Tied Up in Tinsel by Ngaio Marsh Page B

Grief!” Cressida ejaculated, “I’m beginning to talk like Aunt Bed. You
saw
, didn’t you?”
    “Saw? What?”
    “Him.”
    “Who?”
    “Moult.”
    “
Moult?
”
    “You don’t tell me,” Cressida bawled, “that you didn’t realize? Sharp as you are and all.”
    “I don’t know what you mean.”
    “It wasn’t—” An upsurge of laughter among the guests drowned Cressida’s next phrase but she advanced her lovely face towards Troy’s and screamed, “
It was Moult
. The Druid was Moult.”
    “
Moult
!”
    “Uncle Flea’s had a turn. Moult went on for the part.”
    “Good Lord! Is he all right?”
    “Who?”
    “Uncle — Colonel Forrester?”
    “I haven’t seen him. Aunt B’s gone up. I expect so. It seems he got overexcited again.”
    “Oh!” Troy cried out. “I
am
so sorry.”
    “I know. Still,” Cressida shouted, “just one of those things. You know.”
    Nigel appeared before them with his champagne cocktails.
    “Drink up,” Cressida said, “and have another with me. I need it. Do.”
    “All right. But I think there’s rather a lot of brandy in them, don’t you?”
    “There’d better be.”
    Hilary broke through the crowd to thank Troy for her present, a wash drawing she had made of the scarecrow field from her bedroom window. He was, she could see, as pleased as Punch: indistinguishable thanks poured out of him. Troy watched his odd hitched-up mouth (like a camel’s, she thought) gabbling away ecstatically.
    At last he said, “It all went off nicely, don’t you think, except for Uncle Flea’s gloves? How he could!”
    Troy and Cressida, one on each side of him, screamed their intelligence. Hilary seemed greatly put out and bewildered. “Oh no!” he said. “You
don’t
tell me!
Moult
!” And then after further ejaculations, “I must say he managed very creditably. Dear me, I must thank him. Where is he?”
    The overstimulated little boy appeared before them. He struck an attitude and blew a self-elongating paper squeaker into Hilary’s face. Toy trumpets, drums and whistles were now extremely prevalent.
    “Come here,” Hilary said. He took Cressida and Troy by their arms and piloted them into the hall, shutting the doors behind them. The children’s supper was laid out in great splendour on a long trestle table. Kittiwee, the Boy and some extra female helps were putting final touches.
    “That’s better,” Hilary said. “I must go and see Uncle Flea. He’ll be cut to the quick over this. But first tell me, Cressida darling, what exactly happened?”
    “Well, I went to the cloakroom as arranged, to do his makeup. Moult was there already, all dressed up for the part. It seems he went to their rooms to help Uncle Fred and found him having a turn. Moult gave him whatever he has, but it was as clear as clear he couldn’t go on for the show. He was in a great taking on. You know? So they cooked it up that Moult would do it. He’d heard all about it over and over again, of course, he’d seen the rehearsals and knew the business. So when Uncle Fred had simmered down and had put his boots up and all that (he wouldn’t let Moult get Aunt B), Moult put on the robe and wig and came down. And I slapped on his whiskers and crown and out he went into the courtyard to liaise with Vincent.”
    “Splendid fellow.”
    “He really did manage all right, didn’t he? I came in for his entrance. I couldn’t see him awfully well because of being at the back but he seemed to do all the things. And then when he eggzitted I returned to the cloakroom and helped him clean up. He was in a fuss to get back to Uncle Fred and I said I’d tell Aunt B. Which I did.”
    “Darling, too wonderful of you. Everybody has clearly behaved with the greatest expedition and aplomb. Now, I must fly to poorest Flea and comfort him.”
    He turned to Troy. “
What
a thing!” he exclaimed. “Look! Both you darlings, continue in your angelic ways like loves and herd the children in here to their supper.