Watson's Choice

by Gladys Mitchell

  Mrs Bradley clicked her tongue.

  ‘It is true that Miss Campbell is still missing from this house,’ she said. ‘I will speak to Mr Grimston, and then, if his story remains constant and bears any evidence of being true, well, we have a policeman among us.’

  ‘Gavin? Yes. What does he mean by risking my maiden virtue with the Manoels of this wicked world?’

  ‘He is not in the house?’

  ‘Of course he’s in the house. He’s teaching Philip to play billiards. He’s taken a fancy to the child. Thinks well of his intelligence, I gather.’

  ‘And the boy thinks well of Robert’s handsome manly appearance, I make no doubt. Robert is good with children. I have marked it before.’

  ‘Oh, people always fall for Gavin,’ said Laura offhandedly. ‘I don’t know why I don’t fall harder for him myself. I doubt whether I am cut out for wifehood. I think, after all, I will wait until I’m forty. I shall know my own mind by then. Hullo! Here’s tea. I haven’t had any yet. Too busy. May I join you? There seems plenty for two.’

  ‘You will spoil your dinner,’ said Mrs Bradley, watching, with fascinated gaze, Laura’s ruthless dealing with buttered muffins and cherry jam.

  ‘Impossible,’ replied Laura, ‘as well you know. Another cup of the Suchong? Refreshing stuff, and they make it rather well. I say, there couldn’t really be anything in Grimston’s yarn, could there, do you suppose? An elaborate and somewhat tasteless leg-pull, should you think?’

  Mrs Bradley shrugged her shoulders. Laura looked at her, a startled expression in her eyes.

  ‘The last I saw of Miss Campbell,’ Mrs Bradley said, ‘was at the Queen of the Circus road-house on the heath. She was with a bitter-looking, thoughtful young man, and by the time 1 had finished my lunch the two had gone.’

  ‘Were they having a row?’

  ‘Not at all, so far as I could tell. Their talk was serious, concentrated, grave, but not, it appeared, acrimonious.’

  ‘He’s murdered her,’ said Laura, ‘mark my words. And Grimston knows!’

  ‘What a thing it is to have an imagination nourished at its inception among the dark hills of the firm, true, and tender north,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘But I also have something to disclose. I have met the Hound of the Baskervilles.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘Yes, again.’

  ‘I say, where?’

  ‘On the heath, where it skirts the village of Common Row. It was in the company of a retired chorus girl.’

  ‘But that doesn’t make sense!’

  ‘Yes, it does, if the dog was hired for the occasion. Still, no matter.’

  Laura looked at her with great interest.

  ‘My thumbs prick,’ she observed with lugubrious relish. ‘We haven’t heard the last of that dog!’

  CHAPTER 5

  A TUTOR’S DREAM

  ‘So wonder on, till Truth make all things plain.’

  SHAKESPEARE – A Midsummer Night’s Dream

  *

  AS SOON AS a maid had taken away the tea-tray, Mrs Bradley rang up Sir Bohun on the house telephone. Sir Bohun was in the bath, and took the call from there.

  ‘Grimston says she’s dead? Out on the heath? Oh, nonsense! He must be mad! I shall have to call the police if she doesn’t come back to-night, though. I wish Bell hadn’t had that sudden call from his father. He’d know what I ought to do. What the deuce has come over the girl? She seemed such a sane little party! Thank heaven I didn’t commit myself to anything! By the way, is Manoel behaving himself as he should? He came to me with a complaint that your Miss Menzies slapped his face, and wants me to order her out of the house. If he doesn’t behave with the women guests, he can go – and so I’ve told him!’

  ‘Laura can take care of herself. Do you think you should speak to Mr Grimston?’

  ‘Yes, I do, and I’d like you to be present, and that policeman chap, too. I’m not well pleased with Grimston for telling that sort of tale. There can’t be anything in it, but it’s not the kind of joke I like very much.’

  ‘You don’t think he can be serious?’

  ‘Hardly. What do you think yourself?’

  ‘I do not commit myself to an opinion. When shall we talk with Mr Grimston?’

  ‘Immediately after dinner. There will be no time for anything before that. If she is out there on the heath, we’d never find her in this. It’s thicker than ever. I’m going to ring off. This dashed water’s getting cold.’

  Mrs Bradley knew better than to suppose that Sir Bohun would be able to refrain from questioning Grimston until after dinner. As soon as the soup-cups had been removed, in fact, Sir Bohun demanded bluntly of the so-far silent tutor:

  ‘What’s all this about Miss Campbell?’

  ‘It looks as though my dream is coming true, Sir Bohun,’ Grimston coolly replied.

  ‘Dream? What dream? What are you blethering about now?’

  ‘I dreamt about Miss Campbell last night. I dreamt that she left the house before the conclusion of your party, and that I followed her on to the heath, just where the path goes down by the side of that new road-house – I forget what it’s called.’

  ‘You couldn’t have followed her! Fog was as thick as a stew!’

  ‘Not in my dream, Sir Bohun. In my dream there was no more than a moonlight mist. As I was saying, I followed Miss Campbell over the heath, taking that winding path which leads to Common Row village. In front of us loomed a structure which, at first sight, I took to be the turrets and bridge of a battleship….’

  ‘Nonsense, man! Just the machinery they use to excavate gravel!’

  ‘Yes, sir, but you will remember that I am describing what took place in my dream.’

  ‘Moonshine! Do you mean to tell me that you attach importance to a dream?’

  ‘Many psychologists to-day believe that dreams may foretell the future as well as illuminate the past, sir.’ Grimston glanced at Mrs Bradley as though challenging her to refute this statement, but her brilliant black eyes gave away none of her opinions. ‘Moreover,’ continued the tutor, ‘Miss Campbell’s unexplained absence from this house has been causing me much anxiety, and therefore, at risk of incurring your scorn and contempt, Sir Bohun, I felt I would be wise to relate my dream in case anything could be done, although, as you point out, in this …!’ He waved a firm hand towards the window. Sir Bohun looked at him without scorn or contempt, but in simple wonderment. Manoel, who was seated between his father and Mrs Bradley in obvious avoidance of sitting next to Laura, suddenly laughed aloud, a harsh sound which caused his father to turn to him and say:

  ‘So that’s what you think of it!’

  ‘Dreams!’ said Manoel. ‘If Antonio were here he would know all about these dreams!’

  ‘But in that sleep of death, what dreams may come …’ Mrs Bradley quoted solemnly. ‘Pray continue your reminiscences, Mr Grimston.’ Grimston shrugged helplessly.

  ‘Yes, go on, Mr Grimston,’ said Laura. ‘My Highland imagination is all on fire to hear the rest of the story. You don’t mind, Sir Bohun, do you? I’m not going to miss the bloodiest part, if I can help it.’

  ‘There wasn’t any blood,’ said Grimston quickly. ‘She was simply lying there, by the water. I knew exactly where to find her. She was lying there by the water, and I knew she was dead. And then I knew I had killed her. You know how it is in dreams. There’s often no real sequence … anyhow, none that one can remember afterwards. I had been following her, and then my attention was distracted by this ship-looking erection … really the gravel-digging machinery, of course, as Sir Bohun points out … and then I came upon her dead body, and I knew I’d killed her. And I’m worried. There’s something wrong, even if she isn’t dead. If everything’s all right with her, where is she now?’

  ‘A moot point,’ said Mrs Bradley, noting with interest that the conversation had continued, unchecked by the entrances and disappearances of servants changing plates and bringing in dishes. ‘We must investigate.’

 
When dinner was over, and the others were retiring to the drawing-room, Sir Bohun waylaid Mrs Bradley at the door.

  ‘What do you think of that mad fellow’s story, Beatrice?’ he demanded.

  ‘I think we should inform the police if Miss Campbell is still missing by eleven o’clock to-night. Even supposing that nothing untoward has befallen her, the fact remains that she was not in the house last night. If I had not happened to come upon her in that road-house, you would have informed the police, before this, of her disappearance, I take it?’

  ‘I suppose so, yes.’ Before he could say more, Gavin came back to the room.

  ‘I don’t want to butt in,’ he said, ‘but how would it be, Sir Bohun, if I had a semi-official word, so to speak, with the local police? I could, perhaps, tip them the wink that there may be something fishy about Miss Campbell’s disappearance, and give them Mrs Bradley’s description of the fellow she was with at the pub.’

  ‘I’d be very much relieved if you would,’ said Sir Bohun, his relief evident in his voice. ‘It isn’t a bit like what I know of the girl for her to have made off like this. I don’t know what to think about it, and, as her employer, I feel responsible for her safety.’

  ‘I’ll get on to them right away,’ said Gavin, ‘if I may use your telephone. I’ll ring them to say I’m coming, and then go and see them personally.’

  ‘The fog’s beastly thick, and part of the road is alongside the river. Take care, you know. Very easy to drive over the edge of the bank if you don’t know your way.’

  Gavin left the house and did not get back until eleven. He asked immediately whether Miss Campbell had returned. She had not done so.

  ‘Proof enough that we’ve done the right thing in telling the police,’ said Sir Bohun. ‘What was their attitude, Chief-Inspector?’

  ‘What one might have expected. They don’t recognize the description of the fellow she was with at the pub, but they’re prepared to take up the chase if she isn’t back by to-morrow. Even if they were prepared to search the heath on the strength of Grimston’s dream, it just isn’t possible to-night. The darkness and the fog together have put paid to any such idea.’

  ‘Well, I’m extremely grateful to you,’ said Sir Bohun. ‘I was worried about the girl. This is a tremendous weight off my mind. Where has Grimston gone, by the way?’

  ‘He went to bed, Sir Bohun,’ said the butler, who had come in with the whisky.

  ‘Went to bed, did he? Hm! Doesn’t say much for his feelings,’ remarked the host, when the butler had gone. ‘I thought he was sweet on the girl!’

  Mrs Bradley also went to bed, but she felt wide-awake, and, at two in the morning, she got up, wrapped herself in her dressing-gown and chose a book. The fire was not out, so she poked and replenished it, and settled down in comfort to read. An hour passed. Somewhere a clock struck three. The handle of her door began to turn. Mrs Bradley’s ears were keen. She looked up, and watched the revolution of the handle. She had no sensation of fear, but felt considerable curiosity. This was satisfied when her visitor proved to be Grimston. She betrayed no surprise at his entrance.

  ‘Well,’ she said, looking up, ‘and what can I do for you, my poor child?’

  Grimston stood still, and put his back against the door which he had closed very softly behind him.

  ‘I was going to ask you – ’ he said.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I was going to ask you what you thought about Linda Campbell. Her disappearance, you know. Isn’t it rather odd?’

  ‘Very odd indeed, I should think. And isn’t this rather an odd time to canvass my opinion?’

  ‘I really sneaked in to have a look at your diary.’

  ‘I see. What makes you think I keep a diary?’

  ‘Don’t you? I’ve seen you writing in a small book that you keep in the deep pocket of your skirt.’

  ‘Ah, yes. That is not a diary. It is my professional notebook, and would mean very little to you if you saw it. Indeed, you are quite welcome to see it, if you wish. There it is, on the dressing-table.’

  Grimston strolled over, his hands in the pockets of the dinner-jacket he was still wearing. He picked up the book and glanced through it, but Mrs Bradley’s self-invented shorthand and illegible, neat writing defeated him, as she had known they would. He laid down the book, and turned and faced her.

  ‘What did you think of my dream?’ he demanded. She had put down her own book, but had not risen from her armchair. She looked up at him and shook her head.

  ‘Realistic and invented,’ she replied.

  He nodded.

  ‘Exactly what I should have expected you to say. Look here will you come with me to the heath in the morning? After all, Linda hasn’t come back. I went to her room before I came here, to make sure. And she’s – I mean, there are several people who’ve got it in for her. She’s told me bits, and I’ve guessed a lot more than she’s told me. It isn’t difficult to put two and two together with anyone as transparent as Linda.’

  ‘You’re in love with her, aren’t you?’ said Mrs Bradley. It was more of a statement than a question. Grimston looked surprised, and said:

  ‘In love with her? Oh, no, she is not my type at all. In fact, rather the reverse. She’s hard, you know… a bit of a gold-digger, too.’

  ‘And you?’

  He gave a short laugh. The abrupt query was a criticism, and he knew it.

  ‘Me? Oh, I don’t know. One can’t judge oneself. Pretty soft, I expect. Bit of an idealist, I’m afraid. No money, and no particular prospects. A dead-end kid, in a way; and, in a way, not. I’ve contemplated suicide at times. I’m not interested in living to a ripe old age, neither have I any intention of growing a paunch in my middle years and padding about in the back garden of a suburban villa, still less of exhausting my mental powers trying to teach louts how to read and write English. Will you come with me to the heath in the morning?’

  ‘That remains to be seen. You had better go to bed now, and allow me to do the same.’

  ‘Yes, very well. I’m sorry to have disturbed you, but I saw the light through your keyhole, so I guessed that you were still up, and wouldn’t mind if I came in.’

  He went out, closing the door without a sound. Mrs Bradley turned the key in the lock. She was not afraid of Grimston, but she did not approve of being called upon in the early hours of the morning by young men who babbled of dreams and murder. Grimston’s mental state, it did not take much intelligence to infer, was in anything but a healthy condition. Very thoughtful indeed, she sought her bed. She was wondering why he had lied about being in love with Linda Campbell. On the other hand, suicides, she reminded herself, rarely confess beforehand to suicidal impulses. They prefer to leave letters to be read after their deaths.

  The next morning she rose as soon as it was light, went downstairs, and found Gavin gazing out of the morning-room french window at the woolly mist which allowed little of the grounds to be seen beyond the terrace parapet. He wore riding breeches and a waterproof.

  ‘Don’t believe I want to ride in this,’ he said, indicating the thick haze. ‘Think it will lift after breakfast?’

  ‘I have no idea. The countryside is low-lying, and there is a great deal of water near here, so probably it will not. If it does, I want you to come out with Mr Grimston and me.’

  ‘Willingly. May I ask where, and, if it isn’t ungallant, why?’

  ‘Certainly. We are going to find out whether dreams come true.’

  ‘Good Lord! You didn’t take him seriously, did you?’

  ‘Considering that he entered my room at three a.m. to urge upon me the necessity of investigating the disappearance of Linda Campbell …’

  ‘At three this morning? The fellow must be crazy! Is he?’

  ‘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?’

  ‘I
t 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.