Watson's Choice
Page 5
She wrote this down on her list, and added: The Noble Bachelor. Then she continued upon her rounds, and, finding nothing to arouse her suspicions, she mounted to the first floor again, cast a grateful eye upon the white goose with the barred tail, and then began to go from door to door.
She had not far to go before she found what she had been looking for. It was a bathroom – the one, in fact, which she herself had used that evening. She remembered quite well that when she had passed it on her way down to dinner it had borne no label. But now it bore a notice similar to those on the bedroom doors.
‘Now, why?’ muttered Laura. She tried the handle. ‘If anybody decided to take a bath he’d only to lock the door. Why the phoney notice?’ The handle turned and the door opened. There was nobody within. On the window-ledge stood a bottle of laudanum. ‘Well!’ thought Laura wrathfully. ‘What a dirty little trick! Somebody spotted the laudanum and put the label on so that nobody else should get it! Wonder which of them would do a thing like that!’
She wrote on her paper:
Isa Whitney’s Laudanum. The Man with the Twisted Lip.
Then she took the notice off the door and left the door wide open so that the phial was in full view of anybody who cared to look in. As she was cramming the notice into the pocket of her suit there was a gasping sound, and she looked up to see the tutor Grimston, white-faced and horror-stricken.
‘Hullo,’ she said. ‘This door had one of the notices on it. It shouldn’t have, should it?’
‘I’ve – I’ve no idea,’ Grimston stammered. ‘I – I shouldn’t think so.’
‘Pretty feeble of somebody,’ said Laura, severely. She went off to find Gavin and to tell him, casually, that she had removed one of the new notices. She found him helping Ethel Mildren to get Mildren to his room, and waited while, between them, they dumped him on the bed and took off his boots, his collar, and his tie. When Gavin emerged she told him about the bathroom, but, keeping to the rules of the competition, she did not mention the laudanum.
‘Funny ideas some people have,’ said Gavin. ‘Have you identified the other room which was sealed off?’
‘Oh, yes, but I haven’t been into it yet. Well, I’ll be seeing you. I’ve still to find two or three more items.’
She found the first of these in the room which held the buffet supper. Poked in among a dish of oranges was an envelope.
‘Eureka!’ said Laura, extracting the five dried orange pips which it contained. She put them back again, replaced the envelope, and added the item to her list. ‘Only one more to find.’ She glanced round the rest of the room so that she did not miss anything, and was very glad she had lingered. Among a collection of cutlery – for the buffet supper was a substantial one – was a small knife which had never been intended for use at table. Laura picked it up, put it down hastily as someone else entered the room, and wrote:
John Straker’s surgical knife. Silver Blaze.
‘Score – ten!’ she thought. Then an uneasy touch of suspicion crossed her mind, for among the food with which the table was so generously laden was a partly-consumed plate of curry. ‘Oh, Lord!’ she said aloud. ‘I was wrong! It isn’t the laudanum bottle. This is the thing.’ She crossed out the reference to the laudanum, and added at the bottom of her list:
Stable-lad Hunter’s opium-drugged curry. Silver Blaze.
‘And yet, I don’t know,’ she thought. ‘It would be better not to have two items from the same story. And yet, again, isn’t it a rather subtle idea, in a way? People would be so bucked about identifying Straker’s scalpel that they wouldn’t think of another Silver Blaze clue.’
At this moment the room was filled with the sound of the gong which Sir Bohun himself was beating just outside the door. Laura went out immediately, and from various parts of the house came the guests and employees, Charles Mildren the only absentee. Sir Bohun took them all into the ballroom and collected their lists. These he handed over to Bell, who disappeared with them.
‘Gone to do his homework,’ said Toby Dance, who, although by no means as drunken as Mildren, appeared to have helped himself fairly freely to the whisky. ‘Let’s have a dance while he does it. Where’s the band? Thought there was going to be a band. What’s happened to it?’
‘Lost in the fog,’ replied Sir Bohun. He stared hard at his inebriated guest. ‘Sorry, Toby. The ladies don’t want any more dancing. Sit down, everybody. I’ve got a surprise for you all later on, but we’ll have it after the prizes have been awarded. While Bell checks the lists we’ll vote for the two most effective costumes – can be two men or two women, or one of each; doesn’t matter. I’ve got a bet on about this, but I shan’t hint. Now, then, people, what about paper to vote on, eh? Bell should have left some somewhere. And pencils? Everybody got a pencil?’
Brenda Dance went to a window-seat, picked up some slips of paper and began to distribute them. As she crossed the room she turned her head, and then she walked towards the wide door which opened on to the terrace.
‘What the deuce is Brenda up to?’ demanded Sir Bohun.
‘Please, sir,’ said Laura, in the classic schoolboy phrase, ‘she thought she heard a noise. And I did, too,’ she added, sotto voce.
‘Oh, that will be the orchestra, then,’ said Sir Bohun. ‘It seems a bit late, but I suppose we’d better have ’em in. Open the door, Grimston, and tell ’em to come straight in here. They’ll see you framed in the doorway against the light.’
But as Grimston joined Brenda and fumbled with the fastenings – for, during the absence of all the household from the ballroom, the servants had thought it wise to bolt the door top and bottom and put the chain on – the usual precautions at night – the electricity failed, and, except for such light as was given by a large and blazing fire, the ballroom was in darkness.
The door to the terrace swung open. Grimston gave a shout of surprise and stumbled backwards. Framed in the phosphorescent light which gilded its enormous body was a creature neither human nor nameless.
‘Good lord! The Hound of the Baskervilles!’ shouted a voice. There was a general stampede, and the sounds of the slamming of doors gave evidence of the reaction of those present to the phenomenon. Alone of all the invited guests, Mrs Bradley and Laura were left together in the ballroom, and at that moment the lights came on again.
‘Come, boy,’ said Mrs Bradley, holding out her hand to the dog.
‘Poor old chap! He’s hungry. Wonder what’s left of the buffet supper?’ said Laura. The great hound wandered in. His friendly, unintelligent, square head was lifted to Mrs Bradley’s caress. The luminous spottings on his coat were rendered invisible under the strong electric light of the ballroom. Mrs Bradley talked to him quietly and confidentially while Laura foraged. He was fed.
‘And now, friend,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘outside for you.’ The dog sighed and did her bidding. Laura closed the heavy door and looked enquiringly at her employer. Mrs Bradley laughed, and then looked thoughtful.
‘I wonder why?’ she said. ‘We had better let the others know that the dog did not tear us in pieces.’
‘They don’t deserve to know it, the silly haddocks,’ said Laura. ‘Let them trickle back when they think the coast might be clear. Talk about Bottom with the ass’s head on him! They ought to be impersonating Quince and Co. But isn’t it just a bit odd?’
‘What is?’ Mrs Bradley enquired.
‘Why, that Sir Bohun ran away, too. After all, I suppose he was responsible.’
‘For what, child?’
‘Beth-Gelert, or whatever the hound is called.’
Mrs Bradley shook her head.
‘I don’t think Sir Bohun knew anything about the dog,’ she said, ‘for if he had known about it he would not have run away with the rest of the party, but would have remained here with us to enjoy the success of his surprise item.’
She went to the door which opened into the hall and pushed at it. A sheepish collection of individuals followed their host into the room.
‘I didn’t bring him at all,’ Mrs Bradley composedly replied. ‘I know no more about him than you do.’
‘I shouldn’t be surprised,’ interposed Brenda Dance, ‘if it means the band has turned up, Boo, darling. I expect the dog is their mascot, and they painted him up to help out the Sherlock Holmes party. They’ll probably expect a thumping tip.’
‘Might have frightened some of you ladies into a fit,’ remarked Sir Bohun, ignoring his own ignominious flight from the Hound of the Baskervilles, ‘and that’s what I shall say to them. Go out, Bell, and tell Cummins to send them in. They’ve delayed us long enough already. We’ll just give them time to warm up, and, meanwhile, we’d better cast our votes.’
Bell went out, but returned shortly to inform his employer that there was still no sign of the orchestra.
‘So the dog wasn’t theirs,’ remarked Laura. ‘We turned him out again on to the terrace. I’d better go out and make certain he doesn’t eat the band if they do turn out.’
‘No, no, Miss Laura. I’ll go,’ said Toby Dance chivalrously. ‘It’s damned foggy and cold out there.’ He did not wait for Laura to answer, but went out of the room, flinging back the end of the sentence as he shut the door behind him.
‘I hope he’s got a torch,’ said Bell. ‘Hullo! What’s happened to Miss Campbell? She hasn’t come back into the room.’
Linda came in at that moment, escorted by Dance.
‘There you are, you see. It’s quite all right,’ he was saying as he led her up to the fire and put her into a chair.
‘Hullo, m’dear,’ said Sir Bohun, looking gravely concerned. ‘Gave you a bit of a turn? I’m sorry about that. But no fault of mine, as you’ll realize.’
Linda Campbell tried to smile, but her face was stiff with fright.
‘Basil, go and get her some brandy. She’s had a shock,’ said Brenda Dance, at once. Grimston, looking thunderous, went out for the restorative, and when he came back he announced that the orchestra had appeared and were thawing out in the servants’ hall.
‘They can’t waste time there,’ said Sir Bohun. ‘Grimston, you and Bell collect the voting papers. Now, Linda, how do you feel?’
‘Better,’ the pallid girl replied. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m terrified of dogs, and that was such a big one, and it looked – it looked so very horrible!’
Sir Bohun nodded, went out of the room and brought in the orchestra, who were certainly cold and damp and seemed delighted to get into the brilliantly-lighted, centrally-heated ballroom.
‘They’ve been delayed by the fog, as I expected, and I suppose they brought that great brute with them,’ he said, calmly appropriating the theory advanced by Brenda Dance. The orchestra leader, however, disclaimed all knowledge of the dog. He had not even seen a dog, he declared. He and his men tuned up and began to play.
Manoel again came over to where Mrs Bradley was sitting. He was a teak-faced, black-haired young man, grave and stern, with square, practical hands and a stocky yet sinuous body. He looked enquiringly at her. Mrs Bradley grinned, but this horrid sight appeared to encourage the boy. He showed white teeth in a foreign, attractive smile.
‘You offer psychological advice, yes?’ he said, giving a stiff little bow before seating himself beside her.
‘Certainly, if and when it is required of me.’
‘Good. I am in a difficulty. It is not easy to commit murder which is not found out, I believe?’
‘Not in England, at any rate.’
‘Not in any country. What would be the best way?’
‘To commit murder, or to avoid being found out?’
‘Of course, both. I ask for information so that in my thoughts I can think somebody not dear to me is murdered. An academic murder, I think I would call it.’
‘I see. Wouldn’t it be sufficient to imagine that this person had died naturally?’
‘Sufficient to me, no. I was born naturally. That is enough that is natural. I would like to think of his agony.’
‘We are referring to …?’
‘To my natural father. But I see that you do not find the subject interesting. Tell me, therefore, of something else. In English law, if he should die … when his time comes from God, you understand … shall I become his heir? There would be nobody with a higher claim, I think.’
‘He would have to acknowledge paternity, or else he would have to make the necessary testamentary depositions.’
‘I see. I must ask him to do one or the other, then. You admit that I could have the right to do that?’
‘I see nothing against it.’
‘Did you produce the big dog? I saw that you and Miss Menzies were the only ones not afraid.’
‘No, it was nothing to do with us. Laura likes dogs.’
‘And you? Are you an English dog-lover?’
‘Not particularly. But I saw that the dog was harmless.’
‘No, I do not believe you did. I think you have too much human dignity to run from an animal.’
‘Nonsense. If I met a really savage creature I should be out of sight in a moment.’
‘So you say. Will you give me once more of your help?’
‘Say on, as my secretary would remark.’
‘Suppose that my father should marry again, and have children, would my claim to the inheritance be gone?’
‘It would not be such a good claim, but, again, your share of the property would depend upon his last will and testament.’
‘Yet I should still be his eldest son,’ said Manoel, quietly. ‘Nothing can ever alter that. You know, when we toreadores come to the point at which the bull must die, we call it “the moment of truth”. One day I think my father must come to that moment. What, then, will he think of me?’ He looked thoughtful, and then added, ‘If I kill my father, what will you think of me?’
‘The same as I do at present,’ Mrs Bradley replied.
‘Comes a lady who wishes her luggage to be carried to her hotel,’ said Manoel. ‘She attempts to engage a mendicant who has asked her for alms. But, because he is a Spaniard, he replies that he is a beggar, not a station porter. And I am a bull-fighter, not an assassin, I think. You understand?’
Mrs Bradley nodded. She partly understood, even at that time. Later, she fully understood.
CHAPTER 4
AFTER THE BALL WAS OVER
‘Many the heart that’s aching,
If you could read them all –
Many the hope that has vanished
– After the ball.’
Victorian Song
*
MANOEL LEFT MRS BRADLEY’S side and went over to speak to Toby Dance whom alcohol had rendered somewhat gloomy. Scarcely had he dropped into a chair beside Dance when Bell returned from marking the competition papers. He was followed by the butler bearing a salver on which reposed a book, a very large envelope, a small gold-coloured box and a silver tankard, pint size. Bell walked up to the orchestra and stopped the music. The two couples – Brenda Dance and Gavin, Celia Godley and Grimston, who were the only dancers, retired to the side of the room, and Sir Bohun took the floor, with his secretary a half-step behind him and the butler a little more aloof.
‘Well, my dears,’ said Sir Bohun, ‘we have the competition results. Would you care to be seated?’
Laura, who had achieved ten correct answers, received the envelope. It contained, not the rumoured cheque for a thousand pounds, which she would have refused, but an autographed letter of Edgar Allan Poe.
‘Oh, I can’t take that!’ she cried delightedly. Sir Bohun wagged a kindly if consequential head.
‘Couldn’t offer a Highlander dross,’ he replied. Mrs Bradley, for Mrs Farintosh’s costume, received a ruby pendant embo
dying the five orange pips wrought in gold – ‘Blood, you see, blood,’ remarked Sir Bohun, indicating the rubies, which were many and tiny. Gavin, as runner-up to Laura, was presented with the tankard – ‘most unoriginal, my dear Chief-Inspector, but had not expected such a close finish’ – and the book, which proved to have a hand-tooled leather cover and to be a copy on hand-made paper of Keats’ Endymion, was presented, amid applause, to Mrs Godley, Celia’s mother, with the gallant remark from its donor: ‘Here you are, Katie, my dear. You’ve borne with all the nonsense very patiently for a woman who doesn’t know Silver Blaze from the Great Fire of London!’
The presentation ceremony being over, the company tended to drift towards the room in which the drinks were still to be found. Laura gravitated towards Mrs Bradley, and they admired one another’s awards. Then Mrs Bradley asked:
‘Well? And what’s the matter?’
‘I don’t know, exactly,’ Laura replied. ‘Nothing. But Gavin doesn’t like it, either. He thinks there’s something cooking in this house, and so do I.’
‘An emanation from Sir Bohun, who goes in fear of his life?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. It’s a collection of tiny bits …’ Under cover of the music which the orchestra still deemed its duty to disseminate, although nobody was dancing, she recounted the events of the evening so far as they had affected her, and so far as she had exchanged opinions with Gavin.
Mrs Bradley nodded, but made no contribution regarding her own experiences that evening; neither did she put forward any suggestions to account for Laura’s feeling of unease beyond the one she had already offered. Herself aware of tension in the air, she felt it centred around Linda Campbell. She did not say this to Laura, but stated, instead, that she felt she had had enough of the Sherlock Holmes party and would now say good night.
She was on her way upstairs when she became aware of voices in altercation on the landing. She coughed, with the intention of indicating her presence, but had heard the following fragment of conversation before the voices ceased and a sound of scuffling, and then of light, running footsteps, indicated that the speakers had made off.