Tied Up in Tinsel

“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, reread 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 go’s. 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 rather ridiculous, you know.”

“I don’t know. Outrageous, yes. Ridiculous, no. This person should be horsewhipped.”

“Yes, indeed. But I’m not quite up to horsewhipping, B, and in any case one doesn’t know who to whip.”

“One can find out, I hope.”

“Yes, well, that’s another story. Hilly and I must have a good talk.”

“What you must do is go to bed,” she said.

“Well — perhaps. I do want to be all right for tomorrow, don’t I? And yet — we were going to do the tree and I love that.”

“Don’t be a fool, Fred. We’ll ring for Moult. Hilary and he can —”

“I don’t want Hilary and Moult. There’s no need. I’ll go upstairs backwards if you like. Don’t fuss, B.” Colonel Forrester stood up. He made Troy a little bow. “I am so awfully sorry,” he said, “for being such a bore.”

“You’re nothing of the sort.”

“Sweet of you. Good-night. Good-night, Cressida, my dear. Good-night, Bert. Ready, B?”

“He’s the boss, after all,” Troy thought as he left on his wife’s arm. Hilary followed them out.

“What a turn-up for the books,” Mr. Smith remarked. “Oh dear!”

Cressida dragged herself out of her chair. “Everybody’s on about the Forrester bit,” she complained. “Nobody seems to remember I’ve been insulted. We’re not even allowed to know what this one said. You know. What was written. They could hardly call Aunt B a sinful lady, could they? Or could they?”

“Not,” said Mr. Smith, “with any marketing potential they couldn’t.”

“I’m going to bed,” Cressida said, trailing about the room. “I want a word with Hilary. I’ll find him upstairs, I suppose. Good-night, Mrs. Alleyn.”

“Do we just abandon all this — the tree and so on?”

“I daresay he’ll do it when he comes down. It’s not late, after all, is it? Good-night, Mr. Smith.”

“ ’Nighty-night, Beautiful,” said Mr. Smith. “Not to worry. It’s a fu

“I must say I do, rather. You know?” said Cressida and left them.

“Marvellous!” Mr. Smith observed and poured himself a drink. “Can I offer you anything, Mrs. A?”

“Not at the moment, thank you. Do you think this is all a rather objectionable practical joke?”

“Ah! That’s talking. Do I? Not to say practical joke, exactly, I don’t. But in a ma

He broke off and looked pretty sharply at Troy. “Upset your apple-cart a bit, has it?”

“Well —”

“Here! You haven’t been favoured, yourself? Have you?”

“Not with a message.”

“With something, though?”

“Nothing that matters,” said Troy, remembering her promise to Mervyn and wishing Mr. Smith was not quite so sharp.

“Keeping it to yourself?” he said. “Your privilege of course, but whatever it is if I was you I’d tell ’Illy. Oh, well. It’s been a long day and all. I wouldn’t say no to a bit of kip, myself.” He sipped his drink. “Very nice,” he said, “but the best’s to come.”

“The best?”

“My nightcap. Know what it is? Barley water. Fact. Barley water with a squeeze of lemon. Take it every night of my life. Keeps me regular and suits my fancy. ’Illy tells that permanent spectre of his to set it up for me in my room.”

“Nigel?”

“That’s right. The bloodless wonder.”

“What’s your opinion of the entourage, Mr. Smith?”

“Come again?”

“The setup? At Halberds?”

“Ah. I get you. Well, now: it’s peculiar. Look at it any way you like, it’s eccentric. But then in a ma

“My husband agrees with you.”

“And he ought to know, didn’t ’e? Now, you won’t find Alf Moult agreeing with that verdict. Far from it.”

“You think he mistrusts the staff?”

“Hates their guts, if you’ll pardon me. He comes of a class that likes things to be done very, very regular and respectable does Alf Moult. Soldier-servant. Supersnob. I know. I come from the one below myself: not up to his mark, he’d think, but near enough to know how he ticks. Scum of the earth, he calls them. If it wasn’t that he can’t seem to detect any difference between the Colonel and Almighty God, he’d refuse to demean hisself by coming here and consorting with them.”

Mr. Smith put down his empty glass, wiped his fingers across his mouth and twinkled. “Very nice,” he said. “You better come and see my place one of these days. Get ’Illy to bring you. I got one or two works might interest you. We do quite a lot in the old master lurk ourselves. Every now and then I see something I fancy and I buy it in. What’s your opinion of Blake?”

“Blake?”

“William. Tiger, tiger.”

“Superb.”

“I got one of ’is drawings.”

“Have you, now!”

“Come and take a butcher’s.”

“Love to,” said Troy. “Thank you.”

Hilary came in overflowing with apologies. “What you must think of us!” he exclaimed. “One nuisance treads upon another’s heels. Judge of my mortification.”

“What’s the story up to date, then?” asked Mr. Smith.

“Nothing more, really, except that Cressida has been very much disturbed.”

“What a shame. But she’s on the road to recovery, I see.”

“What do you see?”

“It was worse when they favoured the blood red touch. Still and all, you better wipe it off.”

“What a really dreadful old man you are, Uncle Bert,” said Hilary, without rancour but blushing and using his handkerchief.

“I’m on me way to me virtuous couch. If I find a dirty message under the door I’ll scream. Good-night, all.”

They heard him whistling as he went upstairs.

“You’re not going just yet, are you?” Hilary said to Troy. “Please don’t or I’ll be quite sure you’ve taken umbrage.”

“In that case I’ll stay.”

“How heavenly cool you are. It’s awfully soothing. Will you have a drink? No? I shall. I need one.” As he helped himself Hilary said, “Do you madly long to know what was in Uncle Flea’s note?”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“It’s not really so frightful.”

“It can’t be since you seemed inclined to laugh.”

“You are a sharp one, aren’t you? As a matter of fact, it said quite shortly that Uncle Flea’s a cuckold spelt with three k’s. It was the thought of Aunt Bed living up to her pet name that almost did for me. Who with, one asks oneself? Moult?”

“No wonder she was enraged.”

“My dear, she wasn’t. Not really. Basically she was as pleased as Punch. Didn’t you notice how snappy she got when Uncle Flea said it was ridiculous?”

“I don’t believe you.”

“You may as well, I promise you.”