Watson's Choice Read Online Free PDF

Manoel expressed the view that his Young Holder shirt and trousers were ignominioso and caused him to feel vergonzante – the latter an adjective which, in his case, Mrs Bradley thought singularly inept, as he was quite the least bashful or shamefaced young man she had ever encountered. In the end it had been decided that the whole party should dine in ordinary evening dress, and then go up and change.
    When dinner was over and the party came down again in late nineteenth-century dress, it was seen that Manoel had changed parts with Dance. The stocky, serious, not unlikeable husband of the delicious Brenda was in the Holder undress shirt and trousers, whilst Manoel had taken on the outfit of Doctor Watson.
    ‘But I shan’t know who anybody is, once we begin the competitions!’ screamed Sir Bohun.
    ‘Why should he want to know who anybody is?’ muttered Laura to Mrs Bradley. Her employer did not reply, and Mrs Dance came up at that moment and said to Laura:
    ‘Any clues to what happens next?’
    ‘There is some talk of Terpsichore,’ Laura replied. ‘Personally, my get-up makes me think that that particular Muse is one with whose company I can readily dispense this evening.’
    ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Mrs Dance, with a coquettish hitch of her bustle (for she had accepted Laura’s view that this appendage constituted the major attraction of the costume of Mrs Grant Munro) ‘it’s preferable to the frightful games which Bobo is wishing on us when those kids have gone to bed.’
    As though to clinch the argument, Sir Bohun chose this moment to lead Mrs Bradley out for an old-fashioned waltz. He twirled the eccentric draperies of Mrs Farintosh with so much energy that he ended up out of breath, but his partner, not one black hair out of place, seemed as cool as when they had begun, and congratulated him upon his prowess.
    She escaped after that, however, by taking charge of the two little boys and telling them a Bowdlerized version of The Yellow Face and Copper Beeches , for the black girl in the yellow mask had intrigued them, and nobody, it seemed, had troubled to explain what their dressing-up indicated. The character of young Master Rucastle came in for no criticism. The slaughter of cockroaches with a slipper did not occasion anything but common-sense approval from Philip.
    ‘It’s hurting things that matters; not killing them if they’re pests,’ he declared. He yawned. Timothy observed: ‘I wish the big dog had eaten Mr Rucastle!’ Mrs Dance came up as the radiogram ended another waltz.
    ‘They ought to be in bed,’ she said. ‘I know where they sleep. Come on, lads.’ With a swift kindness which might well have been unexpected in her, she scooped up Timothy and bore him off. Mrs Bradley followed, accompanying Philip, but he turned at the door and said, ‘There’s a whole book about another big dog. I’ve read it once, and I wanted to read it again, but it’s disappeared.’
    Sir Bohun had noted the departure of the boys, for, as Mrs Bradley turned at the door to come back into the room, he came up to her and said genially:
    ‘Nuisance about the band. Dare say they’ve given up trying to locate us. Fog’s thicker than ever, Bell says. He’s just been outside on to the terrace to see if he could get a glimpse of them, but couldn’t see an inch beyond the balustrading, and only that far because of the arc lamps I’ve had installed out there in readiness for to-night to help people find their way. We are most lucky to get this pea-souper. Well, now, talking of pea-soupers, I want to begin the real business of the evening – the Sherlock Holmes competitions.’
    He went to the middle of the large room and addressed his guests, informing them of pencils and paper to be found in the library and of lists to be compiled, the longest correct list to win a prize. Mrs Dance returned in time to groan into Laura’s ear, at the mention of pencils and paper:
    ‘How I do loathe having to write