Books: The Red House Mystery

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CHAPTER VI

Outside Or Inside?

The guests had said good-bye to Cayley, according to their
different manner. The Major, gruff and simple: "If you want me,
command me. Anything I can do--Good-bye"; Betty, silently
sympathetic, with everything in her large eyes which she was too
much overawed to tell; Mrs. Calladine, protesting that she did
not know what to say, but apparently finding plenty; and Miss
Norris, crowding so much into one despairing gesture that
Cayley's unvarying "Thank you very much" might have been taken
this time as gratitude for an artistic entertainment.

Bill had seen them into the car, had taken his own farewells
(with a special squeeze of the hand for Betty), and had wandered
out to join Antony on his garden seat.

"Well, this is a rum show," said Bill as he sat down.

"Very rum, William."

"And you actually walked right into it?"

"Right into it," said Antony.

"Then you're the man I want. There are all sorts of rumours and
mysteries about, and that inspector fellow simply wouldn't keep
to the point when I wanted to ask him about the murder, or
whatever it is, but kept asking me questions about where I'd met
you first, and all sorts of dull things like that. Now, what
really happened?"

Antony told him as concisely as he could all that he had already
told the Inspector, Bill interrupting him here and there with
appropriate "Good Lords" and whistles.

"I say, it's a bit of a business, isn't it? Where do I come in,
exactly?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, everybody else is bundled off except me, and I get put
through it by that inspector as if I knew all about it--what's
the idea?"

Antony smiled at him.

"Well, there's nothing to worry about, you know. Naturally Birch
wanted to see one of you so as to know what you'd all been doing
all day. And Cayley was nice enough to think that you'd be
company for me, as I knew you already. And well, that's all."

"You're staying here, in the house?" said Bill eagerly. "Good
man. That's splendid."

"It reconciles you to the departure of some of the others?"

Bill blushed.

"Oh, well, I shall see her again next week, anyway," he murmured.

"I congratulate you. I liked her looks. And that grey dress. A
nice comfortable sort of woman."

"You fool, that's her mother."

"Oh, I beg your pardon. But anyhow, Bill, I want you more than
she does just now. So try and put up with me."

"I say, do you really?" said Bill, rather flattered. He had a
great admiration for Antony, and was very proud to be liked by
him.

"Yes. You see, things are going to happen here soon."

"Inquests and that sort of thing?"

"Well, perhaps something before that. Hallo, here comes Cayley."

Cayley was walking across the lawn towards them, a big,
heavy-shouldered man, with one of those strong, clean-shaven,
ugly faces which can never quite be called plain. "Bad luck on
Cayley," said Bill. "I say, ought I to tell him how sorry I am
and all that sort of thing? It seems so dashed inadequate."

"I shouldn't bother," said Antony.

Cayley nodded as he came to them, and stood there for a moment.

"We can make room for you," said Bill, getting up.

"Oh, don't bother, thanks. I just came to say," he went on to
Antony, "that naturally they've rather lost their heads in the
kitchen, and dinner won't be till half-past eight. Do just as
you like about dressing, of course. And what about your
luggage?"

"I thought Bill and I would walk over to the inn directly, and
see about it."

"The car can go and fetch it as soon as it comes back from the
station."

"It's very good of you, but I shall have to go over myself,
anyhow, to pack up and pay my bill. Besides, it's a good evening
for a walk. If you wouldn't mind it, Bill?"

"I should love it."

"Well, then, if you leave the bag there, I'll send the car round
for it later."

"Thanks very much."

Having said what he wanted to say, Cayley remained there a little
awkwardly, as if not sure whether to go or to stay. Antony
wondered whether he wanted to talk about the afternoon's
happenings, or whether it was the one subject he wished to avoid.
To break the silence he asked carelessly if the Inspector had
gone.

Cayley nodded. Then he said abruptly, "He's getting a warrant
for Mark's arrest."

Bill made a suitably sympathetic noise, and Antony said with a
shrug of the shoulders, "Well, he was bound to do that, wasn't
he? It doesn't follow that--well, it doesn't mean anything.
They naturally want to get hold of your cousin, innocent or
guilty."

"Which do you think he is, Mr. Gillingham?" said Cayley, looking
at him steadily.

"Mark? It's absurd," said Bill impetuously.

"Bill's loyal, you see, Mr. Cayley."

"And you owe no loyalty to anyone concerned?"

"Exactly. So perhaps I might be too frank."

Bill had dropped down on the grass, and Cayley took his place on
the seat, and sat there heavily, his elbows on his knees, his
chin on his hands, gazing at the ground.

"I want you to be quite frank," he said at last. "Naturally I am
prejudiced where Mark is concerned. So I want to know how my
suggestion strikes you who have no prejudices either way."

"Your suggestion?"

"My theory that, if Mark killed his brother, it was purely
accidental as I told the Inspector."

Bill looked up with interest.

"You mean that Robert did the hold-up business," he said, "and
there was a bit of a struggle, and the revolver went off, and
then Mark lost his head and bolted? That sort of idea?"

"Exactly."

"Well, that seems all right." He turned to Antony. "There's
nothing wrong with that, is there? It's the most natural
explanation to anyone who knows Mark."

Antony pulled at his pipe.

"I suppose it is," he said slowly. "But there's one thing that
worries me rather."

"What's that?" Bill and Cayley asked the question simultaneously.

"The key."

"The key?" said Bill.

Cayley lifted his head and looked at Antony. "What about the
key?" he asked.

"Well, there may be nothing in it; I just wondered. Suppose
Robert was killed as you say, and suppose Mark lost his head and
thought of nothing but getting away before anyone could see him.
Well, very likely he'd lock the door and put the key in his
pocket. He'd do it without thinking, just to gain a moment's
time."

"Yes, that's what I suggest."

"It seems sound enough," said Bill. "Sort of thing you'd do
without thinking. Besides, if you are going to run away, it
gives you more of a chance."

"Yes, that's all right if the key is there. But suppose it isn't
there?"

The suggestion, made as if it were already an established fact,
startled them both. They looked at him wonderingly.

"What do you mean?" said Cayley.

"Well, it's just a question of where people happen to keep their
keys. You go up to your bedroom, and perhaps you like to lock
your door in case anybody comes wandering in when you've only got
one sock and a pair of braces on. Well, that's natural enough.
And if you look round the bedrooms of almost any house, you'll
find the keys all ready, so that you can lock yourself in at a
moment's notice. But downstairs people don't lock themselves in.
It's really never done at all. Bill, for instance, has never
locked himself into the dining-room in order to be alone with the
sherry. On the other hand, all women, and particularly servants,
have a horror of burglars. And if a burglar gets in by the
window, they like to limit his activities to that particular
room. So they keep the, keys on the outside of the doors, and
lock the doors when they go to bed." He knocked the ashes out of
his pipe, and added, "At least, my mother always used to."

"You mean," said Bill excitedly, "that the key was on the outside
of the door when Mark went into the room?"

"Well, I was just wondering."

"Have you noticed the other rooms the billiard-room, and library,
and so on?" said Cayley.

"I've only just thought about it while I've been sitting out
here. You live here haven't you ever noticed them?"

Cayley sat considering, with his head on one side.

"It seems rather absurd, you know, but I can't say that I have."
He turned to Bill. "Have you?"

"Good Lord, no. I should never worry about a thing like that."

"I'm sure you wouldn't," laughed Antony. "Well, we can have a
look when we go in. If the other keys are outside, then this one
was probably outside too, and in that case well, it makes it more
interesting."

Cayley said nothing. Bill chewed a piece of grass, and then
said, "Does it make much difference?"

"It makes it more hard to understand what happened in there.
Take your accidental theory and see where you get to. No
instinctive turning of the key now, is there? He's got to open
the door to get it, and opening the door means showing his head
to anybody in the hall--his cousin, for instance, whom he left
there two minutes ago. Is a man in Mark's state of mind,
frightened to death lest he should be found with the body, going
to do anything so foolhardy as that?"

"He needn't have been afraid of me," said Cayley.

"Then why didn't he call for you? He knew you were about. You
could have advised him; Heaven knows he wanted advice. But the
whole theory of Mark's escape is that he was afraid of you and of
everybody else, and that he had no other idea but to get out of
the room himself, and prevent you or the servants from coming
into it. If the key had been on the inside, he would probably
have locked the door. If it were on the outside, he almost
certainly wouldn't."

"Yes, I expect you're right," said Bill thoughtfully. "Unless he
took the key in with him, and locked the door at once."

"Exactly. But in that case you have to build up a new theory
entirely."

"You mean that it makes it seem more deliberate?"

"Yes; that, certainly. But it also seems to make Mark out an
absolute idiot. Just suppose for a moment that, for urgent
reasons which neither of you know anything about, he had wished
to get rid of his brother. Would he have done it like that?
Just killed him and then run away? Why, that's practically
suicide--suicide whilst of unsound mind. No. If you really
wanted to remove an undesirable brother, you would do it a little
bit more cleverly than that. You'd begin by treating him as a
friend, so as to avoid suspicion, and when you did kill him at
last, you would try to make it look like an accident, or suicide,
or the work of some other man. Wouldn't you?"

"You mean you'd give yourself a bit of a run for your money?"

"Yes, that's what I mean. If you were going to do it
deliberately, that is to say and lock yourself in before you
began."

Cayley had been silent, apparently thinking over this new idea.
With his eyes still on the ground, he said now: "I hold to my
opinion that it was purely accidental, and that Mark lost his
head and ran away."

"But what about the key?" asked Bill.

"We don't know yet that the keys were outside. I don't at all
agree with Mr. Gillingham that the keys of the down-stairs rooms
are always outside the doors. Sometimes they are, no doubt; but
I think we shall probably find that these are inside."

"Oh, well, of course, if they are inside, then your original
theory is probably the correct one. Having often seen them
outside, I just wondered that's all. You asked me to be quite
frank, you know, and tell you what I thought. But no doubt
you're right, and we shall find them inside, as you say.

"Even if the key was outside," went on Cayley stubbornly, "I
still think it might have been accidental. He might have taken
it in with him, knowing that the interview would be an unpleasant
one, and not wishing to be interrupted."

"But he had just told you to stand by in case he wanted you; so
why should he lock you out? Besides, I should think that if a
man were going to have an unpleasant interview with a threatening
relation, the last thing he would do would be to barricade
himself in with him. He would want to open all the doors and
say, 'Get out of it'"

Cayley was silent, but his mouth looked obstinate. Antony gave a
little apologetic laugh and stood up.

"Well, come on, Bill," he said; "we ought to be stepping." He
held out a hand and pulled his friend up. Then, turning to
Cayley, he went on, "You must forgive me if I have let my
thoughts run on rather. Of course, I was considering the matter
purely as an outsider; just as a problem, I mean, which didn't
concern the happiness of any of my friends."

"That's all right, Mr. Gillingham," said Cayley, standing up too.
"It is for you to make allowances for me. I'm sure you will.
You say that you're going up to the inn now about your bag?"

"Yes." He looked up at the sun and then round the parkland
stretching about the house. "Let me see; it's over in that
direction, isn't it?" He pointed southwards. "Can we get to the
village that way, or must we go by the road?"

"I'll show you, my boy," said Bill.

"Bill will show you. The park reaches almost as far as the
village. Then I'll send the car round in about half an hour."

"Thanks very much."

Cayley nodded and turned to go into the house. Antony took hold
of Bill's arm and walked off with him in the opposite direction.

CHAPTER VII

Portrait of a Gentleman

They walked in silence for a little, until they had left the
house and gardens well behind them. In front of them and to the
right the park dipped and then rose slowly, shutting out the rest
of the world. A thick belt of trees on the left divided them
from the main road.

"Ever been here before?" said Antony suddenly.

"Oh, rather. Dozens of times."

"I meant just here where we are now. Or do you stay indoors and
play billiards all the time?"

"Oh Lord, no!"

"Well, tennis and things. So many people with beautiful parks
never by any chance use them, and all the poor devils passing by
on the dusty road think how lucky the owners are to have them,
and imagine them doing all sorts of jolly things inside." He
pointed to the right. "Ever been over there?"

Bill laughed, as if a little ashamed.

"Well, not very much. I've often been along here, of course,
because it's the short way to the village."

"Yes .... All right; now tell me something about Mark."

"What sort of things?"

"Well, never mind about his being your host, or about your being
a perfect gentleman, or anything like that. Cut out the Manners
for Men, and tell me what you think of Mark, and how you like
staying with him, and how many rows your little house-party has
had this week, and how you get on with Cayley, and all the rest
of it."

Bill looked at him eagerly.

"I say, are you being the complete detective?"

"Well, I wanted a new profession," smiled the other.

"What fun! I mean," he corrected himself apologetically, "one
oughtn't to say that, when there's a man dead in the house, and
one's host--" He broke off a little uncertainly, and then
rounded off his period by saying again, "By Jove, what a rum show
it is. Good Lord!"

"Well?" said Antony. "Carry on, Mark"

"What do I think of him?"

"Yes."

Bill was silent, wondering how to put into words thoughts which
had never formed themselves very definitely in his own mind.
What did he think of Mark? Seeing his hesitation, Antony said:

"I ought to have warned you that nothing that you say will be
taken down by the reporters, so you needn't bother about a split
infinitive or two. Talk about anything you like, how you like.
Well, I'll give you a start. Which do you enjoy more a week-end
here or at the Barrington's, say?"

"Well; of course, that would depend--"

"Take it that she was there in both cases."

"Ass," said Bill, putting an elbow into Antony's ribs. "It's a
little difficult to say," he went on. "Of course they do you
awfully well here."

"Yes."

"I don't think I know any house where things are so comfortable.
One's room--the food--drinks--cigars--the way everything's
arranged: All that sort of thing. They look after you awfully
well."

"Yes?"

"Yes." He repeated it slowly to himself, as if it had given him
a new idea: "They look after you awfully well. Well, that's just
what it is about Mark. That's one of his little ways.
Weaknesses. Looking after you."

"Arranging things for you?"

"Yes. Of course, it's a delightful house, and there's plenty to
do, and opportunities for every game or sport that's ever been
invented, and, as I say, one gets awfully well done; but with it
all, Tony, there's a faint sort of feeling that well, that one is
on parade, as it were. You've got to do as you're told."

"How do you mean?"

"Well, Mark fancies himself rather at arranging things. He
arranges things, and it's understood that the guests fall in with
the arrangement. For instance, Betty--Miss Calladine--and I were
going to play a single just before tea, the other day. Tennis.
She's frightfully hot stuff at tennis, and backed herself to take
me on level. I'm rather erratic, you know. Mark saw us going
out with our rackets and asked us what we were going to do.
Well, he'd got up a little tournament for us after tea--handicaps
all arranged by him, and everything ruled out neatly in red and
black ink--prizes and all--quite decent ones, you know. He'd had
the lawn specially cut and marked for it. Well, of course Betty
and I wouldn't have spoilt the court, and we'd have been quite
ready to play again after tea--I had to give her half-fifteen
according to his handicap--but somehow--" Bill stopped and
shrugged his shoulders.

"It didn't quite fit in?"

"No. It spoilt the effect of his tournament. Took the edge off
it just a little, I suppose he felt. So we didn't play." He
laughed, and added, "It would have been as much as our place was
worth to have played."

"Do you mean you wouldn't have been asked here again?"

"Probably. Well, I don't know. Not for some time, anyway."

"Really, Bill?"

"Oh, rather! He's a devil for taking offence. That Miss Norris,
did you see her? She's done for herself. I don't mind betting
what you like that she never comes here again."

"Why?"

Bill laughed to himself.

"We were all in it, really--at least, Betty and I were. There's
supposed to be a ghost attached to the house. Lady Anne Patten.
Ever heard of her?"

"Never."

"Mark told us about her at dinner one night. He rather liked the
idea of there being a ghost in his house, you know; except that
he doesn't believe in ghosts. I think he wanted all of us to
believe in her, and yet he was annoyed with Betty and Mrs.
Calladine for believing in ghosts at all. Rum chap. Well,
anyhow, Miss Norris--she's an actress, some actress too--dressed
up as the ghost and played the fool a bit. And poor Mark was
frightened out of his life. Just for a moment, you know."

"What about the others?"

"Well, Betty and I knew; in fact, I'd told her--Miss Norris I
mean--not to be a silly ass. Knowing Mark. Mrs. Calladine
wasn't there--Betty wouldn't let her be. As for the Major, I
don't believe anything would frighten him."

"Where did the ghost appear?"

"Down by the bowling-green. That's supposed to be its haunt, you
know. We were all down there in the moonlight, pretending to
wait for it. Do you know the bowling-green?"

"No."

"I'll show it to you after dinner."

"I wish you would .... Was Mark very angry afterwards?"

"Oh, Lord, yes. Sulked for a whole day. Well, he's just like
that."

"Was he angry with all of you?"

"Oh, yes sulky, you know."

"This morning?"

"Oh, no. He got over it he generally does. He's just like a
child. That's really it, Tony; he's like a child in some ways.
As a matter of fact, he was unusually bucked with himself this
morning. And yesterday."

"Yesterday?"

"Rather. We all said we'd never seen him in such form."

"Is he generally in form?"

"He's quite good company, you know, if you take him the right
way. He's rather vain and childish well, like I've been telling
you and self-important; but quite amusing in his way, and--" Bill
broke off suddenly. "I say, you know, it really is the limit,
talking about your host like this."

"Don't think of him as your host. Think of him as a suspected
murderer with a warrant out against him."

"Oh! but that's all rot, you know."

"It's the fact, Bill."

"Yes, but I mean, he didn't do it. He wouldn't murder anybody.
It's a funny thing to say, but well, he's not big enough for it.
He's got his faults, like all of us, but they aren't on that
scale."

"One can kill anybody in a childish fit of temper."

Bill grunted assent, but without prejudice to Mark. "All the
same," he said, "I can't believe it. That he would do it
deliberately, I mean."

"Suppose it was an accident, as Cayley says, would he lose his
head and run away?"

Bill considered for a moment.

"Yes, I really think he might, you know. He nearly ran away when
he saw the ghost. Of course, that's different, rather."

"Oh, I don't know. In each case it's a question of obeying your
instinct instead of your reason."

They had left the open land and were following a path through the
bordering trees. Two abreast was uncomfortable, so Antony
dropped behind, and further conversation was postponed until they
were outside the boundary fence and in the high road. The road
sloped gently down to the village of Waldheim a few red-roofed
cottages, and the grey tower of a church showing above the green.

"Well, now," said Antony, as they stepped out more quickly, "what
about Cayley?"

"How do you mean, what about him?"

"I want to see him. I can see Mark perfectly, thanks to you,
Bill. You were wonderful. Now let's have Cayley's character.
Cayley from within."

Bill laughed in pleased embarrassment, and protested that he was
not a blooming novelist.

"Besides," he added, "Mark's easy. Cayley's one of these heavy,
quiet people, who might be thinking about anything. Mark gives
himself away .... Ugly, black-jawed devil, isn't he?"

"Some women like that type of ugliness."

"Yes, that's true. Between ourselves, I think there's one here
who does. Rather a pretty girl at Jallands" he waved his left
hand "down that way."

"What's Jallands?"

"Well, I suppose it used to be a farm, belonging to a bloke
called Jalland, but now it's a country cottage belonging to a
widow called Norbury. Mark and Cayley used to go there a good
deal together. Miss Norbury--the girl--has been here once or
twice for tennis; seemed to prefer Cayley to the rest of us. But
of course he hadn't much time for that sort of thing."

"What sort of thing?"

"Walking about with a pretty girl and asking her if she's been to
any theatres lately. He nearly always had something to do."

"Mark kept him busy?"

"Yes. Mark never seemed quite happy unless he had Cayley doing
something for him. He was quite lost and helpless without him.
And, funnily enough, Cayley seemed lost without Mark."

"He was fond of him?"

"Yes, I should say so. In a protective kind of way. He'd sized
Mark up, of course his vanity, his self-importance, his
amateurishness and all the rest of it but he liked looking after
him. And he knew how to manage him."

"Yes .... What sort of terms was he on with the guests--you and
Miss Norris and all of them?"

"Just polite and rather silent, you know. Keeping himself to
himself. We didn't see so very much of him, except at meals. We
were here to enjoy ourselves, and well, he wasn't."

"He wasn't there when the ghost walked?"

"No. I heard Mark calling for him when he went back to the
house. I expect Cayley stroked down his feathers a bit, and told
him that girls will be girls ....--Hallo, here we are."

They went into the inn, and while Bill made himself pleasant to
the landlady, Antony went upstairs to his room. It appeared that
he had not very much packing to do, after all. He returned his
brushes to his bag, glanced sound to see that nothing else had
been taken out, and went down again to settle his bill. He had
decided to keep on his room for a few days; partly to save the
landlord and his wife the disappointment of losing a guest so
suddenly, partly in case he found it undesirable later on to
remain at the Red House. For he was taking himself seriously as
a detective; indeed, he took himself seriously (while getting all
the fun out of it which was possible) at every new profession he
adopted; and he felt that there might come a time after the
inquest, say when he could not decently remain at the Red House
as a guest, a friend of Bill's, enjoying the hospitality of Mark
or Cayley, whichever was to be regarded as his host, without
forfeiting his independent attitude towards the events of that
afternoon. At present he was staying in the house merely as a
necessary witness, and, since he was there, Cayley could not
object to him using his eyes; but if, after the inquest, it
appeared that there was still work for a pair of independent and
very keen eyes to do, then he must investigate, either with his
host's approval or from beneath the roof of some other host; the
landlord of 'The George,' for instance, who had no feelings in
the matter.

For of one thing Antony was certain. Cayley knew more than he
professed to know. That is to say, he knew more than he wanted
other people to know he knew. Antony was one of the "other
people"; if, therefore, he was for trying to find out what it was
that Cayley knew, he could hardly expect Cayley's approval of his
labours. It would be 'The George,' then, for Antony after the
inquest.

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