Watson's Choice Page 13

  ‘I seem to be here under false pretences,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘I am connected with the Home Office.’

  ‘Oh!’ said the woman, dismayed. ‘But there’s nothing of that sort here! Oh, dear me, no! We take only the most respectable poor! I am afraid you have been misinformed. Our boarders have never been in any sort of trouble, I can assure you! We take only recommendations from clergymen, you know, and they are quite, quite aware of our rules.’

  ‘I think we are still at cross purposes,’ said Mrs Bradley with her mirthless grin. ‘The Home Office is not in the least concerned to look into the private affairs of this excellent institution which is doing such invaluable work. No, indeed.’ She stopped, and regarded the matron of the home with the loving smile of a shark as it turns on its side and opens its mouth for prey.

  ‘I – I see,’ said the woman. ‘Then – what –?’

  ‘Exactly. I wonder whether we might go somewhere where we shall not be overheard?’ (She had become aware of a stealthy footstep on the stair and had seen a shadow appear where the thin winter light picked out the banisters.)

  ‘By all means.’ The matron led the way to a door which opened off the right-hand side of the hall. The room to which it admitted them was furnished as an office, but contained a couple of ancient easy-chairs. The matron closed the door, indicated the slightly less worn of the chairs to her visitor and seated herself in the other. ‘And now, Mrs – ’

  ‘Bradley. Doctor Beatrice Lestrange Bradley. I see that you have never heard of me. I had better produce my credentials.’

  ‘Oh, not at all! Not at all, Doctor Bradley!’

  Mrs Bradley, who would have been hard put to it to produce anything except the small notebook which was her invariable companion, nodded amiably and fixed the matron with a basilisk eye.

  ‘Well, now,’ she said, ‘to explain my business here. You have read in the newspapers, I take it, that the dead body of a young woman has been found on a deserted railway station not so very far from this house.’

  ‘I did not read of it myself – I don’t read the newspapers – but Miss Galbraith has been full of it. Not our best type, I’m afraid. In fact – difficult. Very difficult. She has been on the stage, and she finds it hard to settle to the kind of life we lead here. If it had not been for the Reverend Snaith, who happens to be very sorry for her, I would have preferred not to take her. She is not very manageable, I’m afraid.’

  Mrs Bradley had begun to be fascinated by the numbers of things of which the matron appeared to be afraid. Like that humane genius Sigmund Freud, Mrs Bradley did not believe that people used words at random. Censorship was always present, but the subconscious mind was desperately honest in the sense that it was apt to produce the truth at very awkward times. The matron certainly was afraid – afraid of responsibility, most probably – and her constant use of the word, in contexts where it appeared to make nonsense of itself, was revealing.

  ‘The less inhibited your Miss Galbraith is, the better for my purpose,’ said Mrs Bradley briskly. ‘You say she has read about the case?’

  ‘In all the Sunday papers, I’m afraid. The Sunday papers and her daily ten cheap cigarettes are what she spends her money on. Her nephew pays for her keep here. We charge very little, of course, as we have connexions with various charitable organizations, but I’m afraid he can ill spare the money.’

  Mrs Bradley wagged her head solemnly. A knowledge of the significance of most apparently altruistic actions caused her to suppose that the nephew, whoever he was, might prefer to make considerable financial sacrifices rather than have an aged and slightly disreputable aunt to live with him. She did not mention this view to her present audience, but remarked cheerfully:

  ‘She sounds just the kind of person who might be very useful to us.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m afraid she’s out at present. She goes for a walk on the heath every fine morning with her dog.’

  ‘Her dog?’ The matron did not understand Mrs Bradley’s prompt reaction to this word. She nodded unhappily.

  ‘She refuses to be parted from it. Pets are not allowed here except for cage-birds, and not many take advantage of that. I myself had a dear pussy, but when this great dog came along I had to get rid of her. She would not have been safe. I’m afraid I have sometimes harboured very uncharitable feelings towards Miss Galbraith.’

  ‘I am sure you must have done. Oh, well, if she is not here, I won’t detain you any longer. By the way, I suppose Miss Galbraith’s dog hasn’t had a holiday recently?’

  ‘A holiday? Not exactly a holiday. He was hired to take part in a film, I understand. I don’t know what they paid her, but I suspect her, I’m afraid’ – the matron lowered her voice – ‘I suspect her of having smuggled drink into the house. Of course, if I had been able to prove it, she would have had to go. We couldn’t begin that sort of thing!’

  ‘Of course not. Of course not. Well, good-bye, Matron.’ Mrs Bradley rose.

  ‘I’m afraid I still don’t know why you want to see Miss Galbraith,’ said the matron. ‘Is it secret official business?’

  ‘No, not secret. Official, of course.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Oh, I see. Well, thank you so much for calling. Might I – might I use your name when I write to our Committee?’

  ‘Certainly. I will give you one of my cards.’ She had just remembered that Laura had pushed two or three of these misleading, grandiose objects inside the cover of the notebook. Mrs Bradley left the matron to study the card. The matron looked awe-stricken. Laura, who had had the cards printed, had not stinted Mrs Bradley’s share of honours.

  ‘Dame!’ murmured the matron ecstatically. ‘Not only Doctor, but Dame! Dame Beatrice Adela Lestrange Bradley – ’ She continued to peruse the card, mouthing the formidable degrees which followed the aristocratic announcement. Mrs Bradley turned at the gate and bowed. The matron returned the bow, looking slightly dazed; then she skipped down the steps to the gate. ‘You will come and see us again, won’t you, Dame Beatrice? Any time at all! We shall be honoured to meet you.’

  ‘Such is fame!’ said Laura, grinning, when, as they pursued their way towards the road-house, Mrs Bradley gave an account of the interview. ‘Makes you think a bit, though. After all, anybody could have one of those cards printed, I suppose, and most people would be boobs enough to fall for it, whether it was true or not.’

  ‘You terrify me, child,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Now, as soon as we get on to the heath, keep a watchful eye open.’

  ‘I thought we were going to have lunch at the Queen of the Circus!’

  ‘We are, but I am anxious to meet a Miss Galbraith, who resides at the house I’ve just left. According to the list which I read in the matron’s office, lunch is served at twelve. It is now half-past eleven, so I imagine that Miss Galbraith should soon be approaching the house. Elderly ladies dislike to miss their food.’

  ‘So do younger ones,’ retorted Laura. ‘I’m already dying for mine. I wonder what sort of a meal the Queen of the Circus can produce?’

  ‘My own experience there was pleasant, I seem to remember.’

  ‘I say,’ said Laura suddenly, ‘do you see what I see?’

  ‘How can I tell, child? What I see are several automobiles, a motor cycle, three bicycles, a young woman accompanied by two children and – ’

  ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles!’ cried Laura. ‘It must be! There couldn’t be two!’

  ‘I was about to add that I can also see an elderly woman and with her a large and apparently even-tempered dog.’

  ‘I say! This seems to add up! What do you want me to do?’

  ‘I want you to stroll on ahead of me, and go into the Queen of the Circus.’

  ‘Good-o! I say, the old girl’s pretty hearty if she takes the hound out for walks in weather as cold as this.’

  ‘She is not only hearty. She may be in considerable danger, if what I suspect is true,’ said Mrs Bradley.

  ‘I thought you had some idea that the dog we weren’t
allowed to see might qualify.’

  ‘There is nothing to show that there was only one Hound of the Baskervilles, child.’

  ‘But the dog at the station was the very spit and image of the one which turned up at the Sherlock Holmes party that night, you know.’

  ‘And, which was strange, the one so like the other

  As could not be distinguished but by names.

  It is not only the twins in the Comedy of Errors who could not be told apart. Two puppies of the same litter may be widely different in temperament, but in appearance – ’

  ‘So that’s what you think!’ exclaimed Laura. ‘Miss Galbraith’s dog was the original Hound of the Baskervilles at the Sherlock Holmes party, and the market garden dog was the one I saw at the railway station! Oh, I say! That explains a lot!’

  ‘It explains nothing at all,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘And now you would like your beer. Go along, and don’t hurry. I will just pass the time of day with Miss Galbraith, if this is she.’

  Laura walked on ahead. When she came to the woman with the dog she stopped. The dog stopped, too. Laura fondled his head and patted him. When she straightened up the enormous animal stood on his hind legs, put his paws on her shoulders, and licked her cheek. Mrs Bradley came up as Laura, sturdy though she was, staggered under the impact.

  ‘Dr Livingstone, I presume?’ she said to the owner of the dog, as Laura, recovering her balance, removed the huge paws from her shoulders. The raddled lady looked puzzled.

  ‘I’m sure I haven’t the honour,’ she replied, ‘though I seem to have seen you before.’

  ‘I have just come from your lodgings,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘I passed you some time in November out on the heath. I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Galbraith. I believe that is not your stage name, though?’

  ‘Yolanda Fleur, dear. What exactly was it? If you’re the Income Tax, I don’t have any income while I’m resting.’

  ‘I have no connexion with the Income Tax authorities, my dear Miss Galbraith. It is in connexion with your profession that I have come to see you. I enquired at the – ’

  ‘At the Cats’ Home?’ Miss Galbraith supplied, with a gurgle of laughter. ‘Oh, did you, dear? And to what exactly –?’

  ‘We were wondering whether you would care to appear in a play. You would have to go north, I’m afraid, so perhaps it wouldn’t interest you.’ She motioned Laura to be off.

  ‘North? How far north?’ Miss Galbraith’s decision to accept the offer could be taken for granted, Mrs Bradley noted.

  ‘The north-east of Scotland. The theatre is in Aberdeen.’

  ‘Would there be a job for Dusty there?’

  Mrs Bradley inspected the enormous animal with interest.

  ‘If he could please his previous employers he could please us. I do not doubt it. I have the highest reports of his work.’

  ‘I understand all right about the film people,’ said the old actress, ‘but I still wonder what that little caper was in November. You wouldn’t know about that. Some young woman came along and asked me to hire Dusty out for a party. I said the dog wasn’t used to children and I wouldn’t have him pulled about, but she said it wasn’t children and that I could come with him if I liked and make sure everything was all right. Ever so nice she was, and offered three guineas. There was only one thing I didn’t like. She wanted to touch him up here and there with luminous paint. Still, I felt sure she wouldn’t hurt or frighten him. I suppose she wanted him for charades or something of that sort. Anyway, I agreed so long as she promised to fetch him and bring him back, and chain him up quietly as everybody at the Cats’ Home was certain to be in bed. I was a bit worried when it turned so foggy, but a gentleman turned up to fetch him and I don’t know who brought him back, but he was there all right in the morning.’

  ‘That is extremely interesting,’ said Mrs Bradley. ‘Now, is it convenient for you to travel to Scotland to-morrow? It is? Splendid! The matron at the hospital will vouch for me. I will send a taxi for you, then. You will need a letter of introduction and the address of the repertory company in Aberdeen, and I had better, perhaps, provide for your expenses now.’

  This unusual series of arrangements appeared not to surprise Miss Galbraith. She seemed to be accustomed to extraordinary transactions. She took the pound notes, counted them and merely observed:

  ‘I dare say you’d like a receipt.’

  ‘You can send it to me from Aberdeen. Here is my card,’ Mrs Bradley replied, extracting one of these impressive recommendations and handing it over. ‘And now I wonder whether you can describe the people who hired Dusty?’

  But Miss Galbraith was vague. Her description of the woman could have fitted Linda Campbell, Brenda Dance or, at a pinch, Celia Godley. About the men she was a little clearer. The first man she had seen was middle-aged and spoke with a thick foreign accent – German, she thought, but she ‘wasn’t much up in languages’. The man who had hired the dog for the film people was English, was much younger than the first man, did not give the idea of being on the stage – ‘you can’t often mistake them, dear, if you’ve been in the profession as long as I have’ – but, Miss Galbraith was almost certain, had been wearing a wig.

  The conversation continued until Laura reappeared and joined them, the dog showing the same affection for her as he had done when they had met before. With mutual expressions of friendliness, Miss Galbraith and Mrs Bradley parted, and, as they walked onwards for lunch, Mrs Bradley gave Laura details of what had proved to be a most interesting and, in some respects, a most enlightening conversation.

  ‘Poor old party,’ said Laura. ‘What happens when she gets to Scotland?’

  ‘She will find the company avid to receive her. The Argonauts are on tour with Peter Pan, and their producer is a personal friend of mine. He will use Miss Galbraith and keep her busy for a week or two whilst we obtain the facts we need. As soon as I realized how the murder had been committed, and by whom, I foresaw that the owner of the Hound of the Baskervilles might, at some time, need protection.’

  ‘Well, I’m dashed!’ said Laura. ‘What don’t you know?’

  ‘Exactly what went on in the Cities of the Plain, child. Even allowing for all the sources and idiosyncrasies of human behaviour which modern psychology has laid bare, it is difficult to conceive of a state of things so far removed from normal conduct that the cities had to be destroyed in so uncompromising a fashion. One thinks of post-1918 Hamburg; one thinks of the port of Suez; one thinks unutterable thoughts; and, after that, imagination boggles, as the master of the comic novel has said.’

  Laura regarded her employer sideways and with distrust. They repaired to the dining-room of the Queen of the Circus for lunch. When it was over, Laura said:

  ‘I suppose my next assignment is to see Miss Galbraith off on the Royal Scot to-morrow.’

  ‘It is safer for her if we appear to have no connexion with her. I will send a taxi for her. I have given her the money for her fare and a little over. And now for a stroll on the heath,’ said Mrs Bradley.

  CHAPTER 11

  TO SEE A MAN ABOUT A DOG

  ‘All this propaganda had its effect.’

  HELEN SIMPSON – The Spanish Marriage

  *

  WHEN THEY HAD left the Queen of the Circus well behind them, and were out on the open heath and heading towards the gravel pits, Mrs Bradley said cheerfully:

  ‘Well, that disposes very nicely of Miss Galbraith and her innocent dog.’

  ‘Why do you call him, rather deliberately, her innocent dog?’ enquired Laura.

  ‘For the best of reasons, child.’

  Laura recognized the note in Mrs Bradley’s voice which meant that no more information would be forthcoming at that moment, and they walked on in silence until Laura asked:

  ‘Are we going to walk over to the village?’

  ‘Such was my intention,’ Mrs Bradley replied. ‘I have questions to ask there.’

  ‘Questions? Of whom?’

 
‘Of the vicar. I wish to ask him what he thinks is the probable date of his font. Then I shall digress by referring to the not highly original rebus of one Boddy, which I shall pretend I saw in the church when I visited it, and from that, I hope, the conversation will take a turn towards bodies in general and that of Miss Campbell in particular. When I have spoken of these things I propose to talk about dogs.’

  ‘To the vicar?’

  ‘Why not? He is in as good a position as anyone else to tell us what kind of dog is kept by the people at the market-garden. He should know the dog. It happens to reside in his parish.’

  ‘I agree. What’s more, we’d better hurry. Time marches on and I can’t say I fancy these wide-open spaces after dark.’

  The vicarage was a house two hundred years old, and the vicar a worried-looking man of fifty, who welcomed them dubiously. He was eloquent, however, on the subject of the font, and insisted upon showing them the parish registers, although these were of only moderate interest since every entry before 1791 had been destroyed either by vandalism or by fire. He also offered interesting, if occasionally redundant, footnotes.

  Mrs Bradley made some pertinent remarks, Laura some appreciative noises, and they began to walk towards the very fine effigies of a knight and a lady.

  ‘The significance of the dog as a foot-rest escapes me,’ Mrs Bradley began, as they stood beside the recumbent figures. The vicar was about to refresh her memory when Laura, deducing that she had received her cue, said brightly:

  ‘Miss Galbraith’s dog would make a pretty big foot-stool – big enough for both those people, I should think.’ It was clumsily phrased, but she could decide upon nothing more graceful on the spur of the moment. It sufficed, however. Mrs Bradley followed it up before the vicar could get a word uttered.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ she said. She peered at the dog of stone. ‘Not quite the same breed as this one, I imagine. An enormous animal, vicar, and as tame as a puppy. You have seen it about, I dare say?’