THE RED HOUSE MYSTERY. A. A. Milne

      “I’ve telephoned,” he said. “They’re sending an inspector or some one from Middleston, and the local police and doctor from Stanton.” He shrugged his shoulders. “We’re in for it now.”

      “How far away is Middleston?” It was the town for which Antony had taken a ticket that morning — only six hours ago. How absurd it seemed.

      “About twenty miles. These people will be coming back soon.”

      “Beverley, and the others?”

      “Yes. I expect they’ll want to go away at once.”

      “Much better that they should.”

      “Yes.” Cayley was silent for a little. Then he said, “You’re staying near here?”

      “I’m at ‘The George,’ at Waldheim.”

      “If you’re by yourself, I wish you’d put up here. You see,” he went on awkwardly, “you’ll have to be here — for the — the inquest and — and so on. If I may offer you my cousin’s hospitality in his — I mean if he doesn’t — if he really has — ”

      Antony broke in hastily with his thanks and acceptance.

      “That’s good. Perhaps Beverley will stay on, if he’s a friend of yours. He’s a good fellow.”

      Antony felt quite sure, from what Cayley had said and had hesitated to say, that Mark had been the last to see his brother alive. It didn’t follow that Mark Ablett was a murderer. Revolvers go off accidentally; and when they have gone off, people lose their heads and run away, fearing that their story will not be believed. Nevertheless, when people run away, whether innocently or guiltily, one can’t help wondering which way they went.

      “I suppose this way,” said Antony aloud, looking out of the window.

      “Who?” said Cayley stubbornly.

      “Well, whoever it was,” said Antony, smiling to himself. “The murderer. Or, let us say, the man who locked the door after Robert Ablett was killed.”

      “I wonder.”

      “Well, how else could he have got away? He didn’t go by the windows in the next room, because they were shut.”

      “Isn’t that rather odd?”

      “Well, I thought so at first, but — ” He pointed to the wall jutting out on the right. “You see, you’re protected from the rest of the house if you get out here, and you’re quite close to the shrubbery. If you go out at the French windows, I imagine you’re much more visible. All that part of the house — ” he waved his right hand — “the west, well, north-west almost, where the kitchen parts are — you see, you’re hidden from them here. Oh, yes! he knew the house, whoever it was, and he was quite right to come out of this window. He’d be into the shrubbery at once.”

      Cayley looked at him thoughtfully.

      “It seems to me, Mr. Gillingham, that you know the house pretty well, considering that this is the first time you’ve been to it.”

      Antony laughed.

      “Oh, well, I notice things, you know. I was born noticing. But I’m right, aren’t I, about why he went out this way?”

      “Yes, I think you are.” Cayley looked away — towards the shrubbery. “Do you want to go noticing in there now?” He nodded at it.

      “I think we might leave that to the police,” said Antony gently. “It’s — well, there’s no hurry.”

      Cayley gave a little sigh, as if he had been holding his breath for the answer, and could now breathe again.

      “Thank you, Mr. Gillingham,” he said.

      CHAPTER IV

       The Brother from Australia

       Table of Contents

      Guests at the Red House were allowed to do what they liked within reason — the reasonableness or otherwise of it being decided by Mark. But when once they (or Mark) had made up their minds as to what they wanted to do, the plan had to be kept. Mrs. Calladine, who knew this little weakness of their host’s, resisted, therefore, the suggestion of Bill that they should have a second round in the afternoon, and drive home comfortably after tea. The other golfers were willing enough, but Mrs. Calladine, without actually saying that Mr. Ablett wouldn’t like it, was firm on the point that, having arranged to be back by four, they should be back by four.

      “I really don’t think Mark wants us, you know,” said the Major. Having played badly in the morning, he wanted to prove to himself in the afternoon that he was really better than that. “With this brother of his coming, he’ll be only too glad to have us out of the way.”

      “Of course he will, Major.” This from Bill. “You’d like to play, wouldn’t you, Miss Norris?”

      Miss Norris looked doubtfully at the hostess.

      “Of course, if you want to get back, dear, we mustn’t keep you here. Besides, it’s so dull for you, not playing.”

      “Just nine holes, mother,” pleaded Betty.

      “The car could take you back, and you could tell them that we were having another round, and then it could come back for us,” said Bill brilliantly.

      “It’s certainly much cooler here than I expected,” put in the Major.

      Mrs. Calladine fell. It was very pleasantly cool outside the golf-house, and of course Mark would be rather glad to have them out of the way. So she consented to nine holes; and the match having ended all-square, and everybody having played much better than in the morning, they drove back to the Red House, very well pleased with themselves.

      “Halo,” said Bill to himself, as they approached the house, “isn’t that old Tony?”

      Antony was standing in front of the house, waiting for them. Bill waved, and he waved back. Then as the car drew up, Bill, who was in front with the chauffeur, jumped down and greeted him eagerly.

      “Hallo, you madman, have you come to stay, or what?” He had a sudden idea. “Don’t say you’re Mark Ablett’s long-lost brother from Australia, though I could quite believe it of you.” He laughed boyishly.

      “Hallo, Bill,” said Antony quietly. “Will you introduce me? I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.”

      Bill, rather sobered by this, introduced him. The Major and Mrs. Calladine were on the near side of the car, and Antony spoke to them in a low voice.

      “I’m afraid I’m going to give you rather a shock,” he said. “Robert Ablett, Mr. Mark Ablett’s brother, has been killed.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “In the house.”

      “Good God!” said the Major.

      “Do you mean that he has killed himself?” asked Mrs. Calladine. “Just now?”

      “It was about two hours ago. I happened to come here,” — he half-turned to Beverley and explained — “I was coming to see you, Bill, and I arrived just after the — the death. Mr. Cayley and I found the body. Mr. Cayley being busy just now — there are police and doctors and so on in the house — he asked me to tell you. He says that no doubt you would prefer, the house-party having been broken up in this tragic way, to leave as soon as possible.” He gave a pleasant apologetic little smile and went on, “I am putting it badly, but what he means, of course, is that you must consult your own feelings in the matter entirely, and please make your own arrangements about ordering the car for whatever train you wish to catch. There is one this evening, I understand, which you could go by if you wished it.”

      Bill gazed with open mouth at Antony. He had no words in his vocabulary to