Free Tied Up in Tinsel by Ngaio Marsh

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