The Red House Mystery (23 page)

"Good." He nodded to Antony and strode off back to Stanton again.

Antony stood watching him with a little smile at his enthusiasm. Then he
looked round slowly, as if in search of something. Suddenly he saw what
he wanted. Twenty yards farther on a lane wandered off to the left, and
there was a gate a little way up on the right-hand side of it. Antony
walked to the gate, filling his pipe as he went. Then he lit his pipe,
sat on the gate, and took his head in his hands.

"Now then," he said to himself, "let's begin at the beginning."

It was nearly eight o'clock when William Beverley, the famous
sleuth-hound, arrived, tired and dusty, at 'the George,' to find Antony,
cool and clean, standing bare-headed at the door, waiting for him.

"Is dinner ready?" were Bill's first words.

"Yes."

"Then I'll just have a wash. Lord, I'm tired."

"I never ought to have asked you," said Antony penitently.

"That's all right. I shan't be a moment." Half-way up the stairs he
turned round and asked, "Am I in your room?"

"Yes. Do you know the way?"

"Yes. Start carving, will you? And order lots of beer." He disappeared
round the top of the staircase. Antony went slowly in.

When the first edge of his appetite had worn off, and he was able to
spare a little time between the mouthfuls, Bill gave an account of his
adventures. The landlord of the "Plough and Horses" had been sticky,
decidedly sticky—Bill had been unable at first to get anything out of
him. But Bill had been tactful; lorblessyou, how tactful he had been.

"He kept on about the inquest, and what a queer affair it had been, and
so on, and how there'd been an inquest in his wife's family once,
which he seemed rather proud about, and I kept saying, 'Pretty busy, I
suppose, just now, what?' and then he'd say, 'Middlin',' and go on again
about Susan—that was the one that had the inquest—he talked about it
as if it were a disease—and then I'd try again, and say, 'Slack times,
I expect, just now, eh?' and he'd say 'Middlin' again, and then it was
time to offer him another drink, and I didn't seem to be getting much
nearer. But I got him at last. I asked him if he knew John Borden—he
was the man who said he'd seen Mark at the station. Well, he knew all
about Borden, and after he'd told me all about Borden's wife's family,
and how one of them had been burnt to death—after you with the beer;
thanks—well, then I said carelessly that it must be very hard to
remember anybody whom you had just seen once, so as to identify him
afterwards, and he agreed that it would be 'middlin' hard,' and then—"

"Give me three guesses," interrupted Antony. "You asked him if he
remembered everybody who came to his inn?"

"That's it. Bright, wasn't it?"

"Brilliant. And what was the result?"

"The result was a woman."

"A woman?" said Antony eagerly.

"A woman," said Bill impressively. "Of course I thought it was going to
be Robert—so did you, didn't you?—but it wasn't. It was a woman. Came
quite late on Monday night in a car—driving herself—went off early
next morning."

"Did he describe her?"

"Yes. She was middlin'. Middlin' tall, middlin' age, middlin' colour,
and so on. Doesn't help much, does it? But still—a woman. Does that
upset your theory?"

Antony shook his head.

"No, Bill, not at all," he said.

"You knew all the time? At least, you guessed?"

"Wait till to-morrow. I'll tell you everything to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" said Bill in great disappointment.

"Well, I'll tell you one thing to-night, if you'll promise not to ask
any more questions. But you probably know it already."

"What is it?"

"Only that Mark Ablett did not kill his brother."

"And Cayley did?"

"That's another question, Bill. However, the answer is that Cayley
didn't, either."

"Then who on earth—"

"Have some more beer," said Antony with a smile. And Bill had to be
content with that.

They were early to bed that evening, for both of them were tired. Bill
slept loudly and defiantly, but Antony lay awake, wondering. What was
happening at the Red House now? Perhaps he would hear in the morning;
perhaps he would get a letter. He went over the whole story again from
the beginning—was there any possibility of a mistake? What would the
police do? Would they ever find out? Ought he to have told them? Well,
let them find out; it was their job. Surely he couldn't have made a
mistake this time. No good wondering now; he would know definitely in
the morning.

In the morning there was a letter for him.

"My Dear Mr. Gillingham,

"I gather from your letter that you have made certain discoveries which
you may feel it your duty to communicate to the police, and that in this
case my arrest on a charge of murder would inevitably follow. Why,
in these circumstances, you should give me such ample warning of your
intentions I do not understand, unless it is that you are not wholly out
of sympathy with me. But whether or not you sympathize, at any rate you
will want to know—and I want you to know—the exact manner in which
Ablett met his death and the reasons which made that death necessary. If
the police have to be told anything, I would rather that they too knew
the whole story. They, and even you, may call it murder, but by that
time I shall be out of the way. Let them call it what they like.

"I must begin by taking you back to a summer day fifteen years ago, when
I was a boy of thirteen and Mark a young man of twenty-five. His
whole life was make-believe, and just now he was pretending to be a
philanthropist. He sat in our little drawing-room, flicking his gloves
against the back of his left hand, and my mother, good soul, thought
what a noble young gentleman he was, and Philip and I, hastily washed
and crammed into collars, stood in front of him, nudging each other and
kicking the backs of our heels and cursing him in our hearts for having
interrupted our game. He had decided to adopt one of us, kind Cousin
Mark. Heaven knows why he chose me. Philip was eleven; two years longer
to wait. Perhaps that was why.

"Well, Mark educated me. I went to a public school and to Cambridge,
and I became his secretary. Well, much more than his secretary as your
friend Beverley perhaps has told you: his land agent, his financial
adviser, his courier, his—but this most of all—his audience. Mark
could never live alone. There must always be somebody to listen to him.
I think in his heart he hoped I should be his Boswell. He told me one
day that he had made me his literary executor—poor devil. And he used
to write me the absurdest long letters when I was away from him, letters
which I read once and then tore up. The futility of the man!

"It was three years ago that Philip got into trouble. He had been
hurried through a cheap grammar school and into a London office, and
discovered there that there was not much fun to be got in this world on
two pounds a week. I had a frantic letter from him one day, saying that
he must have a hundred at once, or he would be ruined, and I went to
Mark for the money. Only to borrow it, you understand; he gave me a good
salary and I could have paid it back in three months. But no. He saw
nothing for himself in it, I suppose; no applause, no admiration.
Philip's gratitude would be to me, not to him. I begged, I threatened,
we argued; and while we were arguing, Philip was arrested. It killed
my mother—he was always her favourite—but Mark, as usual, got his
satisfaction out of it. He preened himself on his judgment of character
in having chosen me and not Philip twelve years before!

"Later on I apologized to Mark for the reckless things I had said
to him, and he played the part of a magnanimous gentleman with his
accustomed skill, but, though outwardly we were as before to each other,
from that day forward, though his vanity would never let him see it, I
was his bitterest enemy. If that had been all, I wonder if I should have
killed him? To live on terms of intimate friendship with a man whom you
hate is dangerous work for your friend. Because of his belief in me
as his admiring and grateful protege and his belief in himself as my
benefactor, he was now utterly in my power. I could take my time and
choose my opportunity. Perhaps I should not have killed him, but I had
sworn to have my revenge—and there he was, poor vain fool, at my mercy.
I was in no hurry.

"Two years later I had to reconsider my position, for my revenge was
being taken out of my hands. Mark began to drink. Could I have stopped
him? I don't think so, but to my immense surprise I found myself trying
to. Instinct, perhaps, getting the better of reason; or did I reason it
out and tell myself that, if he drank himself to death, I should lose
my revenge? Upon my word, I cannot tell you; but, for whatever motive, I
did genuinely want to stop it. Drinking is such a beastly thing, anyhow.

"I could not stop him, but I kept him within certain bounds, so that
nobody but myself knew his secret. Yes, I kept him outwardly decent;
and perhaps now I was becoming like the cannibal who keeps his victim in
good condition for his own ends. I used to gloat over Mark, thinking how
utterly he was mine to ruin as I pleased, financially, morally, whatever
way would give me most satisfaction. I had but to take my hand away from
him and he sank. But again I was in no hurry.

"Then he killed himself. That futile little drunkard, eaten up with his
own selfishness and vanity, offered his beastliness to the truest and
purest woman on this earth. You have seen her, Mr. Gillingham, but you
never knew Mark Ablett. Even if he had not been a drunkard, there was
no chance for her of happiness with him. I had known him for many years,
but never once had I seen him moved by any generous emotion. To have
lived with that shrivelled little soul would have been hell for her; and
a thousand times worse hell when he began to drink.

"So he had to be killed. I was the only one left to protect her, for
her mother was in league with Mark to bring about her ruin. I would have
shot him openly for her sake, and with what gladness, but I had no mind
to sacrifice myself needlessly. He was in my power; I could persuade him
to almost anything by flattery; surely it would not be difficult to give
his death the appearance of an accident.

"I need not take up your time by telling you of the many plans I made
and rejected. For some days I inclined towards an unfortunate boating
accident in the pond—Mark, a very indifferent swimmer, myself almost
exhausted in a gallant attempt to hold him up. And then he himself gave
me the idea, he and Miss Norris between them, and so put himself in
my hands; without risk of discovery, I should have said, had you not
discovered me.

"We were talking about ghosts. Mark had been even more vain, pompous and
absurd than usual, and I could see that Miss Norris was irritated by it.
After dinner she suggested dressing up as a ghost and frightening him.
I thought it my duty to warn her that Mark took any joke against
himself badly, but she was determined to do it. I gave way reluctantly.
Reluctantly, also, I told her the secret of the passage. (There is an
underground passage from the library to the bowling-green. You should
exercise your ingenuity, Mr. Gillingham, in trying to discover it. Mark
came upon it by accident a year ago. It was a godsend to him; he could
drink there in greater secrecy. But he had to tell me about it. He
wanted an audience, even for his vices.)

"I told Miss Norris, then, because it was necessary for my plan that
Mark should be thoroughly frightened. Without the passage she could
never have got close enough to the bowling-green to alarm him properly,
but as I arranged it with her she made the most effective appearance,
and Mark was in just the state of rage and vindictiveness which I
required. Miss Norris, you understand, is a professional actress. I need
not say that to her I appeared to be animated by no other feeling than a
boyish desire to bring off a good joke—a joke directed as much against
the others as against Mark.

"He came to me that night, as I expected, still quivering with
indignation. Miss Norris must never be asked to the house again; I was
to make a special note of it; never again. It was outrageous. Had he not
a reputation as a host to keep up, he would pack her off next morning.
As it was, she could stay; hospitality demanded it; but never again
would she come to the Red House—he was absolutely determined about
that. I was to make a special note of it.

"I comforted him, I smoothed down his ruffled feathers. She had behaved
very badly, but he was quite right; he must try not to show how much he
disapproved of her. And of course she would never come again—that
was obvious. And then suddenly I began to laugh. He looked up at me
indignantly.

"'Is there a joke?" he said coldly.

"I laughed gently again.

"'I was just thinking,' I said, 'that it would be rather amusing if
you—well, had your revenge."

"'My revenge? How do you mean?'

"'Well, paid her back in her own coin.'

"'Do you mean try and frighten her?'

"'No, no; but dressed up and pulled her leg a bit. Made her look a fool
in front of the others.' I laughed to myself again. 'Serve her jolly
well right.'

"He jumped up excitedly.

"'By Jove, Cay!' he cried. 'If I could! How? You must think of a way.

"I don't know if Beverley has told you about Mark's acting. He was an
amateur of all the arts, and vain of his little talents, but as an actor
he seemed to himself most wonderful. Certainly he had some ability for
the stage, so long as he had the stage to himself and was playing to an
admiring audience. As a professional actor in a small part he would have
been hopeless; as an amateur playing the leading part, he deserved all
that the local papers had ever said about him. And so the idea of giving
us a private performance, directed against a professional actress who
had made fun of him, appealed equally to his vanity and his desire for
retaliation. If he, Mark Ablett, by his wonderful acting could make Ruth
Norris look a fool in front of the others, could take her in, and then
join in the laugh at her afterwards, he would indeed have had a worthy
revenge!