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of cold.’ He was quite alarmed.
    Maiden aunt, St Francis, intrepid aviator; tender, reckless, fussy, Rabelaisian, ruthless—the outward contradictions of that extraordinary man made Nigel’s head reel. But what of the real, the inner man? How could one ever hope to arrive at that? And he, Nigel Strangeways, was expected to guard him: they might as well ask one to guard a piece of quicksilver, a dragonfly, or a shadow on a windy day.
    They spent most of the morning decorating the house. O’Brien threw himself into this with a kind of finicky abandon, dancing from room to room with holly, mistletoe, and evergreens; rushing up stepladders; standing back from his handiwork with hands raised like the conductor of an orchestra. Nigel followed him more soberly. He was intent on fixing the layout of the house in his memory. It was roughly T-shaped, with the main building as the horizontal stroke, and the servants’ quarters forming a short vertical stroke. On the ground floor, in the centre, looking south, was the lounge hall in which they had sat last night. To its right were dining room, and a small study—the latter not often in use, it seemed. The whole of the left-hand side was occupied by a huge drawing room, facing south and east, with french windows leading out on to that side of the garden where the hut had been erected. On the northwest side a billiard room had been built on, blocking in one of the angles of the original T, and on the floor above it the space was occupied by two bathrooms. Upstairs were seven bedrooms. Nigel found they had been allotted as follows: walking down the passage which ran the length of the upper floor, from west to east, he had the rooms of Lucilla Thrale and Georgia Cavendish on his right, with the bathrooms facing them. Then came Edward Cavendish’s, Nigel’s own room, Starling’s and Knott-Sloman’s. ‘And one unoccupied,’ he said, as they came to a door at the end of the passage.
    ‘Well, yes and no,’ replied O’Brien, his eyes twinkling like a schoolboy’s at the prospect of a practical joke. He led the way into the room. ‘This is where I sleep,’ he said.
    ‘But I thought you slept out in the hut.’
    ‘I do so. I got used to the ascetic life during the war, and I find ut difficult to sleep now in normal conditions. But,’ his voice lowered to a conspiratorial tone, ‘tonight and tomorrow night I’m going to sleep here. On Christmas night and after I’ll pretend to go to bed here, but I’ll jump on to the veranda roof and off that into the garden, and I’ll lock meself up in me little bunk in the hut. Murderous josser comes in here, stabs the bed, and gets the helluva shock when he sees me ating me porridge next morning.’ The little airman stood back, rubbing his hands with glee. ‘That ought to make me nights safe, annyway; and in the daytime—’ his lips snapped together in a suddenly relentless line, and he patted his bulging pocket—‘I can take care of meself. Unless they put poison in me food. And if they can do that with Arthur Bellamy about, they’re welcome to me corpse.’
    ‘In fact, there’s nothing for me to do but watch and pray.’
    ‘That’s right, me boy,’ said O’Brien, gripping Nigel’s elbow, ‘with particular emphasis on the “watch”.’
    The door opened silently. A grey-haired, harsh-featured woman stood on the threshold.
    ‘Your orrders for today, Mr O’Brien. What will you be wishing for dinner?’
    O’Brien gave elaborate instructions. Nigel looked at the woman, her bony hands folded tight over her apron, her lips thin as vinegar. When she had gone, he said:
    ‘So that’s Mrs Grant. Wonder how long she’d been outside that door. I feel somehow she disapproves of you.’
    ‘Ah, go on. She’s a bit of an ould stick, but there’s no harm in her. I do believe you’re getting nervous, Nigel,’ he added teasingly …
    At midday they knocked off work. Nigel went out of doors, and poked about. He found a yard at