my choice. The rejected pieces should have been returned to their place. By Moult. They were not and I prefer under the circumstances to keep them about me. That, however is not the matter at issue. Hilary!”

“Aunt Bed?”

“An attempt has been made upon our strongbox.”

“Oh my God! What do you mean?”

“There is evidence. An instrument — possibly a poker — has been introduced in an unsuccessful attempt upon the padlock.”

“It needed only this,” said Hilary and took his head between his hands.

“I am keeping it from your uncle: it would fuss him. What do you propose to do?”

“I? What can I do? Why,” asked Hilary wildly, “do you keep it under the dressing-room bed?”

“Because it won’t go under our bed, which is ridiculously low.”

“What’s the story, then?” Mr. Smith asked. “Did Alf Moult try to rob the till and run away in a fright when he foozled the job?”

“With the key in his pocket?” Mrs. Forrester snapped. “You’re not very bright this morning, Smith.”

“It was a joke.”

“Indeed.”

Blore came in. “A telephone call, sir, for Mrs. Alleyn,” he said.

“Me? Is it from London?”

“Yes, madam. Mr. Alleyn, madam.”

“Oh how lovely!” Troy shouted before she could stop herself. She apologized and made a bolt for the telephone.

“— so we wound the whole thing up at ninety in the shade and here I am. A Happy Christmas, darling. When shall I see you?”

“Soon. Soon. The portrait’s finished. I think. I’m not sure.”

“When in doubt, stop. Shouldn’t you?”

“I daresay. I want to. But there’s just one thing —”

“Troy: is anything the matter?”

“In a way. No — not with me. Here.”

“You’ve turned cagey. Don’t you want to talk?”

“Might be better not.”

“I see. Well — when?”

“I — Rory, hold on will you? Hold on.”

“I’m holding.”

It was Hilary. He had come in unnoticed and now made deprecatory gestures and rather silly little faces at Troy. “Please!” he said. “May I? Do forgive me, but may I?”

“Of course.”

“It’s just occurred to me. So dismal for Alleyn to be in an empty house in London at Christmas. So please, suggest he comes to us. I know you want to fly on wings of song, but you did say you might need one more sitting, and anyway I should be so delighted to meet him. He might even advise about Moult or would that be anti-protocol? But — please —?”

“I think perhaps —”

“No, you don’t. You can’t. You mustn’t ‘think perhaps.’ Ask him. Go on, do.”

Troy gave her husband the message.

“Do you,” he said, speaking close to the receiver, “want this? Or would you rather come home? There’s something up, isn’t there? Put on a carefree voice, love, and tell me. Would you like me to come? I can. I’m free at the moment.”

“Can you? Are you?”

“Then, shall I?”

“I really don’t know,” Troy said and laughed, as she trusted, gaily. “Yes. I think so.”

“When would you leave if I didn’t come?”

“Well — don’t quite know,” she said and hoped she sounded playful and cooperative.

“What the hell,” her husband asked, “is all this? Well, never mind. You can’t say, obviously.”

Hilary was making modest little gestures. He pointed to himself and mouthed, “May I?”

“Hilary,” said Troy, “would like to have a word.”

“Turn him on,” said Alleyn. “Or have you, by any chance, already done so?”

“Here he is,” Troy said severely. “Rory: this is Hilary Bill-Tasman.”

She handed over the receiver and listened to Hilary. His manner was masterly: not too overtly insistent, not too effusive, but of such a nature that it made a refusal extremely difficult. I suppose, Troy thought, these are the techniques he brings to bear on his rich, complicated business. She imagined her husband’s lifted eyebrow. Presently Hilary said: “And you are free, aren’t you? So why not? The portrait, if nothing else, will be your reward: it’s quite superb. You will? I couldn’t be more delighted. Now: about trains — there’s just time —”

When that was settled he turned, beamingly, to Troy and held out the receiver. “Congratulate me!” cried Hilary and, with that characteristic gesture of his, left the room, gaily wagging his hand above his head.

Troy said, “It’s me again.”

“Good.”

“I’ll come to the station.”

“Too kind.”

“So nice to see you again!”

“Always pleasant to pick up the threads.”

“Good-morning.”

“Good-morning.”

When Hilary announced that Vincent would put on his chauffeur’s uniform and take the small car to the main line station, Troy suggested that she herself could do so. This clearly suited him very well. She gathered that some sort of exploratory work was to be carried out in the grounds. (“Though really,” Hilary said, “one holds out little hope of it”) and that Vincent’s presence would be helpful.

Soon after luncheon Troy got ready for the road. She heard a commotion under her window and looked out.

Vincent and three other men were floundering about in a halfhearted way among broken glass and the dense thicket that invested the site of the old conservatory. They poked and thrust with forks and spades. “But that’s ridiculous,” thought Troy.

She found Hilary downstairs waiting to see her off.

He stared at her. “You look,” he said, “as if somebody had given you a wonderful present. Or made love to you. Or something.”

“And that’s exactly how I feel,” she said.

He was silent for so long and stared so hard that she was obliged to say: “Is anything more the matter?”

“I suppose not,” he said slowly. “I hope not. I was just wondering. However! Watch out for icy patches, won’t you? You can’t miss the turnings. Bon voyage.”

He watched her start up her engine, turned on his heel, and went quickly into the house.

In her walks Troy had always taken paths that led up to the moors: “The Land Beyond the Scarecrow,” she had called it to herself as if it belonged to a children’s story. Now she drove down the long drive that was to become a grand avenue. The bulldozer men were not at work over Christmas. Their half-formed hillock, and the bed for the lake that would reflect it, were covered with snow — the tractors looked ominous and dark under their tarpaulins. Further away stood a copse of bare trees that was evidently a feature of the original estate and beyond this, fields stretching downhill, away from the moors and towards a milder and more humanized landscape. At the end of the drive she crossed a bridge over a rapid brook that Hilary had told her would be developed, further upstream, into water gardens.

A drive of some twelve miles brought her to her destination. The late afternoon sun shone bravely, there was an air of normality and self-containment about the small country town of Downlow. Troy drove along the main street to the station, parked her car, and went through the office to the platform. Here, in the familiar atmosphere of paste, disinfectant and travel posters, Halberds seemed absurd and faintly distasteful.

She was early and walked up and down the platform, partly to keep warm and partly to work off her overstimulated sense of anticipation. Strange notions came into her head. As, for instance, would Cressida in — say — ten years’ time, feel more or less like this if she had been absent from Hilary for three weeks? Was Cressida much in love with Hilary? Did she passionately want to be mistress of Halberds? Judging by those representatives of county families who had rather uneasily attended the party, Cressida was unlikely to find a kindred spirit among them. Perhaps she and Hilary would spend most of their time in their S.W.1 flat, which Troy supposed to be on a pretty lavish scale. Would they take some of their murderers to look after them when they came up to London? Troy found that she felt uneasy about Cressida and obscurely sorry for her.

With a loud clank the signal arm jerked up. A porter and one or two other persons strolled onto the platform, and from down the line came the banshee whistle of the London train.

“Mind? Of course I don’t mind,” Alleyn said. “I thought I should be hanging about the flat waiting for you to come home! Instead of which, here we are, bold as brass, driving somebody else’s car through a Christmas tree landscape and suiting each other down to the ground. What’s wrong with that?”

“I’ve no complaints.”

“In that case you must now tell me what’s up in the Bill-Tasman outfit. You sounded greatly put out this morning.”

“Yes, well… all right. Hold on to your hat and fetch up all your willing suspension of unbelief. You’ll need it.”

“I’ve heard of Bill-Tasman’s experiment with villains for flunkies. Your letter seemed to suggest that it works.”

“That was early days. That was a week ago. I didn’t write again because there wasn’t time. Now, listen.”

“ ‘List, list, O list.’ ”

“Yes, well, it’s an earful.”

“ ‘Speak, I am bound to hear.’ ”

“Rory! Don’t be a detective.”

“Oops! Sorry.”

“Here I go, then.”

Troy had got about a third of the way through her narrative when her husband stopped her.

“I suppose,” he said, “I have to take it that you are not making this up as you go along.”

“I’m not even making the most of my raw material. Which part do you find difficult to absorb?”

“My trouble is quantitative rather than particular, but I find I jib at Aunt Bed. I don’t know why. I suppose she’s not somebody in disguise and camping it up?”

“That really would be a more appropriate theory for Mr. Smith.”

“Oh,” said Alleyn. “I know about your Mr. Smith. The firm of Bill-Tasman and Smith is at the top of the British if not the European antiquarian trade, and Albert Smith, from the police angle, is as pure as the driven snow. We’ve sought their opinions before now in cases of fraud, robbery from collections, and art forgeries. He started as a barrow-boy, he had a flair, and with the aid of Bill-Tasman, Senior, he got to the top. It’s not an unusual story, darling. It’s merely an extreme example. Press on.”

Troy pressed on with mileage and narrative. They reached the signpost for the Vale turn-off and began to climb the lower-reaches of the moors. Patches of snow appeared. In the far distance, Troy thought she recognized the high tor above the Vale.

Alleyn became quieter and quieter. Every now and then he questioned her and once or twice asked her to go over the ground again. She had got as far as the anonymous messages and the booby-trap when she interrupted herself. “Look,” she said. “See those plumes of smoke beyond the trees? We’re nearly there. That’s Halberds.”

“Could you pull up? I’d like to hear the lot while we’re at it.”

“O.K.”

She turned the car on to the verge of the road and stopped the engine. The sky had begun to darken, mist rose from hollows and blurred their windscreen. Rime glittered on a roadside briar.

“You must be starved with cold after Sydney in midsummer.”

“I’m treble-sweatered and quilted. Carry on, my love.”

Ten minutes later Troy said, “And that’s it. When I left, Vincent and some chaps were tramping about with forks and spades in the ruins of the conservatory.”

“Has Bill-Tasman reported to his local police?”

“I don’t think so.”

“He damn’ well ought to.”

“I think he’s holding back for you.”

“Like hell he is!”

“For your advice.”

“Which will be to call up the local station. What else, for pity’s sake? What’s he like, Bill-Tasman? He sounded precious on the telephone.”

“He’s a bit like a good-looking camel. Very paintable.”

“If you say so, darling.”

“He’s intelligent, affected and extremely companionable.”

“I see. And what about this chap Moult? Does he drink, did you say?”

“According to Aunt Bed, occasionally.”

“Jim Marchbanks is at the Vale.”

“I forgot to tell you — we’ve chummed up.”

“Have you now? Nice creature, isn’t he?”

They were silent for a minute or so. Presently Alleyn said his wife’s nose was as cold as an iced cherry but not as red. After a further interval she said she thought they should move on.

When they reached the turn in the drive where Halberds was fully revealed, Alleyn said that everything had become as clear as mud: Troy had obviously got herself into a film production, on location, of The Castle of Otranto and had been written into the script as the best way of keeping her quiet.

Blore and Mervyn came out to meet them. They both seemed to Troy to be excessively glum faced but their behaviour was impeccable. Mervyn, carrying Alleyn’s suitcase, led the way upstairs to a dressing-room on the far side of Troy’s bathroom and connecting with it.

“Mr. Bill-Tasman is in the boudoir, madam,” said Mervyn with his back to Alleyn. He cast a rather wild glance at Troy and withdrew.

“Is that chap’s name Cox?” Alleyn asked.

“I’ve no idea.”

“Mervyn Cox. Booby-trap. Flat iron. Killed Warty Thompson the cat-burglar. That’s the boy.”

“Did you —?”

“No. One of Fox’s cases. I just remembered.”

“I’m certain he didn’t rig that thing up for me.”

“You may well be right. Suspect anyone else?”

“No. Unless —”

“Unless?”

“It’s so farfetched. It’s just that there does appear to have been some sort of feud between Moult and the staff.”

“And Moult fixed the things up to look like Mervyn’s job? And wrote the messages in the same spirit? Out of spite?”

“He doesn’t seem to be particularly spiteful.”

“No?”

“He obviously adores the Colonel. You know — one of those unquestioning, dogged sort of attachments.”

“I know.”

“So what?”

“Well may you ask. What’s he like to look at?”

“Oh — rather upsetting, poor chap. He’s got a scarred face. Burns, I should imagine.”

“Come here to me.”

“I think you’d better meet Hilary.”

“Blast Hilary,” said Alleyn. “All right. I suppose so.”

It was abundantly clear to Troy, when they found Hilary alone in the boudoir, that something had been added to the tale of inexplicable events. He greeted Alleyn with almost feverish enthusiasm. He gushed about the portrait (presently they would look at it), and he also gushed about Troy, who refused to catch her husband’s eye. He talked more than a little wildly about Alleyn’s welcome return from the Antipodes. He finally asked, with a strange and most unsuccessful attempt at off-handedness, if Troy had told Alleyn of their “little mystery.” On hearing that she had he exclaimed, “No, but isn’t it a bore? I do so hate mysteries, don’t you? No, I suppose you don’t, as you perpetually solve them.”

“Have there been any developments?” Troy asked.

“Yes, as a matter of fact. Yes. I was leading up to them. I–I haven’t made it generally known as yet. I thought I would prefer —”

Cressida came in and Hilary madly welcomed her as if they had been parted for a week. She stared at him in amazement. On being introduced to Alleyn she gave herself a second or two to run over his points and from then until the end of the affair at Halberds made a dead set at him.

Cressida was not, Troy had to admit, a gross practitioner. She kept fractionally to the right of a frontal attack. Her method embraced the attentive ear, the slight smile of understanding, the very occasional glance. She made avoidance about ninety per cent more equivocal than an accidental brush of the hands, though that was not lacking either, Troy noticed, when Cressida had her cigarette lit.

Troy wondered if she always went into action when confronted with a personable man or if Alleyn had made a smash hit. Was Hilary at all affected by the manifestations? But Hilary, clearly, was fussed by other matters and his agitation increased when Mrs. Forrester came in.

She, in her way, also made a dead set at Alleyn, but her technique was widely different. She barely waited for the introduction.

“Just as well you’ve come,” she said. “High time. Now we shall be told what to do.”

“Aunt Bed — we mustn’t —”

“Nonsense, Hilary. Why else have you dragged him all this way? Not,” she added as an afterthought, “that he’s not pleased to see his wife, of course.”

“I’m delighted to see her,” said Alleyn.

“Who wouldn’t be!” Hilary exclaimed. Really, Troy thought, he was showing himself in a most peculiar light.

“Well?” Mrs. Forrester began on a rising inflexion.

Hilary intervened. He said, with a show of firmness, that perhaps a little consultation in the study might be an idea. When his aunt tried to cut in he talked her down, and as he talked he seemed to gain authority. In the upshot he took Alleyn by the elbow and, coruscating with feverish jokelets, piloted him out of the boudoir.

“Darling!” said Cressida to Troy before the door had shut. “Your husband! You know? And I mean this. The mostest.”

The study was in the east wing, next door to the boudoir. Hilary fussed about, turning on lamps and offering Alleyn tea (which he and Troy had missed), or a drink. “Such a mongrel time of day, I always think,” he said. “Are you sure you won’t?”

Alleyn said he was sure. “You want to talk about this business, don’t you?” he asked. “Troy’s told me the whole story. I think you should call your local police.”

“She said you’d say that. I did hope you wouldn’t mind if I just consulted you first.”

“Of course I don’t. But it’s getting on for twenty-four hours, isn’t it? I really don’t think you should wait any longer. It might be best to call up your provincial Detective-Superintendent. Do you know him?”

“Yes. Most uncongenial. Beastly about the staff. I really couldn’t.”

“All right. Where’s the nearest station? Downlow?”

“Yes. I believe so. Yes.”

“Isn’t the super there a chap called Wrayburn?”

“I–I did think of consulting Marchbanks. At the Vale, you know.”

“I’m sure he’d give you the same advice.”

“Oh!” Hilary cried out. “And I’m sure you’re right but I do dislike this sort of thing. I can’t expect you to understand, of course, but the staff here — they won’t like it either. They’ll hate it. Policemen all over the house. Asking questions. Upsetting them like anything.”

“I’m afraid they’ll have to lump it, you know.”

“Oh damn!” Hilary said pettishly. “All right. I’m sorry, Alleyn. I’m being disagreeable.”

“Ring Wrayburn up and get it over. After all, isn’t it just possible that Moult, for some reason that hasn’t appeared, simply walked down the drive and hitched a lift to the nearest station? Has anyone looked to see if his overcoat and hat and money are in his room?”

“Yes. Your wife thought of that. Nothing missing, as far as we could make out.”

“Well — ring up.”

Hilary stared at him, fetched a deep sigh, sat down at his desk, and opened his telephone directory.

Alleyn walked over to the window and looked out. Beyond the reflected image of the study he could distinguish a mass of wreckage — shattered glass, rubbish, trampled weeds and, rising out of them close at hand, a young fir with some of its boughs broken. Troy had shown him the view from her bedroom and he realized that this must be the sapling that grew beneath Colonel Forrester’s dressing-room window. It was somewhere about here, then, that she had seen Vincent dispose of the Christmas tree at midnight. Here, too, Vincent and his helpers had been trampling about with garden forks and spades when Troy left for Downlow. Alleyn shaded the pane and moved about until he could eliminate the ghostly study and look further into the dark ruin outside. Now he could make out the Christmas tree, lying in a confusion of glass, soil and weeds.

A fragment of tinsel still clung to one of its branches and was caught in the lamplight.

Hilary had got his connection. With his back to Alleyn he embarked on a statement to Superintendent Wrayburn of the Downlow Constabulary and, all things considered, made a pretty coherent job of it. Alleyn, in his day, had been many, many times rung up by persons in Hilary’s position who had given a much less explicit account of themselves. As Troy had indicated: Hilary was full of surprises.

Now he carefully enunciated details. Names. Times. A description. Mr. Wrayburn was taking notes.

“I’m much obliged to you,” Hilary said. “There is one other point, Superintendent. I have staying with me —”

“Here we go,” Alleyn thought.

Hilary screwed round in his chair and made a deprecatory face at him. “Yes,” he said. “Yes. At his suggestion, actually. He’s with me now. Would you like to speak to him? Yes, by all means.” He held out the receiver.

“Hullo,” Alleyn said, “Mr. Wrayburn?”

“Would this be Chief-Superintendent Alleyn?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, well, well. Long time,” said Mr. Wrayburn brightly, “no see. When was that case? Back in ’65.”

“That’s it. How are you, Jack?”

“Can’t complain. I understand there’s some bother up your way?”

“Looks like it.”

“What are you doing there, Chief?”

“I’m an accident. It’s none of my business.”

“But you reckon we ought to take a wee look-see?”

“Your D.C.C. would probably say so. Somebody ought to, I fancy.”

“It’s a cold, cold world. I was counting on a nice quiet Christmas. So what happens? A church robbery, a suspected arson, and three fatal smashes in my district and half my chaps down with flu. And now this. And look at you! You’re living it up, aren’t you? Seats of the Mighty?”

“You’ll come up, then, Jack?”

“That’s correct.”

“Good. And Jack — for your information, it’s going to be a search-party job.”

“Well, ta for the tip anyway. Over and out.”

Alleyn hung up. He turned to find Hilary staring at him over his clasped hands.

“Well,” Hilary said. “I’ve done it. Haven’t I?”

“It really was advisable, you know.”

“You don’t — You don’t ask me anything. Any questions about that wretched little man. Nothing.”

“It’s not my case.”

“You talk,” Hilary said crossly, “like a doctor.”

“Do I?”

“Etiquette. Protocol.”

“We have our little observances.”

“It would have been so much pleasanter — I’d made up my mind I’d — I’d —”

“Look here,” Alleyn said. “If you’ve got any kind of information that might have even a remote bearing on this business, do for Heaven’s sake let Wrayburn have it. You said, when we were in the other room, that there’s been a development.”

“I know I did. Cressida came in.”

“Yes — well, do let Wrayburn have it. It won’t go any further if it has no significance.”

“Hold on,” said Hilary. “Wait. Wait.”

He motioned Alleyn to sit down and, when he had done so, locked the door. He drew the window curtains close shut, returned to his desk, and knelt down before it.

“That’s a beautiful desk,” Alleyn said. “Hepplewhite?”

“Yes.” Hilary fished a key out of his pocket. “It’s intact. No restoration nonsense.” He reached into the back of the kneehole. Alleyn heard the key turn. Hilary seemed to recollect himself. With a curious half-sheepish glance at Alleyn, he wrapped his handkerchief about his hand. He groped. There was an interval of a few seconds and then he sat back on his heels.

“Look,” he said.

On the carpet, near Alleyn’s feet, he laid down a crumpled newspaper package.

Alleyn leant forward. Hilary pulled back the newspaper.

He disclosed a short steel poker with an ornate handle.

Alleyn looked at it for a moment. “Yes?” he said. “Where did you find it?”

“That’s what’s so — upsetting.” Hilary gave a sideways motion of his head towards the window. “Out there,” he said. “Where you were looking — I saw you — just now when I was on the telephone. In the tree.”

“The Christmas tree?”

“No, no, no. The growing tree. Inside it. Lying across the branches. Caught up, sort of, by the handle.”

“When did you find it?”

“This afternoon. I was in here wondering whether, after all, I should ring up Marchbanks or the police and hating the idea of ringing up anybody because of — you understand — the staff. And I walked over to the window and looked out. Without looking. You know? And then I saw something catching the light in the tree. I didn’t realize at once what it was. The tree’s quite close to the window — almost touching it. So I opened the window and looked more carefully and finally I stepped over the ledge and got it. I’m afraid I didn’t think of fingerprints at that juncture.”

Alleyn, sitting on the edge of his chair, still looked at the poker. “You recognize it?” he said. “Where it comes from?”

“Of course. I bought it. It’s part of a set. Late eighteenth century. Probably Welsh. There’s a Welsh press to go with it.”

“Where?”

“Uncle Flea’s dressing-room.”

“I see.”

“Yes, but do you? Did Troy tell you? About the Fleas’ tin box?”

“Mrs. Forrester says somebody had tried to force the lock?”

“Exactly! Precisely! With a poker. She actually said with a poker. Well: as if with a poker. And it wasn’t Moult because Moult, believe it or not, keeps the key. So why a poker for Moult?”

“Quite.”

“And — there are dark marks on it. At the end. If you look. Mightn’t they be stains of black japanning? It’s a japanned tin box. Actually, Uncle Flea’s old uniform case.”

“Have you by any chance got a lens?”

“Of course I’ve got a lens,” Hilary said querulously. “One constantly uses lenses in our business. Here. Wait a moment.”

He found one in his desk and gave it to Alleyn.

It was not very high-powered but it was good enough to show, at the business end of the poker, a dark smear hatched across by scratches: a slight glutinous deposit to which the needle from a conifer adhered. Alleyn stooped lower.

Hilary said, “Well? Anything?”

“Did you look closely at this?”

“No, I didn’t, I was expecting my aunt to come in. Aunt Bed is perpetually making entrances. She wanted to harry me and I didn’t want to add to her fury by letting her see this. So I wrapped it up and locked it away. Just in time, as it turned out. In she came with all her hackles up. If ladies have hackles.”

“But you did notice the marks then?”

“Yes. Just.”

“They’re not made by lacquer.”

“Oh?”

“I’m afraid not.”

“Afraid? What do you mean — afraid?”

“See for yourself.”

Alleyn gave Hilary the glass. Hilary stared at him and then knelt by the crumpled paper with its trophy. Alleyn moved the desk lamp to throw a stronger light on the area. Hilary bent his body as if he performed some oriental obeisance before the poker.

“Do you see?” Alleyn said. “It’s not what you supposed, is it? Look carefully. The deposit is sticky, isn’t it? There’s a fir needle stuck to it. And underneath — I think Mr. Wrayburn would rather you didn’t touch it — underneath, but just showing one end, there’s a gold-coloured thread. Do you see it?”

“I — yes. Yes, I think — yes —”

“Tell me,” Alleyn asked. “What colour was the Druid’s wig?”

“Now, I tell you what,” Alleyn said to his wife. “This thing has all the signs of becoming a top-ranking nuisance, and I’m damned if I’ll have you involved in it. You know what happened that other time you got stuck into a nuisance.”

“If you’re thinking of bundling me off to a pub in Downlow, I’ll jib.”

“What I’m thinking of is a quick return by both of us to London.”

“Before the local force gets any ideas about you?”

“Exactly.”

“You’re a bit late for that, darling, aren’t you? Where’s Mr. Wrayburn?”

“In the study, I imagine. I left Bill-Tasman contemplating his poker and I told him it’d be better if he saw the Super alone. He didn’t much like the idea, but there it is.”

“Poor Hilary!”

“I daresay. It’s a bit of an earthquake under his ivory tower, isn’t it?”

“Do you like him, Rory?”

Alleyn said, “I don’t know. I’m cross with him because he’s being silly but — yes, I suppose if we’d met under normal conditions I’d have quite liked him. Why?”

“He’s a strange one. When I was painting him I kept thinking of such incongruous things.”

“Such as?”

“Oh — fauns and camels and things.”

“Which does his portrait favour?”

“At first, the camel. But the faun has sort of intervened — I mean the Pan job, you know, not the sweet little deer.”

“So I supposed. If he’s a Pan-job I’ll bet he’s met his match in his intended nymph.”

“She went in, boots and all, after you, didn’t she?”

“If only,” Alleyn said, “I could detect one pinch, one soupçon, of the green-eyed monster in you, my dish, I’d crow like a bloody rooster.”

“We’d better finish changing. Hilary will be expecting us. Drinks at seven. You’re to meet Mr. Smith and the Fleas.”

“I can wait.”

There was a tap at the door.

“You won’t have to,” said Troy. “Come in.”

It was Nigel, all downcast eyes, to present Mr. Bill-Tasman’s compliments to Mr. Alleyn and he would be very glad if Mr. Alleyn would join him in the study.

“In five minutes,” Alleyn said, and when Nigel had gone: “Which was that?”

“The one that killed a sinful lady. Nigel.”

“I thought as much. Here I go.”

He performed one of the lightning changes to which Troy was pretty well accustomed, gave her a kiss, and went downstairs.

Superintendent Wrayburn was a sandy man; big, of course, but on the bonier side. He was principally remarkable for his eyebrows, which resembled those of a Scotch terrier, and his complexion which, in midwinter, was still freckled like a plover’s egg.

Alleyn found him closeted with Hilary in the study. The poker, rewrapped, lay on the desk. Before Hilary was a glass of sherry and before Mr. Wrayburn, a pretty generous whisky and water, from which Alleyn deduced that he hadn’t definitely made up his mind what sort of job he seemed to be on. He was obviously glad to see Alleyn and said it was quite a coincidence, wasn’t it?

Hilary made some elaborate explanations about drinks being served for the houseparty in the drawing-room at seven but perhaps they could join the others a little later and in the meantime — surely now Alleyn would —?

“Yes, indeed. Thank you,” Alleyn said. “Since I’m not on duty,” he added lightly and Mr. Wrayburn blushed beyond his freckles.

“Well — nor am I,” he said quickly. “Yet. I hope. Not exactly.”

Superintendent Wrayburn, Hilary explained, had only just arrived, having been held up at the station. He’d had a cold drive. It was snowing again. He was more than pleased to have Alleyn with them. He, Hilary, was about to give Mr. Wrayburn a — Hilary boggled a little at the word — a statement about the “unfortunate mishap.”

Alleyn said “of course” and no more than that. Mr. Wrayburn produced his regulation notebook, and away Hilary went, not overcoherently and yet, Alleyn fancied, with a certain degree of artfulness. He began with Moult’s last-minute substitution at the Christmas tree, and continued with Vincent’s assurance that he had seen Moult (whom he thought to be the Colonel) after the performance, run from the courtyard into the entrance porch and thence to the dressing-room. “Actually,” Hilary explained, “it’s a cloakroom on one’s right as one comes into the house. It’s in the angle of the hall and the drawing-room which was so convenient. There’s a door from it into the hall itself and another one into the entrance porch. To save muddy boots, you know, from coming into the house.”

“Quite,” said Mr. Wrayburn. He gazed at his notes. “So the last that’s known of him, then, is —?”

“Is when, having taken off his robe and makeup with Miss Tottenham’s help, he presumably left the cloakroom with the avowed intention of going up to Colonel Forrester.”

“Did he leave the cloakroom by the door into the hall, sir?”

“Again — presumably. He would hardly go out into the porch and double back into the hall, would he?”

“You wouldn’t think so, sir, would you? And nobody saw him go upstairs?”

“No. But there’s nothing remarkable in that. The servants were getting the children’s supper ready. The only light, by my express orders, was from the candles on their table. As you’ve seen, there are two flights of stairs leading to a gallery. The flight opposite this cloakroom door is farthest away from the children’s supper table. The staff would be unlikely to notice Moult unless he drew attention to himself. Actually Moult was —” Hilary boggled slightly and then hurried on. “Actually,” he said, “Moult was supposed to help them but, of course, that was arranged before there was any thought of his substituting for Colonel Forrester.”

“Yes, sir. I appreciate the position. Are there,” Wrayburn asked, “coats and so forth in this cloakroom, sir? Mackintoshes and umbrellas and gum boots and so on?”

“Good for you, Jack,” thought Alleyn.

“Yes. Yes, there are. Are you wondering,” Hilary said quickly, “if, for some reason —?”

“We’ve got to consider everything, haven’t we, Mr. Bill-Tasman?”

“Of course. Of course. Of course.”

“You can’t think of any reason, sir, however farfetched, like, that would lead Mr. Moult to quit the premises and, if you’ll excuse the expression, do a bunk?”

“No. No. I can’t. And—” Hilary looked nervously at Alleyn. “Well — there’s a sequel. You’re yet to hear — ”

And now followed the story of the japanned uniform box, at which Mr. Wrayburn failed entirely to conceal his astonishment and, a stunning climax, the exhibition of the poker.

Alleyn had been waiting for this. He felt a certain amusement in Mr. Wrayburn’s change of manner, which was instant and sharp. He became formal. He looked quickly from Hilary to the object on the desk and upon that his regard became fixed. The lens lay near at hand. Mr. Wrayburn said, “May I?” and used it with great deliberation. He then stared at Alleyn.

‘I take it,“ he said, ”You’ve seen this?”

Alleyn nodded.

Hilary now repeated his account of the finding of the poker, and Mr. Wrayburn peered out of the window and asked his questions and made his notes. All through this procedure he seemed in some indefinable way to invite Alleyn to enter into the discussion and to be disappointed that he remained silent.

Hilary avoided looking at the object on his desk. He turned his back, bent over the fire, made as if to stir it and, apparently disliking the feel of the study poker, dropped it with a clatter in the hearth.

Wrayburn said, “Yes,” several times in a noncommittal voice and added that things had taken quite a little turn, hadn’t they, and he must see what they could do about it. He told Hilary he’d like to take care of the poker and was there perhaps a cardboard box? Hilary offered to ring for one, but Wrayburn said he wouldn’t bother the staff at this stage. After some rummaging in his bureau, Hilary found a long tubular carton with a number of maps in it. He took them out and Wrayburn slid the wrapped poker tenderly into it. He suggested that it might be as well not to publicize the poker and Hilary was in feverish agreement. Wrayburn thought he would like to have a wee chat with the Detective Chief-Superintendent about the turn this seemed to be taking. Hilary winced. Wrayburn then asked Alleyn if he would be kind enough to show him the cloakroom. Hilary began to say that he himself would do so, but stopped short and raised his shoulders.

“I see,” he said. “Very well.” Alleyn went to the door, followed by Wrayburn carrying the carton. “Mr. Wrayburn!” Hilary said loudly.

“Sir?”

“I am sure you are going to talk about my staff.”

“I was only,” Wrayburn said in a hurry, “going to ask, as a matter of routine, for the names of your guests and the staff. We — er — we have to make these inquiries, sir.”

“Possibly. Very well, you shall have them. But I must tell you, at once, that whatever theory you may form as to the disappearance of this man, there is no question, there can never be any question, no matter what emerges, that any one of my staff, in even the remotest fashion, is concerned in it. On that point,” said Hilary, “I am and I shall remain perfectly adamant.”

“Strong,” said Mr. Wrayburn.

“And meant to be,” said Hilary.