Read Tied Up in Tinsel for Free Online

with murderers.
    “Cressida and Uncle Bert,” said Hilary, “are coming by the 3:30 at Downlow. I’m going to meet them unless, of course, I’m required in the library.”
    “Not if I may have a sitting this morning,” said Troy.
    “The light will have changed, won’t it? Because of the snow?”
    “I expect it will. We’ll just have to see.”
    “What
sort
of portraits do you paint?” Mrs. Forrester demanded.
    “Extremely good ones,” said her nephew pretty tartly. “You’re in distinguished company, Aunt Bedelia.”
    To Troy’s intense amusement Mrs. Forrester pulled a long, droll face and immediately afterwards tipped her a wink.
    “Hoity-toity,” she said.
    “Not at all,” Hilary huffily rejoined.
    Troy said, “It’s hopeless asking what sort of things I paint because I’m no good at talking about my work. If you drive me into a corner I’ll come out with the most awful jabber-wocky.”
    And in a state of astonishment at herself Troy added like a shamefaced schoolgirl, “One paints as one must.”
    After a considerable pause Hilary said: “How generous you are.”
    “Nothing of the sort,” Troy contradicted.
    “Well!” Mrs. Forrester said. “We shall see what we shall see.”
    Hilary snorted.
    “I did some watercolours,” Colonel Forrester remembered, “when I was at Eton. They weren’t very good but I did them, at least.”
    “That was something,” his wife conceded, and Troy found herself adding that you couldn’t say fairer than that.
    They finished their breakfast in comparative silence and were about to leave the table when Blore came in and bent over Hilary in a manner that recalled his own past as a headwaiter.
    “Yes, Blore,” Hilary asked, “what is it?”
    “The mistletoe, sir. It will be on the 3:30 and the person wonders if it could be collected at the station.”
    “I’ll collect it. It’s for the kissing bough. Ask Vincent to have everything ready, will you?”
    “Certainly, sir.”
    “Good.”
    Hilary rubbed his hands with an exhilarated air and proposed to Troy that they resume their sittings. When the session was concluded, they went out into the sparkling morning to see how Nigel was getting on with his effigy.
    It had advanced. The recumbent figure of a sixteenth-century Bill-Tasman was taking shape. Nigel’s mittened hands worked quickly. He slapped on fistfuls of snow and manipulated them into shape with a wooden spatula: a kitchen implement, Troy supposed. There was something frenetic in his devotion to his task. He didn’t so much as glance at his audience. Slap, slap, scoop, scoop, he went.
    And now, for the first time, Troy encountered Cooke, the cook, nicknamed Kittiwee.
    He had come out-of-doors wearing his professional hat, checked trousers and snowy apron with an overcoat slung rather stylishly over his shoulders. He carried an enormous ladle and looked, Troy thought, as if he had materialized from a Happy Families playing card. Indeed, his round face, large eyes and wide mouth were comically in accord with such a notion.
    When he saw Troy and Hilary he beamed upon them and raised a plump hand to his starched hat.
    “
Good
morning, sir,” said Kittiwee. “
Good
morning, ladies.”
    “ ’Morning, Cooke,” Hilary rejoined. “Come out to lend a hand with the icing?”
    Kittiwee laughed consumedly at this mildest of jokelets. “Indeed,
no
sir,” he protested. “I wouldn’t dare. I just thought a
ladle
might assist the
artist
.”
    Nigel thus indirectly appealed to merely shook his head without pausing in his task.
    “All going well in your department?” Hilary asked.
    “Yes, thank you, sir. We’re doing nicely. The Boy from Downlow is ever such a bright lad.”
    “Oh. Good. Good,” Hilary said, rather hurriedly, Troy thought. “What about the mince pies?”
    “Ready for nibbles and wishes immediately after tea, sir, if you please,” cried Kittiwee, gaily.
    “If they are on the same level as the other things you’ve been giving