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

it.”
    “Who?”
    “Everybody. That lot. Them.”
    Troy heard herself saying: “Finish it off with soap and water and put down more mats.” The carpet round her easel had, at her request, been protected by upside-down mats from the kitchen quarters.
    He gazed up at her. He looked terrified and crafty like a sly child.
    “You won’t do me?” he asked. “Madam? Honest? You won’t grass? Not that I done it, mind. I never. I’d be balmy, woon’t I? I never.”
    “All right,
all right
,” Troy almost shouted. “Don’t let’s have all that again. You say you didn’t and I — As a matter of fact, I believe you.”
    “Gor’ bless you, lady.”
    “Yes, well, never
mind
all that. But if you didn’t,” Troy said sombrely, “who on earth did?”
    “Ah! That’s diffrent, ainnit? What say I know?”
    “You
know
!”
    “I got me own idea, ain’ I? Trying to put one acrost me. Got it in for all of us, that sod, excuse me for mentioning it.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It seems to me that I’m the one —”
    “Do me a favour. You! Lady — you’re just the mug, see? It’s me it was set up for. Use your loaf, lady.”
    Mervyn sat back on his heels and stared wildly at Troy. His face, which had reminded her of Kittiwee’s pastry, now changed colour: he was blushing.
    “I’m sure I don’t know what you’ll think of me, madam,” he said carefully. “I forgot myself, I’m that put out.”
    “That’s all right,” she said. “But I wish you’d just explain—”
    He got to his feet and backed to the door, screwing the rag round his hand. “Oh madam, madam, madam,” he implored. “I do wish you’d just use your loaf.”
    And with that he left her.
    It was not until she reached her room and set about washing the turpentine and oil out of her hair that Troy remembered Mervyn had gone to gaol for murdering someone with a booby-trap.
    If Cressida had lost any ground at all with her intended over the affair of the cats, it seemed to Troy that she made it up again and more during the course of the evening. She was the last to arrive in the main drawing-room where tonight, for the first time, they assembled before dinner.
    She wore a metallic trousered garment so adhesive that her body might itself have been gilded like the two quattrocento victories that trumpeted above the chimney-piece. When she moved, her dress, recalling Herrick, seemed to melt about her as if she were clad in molten gold. She looked immensely valuable and of course tremendously lovely. Troy heard Hilary catch his breath. Even Mrs. Forrester gave a slight grunt while Mr. Smith, very softly, produced a wolf whistle. The Colonel said, “My dear, you are quite bewildering,” which was, Troy thought, as apt a way of putting it as any other. But still, she had no wish to paint Cressida and again she was uneasily aware of Hilary’s questioning looks.
    They had champagne cocktails that evening. Mervyn was in attendance under Blore’s supervision, and Troy was careful not to look at Mervyn. She was visited by a sense of detachment as if she hovered above the scene rather than moved through it. The beautiful room, the sense of ease, the unforced luxury, of a kind of aesthetic liberation, seemed to lose substance and validity and to become — what? Sterile?
    “I wonder,” said Hilary at her elbow, “what that look means. An impertinent question, by the way, but of course you don’t have to give me an answer.” And before she could do so he went on. “Cressida is lovely, don’t you think?”
    “I do indeed but you mustn’t ask me to paint her.”
    “I thought that was coming.”
    “It would be no good.”
    “How can you be so sure?”
    “It would give you no pleasure.”
    “Or perhaps too much,” Hilary said. “Of a dangerous kind.”
    Troy thought it better not to reply to this.
    “Well,” Hilary said, “it shall be as it must be. Already I feel the breath of Signor Annigoni down the nape of my neck.