Watson's Choice Read Free

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,