unkind to object to the marriage.’
Mrs Dance shrugged. Then she caught Mrs Bradley’s eye again, and her gamine face curved into sudden laughter.
‘All the same, that big bad wolf story of hers was all hooey,’ she remarked, ‘and I don’t believe for an instant that Boo-Boo fell for it. No, there’s something behind this engagement, and blackmail is by far the most likely thing. If it is, she ought not to be allowed to get away with it, and I still think you ought to ferret out the truth and save the silly mug from himself.’
‘From himself – or for you?’ Mrs Bradley wondered; but, as this was not a question it was possible to ask, she was silent for a while. When she spoke, it was upon another subject.
‘What did you make of the Hound of the Baskervilles at the Sherlock Holmes party?’ she enquired.
‘Manoel, I think. I’ve turned the thing over in my mind, and he is the only person who would have thought of it – unless your Laura has a talent for practical joking.’
‘Manoel?’
‘Well, he’s used to bulls, so I shouldn’t think he’d be afraid of a dog.’
‘Laura?’
‘Well, I shouldn’t think she’s afraid of anything.’
‘She is afraid of my displeasure,’ said Mrs Bradley solemnly, ‘and she would know that I should be very much displeased if she introduced a large and savage dog into the middle of a small and civilized gathering, Sherlock Holmes and the Hound notwithstanding.’
‘I see. Was the dog savage?’
‘No. On the contrary, it was an obedient, intelligent, extremely docile animal.’
‘There you are, then. Manoel. He would like to make his father look a fool, and Boo did look a fool – you can’t deny it.’
‘It interests me,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘to note that the fact that Manoel is Sir Bohun’s illegitimate son appears to be known to everybody.’
‘Oh, well, Boo’s proud of it, you know. He tells no end of a good tale about it all – so gallant, so romantic, and, I am perfectly certain, all lies. Anyway, Manoel undoubtedly exists, and undoubtedly he is Boo’s son. What is more, he hates Boo with an old-fashioned Mexican hatred that would give me nightmares if I were in Boo’s shoes. Boo’s shoes,’ she repeated thoughtfully. ‘It sounds like one of those novels where they make up half the words. Boo’s shoes, shoes boo the crowd, boos through Boo, shoos away coos – I mean cows – oh, dear! How silly!’
She grimaced, grinned, slid to the ground and was gone, closing the door behind her with scarcely a sound. Mrs Bradley looked thoughtful. There was no doubt that Mrs Dance was both shrewd and forthright. She had sensed the feeling that Manoel had for his father; she had summed up Linda Campbell; and she had no illusions whatever about Sir Bohun.
Mrs Bradley went down to tea and found her host alone with his fiancée. Linda looked at her smugly, and then slid her hand into Sir Bohun’s. He looked surprised, stared down at it and cast it off.
‘Nice of you, Beatrice,’ he said. ‘Thankful we’ve got one friend and well-wisher, anyway!’
‘One?’ Mrs Bradley enquired, seating herself by the fire and opposite the engaged couple.
‘The others – even Bell – and what business it is of his I don’t know – are dead against this set-up.’ Sir Bohun indicated the tea-pouring Linda with a jerk of his head. ‘I can understand young Grimston, of course. I’ve cut him out. But why on earth anybody else should object, I don’t follow at all.’
‘Spongers!’ interpolated Linda. ‘And that Bell boy is afraid he’ll lose his job when we’re married. And so he will, if I have any say in the matter. He’s far too big for his boots, and he knows far more of your business, Boo, than is good for him or for you. When we’re married I can do his job.’
‘Not in addition to your own, my dear.’
‘Of course I can! Running a staff of servants doesn’t take all day.’
‘I was thinking of little Tim.’
‘Tim? Oh, but I
Mrs Dance shrugged. Then she caught Mrs Bradley’s eye again, and her gamine face curved into sudden laughter.
‘All the same, that big bad wolf story of hers was all hooey,’ she remarked, ‘and I don’t believe for an instant that Boo-Boo fell for it. No, there’s something behind this engagement, and blackmail is by far the most likely thing. If it is, she ought not to be allowed to get away with it, and I still think you ought to ferret out the truth and save the silly mug from himself.’
‘From himself – or for you?’ Mrs Bradley wondered; but, as this was not a question it was possible to ask, she was silent for a while. When she spoke, it was upon another subject.
‘What did you make of the Hound of the Baskervilles at the Sherlock Holmes party?’ she enquired.
‘Manoel, I think. I’ve turned the thing over in my mind, and he is the only person who would have thought of it – unless your Laura has a talent for practical joking.’
‘Manoel?’
‘Well, he’s used to bulls, so I shouldn’t think he’d be afraid of a dog.’
‘Laura?’
‘Well, I shouldn’t think she’s afraid of anything.’
‘She is afraid of my displeasure,’ said Mrs Bradley solemnly, ‘and she would know that I should be very much displeased if she introduced a large and savage dog into the middle of a small and civilized gathering, Sherlock Holmes and the Hound notwithstanding.’
‘I see. Was the dog savage?’
‘No. On the contrary, it was an obedient, intelligent, extremely docile animal.’
‘There you are, then. Manoel. He would like to make his father look a fool, and Boo did look a fool – you can’t deny it.’
‘It interests me,’ said Mrs Bradley, ‘to note that the fact that Manoel is Sir Bohun’s illegitimate son appears to be known to everybody.’
‘Oh, well, Boo’s proud of it, you know. He tells no end of a good tale about it all – so gallant, so romantic, and, I am perfectly certain, all lies. Anyway, Manoel undoubtedly exists, and undoubtedly he is Boo’s son. What is more, he hates Boo with an old-fashioned Mexican hatred that would give me nightmares if I were in Boo’s shoes. Boo’s shoes,’ she repeated thoughtfully. ‘It sounds like one of those novels where they make up half the words. Boo’s shoes, shoes boo the crowd, boos through Boo, shoos away coos – I mean cows – oh, dear! How silly!’
She grimaced, grinned, slid to the ground and was gone, closing the door behind her with scarcely a sound. Mrs Bradley looked thoughtful. There was no doubt that Mrs Dance was both shrewd and forthright. She had sensed the feeling that Manoel had for his father; she had summed up Linda Campbell; and she had no illusions whatever about Sir Bohun.
Mrs Bradley went down to tea and found her host alone with his fiancée. Linda looked at her smugly, and then slid her hand into Sir Bohun’s. He looked surprised, stared down at it and cast it off.
‘Nice of you, Beatrice,’ he said. ‘Thankful we’ve got one friend and well-wisher, anyway!’
‘One?’ Mrs Bradley enquired, seating herself by the fire and opposite the engaged couple.
‘The others – even Bell – and what business it is of his I don’t know – are dead against this set-up.’ Sir Bohun indicated the tea-pouring Linda with a jerk of his head. ‘I can understand young Grimston, of course. I’ve cut him out. But why on earth anybody else should object, I don’t follow at all.’
‘Spongers!’ interpolated Linda. ‘And that Bell boy is afraid he’ll lose his job when we’re married. And so he will, if I have any say in the matter. He’s far too big for his boots, and he knows far more of your business, Boo, than is good for him or for you. When we’re married I can do his job.’
‘Not in addition to your own, my dear.’
‘Of course I can! Running a staff of servants doesn’t take all day.’
‘I was thinking of little Tim.’
‘Tim? Oh, but I
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