Tied Up in Tinsel (12 page)

“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.