Ngaio Marsh - Tied Up in Tinsel

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.