Free Singing in the Shrouds by Ngaio Marsh

snorted.
    Mrs. Cuddy said loudly, “I’m afraid we’re going to be spoil-sports. Mr. Cuddy can’t stay in the same room with flowers that have a heavy perfume. He’s allergic to them.”
    “Oh, I
am
so sorry,” Mrs. Dillington-Blick cried. “Then, of course, they must go.” She waved her hands helplessly.
    “I’m sure there’s no need for that,” Mrs. Cuddy announced. “We don’t want to make things uncomfortable. We were going to take a turn on deck anyway. Weren’t we, dear?”
    Alleyn asked, “Do you suffer from hay fever, Mr. Cuddy?”
    Mrs. Cuddy answered for her husband. “Not exactly hay fever, is it, dear? He just comes over queer.”
    “Extraordinary,” Alleyn murmured.
    “Well, it’s quite awkward sometimes.”
    “At weddings and funerals, for instance, it must be.”
    “Well, on our
silver
wedding some of the gentlemen from Mr. Cuddy’s lodge brought us a gorgeous mixed booky of hot-house flowers and he had to say how much he appreciated it and all the time he was feeling peculiar and when they’d gone he said, ‘I’m sorry, Mum, but it’s me or the booky,’ and we live opposite a hospital so he took them across and had to go for a long walk afterwards to get over it, didn’t you, dear?”
    “
Your
silver wedding,” Alleyn said, and smiled at Mrs. Cuddy. “You’re not going to tell us you’ve been married twenty-five years!”
    “Twenty-five years and eleven days to be exact. Haven’t we, dear?”
    “That’s correct, dear.”
    “He’s turning colour,” Mrs. Cuddy said, exhibiting her husband with an air of triumph. “Come on, love. Walky-walky.”
    Mr. Cuddy seemed unable to look away from Mrs. Dillington-Blick. He said, “I don’t notice the perfume too heavy. It isn’t affecting me.”
    “That’s what
you
say,” his wife replied, ominously bluff. “You come into the fresh air, my man.” She took his arm and turned him towards the glass doors that gave on to the deck. She opened them. Cold salt air poured into the heated room, and the sound of the sea and of the ship’s engines. The Cuddys went out. Mr. Cuddy shut the doors and could be seen looking back into the room. His wife removed him and they walked away, their grey hair lifting in the wind.
    “They’ll die of cold!” Brigid exclaimed. “No coats or hats.”.
    “Oh, dear!” Mrs. Dillington-Blick lamented and appealed in turn to the men. “And I expect it’s all my fault.” They murmured severally.
    Mr. McAngus, who had peeped into the passage, confided, “It’s all right. They’ve come in by the side door and I
think
they’ve gone to their cabin.” He sniffed timidly at the flowers, gave a small apologetic laugh and made a little bobbing movement to and from Mrs. Dillington-Blick. “
I
think we’re all most awfully lucky,” he ventured. He then went out into the passage, putting on his hat as he did so.
    “That poor creature dyes its hair,” Mr. Merryman observed calmly.
    “Oh, come!” Father Jourdain protested and gave Alleyn a helpless look. “I seem,” he said under his breath, “to be saying nothing but ‘Oh, come,’ A maddening observation.”
    Mrs. Dillington-Blick blossomed at Mr. Merryman: “Aren’t you
naughty
!” She laughed and appealed to Aubyn Dale: “
Not
true.
Is
it?”
    “I honestly can’t see, you know, that if he does dye his hair, it’s anybody’s business but his,” Dale said, and gave Mr. Merryman his celebrated smile. “Can you?” he said.
    “I entirely agree with you,” Mr. Merryman rejoined, grinning like a monkey. “I must apologize. In point of fact I abominate the public elucidation of private foibles.”
    Dale turned pale and said nothing.
    “Let us talk about flowers instead,” Mr. Merryman suggested and beamed through his spectacles upon the company.
    Mrs. Dillington-Blick at once began to do so. She was supported, unexpectedly, by Miss Abbott. Evidently they were both experienced gardeners. Dale listened with a stationary smile. Alleyn