The Red House Mystery (20 page)

"What? Oh, yes. No, I'll put them back. You give me a light, will you?"

Very slowly and carefully he put the clothes back in the bag, pausing as
he took up each garment, in the certainty, as it seemed to Bill, that
it had something to tell him if only he could read it. When the last of
them was inside, he still waited there on his knees, thinking.

"That's the lot," said Bill.

Antony nodded at him.

"Yes, that's the lot," he said; "and that's the funny thing about it.
You're sure it is the lot?"

"What do you mean?"

"Give me the torch a moment." He took it and flashed it over the ground
between them. "Yes, that's the lot. It's funny." He stood up, the bag in
his hands. "Now let's find a hiding-place for these, and then—" He said
no more, but stepped off through the trees, Bill following him meekly.

As soon as they had got the bag off their hands and were clear of the
copse, Antony became more communicative. He took the two keys out of his
pocket.

"One of them is the office key, I suppose, and the other is the key of
the passage cupboard. So I thought that perhaps we might have a look at
the cupboard."

"I say, do you really think it is?"

"Well, I don't see what else it can be."

"But why should he want to throw it away?"

"Because it has now done its work, whatever it was, and he wants to wash
his hands of the passage. He'd throw the passage away if he could. I
don't think it matters much one way or another, and I don't suppose
there's anything to find in the cupboard, but I feel that we must look."

"Do you still think Mark's body might be there?"

"No. And yet where else can it be? Unless I'm hopelessly wrong, and
Cayley never killed him at all."

Bill hesitated, wondering if he dare advance his theory.

"I know you'll think me an ass—"

"My dear Bill, I'm such an obvious ass myself that I should be delighted
to think you are too."

"Well, then, suppose Mark did kill Robert, and Cayley helped him to
escape, just as we thought at first. I know you proved afterwards that
it was impossible, but suppose it happened in a way we don't know about
and for reasons we don't know about. I mean, there are such a lot of
funny things about the whole show that—well, almost anything might have
happened."

"You're quite right. Well?"

"Well, then, this clothes business. Doesn't that seem rather to bear out
the escaping theory? Mark's brown suit was known to the police. Couldn't
Cayley have brought him another one in the passage, to escape in, and
then have had the brown one on his hands? And thought it safest to hide
it in the pond?"

"Yes," said Anthony thoughtfully. Then: "Go on."

Bill went on eagerly:

"It all seems to fit in, you know. I mean even with your first
theory—that Mark killed him accidentally and then came to Cayley for
help. Of course, if Cayley had played fair, he'd have told Mark that he
had nothing to be afraid of. But he isn't playing fair; he wants to get
Mark out of the way because of the girl. Well, this is his chance. He
makes Mark as frightened as possible, and tells him that his only hope
is to run away. Well, naturally, he does all he can to get him well
away, because if Mark is caught, the whole story of Cayley's treachery
comes out."

"Yes. But isn't it overdoing it rather to make him change his
underclothes and everything? It wastes a good deal of time, you know."

Bill was pulled up short, and said, "Oh!" in great disappointment.

"No, it's not as bad as that, Bill," said Antony with a smile. "I
daresay the underclothes could be explained. But here's the difficulty.
Why did Mark need to change from brown to blue, or whatever it was, when
Cayley was the only person who saw him in brown?"

"The police description of him says that he is in a brown suit."

"Yes, because Cayley told the police. You see, even if Mark had had
lunch in his brown suit, and the servants had noticed it, Cayley could
always have pretended that he had changed into blue after lunch, because
only Cayley saw him afterwards. So if Cayley had told the Inspector that
he was wearing blue, Mark could have escaped quite comfortably in his
brown, without needing to change at all."

"But that's just what he did do," cried Bill triumphantly. "What fools
we are!"

Antony looked at him in surprise, and then shook his head.

"Yes, yes!" insisted Bill. "Of course! Don't you see? Mark did change
after lunch, and, to give him more of a chance of getting away, Cayley
lied and said that he was wearing the brown suit in which the servants
had seen him. Well, then he was afraid that the police might examine
Mark's clothes and find the brown suit still there, so he hid it, and
then dropped it in the pond afterwards."

He turned eagerly to his friend, but Antony said nothing. Bill began to
speak again, and was promptly waved into silence.

"Don't say anything more, old boy; you've given me quite enough to think
about. Don't let's bother about it to-night. We'll just have a look at
this cupboard and then get to bed."

But the cupboard had not much to tell them that night. It was empty save
for a few old bottles.

"Well, that's that," said Bill.

But Antony, on his knees with the torch in his hand, continued to search
for something.

"What are you looking for?" asked Bill at last.

"Something that isn't there," said Antony, getting up and dusting his
trousers. And he locked the door again.

The inquest was at three o'clock; thereafter Antony could have no claim
on the hospitality of the Red House. By ten o'clock his bag was packed,
and waiting to be taken to 'the George.' To Bill, coming upstairs after
a more prolonged breakfast, this early morning bustle was a little
surprising.

"What's the hurry?" he asked.

"None. But we don't want to come back here after the inquest. Get your
packing over now and then we can have the morning to ourselves."

"Righto." He turned to go to his room, and then came back again. "I say,
are we going to tell Cayley that we're staying at 'the George'?"

"You're not staying at 'the George,' Bill. Not officially. You're going
back to London."

"Oh!"

"Yes. Ask Cayley to have your luggage sent in to Stanton, ready for you
when you catch a train there after the inquest. You can tell him that
you've got to see the Bishop of London at once. The fact that you are
hurrying back to London to be confirmed will make it seem more natural
that I should resume my interrupted solitude at 'the George' as soon as
you have gone."

"Then where do I sleep to-night?"

"Officially, I suppose, in Fulham Place; unofficially, I suspect, in
my bed, unless they've got another spare room at 'the George.' I've put
your confirmation robe—I mean your pyjamas and brushes and things—in
my bag, ready for you. Is there anything else you want to know? No? Then
go and pack. And meet me at ten-thirty beneath the blasted oak or in the
hall or somewhere. I want to talk and talk and talk, and I must have my
Watson."

"Good," said Bill, and went off to his room.

An hour later, having communicated their official plans to Cayley, they
wandered out together into the park.

"Well?" said Bill, as they sat down underneath a convenient tree. "Talk
away."

"I had many bright thoughts in my bath this morning," began Antony. "The
brightest one of all was that we were being damn fools, and working at
this thing from the wrong end altogether."

"Well, that's helpful."

"Of course it's very hampering being a detective, when you don't know
anything about detecting, and when nobody knows that you're doing
detection, and you can't have people up to cross-examine them, and you
have neither the energy nor the means to make proper inquiries; and,
in short, when you're doing the whole thing in a thoroughly amateur,
haphazard way."

"For amateurs I don't think we're doing at all badly," protested Bill.

"No; not for amateurs. But if we had been professionals, I believe we
should have gone at it from the other end. The Robert end. We've been
wondering about Mark and Cayley all the time. Now let's wonder about
Robert for a bit."

"We know so little about him."

"Well, let's see what we do know. First of all, then, we know vaguely
that he was a bad lot—the sort of brother who is hushed up in front of
other people."

"Yes."

"We know that he announced his approaching arrival to Mark in a rather
unpleasant letter, which I have in my pocket."

"Yes."

"And then we know rather a curious thing. We know that Mark told you all
that this black sheep was coming. Now, why did he tell you?"

Bill was thoughtful for a moment.

"I suppose," he said slowly, "that he knew we were bound to see him, and
thought that the best way was to be quite frank about him."

"But were you bound to see him? You were all away playing golf."

"We were bound to see him if he stayed in the house that night."

"Very well, then. That's one thing we've discovered. Mark knew that
Robert was staying in the house that night. Or shall we put it this
way—he knew that there was no chance of getting Robert out of the house
at once."

Bill looked at his friend eagerly.

"Go on," he said. "This is getting interesting."

"He also knew something else," went on Antony. "He knew that Robert was
bound to betray his real character to you as soon as you met him.
He couldn't pass him off on you as just a travelled brother from the
Dominions, with perhaps a bit of an accent; he had to tell you at once,
because you were bound to find out, that Robert was a wastrel."

"Yes. That's sound enough."

"Well, now, doesn't it strike you that Mark made up his mind about all
that rather quickly?"

"How do you mean?"

"He got this letter at breakfast. He read it; and directly he had read
it he began to confide in you all. That is to say, in about one second
he thought out the whole business and came to a decision—to two
decisions. He considered the possibility of getting Robert out of
the way before you came back, and decided that it was impossible. He
considered the possibility of Robert's behaving like an ordinary decent
person in public, and decided that it was very unlikely. He came to
those two decisions instantaneously, as he was reading the letter. Isn't
that rather quick work?"

"Well, what's the explanation?"

Antony waited until he had refilled and lighted his pipe before
answering.

"What's the explanation? Well, let's leave it for a moment and take
another look at the two brothers. In conjunction, this time, with Mrs.
Norbury."

"Mrs. Norbury?" said Bill, surprised.

"Yes. Mark hoped to marry Miss Norbury. Now, if Robert really was a blot
upon the family honour, Mark would want to do one of two things. Either
keep it from the Norburys altogether, or else, if it had to come out,
tell them himself before the news came to them indirectly. Well, he told
them. But the funny thing is that he told them the day before
Robert's letter came. Robert came, and was killed, the day before
yesterday—Tuesday. Mark told Mrs. Norbury about him on Monday. What do
you make of that?"

"Coincidence," said Bill, after careful thought. "He'd always meant
to tell her; his suit was prospering, and just before it was finally
settled, he told her. That happened to be Monday. On Tuesday he got
Robert's letter, and felt jolly glad that he'd told her in time."

"Well, it might be that, but it's rather a curious coincidence. And here
is something which makes it very curious indeed. It only occurred to
me in the bath this morning. Inspiring place, a bathroom. Well, it's
this—he told her on Monday morning, on his way to Middleston in the
car."

"Well?"

"Well."

"Sorry, Tony; I'm dense this morning."

"In the car, Bill. And how near can the car get to Jallands?"

"About six hundred yards."

"Yes. And on his way to Middleston, on some business or other, Mark
stops the car, walks six hundred yards down the hill to Jallands, says,
'Oh, by the way, Mrs. Norbury, I don't think I ever told you that I
have a shady brother called Robert,' walks six hundred yards up the hill
again, gets into the car, and goes off to Middleston. Is that likely?"

Bill frowned heavily.

"Yes, but I don't see what you're getting at. Likely or not likely, we
know he did do it."

"Of course he did. All I mean is that he must have had some strong
reason for telling Mrs. Norbury at once. And the reason I suggest is
that he knew on that morning—Monday morning, not Tuesday—that Robert
was coming to see him, and had to be in first with the news.

"But—but—"

"And that would explain the other point—his instantaneous decision at
breakfast to tell you all about his brother. It wasn't instantaneous. He
knew on Monday that Robert was coming, and decided then that you would
all have to know."

"Then how do you explain the letter?"

"Well, let's have a look at it."

Antony took the letter from his pocket and spread it out on the grass
between them.

"Mark, your loving brother is coming to see you to-morrow, all the way
from Australia. I give you warning, so that you will be able to conceal
your surprise but not I hope your pleasure. Expect him at three or
thereabouts."

"No date mentioned, you see," said Antony. "Just to-morrow."

"But he got this on Tuesday."

"Did he?"

"Well, he read it out to us on Tuesday."

"Oh, yes! he read it out to you."

Bill read the letter again, and then turned it over and looked at the
back of it. The back of it had nothing to say to him.

"What about the postmark?" he asked.