The Red House Mystery（中）

"Are there any points on which you would like to correct Mr. Cayley?
- anything that he left out after you arrived here?"
"No, thanks. He described it all very accurately."
"Ab! Well now, about yourself. You're not staying in the house, I
gather?"
Antony explained his previous movements.
"Yes. Did you hear the shot?"
Antony put his head on one side, as if listening. "Yes. Just as I
came in sight of the house. It didn't make any impression at the time, but
I remember it now.
"Where were you then?"
"Coming up the drive. I was just in sight of the house."
"Nobody left the house by the front door after the shot?"
Antony closed his eyes and considered.
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"Nobody," he said. "No."
"You're certain of that?"
"Absolutely," said Antony, as though rather surprised that he could be
suspected of a mistake.
"Thank you. You're at 'The George,' if I want you?"
"Mr. Gillingham is staying here until after the inquest," explained
Cayley.
"Good. Well now, about these servants?"
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CHAPTER V
Mr. Gillingham Chooses a New Profession
As Cayley went over to the bell, Antony got up and moved to the
door.
"Well, you won't want me, I suppose, inspector," he said.
"No, thank you, Mr. Gillingham. You'll be about, of course?"
"Oh, yes."
The inspector hesitated.
"I think, Mr. Cayley, it would be better if I saw the servants alone. You
know what they are; the more people about, the more they get alarmed. I
expect I can get at the truth better by myself."
"Oh, quite so. In fact, I was going to ask you to excuse me. I feel
rather responsible towards these guests of ours. Although Mr.
Gillingham very kindly -" He smiled at Antony, who was waiting at the
door, and left his sentence unfinished.
"Ah, that reminds me," said the inspector. "Didn't you say that one of
your guests - Mr. Beverley was it? - a friend of Mr. Gillingham's, was
staying on?"
"Yes; would you like to see him?"
"Afterwards, if I may."
"I'll warn him. I shall be up in my room, if you want me. I have a
room upstairs where I work - any of the servants will show you. Ah,
Stevens, Inspector Birch would like to ask you a few questions."
"Yes, sir," said Audrey primly, but inwardly fluttering. The
housekeeper's room had heard something of the news by this time, and
Audrey had had a busy time explaining to other members of the staff
exactly what he had said, and what she had said. The details were not
quite established yet, but this much at least was certain: that Mr. Mark's
brother had shot himself and spirited Mr. Mark away, and that Audrey had
seen at once that he was that sort of man when she opened the door to him.
She had passed the remark to Mrs. Stevens. And Mrs. Stevens - if you
remember, Audrey - had always said that people didn't go away to
Australia except for very good reasons. Elsie agreed with both of them,
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but she had a contribution of her own to make. She had actually heard
Mr. Mark in the office, threatening his brother.
"You mean Mr. Robert," said the second parlourmaid. She had been
having a little nap in her room, but she had heard the bang. In fact, it had
woken her up - just like something going off, it was.
"It was Mr. Mark's voice," said Elsie firmly.
"Pleading for mercy," said an eager-eyed kitchenmaid hopefully from
the door, and was hurried out again by the others, wishing that she had not
given her presence away. But it was hard to listen in silence when she
knew so well from her novelettes just what happened on these occasions.
"I shall have to give that girl a piece of my mind," said Mrs. Stevens.
"Well, Elsie?"
"He said, I heard him say it with my own ears, 'It's my turn now,' he
said, triumphant-like."
"Well, if you think that's a threat, dear, you're very particular, I must
say."
But Audrey remembered Elsie's words when she was in front of
Inspector Birch. She gave her own evidence with the readiness of one
who had already repeated it several times, and was examined and cross-
examined by the inspector with considerable skill. The temptation to say,
"Never mind about what you said to him," was strong, but he resisted it,
knowing that in this way he would discover best what he said to her. By
this time both his words and the looks he gave her were getting their full
value from Audrey, but the general meaning of them seemed to be well-
established.
"Then you didn't see Mr. Mark at all"
"No, sir; he must have come in before and gone up to his room. Or
come in by the front door, likely enough, while I was going out by the
back."
"Yes. Well, I think that's all that I want to know, thank you very
much. Now what about the other servants?"
"Elsie heard the master and Mr. Robert talking together," said Audrey
eagerly. "He was saying - Mr. Mark, I mean -"
"Ah! Well, I think Elsie had better tell me that herself. Who is
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Elsie, by the way?"
"One of the housemaids. Shall I send her to you, sir?"
"Please."
Elsie was not sorry to get the message. It interrupted a few remarks
from Mrs. Stevens about Elsie's conduct that afternoon which were (Elsie
thought) much better interrupted. In Mrs. Stevens' opinion any crime
committed that afternoon in the office was as nothing to the double crime
committed by the unhappy Elsie.
For Elsie realized too late that she would have done better to have said
nothing about her presence in the hall that afternoon. She was bad at
concealing the truth and Mrs. Stevens was good at discovering it. Elsie
knew perfectly well that she had no business to come down the front stairs,
and it was no excuse to say that she happened to come out of Miss Norris'
room just at the head of the stairs, and didn't think it would matter, as there
was nobody in the hall, and what was she doing anyhow in Miss Norris'
room at that time? Returning a magazine? Lent by Miss Norris, might
she ask? Well, not exactly lent. Really, Elsie! - and this in a respectable
house! In vain for poor Elsie to plead that a story by her favourite author
was advertised on the cover, with a picture of the villain falling over the
cliff. "That's where you'll go to, my girl, if you aren't careful," said Mrs.
Stevens firmly.
But, of course, there was no need to confess all these crimes to
Inspector Birch. All that interested him was that she was passing through
the hall, and heard voices in the office.
"And stopped to listen?"
"Certainly not," said Elsie with dignity, feeling that nobody really
understood her. "I was just passing through the hall, just as you might
have been yourself, and not supposing they was talking secrets, didn't
think to stop my ears, as no doubt I ought to have done." And she sniffed
slightly.
"Come, come," said the inspector soothingly, "I didn't mean to suggest
-"
"Everyone is very unkind to me," said Elsie between sniffs, "and
there's that poor man lying dead there, and sorry they'd have been, if it had
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been me, to have spoken to me as they have done this day."
"Nonsense, we're going to be very proud of you. I shouldn't be
surprised if your evidence were of very great importance. Now then,
what was it you heard? Try to remember the exact words."
Something about working in a passage, thought Elsie.
"Yes, but who said it?"
"Mr. Robert."
"How do you know it was Mr. Robert? Had you heard his voice
before?"
"I don't take it upon myself to say that I had had any acquaintance with
Mr. Robert, but seeing that it wasn't Mr. Mark, nor yet Mr. Cayley, nor any
other of the gentlemen, and Miss Stevens had shown Mr. Robert into the
office not five minutes before -"
"Quite so," said the inspector hurriedly. "Mr. Robert, undoubtedly.
Working in a passage?"
"That was what it sounded like, sir."
"H'm. Working a passage over - could that have been it?"
"That's right, sir," said Elsie eagerly. "He'd worked his passage over."
"Well?"
"And then Mr. Mark said loudly - sort of triumphant-like - 'It's my turn
now. You wait.'"
"Triumphantly?"
"As much as to say his chance had come."
"And that's all you heard?"
"That's all, sir - not standing there listening, but just passing through
the hall, as it might be any time."
"Yes. Well, that's really very important, Elsie. Thank you."
Elsie gave him a smile, and returned eagerly to the kitchen. She was
ready for Mrs. Stevens or anybody now.
Meanwhile Antony had been exploring a little on his own. There was
a point which was puzzling him. He went through the hall to the front of
the house and stood at the open door, looking out on to the drive. He and
Cayley had run round the house to the left. Surely it would have been
quicker to have run round to the right? The front door was not in the
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middle of the house, it was to the end. Undoubtedly they went the
longest way round. But perhaps there was something in the way, if one
went to the right - a wall, say. He strolled off in that direction, followed a
path round the house and came in sight of the office windows. Quite
simple, and about half the distance of the other way. He went on a little
farther, and came to a door, just beyond the broken-in windows. It opened
easily, and he found himself in a passage. At the end of the passage was
another door. He opened it and found himself in the hall again.
"And, of course, that's the quickest way of the three," he said to
himself. "Through the hall, and out at the back; turn to the left and there
you are. Instead of which, we ran the longest way round the house.
Why? Was it to give Mark more time in which to escape? Only, in that
case - why run? Also, how did. Cayley know then that it was Mark
who was trying to escape? If he had guessed - well, not guessed, but
been afraid -that one had shot the other, it was much more likely that
Robert had shot Mark. Indeed, he had admitted that this was what he
thought. The first thing he had said when he turned the body over was,
'Thank God! I was afraid it was Mark.' But why should he want to give
Robert time in which to get away? And again - why run, if he did want
to give him time?"
Antony went out of the house again to the lawns at the back, and sat
down on a bench in view of the office windows.
"Now then," he said, "let's go through Cayley's mind carefully, and see
what we get."
Cayley had been in the hall when Robert was shown into the office.
The servant goes off to look for Mark, and Cayley goes on with his book.
Mark comes down the stairs, warns Cayley to stand by in case he is
wanted, and goes to meet his brother. What does Cayley expect?
Possibly that he won't be wanted at all; possibly that his advice may be
wanted in the matter, say, of paying Robert's debts, or getting him a
passage back to Australia; possibly that his physical assistance may be
wanted to get an obstreperous Robert out of the house. Well, he sits there
for a moment, and then goes into the library. Why not? He is still
within reach, if wanted. Suddenly he hears a pistol-shot. A pistol-shot is
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the last noise you expect to hear in a country-house; very natural, then,
that for the moment he would hardly realize what it was. He listens - and
hears nothing more. Perhaps it wasn't a pistol-shot after all. After a
moment or two he goes to the library door again. The profound silence
makes him uneasy now. Was it a pistol-shot? Absurd! Still - no harm in
going into the office on some excuse, just to reassure himself. So he tries
the door - and finds it locked!
What are his emotions now? Alarm, uncertainty. Something is
happening. Incredible though it seems, it must have been a pistol-shot.
He is banging at the door and calling out to Mark, and there is no answer.
Alarm - yes. But alarm for whose safety? Mark's, obviously. Robert is
a stranger; Mark is an intimate friend. Robert has written a letter that
morning, the letter of a man in a dangerous temper. Robert is the tough
customer; Mark the highly civilized gentleman. If there has been a
quarrel, it is Robert who has shot Mark. He bangs at the door again.
Of course, to Antony, coming suddenly upon this scene, Cayley's
conduct had seemed rather absurd, but then, just for the moment, Cayley
had lost his head. Anybody else might have done the same. But, as soon
as Antony suggested trying the windows, Cayley saw that that was the
obvious thing to do. So he leads the way to the windows - the longest
way.
Why? To give the murderer time to escape? If he had thought then
that Mark was the murderer, perhaps, yes. But he thinks that Robert is
the murderer. If he is not hiding anything, he must think so. Indeed he
says so, when he sees the body; "I was afraid it was Mark," he says, when
he finds that it is Robert who is killed. No reason, then, for wishing to
gain time. On the contrary, every instinct would urge him to get into the
room as quickly as possible, and seize the wicked Robert. Yet he goes
the longest way round. Why? And then, why run?
"That's the question," said Antony to himself, as he filled his pipe,
"and bless me if I know the answer. It may be, of course, that Cayley is
just a coward. He was in no hurry to get close to Robert's revolver, and
yet wanted me to think that he was bursting with eagerness. That would
explain it, but then that makes Cayley out a coward. Is he? At any rate
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he pushed his face up against the window bravely enough. No, I want a
better answer than that."
He sat there with his unlit pipe in his hand, thinking. There were one
or two other things in the back of his brain, waiting to be taken out and
looked at. For the moment he left them undisturbed. They would come
back to him later when he wanted them.
He laughed suddenly, and lit his pipe.
"I was wanting a new profession," he thought, "and now I've found it.
Antony Gillingham, our own private sleuthhound. I shall begin to-day."
Whatever Antony Gillingham's other qualifications for his new
profession, he had at any rate a brain which worked clearly and quickly.
And this clear brain of his had already told him that he was the only
person in the house at that moment who was unhandicapped in the search
for truth. The inspector had arrived in it to find a man dead and a man
missing. It was extremely probable, no doubt, that the missing man had
shot the dead man. But it was more than extremely probable, it was
almost certain that the inspector would start with the idea that this
extremely probable solution was the one true solution, and that, in
consequence, he would be less disposed to consider without prejudice any
other solution. As regards all the rest of them - Cayley, the guests, the
servants - they also were prejudiced; in favour of Mark (or possibly, for all
he knew, against Mark); in favour of, or against, each other; they had
formed some previous opinion, from what had been said that morning, of
the sort of man Robert was. No one of them could consider the matter
with an unbiased mind.
But Antony could. He knew nothing about Mark; he knew nothing
about Robert. He had seen the dead man before he was told who the
dead man was. He knew that a tragedy had happened before he knew
that anybody was missing. Those first impressions, which are so vitally
important, had been received solely on the merits of the case; they were
founded on the evidence of his senses, not on the evidence of his emotions
or of other people's senses. He was in a much better position for getting
at the truth than was the inspector.
It is possible that, in thinking this, Antony was doing Inspector Birch a
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slight injustice. Birch was certainly prepared to believe that Mark had
shot his brother. Robert had been shown into the office (witness Audrey);
Mark had gone in to Robert (witness Cayley); Mark and Robert had been
heard talking (witness Elsie); there was a shot (witness everybody); the
room had been entered and Robert's body had been found (witness Cayley
and Gillingham). And Mark was missing. Obviously, then, Mark had
killed his brother: accidentally, as Cayley believed, or deliberately, as
Elsie's evidence seemed to suggest. There was no point in looking for a
difficult solution to a problem, when the easy solution had no flaw in it.
But at the same time Birch would have preferred the difficult solution,
simply because there was more credit attached to it. A "sensational"
arrest of somebody in the house would have given him more pleasure than
a commonplace pursuit of Mark Ablett across country. Mark must be
found, guilty or not guilty. But there were other possibilities. It would
have interested Antony to know that, just at the time when he was feeling
rather superior to the prejudiced inspector, the inspector himself was
letting his mind dwell lovingly upon the possibilities in connexion with
Mr. Gillingham. Was it only a coincidence that Mr. Gillingham had
turned up just when he did? And Mr. Beverley's curious answers when
asked for some account of his friend. An assistant in a tobacconist's, a
waiter! An odd man, Mr. Gillingham, evidently. It might be as well to
keep an eye on him.
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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
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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?"
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"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?"
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"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
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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
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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
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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.
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The Red House Mystery
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!"
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The Red House Mystery
"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
51
The Red House Mystery
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
52
The Red House Mystery
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?"
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The Red House Mystery
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?"
54
The Red House Mystery
"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
55
The Red House Mystery
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.
What was the truth? Not necessarily discreditable to Cayley, even
though he were hiding something. All that could be said against him at
the moment was that he had gone the longest way round to get into the
locked office and that this did not fit in with what he had told the
inspector. But it did fit in with the theory that he had been an accessory
after the event, and that he wanted (while appearing to be in a hurry) to
give his cousin as much time as possible in which to escape. That might
not be the true solution, but it was at least a workable one. The theory
which he had suggested to the inspector was not.
However, there would be a day or two before the inquest, in which
Antony could consider all these matters from within The Red House. The
car was at the door. He got in with Bill, the landlord put his bag on the
front seat next to the chauffeur, and they drove back.
56
The Red House Mystery
CHAPTER VIII
"Do You Follow Me, Watson?"
Anthony's bedroom looked over the park at the back of the house.
The blinds were not yet drawn while he was changing his clothes for
dinner, and at various stages of undress he would pause and gaze out of
the window, sometimes smiling to himself, sometimes frowning, as he
tamed over in his mind all the strange things that he had seen that day.
He was sitting on his bed, in shirt and trousers, absently smoothing down
his thick black hair with his brushes, when Bill shouted an "Hallo!"
through the door, and came in.
"I say, buck up, old boy, I'm hungry," he said.
Antony stopped smoothing himself and looked up at him thoughtfully.
"Where's Mark?" he said.
"Mark? You mean Cayley."
Antony corrected himself with a little laugh. "Yes, I mean Cayley. Is
he down? I say, I shan't be a moment, Bill." He got up from the bed
and went on briskly with his dressing. "Oh, by the way," said Bill, taking
his place on the bed, "your idea about the keys is a wash-out."
"Why, how do you mean?"
"I went down just now and had a look at them. We were asses not to
have thought of it when we came in. The library key is outside, but all
the others are inside."
"Yes, I know."
"You devil, I suppose you did think of it, then?"
"I did, Bill," said Antony apologetically.
"Bother! I hoped you'd forgotten. Well, that knocks your theory on
the head, doesn't it?"
"I never had a theory. I only said that if they were outside, it would
probably mean that the office key was outside, and that in that case
Cayley's theory was knocked on the head."
"Well, now, it isn't, and we don't know anything. Some were outside
and some inside, and there you are. It makes it much less exciting. When
you were talking about it on the lawn, I really got quite keen on the idea of
57
The Red House Mystery
the key being outside and Mark taking it in with him."
"It's going to be exciting enough," said Antony mildly, as he
transferred his pipe and tobacco into the pocket of his black coat. "Well,
let's come down; I'm ready now."
Cayley was waiting for them in the hall. He made some polite
inquiry as to the guest's comfort, and the three of them fell into a casual
conversation about houses in general and The Red House in particular.
"You were quite right about the keys," said Bill, during a pause. He
was less able than the other two, perhaps because he was younger than
they, to keep away from the subject which was uppermost in the minds of
them all.
"Keys?" said Cayley blankly.
"We were wondering whether they were outside or inside."
"Oh! oh, yes!" He looked slowly round the hall, at the different
doors, and then smiled in a friendly way at Antony. "We both seem to
have been right, Mr. Gillingham. So we don't get much farther."
"No." He gave a shrug. "I just wondered, you know. I thought it
was worth mentioning."
"Oh, quite. Not that you would have convinced me, you know. Just
as Elsie's evidence doesn't convince me."
"Elsie?" said Bill excitedly. Antony looked inquiringly at him,
wondering who Elsie was.
"One of the housemaids," explained Cayley. "You didn't hear what
she told the inspector? Of course, as I told Birch, girls of that class make
things up, but he seemed to think she was genuine."
"What was it?" said Bill.
Cayley told them of what Elsie had heard through the office door that
afternoon.
"You were in the library then, of course," said Antony, rather to
himself than to the other. "She might have gone through the hall without
your hearing."
"Oh, I've no doubt she was there, and heard voices. Perhaps heard
those very words. But -" He broke off, and then added impatiently, "It
was accidental. I know it was accidental. What's the good of talking as
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The Red House Mystery
if Mark was a murderer?" Dinner was announced at that moment, and as
they went in, he added, "What's the good of talking about it at all, if it
comes to that?"
"What, indeed?" said Antony, and to Bill's great disappointment they
talked of books and politics during the meal.
Cayley made an excuse for leaving them as soon as their cigars were
alight. He had business to attend to, as was natural. Bill would look
after his friend. Bill was only too willing. He offered to beat Antony at
billiards, to play him at piquet, to show him the garden by moonlight, or
indeed to do anything else with him that he required.
"Thank the Lord you're here," he said piously. "I couldn't have stood
it alone."
"Let's go outside," suggested Antony. "It's quite warm. Somewhere
where we can sit down, right away from the house. I want to talk to
you."
"Good man. What about the bowling-green?"
"Oh, you were going to show me that, anyhow, weren't you? Is it
somewhere where we can talk without being overheard?"
"Rather. The ideal place. You'll see."
They came out of the front door and followed the drive to the left.
Coming from Waldheim, Antony had approached the house that afternoon
from the other side. The way they were going now would take them out
at the opposite end of the park, on the high road to Stanton, a country town
some three miles away. They passed by a gate and a gardener's lodge,
which marked the limit of what auctioneers like to call "the ornamental
grounds of the estate," and then the open park was before them.
"Sure we haven't missed it?" said Antony. The park lay quietly in the
moonlight on either side of the drive, wearing a little way ahead of them a
deceptive air of smoothness which retreated always as they advanced.
"Rum, isn't it?" said Bill. "An absurd place for a bowling green, bu
I suppose it was always here."
"Yes, but always where? It's short enough for golf, perhaps, but -
Hallo!"
They had come to the place. The road bent round to the right, but
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The Red House Mystery
they kept straight on over a broad grass path for twenty yards, and there in
front of them was the green. A dry ditch, ten feet wide and six feet deep,
surrounded it, except in the one place where the path went forward. Two
or three grass steps led down to the green, on which there was a long
wooden beach for the benefit of spectators.
"Yes, it hides itself very nicely," said Antony. "Where do you keep
the bowls?"
"In a sort of summer house place. Round here."
They walked along the edge of the green until they came to it a low
wooden bunk which had been built into one wall of the ditch.
"H'm. Jolly view."
Bill laughed.
"Nobody sits there. It's just for keeping things out of the rain."
They finished their circuit of the green "Just in case anybody's in the
ditch," said Antony and then sat down on the bench.
"Now then," said Bill, "We are alone. Fire ahead."
Antony smoked thoughtfully for a little. Then he took his pipe out of
his mouth and turned to his friend.
"Are you prepared to be the complete Watson?" he asked.
"Watson?"
"Do-you-follow-me-Watson; that one. Are you prepared to have
quite obvious things explained to you, to ask futile questions, to give me
chances of scoring off you, to make brilliant discoveries of your own two
or three days after I have made them myself all that kind of thing?
Because it all helps."
"My dear Tony," said Bill delightedly, "need you ask?" Antony said
nothing, and Bill went on happily to himself, "I perceive from the
strawberry-mark on your shirt-front that you had strawberries for dessert.
Holmes, you astonish me. Tut, tut, you know my methods. Where is the
tobacco? The tobacco is in the Persian slipper. Can I leave my practice
for a week? I can."
Antony smiled and went on smoking. After waiting hopefully for a
minute or two, Bill said in a firm voice:
"Well then, Holmes, I feel bound to ask you if you have deduced
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The Red House Mystery
anything. Also whom do you suspect?"
Antony began to talk.
"Do you remember," he said, "one of Holmes's little scores over
Watson about the number of steps up to the Baker Street lodging? Poor old
Watson had been up and down them a thousand times, but he had never
thought of counting them, whereas Holmes had counted them as a matter
of course, and knew that there were seventeen. And that was supposed to
be the difference between observation and non-observation. Watson was
crushed again, and Holmes appeared to him more amazing than ever.
Now, it always seemed to me that in that matter Holmes was the ass, and
Watson the sensible person. What on earth is the point of keeping in your
head an unnecessary fact like that? If you really want to know at any
time the number of steps to your lodging, you can ring up your landlady
and ask her. I've been up and down the steps of the club a thousand times,
but if you asked me to tell you at this moment how many steps there are I
couldn't do it. Could you?"
"I certainly couldn't," said Bill.
"But if you really wanted to know," said Antony casually, with a
sudden change of voice, "I could find out for you without even bothering
to ring up the hall-porter."
Bill was puzzled as to why they were talking about the club steps, but
he felt it his duty to say that he did want to know how many they were.
"Right," said Antony. "I'll find out."
He closed his eyes.
"I'm walking up St James' Street," he said slowly. "Now I've come to
the club and I'm going past the smoking-room windows-one-two three
four. Now I'm at the steps. I turn in and begin going up them. One
two three-four-five six, then a broad step; six seven eight nine, another
broad step; nine ten eleven. Eleven I'm inside. Good morning, Rogers.
Fine day again." With a little start he opened his eyes and came back
again to his present surroundings. He turned to Bill with a smile.
"Eleven," he said. Count them the next time you're there. Eleven and
now I hope I shall forget it again."
Bill was distinctly interested.
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The Red House Mystery
"That's rather hot," he said. "Expound."
"Well, I can't explain it, whether it's something in the actual eye, or
something in the brain, or what, but I have got rather an uncanny habit of
recording things unconsciously. You know that game where you look at
a tray full of small objects for three minutes, and then turn away and try to
make a list of them. It means a devil of a lot of concentration for the
ordinary person, if he wants to get his list complete, but in some odd way I
manage to do it without concentration at all. I mean that my eyes seem
to do it without the brain consciously taking any part. I could look at the
tray, for instance, and talk to you about golf at the same time, and still get
my list right."
"I should think that's rather a useful gift for an amateur detective. You
ought to have gone into the profession before."
"Well, it is rather useful. It's rather surprising, you know, to a
stranger. Let's surprise Cayley with it, shall we?"
"How?"
"Well, let's ask him -" Antony stopped and looked at Bill comically
"let's ask him what he's going to do with the key of the office."
For a moment Bill did not understand.
"Key of the office?" he said vaguely. "You don't mean - Tony!
What do you mean? Good God! do you mean that Cayley - But what
about Mark?"
"I don't know where Mark is - that's another thing I want to know
but I'm quite certain that he hasn't got the key of the office with him.
Because Cayley's got it."
"Are you sure?"
"Quite."
Bill looked at him wonderingly.
"I say," he said, almost pleadingly, "don't tell me that you can see into
people's pockets and all that sort of thing as well."
Antony laughed and denied it cheerfully.
"Then how do you know?"
"You're the perfect Watson, Bill. You take to it quite naturally.
Properly speaking, I oughtn't to explain till the last chapter, but I always
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The Red House Mystery
think that that's so unfair. So here goes. Of course, I don't really know
that he's got it, but I do know that he had it. I know that when I came on
him this afternoon, he had just locked the door and put the key in his
pocket."
"You mean you saw him at the time, but that you've only just
remembered it - reconstructed it in the way you were explaining just
now?"
"No. I didn't see him. But I did see something. I saw the key of
the billiard-room."
"Where?
"Outside the billiard-room door."
"Outside? But it was inside when we looked just now."
"Exactly."
"Who put it there?"
"Obviously Cayley."
"But -"
"Let's go back to this afternoon. I don't remember noticing the
billiard-room key at the time; I must have done so without knowing.
Probably when I saw Cayley banging at the door I may have wondered
subconsciously whether the key of the room next to it would fit.
Something like that, I daresay. Well, when I was sitting out by myself on
that seat just before you came along, I went over the whole scene in my
mind, and I suddenly saw the billiard-room key there outside. And I
began to wonder if the office-key had been outside too. When Cayley
came up, I told you my idea and you were both interested. But Cayley
was just a shade too interested. I daresay you didn't notice it, but he was.
"By Jove!"
"Well, of course that proved nothing; and the key business didn't really
prove anything, because whatever side of the door the other keys were,
Mark might have locked his own private room from the inside sometimes.
But I piled it on, and pretended that it was enormously important, and
quite altered the case altogether, and having got Cayley thoroughly
anxious about it, I told him that we should be well out of the way for the
next hour or so, and that he would be alone in the house to do what he
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The Red House Mystery
liked about it. And, as I expected, he couldn't resist it. He altered the
keys and gave himself away entirely."
"But the library key was still outside. Why didn't he alter that?"
"Because he's a clever devil. For one thing, the inspector had been in
the library, and might possibly have noticed it already. And for another -"
Antony hesitated.
"What?" said Bill, after waiting for him to go on.
"It's only guesswork. But I fancy that Cayley was thoroughly upset
about the key business. He suddenly realized that he had been careless,
and he hadn't got time to think it all over. So he didn't want to commit
himself definitely to the statement that the key was either outside or inside.
He wanted to leave it vague. It was safest that way."
"I see," said Bill slowly.
But his mind was elsewhere. He was wondering suddenly about
Cayley. Cayley was just an ordinary man - like himself. Bill had had
little jokes with him sometimes; not that Cayley was much of a hand at
joking. Bill had helped him to sausages, played tennis with him,
borrowed his tobacco, lent him a putter.... and here was Antony saying that
he was what? Well, not an ordinary man, anyway. A man with a secret.
Perhaps a murderer. No, not a murderer; not Cayley. That was rot,
anyway. Why, they had played tennis together.
"Now then, Watson," said Antony suddenly. "It's time you said
something."
"I say, Tony, do you really mean it?"
"Mean what?"
"About Cayley."
"I mean what I said, Bill. No more.
"Well, what does it amount to?"
"Simply that Robert Ablett died in the office this afternoon, and that
Cayley knows exactly how he died. That's all. It doesn't follow that
Cayley killed him."
"No. No, of course it doesn't." Bill gave a sigh of relief. "He's just
shielding Mark, what?"
"I wonder."
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The Red House Mystery
"Well, isn't that the simplest explanation?"
"It's the simplest if you're a friend of Cayley and want to let him down
lightly. But then I'm not, you see.
"Why isn't it simple, anyhow?"
"Well, let's have the explanation then, and I'll undertake to give you a
simpler one afterwards. Go on. Only remember the key is on the
outside of the door to start with."
"Yes; well, I don't mind that. Mark goes in to see his brother, and
they quarrel and all the rest of it, just as Cayley was saying. Cayley hears
the shot, and in order to give Mark time to get away, locks the door, puts
the key in his pocket and pretends that Mark has locked the door, and that
he can't get in. How's that?"
"Hopeless, Watson, hopeless."
"Why?"
"How does Cayley know that it is Mark who has shot Robert, and not
the other way round?"
"Oh!" said Bill, rather upset. "Yes." He thought for a moment, "All
right. Say that Cayley has gone into the room first, and seen Robert on
the ground."
"Well?"
"Well, there you are."
"And what does he say to Mark? That it's a fine afternoon; and could
he lend him a pocket-handkerchief? Or does he ask him what's
happened?"
"Well, of course, I suppose he asks what happened," said Bill
reluctantly.
"And what does Mark say?"
"Explains that the revolver went off accidentally during a struggle."
"Whereupon Cayley shields him by doing what, Bill? Encouraging
him to do the damn silliest thing that any man could possibly do confess
his guilt by running away!"
"No, that's rather hopeless, isn't it?" Bill thought again. "Well," he
said reluctantly, "suppose Mark confessed that he'd murdered his brother?"
"That's better, Bill. Don't be afraid of getting away from the accident
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The Red House Mystery
idea. Well then, your new theory is this. Mark confesses to Cayley that
he shot Robert on purpose, and Cayley decides, even at the risk of
committing perjury, and getting into trouble himself, to help Mark to
escape. Is that right?"
Bill nodded.
"Well then, I want to ask you two questions. First, is it possible, as I
said before dinner, that any man would commit such an idiotic murder a
murder that puts the rope so very tightly round his neck? Secondly, if
Cayley is prepared to perjure himself for Mark (as he has to, anyway,
now), wouldn't it be simpler for him to say that he was in the office all the
time, and that Robert's death was accidental?"
Bill considered this carefully, and then nodded slowly again.
"Yes, my simple explanation is a wash-out," he said. "Now let's have
yours."
Antony did not answer him. He had begun to think about something
quite different.
66
The Red House Mystery
CHAPTER IX
Possibilities of a Croquet Set
"What's the matter?" said Bill sharply.'
Antony looked round at him with raised eyebrows.
"You've thought of something suddenly," said Bill. "What is it?"
Antony laughed.
"My dear Watson," he said, "you aren't supposed to be as clever as
this."
"Oh, you can't take me in!"
"No.... Well, I was wondering about this ghost of yours, Bill. It
seems to me -"
"Oh, that!" Bill was profoundly disappointed. "What on earth has the
ghost got to do with it?"
"I don't know," said Antony apologetically. "I don't know what
anything has got to do with it. I was just wondering. You shouldn't
have brought me here if you hadn't wanted me to think about the ghost.
This is where she appeared, isn't it?"
"Yes." Bill was distinctly short about it.
"How?"
"What?"
"I said, 'How?'"
"How? How do ghosts appear? I don't know. They just appear."
"Over four or five hundred yards of open park?"
"Well, but she had to appear here, because this is where the original
one - Lady Anne, you know - was supposed to walk."
"Oh, never mind Lady Anne! A real ghost can do anything. But
how did Miss Norris appear suddenly over five hundred yards of bare
park?"
Bill looked at Antony with open mouth.
"I - I don't know," he stammered. "We never thought of that."
"You would have seen her long before, wouldn't you, if she had come
the way we came?"
"Of course we should."