Watson's Choice

by Gladys Mitchell

  ‘I didn’t say I didn’t believe you. I don’t … but I haven’t said so. Now be a sensible gal, and let Mrs Bradley have the dope.’

  Mrs Bradley smiled – a grimace only – and nodded.

  ‘I saw you at the Queen of the Circus road-house,’ she said, ‘so you may begin from there.’

  Linda’s expression changed. She glanced appealingly at her employer.

  ‘I know it was wrong,’ she said. ‘It was on account of that letter. I had a letter,’ she went on, turning towards Mrs Bradley, ‘asking me to meet Stephen Cutts at the Queen of the Circus because he had something very important to tell me. I’ve known Stephen for years. He’s a private enquiry agent, and I’d asked him to try to trace my father, who left my mother when I was seven. I scarcely remember him, but when my mother died three years ago, and I was left completely alone, I thought I’d like to get in touch with my father again, especially as, since I’ve been grown-up, I’ve always thought the separation was quite as much my mother’s fault as his. She was a nagger, and men won’t stand being nagged.’

  ‘Quite right,’ agreed Sir Bohun, looking haughty. ‘Mind you remember it, my dear!’

  ‘Well, when the letter came, I didn’t know what to do,’ went on Linda, continuing to address Mrs Bradley’s beaky mouth. ‘The time and place were very definitely fixed, and I wasn’t at all sure that Sir Bohun would give me leave of absence in the middle of the morning like that, because of little Timothy. So I’m afraid I just took French leave, hoping nobody would tell Sir Bohun that I was not in the house.’

  ‘Hark at her!’ growled Sir Bohun. ‘Anybody would think I was an ogre to hear her talk!’

  ‘I was afraid you wouldn’t believe my story of a business meeting, especially as I’d burnt the letter and so couldn’t show it you, Sir Bohun,’ explained Linda, simpering a little.

  ‘All right, all right. Go on.’

  ‘When I got to the Queen of the Circus a strange man … quite young and not bad-looking … came up and asked me whether I’d come to meet Stephen Cutts, as he was his partner. He said that Stephen had had to take on another assignment at short notice, so had sent him to interview me. He said that news of my father was now in their possession. They had traced a man who, they were practically certain, was he, but who was calling himself Porterhouse. Did I think I could remember my father sufficiently well to be able to identify him? Well, I’ve a portrait of him, and I said I thought I could, unless he had changed a great deal in sixteen years, so when the man put me into his car, I just felt I couldn’t get along quickly enough, I was so excited.’

  ‘Put you into his car!’ growled Sir Bohun.

  ‘After that, everything happened. I was driven to a house in Bloomsbury, taken up three flights of stairs, shown into a room which wasn’t very well furnished but which was neat and clean and had a good fire and plenty of coal in the scuttle, and there I waited for just on an hour. Then I went to the door with the intention of saying that I couldn’t wait any longer because I had to get back to my job, but the door was locked. I was terrified. I banged and shouted, but nobody came. I went to the window, but the houses opposite had been blitzed, and there wasn’t a soul to be seen.

  ‘It began to get dark, and I was hungry. I made up the fire once or twice, and then, in desperation, I opened a cupboard. It was well stocked with food. There were cut ham, slices of tongue, plenty of bread, some butter, a knife and fork, and a couple of quarts of beer. They didn’t mean me to starve. Well, there I’ve been ever since. I tried the door again, and it opened, but only to admit me to a bathroom and so forth. There was a staircase door. and that remained locked all the time, so I was still a prisoner, Then, late last night, I was released.’

  ‘Strange,’ observed Mrs Bradley. ‘Did you find out why they let you go? Or, in fact, why they had imprisoned you at all?’

  ‘No, I did not. The same man came for me. He told me that he was taking me home, and said I need not begin making a fuss. I made no fuss. I was thoroughly cowed. He drove me back here, pushed me out of the car, and, before I had reached the gate, he had gone. I still don’t know who he was or why he kidnapped me. And I still don’t know where my father is, or why Stephen Cutts didn’t contact me. I shall write to Stephen at once.’

  ‘Well?’ demanded Sir Bohun when he had sent Linda off to look after Timothy. ‘Truth or lies? I confess I should like to know.’

  ‘Why don’t you employ a private detective?’ Mrs Bradley asked.

  ‘Me? Why should I think of anything like that?’

  ‘Because you still intend to marry the girl,’ Mrs Bradley replied in deliberate tones. ‘That being so, you had better satisfy yourself as to where she went and what she did. You need to set your mind at rest. Curiosity killed the cat, you know.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I must get to the bottom of it somehow. I feel sure she’s lying. Would you recognize the fellow she was with if you saw him again?’

  ‘Certainly I should, unless he has a twin brother.’

  A week later, when they had returned to their house in Kensington, Laura showed Mrs Bradley the newspaper announcement of Sir Bohun’s engagement to Linda Campbell.

  ‘Queer?’ she asked. Mrs Bradley did not reply. Laura glanced at her, waited a moment or two, and then said tentatively, ‘What did you really make of that story she told about being kidnapped and held in that house in Bloomsbury?’

  ‘I thought about a book by Lilian de la Torre, a brilliant reconstruction and explanation of an eighteenth-century mystery,’ said Mrs Bradley.

  ‘Elizabeth Is Missing,’ said Laura. ‘You know, I have a feeling that Manoel knows a thing or two. You noted the reference to Antonio?’

  ‘Good gracious me, child! I should never have given it a thought!’

  Laura wagged her head solemnly.

  ‘Young blood! Young blood!’ she murmured. ‘What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, but, there! I may be wrong.’

  CHAPTER 6

  CAVILLING CRITICS

  ‘… and heard great argument

  About it and about, but evermore

  Came out by that same door wherein I went.’

  The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam in the English version of EDWARD FITZGERALD

  *

  MRS BRADLEY WAS SO much intrigued by the announcement of Sir Bohun’s engagement to Linda Campbell, especially in view of the story of her kidnapping, that when Christmas was over she decided to call on him and congratulate him in person instead of by letter.

  ‘Nobody else likes it,’ he said gloomily. This statement was borne out, if not in its sweeping entirety, at least to an extent which he must have found embarrassing and infuriating, by the attitude of several more or less interested persons.

  Mrs Bradley, prevailed upon to stay a day or two, as she could easily be reached if anything urgent cropped up with regard either to her work or her domestic affairs, received what best can be described as clandestine visits from these persons. It seemed to be the general impression that she could be used as a clearing-house for grievances, and, in view of what happened afterwards, it was interesting that this should be so.

  She had unpacked, with the unnecessary assistance of a housemaid, the bag she had telephoned for, and was about to descend for tea when there came the sort of tap at the door which, in her experience (and it was a long one, where matters confidential were concerned), heralded a caller with secrets to disclose. It turned out to be Mrs Dance, who seated herself on the bed and asked whether she might have a word in private.

  ‘Do you mind?’ she enquired, obviously taking it for granted that Mrs Bradley did not. ‘I just thought I’d like to come and talk to you.’

  ‘Of course,’ Mrs Bradley agreed. ‘You came to talk about this ridiculous business of Sir Bohun Chantrey and the governess.’

  ‘So you see it like that, too,’ Mrs Dance smiled and looked, at the same time, impressed. ‘Somehow, I didn’t think you would. I formed the impression that you would probably be a sociali
st.’

  ‘In what sense? I thought we were all socialists since the National Health Scheme came in. I do not see how we can avoid being part of the social conscience nowadays. You remember your Rupert Brooke, of course?’

  ‘Rupert Brooke?’

  ‘Certainly. I am thinking of “one pulse in the Eternal Mind – ” and also, perhaps, “there shall be no more land, say fish.” Not to mention – ’

  ‘There’s an end, I think, of kissing

  When our mouths are one with Mouth,’

  quoted Mrs Dance surprisingly. She laughed. ‘I have good reason to dislike the young person,’ she went on. ‘She will make Boo-Boo look ridiculous. Think of the difference in their ages! She’s only twenty-three or twenty-four, and he can put twenty years on to that. I can’t think why he wants to make such a fool of himself.’

  ‘Have you known him long?’ Mrs Bradley enquired.

  ‘Long enough to know that the girl won’t suit him. She’s what used to be called a designing minx. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised to learn that she has blackmailed him into this engagement. He’s very hasty and sometimes rather silly, and I dare say he committed himself with her in a way she can prove, and so got him into her clutches. I wouldn’t trust her an inch, and I do not think she can be a good influence for that little boy. However, that is no concern of mine.’

  She got off the bed and went towards the door.

  ‘I think young children are everybody’s concern,’ Mrs Bradley remarked, slipping the gold bracelet of her wrist-watch over a yellow claw.

  ‘Yes, of course they are, and I’m rather fond of them, especially of Tim. He’s sweet.’ She brooded a moment or two. ‘Why don’t you use your influence with Boo-Boo and make him break it off?’ she suddenly demanded. ‘He’s sensitive to your opinion, and he’d listen to you where he wouldn’t to any of us.’ She returned to the bed and sat down again.

  ‘I see no point whatever in interfering,’ said Mrs Bradley, her brilliant black eyes meeting the innocent orbs of her visitor. ‘If he really has been blackmailed (as you call it, and you may very well be right, for he is a selfish, impulsive, reckless, undisciplined man), he would not feel able to follow my advice; and if he really is fond of the girl, or is attracted physically by her, then it would be both wrong and unkind to object to the marriage.’

  Mrs Dance shrugged. Then she caught Mrs Bradley’s eye again, and her gamine face curved into sudden laughter.

  ‘All the same, that big bad wolf story of hers was all hooey,’ she remarked, ‘and I don’t believe for an instant that Boo-Boo fell for it. No, there’s something behind this engagement, and blackmail is by far the most likely thing. If it is, she ought not to be allowed to get away with it, and I still think you ought to ferret out the truth and save the silly mug from himself.’

  ‘From himself – or for you?’ Mrs Bradley wondered; but, as this was not a question it was possible to ask, she was silent for a while. When she spoke, it was upon another subject.

  ‘What did you make of the Hound of the Baskervilles at the Sherlock Holmes party?’ she enquired.

  ‘Manoel, I think. I’ve turned the thing over in my mind, and he is the only person who would have thought of it – unless your Laura has a talent for practical joking.’

  ‘Manoel?’

  ‘Well, he’s used to bulls, so I shouldn’t think he’d be afraid of a dog.’

  ‘Laura?’

  ‘Well, I shouldn’t think she’s afraid of anything.’

  ‘She is afraid of my displeasure,’ said Mrs Bradley solemnly, ‘and she would know that I should be very much displeased if she introduced a large and savage dog into the middle of a small and civilized gathering, Sherlock Holmes and the Hound notwithstanding.’

  ‘I see. Was the dog savage?’

  ‘No. On the contrary, it was an obedient, intelligent, extremely docile animal.’

  ‘There you are, then. Manoel. He would like to make his father look a fool, and Boo did look a fool – you can’t deny it.’

  ‘It interests me,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘to note that the fact that Manoel is Sir Bohun’s illegitimate son appears to be known to everybody.’

  ‘Oh, well, Boo’s proud of it, you know. He tells no end of a good tale about it all – so gallant, so romantic, and, I am perfectly certain, all lies. Anyway, Manoel undoubtedly exists, and undoubtedly he is Boo’s son. What is more, he hates Boo with an old-fashioned Mexican hatred that would give me nightmares if I were in Boo’s shoes. Boo’s shoes,’ she repeated thoughtfully. ‘It sounds like one of those novels where they make up half the words. Boo’s shoes, shoes boo the crowd, boos through Boo, shoos away coos – I mean cows – oh, dear! How silly!’

  She grimaced, grinned, slid to the ground and was gone, closing the door behind her with scarcely a sound. Mrs Bradley looked thoughtful. There was no doubt that Mrs Dance was both shrewd and forthright. She had sensed the feeling that Manoel had for his father; she had summed up Linda Campbell; and she had no illusions whatever about Sir Bohun.

  Mrs Bradley went down to tea and found her host alone with his fiancée. Linda looked at her smugly, and then slid her hand into Sir Bohun’s. He looked surprised, stared down at it and cast it off.

  ‘Nice of you, Beatrice,’ he said. ‘Thankful we’ve got one friend and well-wisher, anyway!’

  ‘One?’ Mrs Bradley enquired, seating herself by the fire and opposite the engaged couple.

  ‘The others – even Bell – and what business it is of his I don’t know – are dead against this set-up.’ Sir Bohun indicated the tea-pouring Linda with a jerk of his head. ‘I can understand young Grimston, of course. I’ve cut him out. But why on earth anybody else should object, I don’t follow at all.’

  ‘Spongers!’ interpolated Linda. ‘And that Bell boy is afraid he’ll lose his job when we’re married. And so he will, if I have any say in the matter. He’s far too big for his boots, and he knows far more of your business, Boo, than is good for him or for you. When we’re married I can do his job.’

  ‘Not in addition to your own, my dear.’

  ‘Of course I can! Running a staff of servants doesn’t take all day.’

  ‘I was thinking of little Tim.’

  ‘Tim? Oh, but I shan’t be teaching Tim after we’re married, Boo! You’ll have to get rid of those boys. We can’t have adopted children in the house. They’ll be horribly in the way.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Linda!’ said Sir Bohun with the utmost sharpness. ‘No nonsense of that kind, please! Whether you continue to teach Timothy or not is at your own discretion, of course! I thought you were fond of the kiddie, that’s all, and would like to push him along at his lessons until he’s ready for school. But if you don’t choose to do it, he’ll have to have another governess, that’s all, for Grimston, of course, will have to go. I can’t have him mooning about when we’re married.’

  ‘Then I’ll choose her,’ said Linda, laughing, but with a suggestion of malice in her mirth. ‘I’m not going to brook any rivalry!’

  ‘Really, Linda!’ said Sir Bohun, obviously shocked. ‘Don’t be a common little chit!’

  Mrs Bradley thought it high time to put an end to these embarrassing exchanges.

  ‘Did you ever find out where the Hound of the Baskervilles came from that night?’ she enquired, putting down her cup and helping herself to a sandwich. Sir Bohun shook his head.

  ‘Never set eyes on him again, and everybody denied all knowledge of him,’ he replied. ‘Somebody’s lying, of course, but I can’t find out who it is, or where he went when you and Miss Menzies got rid of him out of the house.’

  ‘Horrible great brute!’ said Linda Campbell. ‘I’m terrified of big dogs. I shall always believe you did it yourself just to frighten me.’

  ‘Why the devil should I want to frighten you?’ Sir Bohun testily demanded. ‘Something better to think about than frightening damn’ silly women with damned great dogs! What I still want to know – apart from who painted the dog, the thoug
htless fools! – is who dared put two more rooms out of bounds than were agreed on between Bell and myself!’

  ‘You had better ask Brenda Dance,’ said Linda Campbell, with so much malice in her tone that Mrs Bradley was immediately, although not obviously, interested. ‘You should have arranged a few sitting-out places, my poor Boo, if you didn’t want your precious little-boy plans upset by a dirty little – ’

  ‘Linda!’ shouted Sir Bohun, endeavouring to drown the last word.

  ‘Well, so she is,’ retorted his inamorata cattishly. ‘You know it as well as I do. And, what’s more, if I hadn’t grabbed you out of her clutches you’d be a co-respondent in the divorce court by this time, and, with your high-falutin’ ideas, you’d have had to marry her as soon as she’d got rid of Toby. And how would you have liked that?’

  ‘Quite as much as I like this, I dare say,’ replied Sir Bohun. ‘Stop talking nonsense and pour out more tea. There’s a scold’s bridle hanging up in the attic, and don’t you forget it, my girl! As for high-falutin’ ideas, I didn’t marry Manoel’s mother, did I?’

  ‘Is it true that Manoel comes from Mexico, not Spain?’ Mrs Bradley enquired, with the object of putting an end to the embarrassing exchanges.

  ‘He’s lived in both countries. Why do you want to know?’ demanded Sir Bohun.

  ‘Only that I would rather make an enemy of a Spaniard than of a Mexican,’ said Mrs Bradley calmly.

  ‘Who says I’ve made an enemy of Manoel? Have you been pumping the boy?’

  ‘No. But he wants to kill you. Didn’t you know?’

  Sir Bohun began to swell and turn purple. Linda Campbell laughed aloud. Sir Bohun raised his hand as though to strike her across the face, caught Mrs Bradley’s basilisk eye, and, with a choking sound, went out of the room.

  ‘Poor Boo!’ said Linda lightly. ‘I shall have to cure him of that naughty temper when we’re married.’

  ‘He has had it rather a long time,’ said Mrs Bradley, eyeing her benignly. The drawing-room, when Mrs Bradley went down for dinner that night, was inhabited by Dance, who seemed to be at a loose end.