The Red House Mystery (3 page)

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.

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.

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—"