Ngaio Marsh - Tied Up in Tinsel

“Of course — I’ll—”

“Don’t move. I’ll get it. It’s on your desk. One other thing — may I take a look at your quarters, Colonel?”

“Certainly. Certainly. If there’s anything you’d like me to show you,” said Colonel Forrester with obvious keenness, “I’ll be glad —”

“No, Fred,” said his wife. “You don’t start that sort of nonsense. Rushing up and down stairs and looking for clues. I said rushing —”

“I know you did, B. It doesn’t apply.”

“If I need help,” Alleyn said, “I’ll come and ask for it. May I?”

“You do that,” said the Colonel warmly and threw a bold look at his wife. “I’ll be delighted. By all means. You do that.”

So Alleyn collected the lens, found Wrayburn and took him upstairs, and Troy, in an extraordinary state of semi-detachment, went in with the houseparty to dinner.

Moult’s bedroom in the top story at Halberds gave evidence, in its appointments, of Hilary’s consideration for his staff. It exhibited, however, the pathological orderliness of an army barracks and had the same smell: a compound of boot-polish, leather, fag-ends, heavy cloth and an indefinable stale masculinity.

Moult’s topcoat, outdoor suit and shoes, hat and gloves were all properly disposed. His empty suitcase was stowed at the back of his wardrobe. His blameless underwear lay impeccably folded in his clothespress. Even his borderline-pornographic reading was neatly stacked on his bedside table. On the dressing table was a pigskin case with his initials on it. Opened, it revealed two old-fashioned silver-backed brushes, a comb and a card. Alleyn showed the card to Wrayburn. “Lt. Col. F. Fleaton Forrester” on one side and on the other, in a sharply pointed hand, “A. Moult. On the twenty-fifth anniversary of a very happy association. F. F.”

When they found Moult’s wallet in a drawer of his dressing table it too proved to be initialled and of pigskin. The card inside, Mrs. Fleaton Forrester’s, said abruptly, “Moult. 1946–1971. B. F.” It contained no money but a list of telephone numbers and three snapshots. The first showed the Colonel in uniform, mounted on a charger, and Sergeant Moult in uniform and on foot saluting him. A round-faced man with monkeylike cheeks heavily scarred. The second showed the Colonel and Mrs. Forrester gazing disconsolately at a tract of moorland and Moult gazing respectfully at them. The third was faded and altogether had the appearance of being much older. It was a snapshot of a younger Moult with one stripe up, holding by the hand an overdressed little girl of about four.

“That’ll be the man himself in all three, will it?” Wrayburn speculated.

“Yes. You notice the scarred face?”

“Married? With a kid?”

“Doesn’t follow as the night the day. It may be anybody’s infant-phenomenon.”

“I suppose so.”

“When my chaps get here,” Alleyn said, “we’ll take dabs. And when we lay the dogs on, we’ll show them one of his shoes. Did I tell you the Colonel also suggested dogs from the Vale? Hullo! Listen to this!”

A hullabaloo of sorts had broken out in the chimney: a confusion of sound, thrown about and distorted, blown down and sucked back as if by some gigantic and inefficient flautist.

“That’s the Nor’east Buster getting up,” Wrayburn said. “That’s bad. That’s a nuisance.”

“Why?”

“It means rain in these parts. Very heavy as a rule.”

“Snow?”

“More likely floods. Here she comes.”

The window rattled violently and was suddenly hit by a great buffet of rain.

“Lovely hunting weather,” Alleyn grunted. “Still — you never know. It may do us more good than harm. We’ll lock up here and penetrate the Forrester suite. Come on.”

They went down to the next floor and walked along the heavily carpeted corridor serving the guest rooms. It was lit by only a third of its shaded wall lamps and very quiet. No rumour of the storm outside or of life within the house. Alleyn supposed the guests and Hilary were all in the dining-room and suddenly felt ravenous. He was about to say so but instead laid his hand on Wrayburn’s arm and motioned him to be quiet. He pointed ahead. From under one of the doors a sliver of light showed on the red carpet.

Alleyn counted doors. Troy had told him which room belonged to which guest. They now approached his dressing-room, linked by a bathroom with Troy’s bedroom. Next came the Forresters’ bedroom, bathroom and dressing-room. Beyond these were Mr. Smith and, on the front corner of the east wing in a large room with its own bathroom, Cressida. Where Hilary himself slept — no doubt in some master apartment of great stateliness — Troy had had no idea.

It was from under the Forresters’ bedroom door that the light showed.

Alleyn listened for a moment and could hear nothing. He made a quick decision. He motioned Wrayburn to stay where he was and himself opened the door and walked straight in.

He did so to the accompaniment of a loud crash.

A man at the window turned to face him: a blond, pale man whom he had seen before, wearing dark trousers and an alpaca jacket.

“Good evening again,” Alleyn said. “I’ve made a mistake. I thought this was my wife’s room.”

“Next door,” the man barely articulated.

“Stupid of me. You must be Nigel, I think.”

“That’s right, sir.”

“I’ve been admiring your work in the courtyard. It really is quite something.”

Nigel’s lips moved. He was saying, inaudibly, “Thank you very much.”

The windowpane behind him streamed with driven rain. His head, face and the front of his jacket were wet.

“You’ve been caught,” Alleyn said lightly.

Nigel said: “It’s come down very sudden. I was — I was closing the window, sir. It’s very awkward, this window.”

“It’ll ruin your snow sculpture, I’m afraid.”

Nigel suddenly said, “It may be a judgment.”

“A judgment? On whom? For what?”

“There’s a lot of sin about,” Nigel said loudly. “One way and another. You never know.”

“Such as?”

“Heathen practices. Disguised as Christian. There’s hints of blasphemy there. Touches of it. If rightly looked at.”

“You mean the Christmas tree?”

“Heathen practices round graven images. Caperings. And see what’s happened to him.”

“What has happened to him?” asked Alleyn and wondered if he’d struck some sort of lunatic bonanza.

“He’s gone .”

“Where?”

“Ah! Where! That’s what sin does for you. I know. Nobody better. Seeing what I been myself.”

Nigel’s face underwent an extraordinary change. His mouth hung open, his nostrils distended, his white eyelashes fluttered and then, like a microcosm of the deluge outside, he wept most copiously.

“Now, look here —” Alleyn began but Nigel with an unconscionable roar fled from the room and went thudding down the corridor.

Wrayburn appeared in the doorway. “What the hell’s all that in aid of?” he asked. “Which of them was it?”

“That was Nigel, the second houseman, who once made effigies but became a religious maniac and killed a sinful lady. He is said to be cured.”

“Cured!”

“Although I believe Mr. Bill-Tasman has conceded that when Nigel remembers his crime he is inclined to weep. He remembered it just now.”

“I overheard some of his remarks. The chap’s certifiable. Religious maniac.”

“I wonder why he leaned out of the window.”

“He did?”

“I fancy so. He was too wet to match his story about just shutting it. And there’s a very little rain on the carpet. I don’t believe it was open until he opened it.”

“Funny!”