Although Troy had only had one look at Vincent, the nonpoisoner-chauffeur-gardener, and that look from the top of a hill, she felt sure that the leader was he.

“Hup!” cried the disembodied voice and the ridiculous outfit moved off round the east wing in the direction of the main courtyard of Halberds. The moon was overrun by clouds.

Before she got back into bed Troy looked at a little Sèvres clock on her chimney-piece. She was greatly surprised to find that the hour was no later than ten past twelve.

At last she fell asleep and woke to the sound of opening curtains. A general pale glare was admitted.

“Good-morning, Nigel,” said Troy.

“Good-morning,” Nigel muttered, “madam.”

With downcast eyes he placed her morning tea tray at her bedside.

“Has there been a heavy fall of snow?”

“Not to say heavy,” he sighed, moving towards the door.

Troy said boldly, “It was coming down quite hard last night, wasn’t it? You must have been frozen pulling that sledge.”

He stopped. For the first time he lifted his gaze to her face. His almost colourless eyes stared through their white lashes like a doll’s.

“I happened to look out,” Troy explained, and wondered why on earth she should feel frightened.

He stood motionless for a few seconds and then said “Yes?” and moved to the door. Like an actor timing an exit line he added, “It’s a surprise,” and left her.

The nature of the surprise became evident when Troy went down to breakfast.

A moderate snowfall had wrought its conventional change in a landscape that glittered in the thin sunshine. The moors had become interfolding arcs of white and blue, the trees wore their epaulettes with an obsequious air of conformity, and the area under treatment by tractors was simplified as if a white dustsheet had been dropped over it.

The breakfast-room was in the east wing of Halberds. It opened off a passage that terminated in a door into the adjoining library. The library itself, being the foremost room of the east wing, commanded views on three sides.

Troy wanted to have a stare at her work. She went into the library and glowered at the portrait for some minutes, biting her thumb. Then she looked out of the windows that gave on to the courtyard. Here, already masked in snow and placed at dead centre, was a large rectangular object that Troy had no difficulty in recognizing since the stencilled legend on its side was not as yet obliterated.

And there, busy as ever, were Vincent and Nigel, shovelling snow from wheelbarrows and packing it round the case in the form of a flanking series of steps based on an under-structure of boxes and planks. Troy watched them for a moment or two and then went to the breakfast-room.

Hilary stood in the window supping porridge. He was alone.

“Hullo, hullo!” he cried. “Have you seen the work in progress? Isn’t it exciting: the creative urge in full spate. Nigel has been inspired. I am so pleased, you can’t think.”

“What are they making?”

“A reproduction of my many-times-great-grandfather’s tomb. I’ve given Nigel photographs and of course he’s seen the original. It’s a compliment and I couldn’t be more gratified. Such a change from waxworks and horses for roundabouts. The crate will represent the catafalque, you see, and the recumbent figure will be life-size. Really it’s extraordinarily nice of Nigel.”

“I saw them towing the crate round the house at midnight.”

“It appears he was suddenly inspired and roused Vincent up to assist him. The top of the crate was already beautifully covered by snow this morning. It’s so good for Nigel to become creative again. Rejoice with me and have some kedgeree or something. Don’t you adore having things to look forward to?”

Colonel and Mrs. Forrester came in wearing that air of spurious domesticity peculiar to guests in a country house. The Colonel was enchanted by Nigel’s activities and raved about them while his porridge congealed in its bowl. His wife recalled him to himself.

“I daresay,” she said with a baleful glance at Hilary, “it keeps them out of mischief.” Troy was unable to determine what Mrs. Forrester really thought about Hilary’s experiment with murderers.

“Cressida and Uncle Bert,” said Hilary, “are coming by the 3:30 at Downlow. I’m going to meet them unless, of course, I’m required in the library.”

“Not if I may have a sitting this morning,” said Troy.

“The light will have changed, won’t it? Because of the snow?”

“I expect it will. We’ll just have to see.”

“What sort of portraits do you paint?” Mrs. Forrester demanded.

“Extremely good ones,” said her nephew pretty tartly. “You’re in distinguished company, Aunt Bedelia.”

To Troy’s intense amusement Mrs. Forrester pulled a long, droll face and immediately afterwards tipped her a wink.

“Hoity-toity,” she said.

“Not at all,” Hilary huffily rejoined.

Troy said, “It’s hopeless asking what sort of things I paint because I’m no good at talking about my work. If you drive me into a corner I’ll come out with the most awful jabber-wocky.”

And in a state of astonishment at herself Troy added like a shamefaced schoolgirl, “One paints as one must.”

After a considerable pause Hilary said: “How generous you are.”

“Nothing of the sort,” Troy contradicted.

“Well!” Mrs. Forrester said. “We shall see what we shall see.”

Hilary snorted.

“I did some watercolours,” Colonel Forrester remembered, “when I was at Eton. They weren’t very good but I did them, at least.”

“That was something,” his wife conceded, and Troy found herself adding that you couldn’t say fairer than that.

They finished their breakfast in comparative silence and were about to leave the table when Blore came in and bent over Hilary in a manner that recalled his own past as a headwaiter.

“Yes, Blore,” Hilary asked, “what is it?”

“The mistletoe, sir. It will be on the 3:30 and the person wonders if it could be collected at the station.”

“I’ll collect it. It’s for the kissing bough. Ask Vincent to have everything ready, will you?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Good.”

Hilary rubbed his hands with an exhilarated air and proposed to Troy that they resume their sittings. When the session was concluded, they went out into the sparkling morning to see how Nigel was getting on with his effigy.

It had advanced. The recumbent figure of a sixteenth-century Bill-Tasman was taking shape. Nigel’s mittened hands worked quickly. He slapped on fistfuls of snow and manipulated them into shape with a wooden spatula: a kitchen implement, Troy supposed. There was something frenetic in his devotion to his task. He didn’t so much as glance at his audience. Slap, slap, scoop, scoop, he went.

And now, for the first time, Troy encountered Cooke, the cook, nicknamed Kittiwee.

He had come out-of-doors wearing his professional hat, checked trousers and snowy apron with an overcoat slung rather stylishly over his shoulders. He carried an enormous ladle and looked, Troy thought, as if he had materialized from a Happy Families playing card. Indeed, his round face, large eyes and wide mouth were comically in accord with such a notion.

When he saw Troy and Hilary he beamed upon them and raised a plump hand to his starched hat.

“Good morning, sir,” said Kittiwee. “Good morning, ladies.”

“ ’Morning, Cooke,” Hilary rejoined. “Come out to lend a hand with the icing?”

Kittiwee laughed consumedly at this mildest of jokelets. “Indeed, no sir,” he protested. “I wouldn’t dare. I just thought a ladle might assist the artist.”

Nigel thus indirectly appealed to merely shook his head without pausing in his task.

“All going well in your department?” Hilary asked.

“Yes, thank you, sir. We’re doing nicely. The Boy from Downlow is ever such a bright lad.”