Tied Up in Tinsel (7 page)

“Tending towards black comedy?”

“He might have invented the term. All the same,” Hilary said, “he’s an astute judge of character and I–I can’t pretend he isn’t, although —”

He left this observation unfinished. “I think I’ll do the tree,” he said. “It settles one’s nerves.”

He opened the lid of the packing-case that had been placed near the tree.

Mr. Smith had left ajar the double doors into the great hall from whence there now came sounds of commotion. Somebody was stumbling rapidly downstairs and making ambiguous noises as he came. A slither was followed by an oath and an irregular progress across the hall. The doors burst wide open and in plunged Mr. Smith: an appalling sight.

He was dressed in pyjamas and a florid dressing gown. One foot was bare, the other slippered. His sparse hair was disordered. His eyes protruded. And from his open mouth issued dollops of foam.

He retched, gesticulated, and contrived to speak.

“Poisoned!” he mouthed. “I been poisoned.”

An iridescent bubble was released from his lips. It floated towards the tree, seemed to hang for a moment like an ornament from one of the boughs.

“Soap,” Hilary said. “It’s soap, Uncle Bert. Calm yourself for Heaven’s sake and wash your mouth out. Go to a downstairs cloakroom, I implore you.”

Mr. Smith incontinently bolted.

“Hadn’t you better see to him?” Troy asked.

“What next, what next! How inexpressibly distasteful. However.”

Hilary went. There followed a considerable interval, after which Troy heard them pass through the hall on their way upstairs. Soon afterwards Hilary returned looking deeply put out.

“In his barley water,” he said. “The strongest possible solution of soap. Carnation. He’s been hideously sick. This settles it.”

“Settles —?”

“It’s some revolting practical joker. No, but it’s too bad! And in the pocket of his pyjama jacket another of these filthy notes. ‘What price Arsnic.’ He might have died of fright.”

“How is he, in fact?”

“Wan but recovering. In a mounting rage.”

“Small blame to him.”

“Somebody shall smart for this,” Hilary threatened.

“I suppose it couldn’t be the new boy in the kitchen?”

“I don’t see it. He doesn’t know their backgrounds. This is somebody who knows about Nigel’s sinful lady and Blore’s being a cuckold and Vincent’s slip over the arsenical weedkiller.”

“And Mervyn’s booby-trap,” Troy said before she could stop herself. Hilary stared at her.

“You’re not going to tell me —?
You are
!”

“I promised I wouldn’t. I suppose these other jobs sort of let me out but — all right, there was an incident. I’m sure he had nothing to do with it. Don’t corner me.”

Hilary was silent for some time after this. Then he began taking boxes of Christmas tree baubles out of the packing case.

“I’m going to ignore the whole thing,” he said. “I’m going to maintain a masterly inactivity. Somebody wants me to make a big scene and I won’t. I won’t upset my stall. I won’t have my Christmas ruined. Sucks-boo to whoever it may be. It’s only ten to eleven, believe it or not. Come on, let’s do the tree.”

They did the tree. Hilary had planned a golden colour scheme. They hung golden glass baubles, big in the lower branches and tapering to miniscule ones at the top, where they mounted a golden angel. There were festoons of glittering gold tinsel and masses of gilded candles. Golden stars shone in and out of the foliage. It was a most fabulous tree.

“And I’ve even gilded the people in the crib,” he said. “I hope Aunt Bed won’t object. And just you wait till the candles are lit.”

“What about the presents? I suppose there are presents?”

“The children’s will be in golden boxes brought in by Uncle Flea, one for each family. And ours, suitably wrapped, on a side table. Everybody finds their own because Uncle Flea can’t read the labels without his specs. He merely tows in the boxes in a little golden car on runners.”

“From outside? Suppose it’s a rough night?”

“If it’s too bad we’ll have to bring the presents in from the hall.”

“But the Colonel will still come out of the storm?”

“He wouldn’t dream of doing anything else.” With some hesitation Troy suggested that Colonel Forrester didn’t seem very robust and was ill-suited to a passage, however brief, through the rigours of a midwinter storm, clad, she understood, in gold lamé. Hilary said he could wear gloves. Noticing, perhaps, that she was not persuaded, he said Vincent would hold an umbrella over the Colonel and that in any case it wouldn’t do for his wig and crown of mistletoe to get wet although, he added, a sprinkling of snow would be pretty. “But of course it would melt,” he added. “And that could be disastrous.”

Hilary was perched on the top of the stepladder. He looked down through green foliage and golden baubles at Troy.

“You don’t approve,” he said. “You think I’m effete and heartless and have lost my sense of spiritual values.”

This came uncomfortably near to what in fact Troy had been thinking.

“You may be right,” he went on before she could produce an answer. “But at least I don’t pretend. For instance, I’m a snob. I set a lot of importance on my being of ancient lineage. I wouldn’t have proposed to my lovely, lovely Cressida if she’d had a tatty origin. I value family trees even more than Christmas trees. And I love being rich and able to have a truly golden tree.”

“Oh,” Troy said, “I’ve nothing but praise for the golden tree.”

“I understand you perfectly. You must pray for me in the chapel tomorrow.”

“I’m not qualified.”

Hilary said, “Never mind about all that. I’ve been keeping the chapel as a surprise. It really is quite lovely.”

“Are you a Christian?”

“In the context,” said Hilary, “it doesn’t arise. Be an angel and hand up a bauble.”

It was midnight when they had completed their work. They stood at the other end of the long room before the dying fire and admired it.

“There will be no light but the candles,” Hilary said. “It will be perfectly magical. A dream-tree. I hope the children will be enchanted, don’t you?”

“They can’t fail. I shall go to bed, now, I think.”

“How nice it’s been, doing it with you,” he said, linking his arm in hers and leading her down the room. “It has quite taken away all that other beastly nonsense. Thank you so much. Have you admired Nigel’s kissing bough?”

They were under it. Troy looked up and was kissed.

“Happy Christmas,” said Hilary.

She left him there and went up to her room.

When she opened her wardrobe she was surprised to hear a murmur of voices in the Forresters’ room. It was distant and quite indistinguishable but as she hung up her dress she heard footsteps tread towards her and the Colonel’s voice, close at hand, said very loudly and most decisively: “No, my dear, that is absolutely final. And if you don’t, I will.”

A door slammed. Troy had a picture of Mrs. Forrester banging her way into their bathroom but a moment later had to reverse this impression into one of her banging her way back into the bedroom. Her voice rose briefly and indistinctly. The Colonel’s footfall receded. Troy hastily shut the wardrobe door and went to bed.

Christmas day came in with a wan glint of sunshine. The view from Troy’s bedroom might have been framed by robins, tinsel and holly. Snow took the sting out of a landscape that could have been set up during the night for Hilary’s satisfaction.

As she dressed, Troy could hear the Forresters shouting to each other next door and concluded that the Colonel was back on his usual form. When she opened her wardrobe she heard the now familiar jangle of coat hangers on the other side.

“Good-morning!” Troy shouted. She tapped on the common wall. “Happy Christmas!” she cried.

A man’s voice said, “Thank you, madam. I’ll tell the Colonel and Mrs. Forrester.”

Moult.

She heard him go away. There was a distant conjunction of voices and then he returned, discreetly tapping on the wall.

“The Colonel and Mrs. Forrester’s compliments, madam, and they would be very happy if you would look in.”

“In five minutes,” Troy shouted. “Thank you.”

When she made her call she found Colonel and Mrs. Forrester in bed and bolt upright under a green-lined umbrella of the sort associated with Victorian missionaries and Empire builders. The wintry sun lay across their counterpane. Each wore a scarlet dressing gown the skirts of which were deployed round the wearer like some monstrous calyx. They resembled gods of a sort.

In unison they wished Troy a Happy Christmas and invited her to sit down.

“Being an artist,” Mrs. Forrester said, “you will not find it out-of-the-way to be informally received.”

At the far end of the room a door into their bathroom stood open and beyond that a second door into a dressing-room where Moult could be seen brushing a suit.

“I had heard,” said Troy, “about the umbrella.”

“We don’t care for the sun in our eyes. I wonder,” said Mrs. Forrester, “if I might ask you to shut the bathroom door. Thank you very much. Moult has certain prejudices which we prefer not to arouse. Fred, put in your aid. I said put in your aid.”

Colonel Forrester, who had smiled and nodded a great deal without seeming to hear anything much, found his hearing aid on his bedside table and fitted it into his ear.

“It’s a wonderful invention,” he said. “I’m a little worried about wearing it tonight, though. But, after all, the wig’s awfully long. A Druid with a visible hearing aid would be
too
absurd, don’t you think?”

“First of all,” Mrs. Forrester began, “were there any developments after we went to bed?”

“We’re dying to know,” said the Colonel.

Troy told them about Mr. Smith and. the soap. Mrs. Forrester rubbed her nose vexedly. “That’s very tiresome,” she said. “It upsets my theory. Fred, it upsets my theory.”

“Sickening for you, B.”

“And yet, does it? I’m not so sure. It might be a ruse, you know, I said…”

“I’m wearing my aid, B.”

“What,” Troy asked, “is your theory?”

“I was persuaded that Smith wrote the letters.”

“But surely…”

“He’s a good creature in many ways but his sense of humour is coarse and he dislikes Cressida Tottenham.”

“B, my dear, I’m sure you’re mistaken.”

“No you’re not. You’re afraid I’m right. He doesn’t think she’s good enough for Hilary. Nor do I.”

“Be that as it may, B —”

“Be that as it is, you mean. Don’t confuse me, Fred.”

“— Bert Smith would certainly not write that disgraceful message to me. About you.”

“I don’t agree. He’d think it funny.”

The Colonel looked miserable. “But it’s not,” he said.

“Hilary thought it funny,” Mrs. Forrester said indignantly and turned to Troy. “Did
you
? I suppose Hilary told you what it said.”

“In general terms.”

“Well? Funny?”

Troy said, “At the risk of making myself equally objectionable I’m afraid I’ve got to confess that —”

“Very well. You need go no further.” Mrs. Forrester looked at her husband and remarked, astoundingly. “Impertinent, yes. Unfounded, of course. Preposterous, not so farfetched as you may suppose.”

A reminiscent gleam, Troy could have sworn, came into Mrs. Forrester’s eye.

“I don’t believe Bert would make himself sick,” the Colonel urged.

“I wouldn’t put it past him,” Mrs. Forrester said darkly. “However,” she continued with a wave of her hand, “that is unimportant. What I wished to talk to you about, Mrs. Alleyn, is the line I hope we shall all take in this matter. Fred and I have decided to ignore it. To dismiss it —” she swept her arm across the Colonel, who blinked and drew back “— entirely. As if it had never been. We refuse to give the perpetrator of these insults, the satisfaction of paying them the slightest attention. We hope you will join us in this stand.”

“
Because
,” her husband added, “it would only spoil everything— the tree and so on. We’re having a rehearsal after church and one must give one’s full attention.”

“And you’re quite recovered, Colonel?”

“Yes, yes, quite, thank you. It’s my old ticker, you know. A leaky valve or some nonsense of that sort, the quacks tell me. Nothing to fuss about.”

“Well,” Troy said, getting up, “I’ll agree — mum’s the word.”

“Good. That settles that. I don’t know how this gel of yours is going to behave herself, Fred.”

“She’s
not mine
, B.”

“She was your responsibility.”

“Not now, though.” The Colonel turned towards Troy but did not look at her. His face was pink. He spoke rapidly as if he had memorized his observations and wished to get rid of them. “Cressida,” he explained, “is the daughter of a young fellow in my regiment. Germany. 1950. We were on an exercise and my jeep overturned.” Here the Colonel’s eyes filled with tears. “And do you know this dear fellow got me out? I was pinned face down in the mud and he got me out and then the most dreadful things happened. Collapse. Petrol. And I promised him I’d keep an eye on the child.”

“Luckily,” said Mrs. Forrester, “she was well provided for. School in Switzerland and all that. I say nothing of the result.”

“Her mother died, poor thing. In childbirth.”

“And now,” said Mrs. Forrester, suddenly shutting up their umbrella with a definite snap, “now she’s in some sort of actressy business.”

“She’s an awfully pretty girl, don’t you think?”

“Lovely,” said Troy warmly and went down to breakfast.

Hilary was busy during the morning, but Troy did a certain amount of work on the portrait before making herself ready for church.

When she looked through the library windows that gave on the great courtyard, she got quite a shock. Nigel had completed his effigy. The packing case was mantled in frozen snow and on top of it, sharply carved and really quite impressive in his glittering iciness, lay Hilary’s Bill-Tasman ancestor, his hands crossed, rather like flatfish, on his breast.

At half-past ten, the monk’s bell rang fast and exuberantly in its tower as if its operator was a bit above himself. Troy made her way downstairs and across the hall and, following instructions, turned right into the corridor which served the library, the breakfast-room, the boudoir, Hilary’s study and, as it now transpired, the chapel.