Watson's Choice (2 page)

Laura, who had been dreading the thought of leaving her employer, walked rapidly out of the room. Mrs Bradley flicked open a scribbling pad and wrote:
Wedding present
. Then she went to the telephone, rang up Gavin, and congratulated him.

‘I say,’ said Gavin, ‘thank you, and all that – I never thought she’d come to it, incidentally – but what about this Sherlock Holmes business? Why am I invited? I’ve never met Chantrey. Does he know I’m engaged to Laura?’

‘I have no idea, child. He told me some months ago that he thought his life was in danger, but whether that has any connexion with his inviting you to dinner I find it impossible to decide.’

‘I see. Has he told the local police?’

‘I don’t know. He was a patient of mine during the war. That is how I come to be acquainted with him.’

‘Went off his onion, you mean?’

‘He was seriously affected by the air-raids. He was living in London at the time.’

‘You cured him?’

‘Possibly. Possibly not. He ceased to walk the streets armed with a hammer with which to hit Germans on the head. More I cannot say.’

‘Good Lord! And you think he might still be a bit crazy?’

‘I do
not
think so, no.’

‘Well, then, do you think he was serious when he said his life might be in danger?’

‘He was serious enough, yes. It does not mean that he was right, of course. The persecution mania may still persist, although I do not think it does.’

‘But if it did, would he be dangerous? This hammer business, I mean.’

‘Yes, he would be dangerous if he weren’t cured.’

‘A pleasant thought. Anyway, I have accepted the invitation. I say, could you and Laura dine with me to-night at Pesquero’s?’

‘Laura can. I can’t.’

‘Good. I mean I’m sorry you can’t. D’you know, I do hope nobody bumps Sir Bohun off while I’m actually in his house – or that he doesn’t do ditto to one of his guests. Bad publicity for the Yard. I’ll pick up Laura at your house at seven, then, if that’s all right. Good-bye.’

Mrs Bradley rang off, and, seating herself in an armchair, unrolled a length of repulsive-looking knitting. When Laura returned she told her of Gavin’s invitation and sent her up to dress. When Laura, looking extremely handsome, had gone off with Gavin in a taxi, Mrs Bradley put away her knitting and rang up Sir George Sirrell.

‘Come and eat your dinner with me,’ she said, ‘if you’ve nothing else to do.’

Sir George was a specialist in nervous diseases, and knew Sir Bohun Chantrey, for it was Sir George who had passed the blood-thirsty baronet on to Mrs Bradley in the first place. He was delighted to accept the invitation to dinner, for his wife was away and he disliked equally the thought of dining alone and that of dining at a restaurant.

‘Chantrey?’ he said, when Mrs Bradley’s maid had cleared the table and brought in the coffee. ‘What’s he like in these days?’

‘I have not seen him for some months,’ Mrs Bradley replied, ‘but he thinks his life is in danger, and he is giving a dinner in honour of Sherlock Holmes.’

‘Dear, dear! Bad as that again, is he?’

‘I don’t know. I have accepted an invitation to the dinner as the surest way of finding out exactly how bad (or the reverse) he is. It is quite on the cards that his life
is
in danger. He has travelled extensively and can be, on occasion, boorish, dishonest, and a satyr.’

‘Can he, by Jove! Yes, any or all of that might easily lead foreigners to think the worst of him. What about the idea of this Sherlock Holmes dinner?’

‘That’s probably reasonable enough. He was always interested in the Conan Doyle stories, and the Master-Mind is being toasted everywhere this year. It is probably a good excuse for him to give a party.’

‘Well, I hope he won’t want to take a hammer to his guests! Are there going to be Germans among them?’

‘No, but there seems to be a Spaniard, a man named Manoel Lupez.’

‘Lupez? Lupez? No, the name means nothing to me. Who else is going?’

Mrs Bradley produced Sir Bohun’s list. Sir George pursed his lips over it, but handed it back without comment, except to say, ‘It seems to be a fancy-dress affair. I see he has cast himself for a rôle, too. Professor Moriarty, of all things! And now, Beatrice why did you ask me to come here?’

‘To eat the dinner Laura didn’t need.’

‘Not ill, is she?’

‘No. She has gone out with dear Robert Gavin.’

‘The policeman fellow? Is
he
going to this Sherlock Holmes affair?’

‘Yes, he is. I think Sir Bohun wants him to act as bodyguard.’

‘It sounds like a case of obsession, doesn’t it? – unless, as you suggested, by his conduct at some time or another he has been given cause to fear violence.’

‘He is obsessed, certainly, with fear for his life. I shall be interested to observe him again. What did you think of the report about B.X. in Middlemarsh’s last book?’

‘I thought he was wrong in his conclusions. It seems to me that the patient showed all Lewis’s basic symptoms – ’

‘Schizophrenia, in fact. The complete forgetfulness, followed by the resumed monologue being based upon an entirely different and totally unrelated subject does seem to indicate the thought-blocking symptom of schizophrenia, certainly, but didn’t you think the reactive repressions were interesting?’

‘Yes, and his neologisms, too. He seems as obscure as a Gertrude Stein, although really some of his mind-coinings were remarkably clever, I thought.’

They were in deep discussion of the book when Laura returned at midnight.

‘Were you talking about Sir Bohun?’ she enquired when the guest had gone. ‘It sounded a bit baboonish.’

‘Why should you think of Sir Bohun – oh, I see.’

‘A clear case of the infantile reproduction of sounds to which the infant apparently attaches no meaning,’ said Laura in Sir George’s precise and scholarly tones. ‘Seriously, I wish you’d tell me what you really think Sir B. is like. I know his age, and
you
appeared to indicate that he isn’t bad-looking, but –’

‘You will know what he is like when you meet him. Go to bed, child.’

‘Why wouldn’t either the tutor or the nursery governess have done for both children?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘What about the man who is to be Sherlock Holmes? I seem to have heard his name somewhere. Mildren? … Mildren?’

‘I have never met him. He is a professional actor, I believe.’

Laura poured herself out a glass of beer, produced a packet of potato crisps, sat down at the dining-room table and proceeded to make good those inroads upon her natural energy which had occurred between her dinner and her return to the house. Mrs Bradley watched benignly.

‘I shall be glad to see Sir Bohun again,’ she remarked.

‘You mean you think he may still be barmy?’ Laura enquired with eager interest. ‘A barmy baronet is quite Wilkie Collins, I’d say. Do you know anything about the other people who are coming to the dinner? It isn’t such a
very
big party.’

‘I know that a certain Mrs Dance, whose name appears on the list Sir Bohun sent us, is a swordswoman.’

‘A what?’

‘Foil, épée, sabre. Fencing in general, in fact.’

‘Good, is she?’

‘I am told that she is. However, as she has never taken part in a recognized competition, it is difficult to assess her proficiency.’

‘Oh, well, she
sounds
all right,’ said Laura. ‘I’m rather partial to people who can
do
something.’

‘Her husband is to be at the dinner, too. They were ticked off on the list as people who had accepted the invitation. They are – at least,
he
is – vaguely connected with Sir Bohun through a business partnership. I am surprised they have both accepted. I understand there are grounds for a divorce.’

‘Wonder whether Gavin and I will ever cut the Gordian knot? No, better leave that unsaid. We haven’t even tied it yet. It’s much more fun
not
to be married, I feel. Oh, dear! I’ve finished these crisps.’

She inspected the greasy bag, drained her glass and went moodily out of the room. Mrs Bradley took out Sir Bohun’s list of invited guests and studied it thoughtfully. The two names at the top were
those
of Charles and Ethel Mildren, and, as it happened, this devoted but indigent couple of troupers were about to settle down to a cooked supper after a very long rehearsal of a provincial pantomime.

‘Fifty guineas each, and a jolly good dinner,’ said Charles Mildren. ‘It’s a certain amount of hay, my dear, don’t you think?’

‘I think it’s lovely, Charlie,’ replied Ethel Mildren, turning the sausages in the frying-pan. ‘Who is this Sir Bo?’

‘Boon, it’s pronounced. He’s rich. Diamond mines, or something. Financed
Chance Is Your Uncle
in ’49. Hardly anyone knew who the angel was, but it ran – well, you know how it ran. There was only one snag in it for me. I should have had the juvenile lead, but he insisted on giving it to a pal of his, a chap named Dombrell. I’ve never had the same chance again.’

‘You shouldn’t have took to the bottle, Charlie. That’s been your undoing.’

‘I’ll have to get hold of a script,’ said Mildren, scowling at this home-thrust but otherwise ignoring it. ‘I hate Sir Bohun’s guts, but I need the money and he’s even prepared to pay for the hire of the costumes.’

‘What is this Mrs Hudson I’ve got to play, Charlie?’

‘My landlady. I remember that much. Don’t you worry. The costume will carry you through. I’m the one that’s got the headaches! I suppose it’s his idea of doing me a bit of good to ask me to play Sherlock Holmes!’

‘I always did say you had the look of Basil Rathbone about you, Charlie,’ said Ethel Mildren, pacifically, aware of tension in the air. ‘Strain the potatoes, dear, and put some marge in the saucepan and a little milk. Is this Sir Boon good for the money all right? That’s all
I
want to know. You say he’s a rich man, but fifty guineas each for one performance, with dinner and the costumes thrown in, seems rather a lot. I suppose there’s nothing fishy about it, is there? Why haven’t you ever told me before that you knew the angel of
Chance Is Your Uncle?
’

‘Too bloomin’ sore with him,’ said Mildren shortly. ‘It was
my
chance, and he took it away.’

He pounded the potatoes until bits flew all over the kitchen. Ethel drew in her breath and bit her tongue. It would not do to tell Charlie off when he was in this sort of mood. Mildren put the saucepan down and continued to unburden himself.

‘It ran for three hundred and fifty-eight performances, and if I’d had the part – ’ he said bitterly.

Ethel dished up the meal. The food improved Mildren’s temper.

‘I wonder what his
idea
is, about this Sherlock Holmes dinner?’ he said. ‘It says, “Guests must be prepared to join in games and competitions designed to test their knowledge of the
Adventures
and the
Memoirs
. There will also be dancing.” We shall certainly have to study the book of words, old girl. I read all the Sherlock Holmes stories I could lay hands on when I was a kid, but I’m a bit hazy now as to details. Still, our money and the dinner seem to be in the bag all right, and if it’s going to be a proper sort of old-fashioned party with guessing games, I ought to be well in the swim. I was a devil at Postman’s Knock when I was ten!’

Several hours before the veterans of the legitimate (mostly repertory-company) stage were eating sausages and mashed potatoes and drinking draught beer from ‘round the corner’, Mrs Dance, a dark-haired, pretty woman with a wilful nose, innocent eyes and a mouth both provocative and tender, was telephoning a friend.

‘It’s sickening, Joey, but I shan’t be here. No, I can’t very well get out of it. It means a lot to Toby to keep in with this wretched baronet person … business, you know, and perhaps a wee bit in his will. Yes, well, all right, I can tell you’re annoyed. You don’t have to say so. I’m not very pleased myself. But, hang it, it isn’t as though I
hate
Toby, or want to do him dirt. It’s just that I like you better. No, I do
not
love you! I don’t love anybody. It only makes a muddle … Now, be good, and listen: I’m going to this dinner and I dare say we shall be asked to stay on for a bit,
but
– are you going to listen or
are
you going to keep on with these rude interruptions? – I repeat …
but
I promise to spend Easter doing exactly what you like. Yes, I can come to Paris. Toby is going over to Ireland to see his mother.
All
right, then. Be good. So long and cheery-bye, and do
not
write to me until I say you can. If you’re naughty or silly, I shall explore the possibilities of Manoel Lupez … No, you’ve never met him. It’s all right, silly, neither have I! He’s Sir Bohun’s bastard, I think.
Not
a dago, dear. An Anglo-Spaniard, or Mexican, or something. His mother is a bull-fighter’s daughter, and Manoel is coming to this Sherlock Holmes thing, and that’s all I know, so keep calm. Have a nice trip to Montreal, and look out for icebergs on the way. ’Bye!’

Disregarding a blasphemous prayer for patience from the other end of the line, she gave a delicate little cat-smile and rang off. Then she went to the table and picked up the book which had accompanied Sir Bohun’s invitation.

‘Royal command,’ she soliloquized, carrying the book to a deep armchair beside the electric fire. She curled her sleek body and wriggled until she had achieved the maximum of comfort and then she glanced down the index page of the complete collection of the Sherlock Holmes short stories. ‘You will take the part of Miss Mary Sutherland in
A Case of Identity
,’ she remarked, quoting from Sir Bohun’s peremptory letter. ‘Shall I, dear Bobo? Let’s see.’

She turned to the story and read it. As she did so, a little frown, half angry, half ruefully amused, appeared between her dark brows. She looked up as the door opened.

‘Hullo, Brenda,’ said a voice uncertain of a welcome.

‘Oh, Joey! You darling!’ exclaimed the siren, patting the arm of her chair. ‘Come and sit down and listen to this! Did you ever in all your life!’

‘I thought you’d be annoyed with me for coming,’ said the tall cavalier who had entered. ‘You sounded undeniably terse over the phone just now.’