Books: The Red House Mystery
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A. A. Milne >> The Red House Mystery
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The first thing we realize is that he is doing more of the
looking than we are. Above a clean-cut, clean-shaven face, of
the type usually associated with the Navy, he carries a pair of
grey eyes which seem to be absorbing every detail of our person.
To strangers this look is almost alarming at first, until they
discover that his mind is very often elsewhere; that he has, so
to speak, left his eyes on guard, while he himself follows a
train of thought in another direction. Many people do this, of
course; when, for instance, they are talking to one person and
trying to listen to another; but their eyes betray them.
Antony's never did.
He had seen a good deal of the world with those eyes, though
never as a sailor. When at the age of twenty-one he came into
his mother's money, 400 pounds a year, old Gillingham looked up
from the "Stockbreeders' Gazette" to ask what he was going to do.
"See the world," said Antony.
"Well, send me a line from America, or wherever you get to."
"Right," said Antony.
Old Gillingham returned to his paper. Antony was a younger son,
and, on the whole, not so interesting to his father as the cadets
of certain other families; Champion Birket's, for instance. But,
then, Champion Birket was the best Hereford bull he had ever
bred.
Antony, however, had no intention of going further away than
London. His idea of seeing the world was to see, not countries,
but people; and to see them from as many angles as possible.
There are all sorts in London if you know how to look at them.
So Antony looked at them--from various strange corners; from the
view-point of the valet, the newspaper-reporter, the waiter, the
shop-assistant. With the independence of 400 pounds a year
behind him, he enjoyed it immensely. He never stayed long in one
job, and generally closed his connection with it by telling his
employer (contrary to all etiquette as understood between master
and servant) exactly what he thought of him. He had no
difficulty in finding a new profession. Instead of experience and
testimonials he offered his personality and a sporting bet. He
would take no wages the first month, and--if he satisfied his
employer--double wages the second. He always got his double
wages.
He was now thirty. He had come to Waldheim for a holiday,
because he liked the look of the station. His ticket entitled
him to travel further, but he had always intended to please
himself in the matter. Waldheim attracted him, and he had a
suit-case in the carriage with him and money in his pocket. Why
not get out?
The landlady of 'The George' was only too glad to put him up, and
promised that her husband would drive over that afternoon for his
luggage.
"And you would like some lunch, I expect, sir."
"Yes, but don't give yourself any trouble about it. Cold
anything-you've-got."
"What about beef, sir?" she asked, as if she had a hundred
varieties of meat to select from, and was offering him her best.
"That will do splendidly. And a pint of beer."
While he was finishing his lunch, the landlord came in to ask
about the luggage. Antony ordered another pint, and soon had him
talking.
"It must be rather fun to keep a country inn," he said, thinking
that it was about time he started another profession.
"I don't know about fun, sir. It gives us a living, and a bit
over."
"You ought to take a holiday," said Antony, looking at him
thoughtfully.
"Funny thing your saying that," said the landlord, with a smile.
"Another gentleman, over from the Red House, was saying that only
yesterday. Offered to take my place 'n all." He laughed
rumblingly.
"The Red House? Not the Red House, Stanton?"
"That's right, sir. Stanton's the next station to Waldheim. The
Red House is about a mile from here--Mr. Ablett's."
Antony took a letter from his pocket. It was addressed from "The
Red House, Stanton," and signed "Bill."
"Good old Bill," he murmured to himself. "He's getting on."
Antony had met Bill Beverley two years before in a tobacconist's
shop. Gillingham was on one side of the counter and Mr. Beverley
on the other. Something about Bill, his youth and freshness,
perhaps, attracted Antony; and when cigarettes had been ordered,
and an address given to which they were to be sent, he remembered
that he had come across an aunt of Beverley's once at a
country-house. Beverley and he met again a little later at a
restaurant. Both of them were in evening-dress, but they did
different things with their napkins, and Antony was the more
polite of the two. However, he still liked Bill. So on one of
his holidays, when he was unemployed, he arranged an introduction
through a mutual friend. Beverley was a little inclined to be
shocked when he was reminded of their previous meetings, but his
uncomfortable feeling soon wore off, and he and Antony quickly
became intimate. But Bill generally addressed him as "Dear
Madman" when he happened to write.
Antony decided to stroll over to the Red House after lunch and
call upon his friend. Having inspected his bedroom which was not
quite the lavender-smelling country-inn bedroom of fiction, but
sufficiently clean and comfortable, he set out over the fields.
As he came down the drive and approached the old red-brick front
of the house, there was a lazy murmur of bees in the
flower-borders, a gentle cooing of pigeons in the tops of the
elms, and from distant lawns the whir of a mowing-machine, that
most restful of all country sounds ....
And in the hall a man was banging at a locked door, and shouting,
"Open the door, I say; open the door!"
"Hallo!" said Antony in amazement.
CHAPTER III
Two Men and a Body
Cayley looked round suddenly at the voice.
"Can I help?" said Antony politely.
"Something's happened," said Cayley. He was breathing quickly.
"I heard a shot--it sounded like a shot--I was in the library. A
loud bang--I didn't know what it was. And the door's locked."
He rattled the handle again, and shook it. "Open the door!" he
cried. "I say, Mark, what is it? Open the door!"
"But he must have locked the door on purpose," said Antony. "So
why should he open it just because you ask him to?"
Cayley looked at him in a bewildered way. Then he turned to the
door again. "We must break it in," he said, putting his shoulder
to it. "Help me."
"Isn't there a window?"
Cayley turned to him stupidly.
"Window? Window?"
"So much easier to break in a window," said Antony with a smile.
He looked very cool and collected, as he stood just inside the
hall, leaning on his stick, and thinking, no doubt, that a great
deal of fuss was being made about nothing. But then, he had not
heard the shot.
"Window--of course! What an idiot I am."
He pushed past Antony, and began running out into the drive.
Antony followed him. They ran along the front of the house, down
a path to the left, and then to the left again over the grass,
Cayley in front, the other close behind him. Suddenly Cayley
looked over his shoulder and pulled up short.
"Here," he said.
They had come to the windows of the locked room, French windows
which opened on to the lawns at the back of the house. But now
they were closed. Antony couldn't help feeling a thrill of
excitement as he followed Cayley's example, and put his face
close up to the glass. For the first time he wondered if there
really had been a revolver shot in this mysterious room. It had
all seemed so absurd and melodramatic from the other side of the
door. But if there had been one shot, why should there not be
two more?--at the careless fools who were pressing their noses
against the panes, and asking for it.
"My God, can you see it?" said Cayley in a shaking voice. "Down
there. Look!"
The next moment Antony saw it. A man was lying on the floor at
the far end of the room, his back towards them. A man? Or the
body of a man?
"Who is it?" said Antony.
"I don't know," the other whispered.
"Well, we'd better go and see." He considered the windows for a
moment. "I should think, if you put your weight into it, just
where they join, they'll give all right. Otherwise, we can kick
the glass in."
Without saying anything, Cayley put his weight into it. The
window gave, and they went into the room. Cayley walked quickly
to the body, and dropped on his knees by it. For the moment he
seemed to hesitate; then with an effort he put a hand on to its
shoulder and pulled it over.
"Thank God!" he murmured, and let the body go again.
"Who is it?" said Antony.
"Robert Ablett."
"Oh!" said Antony. "I thought his name was Mark," he added, more
to himself than to the other.
"Yes, Mark Ablett lives here. Robert is his brother." He
shuddered, and said, "I was afraid it was Mark."
"Was Mark in the room too?"
"Yes," said Cayley absently. Then, as if resenting suddenly
these questions from a stranger, "Who are you?"
But Antony had gone to the locked door, and was turning the
handle. "I suppose he put the key in his pocket," he said, as he
came back to the body again.
"Who?"
Antony shrugged his shoulders.
"Whoever did this," he said, pointing to the man on the floor.
"Is he dead?"
"Help me," said Cayley simply.
They turned the body on to its back, nerving themselves to look
at it. Robert Ablett had been shot between the eyes. It was not
a pleasant sight, and with his horror Antony felt a sudden pity
for the man beside him, and a sudden remorse for the careless,
easy way in which he had treated the affair. But then one always
went about imagining that these things didn't happen--except to
other people. It was difficult to believe in them just at first,
when they happened to yourself.
"Did you know him well?" said Antony quietly. He meant, "Were
you fond of him?"
"Hardly at all. Mark is my cousin. I mean, Mark is the brother
I know best."
"Your cousin?"
"Yes." He hesitated, and then said, "Is he dead? I suppose he
is. Will you--do you know anything about--about that sort of
thing? Perhaps I'd better get some water."
There was another door opposite to the locked one, which led, as
Antony was to discover for himself directly, into a passage from
which opened two more rooms. Cayley stepped into the passage,
and opened the door on the right. The door from the office,
through which he had gone, remained open. The door, at the end
of the short passage was shut. Antony, kneeling by the body,
followed Cayley with his eyes, and, after he had disappeared,
kept his eyes on the blank wall of the passage, but he was not
conscious of that at which he was looking, for his mind was with
the other man, sympathizing with him.
"Not that water is any use to a dead body," he said to himself,
"but the feeling that you're doing something, when there's
obviously nothing to be done, is a great comfort."
Cayley came into the room again. He had a sponge in one hand, a
handkerchief in the other. He looked at Antony. Antony nodded.
Cayley murmured something, and knelt down to bathe the dead man's
face. Then he placed the handkerchief over it. A little sigh
escaped Antony, a sigh of relief.
They stood up and looked at each other.
"If I can be of any help to you," said Antony, "please let me."
"That's very kind of you. There will be things to do. Police,
doctors--I don't know. But you mustn't let me trespass on your
kindness. Indeed, I should apologise for having trespassed so
much already."
"I came to see Beverley. He is an old friend of mine."
"He's out playing golf. He will be back directly." Then, as if
he had only just realized it, "They will all be back directly."
"I will stay if I can be of any help."
"Please do. You see, there are women. It will be rather
painful. If you would--" He hesitated, and gave Antony a timid
little smile, pathetic in so big and self-reliant a man. "Just
your moral support, you know. It would be something."
"Of course." Antony smiled back at him, and said cheerfully,
"Well, then, I'll begin by suggesting that you should ring up the
police."
"The police? Y-yes." He looked doubtfully at the other. "I
suppose--"
Antony spoke frankly.
"Now, look here, Mr.--er--"
"Cayley. I'm Mark Ablett's cousin. I live with him."
"My name's Gillingham. I'm sorry, I ought to have told you
before. Well now, Mr. Cayley, we shan't do any good by
pretending. Here's a man been shot--well, somebody shot him."
"He might have shot himself," mumbled Cayley.
"Yes, he might have, but he didn't. Or if he did, somebody was
in the room at the time, and that somebody isn't here now. And
that somebody took a revolver away with him. Well, the police
will want to say a word about that, won't they?"
Cayley was silent, looking on the ground.
"Oh, I know what you're thinking, and believe me I do sympathize
with you, but we can't be children about it. If your cousin Mark
Ablett was in the room with this"--he indicated the body--"this
man, then--"
"Who said he was?" said Cayley, jerking his head up suddenly at
Antony.
"You did."
"I was in the library. Mark went in--he may have come out again
--I know nothing. Somebody else may have gone in--"
"Yes, yes," said Antony patiently, as if to a little child. "You
know your cousin; I don't. Let's agree that he had nothing to do
with it. But somebody was in the room when this man was shot,
and--well, the police will have to know. Don't you think--" He
looked at the telephone. "Or would you rather I did it?"
Cayley shrugged his shoulders and went to the telephone.
"May I--er--look round a bit?" Antony nodded towards the open
door.
"Oh, do. Yes." He sat down and drew the telephone towards him.
"You must make allowances for me, Mr. Gillingham. You see, I've
known Mark for a very long time. But, of course, you're quite
right, and I'm merely being stupid." He took off the receiver.
Let us suppose that, for the purpose of making a first
acquaintance with this "office," we are coming into it from the
hall, through the door which is now locked, but which, for our
special convenience, has been magically unlocked for us. As we
stand just inside the door, the length of the room runs right and
left; or, more accurately, to the right only, for the left-hand
wall is almost within our reach. Immediately opposite to us,
across the breadth of the room (some fifteen feet), is that other
door, by which Cayley went out and returned a few minutes ago.
In the right-hand wall, thirty feet away from us, are the French
windows. Crossing the room and going out by the opposite door,
we come into a passage, from which two rooms lead. The one on
the right, into which Cayley went, is less than half the length
of the office, a small, square room, which has evidently been
used some time or other as a bedroom. The bed is no longer
there, but there is a basin, with hot and cold taps, in a corner;
chairs; a cupboard or two, and a chest of drawers. The window
faces the same way as the French windows in the next room; but
anybody looking out of the bedroom window has his view on the
immediate right shut off by the outer wall of the office, which
projects, by reason of its greater length, fifteen feet further
into the lawn.
The room on the other side of the bedroom is a bathroom. The
three rooms together, in fact, form a sort of private suite;
used, perhaps, during the occupation of the previous owner, by
some invalid, who could not manage the stairs, but allowed by
Mark to fall into disuse, save for the living-room. At any rate,
he never slept downstairs.
Antony glanced at the bathroom, and then wandered into the
bedroom, the room into which Cayley had been. The window was
open, and he looked out at the well-kept grass beneath him, and
the peaceful stretch of park beyond; and he felt very sorry for
the owner of it all, who was now mixed up in so grim a business.
"Cayley thinks he did it," said Antony to himself. "That's
obvious. It explains why he wasted so much time banging on the
door. Why should he try to break a lock when it's so much easier
to break a window? Of course he might just have lost his head;
on the other hand, he might--well, he might have wanted to give
his cousin a chance of getting away. The same about the police,
and--oh, lots of things. Why, for instance, did we run all the
way round the house in order to get to the windows? Surely
there's a back way out through the hall. I must have a look
later on."
Antony, it will be observed, had by no means lost his head.
There was a step in the passage outside, and he turned round, to
see Cayley in the doorway. He remained looking at him for a
moment, asking himself a question. It was rather a curious
question. He was asking himself why the door was open.
Well, not exactly why the door was open; that could be explained
easily enough. But why had he expected the door to be shut? He
did not remember shutting it, but somehow he was surprised to see
it open now, to see Cayley through the doorway, just coming into
the room. Something working sub-consciously in his brain had
told him that it was surprising. Why?
He tucked the matter away in a corner of his mind for the moment;
the answer would come to him later on. He had a wonderfully
retentive mind. Everything which he saw or heard seemed to make
its corresponding impression somewhere in his brain; often
without his being conscious of it; and these photographic
impressions were always there ready for him when he wished to
develop them.
Cayley joined him at the window.
"I've telephoned," he said. "They're sending an inspector or
some one from Middleston, and the local police and doctor from
Stanton." He shrugged his shoulders. "We're in for it now."
"How far away is Middleston?" It was the town for which Antony
had taken a ticket that morning--only six hours ago. How absurd
it seemed.
"About twenty miles. These people will be coming back soon."
"Beverley, and the others?"
"Yes. I expect they'll want to go away at once."
"Much better that they should."
"Yes." Cayley was silent for a little. Then he said, "You're
staying near here?"
"I'm at 'The George,' at Waldheim."
"If you're by yourself, I wish you'd put up here. You see," he
went on awkwardly, "you'll have to be here--for the--the inquest
and--and so on. If I may offer you my cousin's hospitality in
his--I mean if he doesn't--if he really has--"
Antony broke in hastily with his thanks and acceptance.
"That's good. Perhaps Beverley will stay on, if he's a friend of
yours. He's a good fellow."
Antony felt quite sure, from what Cayley had said and had
hesitated to say, that Mark had been the last to see his brother
alive. It didn't follow that Mark Ablett was a murderer.
Revolvers go off accidentally; and when they have gone off,
people lose their heads and run away, fearing that their story
will not be believed. Nevertheless, when people run away,
whether innocently or guiltily, one can't help wondering which
way they went.
"I suppose this way," said Antony aloud, looking out of the
window.
"Who?" said Cayley stubbornly.
"Well, whoever it was," said Antony, smiling to himself. "The
murderer. Or, let us say, the man who locked the door after
Robert Ablett was killed."
"I wonder."
"Well, how else could he have got away? He didn't go by the
windows in the next room, because they were shut."
"Isn't that rather odd?"
"Well, I thought so at first, but--" He pointed to the wall
jutting out on the right. "You see, you're protected from the
rest of the house if you get out here, and you're quite close to
the shrubbery. If you go out at the French windows, I imagine
you're much more visible. All that part of the house--" he waved
his right hand--"the west, well, north-west almost, where the
kitchen parts are--you see, you're hidden from them here. Oh,
yes! he knew the house, whoever it was, and he was quite right
to come out of this window. He'd be into the shrubbery at once."
Cayley looked at him thoughtfully.
"It seems to me, Mr. Gillingham, that you know the house pretty
well, considering that this is the first time you've been to it."
Antony laughed.
"Oh, well, I notice things, you know. I was born noticing. But
I'm right, aren't I, about why he went out this way?"
"Yes, I think you are." Cayley looked away--towards the
shrubbery. "Do you want to go noticing in there now?" He nodded
at it.
"I think we might leave that to the police," said Antony gently.
"It's--well, there's no hurry."
Cayley gave a little sigh, as if he had been holding his breath
for the answer, and could now breathe again.
"Thank you, Mr. Gillingham," he said.
CHAPTER IV
The Brother from Australia
Guests at the Red House were allowed to do what they liked within
reason--the reasonableness or otherwise of it being decided by
Mark. But when once they (or Mark) had made up their minds as to
what they wanted to do, the plan had to be kept. Mrs. Calladine,
who knew this little weakness of their host's, resisted,
therefore, the suggestion of Bill that they should have a second
round in the afternoon, and drive home comfortably after tea.
The other golfers were willing enough, but Mrs. Calladine,
without actually saying that Mr. Ablett wouldn't like it, was
firm on the point that, having arranged to be back by four, they
should be back by four.
"I really don't think Mark wants us, you know," said the Major.
Having played badly in the morning, he wanted to prove to himself
in the afternoon that he was really better than that. "With this
brother of his coming, he'll be only too glad to have us out of
the way."
"Of course he will, Major." This from Bill. "You'd like to
play, wouldn't you, Miss Norris?"
Miss Norris looked doubtfully at the hostess.
"Of course, if you want to get back, dear, we mustn't keep you
here. Besides, it's so dull for you, not playing."
"Just nine holes, mother," pleaded Betty.
"The car could take you back, and you could tell them that we
were having another round, and then it could come back for us,"
said Bill brilliantly.
"It's certainly much cooler here than I expected," put in the
Major.
Mrs. Calladine fell. It was very pleasantly cool outside the
golf-house, and of course Mark would be rather glad to have them
out of the way. So she consented to nine holes; and the match
having ended all-square, and everybody having played much better
than in the morning, they drove back to the Red House, very well
pleased with themselves.
"Halo," said Bill to himself, as they approached the house,
"isn't that old Tony?"
Antony was standing in front of the house, waiting for them.
Bill waved, and he waved back. Then as the car drew up, Bill,
who was in front with the chauffeur, jumped down and greeted him
eagerly.
"Hallo, you madman, have you come to stay, or what?" He had a
sudden idea. "Don't say you're Mark Ablett's long-lost brother
from Australia, though I could quite believe it of you." He
laughed boyishly.
"Hallo, Bill," said Antony quietly. "Will you introduce me? I'm
afraid I've got some bad news."
Bill, rather sobered by this, introduced him. The Major and Mrs.
Calladine were on the near side of the car, and Antony spoke to
them in a low voice.
"I'm afraid I'm going to give you rather a shock," he said.
"Robert Ablett, Mr. Mark Ablett's brother, has been killed." He
jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "In the house."
"Good God!" said the Major.
"Do you mean that he has killed himself?" asked Mrs. Calladine.
"Just now?"
"It was about two hours ago. I happened to come here,"--he
half-turned to Beverley and explained--"I was coming to see you,
Bill, and I arrived just after the--the death. Mr. Cayley and I
found the body. Mr. Cayley being busy just now--there are police
and doctors and so on in the house--he asked me to tell you. He
says that no doubt you would prefer, the house-party having been
broken up in this tragic way, to leave as soon as possible." He
gave a pleasant apologetic little smile and went on, "I am
putting it badly, but what he means, of course, is that you must
consult your own feelings in the matter entirely, and please make
your own arrangements about ordering the car for whatever train
you wish to catch. There is one this evening, I understand,
which you could go by if you wished it."
Bill gazed with open mouth at Antony. He had no words in his
vocabulary to express what he wanted to say, other than those the
Major had already used. Betty was leaning across to Miss Norris
and saying, "Who's killed?" in an awe-struck voice, and Miss
Norris, who was instinctively looking as tragic as she looked on
the stage when a messenger announced the death of one of the
cast, stopped for a moment in order to explain. Mrs. Calladine
was quietly mistress of herself.
"We shall be in the way, yes, I quite understand," she said; "but
we can't just shake the dust of the place off our shoes because
something terrible has happened there. I must see Mark, and we
can arrange later what to do. He must know how very deeply we
feel for him. Perhaps we--" she hesitated.
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