Watson's Choice (10 page)

‘He is undoubtedly unbalanced. I suspect suicidal tendencies. In fact – ’ Gavin waited, and then said:

‘And you think we ought to prove to him that he needn’t dream about murders that don’t happen?’

‘It is quite possible that this one
has
happened, child. That is why I want you to accompany us.’

‘Right! At your service, as always!’

The proposed expedition was abandoned, however, for Linda Campbell appeared at breakfast, having returned to the house at six that morning, to the disguised astonishment and disapproval of the butler and the undisguised annoyance of Sir Bohun. She had a story of kidnapping to tell, the details of which she gave at an interview in the library directly breakfast was over.

Sir Bohun emerged from this impressive lair looking puzzled and worried, and went in search of Mrs Bradley, whom he found in the gun-room reading
The Times
aloud and stroking a handsome tortoiseshell cat. The reason for the first activity seemed to be the presence of his son Manoel, who was cleaning a twelve-bore gun as he listened to the declamation of the leading article. The second did not appear to depend upon logic.

‘
Buenos dias, padre mio
,’ said Manoel, scowling as though in disclaimer of the politeness of this filial greeting. Sir Bohun grunted, and turned to Mrs Bradley.

‘I say, Beatrice, come along to the library, if you don’t mind. I want you to vet this girl’s story. I can’t make head or tail of it. She
must
be lying!’

Mrs Bradley was anxious to obtain first-hand details of Linda’s real or imaginary adventures, so she leered at Manoel, put down the paper, and accompanied her host to the library.

Linda, flushed and looking defiant – an expression which hardened her face and yet gave her a childish appearance of defencelessness – was seated in a leather-covered armchair beside the fire, while the chair opposite still bore the imprint of Sir Bohun’s heavy and muscular hams.

‘Sit down, Beatrice,’ commanded the master of the house, indicating a third armchair and giving it a hospitable shove towards the fire. ‘Now, then, Miss Campbell, I shall be obliged if you will repeat to Mrs Bradley the tale you’ve just told me.’

‘It isn’t a tale; it’s the truth. I can’t help it if you don’t believe me,’ returned Linda, tilting her chin.

‘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.’

‘… 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 socialist.’

‘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.’