Read Tied Up in Tinsel for Free Online Page B

like old times, won’t it? When Uncle Bert used to come to Eaton Square after you’d made it up over my upbringing.”
    “That’s the ticket,” Mr. Smith agreed. “No hard feelings. Live and let live. That’s the story, Missus, isn’t it?”
    “You’re a decent fellow in your own way, Smith.” Mrs. Forrester conceded. “We’ve learnt to understand each other, I daresay. What sort of tea do you like, Mrs. Alleyn?”
    Troy thought, “I am among people who say what they think when they think it. Like children. This is a most unusual circumstance and might lead to anything.”
    She excepted Mr. Smith from her blanket appraisal. “Mr. Smith,” she considered, “is a tricky little old man, and what he really thinks about the company he keeps is nobody’s business but his.”
    “How’s all the villains, ’Illy?” he asked, putting his head on one side and jauntily quizzing his muffin. “Still keepin’ their noses clean?”
    “Certainly, Uncle Bert, but do choose your words. I wouldn’t for the world Blore or Mervyn heard you talking like that. One of them might walk in at any moment.”
    “Oh dear,” said Mr. Smith, unmoved.
    “That yawning void over the fireplace,” Cressida said. “Is that where you meant? You know, about my picture?”
    “Yes, my darling,” Hilary responded. “As a matter of fact,” he looked anxiously at Troy, “I’ve already ventured a tentative probe.”
    Troy was saved the awkwardness of a reply by Cressida, who said, “I’d rather it was the drawing-room. Not all mixed in with the soup, and, you know, your far from groovy ancestors.” She glanced discontentedly at a Lely, two Raeburns and a Winterhalter. “You know,” she said.
    Hilary turned rather pink: “We’ll have to see,” he said.
    Mervyn came in with the cook’s compliments and the mince pies were ready when they were.
    “What is he on about?” Cressida asked fretfully. “On top of tea? And anyway I abhor mincemeat.”
    “Darling, I
know
. So, privately, do I. But it appears to be an authentic old custom. On taking one’s first bite,” Hilary explained, “one makes a wish. The ceremony is held by tradition in the kitchen. One need only take a token nibble. It will give him so much pleasure.”
    “Are there still cats in the kitchen?” Cressida asked. “There’s my thing about cats, remember.”
    “Mervyn,” Hilary said, “ask Cooke to put Slyboots and Smartypants out, will you? He’ll understand.”
    “He’d better. I’m allergic,” Cressida told Troy. “Cats send me. But totally. I’ve only got to catch the eye of a cat and I am a psychotic wreck.” She enlarged upon her theme. It would be tedious to record how many times she said Troy knew.
    “I should be pleased,” Mrs. Forrester said loudly, “to renew my acquaintance with Slyboots and Smartypants.”
    “Rather you than me,” Cressida retorted, addressing herself to Mrs. Forrester for the first time but not looking at her.
    “I so far agree with you, Hilary,” said Mrs. Forrester, “in your views on your staff, as to consider Cooke was well within his rights when he attacked the person who maltreated cats. Well within his rights I consider he was, I said —”
    “Yes, Auntie, I know you did. Don’t we all! No, darling,” Hilary said, anticipating his beloved. “You’re the adorable exception. Well, now. Shall we all go and mumble up our mince?”
    In the kitchen they were received by Kittiwee with ceremony. He beamed and dimpled but Troy thought there was a look of glazed displeasure in his eyes. This impression became unmistakable when infuriated yowls broke out behind a door into the yard. “Slyboots and Smartypants,” thought Troy.
    A red-cheeked boy sidled in through the door, shutting it quickly on a crescendo of feline indignation.
    “We’re sorry,” Hilary said, “about the puss-cats, Cooke.”
    “It takes all sorts, doesn’t it, sir?” Kittiwee cryptically rejoined with a sidelong glance at Miss