Tied Up in Tinsel by Ngaio Marsh

fling wide the french windows and admit the Colonel with his sledge. Vincent, you must watch the Colonel like a lynx for fear that in his zeal he tries to effect an entrance before we are ready for him. Make certain he removes his gloves. Take them off him at the last moment. He has to wear them because of chilblains. See he’s well
en train
beforehand with the tow-ropes of his sledge over his shoulders. He may show a hideous tendency to tie himself up in them like a parcel. Calm him.”
    “Do my best, sir,” said Vincent, “but he does show the whites of his eyes, like, when he gets up to the starting cage.”
    “I know. I depend on your tact, Vincent. Miss Tottenham will see him out of the cloakroom and you take over in the courtyard. After that he’s all yours.”
    “Thank you, sir,” said Vincent dubiously.
    “Those,” said Hilary, surveying his troops, “are my final words to you. That is all. Thank you.” He turned to Troy. “Come and have tea,” he said. “It’s in the boudoir. We help ourselves. Rather like the Passover with all our loins, such as they are, girded up. I do hope you’re excited. Are you?”
    “Why — yes,” she agreed, surprised to find that it was so, “I am. I’m very excited.”
    “You won’t be disappointed, I promise. Who knows,” said Hilary, “but what you won’t look back on tonight as a unique experience. There, now!”
    “I daresay I shall,” Troy said, humouring him.

Four — The Tree and the Druid
    Bells everywhere. The house sang with their arbitrary clamour: it might have been the interior of some preposterous belfry. Nigel was giving zealous attention to his employer’s desire for volume.
    “Whang-whang-whang-whang,” yelled an overstimulated little boy making extravagant gestures and grimaces. Sycophantic little girls screamed their admiration in his face. All the children leapt to their feet and were pounced upon by their parents, assisted by Hilary and Troy. Three of the parents who were also warders at the Vale began to walk purposefully about the room, and with slightly menacing authority soon reformed the childish rabble into a mercurial crocodile.
    “Bells, bells, bells,
bells
!” shouted the children, like infant prodigies at grips with Edgar Allan Poe.
    Blore entered, contemplated his audience, fetched a deep breath, and bellowed: “The Tree, Sir.”
    An instant quiet was secured. The bells having given a definitive concerted crash hummed into silence. All the clocks in the house and the clock in the stable tower struck eight and then, after a second or two, the bells began again, very sweetly, with the tune of St. Clement Dane.
    “Come along,” said Hilary.
    With the chanciness of their species the children suddenly became angelic. Their eyes grew as round as saucers, their lips parted like rosebuds, they held hands and looked enchanting. Even the overstimulated little boy calmed down.
    Hilary, astonishingly, began to sing. He had a vibrant alto voice and everybody listened to him.
     
    “ ‘Oranges and lemons’ say the Bells of St. Clement’s
    ‘You owe me five farthings,‘ say the Bells of St. Martin’s.”
     
    Two and two they walked, out of the library, into the passage, through the great hall now illuminated only by firelight, and since the double doors of the drawing-room stood wide open, into the enchantment that Hilary had prepared for them.
    And really, Troy thought, it
was
an enchantment. It was breathtaking. At the far end of this long room, suspended in darkness, blazed the golden Christmas tree alive with flames, stars and a company of angels. It quivered with its own brilliance and was the most beautiful tree in all the world.
     
    “ ‘When will you pay me,’ say the bells of Old Bailey
    ‘When I am rich,’ say the bells of Shoreditch.”
     
    The children sat on the floor in the light of the tree. Their elders — guests and the household staff — moved to the far end of the room and were lost in shadow.
    Troy