The Red House Mystery (22 page)

"Thank you, Mr. Cayley."

Cayley went back heavily to his seat. "Damn it," said Antony to himself,
"why do I like the fellow?"

"Antony Gillingham!"

Again the eager interest of the room could be felt. Who was this
stranger who had got mixed up in the business so mysteriously?

Antony smiled at Bill and stepped up to give his evidence.

He explained how he came to be staying at 'the George' at Waldheim, how
he had heard that the Red House was in the neighbourhood, how he had
walked over to see his friend Beverley, and had arrived just after the
tragedy. Thinking it over afterwards he was fairly certain that he had
heard the shot, but it had not made any impression on him at the time.
He had come to the house from the Waldheim end and consequently had seen
nothing of Robert Ablett, who had been a few minutes in front of him.
From this point his evidence coincided with Cayley's.

"You and the last witness reached the French windows together and found
them shut?"

"Yes."

"You pushed them in and came to the body. Of course you had no idea
whose body it was?"

"No."

"Did Mr. Cayley say anything?"

"He turned the body over, just so as to see the face, and when he saw
it, he said, 'Thank God.'"

Again the reporters wrote "Sensation."

"Did you understand what he meant by that?"

"I asked him who it was, and he said that it was Robert Ablett. Then
he explained that he was afraid at first it was the cousin with whom he
lived—Mark."

"Yes. Did he seem upset?"

"Very much so at first. Less when he found that it wasn't Mark."

There was a sudden snigger from a nervous gentleman in the crowd at the
back of the room, and the Coroner put on his glasses and stared sternly
in the direction from which it came. The nervous gentleman hastily
decided that the time had come to do up his bootlace. The Coroner put
down his glasses and continued.

"Did anybody come out of the house while you were coming up the drive?"

"No."

"Thank you, Mr. Gillingham."

He was followed by Inspector Birch. The Inspector, realizing that
this was his afternoon, and that the eyes of the world were upon
him, produced a plan of the house and explained the situation of the
different rooms. The plan was then handed to the jury.

Inspector Birch, so he told the world, had arrived at the Red House
at 4.42 p.m. on the afternoon in question. He had been received by Mr.
Matthew Cayley, who had made a short statement to him, and he had then
proceeded to examine the scene of the crime. The French windows had been
forced from outside. The door leading into the hall was locked; he had
searched the room thoroughly and had found no trace of a key. In the
bedroom leading out of the office he had found an open window. There
were no marks on the window, but it was a low one, and, as he found
from experiment, quite easy to step out of without touching it with the
boots. A few yards outside the window a shrubbery began. There were no
recent footmarks outside the window, but the ground was in a very hard
condition owing to the absence of rain. In the shrubbery, however, he
found several twigs on the ground, recently broken off, together with
other evidence that some body had been forcing its way through. He had
questioned everybody connected with the estate, and none of them had
been into the shrubbery recently. By forcing a way through the shrubbery
it was possible for a person to make a detour of the house and get to
the Stanton end of the park without ever being in sight of the house
itself.

He had made inquiries about the deceased. Deceased had left for
Australia some fifteen years ago, owing to some financial trouble at
home. Deceased was not well spoken of in the village from which he and
his brother had come. Deceased and his brother had never been on good
terms, and the fact that Mark Ablett had come into money had been a
cause of great bitterness between them. It was shortly after this that
Robert had left for Australia.

He had made inquiries at Stanton station. It had been market-day at
Stanton and the station had been more full of arrivals than usual.
Nobody had particularly noticed the arrival of Robert Ablett; there had
been a good many passengers by the 2.10 train that afternoon, the train
by which Robert had undoubtedly come from London. A witness, however,
would state that he noticed a man resembling Mark Ablett at the station
at 3.53 p.m. that afternoon, and this man caught the 3.55 up train to
town.

There was a pond in the grounds of the Red House. He had dragged this,
but without result....

Antony listened to him carelessly, thinking his own thoughts all the
time. Medical evidence followed, but there was nothing to be got from
that. He felt so close to the truth; at any moment something might give
his brain the one little hint which it wanted. Inspector Birch was just
pursuing the ordinary. Whatever else this case was, it was not ordinary.
There was something uncanny about it.

John Borden was giving evidence. He was on the up platform seeing a
friend off by the 3.55 on Tuesday afternoon. He had noticed a man on the
platform with coat collar turned up and a scarf round his chin. He had
wondered why the man should do this on such a hot day. The man seemed to
be trying to escape observation. Directly the train came in, he hurried
into a carriage. And so on.

"There's always a John Borden at every murder case," said Antony to
himself.

"Have you ever seen Mark Ablett?"

"Once or twice, sir."

"Was it he?"

"I never really got a good look at him, sir, what with his collar turned
up and the scarf and all. But directly I heard of the sad affair, and
that Mr. Ablett was missing, I said to Mrs. Borden, 'Now I wonder if
that was Mr. Ablett I saw at the station?' So then we talked it over and
decided that I ought to come and tell Inspector Birch. It was just Mr.
Ablett's height, sir."

Antony went on with his thoughts....

The Coroner was summing up. The jury, he said, had now heard all the
evidence and would have to decide what had happened in that room between
the two brothers. How had the deceased met his death? The medical
evidence would probably satisfy them that Robert Ablett had died from
the effects of a bullet-wound in the head. Who had fired that bullet?
If Robert Ablett had fired it himself, no doubt they would bring in
a verdict of suicide, but if this had been so, where was the revolver
which had fired it, and what had become of Mark Ablett? If they
disbelieved in this possibility of suicide, what remained? Accidental
death, justifiable homicide, and murder. Could the deceased have been
killed accidentally? It was possible, but then would Mark Ablett have
run away? The evidence that he had run away from the scene of the crime
was strong. His cousin had seen him go into the room, the servant Elsie
Wood had heard him quarrelling with his brother in the room, the door
had been locked from the inside, and there were signs that outside
the open window some one had pushed his way very recently through the
shrubbery. Who, if not Mark? They would have then to consider whether he
would have run away if he had been guiltless of his brother's death. No
doubt innocent people lost their heads sometimes. It was possible that
if it were proved afterwards that Mark Ablett had shot his brother, it
might also be proved that he was justified in so doing, and that when he
ran away from his brother's corpse he had really nothing to fear at the
hands of the Law. In this connection he need hardly remind the jury that
they were not the final tribunal, and that if they found Mark Ablett
guilty of murder it would not prejudice his trial in any way if and when
he was apprehended.... The jury could consider their verdict.

They considered it. They announced that the deceased had died as the
result of a bullet-wound, and that the bullet had been fired by his
brother Mark Ablett.

Bill turned round to Antony at his side. But Antony was gone. Across the
room he saw Andrew Amos and Parsons going out of the door together, and
Antony was between them.

The inquest had been held at the "Lamb" at Stanton; at Stanton Robert
Ablett was to be buried next day. Bill waited about outside for his
friend, wondering where he had gone. Then, realizing that Cayley would
be coming out to his car directly, and that a farewell talk with Cayley
would be a little embarrassing, he wandered round to the yard at
the back of the inn, lit a cigarette, and stood surveying a torn and
weather-beaten poster on the stable wall. "GRAND THEATRICAL ENTER" it
announced, to take place on "Wednesday, Decem." Bill smiled to himself
as he looked at it, for the part of Joe, a loquacious postman, had
been played by "William B. Beverl," as the remnants of the poster still
maintained, and he had been much less loquacious than the author had
intended, having forgotten his words completely, but it had all been
great fun. And then he stopped smiling, for there would be no more fun
now at the Red House.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," said the voice of Antony behind him. "My
old friends Amos and Parsons insisted on giving me a drink."

He slipped his hand into the crook of Bill's arm, and smiled happily at
him.

"Why were you so keen about them?" asked Bill a little resentfully. "I
couldn't think where on earth you had got to."

Antony didn't say anything. He was staring at the poster.

"When did this happen?" he asked.

"What?"

Antony waved to the poster.

"Oh, that? Last Christmas. It was rather fun."

Antony began to laugh to himself.

"Were you good?"

"Rotten. I don't profess to be an actor."

"Mark good?"

"Oh, rather. He loves it."

"Rev. Henry Stutters—Mr. Matthew Cay," read Antony.

"Was that our friend Cayley?"

"Yes."

"Any good?"

"Well, much better than I expected. He wasn't keen, but Mark made him."

"Miss Norris wasn't playing, I see."

"My dear Tony, she's a professional. Of course she wasn't."

Antony laughed again.

"A great success, was it?"

"Oh, rather!"

"I'm a fool, and a damned fool," Antony announced solemnly. "And a
damned fool," he said again under his breath, as he led Bill away from
the poster, and out of the yard into the road. "And a damned fool. Even
now—" He broke off and then asked suddenly, "Did Mark ever have much
trouble with his teeth?"

"He went to his dentist a good deal. But what on earth—"

Antony laughed a third time.

"What luck!" he chuckled. "But how do you know?"

"We go to the same man; Mark recommended him to me. Cartwright, in
Wimpole Street."

"Cartwright in Wimpole Street," repeated Antony thoughtfully. "Yes, I
can remember that. Cartwright in Wimpole Street. Did Cayley go to him
too, by any chance?"

"I expect so. Oh, yes, I know he did. But what on earth—"

"What was Mark's general health like? Did he see a doctor much?"

"Hardly at all, I should think. He did a lot of early morning exercises
which were supposed to make him bright and cheerful at breakfast. They
didn't do that, but they seemed to keep him pretty fit. Tony, I wish
you'd—"

Antony held up a hand and hushed him into silence.

"One last question," he said. "Was Mark fond of swimming?"

"No, he hated it. I don't believe he could swim. Tony, are you mad, or
am I? Or is this a new game?"

Antony squeezed his arm.

"Dear old Bill," he said. "It's a game. What a game! And the answer is
Cartwright in Wimpole Street."

They walked in silence for half a mile or so along the road to Waldheim.
Bill tried two or three times to get his friend to talk, but Antony had
only grunted in reply. He was just going to make another attempt, when
Antony came to a sudden stop and turned to him anxiously.

"I wonder if you'd do something for me," he said, looking at him with
some doubt.

"What sort of thing?"

"Well, it's really dashed important. It's just the one thing I want
now."

Bill was suddenly enthusiastic again.

"I say, have you really found it all out?"

Antony nodded.

"At least, I'm very nearly there, Bill. There's just this one thing I
want now. It means your going back to Stanton. Well, we haven't come
far; it won't take you long. Do you mind?"

"My dear Holmes, I am at your service."

Antony gave him a smile and was silent for a little, thinking.

"Is there another inn at Stanton—fairly close to the station?"

"The 'Plough and Horses'—just at the corner where the road goes up to
the station—is that the one you mean?"

"That would be the one. I suppose you could do with a drink, couldn't
you?"

"Rather!" said Bill, with a grin.

"Good. Then have one at the 'Plough and Horses.' Have two, if you like,
and talk to the landlord, or landlady, or whoever serves you. I want you
to find out if anybody stayed there on Monday night."

"Robert?" said Bill eagerly.

"I didn't say Robert," said Antony, smiling. "I just want you to find
out if they had a visitor who slept there on Monday night. A stranger.
If so, then any particulars you can get of him, without letting the
landlord know that you are interested—"

"Leave it to me," broke in Bill. "I know just what you want."

"Don't assume that it was Robert—or anybody else. Let them describe the
man to you. Don't influence them unconsciously by suggesting that he was
short or tall, or anything of that sort. Just get them talking. If it's
the landlord, you'd better stand him a drink or two."

"Right you are," said Bill confidently. "Where do I meet you again?"

"Probably at 'the George.' If you get there before me, you can order
dinner for eight o'clock. Anyhow we'll meet at eight, if not before."