Tied Up in Tinsel by Ngaio Marsh Read Free Book Online Page A

it’s too late. It’s dark and it may be snowing.”
    “We shall confine ourselves to the main courtyard. The wind is in the east, I believe.”
    “Very well,” he agreed. “Uncle Bert, shall we have our business talk?”
    “Suits me,” said Mr. Smith. “Any time.”
    Troy wanted to have a glower at her work and said as much. So they went their several ways.
    As she walked through the hall and along the passage that led to the library, Troy was struck by the extreme quietude that obtained indoors at Halberds. The floor was thickly carpeted. Occasional lamps cast a subdued light on the walls but they were far apart. Whatever form of central heating had been installed was almost too effective. She felt as if she moved through a steamed-up tunnel.
    Here was the door into the library. It was slightly ajar. She opened it, took two steps, and while the handle was still in her grasp was hit smartly on the head.
    It was a light blow and was accompanied by the reek of turpentine. She was neither hurt nor frightened but so much taken by surprise that for a moment she was bereft of reasoning. Then she remembered there was a light switch inside the door and turned it on.
    There was the library: warm, silent, smelling of leather, wood fires and paint. There was the portrait on its easel and the workbench with her familiar gear.
    And there, on the carpet at her feet, the tin palette-can in which she put her oil and turpentine.
    And down her face trickled a pungent little stream.
    The first thing Troy did after making this discovery was to find the clean rag on her bench and wipe her face. Hilary, dimly lit on her easel, fixed her with an enigmatic stare. “And a nice party,” she muttered, “
you’ve
let me in for, haven’t you?”
    She turned back towards the door which she found, to her surprise, was now shut. A trickle of oil and turpentine made its sluggish way down the lacquer-red paint. But
would
the door swing to of its own accord? As if to answer her, it gave a little click and opened a couple of inches. She remembered that this was habitual with it. A faulty catch, she supposed.
    But someone had shut it.
    She waited for a moment, pulling herself together. Then she walked quickly to the door, opened it, and repressed a scream. She was face-to-face with Mervyn.
    This gave her a much greater shock than the knock on her head. She heard herself make a nightmarish little noise in her throat.
    “Was there anything, madam?” he asked. His face was ashen.
    “Did you shut the door? Just now?”
    “No, madam.”
    “Come in, please.”
    She thought he was going to refuse but he did come in, taking four steps and then stopping where the can still lay on the carpet.
    “It’s made a mess,” Troy said.
    “Allow me, madam.”
    He picked it up, walked over to the bench, and put it down.
    “Look at the door,” Troy said.
    She knew at once that he had already seen it. She knew he had come into the room while she cleaned her face and had crept out again, shutting the door behind him.
    “The tin was on the top of the door,” Troy said. “It fell on my head. A booby-trap.”
    “Not a very nice thing,” he whispered.
    “No. A booby-trap.”
    “I never!” Mervyn burst out. “My God, I never. My God, I swear I never.”
    “I can’t think — really — why you should.”
    “That’s right,” he agreed feverishly. “That’s dead right. Christ, why should I! Me!”
    Troy began to wipe the trickle from the door. It came away cleanly, leaving hardly a trace.
    Mervyn dragged a handkerchief from his pocket, dropped on his knees, and violently attacked the stain on the string-coloured carpet.
    “I think plain turpentine might do it,” Troy said.
    He looked round wildly. She fetched him a bottle of turpentine from the bench.
    “Ta,” he said and set to work again. The nape of his neck shone with sweat. He mumbled.
    “What?” Troy asked. “What did you say?”
    “He’ll see. He notices everything. They’ll say I done