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Henry Wadsworth Longfellow - "Dante's Inferno"

Benjamin Cardozo - "The Altruist in Politics"

Robert Louis Stevenson - "Catriona"

Hesther Lynch Piozzi - "Anecdotes of the late Samuel Johnson"

The Red House Mystery

A >> A. A. Milne >> The Red House Mystery



The Red House Mystery

by A.A. Milne




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 parlourmaid,
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. lt 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 hail, 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 parlourmaid, 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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