Books: The Red House Mystery
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A. A. Milne >> The Red House Mystery
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14 TO
JOHN VINE MILNE
MY DEAR FATHER,
Like all really nice people, you have a weakness for detective
stories, and feel that there are not enough of them. So, after
all that you have done for me, the least that I can do for you
is to write you one. Here it is: with more gratitude and
affection than I can well put down here.
A.A.M.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
INTRODUCTION
I. MRS. STEVENS IS FRIGHTENED
II. MR. GILLINGHAM GETS OUT AT THE WRONG STATION
III. TWO MEN AND A BODY
IV. THE BROTHER FROM AUSTRALIA
V. MR. GILLINGHAM CHOOSES A NEW PROFESSION
VI. OUTSIDE OR INSIDE?
VII. PORTRAIT OF A GENTLEMAN
VIII. "DO YOU FOLLOW ME, WATSON?"
IX. POSSIBILITIES OF A CROQUET SET
X. MR. GILLINGHAM TALKS NONSENSE
XI. THE REVEREND THEODORE USSHER
XII. A SHADOW ON THE WALL
XIII. THE OPEN WINDOW
XIV. MR. BEVERLEY QUALIFIES FOR THE STAGE
XV. MRS. NORBURY CONFIDES IN DEAR MR. GILLINGHAM
XVI. GETTING READY FOR THE NIGHT
XVII. MR. BEVERLEY TAKES THE WATER
XVIII. GUESS-WORK
XIX. THE INQUEST
XX. MR. BEVERLEY IS TACTFUL
XXI. CAYLEY'S APOLOGY
XXII. MR. BEVERLEY MOVES ON
CHAPTER I
Mrs. Stevens is Frightened
In the drowsy heat of the summer afternoon the Red House was
taking its siesta. There was a lazy murmur of bees in the
flower-borders, a gentle cooing of pigeons in the tops of the
elms. From distant lawns came the whir of a mowing-machine, that
most restful of all country sounds; making ease the sweeter in
that it is taken while others are working.
It was the hour when even those whose business it is to attend to
the wants of others have a moment or two for themselves. In the
housekeeper's room Audrey Stevens, the pretty parlour-maid,
re-trimmed her best hat, and talked idly to her aunt, the
cook-housekeeper of Mr. Mark Ablett's bachelor home.
"For Joe?" said Mrs. Stevens placidly, her eye on the hat.
Audrey nodded. She took a pin from her mouth, found a place in
the hat for it, and said, "He likes a bit of pink."
"I don't say I mind a bit of pink myself," said her aunt. "Joe
Turner isn't the only one."
"It isn't everybody's colour," said Audrey, holding the hat out
at arm's length, and regarding it thoughtfully. "Stylish, isn't
it?"
"Oh, it'll suit you all right, and it would have suited me at
your age. A bit too dressy for me now, though wearing better
than some other people, I daresay. I was never the one to
pretend to be what I wasn't. If I'm fifty-five, I'm fifty-five
--that's what I say."
"Fifty-eight, isn't it, auntie?"
"I was just giving that as an example," said Mrs. Stevens with
great dignity.
Audrey threaded a needle, held her hand out and looked at her
nails critically for a moment, and then began to sew.
"Funny thing that about Mr. Mark's brother. Fancy not seeing
your brother for fifteen years." She gave a self-conscious laugh
and went on, "Wonder what I should do if I didn't see Joe for
fifteen years."
"As I told you all this morning," said her aunt, "I've been here
five years, and never heard of a brother. I could say that
before everybody if I was going to die to-morrow. There's been
no brother here while I've been here."
"You could have knocked me down with a feather when he spoke
about him at breakfast this morning. I didn't hear what went
before, naturally, but they was all talking about the brother
when I went in--now what was it I went in for--hot milk, was it,
or toast?--well, they was all talking, and Mr. Mark turns to me,
and says--you know his way--'Stevens,' he says, 'my brother is
coming to see me this afternoon; I'm expecting him about three,'
he says. 'Show him into the office,' he says, just like that.
'Yes, sir,' I says quite quietly, but I was never so surprised in
my life, not knowing he had a brother. 'My brother from
Australia,' he says--there, I'd forgotten that. From Australia."
"Well, he may have been in Australia," said Mrs. Stevens,
judicially; "I can't say for that, not knowing the country; but
what I do say is he's never been here. Not while I've been here,
and that's five years."
"Well, but, auntie, he hasn't been here for fifteen years. I
heard Mr. Mark telling Mr. Cayley. 'Fifteen years,' he says.
Mr. Cayley having arst him when his brother was last in England.
Mr. Cayley knew of him, I heard him telling Mr. Beverley, but
didn't know when he was last in England--see? So that's why he
arst Mr. Mark."
"I'm not saying anything about fifteen years, Audrey. I can only
speak for what I know, and that's five years Whitsuntide. I can
take my oath he's not set foot in the house since five years
Whitsuntide. And if he's been in Australia, as you say, well, I
daresay he's had his reasons."
"What reasons?" said Audrey lightly.
"Never mind what reasons. Being in the place of a mother to you,
since your poor mother died, I say this, Audrey--when a gentleman
goes to Australia, he has his reasons. And when he stays in
Australia fifteen years, as Mr. Mark says, and as I know for
myself for five years, he has his reasons. And a respectably
brought-up girl doesn't ask what reasons."
"Got into trouble, I suppose," said Audrey carelessly. "They
were saying at breakfast he'd been a wild one. Debts. I'm glad
Joe isn't like that. He's got fifteen pounds in the post-office
savings' bank. Did I tell you?"
But there was not to be any more talk of Joe Turner that
afternoon. The ringing of a bell brought Audrey to her feet--no
longer Audrey, but now Stevens. She arranged her cap in front of
the glass.
"There, that's the front door," she said. "That's him. 'Show
him into the office,' said Mr. Mark. I suppose he doesn't want
the other ladies and gentlemen to see him. Well, they're all out
at their golf, anyhow--Wonder if he's going to stay--P'raps he's
brought back a lot of gold from Australia--I might hear something
about Australia, because if anybody can get gold there, then I
don't say but what Joe and I--"
"Now, now, get on, Audrey."
"Just going, darling." She went out.
To anyone who had just walked down the drive in the August sun,
the open door of the Red House revealed a delightfully inviting
hall, of which even the mere sight was cooling. It was a big
low-roofed, oak-beamed place, with cream-washed walls and
diamond-paned windows, blue-curtained. On the right and left
were doors leading into other living-rooms, but on the side which
faced you as you came in were windows again, looking on to a
small grass court, and from open windows to open windows such air
as there was played gently. The staircase went up in broad, low
steps along the right-hand wall, and, turning to the left, led
you along a gallery, which ran across the width of the hall, to
your bedroom. That is, if you were going to stay the night. Mr.
Robert Ablett's intentions in this matter were as yet unknown.
As Audrey came across the hall she gave a little start as she saw
Mr. Cayley suddenly, sitting unobtrusively in a seat beneath one
of the front windows, reading. No reason why he shouldn't be
there; certainly a much cooler place than the golf-links on such
a day; but somehow there was a deserted air about the house that
afternoon, as if all the guests were outside, or--perhaps the
wisest place of all--up in their bedrooms, sleeping. Mr. Cayley,
the master's cousin, was a surprise; and, having given a little
exclamation as she came suddenly upon him, she blushed, and said,
"Oh, I beg your pardon, sir, I didn't see you at first," and he
looked up from his book and smiled at her. An attractive smile
it was on that big ugly face. "Such a gentleman, Mr. Cayley,"
she thought to herself as she went on, and wondered what the
master would do without him. If this brother, for instance, had
to be bundled back to Australia, it was Mr. Cayley who would do
most of the bundling.
"So this is Mr. Robert," said Audrey to herself, as she came in
sight of the visitor.
She told her aunt afterwards that she would have known him
anywhere for Mr. Mark's brother, but she would have said that in
any event. Actually she was surprised. Dapper little Mark, with
his neat pointed beard and his carefully curled moustache; with
his quick-darting eyes, always moving from one to the other of
any company he was in, to register one more smile to his credit
when he had said a good thing, one more expectant look when he
was only waiting his turn to say it; he was a very different man
from this rough-looking, ill-dressed colonial, staring at her so
loweringly.
"I want to see Mr. Mark Ablett," he growled. It sounded almost
like a threat.
Audrey recovered herself and smiled reassuringly at him. She had
a smile for everybody.
"Yes, sir. He is expecting you, if you will come this way."
"Oh! So you know who I am, eh?"
"Mr. Robert Ablett?"
"Ay, that's right. So he's expecting me, eh? He'll be glad to
see me, eh?"
"If you will come this way, sir," said Audrey primly.
She went to the second door on the left, and opened it.
"Mr. Robert Ab--" she began, and then broke off. The room was
empty. She turned to the man behind her. "If you will sit down,
sir, I will find the master. I know he's in, because he told me
that you were coming this afternoon."
"Oh!" He looked round the room. "What d'you call this place,
eh?"
"The office, sir."
"The office?"
"The room where the master works, sir."
"Works, eh? That's new. Didn't know he'd ever done a stroke of
work in his life."
"Where he writes, sir," said Audrey, with dignity. The fact that
Mr. Mark "wrote," though nobody knew what, was a matter of pride
in the housekeeper's room.
"Not well-dressed enough for the drawing-room, eh?"
"I will tell the master you are here, sir," said Audrey
decisively.
She closed the door and left him there.
Well! Here was something to tell auntie! Her mind was busy at
once, going over all the things which he had said to her and she
had said to him--quiet-like. "Directly I saw him I said to
myself--" Why, you could have knocked her over with a feather.
Feathers, indeed, were a perpetual menace to Audrey.
However, the immediate business was to find the master. She
walked across the hall to the library, glanced in, came back a
little uncertainly, and stood in front of Cayley.
"If you please, sir," she said in a low, respectful voice, "can
you tell me where the master is? It's Mr. Robert called."
"What?" said Cayley, looking up from his book. "Who?"
Audrey repeated her question.
"I don't know. Isn't he in the office? He went up to the Temple
after lunch. I don't think I've seen him since."
"Thank you, sir. I will go up to the Temple."
Cayley returned to his book.
The "Temple" was a brick summer-house, in the gardens at the back
of the house, about three hundred yards away. Here Mark
meditated sometimes before retiring to the "office" to put his
thoughts upon paper. The thoughts were not of any great value;
moreover, they were given off at the dinner-table more often than
they got on to paper, and got on to paper more often than they
got into print. But that did not prevent the master of The Red
House from being a little pained when a visitor treated the
Temple carelessly, as if it had been erected for the ordinary
purposes of flirtation and cigarette-smoking. There had been an
occasion when two of his guests had been found playing fives in
it. Mark had said nothing at the time, save to ask with a little
less than his usual point--whether they couldn't find anywhere
else for their game, but the offenders were never asked to The
Red House again.
Audrey walked slowly up to the Temple, looked in and walked
slowly back. All that walk for nothing. Perhaps the master was
upstairs in his room. "Not well-dressed enough for the
drawing-room." Well, now, Auntie, would you like anyone in your
drawing-room with a red handkerchief round his neck and great big
dusty boots, and--listen! One of the men shooting rabbits.
Auntie was partial to a nice rabbit, and onion sauce. How hot it
was; she wouldn't say no to a cup of tea. Well, one thing, Mr.
Robert wasn't staying the night; he hadn't any luggage. Of
course Mr. Mark could lend him things; he had clothes enough for
six. She would have known him anywhere for Mr. Mark's brother.
She came into the house. As she passed the housekeeper's room on
her way to the hall, the door opened suddenly, and a rather
frightened face looked out.
"Hallo, Aud," said Elsie. "It's Audrey," she said, turning into
the room.
"Come in, Audrey," called Mrs. Stevens.
"What's up?" said Audrey, looking in at the door.
"Oh, my dear, you gave me such a turn. Where have you been?"
"Up to the Temple."
"Did you hear anything?"
"Hear what?"
"Bangs and explosions and terrible things."
"Oh!" said Audrey, rather relieved. "One of the men shooting
rabbits. Why, I said to myself as I came along, 'Auntie's
partial to a nice rabbit,' I said, and I shouldn't be surprised
if--"
"Rabbits!" said her aunt scornfully. "It was inside the house,
my girl."
"Straight it was," said Elsie. She was one of the housemaids.
"I said to Mrs. Stevens--didn't I, Mrs. Stevens?--'That was in
the house,' I said."
Audrey looked at her aunt and then at Elsie.
"Do you think he had a revolver with him?" she said in a hushed
voice.
"Who?" said Elsie excitedly.
"That brother of his. From Australia. I said as soon as I set
eyes on him, 'You're a bad lot, my man!' That's what I said,
Elsie. Even before he spoke to me. Rude!" She turned to her
aunt. "Well, I give you my word."
"If you remember, Audrey, I always said there was no saying with
anyone from Australia." Mrs. Stevens lay back in her chair,
breathing rather rapidly. "I wouldn't go out of this room now,
not if you paid me a hundred thousand pounds."
"Oh, Mrs. Stevens!" said Elsie, who badly wanted five shillings
for a new pair of shoes, "I wouldn't go as far as that, not
myself, but--"
"There!" cried Mrs. Stevens, sitting up with a start. They
listened anxiously, the two girls instinctively coming closer to
the older woman's chair.
A door was being shaken, kicked, rattled.
"Listen!"
Audrey and Elsie looked at each other with frightened eyes.
They heard a man's voice, loud, angry.
"Open the door!" it was shouting. "Open the door! I say, open
the door!"
"Don't open the door!" cried Mrs. Stevens in a panic, as if it
was her door which was threatened. "Audrey! Elsie! Don't let
him in!"
"Damn it, open the door!" came the voice again.
"We're all going to be murdered in our beds," she quavered.
Terrified, the two girls huddled closer, and with an arm round
each, Mrs. Stevens sat there, waiting.
CHAPTER II
Mr. Gillingham Gets Out at the Wrong Station
Whether Mark Ablett was a bore or not depended on the point of
view, but it may be said at once that he never bored his company
on the subject of his early life. However, stories get about.
There is always somebody who knows. It was understood--and this,
anyhow, on Mark's own authority--that his father had been a
country clergyman. It was said that, as a boy, Mark had
attracted the notice, and patronage, of some rich old spinster of
the neighbourhood, who had paid for his education, both at school
and university. At about the time when he was coming down from
Cambridge, his father had died; leaving behind him a few debts,
as a warning to his family, and a reputation for short sermons,
as an example to his successor. Neither warning nor example
seems to have been effective. Mark went to London, with an
allowance from his patron, and (it is generally agreed) made
acquaintance with the money-lenders. He was supposed, by his
patron and any others who inquired, to be "writing"; but what he
wrote, other than letters asking for more time to pay, has never
been discovered. However, he attended the theatres and music
halls very regularly--no doubt with a view to some serious
articles in the "Spectator" on the decadence of the English
stage.
Fortunately (from Mark's point of view) his patron died during
his third year in London, and left him all the money he wanted.
From that moment his life loses its legendary character, and
becomes more a matter of history. He settled accounts with the
money-lenders, abandoned his crop of wild oats to the harvesting
of others, and became in his turn a patron. He patronized the
Arts. It was not only usurers who discovered that Mark Ablett no
longer wrote for money; editors were now offered free
contributions as well as free lunches; publishers were given
agreements for an occasional slender volume, in which the author
paid all expenses and waived all royalties; promising young
painters and poets dined with him; and he even took a theatrical
company on tour, playing host and "lead" with equal lavishness.
He was not what most people call a snob. A snob has been defined
carelessly as a man who loves a lord; and, more carefully, as a
mean lover of mean things--which would be a little unkind to the
peerage if the first definition were true. Mark had his vanities
undoubtedly, but he would sooner have met an actor-manager than
an earl; he would have spoken of his friendship with Dante--had
that been possible--more glibly than of his friendship with the
Duke. Call him a snob if you like, but not the worst kind of
snob; a hanger-on, but to the skirts of Art, not Society; a
climber, but in the neighbourhood of Parnassus, not Hay Hill.
His patronage did not stop at the Arts. It also included Matthew
Cayley, a small cousin of thirteen, whose circumstances were as
limited as had been Mark's own before his patron had rescued him.
He sent the Cayley cousin to school and Cambridge. His motives,
no doubt, were unworldly enough at first; a mere repaying to his
account in the Recording Angel's book of the generosity which had
been lavished on himself; a laying-up of treasure in heaven. But
it is probable that, as the boy grew up, Mark's designs for his
future were based on his own interests as much as those of his
cousin, and that a suitably educated Matthew Cayley of
twenty-three was felt by him to be a useful property for a man in
his position; a man, that is to say, whose vanities left him so
little time for his affairs.
Cayley, then, at twenty-three, looked after his cousin's affairs.
By this time Mark had bought the Red House and the considerable
amount of land which went with it. Cayley superintended the
necessary staff. His duties, indeed, were many. He was not
quite secretary, not quite land-agent, not quite
business-adviser, not quite companion, but something of all four.
Mark leant upon him and called him "Cay," objecting quite rightly
in the circumstances to the name of Matthew. Cay, he felt was,
above all, dependable; a big, heavy-jawed, solid fellow, who
didn't bother you with unnecessary talk--a boon to a man who
liked to do most of the talking himself.
Cayley was now twenty-eight, but had all the appearance of forty,
which was his patron's age. Spasmodically they entertained a
good deal at the Red House, and Mark's preference--call it
kindliness or vanity, as you please--was for guests who were not
in a position to repay his hospitality. Let us have a look at
them as they came down to that breakfast, of which Stevens, the
parlour-maid, has already given us a glimpse.
The first to appear was Major Rumbold, a tall, grey-haired,
grey-moustached, silent man, wearing a Norfolk coat and grey
flannel trousers, who lived on his retired pay and wrote natural
history articles for the papers. He inspected the dishes on the
side-table, decided carefully on kedgeree, and got to work on it.
He had passed on to a sausage by the time of the next arrival.
This was Bill Beverly, a cheerful young man in white flannel
trousers and a blazer.
"Hallo, Major," he said as he came in, "how's the gout?"
"It isn't gout," said the Major gruffly.
"Well, whatever it is."
The Major grunted.
"I make a point of being polite at breakfast," said Bill, helping
himself largely to porridge. "Most people are so rude. That's
why I asked you. But don't tell me if it's a secret. Coffee?"
he added, as he poured himself out a cup.
"No, thanks. I never drink till I've finished eating."
"Quite right, Major; it's only manners." He sat down opposite to
the other. "Well, we've got a good day for our game. It's going
to be dashed hot, but that's where Betty and I score. On the
fifth green, your old wound, the one you got in that frontier
skirmish in '43, will begin to trouble you; on the eighth, your
liver, undermined by years of curry, will drop to pieces; on the
twelfth--"
"Oh, shut up, you ass!"
"Well, I'm only warning you. Hallo; good morning, Miss Norris.
I was just telling the Major what was going to happen to you and
him this morning. Do you want any assistance, or do you prefer
choosing your own breakfast?"
"Please don't get up," said Miss Norris. "I'll help myself.
Good morning, Major." She smiled pleasantly at him. The Major
nodded.
"Good morning. Going to be hot."
"As I was telling him," began Bill, "that's where--Hallo, here's
Betty. Morning, Cayley."
Betty Calladine and Cayley had come in together. Betty was the
eighteen-year-old daughter of Mrs. John Calladine, widow of the
painter, who was acting hostess on this occasion for Mark. Ruth
Norris took herself seriously as an actress and, on her holidays,
seriously as a golfer. She was quite competent as either.
Neither the Stage Society nor Sandwich had any terrors for her.
"By the way, the car will be round at 10.30," said Cayley,
looking up from his letters. "You're lunching there, and driving
back directly afterwards. Isn't that right?"
"I don't see why we shouldn't have--two rounds," said Bill
hopefully.
"Much too hot in the afternoon," said the Major. "Get back
comfortably for tea."
Mark came in. He was generally the last. He greeted them and
sat down to toast and tea. Breakfast was not his meal. The
others chattered gently while he read his letters.
"Good God!" said Mark suddenly.
There was an instinctive turning of heads towards him. "I beg
your pardon, Miss Norris. Sorry, Betty."
Miss Norris smiled her forgiveness. She often wanted to say it
herself, particularly at rehearsals.
"I say, Cay!" He was frowning to himself--annoyed, puzzled. He
held up a letter and shook it. "Who do you think this is from?"
Cayley, at the other end of the table, shrugged his shoulders.
How could he possibly guess?
"Robert," said Mark.
"Robert?" It was difficult to surprise Cayley. "Well?"
"It's all very well to say 'well?' like that," said Mark
peevishly. "He's coming here this afternoon."
"I thought he was in Australia, or somewhere."
"Of course. So did I." He looked across at Rumbold. "Got any
brothers, Major?"
"No."
"Well, take my advice, and don't have any."
"Not likely to now," said the Major.
Bill laughed. Miss Norris said politely: "But you haven't any
brothers, Mr. Ablett?"
"One," said Mark grimly. "If you're back in time you'll see him
this afternoon. He'll probably ask you to lend him five pounds.
Don't."
Everybody felt a little uncomfortable.
"I've got a brother," said Bill helpfully, "but I always borrow
from him."
"Like Robert," said Mark.
"When was he in England last?" asked Cayley.
"About fifteen years ago, wasn't it? You'd have been a boy, of
course."
"Yes, I remember seeing him once about then, but I didn't know if
he had been back since."
"No. Not to my knowledge." Mark, still obviously upset,
returned to his letter.
"Personally," said Bill, "I think relations are a great mistake."
"All the same," said Betty a little daringly, "it must be rather
fun having a skeleton in the cupboard."
Mark looked up, frowning.
"If you think it's fun, I'll hand him over to you, Betty. If
he's anything like he used to be, and like his few letters have
been--well, Cay knows."
Cayley grunted.
"All I knew was that one didn't ask questions about him."
It may have been meant as a hint to any too curious guest not to
ask more questions, or a reminder to his host not to talk too
freely in front of strangers, although he gave it the sound of a
mere statement of fact. But the subject dropped, to be succeeded
by the more fascinating one of the coming foursome. Mrs.
Calladine was driving over with the players in order to lunch
with an old friend who lived near the links, and Mark and Cayley
were remaining at home--on affairs. Apparently "affairs" were
now to include a prodigal brother. But that need not make the
foursome less enjoyable.
At about the time when the Major (for whatever reasons) was
fluffing his tee-shot at the sixteenth, and Mark and his cousin
were at their business at the Red House, an attractive gentleman
of the name of Antony Gillingham was handing up his ticket at
Woodham station and asking the way to the village. Having
received directions, he left his bag with the station-master and
walked off leisurely. He is an important person to this story,
so that it is as well we should know something about him before
letting him loose in it. Let us stop him at the top of the hill
on some excuse, and have a good look at him.
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