Tied Up In Tinsel. Ngaio Marsh

       CHAPTER 3

       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, re-read 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 goes. 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