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, Wilfred.’
‘It takes all sorts, doesn’t it, sir?’ Kittiwee cryptically rejoined with a sidelong glance at Miss Tottenham. The boy, who was sucking his hand, looked resentfully through the window into the yard.
The mince-pies were set out on a lordly dish in the middle of the kitchen table. Troy saw with relief that they were small. Hilary explained that they must take their first bites in turn, making a wish as they did so.
Afterwards Troy was to remember them as they stood sheepishly round the table. She was to think of those few minutes as almost the last spell of general tranquillity that she experienced at Halberds.
‘You first, Auntie,’ Hilary invited.
‘Aloud?’ his aunt demanded. Rather hurriedly he assured her that her wish need not be articulate.
‘Just as well,’ she said. She seized her pie and took a prodigious bite out of it. As she munched she fixed her eyes upon Cressida Tottenham and suddenly Troy was alarmed. I know what she’s wishing, Troy thought. As well as if she were to bawl it out in our faces. She’s wishing the engagement will be broken. I’m sure of it.
Cressida herself came next. She made a great to-do over biting off the least possible amount and swallowing it as if it was medicine.
‘Did you wish?’ Colonel Forrester asked anxiously.
‘I forgot,’ she said and then screamed at the top of her voice. Fragments of mince-pie escaped her lovely lips.
Mr Smith let out a four-letter word and they all exclaimed. Cressida was pointing at the window into the yard. Two cats, a piebald and a tabby, sat on the outer sill, their faces slightly distorted by the glass, their eyes staring and their mouths opening and shutting in concerted meows.
‘My dear girl,’ Hilary said and made no attempt to disguise his exasperation.
‘My poor pussies,’ Kittiwee chimed in like a sort of alto to a leading baritone.
‘I can’t take CATS,’ Cressida positively yelled.
‘In which case,’ Mrs Forrester composedly observed, ‘you can take yourself out of the kitchen.’
‘No, no,’ pleaded the colonel. ‘No, B. No, no, no! Dear me! Look here!’
The cats now began to make excruciating noises with their claws on the window-pane. Troy, who liked cats and found them amusing, was almost sorry to see them abruptly cease this exercise, reverse themselves on the sill and disappear, tails up. Cressida, however, clapped her hands to her ears, screamed again and stamped her feet like an exotic dancer.
Mr Smith said drily: ‘No trouble!’
But Colonel Forrester gently comforted Cressida with a wandering account of a brother-officer whose abhorrence of felines in some mysterious way brought about a deterioration in the lustre of his accoutrements. It was an incomprehensible narrative but Cressida sat on a kitchen chair and stared at him and became quiet.
‘Never mind!’ Hilary said on a note of quiet despair. ‘As we were.’ He appealed to Troy: ‘Will you?’ he asked.
Troy applied herself to a mince-pie and as she did so there came into her mind a wish so ardent that she could almost have thought she spoke it aloud. Don’t, she found herself dottily wishing, let anything beastly happen. Please. She then complimented Kittiwee on his cooking.
Colonel Forrester followed Troy. ‘You would be surprised,’ he said, beaming at them, ‘if you knew about my wish. That you would.’ He shut his eyes and heartily attacked his pie. ‘Delicious!’ he said.
Mr Smith said: ‘How soft can you get!’ and ate the whole of his pie with evident and noisy relish.
Hilary brought up the rear and when they had thanked Kittiwee they left the kitchen. Cressida said angrily that she was going to take two aspirins and go to bed until dinner time. ‘And I don’t,’ she added, looking at her fiancé, ‘want to be disturbed.’
‘You need have no misgivings, my sweet,’ he rejoined and his aunt gave a laugh that might equally have been called a snort. ‘Your uncle and I,’ she said to Hilary, ‘will take the air, as usual, for ten minutes.’
‘But – Auntie – 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 was 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, woodfires and paint. There was the portrait on its easel and the work bench 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.