The Red House Mystery by A. A. Milne (libby ebook reader txt) 📕
Fortunately (from Mark's point of view) his patron died duringhis third year in London, and left him all the money he wanted.From that moment his life loses its legendary character, andbecomes more a matter of history. He settled accounts with themoney-lenders, abandoned his crop of wild oats to the harvestingof others, and became in his turn a patron. He patronized theArts. It was not only usurers who discovered that Mark Ablett nolonger wrote for money; editors were now offered freecontributions as well as free lunches; publishers were givenagreements f
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“It’s all right,” laughed Antony. “You can talk if you want to. Just let’s put ‘em away first, though.”
They made their way down to the shed, and while Bill was putting the bowls away, Antony tried the lid of the closed croquet-box. As he expected, it was locked.
“Now then,” said Bill, as they were walking back to the house again, “I’m simply bursting to know. Who was it?”
“Cayley.”
“Good Lord! Where?”
“Inside one of the croquet-boxes.”
“Don’t be an ass.”
“It’s quite true, Bill.” He told the other what he had seen.
“But aren’t we going to have a look at it?” asked Bill, in great disappointment. “I’m longing to explore. Aren’t you?”
“To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow. We shall see Cayley coming along this way directly. Besides, I want to get in from the other end, if I can. I doubt very much if we can do it this end without giving ourselves away. Look, there’s Cayley.”
They could see him coming along the drive towards them. When they were a little closer, they waved to him and he waved back.
“I wondered where you were, he said, as he got up to them. “I rather thought you might be along this way. What about bed?”
“Bed it is,” said Antony.
“We’ve been playing bowls,” added Bill, “and talking, and—and playing bowls. Ripping night, isn’t it?”
But he left the rest of the conversation, as they wandered back to the house, to Antony. He wanted to think. There seemed to be no doubt now that Cayley was a villain. Bill had never been familiar with a villain before. It didn’t seem quite fair of Cayley, somehow; he was taking rather a mean advantage of his friends. Lot of funny people there were in the world funny people with secrets. Look at Tony, that first time he had met him in a tobacconist’s shop. Anybody would have thought he was a tobacconist’s assistant. And Cayley. Anybody would have thought that Cayley was an ordinary decent sort of person. And Mark. Dash it! one could never be sure of anybody. Now, Robert was different. Everybody had always said that Robert was a shady fellow.
But what on earth had Miss Norris got to do with it? What had Miss Norris got to do with it? This was a question which Antony had already asked himself that afternoon, and it seemed to him now that he had found the answer. As he lay in bed that night he reassembled his ideas, and looked at them in the new light which the events of the evening threw upon the dark corners in his brain.
Of course it was natural that Cayley should want to get rid of his guests as soon as the tragedy was discovered. He would want this for their own sake as well as for his. But he had been a little too quick about suggesting it, and about seeing the suggestion carried out. They had been bustled off as soon as they could be packed. The suggestion that they were in his hands, to go or stay as he wished, could have been left safely to them. As it was, they had been given no alternative, and Miss Norris, who had proposed to catch an after-dinner train at the junction, in the obvious hope that she might have in this way a dramatic cross-examination at the hands of some keen-eyed detective, was encouraged tactfully, but quite firmly, to travel by the earlier train with the others. Antony had felt that Cayley, in the tragedy which had suddenly befallen the house, ought to have been equally indifferent to her presence or absence. But he was not; and Antony assumed from this that Cayley was very much alive to the necessity for her absence.
Why?
Well, that question was not to be answered off-hand. But the fact that it was so had made Antony interested in her; and it was for this reason that he had followed up so alertly Bill’s casual mention of her in connection with the dressing-up business. He felt that he wanted to know a little more about Miss Norris and the part she had played in The Red House circle. By sheer luck, as it seemed to him, he had stumbled on the answer to his question.
Miss Norris was hurried away because she knew about the secret passage.
The passage, then, had something to do with the mystery of Robert’s death. Miss Norris had used it in order to bring off her dramatic appearance as the ghost. Possibly she had discovered it for herself; possibly Mark had revealed it to her secretly one day, never guessing that she would make so unkind a use of it later on; possibly Cayley, having been let into the joke of the dressing-up, had shown her how she could make her appearance on the bowling-green even more mysterious and supernatural. One way or another, she knew about the secret passage. So she must be hurried away.
Why? Because if she stayed and talked, she might make some innocent mention of it. And Cayley did not want any mention of it.
Why, again? Obviously because the passage, or even the mere knowledge of its existence, might provide a clue.
“I wonder if Mark’s hiding there,” thought Antony; and he went to sleep.
Mr. Gillingham. Talks Nonsense
Antony came down in a very good humour to breakfast next morning, and found that his host was before him. Cayley looked up from his letters and nodded.
“Any word of Mr. Ablett—of Mark?” said Antony, as he poured out his coffee.
“No. The inspector wants to drag the lake this afternoon.
“Oh! Is there a lake?”
There was just the flicker of a smile on Cayley’s face, but it disappeared as quickly as it came.
“Well, it’s really a pond,” he said, “but it was called ‘the lake.’”
“By Mark,” thought Antony. Aloud he said, “What do they expect to find?”
“They think that Mark—” He broke off and shrugged his shoulders.
“May have drowned himself, knowing that he couldn’t get away? And knowing that he had compromised himself by trying to get away at all?”
“Yes; I suppose so,” said Cayley slowly.
“I should have thought he would have given himself more of a run for his money. After all, he had a revolver. If he was determined not to be taken alive, he could always have prevented that. Couldn’t he have caught a train to London before the police knew anything about it?”
“He might just have managed it. There was a train. They would have noticed him at Waldheim, of course, but he might have managed it at Stanton. He’s not so well-known there, naturally. The inspector has been inquiring. Nobody seems to have seen him.”
“There are sure to be people who will say they did, later on. There was never a missing man yet but a dozen people come forward who swear to have seen him at a dozen different places at the same time.”
Cayley smiled.
“Yes. That’s true. Anyhow, he wants to drag the pond first.” He added dryly, “From what I’ve read of detective stories, inspectors always do want to drag the pond first.”
“Is it deep?”
“Quite deep enough,” said Cayley as he got up. On his way to the door he stopped, and looked at Antony. “I’m so sorry that we’re keeping you here like this, but it will only be until to-morrow. The inquest is to-morrow afternoon. Do amuse yourself how you like till then. Beverley will look after you.”
“Thanks very much. I shall really be quite all right.”
Antony went on with his breakfast. Perhaps it was true that inspectors liked dragging ponds, but the question was, Did Cayleys like having them dragged? Was Cayley anxious about it, or quite indifferent? He certainly did not seem to be anxious, but he could hide his feelings very easily beneath that heavy, solid face, and it was not often that the real Cayley peeped out. Just a little too eager once or twice, perhaps, but there was nothing to be learnt from it this morning. Perhaps he knew that the pond had no secrets to give up. After all, inspectors were always dragging ponds.
Bill came in noisily.
Bill’s face was an open book. Excitement was written all over it.
“Well,” he said eagerly, as he sat down to the business of the meal, “what are we going to do this morning?”
“Not talk so loudly, for one thing,” said Antony. Bill looked about him apprehensively. Was Cayley under the table, for example? After last night one never knew.
“Is er—” He raised his eyebrows.
“No. But one doesn’t want to shout. One should modulate the voice, my dear William, while breathing gently from the hips. Thus one avoids those chest-notes which have betrayed many a secret. In other words, pass the toast.”
“You seem bright this morning.”
“I am. Very bright. Cayley noticed it. Cayley said, ‘Were it not that I have other business, I would come gathering nuts and may with thee. Fain would I gyrate round the mulberry-bush and hop upon the little hills. But the waters of Jordan encompass me and Inspector Birch tarries outside with his shrimping-net. My friend William Beverley will attend thee anon. Farewell, a long farewell to all—thy grape-nuts.’ He then left up-centre. Enter W. Beverley, R.”
“Are you often like this at breakfast?”
“Almost invariably. Said he with his mouth full. ‘Exit W. Beverley, L.”
“It’s a touch of the sun, I suppose,” said Bill, shaking his head sadly.
“It’s the sun and the moon and the stars, all acting together on an empty stomach. Do you know anything about the stars, Mr. Beverley? Do you know anything about Orion’s Belt, for instance? And why isn’t there a star called Beverley’s Belt? Or a novel? Said he masticating. Re-enter W. Beverley through trap-door.”
“Talking about trap-doors—”
“Don’t,” said Antony, getting up. “Some talk of Alexander and some of Hercules, but nobody talks about—what’s the Latin for trap-door?—Mensa a table; you might get it from that. Well, Mr. Beverley,”—and he slapped him heartily on the back as he went past him—“I shall see you later. Cayley says that you will amuse me, but so far you have not made me laugh once. You must try and be more amusing when you have finished your breakfast. But don’t hurry. Let the upper mandibles have time to do the work.” With those words Mr. Gillingham then left the spacious apartment.
Bill continued his breakfast with a slightly bewildered air. He did not know that Cayley was smoking a cigarette outside the windows behind him; not listening, perhaps; possibly not even overhearing; but within sight of Antony, who was not going to take any risks. So he went on with his breakfast, reflecting that Antony was a rum fellow, and wondering if he had dreamed only of the amazing things which had happened the day before.
Antony went up to his bedroom to fetch his pipe. It was occupied by a housemaid, and he made a polite apology for disturbing her. Then be remembered.
“Is it Elsie?” he asked, giving her a friendly smile.
“Yes, sir,” she said, shy but proud. She had no doubts as to why it was that she had achieved such notoriety.
“It was you who heard Mr. Mark yesterday, wasn’t it? I hope the inspector was nice to you?”
“Yes, thank you, sir.”
“‘It’s my turn now. You wait,’” murmured Antony to himself.
“Yes, sir. Nasty-like. Meaning to say his chance had come.”
“I wonder.”
“Well, that’s what I heard, sir.
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