Read Online Tied Up in Tinsel by Ngaio Marsh - Free Book Online Page A

Moult’s been with us for twenty years.”
    “What’s that got to do with it?”
    “Oh
Lord
!” Cressida said loudly and dropped into an armchair.
    “— and who’s going to read out the names?” the Colonel speculated. “I can’t wear my specs. They’d look silly.”
    “
Fred!
”
    “What, B?”
    “Come over here, I said come over here.”
    “Why? I’m working things out.”
    “You’re overexciting yourself. Come here. It’s about Moult, I said it’s…”
    The Colonel, for him almost crossly, said, “You’ve interrupted my train of thought, B. What about Moult?”
    As if in response to a heavily contrived cue and a shove from offstage, the door opened and in came Moult himself, carrying a salver.
    “Beg pardon, sir,” Moult said to Hilary, “but I thought perhaps this might be urgent, sir. For the Colonel, sir.”
    “What
is
it, Moult?” the Colonel asked quite testily.
    Moult advanced the salver in his employer’s direction. Upon it lay an envelope addressed in capitals: “COL. FORRESTER.”
    “It was on the floor of your room, sir. By the door, sir. I thought it might be urgent,” said Moult.

Three — 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