“You’re not wearing your medals, dear,” Phoebe observed.

The colonel looked down at his chest. “I’m not? Well, I’ll be blowed! Where the blazes are they, then?”

Phoebe squirmed in obvious discomfort. “We… You… ah… donated them, my precious.”

The colonel’s cheeks turned as red as his nose. “Donated… my… medals?”

Phoebe turned to Cecily. “Anyway, as I was saying-”

“Who’s the blighter who stole them?” the colonel bellowed, turning the heads of the two other couples in the dining room.

“The Salvation Army, dear.” Phoebe turned back to Cecily. “I was thinking-”

“Well, by George, we’ll get them back!” The colonel leapt to his feet, waving his fist in the air. “I’ll take my sword to them, the scoundrels. How dare they take my medals.”

Baxter’s face lit up. “Jolly good show, old man. Go get them. Right now, before they give them away to someone else.”

Phoebe gasped in dismay. “Baxter, how could you? You know he’ll stop at nothing when he gets like this.” She grasped her husband’s sleeve and tugged on it. “Sit down, Frederick, dearest. You agreed to… ah… get rid of the medals early this year. Remember?”

“Never!” the colonel roared. “I’m going after the blighters. Out of my way, you peasant, I’m off to battle.” This last was directed at Pansy, who had come to clear off the dishes.

Well used to Fortescue’s antics, Pansy skipped aside to let him pass.

Brandishing an imaginary sword, the colonel charged across the dining room and out of the door.

Phoebe’s hat bobbed up and down in her agitation. “Now look what you’ve done.” She glared at Baxter. “He’s probably going to attack the first person he sees in uniform.”

“Let’s hope it’s not a constable,” Baxter said, looking unusually serene. “Though I think it more likely your husband has taken refuge in the bar.” He got up, stretched, and smiled at his wife. “I think I’ll retire to our suite. I’ll leave you both to discuss whatever it is you plan to subject our guests to this Christmas.”