by Ngaio Marsh
This familiar departmental word startled Troy. Mr. Smith grinned at her. “That’s correct,” he said. “Innit? What your good man calls routine, that is. Dabs. You oughter kep’ it, ’Illy.”
“I think, Uncle Bert, I must be allowed to manage this ridiculous little incident in my own way.”
“Hullo-ullo-ullo!”
“I’m quite sure, Cressida darling, it’s merely an idiot-joke on somebody’s part. How I detest practical jokes!” Hilary hurried on with an unconvincing return to his usual manner. He turned to Troy, “Don’t you?”
“When they’re as unfunny as this. If this is one.”
“Which I don’t for a moment believe,” Cressida said. “Joke! It’s a deliberate insult. Or worse.” She appealed to Mrs. Forrester. “Isn’t it?” she demanded.
“I haven’t the remotest idea what it may be. What do you say to all this, Fred, I said what —”
She broke off. Her husband had gone to the far end of the room and was pacing out the distance from the french windows to the tree.
“Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen — fifteen feet exactly,” he was saying. “I shall have to walk fifteen feet. Who’s going to shut the french window after me? These things need to be worked out.”
“Honestly, Hilly darling, I do not think it can be all shrugged off, you know, like a fun thing. When you yourself have said Nigel always refers to his victim as a sinful lady. It seems to me to be perfectly obvious he’s set his sights at me and I find it terrifying. You know, terrifying.”
“But,” Hilary said, “it isn’t. I promise you, my lovely child, it’s not at all terrifying. The circumstances are entirely different —”
“I should hope so considering she was a tart.”
“— and of course I shall get to the bottom of it. It’s too preposterous. I shall put it before —”
“You can’t put it before anybody. You’ve burnt it.”
“Nigel is completely recovered.”
“ ’Ere,” Mr. Smith said. “What say one of that lot’s got it in for ’im? What say it’s been done to discredit ’im? Planted? Spiteful, like?”
“But they get on very well together.”
“Not with the Colonel’s chap. Not with Moult they don’t. No love lost there, I’ll take a fiver on it. I seen the way they look at ’im. And ’im at them.”
“Nonsense, Smith,” said Mrs. Forrester. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. 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 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 funny old world but we don’t care, do we?”
“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 manner of speaking…”
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 manner of speaking, so’s ’Illy. It suits him. Mind, if he’d set ’imself up with a bunch of smashers and grabbers or job-buyers or magsmen or any of that lot, I’d of spoke up very strong against. But murderers — when they’re oncers, that is. — they’re different.”
“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.”
Troy giggled.
“Of course she’d love it if Uncle Flea did go into action with a horsewhip. I can never understand how it’s managed, can you? It would be so easy to run away and leave the horsewhipper laying about him like a ringmaster without a circus.”
“I don’t think it’s that kind of horsewhip. It’s one of the short jobs like a jockey’s. You have to break it in two when you’ve finished and contemptuously throw the pieces at the victim.”
“You’re wonderfully well informed, aren’t you?”
“It’s only guesswork.”
“All the same, you know, it’s no joke, this business. It’s upset my lovely Cressida. She really is cross. You see, she’s never taken to the staff. She was prepared to put up with them because they do function quite well, don’t you think? But unfortunately she’s heard of the entire entourage of a Greek millionaire who died the other day, all wanting to come to England because of the Colonels. And now she’s convinced it was Nigel who did her message and she’s dead set on making a change.”
“You don’t think it was Nigel?”
“No. I don’t think he’d be such an ass.”
“But if — I’m sorry but you did say he was transferred to Broadmoor.”
“He’s as sane as sane can be. A complete cure. Oh, I know the message to Cressida is rather in his style but I consider that’s merely a blind.”
“Do you!” Troy said thoughtfully.
“Yes, I do. Just as — well — Uncle Flea’s message is rather in Blore’s vein. You remember Blore slashed out at the handsome busboy who had overpersuaded Mrs. Blore. Well, it came out in evidence that Blore made a great to-do about being a cuckold. The word cropped up all over his statements.”
“How does he spell it?”
“I’ve no idea.”
“What is your explanation?”
“To begin with I don’t countenance any notion that both Nigel and Blore were inspired, independently, to write poison-pen notes on the same sort of paper (it’s out of the library), in the same sort of capital letters.”
(Or, thought Troy, that Mervyn was moved at the same time to set a booby-trap.)
“—Or, equally,” Hilary went on, “that one of the staff wrote the messages to implicate the other two. They get on extremely well together, all of them.”
“Well, then?”
“What is one left with? Somebody’s doing it. It’s not me and I don’t suppose it’s you.”
“No.”
“No. So we run into a reductio ad absurdum, don’t we? We’re left with a most improbable field. Flea. Bed. Cressida. Uncle Bert.”
“And Moult?”
“Good Heavens,” said Hilary. “Uncle Bert’s fancy! I forgot about Moult. Moult, now. Moult.”
“Mr. Smith seems to think —”
“Yes, I daresay.” Hilary glanced uneasily at Troy and began to walk about the room as if he were uncertain what to say next. “Uncle Bert,” he began at last, “is an oddity. He’s not a simple character. Not at all.”
“No?”
“No. For instance there’s his sardonic-East-End-character act. ‘I’m so artful, you know, I’m a cockney.’ He is a cockney, of course. Vintage barrow-boy. But he’s put himself in inverted commas and comes out of them whenever it suits him. You should hear him at the conference table. He’s as articulate as the next man and, in his way, more civilized than most.”
