Free Watson's Choice by Gladys Mitchell

skeleton, this last in memory of a certain Septimus Boddy, vicar of the parish in the early seventeenth century, but Mrs Bradley was unable to admire either of these furnishings, or to seek and find evidence of the existence of a rood staircase, identify a squint, admire an eighteenth-century sounding board (still in a complete state of preservation and looking rather like a small-scale model of King Arthur’s Round Table) or pause beside an unusually-shaped holy-water stoup by the south door. In other words, she found the church locked! She was not in the least surprised, and, shrugging philosophically, she stepped out briskly for home.
    By the time she reached the road-house, the fog and the darkness, between them, had made the use of her electric torch imperative, and it was with pleasure but not with surprise that she found her own car, its orange fog-light on, awaiting her at the road-house. Her chauffeur had parked it beneath the tremendous arc-lights which, advertising the place, were powerful enough to defeat the fog and the darkness, so that she saw the car at once. The man opened the door and had her inside, with the rug over her knees, in a matter of seconds. He had been in her employment for a quarter of a century and had learned when, and when not, to expect her. When her telephone message had been communicated to him by Sir Bohun’s butler, he had allowed her a couple of hours, had driven to the road-house, and, having enquired for her there, had settled down with his usual patience to await her return from her walk.
    Mrs Bradley reached Sir Bohun’s house to find her host in a fine mixture of apprehension and indignation – fretting and fuming, in fact, and, it appeared, with some reason.
    ‘She hasn’t been here all day,’ he said. ‘It’s extremely unsatisfactory. And now that fellow has gone chasing after her, and without leave! If he weren’t so reliable and good as a tutor to Philip, who is twice the lad he was since Grimston came along, I’d sack him out of hand. Besides, he’s in love with the girl, and that doesn’t do when they’re both under the same roof all the time.’
    ‘I saw Timothy’s governess this morning at the Queen of the Circus road-house,’ Mrs Bradley remarked.
    ‘Did you? What the heck was she doing at a place like that?’ Sir Bohun sounded interested, not indignant.
    ‘She was drinking beer and talking – possibly quarrelling – with a handsome – possibly disillusioned – young man.’
    ‘Good heavens! In my time and on wages I pay! And even if she was at the Queen this morning, where is she now? It’s nearly dinnertime, and the fog is thicker than ever. Do you suppose she’s got lost?
    ‘It would be easy enough. I have an excellent bump of locality, but, even with the aid of an electric torch, I found it needed concentration to find my way back across the heath in the late afternoon. The fog is much thicker there than here.’
    ‘Well, she’ll have to find some reasonable excuse when she does get back,’ said Sir Bohun. ‘Hang the girl! I never could manage women! Thank God my adopted brats are boys! My brother had that much sense! But what makes you mention the heath? She wouldn’t be going over there. No, she’s off on a toot up to Town, and, what’s more, that fellow Grimston’s gone with her, although I must admit that he had the grace to ask for the afternoon off! Hang it all! I pay the girl to teach young Timothy, not to mess about in public houses! You say they were quarrelling, she and this whoever-it-was?’
    ‘Well, at any rate, they appeared to be arguing some grave matter. It did not strike me that they were having a lovers’ quarrel. It seemed something deeper, more impersonal, than that.’
    ‘I should hope so, indeed. You know, Beatrice, I’ve looked at the girl once or twice myself. I haven’t a son, except Manoel, and I don’t want a bastard for my heir.’
    ‘Bastards are conceived before they are born,’ said Mrs Bradley