The Red House Mystery (7 page)

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.

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.