Tied Up in Tinsel by Ngaio Marsh Page A

domestiques
.”
    “How does the chorus go?”
    Hilary intervened. “No,
honestly
, Aunt B,” he protested throwing an agitated glance at Blore, who was at the sideboard with his back turned.
    “Hilary,” said Cressida, “that reminds me.”
    “Of what, my sweet?” Hilary asked apprehensively.
    “It doesn’t really matter. I was just wondering about tomorrow. The party. The tree. It’s in the drawing-room isn’t it? I’ve been wondering, what’s the scene? You know? The stage-management and all that.”
    It was the first time Troy had heard Cressida assume an air of authority about Halberds, and she saw that Hilary was delighted. He embarked on a long explanation. The sleigh bells, the tape-recorded sounds, the arrival of Colonel Forrester as a Druid through the french windows. The kissing bough. The tree. The order of events. Colonel Forrester listened with the liveliest satisfaction.
    This discussion took them through the rest of dinner. Cressida continued to fill out the role of hostess with considerable aplomb, and before Mrs. Forrester, who was gathering herself together, could do anything more about it, leant towards her and said, “Shall we, Aunt B?” with a ravishing smile. It was the first time, Troy suspected, that she had ever addressed her future aunt-by-marriage in those terms. Mrs. Forrester looked put out. She said, “I was going to, anyway,” rose with alacrity, and made for the door. Her husband got there first and opened it.
    “We shan’t stay long over our port,” he confided, looking from his wife to Troy. “Hilary says there are any number of things to be done. The tree and the kissing bough and all. Don’t you like, awfully,” he said to Troy, “having things to look forward to?”
    When the ladies reached the drawing-room it was to find Vincent, Nigel and the apple-cheeked boy in the very act of wheeling in through the french windows a fine Christmas tree lightly powdered with snow. It was housed in a green tub and mounted on the kind of trolly garage hands lie upon when working underneath a car. At the far end of the room a green canvas sheet had been spread over Hilary’s superb carpet, and to the centre of this the tree was propelled.
    Winter had entered the room with the tree and laid its hands on their faces. Cressida cried out against it. The men shut the french windows and went away. A stepladder and an enormous box of decorations had been left beside the tree.
    From the central chandelier in the drawing-room someone— Nigel, perhaps — had hung the traditional kissing bough, a bell-shaped structure made from mistletoe and holly with scarlet apples depending from it by golden tinsel. It was stuck about with scarlet candles. The room was filled with the heady smell of resinous greenery.
    Troy was almost as keen on Christmas trees as Colonel Forrester himself and thought the evening might well be saved by their joint activities. Mrs. Forrester eyed the tree with judicious approval and said there was nothing the matter with it.
    “There’s a Crib,” she said. “I attend to that. I bought it in Oberammergau when Hilary was a Pagan child of seven. He’s still a Pagan of course, but he brings it out to oblige me. Though how he reconciles it with Fred in his heathen beard and that brazen affair on the chandelier is best known to himself. Still, there is the service. Half-past ten in the chapel. Did he tell you?”
    “No,” Troy said. “I didn’t even know there was a chapel.”
    “In the east wing. The parson from the prison takes it High Church, which Hilary likes. Do you consider him handsome?”
    “No,” Troy said. “But he’s paintable.”
    “Ho,” said Mrs. Forrester.
    Mervyn came in with the coffee and liqueurs. When he reached Troy he gave her a look of animal subservience that she found extremely disagreeable.
    Cressida’s onset of hostesslike responsibility seemed to have been left behind in the dining-room. She stood in front of the fire jiggling her