The Red House Mystery by A. A. Milne.
TO JOHN VINE MILNE MY DEAR FATHER,
Like all really nice people, you have a weakness
for detective stories, and feel that there
are not enough of them. So, after all that
you have done for me, the least that I can
do for you is to write you one. Here it is:
with more gratitude and affection than I can
well put down here. A.A.M.
CHAPTER I. Mrs. Stevens is Frightened
In the drowsy heat of the summer afternoon
the Red House was taking its siesta. There
was a lazy murmur of bees in the flower-borders,
a gentle cooing of pigeons in the tops of
the elms. From distant lawns came the whir
of a mowing-machine, that most restful of
all country sounds; making ease the sweeter
in that it is taken while others are working.
It was the hour when even those whose business
it is to attend to the wants of others have
a moment or two for themselves. In the housekeeper’s
room Audrey Stevens, the pretty parlour-maid,
re-trimmed her best hat, and talked idly to
her aunt, the cook-housekeeper of Mr. Mark
Ablett’s bachelor home.
“For Joe?” said Mrs. Stevens placidly,
her eye on the hat. Audrey nodded. She took
a pin from her mouth, found a place in the
hat for it, and said, “He likes a bit of
pink.”
“I don’t say I mind a bit of pink myself,”
said her aunt. “Joe Turner isn’t the only
one.”
“It isn’t everybody’s colour,” said
Audrey, holding the hat out at arm’s length,
and regarding it thoughtfully. “Stylish,
isn’t it?”
“Oh, it’ll suit you all right, and it
would have suited me at your age. A bit too
dressy for me now, though wearing better than
some other people, I daresay. I was never
the one to pretend to be what I wasn’t.
If I’m fifty-five, I’m fifty-five—that’s
what I say.”
“Fifty-eight, isn’t it, auntie?”
“I was just giving that as an example,”
said Mrs. Stevens with great dignity.
Audrey threaded a needle, held her hand out
and looked at her nails critically for a moment,
and then began to sew.
“Funny thing that about Mr. Mark’s brother.
Fancy not seeing your brother for fifteen
years.” She gave a self-conscious laugh
and went on, “Wonder what I should do if
I didn’t see Joe for fifteen years.”
“As I told you all this morning,” said
her aunt, “I’ve been here five years,
and never heard of a brother. I could say
that before everybody if I was going to die
to-morrow. There’s been no brother here
while I’ve been here.”
“You could have knocked me down with a feather
when he spoke about him at breakfast this
morning. I didn’t hear what went before,
naturally, but they was all talking about
the brother when I went in—now what was
it I went in for—hot milk, was it, or toast?—well,
they was all talking, and Mr. Mark turns to
me, and says—you know his way—‘Stevens,’
he says, ‘my brother is coming to see me
this afternoon; I’m expecting him about
three,’ he says. ‘Show him into the office,’
he says, just like that. ‘Yes, sir,’ I
says quite quietly, but I was never so surprised
in my life, not knowing he had a brother.
‘My brother from Australia,’ he says—there,
I’d forgotten that. From Australia.”
“Well, he may have been in Australia,”
said Mrs. Stevens, judicially; “I can’t
say for that, not knowing the country; but
what I do say is he’s never been here. Not
while I’ve been here, and that’s five
years.”
“Well, but, auntie, he hasn’t been here
for fifteen years. I heard Mr. Mark telling
Mr. Cayley. ‘Fifteen years,’ he says.
Mr. Cayley having arst him when his brother
was last in England. Mr. Cayley knew of him,
I heard him telling Mr. Beverley, but didn’t
know when he was last in England—see? So
that’s why he arst Mr. Mark.”
“I’m not saying anything about fifteen
years, Audrey. I can only speak for what I
know, and that’s five years Whitsuntide.
I can take my oath he’s not set foot in
the house since five years Whitsuntide. And
if he’s been in Australia, as you say, well,
I daresay he’s had his reasons.”
“What reasons?” said Audrey lightly.
“Never mind what reasons. Being in the place
of a mother to you, since your poor mother
died, I say this, Audrey—when a gentleman
goes to Australia, he has his reasons. And
when he stays in Australia fifteen years,
as Mr. Mark says, and as I know for myself
for five years, he has his reasons. And a
respectably brought-up girl doesn’t ask
what reasons.”
“Got into trouble, I suppose,” said Audrey
carelessly. “They were saying at breakfast
he’d been a wild one. Debts. I’m glad
Joe isn’t like that. He’s got fifteen
pounds in the post-office savings’ bank.
Did I tell you?”
But there was not to be any more talk of Joe
Turner that afternoon. The ringing of a bell
brought Audrey to her feet—no longer Audrey,
but now Stevens. She arranged her cap in front
of the glass.
“There, that’s the front door,” she
said. “That’s him. ‘Show him into the
office,’ said Mr. Mark. I suppose he doesn’t
want the other ladies and gentlemen to see
him. Well, they’re all out at their golf,
anyhow—Wonder if he’s going to stay—P’raps
he’s brought back a lot of gold from Australia—I
might hear something about Australia, because
if anybody can get gold there, then I don’t
say but what Joe and I—”
“Now, now, get on, Audrey.”
“Just going, darling.” She went out.
To anyone who had just walked down the drive
in the August sun, the open door of the Red
House revealed a delightfully inviting hall,
of which even the mere sight was cooling.
It was a big low-roofed, oak-beamed place,
with cream-washed walls and diamond-paned
windows, blue-curtained. On the right and
left were doors leading into other living-rooms,
but on the side which faced you as you came
in were windows again, looking on to a small
grass court, and from open windows to open
windows such air as there was played gently.
The staircase went up in broad, low steps
along the right-hand wall, and, turning to
the left, led you along a gallery, which ran
across the width of the hall, to your bedroom.
That is, if you were going to stay the night.
Mr. Robert Ablett’s intentions in this matter
were as yet unknown.
As Audrey came across the hall she gave a
little start as she saw Mr. Cayley suddenly,
sitting unobtrusively in a seat beneath one
of the front windows, reading. No reason why
he shouldn’t be there; certainly a much
cooler place than the golf-links on such a
day; but somehow there was a deserted air
about the house that afternoon, as if all
the guests were outside, or—perhaps the
wisest place of all—up in their bedrooms,
sleeping. Mr. Cayley, the master’s cousin,
was a surprise; and, having given a little
exclamation as she came suddenly upon him,
she blushed, and said, “Oh, I beg your pardon,
sir, I didn’t see you at first,” and he
looked up from his book and smiled at her.
An attractive smile it was on that big ugly
face. “Such a gentleman, Mr. Cayley,”
she thought to herself as she went on, and
wondered what the master would do without
him. If this brother, for instance, had to
be bundled back to Australia, it was Mr. Cayley
who would do most of the bundling.
“So this is Mr. Robert,” said Audrey to
herself, as she came in sight of the visitor.
She told her aunt afterwards that she would
have known him anywhere for Mr. Mark’s brother,
but she would have said that in any event.
Actually she was surprised. Dapper little
Mark, with his neat pointed beard and his
carefully curled moustache; with his quick-darting
eyes, always moving from one to the other
of any company he was in, to register one
more smile to his credit when he had said
a good thing, one more expectant look when
he was only waiting his turn to say it; he
was a very different man from this rough-looking,
ill-dressed colonial, staring at her so loweringly.
“I want to see Mr. Mark Ablett,” he growled.
It sounded almost like a threat.
Audrey recovered herself and smiled reassuringly
at him. She had a smile for everybody.
“Yes, sir. He is expecting you, if you will
come this way.”
“Oh! So you know who I am, eh?”
“Mr. Robert Ablett?”
“Ay, that’s right. So he’s expecting
me, eh? He’ll be glad to see me, eh?”
“If you will come this way, sir,” said
Audrey primly.
She went to the second door on the left, and
opened it.
“Mr. Robert Ab—” she began, and then
broke off. The room was empty. She turned
to the man behind her. “If you will sit
down, sir, I will find the master. I know
he’s in, because he told me that you were
coming this afternoon.”
“Oh!” He looked round the room. “What
d’you call this place, eh?”
“The office, sir.”
“The office?”
“The room where the master works, sir.”
“Works, eh? That’s new. Didn’t know
he’d ever done a stroke of work in his life.”
“Where he writes, sir,” said Audrey, with
dignity. The fact that Mr. Mark “wrote,”
though nobody knew what, was a matter of pride
in the housekeeper’s room.
“Not well-dressed enough for the drawing-room,
eh?”
“I will tell the master you are here, sir,”
said Audrey decisively.
She closed the door and left him there.
Well! Here was something to tell auntie! Her
mind was busy at once, going over all the
things which he had said to her and she had
said to him—quiet-like. “Directly I saw
him I said to myself—” Why, you could
have knocked her over with a feather. Feathers,
indeed, were a perpetual menace to Audrey.
However, the immediate business was to find
the master. She walked across the hall to
the library, glanced in, came back a little
uncertainly, and stood in front of Cayley.
“If you please, sir,” she said in a low,
respectful voice, “can you tell me where
the master is? It’s Mr. Robert called.”
“What?” said Cayley, looking up from his
book. “Who?”
Audrey repeated her question.
“I don’t know. Isn’t he in the office?
He went up to the Temple after lunch. I don’t
think I’ve seen him since.”
“Thank you, sir. I will go up to the Temple.”
Cayley returned to his book.
The “Temple” was a brick summer-house,
in the gardens at the back of the house, about
three hundred yards away. Here Mark meditated
sometimes before retiring to the “office”
to put his thoughts upon paper. The thoughts
were not of any great value; moreover, they
were given off at the dinner-table more often
than they got on to paper, and got on to paper
more often than they got into print. But that
did not prevent the master of The Red House
from being a little pained when a visitor
treated the Temple carelessly, as if it had
been erected for the ordinary purposes of
flirtation and cigarette-smoking. There had
been an occasion when two of his guests had
been found playing fives in it. Mark had said
nothing at the time, save to ask with a little
less than his usual point—whether they couldn’t
find anywhere else for their game, but the
offenders were never asked to The Red House
again.
Audrey walked slowly up to the Temple, looked
in and walked slowly back. All that walk for
nothing. Perhaps the master was upstairs in
his room. “Not well-dressed enough for the
drawing-room.” Well, now, Auntie, would
you like anyone in your drawing-room with
a red handkerchief round his neck and great
big dusty boots, and—listen! One of the
men shooting rabbits. Auntie was partial to
a nice rabbit, and onion sauce. How hot it
was; she wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea.
Well, one thing, Mr. Robert wasn’t staying
the night; he hadn’t any luggage. Of course
Mr. Mark could lend him things; he had clothes
enough for six. She would have known him anywhere
for Mr. Mark’s brother.
She came into the house. As she passed the
housekeeper’s room on her way to the hall,
the door opened suddenly, and a rather frightened
face looked out.
“Hallo, Aud,” said Elsie. “It’s Audrey,”
she said, turning into the room.
“Come in, Audrey,” called Mrs. Stevens.
“What’s up?” said Audrey, looking in
at the door.
“Oh, my dear, you gave me such a turn. Where
have you been?”
“Up to the Temple.”
“Did you hear anything?”
“Hear what?”
“Bangs and explosions and terrible things.”
“Oh!” said Audrey, rather relieved. “One
of the men shooting rabbits. Why, I said to
myself as I came along, ‘Auntie’s partial
to a nice rabbit,’ I said, and I shouldn’t
be surprised if—”
“Rabbits!” said her aunt scornfully. “It
was inside the house, my girl.”
“Straight it was,” said Elsie. She was
one of the housemaids. “I said to Mrs. Stevens—didn’t
I, Mrs. Stevens?—‘That was in the house,’
I said.”
Audrey looked at her aunt and then at Elsie.
“Do you think he had a revolver with him?”
she said in a hushed voice.
“Who?” said Elsie excitedly.
“That brother of his. From Australia. I
said as soon as I set eyes on him, ‘You’re
a bad lot, my man!’ That’s what I said,
Elsie. Even before he spoke to me. Rude!”
She turned to her aunt. “Well, I give you
my word.”
“If you remember, Audrey, I always said
there was no saying with anyone from Australia.”
Mrs. Stevens lay back in her chair, breathing
rather rapidly. “I wouldn’t go out of
this room now, not if you paid me a hundred
thousand pounds.”
“Oh, Mrs. Stevens!” said Elsie, who badly
wanted five shillings for a new pair of shoes,
“I wouldn’t go as far as that, not myself,
but—”
“There!” cried Mrs. Stevens, sitting up
with a start. They listened anxiously, the
two girls instinctively coming closer to the
older woman’s chair.
A door was being shaken, kicked, rattled.
“Listen!”
Audrey and Elsie looked at each other with
frightened eyes.
They heard a man’s voice, loud, angry.
“Open the door!” it was shouting. “Open
the door! I say, open the door!”
“Don’t open the door!” cried Mrs. Stevens
in a panic, as if it was her door which was
threatened. “Audrey! Elsie! Don’t let
him in!”
“Damn it, open the door!” came the voice
again.
“We’re all going to be murdered in our
beds,” she quavered. Terrified, the two
girls huddled closer, and with an arm round
each, Mrs. Stevens sat there, waiting.
CHAPTER II. Mr. Gillingham Gets Out at the
Wrong Station
Whether Mark Ablett was a bore or not depended
on the point of view, but it may be said at
once that he never bored his company on the
subject of his early life. However, stories
get about. There is always somebody who knows.
It was understood—and this, anyhow, on Mark’s
own authority—that his father had been a
country clergyman. It was said that, as a
boy, Mark had attracted the notice, and patronage,
of some rich old spinster of the neighbourhood,
who had paid for his education, both at school
and university. At about the time when he
was coming down from Cambridge, his father
had died; leaving behind him a few debts,
as a warning to his family, and a reputation
for short sermons, as an example to his successor.
Neither warning nor example seems to have
been effective. Mark went to London, with
an allowance from his patron, and (it is generally
agreed) made acquaintance with the money-lenders.
He was supposed, by his patron and any others
who inquired, to be “writing”; but what
he wrote, other than letters asking for more
time to pay, has never been discovered. However,
he attended the theatres and music halls very
regularly—no doubt with a view to some serious
articles in the “Spectator” on the decadence
of the English stage.
Fortunately (from Mark’s point of view)
his patron died during his third year in London,
and left him all the money he wanted. From
that moment his life loses its legendary character,
and becomes more a matter of history. He settled
accounts with the money-lenders, abandoned
his crop of wild oats to the harvesting of
others, and became in his turn a patron. He
patronized the Arts. It was not only usurers
who discovered that Mark Ablett no longer
wrote for money; editors were now offered
free contributions as well as free lunches;
publishers were given agreements for an occasional
slender volume, in which the author paid all
expenses and waived all royalties; promising
young painters and poets dined with him; and
he even took a theatrical company on tour,
playing host and “lead” with equal lavishness.
He was not what most people call a snob. A
snob has been defined carelessly as a man
who loves a lord; and, more carefully, as
a mean lover of mean things—which would
be a little unkind to the peerage if the first
definition were true. Mark had his vanities
undoubtedly, but he would sooner have met
an actor-manager than an earl; he would have
spoken of his friendship with Dante—had
that been possible—more glibly than of his
friendship with the Duke. Call him a snob
if you like, but not the worst kind of snob;
a hanger-on, but to the skirts of Art, not
Society; a climber, but in the neighbourhood
of Parnassus, not Hay Hill.
His patronage did not stop at the Arts. It
also included Matthew Cayley, a small cousin
of thirteen, whose circumstances were as limited
as had been Mark’s own before his patron
had rescued him. He sent the Cayley cousin
to school and Cambridge. His motives, no doubt,
were unworldly enough at first; a mere repaying
to his account in the Recording Angel’s
book of the generosity which had been lavished
on himself; a laying-up of treasure in heaven.
But it is probable that, as the boy grew up,
Mark’s designs for his future were based
on his own interests as much as those of his
cousin, and that a suitably educated Matthew
Cayley of twenty-three was felt by him to
be a useful property for a man in his position;
a man, that is to say, whose vanities left
him so little time for his affairs.
Cayley, then, at twenty-three, looked after
his cousin’s affairs. By this time Mark
had bought the Red House and the considerable
amount of land which went with it. Cayley
superintended the necessary staff. His duties,
indeed, were many. He was not quite secretary,
not quite land-agent, not quite business-adviser,
not quite companion, but something of all
four. Mark leant upon him and called him “Cay,”
objecting quite rightly in the circumstances
to the name of Matthew. Cay, he felt was,
above all, dependable; a big, heavy-jawed,
solid fellow, who didn’t bother you with
unnecessary talk—a boon to a man who liked
to do most of the talking himself.
Cayley was now twenty-eight, but had all the
appearance of forty, which was his patron’s
age. Spasmodically they entertained a good
deal at the Red House, and Mark’s preference—call
it kindliness or vanity, as you please—was
for guests who were not in a position to repay
his hospitality. Let us have a look at them
as they came down to that breakfast, of which
Stevens, the parlour-maid, has already given
us a glimpse.
The first to appear was Major Rumbold, a tall,
grey-haired, grey-moustached, silent man,
wearing a Norfolk coat and grey flannel trousers,
who lived on his retired pay and wrote natural
history articles for the papers. He inspected
the dishes on the side-table, decided carefully
on kedgeree, and got to work on it. He had
passed on to a sausage by the time of the
next arrival. This was Bill Beverly, a cheerful
young man in white flannel trousers and a
blazer.
“Hallo, Major,” he said as he came in,
“how’s the gout?”
“It isn’t gout,” said the Major gruffly.
“Well, whatever it is.”
The Major grunted.
“I make a point of being polite at breakfast,”
said Bill, helping himself largely to porridge.
“Most people are so rude. That’s why I
asked you. But don’t tell me if it’s a
secret. Coffee?” he added, as he poured
himself out a cup.
“No, thanks. I never drink till I’ve finished
eating.”
“Quite right, Major; it’s only manners.”
He sat down opposite to the other. “Well,
we’ve got a good day for our game. It’s
going to be dashed hot, but that’s where
Betty and I score. On the fifth green, your
old wound, the one you got in that frontier
skirmish in ‘43, will begin to trouble you;
on the eighth, your liver, undermined by years
of curry, will drop to pieces; on the twelfth—”
“Oh, shut up, you ass!”
“Well, I’m only warning you. Hallo; good
morning, Miss Norris. I was just telling the
Major what was going to happen to you and
him this morning. Do you want any assistance,
or do you prefer choosing your own breakfast?”
“Please don’t get up,” said Miss Norris.
“I’ll help myself. Good morning, Major.”
She smiled pleasantly at him. The Major nodded.
“Good morning. Going to be hot.”
“As I was telling him,” began Bill, “that’s
where—Hallo, here’s Betty. Morning, Cayley.”
Betty Calladine and Cayley had come in together.
Betty was the eighteen-year-old daughter of
Mrs. John Calladine, widow of the painter,
who was acting hostess on this occasion for
Mark. Ruth Norris took herself seriously as
an actress and, on her holidays, seriously
as a golfer. She was quite competent as either.
Neither the Stage Society nor Sandwich had
any terrors for her.
“By the way, the car will be round at 10.30,”
said Cayley, looking up from his letters.
“You’re lunching there, and driving back
directly afterwards. Isn’t that right?”
“I don’t see why we shouldn’t have—two
rounds,” said Bill hopefully.
“Much too hot in the afternoon,” said
the Major. “Get back comfortably for tea.”
Mark came in. He was generally the last. He
greeted them and sat down to toast and tea.
Breakfast was not his meal. The others chattered
gently while he read his letters.
“Good God!” said Mark suddenly.
There was an instinctive turning of heads
towards him. “I beg your pardon, Miss Norris.
Sorry, Betty.”
Miss Norris smiled her forgiveness. She often
wanted to say it herself, particularly at
rehearsals.
“I say, Cay!” He was frowning to himself—annoyed,
puzzled. He held up a letter and shook it.
“Who do you think this is from?”
Cayley, at the other end of the table, shrugged
his shoulders. How could he possibly guess?
“Robert,” said Mark.
“Robert?” It was difficult to surprise
Cayley. “Well?”
“It’s all very well to say ‘well?’
like that,” said Mark peevishly. “He’s
coming here this afternoon.”
“I thought he was in Australia, or somewhere.”
“Of course. So did I.” He looked across
at Rumbold. “Got any brothers, Major?”
“No.”
“Well, take my advice, and don’t have
any.”
“Not likely to now,” said the Major.
Bill laughed. Miss Norris said politely: “But
you haven’t any brothers, Mr. Ablett?”
“One,” said Mark grimly. “If you’re
back in time you’ll see him this afternoon.
He’ll probably ask you to lend him five
pounds. Don’t.”
Everybody felt a little uncomfortable.
“I’ve got a brother,” said Bill helpfully,
“but I always borrow from him.”
“Like Robert,” said Mark.
“When was he in England last?” asked Cayley.
“About fifteen years ago, wasn’t it? You’d
have been a boy, of course.”
“Yes, I remember seeing him once about then,
but I didn’t know if he had been back since.”
“No. Not to my knowledge.” Mark, still
obviously upset, returned to his letter.
“Personally,” said Bill, “I think relations
are a great mistake.”
“All the same,” said Betty a little daringly,
“it must be rather fun having a skeleton
in the cupboard.”
Mark looked up, frowning.
“If you think it’s fun, I’ll hand him
over to you, Betty. If he’s anything like
he used to be, and like his few letters have
been—well, Cay knows.”
Cayley grunted.
“All I knew was that one didn’t ask questions
about him.”
It may have been meant as a hint to any too
curious guest not to ask more questions, or
a reminder to his host not to talk too freely
in front of strangers, although he gave it
the sound of a mere statement of fact. But
the subject dropped, to be succeeded by the
more fascinating one of the coming foursome.
Mrs. Calladine was driving over with the players
in order to lunch with an old friend who lived
near the links, and Mark and Cayley were remaining
at home—on affairs. Apparently “affairs”
were now to include a prodigal brother. But
that need not make the foursome less enjoyable.
At about the time when the Major (for whatever
reasons) was fluffing his tee-shot at the
sixteenth, and Mark and his cousin were at
their business at the Red House, an attractive
gentleman of the name of Antony Gillingham
was handing up his ticket at Woodham station
and asking the way to the village. Having
received directions, he left his bag with
the station-master and walked off leisurely.
He is an important person to this story, so
that it is as well we should know something
about him before letting him loose in it.
Let us stop him at the top of the hill on
some excuse, and have a good look at him.
The first thing we realize is that he is doing
more of the looking than we are. Above a clean-cut,
clean-shaven face, of the type usually associated
with the Navy, he carries a pair of grey eyes
which seem to be absorbing every detail of
our person. To strangers this look is almost
alarming at first, until they discover that
his mind is very often elsewhere; that he
has, so to speak, left his eyes on guard,
while he himself follows a train of thought
in another direction. Many people do this,
of course; when, for instance, they are talking
to one person and trying to listen to another;
but their eyes betray them. Antony’s never
did.
He had seen a good deal of the world with
those eyes, though never as a sailor. When
at the age of twenty-one he came into his
mother’s money, 400 pounds a year, old Gillingham
looked up from the “Stockbreeders’ Gazette”
to ask what he was going to do.
“See the world,” said Antony.
“Well, send me a line from America, or wherever
you get to.”
“Right,” said Antony.
Old Gillingham returned to his paper. Antony
was a younger son, and, on the whole, not
so interesting to his father as the cadets
of certain other families; Champion Birket’s,
for instance. But, then, Champion Birket was
the best Hereford bull he had ever bred.
Antony, however, had no intention of going
further away than London. His idea of seeing
the world was to see, not countries, but people;
and to see them from as many angles as possible.
There are all sorts in London if you know
how to look at them. So Antony looked at them—from
various strange corners; from the view-point
of the valet, the newspaper-reporter, the
waiter, the shop-assistant. With the independence
of 400 pounds a year behind him, he enjoyed
it immensely. He never stayed long in one
job, and generally closed his connection with
it by telling his employer (contrary to all
etiquette as understood between master and
servant) exactly what he thought of him. He
had no difficulty in finding a new profession.
Instead of experience and testimonials he
offered his personality and a sporting bet.
He would take no wages the first month, and—if
he satisfied his employer—double wages the
second. He always got his double wages.
He was now thirty. He had come to Waldheim
for a holiday, because he liked the look of
the station. His ticket entitled him to travel
further, but he had always intended to please
himself in the matter. Waldheim attracted
him, and he had a suit-case in the carriage
with him and money in his pocket. Why not
get out?
The landlady of ‘The George’ was only
too glad to put him up, and promised that
her husband would drive over that afternoon
for his luggage.
“And you would like some lunch, I expect,
sir.”
“Yes, but don’t give yourself any trouble
about it. Cold anything-you’ve-got.”
“What about beef, sir?” she asked, as
if she had a hundred varieties of meat to
select from, and was offering him her best.
“That will do splendidly. And a pint of
beer.”
While he was finishing his lunch, the landlord
came in to ask about the luggage. Antony ordered
another pint, and soon had him talking.
“It must be rather fun to keep a country
inn,” he said, thinking that it was about
time he started another profession.
“I don’t know about fun, sir. It gives
us a living, and a bit over.”
“You ought to take a holiday,” said Antony,
looking at him thoughtfully.
“Funny thing your saying that,” said the
landlord, with a smile. “Another gentleman,
over from the Red House, was saying that only
yesterday. Offered to take my place ‘n all.”
He laughed rumblingly.
“The Red House? Not the Red House, Stanton?”
“That’s right, sir. Stanton’s the next
station to Waldheim. The Red House is about
a mile from here—Mr. Ablett’s.”
Antony took a letter from his pocket. It was
addressed from “The Red House, Stanton,”
and signed “Bill.”
“Good old Bill,” he murmured to himself.
“He’s getting on.”
Antony had met Bill Beverley two years before
in a tobacconist’s shop. Gillingham was
on one side of the counter and Mr. Beverley
on the other. Something about Bill, his youth
and freshness, perhaps, attracted Antony;
and when cigarettes had been ordered, and
an address given to which they were to be
sent, he remembered that he had come across
an aunt of Beverley’s once at a country-house.
Beverley and he met again a little later at
a restaurant. Both of them were in evening-dress,
but they did different things with their napkins,
and Antony was the more polite of the two.
However, he still liked Bill. So on one of
his holidays, when he was unemployed, he arranged
an introduction through a mutual friend. Beverley
was a little inclined to be shocked when he
was reminded of their previous meetings, but
his uncomfortable feeling soon wore off, and
he and Antony quickly became intimate. But
Bill generally addressed him as “Dear Madman”
when he happened to write.
Antony decided to stroll over to the Red House
after lunch and call upon his friend. Having
inspected his bedroom which was not quite
the lavender-smelling country-inn bedroom
of fiction, but sufficiently clean and comfortable,
he set out over the fields.
As he came down the drive and approached the
old red-brick front of the house, there was
a lazy murmur of bees in the flower-borders,
a gentle cooing of pigeons in the tops of
the elms, and from distant lawns the whir
of a mowing-machine, that most restful of
all country sounds....
And in the hall a man was banging at a locked
door, and shouting, “Open the door, I say;
open the door!”
“Hallo!” said Antony in amazement.
CHAPTER III. Two Men and a Body
Cayley looked round suddenly at the voice.
“Can I help?” said Antony politely.
“Something’s happened,” said Cayley.
He was breathing quickly. “I heard a shot—it
sounded like a shot—I was in the library.
A loud bang—I didn’t know what it was.
And the door’s locked.” He rattled the
handle again, and shook it. “Open the door!”
he cried. “I say, Mark, what is it? Open
the door!”
“But he must have locked the door on purpose,”
said Antony. “So why should he open it just
because you ask him to?”
Cayley looked at him in a bewildered way.
Then he turned to the door again. “We must
break it in,” he said, putting his shoulder
to it. “Help me.”
“Isn’t there a window?”
Cayley turned to him stupidly.
“Window? Window?”
“So much easier to break in a window,”
said Antony with a smile. He looked very cool
and collected, as he stood just inside the
hall, leaning on his stick, and thinking,
no doubt, that a great deal of fuss was being
made about nothing. But then, he had not heard
the shot.
“Window—of course! What an idiot I am.”
He pushed past Antony, and began running out
into the drive. Antony followed him. They
ran along the front of the house, down a path
to the left, and then to the left again over
the grass, Cayley in front, the other close
behind him. Suddenly Cayley looked over his
shoulder and pulled up short.
“Here,” he said.
They had come to the windows of the locked
room, French windows which opened on to the
lawns at the back of the house. But now they
were closed. Antony couldn’t help feeling
a thrill of excitement as he followed Cayley’s
example, and put his face close up to the
glass. For the first time he wondered if there
really had been a revolver shot in this mysterious
room. It had all seemed so absurd and melodramatic
from the other side of the door. But if there
had been one shot, why should there not be
two more?—at the careless fools who were
pressing their noses against the panes, and
asking for it.
“My God, can you see it?” said Cayley
in a shaking voice. “Down there. Look!”
The next moment Antony saw it. A man was lying
on the floor at the far end of the room, his
back towards them. A man? Or the body of a
man?
“Who is it?” said Antony.
“I don’t know,” the other whispered.
“Well, we’d better go and see.” He considered
the windows for a moment. “I should think,
if you put your weight into it, just where
they join, they’ll give all right. Otherwise,
we can kick the glass in.”
Without saying anything, Cayley put his weight
into it. The window gave, and they went into
the room. Cayley walked quickly to the body,
and dropped on his knees by it. For the moment
he seemed to hesitate; then with an effort
he put a hand on to its shoulder and pulled
it over.
“Thank God!” he murmured, and let the
body go again.
“Who is it?” said Antony.
“Robert Ablett.”
“Oh!” said Antony. “I thought his name
was Mark,” he added, more to himself than
to the other.
“Yes, Mark Ablett lives here. Robert is
his brother.” He shuddered, and said, “I
was afraid it was Mark.”
“Was Mark in the room too?”
“Yes,” said Cayley absently. Then, as
if resenting suddenly these questions from
a stranger, “Who are you?”
But Antony had gone to the locked door, and
was turning the handle. “I suppose he put
the key in his pocket,” he said, as he came
back to the body again.
“Who?”
Antony shrugged his shoulders.
“Whoever did this,” he said, pointing
to the man on the floor. “Is he dead?”
“Help me,” said Cayley simply.
They turned the body on to its back, nerving
themselves to look at it. Robert Ablett had
been shot between the eyes. It was not a pleasant
sight, and with his horror Antony felt a sudden
pity for the man beside him, and a sudden
remorse for the careless, easy way in which
he had treated the affair. But then one always
went about imagining that these things didn’t
happen—except to other people. It was difficult
to believe in them just at first, when they
happened to yourself.
“Did you know him well?” said Antony quietly.
He meant, “Were you fond of him?”
“Hardly at all. Mark is my cousin. I mean,
Mark is the brother I know best.”
“Your cousin?”
“Yes.” He hesitated, and then said, “Is
he dead? I suppose he is. Will you—do you
know anything about—about that sort of thing?
Perhaps I’d better get some water.”
There was another door opposite to the locked
one, which led, as Antony was to discover
for himself directly, into a passage from
which opened two more rooms. Cayley stepped
into the passage, and opened the door on the
right. The door from the office, through which
he had gone, remained open. The door, at the
end of the short passage was shut. Antony,
kneeling by the body, followed Cayley with
his eyes, and, after he had disappeared, kept
his eyes on the blank wall of the passage,
but he was not conscious of that at which
he was looking, for his mind was with the
other man, sympathizing with him.
“Not that water is any use to a dead body,”
he said to himself, “but the feeling that
you’re doing something, when there’s obviously
nothing to be done, is a great comfort.”
Cayley came into the room again. He had a
sponge in one hand, a handkerchief in the
other. He looked at Antony. Antony nodded.
Cayley murmured something, and knelt down
to bathe the dead man’s face. Then he placed
the handkerchief over it. A little sigh escaped
Antony, a sigh of relief.
They stood up and looked at each other.
“If I can be of any help to you,” said
Antony, “please let me.”
“That’s very kind of you. There will be
things to do. Police, doctors—I don’t
know. But you mustn’t let me trespass on
your kindness. Indeed, I should apologise
for having trespassed so much already.”
“I came to see Beverley. He is an old friend
of mine.”
“He’s out playing golf. He will be back
directly.” Then, as if he had only just
realized it, “They will all be back directly.”
“I will stay if I can be of any help.”
“Please do. You see, there are women. It
will be rather painful. If you would—”
He hesitated, and gave Antony a timid little
smile, pathetic in so big and self-reliant
a man. “Just your moral support, you know.
It would be something.”
“Of course.” Antony smiled back at him,
and said cheerfully, “Well, then, I’ll
begin by suggesting that you should ring up
the police.”
“The police? Y-yes.” He looked doubtfully
at the other. “I suppose—”
Antony spoke frankly.
“Now, look here, Mr.—er—”
“Cayley. I’m Mark Ablett’s cousin. I
live with him.”
“My name’s Gillingham. I’m sorry, I
ought to have told you before. Well now, Mr.
Cayley, we shan’t do any good by pretending.
Here’s a man been shot—well, somebody
shot him.”
“He might have shot himself,” mumbled
Cayley.
“Yes, he might have, but he didn’t. Or
if he did, somebody was in the room at the
time, and that somebody isn’t here now.
And that somebody took a revolver away with
him. Well, the police will want to say a word
about that, won’t they?”
Cayley was silent, looking on the ground.
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking, and
believe me I do sympathize with you, but we
can’t be children about it. If your cousin
Mark Ablett was in the room with this”—he
indicated the body—“this man, then—”
“Who said he was?” said Cayley, jerking
his head up suddenly at Antony.
“You did.”
“I was in the library. Mark went in—he
may have come out again—I know nothing.
Somebody else may have gone in—”
“Yes, yes,” said Antony patiently, as
if to a little child. “You know your cousin;
I don’t. Let’s agree that he had nothing
to do with it. But somebody was in the room
when this man was shot, and—well, the police
will have to know. Don’t you think—”
He looked at the telephone. “Or would you
rather I did it?”
Cayley shrugged his shoulders and went to
the telephone.
“May I—er—look round a bit?” Antony
nodded towards the open door.
“Oh, do. Yes.” He sat down and drew the
telephone towards him. “You must make allowances
for me, Mr. Gillingham. You see, I’ve known
Mark for a very long time. But, of course,
you’re quite right, and I’m merely being
stupid.” He took off the receiver.
Let us suppose that, for the purpose of making
a first acquaintance with this “office,”
we are coming into it from the hall, through
the door which is now locked, but which, for
our special convenience, has been magically
unlocked for us. As we stand just inside the
door, the length of the room runs right and
left; or, more accurately, to the right only,
for the left-hand wall is almost within our
reach. Immediately opposite to us, across
the breadth of the room (some fifteen feet),
is that other door, by which Cayley went out
and returned a few minutes ago. In the right-hand
wall, thirty feet away from us, are the French
windows. Crossing the room and going out by
the opposite door, we come into a passage,
from which two rooms lead. The one on the
right, into which Cayley went, is less than
half the length of the office, a small, square
room, which has evidently been used some time
or other as a bedroom. The bed is no longer
there, but there is a basin, with hot and
cold taps, in a corner; chairs; a cupboard
or two, and a chest of drawers. The window
faces the same way as the French windows in
the next room; but anybody looking out of
the bedroom window has his view on the immediate
right shut off by the outer wall of the office,
which projects, by reason of its greater length,
fifteen feet further into the lawn.
The room on the other side of the bedroom
is a bathroom. The three rooms together, in
fact, form a sort of private suite; used,
perhaps, during the occupation of the previous
owner, by some invalid, who could not manage
the stairs, but allowed by Mark to fall into
disuse, save for the living-room. At any rate,
he never slept downstairs.
Antony glanced at the bathroom, and then wandered
into the bedroom, the room into which Cayley
had been. The window was open, and he looked
out at the well-kept grass beneath him, and
the peaceful stretch of park beyond; and he
felt very sorry for the owner of it all, who
was now mixed up in so grim a business.
“Cayley thinks he did it,” said Antony
to himself. “That’s obvious. It explains
why he wasted so much time banging on the
door. Why should he try to break a lock when
it’s so much easier to break a window? Of
course he might just have lost his head; on
the other hand, he might—well, he might
have wanted to give his cousin a chance of
getting away. The same about the police, and—oh,
lots of things. Why, for instance, did we
run all the way round the house in order to
get to the windows? Surely there’s a back
way out through the hall. I must have a look
later on.”
Antony, it will be observed, had by no means
lost his head.
There was a step in the passage outside, and
he turned round, to see Cayley in the doorway.
He remained looking at him for a moment, asking
himself a question. It was rather a curious
question. He was asking himself why the door
was open.
Well, not exactly why the door was open; that
could be explained easily enough. But why
had he expected the door to be shut? He did
not remember shutting it, but somehow he was
surprised to see it open now, to see Cayley
through the doorway, just coming into the
room. Something working sub-consciously in
his brain had told him that it was surprising.
Why?
He tucked the matter away in a corner of his
mind for the moment; the answer would come
to him later on. He had a wonderfully retentive
mind. Everything which he saw or heard seemed
to make its corresponding impression somewhere
in his brain; often without his being conscious
of it; and these photographic impressions
were always there ready for him when he wished
to develop them.
Cayley joined him at the window.
“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
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 express what
he wanted to say, other than those the Major
had already used. Betty was leaning across
to Miss Norris and saying, “Who’s killed?”
in an awe-struck voice, and Miss Norris, who
was instinctively looking as tragic as she
looked on the stage when a messenger announced
the death of one of the cast, stopped for
a moment in order to explain. Mrs. Calladine
was quietly mistress of herself.
“We shall be in the way, yes, I quite understand,”
she said; “but we can’t just shake the
dust of the place off our shoes because something
terrible has happened there. I must see Mark,
and we can arrange later what to do. He must
know how very deeply we feel for him. Perhaps
we—” she hesitated.
“The Major and I might be useful anyway,”
said Bill. “Isn’t that what you mean,
Mrs. Calladine?”
“Where is Mark?” said the Major suddenly,
looking hard at Antony.
Antony looked back unwaveringly—and said
nothing.
“I think,” said the Major gently, leaning
over to Mrs. Calladine, “that it would be
better if you took Betty back to London to-night.”
“Very well,” she agreed quietly. “You
will come with us, Ruth?”
“I’ll see you safely there,” said Bill
in a meek voice. He didn’t quite know what
was happening, and, having expected to stay
at the Red House for another week, he had
nowhere to go to in London, but London seemed
to be the place that everyone was going to,
and when he could get Tony alone for a moment,
Tony no doubt would explain.
“Cayley wants you to stay, Bill. You have
to go anyhow, to-morrow, Major Rumbold?”
“Yes. I’ll come with you, Mrs. Calladine.”
“Mr. Cayley would wish me to say again that
you will please not hesitate to give your
own orders, both as regard the car and as
regard any telephoning or telegraphing that
you want done.” He smiled again and added,
“Please forgive me if I seem to have taken
a good deal upon myself, but I just happened
to be handy as a mouthpiece for Cayley.”
He bowed to them and went into the house.
“Well!” said Miss Norris dramatically.
As Antony re-entered the hall, the Inspector
from Middleston was just crossing into the
library with Cayley. The latter stopped and
nodded to Antony.
“Wait a moment, Inspector. Here’s Mr.
Gillingham. He’d better come with us.”
And then to Antony, “This is Inspector Birch.”
Birch looked inquiringly from one to the other.
“Mr. Gillingham and I found the body together,”
explained Cayley.
“Oh! Well, come along, and let’s get the
facts sorted out a bit. I like to know where
I am, Mr. Gillingham.”
“We all do.”
“Oh!” He looked at Antony with interest.
“D’you know where you are in this case?”
“I know where I’m going to be.”
“Where’s that?”
“Put through it by Inspector Birch,” said
Antony with a smile.
The inspector laughed genially.
“Well, I’ll spare you as much as I can.
Come along.”
They went into the library. The inspector
seated himself at a writing-table, and Cayley
sat in a chair by the side of it. Antony made
himself comfortable in an armchair and prepared
to be interested.
“We’ll start with the dead man,” said
the Inspector. “Robert Ablett, didn’t
you say?” He took out his notebook.
“Yes. Brother of Mark Ablett, who lives
here.”
“Ah!” He began to sharpen a pencil. “Staying
in the house?”
“Oh, no!”
Antony listened attentively while Cayley explained
all that he knew about Robert. This was news
to him. “I see. Sent out of the country
in disgrace. What had he done?”
“I hardly know. I was only about twelve
at the time. The sort of age when you’re
told not to ask questions.”
“Inconvenient questions?”
“Exactly.”
“So you don’t really know whether he had
been merely wild or—or wicked?”
“No. Old Mr. Ablett was a clergyman,”
added Cayley. “Perhaps what might seem wicked
to a clergyman might seem only wild to a man
of the world.”
“I daresay, Mr. Cayley,” smiled the Inspector.
“Anyhow, it was more convenient to have
him in Australia?”
“Yes.”
“Mark Ablett never talked about him?”
“Hardly ever. He was very much ashamed of
him, and—well, very glad he was in Australia.”
“Did he write Mark sometimes?”
“Occasionally. Perhaps three or four times
in the last five years.”
“Asking for money?”
“Something of the sort. I don’t think
Mark always answered them. As far as I know,
he never sent any money.”
“Now your own private opinion, Mr. Cayley.
Do you think that Mark was unfair to his brother?
Unduly hard on him?”
“They’d never liked each other as boys.
There was never any affection between them.
I don’t know whose fault it was in the first
place—if anybody’s.”
“Still, Mark might have given him a hand?”
“I understand,” said Cayley, “that Robert
spent his whole life asking for hands.”
The inspector nodded.
“I know that sort. Well, now, we’ll go
on to this morning. This letter that Mark
got—did you see it?”
“Not at the time. He showed it to me afterwards.”
“Any address?”
“No. A half-sheet of rather dirty paper.”
“Where is it now?”
“I don’t know. In Mark’s pocket, I expect.”
“Ah!” He pulled at his beard. “Well,
we’ll come to that. Can you remember what
it said?”
“As far as I remember, something like this:
‘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.’”
“Ah!” The inspector copied it down carefully.
“Did you notice the postmark?”
“London.”
“And what was Mark’s attitude?”
“Annoyance, disgust—” Cayley hesitated.
“Apprehension?”
“N-no, not exactly. Or, rather, apprehension
of an unpleasant interview, not of any unpleasant
outcome for himself.”
“You mean that he wasn’t afraid of violence,
or blackmail, or anything of that sort?”
“He didn’t appear to be.”
“Right.... Now then, he arrived, you say,
about three o’clock?”
“Yes, about that.”
“Who was in the house then?”
“Mark and myself, and some of the servants.
I don’t know which. Of course, you will
ask them directly, no doubt.”
“With your permission. No guests?”
“They were out all day playing golf,”
explained Cayley. “Oh, by the way,” he
put in, “if I may interrupt a moment, will
you want to see them at all? It isn’t very
pleasant for them now, naturally, and I suggested—”
he turned to Antony, who nodded back to him.
“I understand that they want to go back
to London this evening. There’s no objection
to that, I suppose?”
“You will let me have their names and addresses
in case I want to communicate with them?”
“Of course. One of them is staying on, if
you would like to see him later, but they
only came back from their golf as we crossed
the hall.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Cayley. Well, now
then, let’s go back to three o’clock.
Where were you when Robert arrived?”
Cayley explained how he had been sitting in
the hall, how Audrey had asked him where the
master was, and how he had said that he had
last seen him going up to the Temple.
“She went away, and I went on with my book.
There was a step on the stairs, and I looked
up to see Mark coming down. He went into the
office, and I went on with my book again.
I went into the library for a moment, to refer
to another book, and when I was in there I
heard a shot. At least, it was a loud bang,
I wasn’t sure if it was a shot. I stood
and listened. Then I came slowly to the door
and looked out. Then I went back again, hesitated
a bit, you know, and finally decided to go
across to the office, and make sure that it
was all right. I turned the handle of the
door and found it was locked. Then I got frightened,
and I banged at the door, and shouted, and—well,
that was when Mr. Gillingham arrived.” He
went on to explain how they had found the
body.
The inspector looked at him with a smile.
“Yes, well, we shall have to go over some
of that again, Mr. Cayley. Mr. Mark, now.
You thought he was in the Temple. Could he
have come in, and gone up to his room, without
your seeing him?”
“There are back stairs. He wouldn’t have
used them in the ordinary way, of course.
But I wasn’t in the hall all the afternoon.
He might easily have gone upstairs without
my knowing anything about it.”
“So that you weren’t surprised when you
saw him coming down?”
“Oh, not a bit.”
“Well, did he say anything?”
“He said, ‘Robert’s here?’ or something
of the sort. I suppose he’d heard the bell,
or the voices in the hall.”
“Which way does his bedroom face? Could
he have seen him coming down the drive?”
“He might have, yes.”
“Well?”
“Well, then, I said ‘Yes,’ and he gave
a sort of shrug, and said, ‘Don’t go too
far away, I might want you’; and then went
in.”
“What did you think he meant by that?”
“Well, he consults me a good deal, you know.
I’m his sort of unofficial solicitor in
a kind of way.”
“This was a business meeting rather than
a brotherly one?”
“Oh, yes. That’s how he regarded it, I’m
sure.”
“Yes. How long was it before you heard the
shot?”
“Very soon. Two minutes, perhaps.”
The inspector finished his writing, and then
regarded Cayley thoughtfully. Suddenly he
said:
“What is your theory of Robert’s death?”
Cayley shrugged his shoulders.
“You’ve probably seen more than I’ve
seen,” he answered. “It’s your job.
I can only speak as a layman—and Mark’s
friend.”
“Well?”
“Then I should say that Robert came here
meaning trouble, and bringing a revolver with
him. He produced it almost at once, Mark tried
to get it from him, there was a little struggle
perhaps, and it went off. Mark lost his head,
finding himself there with a revolver in his
hand and a dead man at his feet. His one idea
was to escape. He locked the door almost instinctively,
and then, when he heard me hammering at it,
went out of the window.”
“Y-yes. Well, that sounds reasonable enough.
What do you say, Mr. Gillingham?”
“I should hardly call it ‘reasonable’
to lose your head,” said Antony, getting
up from his chair and coming towards them.
“Well, you know what I mean. It explains
things.”
“Oh, yes. Any other explanation would make
them much more complicated.”
“Have you any other explanation?”
“Not I.”
“Are there any points on which you would
like to correct Mr. Cayley?—anything that
he left out after you arrived here?”
“No, thanks. He described it all very accurately.”
“Ah! Well now, about yourself. You’re
not staying in the house, I gather?”
Antony explained his previous movements.
“Yes. Did you hear the shot?”
Antony put his head on one side, as if listening.
“Yes. Just as I came in sight of the house.
It didn’t make any impression at the time,
but I remember it now.”
“Where were you then?”
“Coming up the drive. I was just in sight
of the house.”
“Nobody left the house by the front door
after the shot?”
Antony closed his eyes and considered.
“Nobody,” he said. “No.”
“You’re certain of that?”
“Absolutely,” said Antony, as though rather
surprised that he could be suspected of a
mistake.
“Thank you. You’re at ‘The George,’
if I want you?”
“Mr. Gillingham is staying here until after
the inquest,” explained Cayley.
“Good. Well now, about
these servants?”
CHAPTER V. Mr. Gillingham Chooses a New Profession
As Cayley went over to the bell, Antony got
up and moved to the door.
“Well, you won’t want me, I suppose, inspector,”
he said.
“No, thank you, Mr. Gillingham. You’ll
be about, of course?”
“Oh, yes.”
The inspector hesitated.
“I think, Mr. Cayley, it would be better
if I saw the servants alone. You know what
they are; the more people about, the more
they get alarmed. I expect I can get at the
truth better by myself.”
“Oh, quite so. In fact, I was going to ask
you to excuse me. I feel rather responsible
towards these guests of ours. Although Mr.
Gillingham very kindly—” He smiled at
Antony, who was waiting at the door, and left
his sentence unfinished.
“Ah, that reminds me,” said the Inspector.
“Didn’t you say that one of your guests—Mr.
Beverley was it?—a friend of Mr. Gillingham’s,
was staying on?”
“Yes; would you like to see him?”
“Afterwards, if I may.”
“I’ll warn him. I shall be up in my room,
if you want me. I have a room upstairs where
I work—any of the servants will show you.
Ah, Stevens, Inspector Birch would like to
ask you a few questions.”
“Yes, sir,” said Audrey primly, but inwardly
fluttering. The housekeeper’s room had heard
something of the news by this time, and Audrey
had had a busy time explaining to other members
of the staff exactly what he had said, and
what she had said. The details were not quite
established yet, but this much at least was
certain: that Mr. Mark’s brother had shot
himself and spirited Mr. Mark away, and that
Audrey had seen at once that he was that sort
of man when she opened the door to him. She
had passed the remark to Mrs. Stevens. And
Mrs. Stevens—if you remember, Audrey—had
always said that people didn’t go away to
Australia except for very good reasons. Elsie
agreed with both of them, but she had a contribution
of her own to make. She had actually heard
Mr. Mark in the office, threatening his brother.
“You mean Mr. Robert,” said the second
parlour-maid. She had been having a little
nap in her room, but she had heard the bang.
In fact, it had woken her up—just like something
going off, it was.
“It was Mr. Mark’s voice,” said Elsie
firmly.
“Pleading for mercy,” said an eager-eyed
kitchen-maid hopefully from the door, and
was hurried out again by the others, wishing
that she had not given her presence away.
But it was hard to listen in silence when
she knew so well from her novelettes just
what happened on these occasions.
“I shall have to give that girl a piece
of my mind,” said Mrs. Stevens. “Well,
Elsie?”
“He said, I heard him say it with my own
ears, ‘It’s my turn now,’ he said, triumphant-like.”
“Well, if you think that’s a threat, dear,
you’re very particular, I must say.”
But Audrey remembered Elsie’s words when
she was in front of Inspector Birch. She gave
her own evidence with the readiness of one
who had already repeated it several times,
and was examined and cross-examined by the
Inspector with considerable skill. The temptation
to say, “Never mind about what you said
to him,” was strong, but he resisted it,
knowing that in this way he would discover
best what he said to her. By this time both
his words and the looks he gave her were getting
their full value from Audrey, but the general
meaning of them seemed to be well-established.
“Then you didn’t see Mr. Mark at all.”
“No, sir; he must have come in before and
gone up to his room. Or come in by the front
door, likely enough, while I was going out
by the back.”
“Yes. Well, I think that’s all that I
want to know, thank you very much. Now what
about the other servants?”
“Elsie heard the master and Mr. Robert talking
together,” said Audrey eagerly. “He was
saying—Mr. Mark, I mean—”
“Ah! Well, I think Elsie had better tell
me that herself. Who is Elsie, by the way?”
“One of the housemaids. Shall I send her
to you, sir?”
“Please.”
Elsie was not sorry to get the message. It
interrupted a few remarks from Mrs. Stevens
about Elsie’s conduct that afternoon which
were (Elsie thought) much better interrupted.
In Mrs. Stevens’ opinion any crime committed
that afternoon in the office was as nothing
to the double crime committed by the unhappy
Elsie.
For Elsie realized too late that she would
have done better to have said nothing about
her presence in the hall that afternoon. She
was bad at concealing the truth and Mrs. Stevens
was good at discovering it. Elsie knew perfectly
well that she had no business to come down
the front stairs, and it was no excuse to
say that she happened to come out of Miss
Norris’ room just at the head of the stairs,
and didn’t think it would matter, as there
was nobody in the hall, and what was she doing
anyhow in Miss Norris’ room at that time?
Returning a magazine? Lent by Miss Norris,
might she ask? Well, not exactly lent. Really,
Elsie!—and this in a respectable house!
In vain for poor Elsie to plead that a story
by her favourite author was advertised on
the cover, with a picture of the villain falling
over the cliff. “That’s where you’ll
go to, my girl, if you aren’t careful,”
said Mrs. Stevens firmly.
But, of course, there was no need to confess
all these crimes to Inspector Birch. All that
interested him was that she was passing through
the hall, and heard voices in the office.
“And stopped to listen?”
“Certainly not,” said Elsie with dignity,
feeling that nobody really understood her.
“I was just passing through the hall, just
as you might have been yourself, and not supposing
they was talking secrets, didn’t think to
stop my ears, as no doubt I ought to have
done.” And she sniffed slightly.
“Come, come,” said the Inspector soothingly,
“I didn’t mean to suggest—”
“Everyone is very unkind to me,” said
Elsie between sniffs, “and there’s that
poor man lying dead there, and sorry they’d
have been, if it had been me, to have spoken
to me as they have done this day.”
“Nonsense, we’re going to be very proud
of you. I shouldn’t be surprised if your
evidence were of very great importance. Now
then, what was it you heard? Try to remember
the exact words.”
Something about working in a passage, thought
Elsie.
“Yes, but who said it?”
“Mr. Robert.”
“How do you know it was Mr. Robert? Had
you heard his voice before?”
“I don’t take it upon myself to say that
I had had any acquaintance with Mr. Robert,
but seeing that it wasn’t Mr. Mark, nor
yet Mr. Cayley, nor any other of the gentlemen,
and Miss Stevens had shown Mr. Robert into
the office not five minutes before—”
“Quite so,” said the Inspector hurriedly.
“Mr. Robert, undoubtedly. Working in a passage?”
“That was what it sounded like, sir.”
“H’m. Working a passage over—could that
have been it?”
“That’s right, sir,” said Elsie eagerly.
“He’d worked his passage over.”
“Well?”
“And then Mr. Mark said loudly—sort of
triumphant-like—‘It’s my turn now. You
wait.’”
“Triumphantly?”
“As much as to say his chance had come.”
“And that’s all you heard?”
“That’s all, sir—not standing there
listening, but just passing through the hall,
as it might be any time.”
“Yes. Well, that’s really very important,
Elsie. Thank you.”
Elsie gave him a smile, and returned eagerly
to the kitchen. She was ready for Mrs. Stevens
or anybody now.
Meanwhile Antony had been exploring a little
on his own. There was a point which was puzzling
him. He went through the hall to the front
of the house and stood at the open door, looking
out on to the drive. He and Cayley had run
round the house to the left. Surely it would
have been quicker to have run round to the
right? The front door was not in the middle
of the house, it was to the end. Undoubtedly
they went the longest way round. But perhaps
there was something in the way, if one went
to the right—a wall, say. He strolled off
in that direction, followed a path round the
house and came in sight of the office windows.
Quite simple, and about half the distance
of the other way. He went on a little farther,
and came to a door, just beyond the broken-in
windows. It opened easily, and he found himself
in a passage. At the end of the passage was
another door. He opened it and found himself
in the hall again.
“And, of course, that’s the quickest way
of the three,” he said to himself. “Through
the hall, and out at the back; turn to the
left and there you are. Instead of which,
we ran the longest way round the house. Why?
Was it to give Mark more time in which to
escape? Only, in that case—why run? Also,
how did Cayley know then that it was Mark
who was trying to escape? If he had guessed—well,
not guessed, but been afraid—that one had
shot the other, it was much more likely that
Robert had shot Mark. Indeed, he had admitted
that this was what he thought. The first thing
he had said when he turned the body over was,
‘Thank God! I was afraid it was Mark.’
But why should he want to give Robert time
in which to get away? And again—why run,
if he did want to give him time?”
Antony went out of the house again to the
lawns at the back, and sat down on a bench
in view of the office windows.
“Now then,” he said, “let’s go through
Cayley’s mind carefully, and see what we
get.”
Cayley had been in the hall when Robert was
shown into the office. The servant goes off
to look for Mark, and Cayley goes on with
his book. Mark comes down the stairs, warns
Cayley to stand by in case he is wanted, and
goes to meet his brother. What does Cayley
expect? Possibly that he won’t be wanted
at all; possibly that his advice may be wanted
in the matter, say, of paying Robert’s debts,
or getting him a passage back to Australia;
possibly that his physical assistance may
be wanted to get an obstreperous Robert out
of the house. Well, he sits there for a moment,
and then goes into the library. Why not? He
is still within reach, if wanted. Suddenly
he hears a pistol-shot. A pistol-shot is the
last noise you expect to hear in a country-house;
very natural, then, that for the moment he
would hardly realize what it was. He listens—and
hears nothing more. Perhaps it wasn’t a
pistol-shot after all. After a moment or two
he goes to the library door again. The profound
silence makes him uneasy now. Was it a pistol-shot?
Absurd! Still—no harm in going into the
office on some excuse, just to reassure himself.
So he tries the door—and finds it locked!
What are his emotions now? Alarm, uncertainty.
Something is happening. Incredible though
it seems, it must have been a pistol-shot.
He is banging at the door and calling out
to Mark, and there is no answer. Alarm—yes.
But alarm for whose safety? Mark’s, obviously.
Robert is a stranger; Mark is an intimate
friend. Robert has written a letter that morning,
the letter of a man in a dangerous temper.
Robert is the tough customer; Mark the highly
civilized gentleman. If there has been a quarrel,
it is Robert who has shot Mark. He bangs at
the door again.
Of course, to Antony, coming suddenly upon
this scene, Cayley’s conduct had seemed
rather absurd, but then, just for the moment,
Cayley had lost his head. Anybody else might
have done the same. But, as soon as Antony
suggested trying the windows, Cayley saw that
that was the obvious thing to do. So he leads
the way to the windows—the longest way.
Why? To give the murderer time to escape?
If he had thought then that Mark was the murderer,
perhaps, yes. But he thinks that Robert is
the murderer. If he is not hiding anything,
he must think so. Indeed he says so, when
he sees the body; “I was afraid it was Mark,”
he says, when he finds that it is Robert who
is killed. No reason, then, for wishing to
gain time. On the contrary, every instinct
would urge him to get into the room as quickly
as possible, and seize the wicked Robert.
Yet he goes the longest way round. Why? And
then, why run?
“That’s the question,” said Antony to
himself, as he filled his pipe, “and bless
me if I know the answer. It may be, of course,
that Cayley is just a coward. He was in no
hurry to get close to Robert’s revolver,
and yet wanted me to think that he was bursting
with eagerness. That would explain it, but
then that makes Cayley out a coward. Is he?
At any rate he pushed his face up against
the window bravely enough. No, I want a better
answer than that.”
He sat there with his unlit pipe in his hand,
thinking. There were one or two other things
in the back of his brain, waiting to be taken
out and looked at. For the moment he left
them undisturbed. They would come back to
him later when he wanted them.
He laughed suddenly, and lit his pipe.
“I was wanting a new profession,” he thought,
“and now I’ve found it. Antony Gillingham,
our own private sleuthhound. I shall begin
to-day.”
Whatever Antony Gillingham’s other qualifications
for his new profession, he had at any rate
a brain which worked clearly and quickly.
And this clear brain of his had already told
him that he was the only person in the house
at that moment who was unhandicapped in the
search for truth. The inspector had arrived
in it to find a man dead and a man missing.
It was extremely probable, no doubt, that
the missing man had shot the dead man. But
it was more than extremely probable, it was
almost certain that the Inspector would start
with the idea that this extremely probable
solution was the one true solution, and that,
in consequence, he would be less disposed
to consider without prejudice any other solution.
As regards all the rest of them—Cayley,
the guests, the servants—they also were
prejudiced; in favour of Mark (or possibly,
for all he knew, against Mark); in favour
of, or against, each other; they had formed
some previous opinion, from what had been
said that morning, of the sort of man Robert
was. No one of them could consider the matter
with an unbiased mind.
But Antony could. He knew nothing about Mark;
he knew nothing about Robert. He had seen
the dead man before he was told who the dead
man was. He knew that a tragedy had happened
before he knew that anybody was missing. Those
first impressions, which are so vitally important,
had been received solely on the merits of
the case; they were founded on the evidence
of his senses, not on the evidence of his
emotions or of other people’s senses. He
was in a much better position for getting
at the truth than was the Inspector.
It is possible that, in thinking this, Antony
was doing Inspector Birch a slight injustice.
Birch was certainly prepared to believe that
Mark had shot his brother. Robert had been
shown into the office (witness Audrey); Mark
had gone in to Robert (witness Cayley); Mark
and Robert had been heard talking (witness
Elsie); there was a shot (witness everybody);
the room had been entered and Robert’s body
had been found (witness Cayley and Gillingham).
And Mark was missing. Obviously, then, Mark
had killed his brother: accidentally, as Cayley
believed, or deliberately, as Elsie’s evidence
seemed to suggest. There was no point in looking
for a difficult solution to a problem, when
the easy solution had no flaw in it. But at
the same time Birch would have preferred the
difficult solution, simply because there was
more credit attached to it. A “sensational”
arrest of somebody in the house would have
given him more pleasure than a commonplace
pursuit of Mark Ablett across country. Mark
must be found, guilty or not guilty. But there
were other possibilities. It would have interested
Antony to know that, just at the time when
he was feeling rather superior to the prejudiced
inspector, the Inspector himself was letting
his mind dwell lovingly upon the possibilities
in connection with Mr. Gillingham. Was it
only a coincidence that Mr. Gillingham had
turned up just when he did? And Mr. Beverley’s
curious answers when asked for some account
of his friend. An assistant in a tobacconist’s,
a waiter! An odd man, Mr. Gillingham, evidently.
It might be as well to keep an eye on him.
CHAPTER VI. Outside Or Inside?
The guests had said good-bye to Cayley, according
to their different manner. The Major, gruff
and simple: “If you want me, command me.
Anything I can do—Good-bye”; Betty, silently
sympathetic, with everything in her large
eyes which she was too much overawed to tell;
Mrs. Calladine, protesting that she did not
know what to say, but apparently finding plenty;
and Miss Norris, crowding so much into one
despairing gesture that Cayley’s unvarying
“Thank you very much” might have been
taken this time as gratitude for an artistic
entertainment.
Bill had seen them into the car, had taken
his own farewells (with a special squeeze
of the hand for Betty), and had wandered out
to join Antony on his garden seat.
“Well, this is a rum show,” said Bill
as he sat down.
“Very rum, William.”
“And you actually walked right into it?”
“Right into it,” said Antony.
“Then you’re the man I want. There are
all sorts of rumours and mysteries about,
and that inspector fellow simply wouldn’t
keep to the point when I wanted to ask him
about the murder, or whatever it is, but kept
asking me questions about where I’d met
you first, and all sorts of dull things like
that. Now, what really happened?”
Antony told him as concisely as he could all
that he had already told the Inspector, Bill
interrupting him here and there with appropriate
“Good Lords” and whistles.
“I say, it’s a bit of a business, isn’t
it? Where do I come in, exactly?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, everybody else is bundled off except
me, and I get put through it by that inspector
as if I knew all about it—what’s the idea?”
Antony smiled at him.
“Well, there’s nothing to worry about,
you know. Naturally Birch wanted to see one
of you so as to know what you’d all been
doing all day. And Cayley was nice enough
to think that you’d be company for me, as
I knew you already. And well, that’s all.”
“You’re staying here, in the house?”
said Bill eagerly. “Good man. That’s splendid.”
“It reconciles you to the departure of some
of the others?”
Bill blushed.
“Oh, well, I shall see her again next week,
anyway,” he murmured.
“I congratulate you. I liked her looks.
And that grey dress. A nice comfortable sort
of woman.”
“You fool, that’s her mother.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. But anyhow, Bill,
I want you more than she does just now. So
try and put up with me.”
“I say, do you really?” said Bill, rather
flattered. He had a great admiration for Antony,
and was very proud to be liked by him.
“Yes. You see, things are going to happen
here soon.”
“Inquests and that sort of thing?”
“Well, perhaps something before that. Hallo,
here comes Cayley.”
Cayley was walking across the lawn towards
them, a big, heavy-shouldered man, with one
of those strong, clean-shaven, ugly faces
which can never quite be called plain. “Bad
luck on Cayley,” said Bill. “I say, ought
I to tell him how sorry I am and all that
sort of thing? It seems so dashed inadequate.”
“I shouldn’t bother,” said Antony.
Cayley nodded as he came to them, and stood
there for a moment.
“We can make room for you,” said Bill,
getting up.
“Oh, don’t bother, thanks. I just came
to say,” he went on to Antony, “that naturally
they’ve rather lost their heads in the kitchen,
and dinner won’t be till half-past eight.
Do just as you like about dressing, of course.
And what about your luggage?”
“I thought Bill and I would walk over to
the inn directly, and see about it.”
“The car can go and fetch it as soon as
it comes back from the station.”
“It’s very good of you, but I shall have
to go over myself, anyhow, to pack up and
pay my bill. Besides, it’s a good evening
for a walk. If you wouldn’t mind it, Bill?”
“I should love it.”
“Well, then, if you leave the bag there,
I’ll send the car round for it later.”
“Thanks very much.”
Having said what he wanted to say, Cayley
remained there a little awkwardly, as if not
sure whether to go or to stay. Antony wondered
whether he wanted to talk about the afternoon’s
happenings, or whether it was the one subject
he wished to avoid. To break the silence he
asked carelessly if the Inspector had gone.
Cayley nodded. Then he said abruptly, “He’s
getting a warrant for Mark’s arrest.”
Bill made a suitably sympathetic noise, and
Antony said with a shrug of the shoulders,
“Well, he was bound to do that, wasn’t
he? It doesn’t follow that—well, it doesn’t
mean anything. They naturally want to get
hold of your cousin, innocent or guilty.”
“Which do you think he is, Mr. Gillingham?”
said Cayley, looking at him steadily.
“Mark? It’s absurd,” said Bill impetuously.
“Bill’s loyal, you see, Mr. Cayley.”
“And you owe no loyalty to anyone concerned?”
“Exactly. So perhaps I might be too frank.”
Bill had dropped down on the grass, and Cayley
took his place on the seat, and sat there
heavily, his elbows on his knees, his chin
on his hands, gazing at the ground.
“I want you to be quite frank,” he said
at last. “Naturally I am prejudiced where
Mark is concerned. So I want to know how my
suggestion strikes you who have no prejudices
either way.”
“Your suggestion?”
“My theory that, if Mark killed his brother,
it was purely accidental as I told the Inspector.”
Bill looked up with interest.
“You mean that Robert did the hold-up business,”
he said, “and there was a bit of a struggle,
and the revolver went off, and then Mark lost
his head and bolted? That sort of idea?”
“Exactly.”
“Well, that seems all right.” He turned
to Antony. “There’s nothing wrong with
that, is there? It’s the most natural explanation
to anyone who knows Mark.”
Antony pulled at his pipe.
“I suppose it is,” he said slowly. “But
there’s one thing that worries me rather.”
“What’s that?” Bill and Cayley asked
the question simultaneously.
“The key.”
“The key?” said Bill.
Cayley lifted his head and looked at Antony.
“What about the key?” he asked.
“Well, there may be nothing in it; I just
wondered. Suppose Robert was killed as you
say, and suppose Mark lost his head and thought
of nothing but getting away before anyone
could see him. Well, very likely he’d lock
the door and put the key in his pocket. He’d
do it without thinking, just to gain a moment’s
time.”
“Yes, that’s what I suggest.”
“It seems sound enough,” said Bill. “Sort
of thing you’d do without thinking. Besides,
if you are going to run away, it gives you
more of a chance.”
“Yes, that’s all right if the key is there.
But suppose it isn’t there?”
The suggestion, made as if it were already
an established fact, startled them both. They
looked at him wonderingly.
“What do you mean?” said Cayley.
“Well, it’s just a question of where people
happen to keep their keys. You go up to your
bedroom, and perhaps you like to lock your
door in case anybody comes wandering in when
you’ve only got one sock and a pair of braces
on. Well, that’s natural enough. And if
you look round the bedrooms of almost any
house, you’ll find the keys all ready, so
that you can lock yourself in at a moment’s
notice. But downstairs people don’t lock
themselves in. It’s really never done at
all. Bill, for instance, has never locked
himself into the dining-room in order to be
alone with the sherry. On the other hand,
all women, and particularly servants, have
a horror of burglars. And if a burglar gets
in by the window, they like to limit his activities
to that particular room. So they keep the
keys on the outside of the doors, and lock
the doors when they go to bed.” He knocked
the ashes out of his pipe, and added, “At
least, my mother always used to.”
“You mean,” said Bill excitedly, “that
the key was on the outside of the door when
Mark went into the room?”
“Well, I was just wondering.”
“Have you noticed the other rooms—the
billiard-room, and library, and so on?”
said Cayley.
“I’ve only just thought about it while
I’ve been sitting out here. You live here—haven’t
you ever noticed them?”
Cayley sat considering, with his head on one
side.
“It seems rather absurd, you know, but I
can’t say that I have.” He turned to Bill.
“Have you?”
“Good Lord, no. I should never worry about
a thing like that.”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t,” laughed Antony.
“Well, we can have a look when we go in.
If the other keys are outside, then this one
was probably outside too, and in that case
well, it makes it more interesting.”
Cayley said nothing. Bill chewed a piece of
grass, and then said, “Does it make much
difference?”
“It makes it more hard to understand what
happened in there. Take your accidental theory
and see where you get to. No instinctive turning
of the key now, is there? He’s got to open
the door to get it, and opening the door means
showing his head to anybody in the hall—his
cousin, for instance, whom he left there two
minutes ago. Is a man in Mark’s state of
mind, frightened to death lest he should be
found with the body, going to do anything
so foolhardy as that?”
“He needn’t have been afraid of me,”
said Cayley.
“Then why didn’t he call for you? He knew
you were about. You could have advised him;
Heaven knows he wanted advice. But the whole
theory of Mark’s escape is that he was afraid
of you and of everybody else, and that he
had no other idea but to get out of the room
himself, and prevent you or the servants from
coming into it. If the key had been on the
inside, he would probably have locked the
door. If it were on the outside, he almost
certainly wouldn’t.”
“Yes, I expect you’re right,” said Bill
thoughtfully. “Unless he took the key in
with him, and locked the door at once.”
“Exactly. But in that case you have to build
up a new theory entirely.”
“You mean that it makes it seem more deliberate?”
“Yes; that, certainly. But it also seems
to make Mark out an absolute idiot. Just suppose
for a moment that, for urgent reasons which
neither of you know anything about, he had
wished to get rid of his brother. Would he
have done it like that? Just killed him and
then run away? Why, that’s practically suicide—suicide
whilst of unsound mind. No. If you really
wanted to remove an undesirable brother, you
would do it a little bit more cleverly than
that. You’d begin by treating him as a friend,
so as to avoid suspicion, and when you did
kill him at last, you would try to make it
look like an accident, or suicide, or the
work of some other man. Wouldn’t you?”
“You mean you’d give yourself a bit of
a run for your money?”
“Yes, that’s what I mean. If you were
going to do it deliberately, that is to say
and lock yourself in before you began.”
Cayley had been silent, apparently thinking
over this new idea. With his eyes still on
the ground, he said now: “I hold to my opinion
that it was purely accidental, and that Mark
lost his head and ran away.”
“But what about the key?” asked Bill.
“We don’t know yet that the keys were
outside. I don’t at all agree with Mr. Gillingham
that the keys of the down-stairs rooms are
always outside the doors. Sometimes they are,
no doubt; but I think we shall probably find
that these are inside.”
“Oh, well, of course, if they are inside,
then your original theory is probably the
correct one. Having often seen them outside,
I just wondered that’s all. You asked me
to be quite frank, you know, and tell you
what I thought. But no doubt you’re right,
and we shall find them inside, as you say.
“Even if the key was outside,” went on
Cayley stubbornly, “I still think it might
have been accidental. He might have taken
it in with him, knowing that the interview
would be an unpleasant one, and not wishing
to be interrupted.”
“But he had just told you to stand by in
case he wanted you; so why should he lock
you out? Besides, I should think that if a
man were going to have an unpleasant interview
with a threatening relation, the last thing
he would do would be to barricade himself
in with him. He would want to open all the
doors and say, ‘Get out of it’”
Cayley was silent, but his mouth looked obstinate.
Antony gave a little apologetic laugh and
stood up.
“Well, come on, Bill,” he said; “we
ought to be stepping.” He held out a hand
and pulled his friend up. Then, turning to
Cayley, he went on, “You must forgive me
if I have let my thoughts run on rather. Of
course, I was considering the matter purely
as an outsider; just as a problem, I mean,
which didn’t concern the happiness of any
of my friends.”
“That’s all right, Mr. Gillingham,”
said Cayley, standing up too. “It is for
you to make allowances for me. I’m sure
you will. You say that you’re going up to
the inn now about your bag?”
“Yes.” He looked up at the sun and then
round the parkland stretching about the house.
“Let me see; it’s over in that direction,
isn’t it?” He pointed southwards. “Can
we get to the village that way, or must we
go by the road?”
“I’ll show you, my boy,” said Bill.
“Bill will show you. The park reaches almost
as far as the village. Then I’ll send the
car round in about half an hour.”
“Thanks very much.”
Cayley nodded and turned to go into the house.
Antony took hold of Bill’s arm and walked
off with him in the opposite direction.
CHAPTER VII. Portrait of a Gentleman
They walked in silence for a little, until
they had left the house and gardens well behind
them. In front of them and to the right the
park dipped and then rose slowly, shutting
out the rest of the world. A thick belt of
trees on the left divided them from the main
road.
“Ever been here before?” said Antony suddenly.
“Oh, rather. Dozens of times.”
“I meant just here where we are now. Or
do you stay indoors and play billiards all
the time?”
“Oh Lord, no!”
“Well, tennis and things. So many people
with beautiful parks never by any chance use
them, and all the poor devils passing by on
the dusty road think how lucky the owners
are to have them, and imagine them doing all
sorts of jolly things inside.” He pointed
to the right. “Ever been over there?”
Bill laughed, as if a little ashamed.
“Well, not very much. I’ve often been
along here, of course, because it’s the
short way to the village.”
“Yes.... All right; now tell me something
about Mark.”
“What sort of things?”
“Well, never mind about his being your host,
or about your being a perfect gentleman, or
anything like that. Cut out the Manners for
Men, and tell me what you think of Mark, and
how you like staying with him, and how many
rows your little house-party has had this
week, and how you get on with Cayley, and
all the rest of it.”
Bill looked at him eagerly.
“I say, are you being the complete detective?”
“Well, I wanted a new profession,” smiled
the other.
“What fun! I mean,” he corrected himself
apologetically, “one oughtn’t to say that,
when there’s a man dead in the house, and
one’s host—” He broke off a little uncertainly,
and then rounded off his period by saying
again, “By Jove, what a rum show it is.
Good Lord!”
“Well?” said Antony. “Carry on, Mark.”
“What do I think of him?”
“Yes.”
Bill was silent, wondering how to put into
words thoughts which had never formed themselves
very definitely in his own mind. What did
he think of Mark? Seeing his hesitation, Antony
said:
“I ought to have warned you that nothing
that you say will be taken down by the reporters,
so you needn’t bother about a split infinitive
or two. Talk about anything you like, how
you like. Well, I’ll give you a start. Which
do you enjoy more, a week-end here or at the
Barrington’s, say?”
“Well; of course, that would depend—”
“Take it that she was there in both cases.”
“Ass,” said Bill, putting an elbow into
Antony’s ribs. “It’s a little difficult
to say,” he went on. “Of course they do
you awfully well here.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think I know any house where
things are so comfortable. One’s room—the
food—drinks—cigars—the way everything’s
arranged: All that sort of thing. They look
after you awfully well.”
“Yes?”
“Yes.” He repeated it slowly to himself,
as if it had given him a new idea: “They
look after you awfully well. Well, that’s
just what it is about Mark. That’s one of
his little ways. Weaknesses. Looking after
you.”
“Arranging things for you?”
“Yes. Of course, it’s a delightful house,
and there’s plenty to do, and opportunities
for every game or sport that’s ever been
invented, and, as I say, one gets awfully
well done; but with it all, Tony, there’s
a faint sort of feeling that well, that one
is on parade, as it were. You’ve got to
do as you’re told.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, Mark fancies himself rather at arranging
things. He arranges things, and it’s understood
that the guests fall in with the arrangement.
For instance, Betty—Miss Calladine—and
I were going to play a single just before
tea, the other day. Tennis. She’s frightfully
hot stuff at tennis, and backed herself to
take me on level. I’m rather erratic, you
know. Mark saw us going out with our rackets
and asked us what we were going to do. Well,
he’d got up a little tournament for us after
tea—handicaps all arranged by him, and everything
ruled out neatly in red and black ink—prizes
and all—quite decent ones, you know. He’d
had the lawn specially cut and marked for
it. Well, of course Betty and I wouldn’t
have spoilt the court, and we’d have been
quite ready to play again after tea—I had
to give her half-fifteen according to his
handicap—but somehow—” Bill stopped
and shrugged his shoulders.
“It didn’t quite fit in?”
“No. It spoilt the effect of his tournament.
Took the edge off it just a little, I suppose
he felt. So we didn’t play.” He laughed,
and added, “It would have been as much as
our place was worth to have played.”
“Do you mean you wouldn’t have been asked
here again?”
“Probably. Well, I don’t know. Not for
some time, anyway.”
“Really, Bill?”
“Oh, rather! He’s a devil for taking offence.
That Miss Norris, did you see her? She’s
done for herself. I don’t mind betting what
you like that she never comes here again.”
“Why?”
Bill laughed to himself.
“We were all in it, really—at least, Betty
and I were. There’s supposed to be a ghost
attached to the house. Lady Anne Patten. Ever
heard of her?”
“Never.”
“Mark told us about her at dinner one night.
He rather liked the idea of there being a
ghost in his house, you know; except that
he doesn’t believe in ghosts. I think he
wanted all of us to believe in her, and yet
he was annoyed with Betty and Mrs. Calladine
for believing in ghosts at all. Rum chap.
Well, anyhow, Miss Norris—she’s an actress,
some actress too—dressed up as the ghost
and played the fool a bit. And poor Mark was
frightened out of his life. Just for a moment,
you know.”
“What about the others?”
“Well, Betty and I knew; in fact, I’d
told her—Miss Norris I mean—not to be
a silly ass. Knowing Mark. Mrs. Calladine
wasn’t there—Betty wouldn’t let her
be. As for the Major, I don’t believe anything
would frighten him.”
“Where did the ghost appear?”
“Down by the bowling-green. That’s supposed
to be its haunt, you know. We were all down
there in the moonlight, pretending to wait
for it. Do you know the bowling-green?”
“No.”
“I’ll show it to you after dinner.”
“I wish you would.... Was Mark very angry
afterwards?”
“Oh, Lord, yes. Sulked for a whole day.
Well, he’s just like that.”
“Was he angry with all of you?”
“Oh, yes sulky, you know.”
“This morning?”
“Oh, no. He got over it—he generally does.
He’s just like a child. That’s really
it, Tony; he’s like a child in some ways.
As a matter of fact, he was unusually bucked
with himself this morning. And yesterday.”
“Yesterday?”
“Rather. We all said we’d never seen him
in such form.”
“Is he generally in form?”
“He’s quite good company, you know, if
you take him the right way. He’s rather
vain and childish well, like I’ve been telling
you and self-important; but quite amusing
in his way, and—” Bill broke off suddenly.
“I say, you know, it really is the limit,
talking about your host like this.”
“Don’t think of him as your host. Think
of him as a suspected murderer with a warrant
out against him.”
“Oh! but that’s all rot, you know.”
“It’s the fact, Bill.”
“Yes, but I mean, he didn’t do it. He
wouldn’t murder anybody. It’s a funny
thing to say, but well, he’s not big enough
for it. He’s got his faults, like all of
us, but they aren’t on that scale.”
“One can kill anybody in a childish fit
of temper.”
Bill grunted assent, but without prejudice
to Mark. “All the same,” he said, “I
can’t believe it. That he would do it deliberately,
I mean.”
“Suppose it was an accident, as Cayley says,
would he lose his head and run away?”
Bill considered for a moment.
“Yes, I really think he might, you know.
He nearly ran away when he saw the ghost.
Of course, that’s different, rather.”
“Oh, I don’t know. In each case it’s
a question of obeying your instinct instead
of your reason.”
They had left the open land and were following
a path through the bordering trees. Two abreast
was uncomfortable, so Antony dropped behind,
and further conversation was postponed until
they were outside the boundary fence and in
the high road. The road sloped gently down
to the village of Waldheim—a few red-roofed
cottages, and the grey tower of a church showing
above the green.
“Well, now,” said Antony, as they stepped
out more quickly, “what about Cayley?”
“How do you mean, what about him?”
“I want to see him. I can see Mark perfectly,
thanks to you, Bill. You were wonderful. Now
let’s have Cayley’s character. Cayley
from within.”
Bill laughed in pleased embarrassment, and
protested that he was not a blooming novelist.
“Besides,” he added, “Mark’s easy.
Cayley’s one of these heavy, quiet people,
who might be thinking about anything. Mark
gives himself away.... Ugly, black-jawed devil,
isn’t he?”
“Some women like that type of ugliness.”
“Yes, that’s true. Between ourselves,
I think there’s one here who does. Rather
a pretty girl at Jallands”—he waved his
left hand—“down that way.”
“What’s Jallands?”
“Well, I suppose it used to be a farm, belonging
to a bloke called Jalland, but now it’s
a country cottage belonging to a widow called
Norbury. Mark and Cayley used to go there
a good deal together. Miss Norbury—the girl—has
been here once or twice for tennis; seemed
to prefer Cayley to the rest of us. But of
course he hadn’t much time for that sort
of thing.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Walking about with a pretty girl and asking
her if she’s been to any theatres lately.
He nearly always had something to do.”
“Mark kept him busy?”
“Yes. Mark never seemed quite happy unless
he had Cayley doing something for him. He
was quite lost and helpless without him. And,
funnily enough, Cayley seemed lost without
Mark.”
“He was fond of him?”
“Yes, I should say so. In a protective kind
of way. He’d sized Mark up, of course his
vanity, his self-importance, his amateurishness
and all the rest of it, but he liked looking
after him. And he knew how to manage him.”
“Yes.... What sort of terms was he on with
the guests—you and Miss Norris and all of
them?”
“Just polite and rather silent, you know.
Keeping himself to himself. We didn’t see
so very much of him, except at meals. We were
here to enjoy ourselves, and well, he wasn’t.”
“He wasn’t there when the ghost walked?”
“No. I heard Mark calling for him when he
went back to the house. I expect Cayley stroked
down his feathers a bit, and told him that
girls will be girls....—Hallo, here we are.”
They went into the inn, and while Bill made
himself pleasant to the landlady, Antony went
upstairs to his room. It appeared that he
had not very much packing to do, after all.
He returned his brushes to his bag, glanced
round to see that nothing else had been taken
out, and went down again to settle his bill.
He had decided to keep on his room for a few
days; partly to save the landlord and his
wife the disappointment of losing a guest
so suddenly, partly in case he found it undesirable
later on to remain at the Red House. For he
was taking himself seriously as a detective;
indeed, he took himself seriously (while getting
all the fun out of it which was possible)
at every new profession he adopted; and he
felt that there might come a time—after
the inquest—say when he could not decently
remain at the Red House as a guest, a friend
of Bill’s, enjoying the hospitality of Mark
or Cayley, whichever was to be regarded as
his host, without forfeiting his independent
attitude towards the events of that afternoon.
At present he was staying in the house merely
as a necessary witness, and, since he was
there, Cayley could not object to him using
his eyes; but if, after the inquest, it appeared
that there was still work for a pair of independent
and very keen eyes to do, then he must investigate,
either with his host’s approval or from
beneath the roof of some other host; the landlord
of ‘The George,’ for instance, who had
no feelings in the matter.
For of one thing Antony was certain. Cayley
knew more than he professed to know. That
is to say, he knew more than he wanted other
people to know he knew. Antony was one of
the “other people”; if, therefore, he
was for trying to find out what it was that
Cayley knew, he could hardly expect Cayley’s
approval of his labours. It would be ‘The
George,’ then, for Antony after the inquest.
What was the truth? Not necessarily discreditable
to Cayley, even though he were hiding something.
All that could be said against him at the
moment was that he had gone the longest way
round to get into the locked office and that
this did not fit in with what he had told
the Inspector. But it did fit in with the
theory that he had been an accessory after
the event, and that he wanted (while appearing
to be in a hurry) to give his cousin as much
time as possible in which to escape. That
might not be the true solution, but it was
at least a workable one. The theory which
he had suggested to the Inspector was not.
However, there would be a day or two before
the inquest, in which Antony could consider
all these matters from within The Red House.
The car was at the door. He got in with Bill,
the landlord put his bag on the front seat
next to the chauffeur, and they drove back.
CHAPTER VIII. “Do You Follow Me, Watson?”
Antony’s bedroom looked over the park at
the back of the house. The blinds were not
yet drawn while he was changing his clothes
for dinner, and at various stages of undress
he would pause and gaze out of the window,
sometimes smiling to himself, sometimes frowning,
as he turned over in his mind all the strange
things that he had seen that day. He was sitting
on his bed, in shirt and trousers, absently
smoothing down his thick black hair with his
brushes, when Bill shouted an “Hallo!”
through the door, and came in.
“I say, buck up, old boy, I’m hungry,”
he said.
Antony stopped smoothing himself and looked
up at him thoughtfully.
“Where’s Mark?” he said.
“Mark? You mean Cayley.”
Antony corrected himself with a little laugh.
“Yes, I mean Cayley. Is he down? I say,
I shan’t be a moment, Bill.” He got up
from the bed and went on briskly with his
dressing. “Oh, by the way,” said Bill,
taking his place on the bed, “your idea
about the keys is a wash-out.”
“Why, how do you mean?”
“I went down just now and had a look at
them. We were asses not to have thought of
it when we came in. The library key is outside,
but all the others are inside.”
“Yes, I know.”
“You devil, I suppose you did think of it,
then?”
“I did, Bill,” said Antony apologetically.
“Bother! I hoped you’d forgotten. Well,
that knocks your theory on the head, doesn’t
it?”
“I never had a theory. I only said that
if they were outside, it would probably mean
that the office key was outside, and that
in that case Cayley’s theory was knocked
on the head.”
“Well, now, it isn’t, and we don’t know
anything. Some were outside and some inside,
and there you are. It makes it much less exciting.
When you were talking about it on the lawn,
I really got quite keen on the idea of the
key being outside and Mark taking it in with
him.”
“It’s going to be exciting enough,”
said Antony mildly, as he transferred his
pipe and tobacco into the pocket of his black
coat. “Well, let’s come down; I’m ready
now.”
Cayley was waiting for them in the hall. He
made some polite inquiry as to the guest’s
comfort, and the three of them fell into a
casual conversation about houses in general
and The Red House in particular.
“You were quite right about the keys,”
said Bill, during a pause. He was less able
than the other two, perhaps because he was
younger than they, to keep away from the subject
which was uppermost in the minds of them all.
“Keys?” said Cayley blankly.
“We were wondering whether they were outside
or inside.”
“Oh! oh, yes!” He looked slowly round
the hall, at the different doors, and then
smiled in a friendly way at Antony. “We
both seem to have been right, Mr. Gillingham.
So we don’t get much farther.”
“No.” He gave a shrug. “I just wondered,
you know. I thought it was worth mentioning.”
“Oh, quite. Not that you would have convinced
me, you know. Just as Elsie’s evidence doesn’t
convince me.”
“Elsie?” said Bill excitedly. Antony looked
inquiringly at him, wondering who Elsie was.
“One of the housemaids,” explained Cayley.
“You didn’t hear what she told the Inspector?
Of course, as I told Birch, girls of that
class make things up, but he seemed to think
she was genuine.”
“What was it?” said Bill.
Cayley told them of what Elsie had heard through
the office door that afternoon.
“You were in the library then, of course,”
said Antony, rather to himself than to the
other. “She might have gone through the
hall without your hearing.”
“Oh, I’ve no doubt she was there, and
heard voices. Perhaps heard those very words.
But—” He broke off, and then added impatiently,
“It was accidental. I know it was accidental.
What’s the good of talking as if Mark was
a murderer?” Dinner was announced at that
moment, and as they went in, he added, “What’s
the good of talking about it at all, if it
comes to that?”
“What, indeed?” said Antony, and to Bill’s
great disappointment they talked of books
and politics during the meal.
Cayley made an excuse for leaving them as
soon as their cigars were alight. He had business
to attend to, as was natural. Bill would look
after his friend. Bill was only too willing.
He offered to beat Antony at billiards, to
play him at piquet, to show him the garden
by moonlight, or indeed to do anything else
with him that he required.
“Thank the Lord you’re here,” he said
piously. “I couldn’t have stood it alone.”
“Let’s go outside,” suggested Antony.
“It’s quite warm. Somewhere where we can
sit down, right away from the house. I want
to talk to you.”
“Good man. What about the bowling-green?”
“Oh, you were going to show me that, anyhow,
weren’t you? Is it somewhere where we can
talk without being overheard?”
“Rather. The ideal place. You’ll see.”
They came out of the front door and followed
the drive to the left. Coming from Waldheim,
Antony had approached the house that afternoon
from the other side. The way they were going
now would take them out at the opposite end
of the park, on the high road to Stanton,
a country town some three miles away. They
passed by a gate and a gardener’s lodge,
which marked the limit of what auctioneers
like to call “the ornamental grounds of
the estate,” and then the open park was
before them.
“Sure we haven’t missed it?” said Antony.
The park lay quietly in the moonlight on either
side of the drive, wearing a little way ahead
of them a deceptive air of smoothness which
retreated always as they advanced.
“Rum, isn’t it?” said Bill. “An absurd
place for a bowling green, but I suppose it
was always here.”
“Yes, but always where? It’s short enough
for golf, perhaps, but—Hallo!”
They had come to the place. The road bent
round to the right, but they kept straight
on over a broad grass path for twenty yards,
and there in front of them was the green.
A dry ditch, ten feet wide and six feet deep,
surrounded it, except in the one place where
the path went forward. Two or three grass
steps led down to the green, on which there
was a long wooden beach for the benefit of
spectators.
“Yes, it hides itself very nicely,” said
Antony. “Where do you keep the bowls?”
“In a sort of summer house place. Round
here.”
They walked along the edge of the green until
they came to it—a low wooden bunk which
had been built into one wall of the ditch.
“H’m. Jolly view.”
Bill laughed.
“Nobody sits there. It’s just for keeping
things out of the rain.”
They finished their circuit of the green “Just
in case anybody’s in the ditch,” said
Antony and then sat down on the bench.
“Now then,” said Bill, “We are alone.
Fire ahead.”
Antony smoked thoughtfully for a little. Then
he took his pipe out of his mouth and turned
to his friend.
“Are you prepared to be the complete Watson?”
he asked.
“Watson?”
“Do-you-follow-me-Watson; that one. Are
you prepared to have quite obvious things
explained to you, to ask futile questions,
to give me chances of scoring off you, to
make brilliant discoveries of your own two
or three days after I have made them myself—all
that kind of thing? Because it all helps.”
“My dear Tony,” said Bill delightedly,
“need you ask?” Antony said nothing, and
Bill went on happily to himself, “I perceive
from the strawberry-mark on your shirt-front
that you had strawberries for dessert. Holmes,
you astonish me. Tut, tut, you know my methods.
Where is the tobacco? The tobacco is in the
Persian slipper. Can I leave my practice for
a week? I can.”
Antony smiled and went on smoking. After waiting
hopefully for a minute or two, Bill said in
a firm voice:
“Well then, Holmes, I feel bound to ask
you if you have deduced anything. Also whom
do you suspect?”
Antony began to talk.
“Do you remember,” he said, “one of
Holmes’s little scores over Watson about
the number of steps up to the Baker Street
lodging? Poor old Watson had been up and down
them a thousand times, but he had never thought
of counting them, whereas Holmes had counted
them as a matter of course, and knew that
there were seventeen. And that was supposed
to be the difference between observation and
non-observation. Watson was crushed again,
and Holmes appeared to him more amazing than
ever. Now, it always seemed to me that in
that matter Holmes was the ass, and Watson
the sensible person. What on earth is the
point of keeping in your head an unnecessary
fact like that? If you really want to know
at any time the number of steps to your lodging,
you can ring up your landlady and ask her.
I’ve been up and down the steps of the club
a thousand times, but if you asked me to tell
you at this moment how many steps there are
I couldn’t do it. Could you?”
“I certainly couldn’t,” said Bill.
“But if you really wanted to know,” said
Antony casually, with a sudden change of voice,
“I could find out for you without even bothering
to ring up the hall-porter.”
Bill was puzzled as to why they were talking
about the club steps, but he felt it his duty
to say that he did want to know how many they
were.
“Right,” said Antony. “I’ll find out.”
He closed his eyes.
“I’m walking up St. James’ Street,”
he said slowly. “Now I’ve come to the
club and I’m going past the smoking-room—windows-one-two-three-four.
Now I’m at the steps. I turn in and begin
going up them. One-two-three-four-five-six,
then a broad step; six-seven-eight-nine, another
broad step; nine-ten-eleven. Eleven—I’m
inside. Good morning, Rogers. Fine day again.”
With a little start he opened his eyes and
came back again to his present surroundings.
He turned to Bill with a smile. “Eleven,”
he said. “Count them the next time you’re
there. Eleven and now I hope I shall forget
it again.”
Bill was distinctly interested.
“That’s rather hot,” he said. “Expound.”
“Well, I can’t explain it, whether it’s
something in the actual eye, or something
in the brain, or what, but I have got rather
an uncanny habit of recording things unconsciously.
You know that game where you look at a tray
full of small objects for three minutes, and
then turn away and try to make a list of them.
It means a devil of a lot of concentration
for the ordinary person, if he wants to get
his list complete, but in some odd way I manage
to do it without concentration at all. I mean
that my eyes seem to do it without the brain
consciously taking any part. I could look
at the tray, for instance, and talk to you
about golf at the same time, and still get
my list right.”
“I should think that’s rather a useful
gift for an amateur detective. You ought to
have gone into the profession before.”
“Well, it is rather useful. It’s rather
surprising, you know, to a stranger. Let’s
surprise Cayley with it, shall we?”
“How?”
“Well, let’s ask him—” Antony stopped
and looked at Bill comically, “let’s ask
him what he’s going to do with the key of
the office.”
For a moment Bill did not understand.
“Key of the office?” he said vaguely.
“You don’t mean—Tony! What do you mean?
Good God! do you mean that Cayley—But what
about Mark?”
“I don’t know where Mark is—that’s
another thing I want to know—but I’m quite
certain that he hasn’t got the key of the
office with him. Because Cayley’s got it.”
“Are you sure?”
“Quite.”
Bill looked at him wonderingly.
“I say,” he said, almost pleadingly, “don’t
tell me that you can see into people’s pockets
and all that sort of thing as well.”
Antony laughed and denied it cheerfully.
“Then how do you know?”
“You’re the perfect Watson, Bill. You
take to it quite naturally. Properly speaking,
I oughtn’t to explain till the last chapter,
but I always think that that’s so unfair.
So here goes. Of course, I don’t really
know that he’s got it, but I do know that
he had it. I know that when I came on him
this afternoon, he had just locked the door
and put the key in his pocket.”
“You mean you saw him at the time, but that
you’ve only just remembered it—reconstructed
it in the way you were explaining just now?”
“No. I didn’t see him. But I did see something.
I saw the key of the billiard-room.”
“Where?
“Outside the billiard-room door.”
“Outside? But it was inside when we looked
just now.”
“Exactly.”
“Who put it there?”
“Obviously Cayley.”
“But—”
“Let’s go back to this afternoon. I don’t
remember noticing the billiard-room key at
the time; I must have done so without knowing.
Probably when I saw Cayley banging at the
door I may have wondered subconsciously whether
the key of the room next to it would fit.
Something like that, I daresay. Well, when
I was sitting out by myself on that seat just
before you came along, I went over the whole
scene in my mind, and I suddenly saw the billiard-room
key there outside. And I began to wonder if
the office-key had been outside too. When
Cayley came up, I told you my idea and you
were both interested. But Cayley was just
a shade too interested. I daresay you didn’t
notice it, but he was.”
“By Jove!”
“Well, of course that proved nothing; and
the key business didn’t really prove anything,
because whatever side of the door the other
keys were, Mark might have locked his own
private room from the inside sometimes. But
I piled it on, and pretended that it was enormously
important, and quite altered the case altogether,
and having got Cayley thoroughly anxious about
it, I told him that we should be well out
of the way for the next hour or so, and that
he would be alone in the house to do what
he liked about it. And, as I expected, he
couldn’t resist it. He altered the keys
and gave himself away entirely.”
“But the library key was still outside.
Why didn’t he alter that?”
“Because he’s a clever devil. For one
thing, the Inspector had been in the library,
and might possibly have noticed it already.
And for another—” Antony hesitated.
“What?” said Bill, after waiting for him
to go on.
“It’s only guesswork. But I fancy that
Cayley was thoroughly upset about the key
business. He suddenly realized that he had
been careless, and he hadn’t got time to
think it all over. So he didn’t want to
commit himself definitely to the statement
that the key was either outside or inside.
He wanted to leave it vague. It was safest
that way.”
“I see,” said Bill slowly.
But his mind was elsewhere. He was wondering
suddenly about Cayley. Cayley was just an
ordinary man—like himself. Bill had had
little jokes with him sometimes; not that
Cayley was much of a hand at joking. Bill
had helped him to sausages, played tennis
with him, borrowed his tobacco, lent him a
putter.... and here was Antony saying that
he was what? Well, not an ordinary man, anyway.
A man with a secret. Perhaps a murderer. No,
not a murderer; not Cayley. That was rot,
anyway. Why, they had played tennis together.
“Now then, Watson,” said Antony suddenly.
“It’s time you said something.”
“I say, Tony, do you really mean it?”
“Mean what?”
“About Cayley.”
“I mean what I said, Bill. No more.”
“Well, what does it amount to?”
“Simply that Robert Ablett died in the office
this afternoon, and that Cayley knows exactly
how he died. That’s all. It doesn’t follow
that Cayley killed him.”
“No. No, of course it doesn’t.” Bill
gave a sigh of relief. “He’s just shielding
Mark, what?”
“I wonder.”
“Well, isn’t that the simplest explanation?”
“It’s the simplest if you’re a friend
of Cayley and want to let him down lightly.
But then I’m not, you see.”
“Why isn’t it simple, anyhow?”
“Well, let’s have the explanation then,
and I’ll undertake to give you a simpler
one afterwards. Go on. Only remember the key
is on the outside of the door to start with.”
“Yes; well, I don’t mind that. Mark goes
in to see his brother, and they quarrel and
all the rest of it, just as Cayley was saying.
Cayley hears the shot, and in order to give
Mark time to get away, locks the door, puts
the key in his pocket and pretends that Mark
has locked the door, and that he can’t get
in. How’s that?”
“Hopeless, Watson, hopeless.”
“Why?”
“How does Cayley know that it is Mark who
has shot Robert, and not the other way round?”
“Oh!” said Bill, rather upset. “Yes.”
He thought for a moment, “All right. Say
that Cayley has gone into the room first,
and seen Robert on the ground.”
“Well?”
“Well, there you are.”
“And what does he say to Mark? That it’s
a fine afternoon; and could he lend him a
pocket-handkerchief? Or does he ask him what’s
happened?”
“Well, of course, I suppose he asks what
happened,” said Bill reluctantly.
“And what does Mark say?”
“Explains that the revolver went off accidentally
during a struggle.”
“Whereupon Cayley shields him by doing what,
Bill? Encouraging him to do the damn silliest
thing that any man could possibly do—confess
his guilt by running away!”
“No, that’s rather hopeless, isn’t it?”
Bill thought again. “Well,” he said reluctantly,
“suppose Mark confessed that he’d murdered
his brother?”
“That’s better, Bill. Don’t be afraid
of getting away from the accident idea. Well
then, your new theory is this. Mark confesses
to Cayley that he shot Robert on purpose,
and Cayley decides, even at the risk of committing
perjury, and getting into trouble himself,
to help Mark to escape. Is that right?”
Bill nodded.
“Well then, I want to ask you two questions.
First, is it possible, as I said before dinner,
that any man would commit such an idiotic
murder—a murder that puts the rope so very
tightly round his neck? Secondly, if Cayley
is prepared to perjure himself for Mark (as
he has to, anyway, now), wouldn’t it be
simpler for him to say that he was in the
office all the time, and that Robert’s death
was accidental?”
Bill considered this carefully, and then nodded
slowly again.
“Yes, my simple explanation is a wash-out,”
he said. “Now let’s have yours.”
Antony did not answer him. He had begun to
think about something quite different.
CHAPTER IX. Possibilities of a Croquet Set
“What’s the matter?” said Bill sharply.
Antony looked round at him with raised eyebrows.
“You’ve thought of something suddenly,”
said Bill. “What is it?”
Antony laughed.
“My dear Watson,” he said, “you aren’t
supposed to be as clever as this.”
“Oh, you can’t take me in!”
“No.... Well, I was wondering about this
ghost of yours, Bill. It seems to me—”
“Oh, that!” Bill was profoundly disappointed.
“What on earth has the ghost got to do with
it?”
“I don’t know,” said Antony apologetically.
“I don’t know what anything has got to
do with it. I was just wondering. You shouldn’t
have brought me here if you hadn’t wanted
me to think about the ghost. This is where
she appeared, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” Bill was distinctly short about
it.
“How?”
“What?”
“I said, ‘How?’”
“How? How do ghosts appear? I don’t know.
They just appear.”
“Over four or five hundred yards of open
park?”
“Well, but she had to appear here, because
this is where the original one—Lady Anne,
you know—was supposed to walk.”
“Oh, never mind Lady Anne! A real ghost
can do anything. But how did Miss Norris appear
suddenly over five hundred yards of bare park?”
Bill looked at Antony with open mouth.
“I—I don’t know,” he stammered. “We
never thought of that.”
“You would have seen her long before, wouldn’t
you, if she had come the way we came?”
“Of course we should.”
“And that would have spoilt it rather. You
would have had time to recognize her walk.”
Bill was interested now.
“That’s rather funny, you know, Tony.
We none of us thought of that.”
“You’re sure she didn’t come across
the park when none of you were looking?”
“Quite. Because, you see, Betty and I were
expecting her, and we kept looking round in
case we saw her, so that we should all be
playing with our backs to her.”
“You and Miss Calladine were playing together?”
“I say, however do you know that?”
“Brilliant deductive reasoning. Well, then
you suddenly saw her?”
“Yes, she walked across that side of the
lawn.” He indicated the opposite side, nearer
to the house.
“She couldn’t have been hiding in the
ditch? Do you call it the moat, by the way?”
“Mark does. We don’t among ourselves.
No, she couldn’t. Betty and I were here
before the others, and walked round a bit.
We should have seen her.”
“Then she must have been hiding in the shed.
Or do you call it the summer-house?”
“We had to go there for the bowls, of course.
She couldn’t have been there.”
“Oh!”
“It’s dashed funny,” said Bill, after
an interval for thought. “But it doesn’t
matter, does it? It has nothing to do with
Robert.”
“Hasn’t it?”
“I say, has it?” said Bill, getting excited
again.
“I don’t know. We don’t know what has,
or what hasn’t. But it has got something
to do with Miss Norris. And Miss Norris—”
He broke off suddenly.
“What about her?”
“Well, you’re all in it in a kind of way.
And if something unaccountable happens to
one of you a day or two before something unaccountable
happens to the whole house, one is well, interested.”
It was a good enough reason, but it wasn’t
the reason he had been on the point of giving.
“I see. Well?”
Antony knocked out his pipe and got up slowly.
“Well then, let’s find the way from the
house by which Miss Norris came.”
Bill jumped up eagerly.
“By Jove! Do you mean there’s a secret
passage?”
“A secluded passage, anyway. There must
be.”
“I say, what fun! I love secret passages.
Good Lord, and this afternoon I was playing
golf just like an ordinary merchant! What
a life! Secret passages!”
They made their way down into the ditch. If
an opening was to be found which led to the
house, it would probably be on the house side
of the green, and on the outside of the ditch.
The most obvious place at which to begin the
search was the shed where the bowls were kept.
It was a tidy place as anything in Mark’s
establishment would be. There were two boxes
of croquet things, one of them with the lid
open, as if the balls and mallets and hoops
(neatly enough put away, though) had been
recently used; a box of bowls, a small lawn-mower,
a roller and so forth. A seat ran along the
back of it, whereon the bowls-players could
sit when it rained.
Antony tapped the wall at the back.
“This is where the passage ought to begin.
It doesn’t sound very hollow, does it?”
“It needn’t begin here at all, need it?”
said Bill, walking round with bent head, and
tapping the other walls. He was just too tall
to stand upright in the shed.
“There’s only one reason why it should,
and that is that it would save us the trouble
of looking anywhere else for it. Surely Mark
didn’t let you play croquet on his bowling-green?”
He pointed to the croquet things.
“He didn’t encourage it at one time, but
this year he got rather keen about it. There’s
really nowhere else to play. Personally I
hate the game. He wasn’t very keen on bowls,
you know, but he liked calling it the bowling-green,
and surprising his visitors with it.”
Antony laughed.
“I love you on Mark,” he said. “You’re
priceless.”
He began to feel in his pockets for his pipe
and tobacco, and then suddenly stopped and
stiffened to attention. For a moment he stood
listening, with his head on one side, holding
up a finger to bid Bill listen too.
“What is it?” whispered Bill.
Antony waved him to silence, and remained
listening. Very quietly he went down on his
knees, and listened again. Then he put his
ear to the floor. He got up and dusted himself
quickly, walked across to Bill and whispered
in his ear:
“Footsteps. Somebody coming. When I begin
to talk, back me up.”
Bill nodded. Antony gave him an encouraging
pat on the back, and stepped firmly across
to the box of bowls, whistling loudly to himself.
He took the bowls out, dropped one with a
loud bang on the floor, said, “Oh, Lord!”
and went on:
“I say, Bill, I don’t think I want to
play bowls, after all.”
“Well, why did you say you did?” grumbled
Bill.
Antony flashed a smile of appreciation at
him.
“Well, I wanted to when I said I did, and
now I don’t want to.”
“Then what do you want to do?”
“Talk.”
“Oh, right-o!” said Bill eagerly.
“There’s a seat on the lawn—I saw it.
Let’s bring these things along in case we
want to play, after all.”
“Right-o!” said Bill again. He felt safe
with that, not wishing to commit himself until
he knew what he was wanted to say.
As they went across the lawn, Antony dropped
the bowls and took out his pipe.
“Got a match?” he said loudly.
As he bent his head over the match, he whispered,
“There’ll be somebody listening to us.
You take the Cayley view,” and then went
on in his ordinary voice, “I don’t think
much of your matches, Bill,” and struck
another. They walked over to the seat and
sat down.
“What a heavenly night!” said Antony.
“Ripping.”
“I wonder where that poor devil Mark is
now.”
“It’s a rum business.”
“You agree with Cayley that it was an accident?”
“Yes. You see, I know Mark.”
“H’m.” Antony produced a pencil and
a piece of paper and began to write on his
knee, but while he wrote, he talked. He said
that he thought Mark had shot his brother
in a fit of anger, and that Cayley knew, or
anyhow guessed, this and had tried to give
his cousin a chance of getting away.
“Mind you, I think he’s right. I think
it’s what any of us would do. I shan’t
give it away, of course, but somehow there
are one or two little things which make me
think that Mark really did shoot his brother—I
mean other than accidentally.”
“Murdered him?”
“Well, manslaughtered him, anyway. I may
be wrong. Anyway, it’s not my business.”
“But why do you think so? Because of the
keys?”
“Oh, the keys are a wash-out. Still, it
was a brilliant idea of mine, Wasn’t it?
And it would have been rather a score for
me if they had all been outside.”
He had finished his writing, and now passed
the paper over to Bill. In the clear moonlight
the carefully printed letters could easily
be read:
“GO ON TALKING AS IF I WERE HERE. AFTER
A MINUTE OR TWO, TURN ROUND AS IF I WERE SITTING
ON THE GRASS BEHIND YOU, BUT GO ON TALKING.”
“I know you don’t agree with me,” Antony
went on as Bill read, “but you’ll see
that I’m right.”
Bill looked up and nodded eagerly. He had
forgotten golf and Betty and all the other
things which had made up his world lately.
This was the real thing. This was life. “Well,”
he began deliberately, “the whole point
is that I know Mark. Now, Mark—”
But Antony was off the seat and letting himself
gently down into the ditch. His intention
was to crawl round it until the shed came
in sight. The footsteps which he had heard
seemed to be underneath the shed; probably
there was a trap-door of some kind in the
floor. Whoever it was would have heard their
voices, and would probably think it worth
while to listen to what they were saying.
He might do this merely by opening the door
a little without showing himself, in which
case Antony would have found the entrance
to the passage without any trouble to himself.
But when Bill turned his head and talked over
the back of the seat, it was probable that
the listener would find it necessary to put
his head outside in order to hear, and then
Antony would be able to discover who it was.
Moreover, if he should venture out of his
hiding-place altogether and peep at them over
the top of the bank, the fact that Bill was
talking over the back of the seat would mislead
the watcher into thinking that Antony was
still there, sitting on the grass, no doubt,
behind the seat, swinging his legs over the
side of the ditch.
He walked quickly but very silently along
the half-length of the bowling-green to the
first corner, passed cautiously round, and
then went even more carefully along the width
of it to the second corner. He could hear
Bill hard at it, arguing from his knowledge
of Mark’s character that this, that and
the other must have happened, and he smiled
appreciatively to himself. Bill was a great
conspirator worth a hundred Watsons. As he
approached the second corner he slowed down,
and did the last few yards on hands and knees.
Then, lying at full length, inch by inch his
head went round the corner.
The shed was two or three yards to his left,
on the opposite side of the ditch. From where
he lay he could see almost entirely inside
it. Everything seemed to be as they left it.
The bowls-box, the lawn-mower, the roller,
the open croquet-box, the—
“By Jove!” said Antony to himself, “that’s
neat.”
The lid of the other croquet-box was open,
too. Bill was turning round now; his voice
became more difficult to hear. “You see
what I mean,” he was saying. “If Cayley—”
And out of the second croquet-box came Cayley’s
black head.
Antony wanted to shout his applause. It was
neat, devilish neat. For a moment he gazed,
fascinated, at that wonderful new kind of
croquet-ball which had appeared so dramatically
out of the box, and then reluctantly wriggled
himself back. There was nothing to be gained
by staying there, and a good deal to be lost,
for Bill showed signs of running down. As
quickly as he could Antony hurried round the
ditch and took up his place at the back of
the seat. Then he stood up with a yawn, stretched
himself and said carelessly, “Well, don’t
worry yourself about it, Bill, old man. I
daresay you’re right. You know Mark, and
I don’t; and that’s the difference. Shall
we have a game or shall we go to bed?”
Bill looked at him for inspiration, and, receiving
it, said, “Oh, just let’s have one game,
shall we?”
“Right you are,” said Antony.
But Bill was much too excited to take the
game which followed very seriously. Antony,
on the other hand, seemed to be thinking of
nothing but bowls. He played with great deliberation
for ten minutes, and then announced that he
was going to bed. Bill looked at him anxiously.
“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.
CHAPTER X. 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 he 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. Truly.”
Antony looked at her thoughtfully and nodded.
“Yes. I wonder. I wonder why.”
“Why what, sir?”
“Oh, lots of things, Elsie.... It was quite
an accident your being outside just then?”
Elsie blushed. She had not forgotten what
Mrs. Stevens had said about it.
“Quite, sir. In the general way I use the
other stairs.”
“Of course.”
He had found his pipe and was about to go
downstairs again when she stopped him.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but will there
be an inquest?”
“Oh, yes. To-morrow, I think.”
“Shall I have to give my evidence, sir?”
“Of course. There’s nothing to be frightened
of.”
“I did hear it, sir. Truly.”
“Why, of course you did. Who says you didn’t?”
“Some of the others, sir, Mrs. Stevens and
all.”
“Oh, that’s just because they’re jealous,”
said Antony with a smile.
He was glad to have spoken to her, because
he had recognized at once the immense importance
of her evidence. To the Inspector no doubt
it had seemed only of importance in that it
had shown Mark to have adopted something of
a threatening attitude towards his brother.
To Antony it had much more significance. It
was the only trustworthy evidence that Mark
had been in the office at all that afternoon.
For who saw Mark go into the office? Only
Cayley. And if Cayley had been hiding the
truth about the keys, why should he not be
hiding the truth about Mark’s entry into
the office? Obviously all Cayley’s evidence
went for nothing. Some of it no doubt was
true; but he was giving it, both truth and
falsehood, with a purpose. What the purpose
was Antony did not know as yet—to shield
Mark, to shield himself—even to betray Mark—it
might be any of these. But since his evidence
was given for his own ends, it was impossible
that it could be treated as the evidence of
an impartial and trustworthy onlooker. Such,
for instance, as Elsie appeared to be.
Elsie’s evidence, however, seemed to settle
the point. Mark had gone into the office to
see his brother; Elsie had heard them both
talking; and then Antony and Cayley had found
the body of Robert.... and the Inspector was
going to drag the pond.
But certainly Elsie’s evidence did not prove
anything more than the mere presence of Mark
in the room. “It’s my turn now; you wait.”
That was not an immediate threat;—it was
a threat for the future. If Mark had shot
his brother immediately afterwards it must
have been an accident, the result of a struggle,
say, provoked by that “nasty-like” tone
of voice. Nobody would say “You wait”
to a man who was just going to be shot. “You
wait” meant “You wait, and see what’s
going to happen to you later on.” The owner
of the Red House had had enough of his brother’s
sponging, his brother’s blackmail; now it
was Mark’s turn to get a bit of his own
back. Let Robert just wait a bit, and he would
see. The conversation which Elsie had overheard
might have meant something like this. It couldn’t
have meant murder. Anyway not murder of Robert
by Mark.
“It’s a funny business,” thought Antony.
“The one obvious solution is so easy and
yet so wrong. And I’ve got a hundred things
in my head, and I can’t fit them together.
And this afternoon will make a hundred and
one. I mustn’t forget this afternoon.”
He found Bill in the hall and proposed a stroll.
Bill was only too ready. “Where do you want
to go?” he asked.
“I don’t mind much. Show me the park.”
“Righto.”
They walked out together.
“Watson, old man,” said Antony, as soon
as they were away from the house, “you really
mustn’t talk so loudly indoors. There was
a gentleman outside, just behind you, all
the time.”
“Oh, I say,” said Bill, going pink. “I’m
awfully sorry. So that’s why you were talking
such rot.”
“Partly, yes. And partly because I do feel
rather bright this morning. We’re going
to have a busy day.”
“Are we really? What are we going to do?”
“They’re going to drag the pond—beg
its pardon, the lake. Where is the lake?”
“We’re on the way to it now, if you’d
like to see it.”
“We may as well look at it. Do you haunt
the lake much in the ordinary way?”
“Oh, no, rather not. There’s nothing to
do there.”
“You can’t bathe?”
“Well, I shouldn’t care to. Too dirty.”
“I see.... This is the way we came yesterday,
isn’t it? The way to the village?”
“Yes. We go off a bit to the right directly.
What are they dragging it for?”
“Mark.”
“Oh, rot,” said Bill uneasily. He was
silent for a little, and then, forgetting
his uncomfortable thoughts in his sudden remembrance
of the exciting times they were having, said
eagerly, “I say, when are we going to look
for that passage?”
“We can’t do very much while Cayley’s
in the house.”
“What about this afternoon when they’re
dragging the pond? He’s sure to be there.”
Antony shook his head.
“There’s something I must do this afternoon,”
he said. “Of course we might have time for
both.”
“Has Cayley got to be out of the house for
the other thing too?”
“Well, I think he ought to be.”
“I say, is it anything rather exciting?”
“I don’t know. It might be rather interesting.
I daresay I could do it at some other time,
but I rather fancy it at three o’clock,
somehow. I’ve been specially keeping it
back for then.”
“I say, what fun! You do want me, don’t
you?”
“Of course I do. Only, Bill don’t talk
about things inside the house, unless I begin.
There’s a good Watson.”
“I won’t. I swear I won’t.”
They had come to the pond—Mark’s lake—and
they walked silently round it. When they had
made the circle, Antony sat down on the grass,
and relit his pipe. Bill followed his example.
“Well, Mark isn’t there,” said Antony.
“No,” said Bill. “At least, I don’t
quite see why you know he isn’t.”
“It isn’t ‘knowing,’ it’s ‘guessing,’”
said Antony rapidly. “It’s much easier
to shoot yourself than to drown yourself,
and if Mark had wanted to shoot himself in
the water, with some idea of not letting the
body be found, he’d have put big stones
in his pockets, and the only big stones are
near the water’s edge, and they would have
left marks, and they haven’t, and therefore
he didn’t, and oh, bother the pond; that
can wait till this afternoon. Bill, where
does the secret passage begin?”
“Well, that’s what we’ve got to find
out, isn’t it?”
“Yes. You see, my idea is this.”
He explained his reasons for thinking that
the secret of the passage was concerned in
some way with the secret of Robert’s death,
and went on:
“My theory is that Mark discovered the passage
about a year ago—the time when he began
to get keen on croquet. The passage came out
into the floor of the shed, and probably it
was Cayley’s idea to put a croquet-box over
the trap-door, so as to hide it more completely.
You know, when once you’ve discovered a
secret yourself, it always seems as if it
must be so obvious to everybody else. I can
imagine that Mark loved having this little
secret all to himself and to Cayley, of course,
but Cayley wouldn’t count and they must
have had great fun fixing it up, and making
it more difficult for other people to find
out. Well then, when Miss Norris was going
to dress-up, Cayley gave it away. Probably
he told her that she could never get down
to the bowling-green without being discovered,
and then perhaps showed that he knew there
was one way in which she could do it, and
she wormed the secret out of him somehow.”
“But this was two or three days before Robert
turned up.”
“Exactly. I am not suggesting that there
was anything sinister about the passage in
the first place. It was just a little private
bit of romance and adventure for Mark, three
days ago. He didn’t even know that Robert
was coming. But somehow the passage has been
used since, in connection with Robert. Perhaps
Mark escaped that way; perhaps he’s hiding
there now. And if so, then the only person
who could give him away was Miss Norris. And
she of course would only do it innocently
not knowing that the passage had anything
to do with it.”
“So it was safer to have her out of the
way?”
“Yes.”
“But, look here, Tony, why do you want to
bother about this end of it? We can always
get in at the bowling-green end.”
“I know, but if we do that we shall have
to do it openly. It will mean breaking open
the box, and letting Cayley know that we’ve
done it. You see, Bill, if we don’t find
anything out for ourselves in the next day
or two, we’ve got to tell the police what
we have found out, and then they can explore
the passage for themselves. But I don’t
want to do that yet.”
“Rather not.”
“So we’ve got to carry on secretly for
a bit. It’s the only way.” He smiled and
added, “And it’s much more fun.”
“Rather!” Bill chuckled to himself.
“Very well. Where does the secret passage
begin?”
CHAPTER XI. The Reverend Theodore Ussher
“There’s one thing, which we have got
to realize at once,” said Antony, “and
that is that if we don’t find it easily,
we shan’t find it at all.”
“You mean that we shan’t have time?”
“Neither time nor opportunity. Which is
rather a consoling thought to a lazy person
like me.”
“But it makes it much harder, if we can’t
really look properly.”
“Harder to find, yes, but so much easier
to look. For instance, the passage might begin
in Cayley’s bedroom. Well, now we know that
it doesn’t.”
“We don’t know anything of the sort,”
protested Bill.
“We—know for the purposes of our search.
Obviously we can’t go tailing into Cayley’s
bedroom and tapping his wardrobes; and obviously,
therefore, if we are going to look for it
at all, we must assume that it doesn’t begin
there.”
“Oh, I see.” Bill chewed a piece of grass
thoughtfully. “Anyhow, it wouldn’t begin
on an upstairs floor, would it?”
“Probably not. Well, we’re getting on.”
“You can wash out the kitchen and all that
part of the house,” said Bill, after more
thought. “We can’t go there.”
“Right. And the cellars, if there are any.”
“Well, that doesn’t leave us much.”
“No. Of course it’s only a hundred-to-one
chance that we find it, but what we want to
consider is which is the most likely place
of the few places in which we can look safely.”
“All it amounts to,” said Bill, “is
the living-rooms downstairs—dining-room,
library, hall, billiard-room and the office
rooms.”
“Yes, that’s all.”
“Well, the office is the most likely, isn’t
it?”
“Yes. Except for one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Well, it’s on the wrong side of the house.
One would expect the passage to start from
the nearest place to which it is going. Why
make it longer by going under the house first?”
“Yes, that’s true. Well, then, you think
the dining-room or the library?”
“Yes. And the library for choice. I mean
for our choice. There are always servants
going into dining-rooms. We shouldn’t have
much of a chance of exploring properly in
there. Besides, there’s another thing to
remember. Mark has kept this a secret for
a year. Could he have kept it a secret in
the dining-room? Could Miss Norris have got
into the dining-room and used the secret door
just after dinner without being seen? It would
have been much too risky.”
Bill got up eagerly.
“Come along,” he said, “let’s try
the library. If Cayley comes in, we can always
pretend we’re choosing a book.”
Antony got up slowly, took his arm and walked
back to the house with him.
The library was worth going into, passages
or no passages. Antony could never resist
another person’s bookshelves. As soon as
he went into the room, he found himself wandering
round it to see what books the owner read,
or (more likely) did not read, but kept for
the air which they lent to the house. Mark
had prided himself on his library. It was
a mixed collection of books. Books which he
had inherited both from his father and from
his patron; books which he had bought because
he was interested in them or, if not in them,
in the authors to whom he wished to lend his
patronage; books which he had ordered in beautifully
bound editions, partly because they looked
well on his shelves, lending a noble colour
to his rooms, partly because no man of culture
should ever be without them; old editions,
new editions, expensive books, cheap books,
a library in which everybody, whatever his
taste, could be sure of finding something
to suit him.
“And which is your particular fancy, Bill?”
said Antony, looking from one shelf to another.
“Or are you always playing billiards?”
“I have a look at ‘Badminton’ sometimes,”
said Bill. “It’s over in that corner there.”
He waved a hand.
“Over here?” said Antony, going to it.
“Yes.” He corrected himself suddenly.—“Oh,
no, it’s not. It’s over there on the right
now. Mark had a grand re-arrangement of his
library about a year ago. It took him more
than a week, he told us. He’s got such a
frightful lot, hasn’t he?”
“Now that’s very interesting,” said
Antony, and he sat down and filled his pipe
again.
There was indeed a “frightful lot” of
books. The four walls of the library were
plastered with them from floor to ceiling,
save only where the door and the two windows
insisted on living their own life, even though
an illiterate one. To Bill it seemed the most
hopeless room of any in which to look for
a secret opening.
“We shall have to take every blessed book
down,” he said, “before we can be certain
that we haven’t missed it.”
“Anyway,” said Antony, “if we take them
down one at a time, nobody can suspect us
of sinister designs. After all, what does
one go into a library for, except to take
books down?”
“But there’s such a frightful lot.”
Antony’s pipe was now going satisfactorily,
and he got up and walked leisurely to the
end of the wall opposite the door.
“Well, let’s have a look,” he said,
“and see if they are so very frightful.
Hallo, here’s your ‘Badminton.’ You
often read that, you say?”
“If I read anything.”
“Yes.” He looked down and up the shelf.
“Sport and Travel chiefly. I like books
of travel, don’t you?”
“They’re pretty dull as a rule.”
“Well, anyhow, some people like them very
much,” said Antony, reproachfully. He moved
on to the next row of shelves. “The Drama.
The Restoration dramatists. You can have most
of them. Still, as you well remark, many people
seem to love them. Shaw, Wilde, Robertson—I
like reading plays, Bill. There are not many
people who do, but those who do are usually
very keen. Let us pass on.”
“I say, we haven’t too much time,” said
Bill restlessly.
“We haven’t. That’s why we aren’t
wasting any. Poetry. Who reads poetry nowadays?
Bill, when did you last read ‘Paradise Lost’?”
“Never.”
“I thought not. And when did Miss Calladine
last read ‘The Excursion’ aloud to you?”
“As a matter of fact, Betty—Miss Calladine—happens
to be jolly keen on—what’s the beggar’s
name?”
“Never mind his name. You have said quite
enough. We pass on.”
He moved on to the next shelf.
“Biography. Oh, lots of it. I love biographies.
Are you a member of the Johnson Club? I bet
Mark is. ‘Memories of Many Courts’—I’m
sure Mrs. Calladine reads that. Anyway, biographies
are just as interesting as most novels, so
why linger? We pass on.” He went to the
next shelf, and then gave a sudden whistle.
“Hallo, hallo!”
“What’s the matter?” said Bill rather
peevishly.
“Stand back there. Keep the crowd back,
Bill. We are getting amongst it. Sermons,
as I live. Sermons. Was Mark’s father a
clergyman, or does Mark take to them naturally?”
“His father was a parson, I believe. Oh,
yes, I know he was.”
“Ah, then these are Father’s books. ‘Half-Hours
with the Infinite’—I must order that from
the library when I get back. ‘The Lost Sheep,’
‘Jones on the Trinity,’ ‘The Epistles
of St. Paul Explained.’ Oh, Bill, we’re
amongst it. ‘The Narrow Way, being Sermons
by the Rev. Theodore Ussher’—hal-LO!”
“What is the matter?”
“William, I am inspired. Stand by.” He
took down the Reverend Theodore Ussher’s
classic work, looked at it with a happy smile
for a moment, and then gave it to Bill.
“Here, hold Ussher for a bit.”
Bill took the book obediently.
“No, give it me back. Just go out into the
hall, and see if you can hear Cayley anywhere.
Say ‘Hallo’ loudly, if you do.”
Bill went out quickly, listened, and came
back.
“It’s all right.”
“Good.” He took the book out of its shelf
again. “Now then, you can hold Ussher. Hold
him in the left hand so. With the right or
dexter hand, grasp this shelf firmly so. Now,
when I say ‘Pull,’ pull gradually. Got
that?”
Bill nodded, his face alight with excitement.
“Good.” Antony put his hand into the space
left by the stout Ussher, and fingered the
back of the shelf. “Pull,” he said.
Bill pulled.
“Now just go on pulling like that. I shall
get it directly. Not hard, you know, but just
keeping up the strain.”
His fingers went at it again busily.
And then suddenly the whole row of shelves,
from top to bottom, swung gently open towards
them.
“Good Lord!” said Bill, letting go of
the shelf in his amazement.
Antony pushed the shelves back, extracted
Ussher from Bill’s fingers, replaced him,
and then, taking Bill by the arm, led him
to the sofa and deposited him in it. Standing
in front of him, he bowed gravely.
“Child’s play, Watson,” he said; “child’s
play.”
“How on earth—”
Antony laughed happily and sat down on the
sofa beside him.
“You don’t really want it explained,”
he said, smacking him on the knee; “you’re
just being Watsonish. It’s very nice of
you, of course, and I appreciate it.”
“No, but really, Tony.”
“Oh, my dear Bill!” He smoked silently
for a little, and then went on, “It’s
what I was saying just now—a secret is a
secret until you have discovered it, and as
soon as you have discovered it, you wonder
why everybody else isn’t discovering it,
and how it could ever have been a secret at
all. This passage has been here for years,
with an opening at one end into the library,
and at the other end into the shed. Then Mark
discovered it, and immediately he felt that
everybody else must discover it. So he made
the shed end more difficult by putting the
croquet-box there, and this end more difficult
by—” he stopped and looked at the other
“by what, Bill?”
But Bill was being Watsonish.
“What?”
“Obviously by re-arranging his books. He
happened to take out ‘The Life of Nelson’
or ‘Three Men in a Boat,’ or whatever
it was, and by the merest chance discovered
the secret. Naturally he felt that everybody
else would be taking down ‘The Life of Nelson’
or ‘Three Men in a Boat.’ Naturally he
felt that the secret would be safer if nobody
ever interfered with that shelf at all. When
you said that the books had been re-arranged
a year ago—just about the time the croquet-box
came into existence—of course, I guessed
why. So I looked about for the dullest books
I could find, the books nobody ever read.
Obviously the collection of sermon-books of
a mid-Victorian clergyman was the shelf we
wanted.”
“Yes, I see. But why were you so certain
of the particular place?”
“Well, he had to mark the particular place
by some book. I thought that the joke of putting
‘The Narrow Way’ just over the entrance
to the passage might appeal to him. Apparently
it did.”
Bill nodded to himself thoughtfully several
times. “Yes, that’s very neat,” he said.
“You’re a clever devil, Tony.”
Tony laughed.
“You encourage me to think so, which is
bad for me, but very delightful.”
“Well, come on, then,” said Bill, and
he got up, and held out a hand.
“Come on where?”
“To explore the passage, of course.”
Antony shook his head.
“Why ever not?”
“Well, what do you expect to find there?”
“I don’t know. But you seemed to think
that we might find something that would help.”
“Suppose we find Mark?” said Antony quietly.
“I say, do you really think he’s there?”
“Suppose he is?”
“Well, then, there we are.”
Antony walked over to the fireplace, knocked
out the ashes of his pipe, and turned back
to Bill. He looked at him gravely without
speaking.
“What are you going to say to him?” he
said at last.
“How do you mean?”
“Are you going to arrest him, or help him
to escape?”
“I—I—well, of course, I—” began
Bill, stammering, and then ended lamely, “Well,
I don’t know.”
“Exactly. We’ve got to make up our minds,
haven’t we?”
Bill didn’t answer. Very much disturbed
in his mind, he walked restlessly about the
room, frowning to himself, stopping now and
then at the newly discovered door and looking
at it as if he were trying to learn what lay
behind it. Which side was he on, if it came
to choosing sides—Mark’s or the Law’s?
“You know, you can’t just say, ‘Oh er
hallo!’ to him,” said Antony, breaking
rather appropriately into his thoughts.
Bill looked up at him with a start.
“Nor,” went on Antony, “can you say,
‘This is my friend Mr. Gillingham, who is
staying with you. We were just going to have
a game of bowls.’”
“Yes, it’s dashed difficult. I don’t
know what to say. I’ve been rather forgetting
about Mark.” He wandered over to the window
and looked out on to the lawns. There was
a gardener clipping the grass edges. No reason
why the lawn should be untidy just because
the master of the house had disappeared. It
was going to be a hot day again. Dash it,
of course he had forgotten Mark. How could
he think of him as an escaped murderer, a
fugitive from justice, when everything was
going on just as it did yesterday, and the
sun was shining just as it did when they all
drove off to their golf, only twenty-four
hours ago? How could he help feeling that
this was not real tragedy, but merely a jolly
kind of detective game that he and Antony
were playing?
He turned back to his friend.
“All the same,” he said, “you wanted
to find the passage, and now you’ve found
it. Aren’t you going into it at all?”
Antony took his arm.
“Let’s go outside again,” he said. “We
can’t go into it now, anyhow. It’s too
risky, with Cayley about. Bill, I feel like
you—just a little bit frightened. But what
I’m frightened of I don’t quite know.
Anyway, you want to go on with it, don’t
you?”
“Yes,” said Bill firmly. “We must.”
“Then we’ll explore the passage this afternoon,
if we get the chance. And if we don’t get
the chance, then we’ll try it to-night.”
They walked across the hall and out into the
sunlight again.
“Do you really think we might find Mark
hiding there?” asked Bill.
“It’s possible,” said Antony. “Either
Mark or—” He pulled himself up quickly.
“No,” he murmured to himself, “I won’t
let myself think that—not yet, anyway. It’s
too horrible.”
CHAPTER XII. A
Shadow on the Wall
In the twenty hours or so at his disposal
Inspector Birch had been busy. He had telegraphed
to London a complete description of Mark in
the brown flannel suit which he had last been
seen wearing; he had made inquiries at Stanton
as to whether anybody answering to this description
had been seen leaving by the 4.20; and though
the evidence which had been volunteered to
him had been inconclusive, it made it possible
that Mark had indeed caught that train, and
had arrived in London before the police at
the other end had been ready to receive him.
But the fact that it was market-day at Stanton,
and that the little town would be more full
than usual of visitors, made it less likely
that either the departure of Mark by the 4.20,
or the arrival of Robert by the 2.10 earlier
in the afternoon, would have been particularly
noticed. As Antony had said to Cayley, there
would always be somebody ready to hand the
police a circumstantial story of the movements
of any man in whom the police were interested.
That Robert had come by the 2.10 seemed fairly
certain. To find out more about him in time
for the inquest would be difficult. All that
was known about him in the village where he
and Mark had lived as boys bore out the evidence
of Cayley. He was an unsatisfactory son, and
he had been hurried off to Australia; nor
had he been seen since in the village. Whether
there were any more substantial grounds of
quarrel between the two brothers than that
the younger one was at home and well-to-do,
while the elder was poor and an exile, was
not known, nor, as far as the inspector could
see, was it likely to be known until Mark
was captured.
The discovery of Mark was all that mattered
immediately. Dragging the pond might not help
towards this, but it would certainly give
the impression in court to-morrow that Inspector
Birch was handling the case with zeal. And
if only the revolver with which the deed was
done was brought to the surface, his trouble
would be well repaid. “Inspector Birch produces
the weapon” would make an excellent headline
in the local paper.
He was feeling well-satisfied with himself,
therefore, as he walked to the pond, where
his men were waiting for him, and quite in
the mood for a little pleasant talk with Mr.
Gillingham and his friend, Mr. Beverley. He
gave them a cheerful “Good afternoon,”
and added with a smile, “Coming to help
us?”
“You don’t really want us,” said Antony,
smiling back at him.
“You can come if you like.”
Antony gave a little shudder.
“You can tell me afterwards what you find,”
he said. “By the way,” he added, “I
hope the landlord at ‘The George’ gave
me a good character?”
The Inspector looked at him quickly.
“Now how on earth do you know anything about
that?”
Antony bowed to him gravely.
“Because I guessed that you were a very
efficient member of the Force.”
The inspector laughed.
“Well, you came out all right, Mr. Gillingham.
You got a clean bill. But I had to make certain
about you.
“Of course you did. Well, I wish you luck.
But I don’t think you’ll find much at
the pond. It’s rather out of the way, isn’t
it, for anybody running away?”
“That’s just what I told Mr. Cayley, when
he called my attention to the pond. However,
we shan’t do any harm by looking. It’s
the unexpected that’s the most likely in
this sort of case.”
“You’re quite right, Inspector. Well,
we mustn’t keep you. Good afternoon,”
and Antony smiled pleasantly at him.
“Good afternoon, sir.”
“Good afternoon,” said Bill.
Antony stood looking after the Inspector as
he strode off, silent for so long that Bill
shook him by the arm at last, and asked him
rather crossly what was the matter.
Antony shook his head slowly from side to
side.
“I don’t know; really I don’t know.
It’s too devilish what I keep thinking.
He can’t be as cold-blooded as that.”
“Who?”
Without answering, Antony led the way back
to the garden-seat on which they had been
sitting. He sat there with his head in his
hands.
“Oh, I hope they find something,” he murmured.
“Oh, I hope they do.”
“In the pond?”
“Yes.”
“But what?”
“Anything, Bill; anything.”
Bill was annoyed. “I say, Tony, this won’t
do. You really mustn’t be so damn mysterious.
What’s happened to you suddenly?”
Antony looked up at him in surprise.
“Didn’t you hear what he said?”
“What, particularly?”
“That it was Cayley’s idea to drag the
pond.”
“Oh! Oh, I say!” Bill was rather excited
again. “You mean that he’s hidden something
there? Some false clue which he wants the
police to find?”
“I hope so,” said Antony earnestly, “but
I’m afraid—” He stopped short.
“Afraid of what?”
“Afraid that he hasn’t hidden anything
there. Afraid that—”
“Well?”
“What’s the safest place in which to hide
anything very important?”
“Somewhere where nobody will look.”
“There’s a better place than that.”
“What?”
“Somewhere where everybody has already looked.”
“By Jove! You mean that as soon as the pond
has been dragged, Cayley will hide something
there?”
“Yes, I’m afraid so.”
“But why afraid?”
“Because I think that it must be something
very important, something which couldn’t
easily be hidden anywhere else.”
“What?” asked Bill eagerly.
Antony shook his head.
“No, I’m not going to talk about it yet.
We can wait and see what the Inspector finds.
He may find something—I don’t know what—something
that Cayley has put there for him to find.
But if he doesn’t, then it will be because
Cayley is going to hide something there to-night.”
“What?” asked Bill again.
“You will see what, Bill,” said Antony;
“because we shall be there.”
“Are we going to watch him?”
“Yes, if the Inspector finds nothing.”
“That’s good,” said Bill.
If it were a question of Cayley or the Law,
he was quite decided as to which side he was
taking. Previous to the tragedy of yesterday
he had got on well enough with both of the
cousins, without being in the least intimate
with either. Indeed, of the two he preferred,
perhaps, the silent, solid Cayley to the more
volatile Mark. Cayley’s qualities, as they
appeared to Bill, may have been chiefly negative;
but even if this merit lay in the fact that
he never exposed whatever weaknesses he may
have had, this is an excellent quality in
a fellow-guest (or, if you like, fellow-host)
in a house where one is continually visiting.
Mark’s weaknesses, on the other hand, were
very plain to the eye, and Bill had seen a
good deal of them.
Yet, though he had hesitated to define his
position that morning in regard to Mark, he
did not hesitate to place himself on the side
of the Law against Cayley. Mark, after all,
had done him no harm, but Cayley had committed
an unforgivable offence. Cayley had listened
secretly to a private conversation between
himself and Tony. Let Cayley hang, if the
Law demanded it.
Antony looked at his watch and stood up.
“Come along,” he said. “It’s time
for that job I spoke about.”
“The passage?” said Bill eagerly.
“No; the thing which I said that I had to
do this afternoon.”
“Oh, of course. What is it?”
Without saying anything, Antony led the way
indoors to the office.
It was three o’clock, and at three o’clock
yesterday Antony and Cayley had found the
body. At a few minutes after three, he had
been looking out of the window of the adjoining
room, and had been surprised suddenly to find
the door open and Cayley behind him. He had
vaguely wondered at the time why he had expected
the door to be shut, but he had had no time
then to worry the thing out, and he had promised
himself to look into it at his leisure afterwards.
Possibly it meant nothing; possibly, if it
meant anything, he could have found out its
meaning by a visit to the office that morning.
But he had felt that he would be more likely
to recapture the impressions of yesterday
if he chose as far as possible the same conditions
for his experiment. So he had decided that
three o’clock that afternoon should find
him once more in the office.
As he went into the room, followed by Bill,
he felt it almost as a shock that there was
now no body of Robert lying there between
the two doors. But there was a dark stain
which showed where the dead man’s head had
been, and Antony knelt down over it, as he
had knelt twenty-four hours before.
“I want to go through it again,” he said.
“You must be Cayley. Cayley said he would
get some water. I remember thinking that water
wasn’t much good to a dead man, and that
probably he was only too glad to do anything
rather than nothing. He came back with a wet
sponge and a handkerchief. I suppose he got
the handkerchief from the chest of drawers.
Wait a bit.”
He got up and went into the adjoining room;
looked round it, pulled open a drawer or two,
and, after shutting all the doors, came back
to the office.
“The sponge is there, and there are handkerchiefs
in the top right-hand drawer. Now then, Bill,
just pretend you’re Cayley. You’ve just
said something about water, and you get up.”
Feeling that it was all a little uncanny,
Bill, who had been kneeling beside his friend,
got up and walked out. Antony, as he had done
on the previous day, looked up after him as
he went. Bill turned into the room on the
right, opened the drawer and got the handkerchief,
damped the sponge and came back.
“Well?” he said wonderingly.
Antony shook his head.
“It’s all different,” he said. “For
one thing, you made a devil of a noise and
Cayley didn’t.”
“Perhaps you weren’t listening when Cayley
went in?”
“I wasn’t. But I should have heard him
if I could have heard him, and I should have
remembered afterwards.”
“Perhaps Cayley shut the door after him.”
“Wait!”
He pressed his hand over his eyes and thought.
It wasn’t anything which he had heard, but
something which he had seen. He tried desperately
hard to see it again.... He saw Cayley getting
up, opening the door from the office, leaving
it open and walking into the passage, turning
to the door on the right, opening it, going
in, and then—What did his eyes see after
that? If they would only tell him again!
Suddenly he jumped up, his face alight. “Bill,
I’ve got it!” he cried.
“What?”
“The shadow on the wall! I was looking at
the shadow on the wall. Oh, ass, and ten times
ass!”
Bill looked uncomprehendingly at him. Antony
took his arm and pointed to the wall of the
passage.
“Look at the sunlight on it,” he said.
“That’s because you’ve left the door
of that room open. The sun comes straight
in through the windows. Now, I’m going to
shut the door. Look! D’you see how the shadow
moves across? That’s what I saw—the shadow
moving across as the door shut behind him.
Bill, go in and shut the door behind you—quite
naturally. Quick!”
Bill went out and Antony knelt, watching eagerly.
“I thought so!” he cried. “I knew it
couldn’t have been that.”
“What happened?” said Bill, coming back.
“Just what you would expect. The sunlight
came, and the shadow moved back again—all
in one movement.”
“And what happened yesterday?”
“The sunlight stayed there; and then the
shadow came very slowly back, and there was
no noise of the door being shut.”
Bill looked at him with startled eyes.
“By Jove! You mean that Cayley closed the
door afterwards as an afterthought—and very
quietly—so that you couldn’t hear?”
Antony nodded.
“Yes. That explains why I was surprised
afterwards when I went into the room to find
the door open behind me. You know how those
doors with springs on them close?”
“The sort which old gentlemen have to keep
out draughts?”
“Yes. Just at first they hardly move at
all, and then very, very slowly they swing
to— well, that was the way the shadow moved,
and subconsciously I must have associated
it with the movement of that sort of door.
By Jove!” He got up, and dusted his knees.
“Now, Bill, just to make sure, go in and
close the door like that. As an afterthought,
you know; and very quietly, so that I don’t
hear the click of it.”
Bill did as he was told, and then put his
head out eagerly to hear what had happened.
“That was it,” said Antony, with absolute
conviction. “That was just what I saw yesterday.”
He came out of the office, and joined Bill
in the little room.
“And now,” he said, “let’s try and
find out what it was that Mr. Cayley was doing
in here, and why he had to be so very careful
that his friend Mr. Gillingham didn’t overhear
him.”
CHAPTER XIII. The Open Window
Anthony’s first thought was that Cayley
had hidden something; something, perhaps,
which he had found by the body, but that was
absurd. In the time at his disposal, he could
have done no more than put it away in a drawer,
where it would be much more open to discovery
by Antony than if he had kept it in his pocket.
In any case he would have removed it by this
time, and hidden it in some more secret place.
Besides, why in this case bother about shutting
the door?
Bill pulled open a drawer in the chest, and
looked inside.
“Is it any good going through these, do
you think?” he asked.
Antony looked over his shoulder.
“Why did he keep clothes here at all?”
he asked. “Did he ever change down here?”
“My dear Tony, he had more clothes than
anybody in the world. He just kept them here
in case they might be useful, I expect. When
you and I go from London to the country we
carry our clothes about with us. Mark never
did. In his flat in London he had everything
all over again which he has here. It was a
hobby with him, collecting clothes. If he’d
had half a dozen houses, they would all have
been full of a complete gentleman’s town
and country outfit.”
“I see.”
“Of course, it might be useful sometimes,
when he was busy in the next room, not to
have to go upstairs for a handkerchief or
a more comfortable coat.”
“I see. Yes.” He was walking round the
room as he answered, and he lifted the top
of the linen basket which stood near the wash
basin and glanced in. “He seems to have
come in here for a collar lately.”
Bill peered in. There was one collar at the
bottom of the basket.
“Yes. I daresay he would,” he agreed.
“If he suddenly found that the one he was
wearing was uncomfortable or a little bit
dirty, or something. He was very finicking.”
Antony leant over and picked it out.
“It must have been uncomfortable this time,”
he said, after examining it carefully. “It
couldn’t very well be cleaner.” He dropped
it back again. “Anyway, he did come in here
sometimes?”
“Oh, yes, rather.”
“Yes, but what did Cayley come in for so
secretly?”
“What did he want to shut the door for?”
said Bill. “That’s what I don’t understand.
You couldn’t have seen him, anyhow.”
“No. So it follows that I might have heard
him. He was going to do something which he
didn’t want me to hear.”
“By Jove, that’s it!” said Bill eagerly.
“Yes; but what?”
Bill frowned hopefully to himself, but no
inspiration came.
“Well, let’s have some air, anyway,”
he said at last, exhausted by the effort,
and he went to the window, opened it, and
looked out. Then, struck by an idea, he turned
back to Antony and said, “Do you think I
had better go up to the pond to make sure
that they’re still at it? Because—”
He broke off suddenly at the sight of Antony’s
face.
“Oh, idiot, idiot!” Antony cried. “Oh,
most super-excellent of Watsons! Oh, you lamb,
you blessing! Oh, Gillingham, you incomparable
ass!”
“What on earth—”
“The window, the window!” cried Antony,
pointing to it.
Bill turned back to the window, expecting
it to say something. As it said nothing, he
looked at Antony again.
“He was opening the window!” cried Antony.
“Who?”
“Cayley, of course.” Very gravely and
slowly he expounded. “He came in here in
order to open the window. He shut the door
so that I shouldn’t hear him open the window.
He opened the window. I came in here and found
the window open. I said, ‘This window is
open. My amazing powers of analysis tell me
that the murderer must have escaped by this
window.’ ‘Oh,’ said Cayley, raising
his eyebrows. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘I suppose
you must be right.’ Said I proudly, ‘I
am. For the window is open,’ I said. Oh,
you incomparable ass!”
He understood now. It explained so much that
had been puzzling him.
He tried to put himself in Cayley’s place—Cayley,
when Antony had first discovered him, hammering
at the door and crying, “Let me in!” Whatever
had happened inside the office, whoever had
killed Robert, Cayley knew all about it, and
knew that Mark was not inside, and had not
escaped by the window. But it was necessary
to Cayley’s plans—to Mark’s plans if
they were acting in concert—that he should
be thought so to have escaped. At some time,
then, while he was hammering (the key in his
pocket) at the locked door, he must suddenly
have remembered—with what a shock!—that
a mistake had been made. A window had not
been left open!
Probably it would just have been a horrible
doubt at first. Was the office window open?
Surely it was open! Was it?.... Would he have
time now to unlock the door, slip in, open
the French windows and slip out again? No.
At any moment the servants might come. It
was too risky. Fatal, if he were discovered.
But servants were stupid. He could get the
windows safely open while they were crowding
round the body. They wouldn’t notice. He
could do it somehow.
And then Antony’s sudden appearance! Here
was a complication. And Antony suggesting
that they should try the window! Why, the
window was just what he wanted to avoid. No
wonder he had seemed dazed at first.
Ah, and here at last was the explanation why
they had gone the longest way round and yet
run. It was Cayley’s only chance of getting
a start on Antony, of getting to the windows
first, of working them open somehow before
Antony caught him up. Even if that were impossible,
he must get there first, just to make sure.
Perhaps they were open. He must get away from
Antony and see. And if they were shut, hopelessly
shut, then he must have a moment to himself,
a moment in which to think of some other plan,
and avoid the ruin which seemed so suddenly
to be threatening.
So he had run. But Antony had kept up with
him. They had broken in the window together,
and gone into the office. But Cayley was not
done yet. There was the dressing-room window!
But quietly, quietly. Antony mustn’t hear.
And Antony didn’t hear. Indeed, he had played
up to Cayley splendidly. Not only had he called
attention to the open window, but he had carefully
explained to Cayley why Mark had chosen this
particular window in preference to the office
window. And Cayley had agreed that probably
that was the reason. How he must have chuckled
to himself! But he was still a little afraid.
Afraid that Antony would examine the shrubbery.
Why? Obviously because there was no trace
of anyone having broken through the shrubbery.
No doubt Cayley had provided the necessary
traces since, and had helped the Inspector
to find them. Had he even gone as far as footmarks
in Mark’s shoes? But the ground was very
hard. Perhaps footmarks were not necessary.
Antony smiled as he thought of the big Cayley
trying to squeeze into the dapper little Mark’s
shoes. Cayley must have been glad that footmarks
were not necessary.
No, the open window was enough; the open window
and a broken twig or two. But quietly, quietly.
Antony mustn’t hear. And Antony had not
heard.... But he had seen a shadow on the
wall.
They were outside on the lawn again now, Bill
and Antony, and Bill was listening open-mouthed
to his friend’s theory of yesterday’s
happenings. It fitted in, it explained things,
but it did not get them any further. It only
gave them another mystery to solve.
“What’s that?” said Antony.
“Mark. Where’s Mark? If he never went
into the office at all, then where is he now?”
“I don’t say that he never went into the
office. In fact, he must have gone. Elsie
heard him.” He stopped and repeated slowly,
“She heard him, at least she says she did.
But if he was there, he came out again by
the door.”
“Well, but where does that lead you?”
“Where it led Mark. The passage.”
“Do you mean that he’s been hiding there
all the time?” Antony was silent until Bill
had repeated his question, and then with an
effort he came out of his thoughts and answered
him.
“I don’t know. But look here. Here is
a possible explanation. I don’t know if
it is the right one—I don’t know, Bill;
I’m rather frightened. Frightened of what
may have happened, of what may be going to
happen. However, here is an explanation. See
if you can find any fault with it.”
With his legs stretched out and his hands
deep in his pockets, he lay back on the garden-seat,
looking up to the blue summer sky above him,
and just as if he saw up there the events
of yesterday being enacted over again, he
described them slowly to Bill as they happened.
“We’ll begin at the moment when Mark shoots
Robert. Call it an accident; probably it was.
Mark would say it was, anyhow. He is in a
panic, naturally. But he doesn’t lock the
door and run away. For one thing, the key
is on the outside of the door; for another,
he is not quite such a fool as that. But he
is in a horrible position. He is known to
be on bad terms with his brother; he has just
uttered some foolish threat to him, which
may possibly have been overheard. What is
he to do? He does the natural thing, the thing
which Mark would always do in such circumstances.
He consults Cayley, the invaluable, inevitable
Cayley.
“Cayley is just outside, Cayley must have
heard the shot, Cayley will tell him what
to do. He opens the door just as Cayley is
coming to see what is the matter. He explains
rapidly. ‘What’s to be done, Cay? What’s
to be done? It was an accident. I swear it
was an accident. He threatened me. He would
have shot me if I hadn’t. Think of something,
quick!’
“Cayley has thought of something. ‘Leave
it to me,’ he says. ‘You clear out altogether.
I shot him, if you like. I’ll do all the
explaining. Get away. Hide. Nobody saw you
go in. Into the passage, quick. I’ll come
to you there as soon as I can.’
“Good Cayley. Faithful Cayley! Mark’s
courage comes back. Cayley will explain all
right. Cayley will tell the servants that
it was an accident. He will ring up the police.
Nobody will suspect Cayley—Cayley has no
quarrel with Robert. And then Cayley will
come into the passage and tell him that it
is all right, and Mark will go out by the
other end, and saunter slowly back to the
house. He will be told the news by one of
the servants. Robert accidentally shot? Good
Heavens!
“So, greatly reassured, Mark goes into the
library. And Cayley goes to the door of the
office.... and locks it. And then he bangs
on the door and shouts, ‘Let me in!’”
Antony was silent. Bill looked at him and
shook his head.
“Yes, Tony, but that doesn’t make sense.
What’s the point of Cayley behaving like
that?”
Antony shrugged his shoulders without answering.
“And what has happened to Mark since?”
Antony shrugged his shoulders again.
“Well, the sooner we go into that passage,
the better,” said Bill.
“You’re ready to go?”
“Quite,” said Bill, surprised.
“You’re quite ready for what we may find?”
“You’re being dashed mysterious, old boy.”
“I know I am.” He gave a little laugh,
and went on, “Perhaps I’m being an ass,
just a melodramatic ass. Well, I hope I am.”
He looked at his watch.
“It’s safe, is it? They’re still busy
at the pond?”
“We’d better make certain. Could you be
a sleuthhound, Bill—one of those that travel
on their stomachs very noiselessly? I mean,
could you get near enough to the pond to make
sure that Cayley is still there, without letting
him see you?”
“Rather!” He got up eagerly. “You wait.”
Antony’s head shot up suddenly. “Why,
that was what Mark said,” he cried.
“Mark?”
“Yes. What Elsie heard him say.”
“Oh, that.”
“Yes I suppose she couldn’t have made
a mistake, Bill? She did hear him?”
“She couldn’t have mistaken his voice,
if that’s what you mean.”
“Oh?”
“Mark had an extraordinary characteristic
voice.”
“Oh!”
“Rather high-pitched, you know, and well,
one can’t explain, but—”
“Yes?”
“Well, rather like this, you know, or even
more so if anything.” He rattled these words
off in Mark’s rather monotonous, high-pitched
voice, and then laughed, and added in his
natural voice, “I say, that was really rather
good.”
Antony nodded quickly. “That was like it?”
he said.
“Exactly.”
“Yes.” He got up and squeezed Bill’s
arm. “Well just go and see about Cayley,
and then we’ll get moving. I shall be in
the library.”
“Right.”
Bill nodded and walked off in the direction
of the pond. This was glorious fun; this was
life. The immediate programme could hardly
be bettered. First of all he was going to
stalk Cayley. There was a little copse above
the level of the pond, and about a hundred
yards away from it. He would come into this
from the back, creep cautiously through it,
taking care that no twigs cracked, and then,
drawing himself on his stomach to the edge,
peer down upon the scene below him. People
were always doing that sort of thing in books,
and he had been filled with a hopeless envy
of them; well, now he was actually going to
do it himself. What fun!
And then, when he had got back unobserved
to the house and reported to Antony, they
were going to explore the secret passage!
Again, what fun! Unfortunately there seemed
to be no chance of buried treasure, but there
might be buried clues. Even if you found nothing,
you couldn’t get away from the fact that
a secret passage was a secret passage, and
anything might happen in it. But even that
wasn’t the end of this exciting day. They
were going to watch the pond that night; they
were going to watch Cayley under the moonlight,
watch him as he threw into the silence of
the pond what? The revolver? Well, anyhow,
they were going to watch him. What fun!
To Antony, who was older and who realized
into what deep waters they were getting, it
did not seem fun. But it was amazingly interesting.
He saw so much, and yet somehow it was all
out of focus. It was like looking at an opal,
and discovering with every movement of it
some new colour, some new gleam of light reflected,
and yet never really seeing the opal as a
whole. He was too near it, or too far away;
he strained his eyes and he relaxed his eyes;
it was no good. His brain could not get hold
of it.
But there were moments when he almost had
it.... and then turned away from it. He had
seen more of life than Bill, but he had never
seen murder before, and this which was in
his mind now, and to which he was afraid to
listen, was not just the hot-blooded killing
which any man may come to if he lose control.
It was something much more horrible. Too horrible
to be true. Then let him look again for the
truth. He looked again but it was all out
of focus.
“I will not look again,” he said aloud,
as he began to walk towards the house. “Not
yet, anyway.” He would go on collecting
facts and impressions. Perhaps the one fact
would come along, by itself which would make
everything clear.
CHAPTER XIV. Mr. Beverley Qualifies for the
Stage
Bill had come back, and had reported, rather
breathless, that Cayley was still at the pond.
“But I don’t think they’re getting up
much except mud,” he said. “I ran most
of the way back so as to give us as much time
as possible.”
Antony nodded.
“Well, come along, then,” he said. “The
sooner, the quicker.”
They stood in front of the row of sermons.
Antony took down the Reverend Theodore Ussher’s
famous volume, and felt for the spring. Bill
pulled. The shelves swung open towards them.
“By Jove!” said Bill, “it is a narrow
way.”
There was an opening about a yard square in
front of them, which had something the look
of a brick fireplace, a fireplace raised about
two feet from the ground. But, save for one
row of bricks in front, the floor of it was
emptiness. Antony took a torch from his pocket
and flashed it down into the blackness.
“Look,” he whispered to the eager Bill.
“The steps begin down there. Six feet down.”
He flashed his torch up again. There was a
handhold of iron, a sort of large iron staple,
in the bricks in front of them.
“You swing off from there,” said Bill.
“At least, I suppose you do. I wonder how
Ruth Norris liked doing it.”
“Cayley helped her, I should think.... It’s
funny.”
“Shall I go first?” asked Bill, obviously
longing to do so. Antony shook his head with
a smile.
“I think I will, if you don’t mind very
much, Bill. Just in case.”
“In case of what?”
“Well, in case.”
Bill, had to be content with that, but he
was too much excited to wonder what Antony
meant.
“Righto,” he said. “Go on.”
“Well, we’ll just make sure we can get
back again, first. It really wouldn’t be
fair on the Inspector if we got stuck down
here for the rest of our lives. He’s got
enough to do trying to find Mark, but if he
has to find you and me as well—”
“We can always get out at the other end.”
“Well, we’re not certain yet. I think
I’d better just go down and back. I promise
faithfully not to explore.”
“Right you are.”
Antony sat down on the ledge of bricks, swung
his feet over, and sat there for a moment,
his legs dangling. He flashed his torch into
the darkness again, so as to make sure where
the steps began; then returned it to his pocket,
seized the staple in front of him and swung
himself down. His feet touched the steps beneath
him, and he let go.
“Is it all right?” said Bill anxiously.
“All right. I’ll just go down to the bottom
of the steps and back. Stay there.”
The light shone down by his feet. His head
began to disappear. For a little while Bill,
craning down the opening, could still see
faint splashes of light, and could hear slow
uncertain footsteps; for a little longer he
could fancy that he saw and heard them; then
he was alone....
Well, not quite alone. There was a sudden
voice in the hall outside.
“Good Lord!” said Bill, turning round
with a start, “Cayley!”
If he was not so quick in thought as Antony,
he was quick enough in action. Thought was
not demanded now. To close the secret door
safely but noiselessly, to make sure that
the books were in the right places, to move
away to another row of shelves so as to be
discovered deep in “Badminton” or “Baedeker”
or whomever the kind gods should send to his
aid the difficulty was not to decide what
to do, but to do all this in five seconds
rather than in six.
“Ah, there you are,” said Cayley from
the doorway.
“Hallo!” said Bill, in surprise, looking
up from the fourth volume of “The Life and
Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge.” “Have
they finished?”
“Finished what?”
“The pond,” said Bill, wondering why he
was reading Coleridge on such a fine afternoon.
Desperately he tried to think of a good reason....
verifying a quotation—an argument with Antony—that
would do. But what quotation?
“Oh, no. They’re still at it. Where’s
Gillingham?”
‘The Ancient Mariner’—water, water,
everywhere—or was that something else? And
where was Gillingham? Water, water everywhere...
“Tony? Oh, he’s about somewhere. We’re
just going down to the village. They aren’t
finding anything at the pond, are they?”
“No. But they like doing it. Something off
their minds when they can say they’ve done
it.”
Bill, deep in his book, looked up and said
“Yes,” and went back to it again. He was
just getting to the place.
“What’s the book?” said Cayley, coming
up to him. Out of the corner of his eye he
glanced at the shelf of sermons as he came.
Bill saw that glance and wondered. Was there
anything there to give away the secret?
“I was just looking up a quotation,” he
drawled. “Tony and I had a bet about it.
You know that thing about—er water, water
everywhere, and—er—not a drop to drink.”
(But what on earth, he wondered to himself,
were they betting about?)
“‘Nor any drop to drink,’ to be accurate.”
Bill looked at him in surprise. Then a happy
smile came on his face.
“Quite sure?” he said.
“Of course.”
“Then you’ve saved me a lot of trouble.
That’s what the bet was about.” He closed
the book with a slam, put it back in its shelf,
and began to feel for his pipe and tobacco.
“I was a fool to bet with Tony,” he added.
“He always knows that sort of thing.”
So far, so good. But here was Cayley still
in the library, and there was Antony, all
unsuspecting, in the passage. When Antony
came back he would not be surprised to find
the door closed, because the whole object
of his going had been to see if he could open
it easily from the inside. At any moment,
then, the bookshelf might swing back and show
Antony’s head in the gap. A nice surprise
for Cayley!
“Come with us?” he said casually, as he
struck a match. He pulled vigorously at the
flame as he waited for the answer, hoping
to hide his anxiety, for if Cayley assented,
he was done.
“I’ve got to go into Stanton.”
Bill blew out a great cloud of smoke with
an expiration which covered also a heartfelt
sigh of relief.
“Oh, a pity. You’re driving, I suppose?”
“Yes. The car will be here directly. There’s
a letter I must write first.” He sat down
at a writing table, and took out a sheet of
notepaper.
He was facing the secret door; if it opened
he would see it. At any moment now it might
open.
Bill dropped into a chair and thought. Antony
must be warned. Obviously. But how? How did
one signal to anybody? By code. Morse code.
Did Antony know it? Did Bill know it himself,
if it came to that? He had picked up a bit
in the Army—not enough to send a message,
of course. But a message was impossible, anyhow;
Cayley would hear him tapping it out. It wouldn’t
do to send more than a single letter. What
letters did he know? And what letter would
convey anything to Antony?.... He pulled at
his pipe, his eyes wandering from Cayley at
his desk to the Reverend Theodore Ussher in
his shelf. What letter?
C for Cayley. Would Antony understand? Probably
not, but it was just worth trying. What was
C? Long, short, long, short. Umpty-iddy-umpty-iddy.
Was that right? C yes, that was C. He was
sure of that. C. Umpty-iddy-umpty-iddy.
Hands in pockets, he got up and wandered across
the room, humming vaguely to himself, the
picture of a man waiting for another man (as
it might be his friend Gillingham) to come
in and take him away for a walk or something.
He wandered across to the books at the back
of Cayley, and began to tap absent-mindedly
on the shelves, as he looked at the titles.
Umpty-iddy-umpty-iddy. Not that it was much
like that at first; he couldn’t get the
rhythm of it.... Umpt-y-iddy-umpt-y-iddy.
That was better. He was back at Samuel Taylor
Coleridge now. Antony would begin to hear
him soon. Umpt-y-iddy-umpt-y-iddy; just the
aimless tapping of a man who is wondering
what book he will take out with him to read
on the lawn. Would Antony hear? One always
heard the man in the next flat knocking out
his pipe. Would Antony understand? Umpt-y-iddy-umpt-y-iddy.
C. for Cayley, Antony. Cayley’s here. For
God’s sake, wait.
“Good Lord! Sermons!” said Bill, with
a loud laugh. (Umpt-y-iddy-umpt-y-iddy) “Ever
read ‘em, Cayley?”
“What?” Cayley looked up suddenly. Bill’s
back moved slowly along, his fingers beating
a tattoo on the shelves as he walked.
“Er no,” said Cayley, with a little laugh.
An awkward, uncomfortable little laugh, it
seemed to Bill.
“Nor do I.” He was past the sermons now
past the secret door but still tapping in
the same aimless way.
“Oh, for God’s sake sit down,” burst
out Cayley. “Or go outside if you want to
walk about.”
Bill turned round in astonishment.
“Hallo, what’s the matter?”
Cayley was slightly ashamed of his outburst.
“Sorry, Bill,” he apologized. “My nerves
are on edge. Your constant tapping and fidgeting
about—”
“Tapping?” said Bill with an air of complete
surprise.
“Tapping on the shelves, and humming. Sorry.
It got on my nerves.”
“My dear old chap, I’m awfully sorry.
I’ll go out in the hall.”
“It’s all right,” said Cayley, and went
on with his letter. Bill sat down in his chair
again. Had Antony understood? Well, anyhow,
there was nothing to do now but wait for Cayley
to go. “And if you ask me,” said Bill
to himself, much pleased, “I ought to be
on the stage. That’s where I ought to be.
The complete actor.”
A minute, two minutes, three minutes.... five
minutes. It was safe now. Antony had guessed.
“Is the car there?” asked Cayley, as he
sealed up his letter.
Bill strolled into the hall, called back “Yes,”
and went out to talk to the chauffeur. Cayley
joined him, and they stood there for a moment.
“Hallo,” said a pleasant voice behind
them. They turned round and saw Antony.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Bill.”
With a tremendous effort Bill restrained his
feelings, and said casually enough that it
was all right.
“Well, I must be off,” said Cayley. “You’re
going down to the village?”
“That’s the idea.”
“I wonder if you’d take this letter to
Jallands for me?”
“Of course.”
“Thanks very much. Well, I shall see you
later.”
He nodded and got into the car.
As soon as they were alone Bill turned eagerly
to his friend.
“Well?” he said excitedly.
“Come into the library.”
They went in, and Tony sank down into a chair.
“You must give me a moment,” he panted.
“I’ve been running.”
“Running?”
“Well, of course. How do you think I got
back here?”
“You don’t mean you went out at the other
end?”
Antony nodded.
“I say, did you hear me tapping?”
“I did, indeed. Bill, you’re a genius.”
Bill blushed.
“I knew you’d understand,” he said.
“You guessed that I meant Cayley?”
“I did. It was the least I could do after
you had been so brilliant. You must have had
rather an exciting time.”
“Exciting? Good Lord, I should think it
was.”
“Tell me about it.”
As modestly as possible, Mr. Beverley explained
his qualifications for a life on the stage.
“Good man,” said Antony at the end of
it. “You are the most perfect Watson that
ever lived. Bill, my lad,” he went on dramatically,
rising and taking Bill’s hand in both of
his, “There is nothing that you and I could
not accomplish together, if we gave our minds
to it.”
“Silly old ass.”
“That’s what you always say when I’m
being serious. Well, anyway, thanks awfully.
You really saved us this time.”
“Were you coming back?”
“Yes. At least I think I was. I was just
wondering when I heard you tapping. The fact
of the door being shut was rather surprising.
Of course the whole idea was to see if it
could be opened easily from the other side,
but I felt somehow that you wouldn’t shut
it until the last possible moment—until
you saw me coming back. Well, then I heard
the taps, and I knew it must mean something,
so I sat tight. Then when C began to come
along I said, ‘Cayley, b’Jove’—bright,
aren’t I?—and I simply hared to the other
end of the passage for all I was worth. And
hared back again. Because I thought you might
be getting rather involved in explanations—about
where I was, and so on.”
“You didn’t see Mark, then?”
“No. Nor his—No, I didn’t see anything.”
“Nor what?”
Antony was silent for a moment.
“I didn’t see anything, Bill. Or rather,
I did see something; I saw a door in the wall,
a cupboard. And it’s locked. So if there’s
anything we want to find, that’s where it
is.”
“Could Mark be hiding there?”
“I called through the keyhole in a whisper
‘Mark, are you there?’ he would have thought
it was Cayley. There was no answer.
“Well, let’s go down and try again. We
might be able to get the door open.”
Antony shook his head.
“Aren’t I going at all?” said Bill in
great disappointment.
When Antony spoke, it was to ask another question:
“Can Cayley drive a car?”
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“Then he might easily drop the chauffeur
at his lodge and go off to Stanton, or wherever
he wanted to, on his own?”
“I suppose so if he wanted to.”
“Yes.” Antony got up. “Well, look here,
as we said we were going into the village,
and as we promised to leave that letter, I
almost think we’d better do it.”
“Oh!.... Oh, very well.”
“Jallands. What were you telling me about
that? Oh, yes; the Widow Norbury.”
“That’s right. Cayley used to be rather
keen on the daughter. The letter’s for her.”
“Yes; well, let’s take it. Just to be
on the safe side.”
“Am I going to be done out of that secret
passage altogether?” asked Bill fretfully.
“There’s nothing to see, really, I promise
you.”
“You’re very mysterious. What’s upset
you? You did see something down there, I’m
certain of it.”
“I did and I’ve told you about it.”
“No, you haven’t. You only told me about
the door in the wall.”
“That’s it, Bill. And it’s locked. And
I’m frightened of what’s behind it.”
“But then we shall never know what’s there
if we aren’t going to look.”
“We shall know to-night,” said Antony,
taking Bill’s arm and leading him to the
hall, “when we watch our dear friend Cayley
dropping it into the pond.”
CHAPTER XV. Mrs. Norbury Confides in Dear
Mr. Gillingham
They left the road, and took the path across
the fields which sloped gently downwards towards
Jallands. Antony was silent, and since it
is difficult to keep up a conversation with
a silent man for any length of time, Bill
had dropped into silence too. Or rather, he
hummed to himself, hit at thistles in the
grass with his stick and made uncomfortable
noises with his pipe. But he noticed that
his companion kept looking back over his shoulder,
almost as if he wanted to remember for a future
occasion the way by which they were coming.
Yet there was no difficulty about it, for
they remained all the time in view of the
road, and the belt of trees above the long
park wall which bordered its further side
stood out clearly against the sky.
Antony, who had just looked round again, turned
back with a smile.
“What’s the joke?” said Bill, glad of
the more social atmosphere.
“Cayley. Didn’t you see?”
“See what?”
“The car. Going past on the road there.”
“So that’s what you were looking for.
You’ve got jolly good eyes, my boy, if you
recognize the car at this distance after only
seeing it twice.”
“Well, I have got jolly good eyes.”
“I thought he was going to Stanton.”
“He hoped you’d think so obviously.”
“Then where is he going?”
“The library, probably. To consult our friend
Ussher. After making quite sure that his friends
Beverley and Gillingham really were going
to Jallands, as they said.”
Bill stopped suddenly in the middle of the
path.
“I say, do you think so?”
Antony shrugged his shoulders.
“I shouldn’t be surprised. We must be
devilishly inconvenient for him, hanging about
the house. Any moment he can get, when we’re
definitely somewhere else, must be very useful
to him.”
“Useful for what?”
“Well, useful for his nerves, if for nothing
else. We know he’s mixed up in this business;
we know he’s hiding a secret or two. Even
if he doesn’t suspect that we’re on his
tracks, he must feel that at any moment we
might stumble on something.”
Bill gave a grunt of assent, and they went
slowly on again.
“What about to-night?” he said, after
a lengthy blow at his pipe.
“Try a piece of grass,” said Antony, offering
it to him. Bill pushed it through the mouthpiece,
blew again, said, “That’s better,” and
returned the pipe to his pocket.
“How are we going to get out without Cayley
knowing?”
“Well, that wants thinking over. It’s
going to be difficult. I wish we were sleeping
at the inn.... Is this Miss Norbury, by any
chance?”
Bill looked up quickly. They were close to
Jallands now, an old thatched farmhouse which,
after centuries of sleep, had woken up to
a new world, and had forthwith sprouted wings;
wings, however, of so discreet a growth that
they had not brought with them any obvious
change of character, and Jallands even with
a bathroom was still Jallands. To the outward
view, at any rate. Inside, it was more clearly
Mrs. Norbury’s.
“Yes—Angela Norbury,” murmured Bill.
“Not bad-looking, is she?”
The girl who stood by the little white gate
of Jallands was something more than “not
bad-looking,” but in this matter Bill was
keeping his superlatives for another. In Bill’s
eyes she must be judged, and condemned, by
all that distinguished her from Betty Calladine.
To Antony, unhampered by these standards of
comparison, she seemed, quite simply, beautiful.
“Cayley asked us to bring a letter along,”
explained Bill, when the necessary handshakings
and introductions were over. “Here you are.”
“You will tell him, won’t you, how dreadfully
sorry I am about what has happened? It seems
so hopeless to say anything; so hopeless even
to believe it. If it is true what we’ve
heard.”
Bill repeated the outline of events of yesterday.
“Yes.... And Mr. Ablett hasn’t been found
yet?” She shook her head in distress. “It
still seems to have happened to somebody else;
somebody we didn’t know at all.” Then,
with a sudden grave smile which included both
of them, “But you must come and have some
tea.”
“It’s awfully decent of you,” said Bill
awkwardly, “but we—er—”
“You will, won’t you?” she said to Antony.
“Thank you very much.”
Mrs. Norbury was delighted to see them, as
she always was to see any man in her house
who came up to the necessary standard of eligibility.
When her life-work was completed, and summed
up in those beautiful words: “A marriage
has been arranged, and will shortly take place,
between Angela, daughter of the late John
Norbury....” then she would utter a grateful
Nunc dimittis and depart in peace to a better
world, if Heaven insisted, but preferably
to her new son-in-law’s more dignified establishment.
For there was no doubt that eligibility meant
not only eligibility as a husband.
But it was not as “eligibles” that the
visitors from the Red House were received
with such eagerness to-day, and even if her
special smile for “possibles” was there,
it was instinctive rather than reasoned. All
that she wanted at this moment was news—news
of Mark. For she was bringing it off at last;
and, if the engagement columns of the “Morning
Post” were preceded, as in the case of its
obituary columns, by a premonitory bulletin,
the announcement of yesterday would have cried
triumphantly to the world, or to such part
of the world as mattered: “A marriage has
very nearly been arranged (by Mrs. Norbury),
and will certainly take place, between Angela,
only daughter of the late John Norbury, and—Mark
Ablett of the Red House.” And, coming across
it on his way to the sporting page, Bill would
have been surprised. For he had thought that,
if anybody, it was Cayley.
To the girl it was neither. She was often
amused by her mother’s ways; sometimes ashamed
of them; sometimes distressed by them. The
Mark Ablett affair had seemed to her particularly
distressing, for Mark was so obviously in
league with her mother against her. Other
suitors, upon whom her mother had smiled,
had been embarrassed by that championship;
Mark appeared to depend on it as much as on
his own attractions; great though he thought
these to be. They went a-wooing together.
It was a pleasure to turn to Cayley, that
hopeless ineligible.
But alas! Cayley had misunderstood her. She
could not imagine Cayley in love until she
saw it, and tried, too late, to stop it. That
was four days ago. She had not seen him since,
and now here was this letter. She dreaded
opening it. It was a relief to feel that at
least she had an excuse for not doing so while
her guests were in the house.
Mrs. Norbury recognized at once that Antony
was likely to be the more sympathetic listener;
and when tea was over, and Bill and Angela
had been dispatched to the garden with the
promptness and efficiency of the expert, dear
Mr. Gillingham found himself on the sofa beside
her, listening to many things which were of
even greater interest to him than she could
possibly have hoped.
“It is terrible, terrible,” she said.
“And to suggest that dear Mr. Ablett—”
Antony made suitable noises.
“You’ve seen Mr. Ablett for yourself.
A kinder, more warmhearted man—”
Antony explained that he had not seen Mr.
Ablett.
“Of course, yes, I was forgetting. But,
believe me, Mr. Gillingham, you can trust
a woman’s intuition in these matters.”
Antony said that he was sure of this.
“Think of my feelings as a mother.”
Antony was thinking of Miss Norbury’s feelings
as a daughter, and wondering if she guessed
that her affairs were now being discussed
with a stranger. Yet what could he do? What,
indeed, did he want to do except listen, in
the hope of learning? Mark engaged, or about
to be engaged! Had that any bearing on the
events of yesterday? What, for instance, would
Mrs. Norbury have thought of brother Robert,
that family skeleton? Was this another reason
for wanting brother Robert out of the way?
“I never liked him, never!”
“Never liked?” said Antony, bewildered.
“That cousin of his, Mr. Cayley.”
“Oh!”
“I ask you, Mr. Gillingham, am I the sort
of woman to trust my little girl to a man
who would go about shooting his only brother?”
“I’m sure you wouldn’t, Mrs. Norbury.”
“If there has been any shooting done, it
has been done by somebody else.”
Antony looked at her inquiringly.
“I never liked him,” said Mrs. Norbury
firmly. “Never.” However, thought Antony
to himself, that didn’t quite prove that
Cayley was a murderer.
“How did Miss Norbury get on with him?”
he asked cautiously.
“There was nothing in that at all,” said
Miss Norbury’s mother emphatically. “Nothing.
I would say so to anybody.”
“Oh, I beg your pardon. I never meant—”
“Nothing. I can say that for dear Angela
with perfect confidence. Whether he made advances—”
She broke off with a shrug of her plump shoulders.
Antony waited eagerly.
“Naturally they met. Possibly he might have—I
don’t know. But my duty as a mother was
clear, Mr. Gillingham.”
Mr. Gillingham made an encouraging noise.
“I told him quite frankly that—how shall
I put it?—that he was trespassing. Tactfully,
of course. But frankly.”
“You mean,” said Antony, trying to speak
calmly, “that you told him that—er—Mr.
Ablett and your daughter—?”
Mrs. Norbury nodded several times.
“Exactly, Mr. Gillingham. I had my duty
as a mother.”
“I am sure, Mrs. Norbury, that nothing would
keep you from doing your duty. But it must
have been disagreeable. Particularly if you
weren’t quite sure—”
“He was attracted, Mr. Gillingham. Obviously
attracted.”
“Who would not be?” said Antony, with
a charming smile. “It must have been something
of a shock to him to—”
“It was just that which made me so glad
that I had spoken. I saw at once that I had
not spoken a moment too soon.”
“There must have been a certain awkwardness
about the next meeting,” suggested Antony.
“Naturally, he has not been here since.
No doubt they would have been bound to meet
up at the Red House sooner or later.”
“Oh,—this was only quite lately?”
“Last week, Mr. Gillingham. I spoke just
in time.”
“Ah!” said Antony, under his breath. He
had been waiting for it.
He would have liked now to have gone away,
so that he might have thought over the new
situation by himself; or, perhaps preferably,
to have changed partners for a little while
with Bill. Miss Norbury would hardly be ready
to confide in a stranger with the readiness
of a mother, but he might have learnt something
by listening to her. For which of them had
she the greater feeling, Cayley or Mark? Was
she really prepared to marry Mark? Did she
love him or the other—or neither? Mrs. Norbury
was only a trustworthy witness in regard to
her own actions and thoughts; he had learnt
all that was necessary of those, and only
the daughter now had anything left to tell
him. But Mrs. Norbury was still talking.
“Girls are so foolish, Mr. Gillingham,”
she was saying. “It is fortunate that they
have mothers to guide them. It was so obvious
to me from the beginning that dear Mr. Ablett
was just the husband for my little girl. You
never knew him?”
Antony said again that he had not seen Mr.
Ablett.
“Such a gentleman. So nice-looking, in his
artistic way. A regular Velasquez—I should
say Van Dyck. Angela would have it that she
could never marry a man with a beard. As if
that mattered, when—” She broke off, and
Antony finished her sentence for her.
“The Red House is certainly charming,”
he said.
“Charming. Quite charming. And it is not
as if Mr. Ablett’s appearance were in any
way undistinguished. Quite the contrary. I’m
sure you agree with me?”
Antony said that he had never had the pleasure
of seeing Mr. Ablett.
“Yes. And quite the centre of the literary
and artistic world. So desirable in every
way.”
She gave a deep sigh, and communed with herself
for a little. Antony was about to snatch the
opportunity of leaving, when Mrs. Norbury
began again.
“And then there’s this scapegrace brother
of his. He was perfectly frank with me, Mr.
Gillingham. He would be. He told me of this
brother, and I told him that I was quite certain
it would make no difference to my daughter’s
feelings for him.... After all, the brother
was in Australia.”
“When was this? Yesterday?” Antony felt
that, if Mark had only mentioned it after
his brother’s announcement of a personal
call at the Red House, this perfect frankness
had a good deal of wisdom behind it.
“It couldn’t have been yesterday, Mr.
Gillingham. Yesterday—” she shuddered,
and shook her head.
“I thought perhaps he had been down here
in the morning.”
“Oh, no! There is such a thing, Mr. Gillingham,
as being too devoted a lover. Not in the morning,
no. We both agreed that dear Angela—Oh,
no. No; the day before yesterday, when he
happened to drop in about tea-time.”
It occurred to Antony that Mrs. Norbury had
come a long way from her opening statement
that Mark and Miss Norbury were practically
engaged. She was now admitting that dear Angela
was not to be rushed, that dear Angela had,
indeed, no heart for the match at all.
“The day before yesterday. As it happened,
dear Angela was out. Not that it mattered.
He was driving to Middleston. He hardly had
time for a cup of tea, so that even if she
had been in—”
Antony nodded absently. This was something
new. Why did Mark go to Middleston the day
before yesterday? But, after all, why shouldn’t
he? A hundred reasons unconnected with the
death of Robert might have taken him there.
He got up to go. He wanted to be alone—alone,
at least, with Bill. Mrs. Norbury had given
him many things to think over, but the great
outstanding fact which had emerged was this:
that Cayley had reason to hate Mark,—Mrs.
Norbury had given him that reason. To hate?
Well, to be jealous, anyhow. But that was
enough.
“You see,” he said to Bill, as they walked
back, “we know that Cayley is perjuring
himself and risking himself over this business,
and that must be for one of two reasons. Either
to save Mark or to endanger him. That is to
say, he is either whole-heartedly for him
or whole-heartedly against him. Well, now
we know that he is against him, definitely
against him.”
“But, I say, you know,” protested Bill,
“one doesn’t necessarily try to ruin one’s
rival in love.”
“Doesn’t one?” said Antony, turning
to him with a smile.
Bill blushed.
“Well, of course, one never knows, but I
mean—”
“You mightn’t try to ruin him, Bill, but
you wouldn’t perjure yourself in order to
get him out of a trouble of his own making.”
“Lord! no.”
“So that of the two alternatives the other
is the more likely.”
They had come to the gate into the last field
which divided them from the road, and having
gone through it, they turned round and leant
against it, resting for a moment, and looking
down at the house which they had left.
“Jolly little place, isn’t it?” said
Bill.
“Very. But rather mysterious.”
“In what way?”
“Well, where’s the front door?”
“The front door? Why, you’ve just come
out of it.”
“But isn’t there a drive, or a road or
anything?”
Bill laughed.
“No; that’s the beauty of it to some people.
And that’s why it’s so cheap, and why
the Norburys can afford it, I expect. They’re
not too well off.”
“But what about luggage and tradesmen and
that kind of thing?”
“Oh, there’s a cart-track, but motor-cars
can’t come any nearer than the road” he
turned round and pointed “up there. So the
week-end millionaire people don’t take it.
At least, they’d have to build a road and
a garage and all the rest of it, if they did.”
“I see,” said Antony carelessly, and they
turned round and continued their walk up to
the road. But later on he remembered this
casual conversation at the gate, and saw the
importance of it.
CHAPTER XVI. Getting Ready for the Night
What was it which Cayley was going to hide
in that pond that night? Antony thought that
he knew now. It was Mark’s body.
From the beginning he had seen this answer
coming and had drawn back from it. For, if
Mark had been killed, it seemed such a cold-blooded
killing. Was Cayley equal to it? Bill would
have said “No,” but that was because he
had had breakfast with Cayley, and lunch with
him, and dinner with him; had ragged him and
played games with him. Bill would have said
“No,” because Bill wouldn’t have killed
anybody in cold blood himself, and because
he took it for granted that other people behaved
pretty much as he did. But Antony had no such
illusions. Murders were done; murder had actually
been done here, for there was Robert’s dead
body. Why not another murder?
Had Mark been in the office at all that afternoon?
The only evidence (other than Cayley’s,
which obviously did not count) was Elsie’s.
Elsie was quite certain that she had heard
his voice. But then Bill had said that it
was a very characteristic voice—an easy
voice, therefore, to imitate. If Bill could
imitate it so successfully, why not Cayley?
But perhaps it had not been such a cold-blooded
killing, after all. Suppose Cayley had had
a quarrel with his cousin that afternoon over
the girl whom they were both wooing. Suppose
Cayley had killed Mark, either purposely,
in sudden passion, or accidentally, meaning
only to knock him down. Suppose that this
had happened in the passage, say about two
o’clock, either because Cayley had deliberately
led him there, or because Mark had casually
suggested a visit to it. (One could imagine
Mark continually gloating over that secret
passage.) Suppose Cayley there, with the body
at his feet, feeling already the rope round
his neck; his mind darting this way and that
in frantic search for a way of escape; and
suppose that suddenly and irrelevantly he
remembers that Robert is coming to the house
at three o’clock that afternoon—automatically
he looks at his watch—in half an hour’s
time.... In half an hour’s time. He must
think of something quickly, quickly. Shall
he bury the body in the passage and let it
be thought that Mark ran away, frightened
at the mere thought of his brother’s arrival?
But there was the evidence of the breakfast
table. Mark had seemed annoyed at this resurrection
of the black sheep, but certainly not frightened.
No; that was much too thin a story. But suppose
Mark had actually seen his brother and had
a quarrel with him; suppose it could be made
to look as if Robert had killed Mark—
Antony pictured to himself Cayley in the passage,
standing over the dead body of his cousin,
and working it out. How could Robert be made
to seem the murderer, if Robert were alive
to deny it? But suppose Robert were dead,
too?
He looks at his watch again. (Only twenty-five
minutes now.) Suppose Robert were dead, too?
Robert dead in the office, and Mark dead in
the passage how does that help? Madness! But
if the bodies were brought together somehow
and Robert’s death looked like suicide?....
Was it possible?
Madness again. Too difficult. (Only twenty
minutes now.) Too difficult to arrange in
twenty minutes. Can’t arrange a suicide.
Too difficult.... Only nineteen minutes....
And then the sudden inspiration! Robert dead
in the office, Mark’s body hidden in the
passage—impossible to make Robert seem the
murderer, but how easy to make Mark! Robert
dead and Mark missing; why, it jumped to the
eye at once. Mark had killed Robert—accidentally;
yes, that would be more likely—and then
had run away. Sudden panic.... (He looks at
his watch again. Fifteen minutes, but plenty
of time now. The thing arranges itself.)
Was that the solution, Antony wondered. It
seemed to fit in with the facts as they knew
them; but then, so did that other theory which
he had suggested to Bill in the morning.
“Which one?” said Bill.
They had come back from Jallands through the
park and were sitting in the copse above the
pond, from which the Inspector and his fishermen
had now withdrawn. Bill had listened with
open mouth to Antony’s theory, and save
for an occasional “By Jove!” had listened
in silence. “Smart man, Cayley,” had been
his only comment at the end.
“Which other theory?”
“That Mark had killed Robert accidentally
and had gone to Cayley for help, and that
Cayley, having hidden him in the passage,
locked the office door from the outside and
hammered on it.”
“Yes, but you were so dashed mysterious
about that. I asked you what the point of
it was, and you wouldn’t say anything.”
He thought for a little, and then went on,
“I suppose you meant that Cayley deliberately
betrayed Mark, and tried to make him look
like a murderer?”
“I wanted to warn you that we should probably
find Mark in the passage, alive or dead.”
“And now you don’t think so?”
“Now I think that his dead body is there.”
“Meaning that Cayley went down and killed
him afterwards—after you had come, after
the police had come?”
“Well, that’s what I shrink from, Bill.
It’s so horribly cold-blooded. Cayley may
be capable of it, but I hate to think of it.”
“But, dash it all, your other way is cold-blooded
enough. According to you, he goes up to the
office and deliberately shoots a man with
whom he has no quarrel, whom he hasn’t seen
for fifteen years!”
“Yes, but to save his own neck. That makes
a difference. My theory is that he quarrelled
violently with Mark over the girl, and killed
him in sudden passion. Anything that happened
after that would be self-defense. I don’t
mean that I excuse it, but that I understand
it. And I think that Mark’s dead body is
in the passage now, and has been there since,
say, half-past two yesterday afternoon. And
to-night Cayley is going to hide it in the
pond.”
Bill pulled at the moss on the ground beside
him, threw away a handful or two, and said
slowly, “You may be right, but it’s all
guess-work, you know.”
Antony laughed.
“Good Lord, of course it is,” he said.
“And to-night we shall know if it’s a
good guess or a bad one.”
Bill brightened up suddenly.
“To-night,” he said. “I say, to-night’s
going to be rather fun. How do we work it?”
Antony was silent for a little.
“Of course,” he said at last, “we ought
to inform the police, so that they can come
here and watch the pond to-night.”
“Of course,” grinned Bill.
“But I think that perhaps it is a little
early to put our theories before them.”
“I think perhaps it is,” said Bill solemnly.
Antony looked up at him with a sudden smile.
“Bill, you old bounder.”
“Well, dash it, it’s our show. I don’t
see why we shouldn’t get our little bit
of fun out of it.”
“Neither do I. All right, then, we’ll
do without the police to-night.”
“We shall miss them,” said Bill sadly,
“but ‘tis better so.”
There were two problems in front of them:
first, the problem of getting out of the house
without being discovered by Cayley, and secondly,
the problem of recovering whatever it was
which Cayley dropped into the pond that night.
“Let’s look at it from Cayley’s point
of view,” said Antony. “He may not know
that we’re on his track, but he can’t
help being suspicious of us. He’s bound
to be suspicious of everybody in the house,
and more particularly of us, because we’re
presumably more intelligent than the others.”
He stopped for a moment to light his pipe,
and Bill took the opportunity of looking more
intelligent than Mrs. Stevens.
“Now, he has got something to hide to-night,
and he’s going to take good care that we
aren’t watching him. Well, what will he
do?”
“See that we are asleep first, before he
starts out.”
“Yes. Come and tuck us up, and see that
we’re nice and comfortable.”
“Yes, that’s awkward,” said Bill. “But
we could lock our doors, and then he wouldn’t
know that we weren’t there.”
“Have you ever locked your door?”
“Never.”
“No. And you can bet that Cayley knows that.
Anyway, he’d bang on it, and you wouldn’t
answer, and then what would he think?”
Bill was silent; crushed.
“Then I don’t see how we’re going to
do it,” he said, after deep thought. “He’ll
obviously come to us just before he starts
out, and that doesn’t give us time to get
to the pond in front of him.”
“Let’s put ourselves in his place,”
said Antony, puffing slowly at his pipe. “He’s
got the body, or whatever it is, in the passage.
He won’t come up the stairs, carrying it
in his arms, and look in at our doors to see
if we’re awake. He’ll have to make sure
about us first, and then go down for the body
afterwards. So that gives us a little time.”
“Y-yes,” said Bill doubtfully. “We might
just do it, but it’ll be a bit of a rush.”
“But wait. When he’s gone down to the
passage and got the body, what will he do
next?”
“Come out again,” said Bill helpfully.
“Yes; but which end?”
Bill sat up with a start.
“By Jove, you mean that he will go out at
the far end by the bowling-green?”
“Don’t you think so? Just imagine him
walking across the lawn in full view of the
house, at midnight, with a body in his arms.
Think of the awful feeling he would have in
the back of the neck, wondering if anybody,
any restless sleeper, had chosen just that
moment to wander to the window and look out
into the night. There’s still plenty of
moonlight, Bill. Is he going to walk across
the park in the moonlight, with all those
windows staring at him? Not if he can help
it. But he can get out by the bowling green,
and then come to the pond without ever being
in sight of the house, at all.”
“You’re right. And that will just about
give us time. Good. Now, what’s the next
thing?”
“The next thing is to mark the exact place
in the pond where he drops whatever he drops.”
“So that we can fish it out again.”
“If we can see what it is, we shan’t want
to. The police can have a go at it to-morrow.
But if it’s something we can’t identify
from a distance, then we must try and get
it out. To see whether it’s worth telling
the police about.”
“Y-yes,” said Bill, wrinkling his forehead.
“Of course, the trouble with water is that
one bit of it looks pretty much like the next
bit. I don’t know if that had occurred to
you.
“It had,” smiled Antony. “Let’s come
and have a look at it.”
They walked to the edge of the copse, and
lay down there in silence, looking at the
pond beneath them.
“See anything?” said Antony at last.
“What?”
“The fence on the other side.”
“What about it?”
“Well, it’s rather useful, that’s all.”
“Said Sherlock Holmes enigmatically,”
added Bill. “A moment later, his friend
Watson had hurled him into the pond.”
Antony laughed.
“I love being Sherlocky,” he said. “It’s
very unfair of you not to play up to me.”
“Why is that fence useful, my dear Holmes?”
said Bill obediently.
“Because you can take a bearing on it. You
see—”
“Yes, you needn’t stop to explain to me
what a bearing is.”
“I wasn’t going to. But you’re lying
here”—he looked up—“underneath this
pine-tree. Cayley comes out in the old boat
and drops his parcel in. You take a line from
here on to the boat, and mark it off on the
fence there. Say it’s the fifth post from
the end. Well, then I take a line from my
tree—we’ll find one for me directly—and
it comes on to the twentieth post, say. And
where the two lines meet, there shall the
eagles be gathered together. Q.E.D. And there,
I almost forgot to remark, will the taller
eagle, Beverley by name, do his famous diving
act. As performed nightly at the Hippodrome.”
Bill looked at him uneasily.
“I say, really? It’s beastly dirty water,
you know.”
“I’m afraid so, Bill. So it is written
in the book of Jasher.”
“Of course I knew that one of us would have
to, but I hoped, well, it’s a warm night.”
“Just the night for a bathe,” agreed Antony,
getting up. “Well now, let’s have a look
for my tree.”
They walked down to the margin of the pond
and then looked back. Bill’s tree stood
up and took the evening, tall and unmistakable,
fifty feet nearer to heaven than its neighbours.
But it had its fellow at the other end of
the copse, not quite so tall, perhaps, but
equally conspicuous.
“That’s where I shall be,” said Antony,
pointing to it. “Now, for the Lord’s sake,
count your posts accurately.”
“Thanks very much, but I shall do it for
my own sake,” said Bill with feeling. “I
don’t want to spend the whole night diving.”
“Fix on the post in a straight line with
you and the splash, and then count backwards
to the beginning of the fence.”
“Right, old boy. Leave it to me. I can do
this on my head.”
“Well, that’s how you will have to do
the last part of it,” said Antony with a
smile.
He looked at his watch. It was nearly time
to change for dinner. They started to walk
back to the house together.
“There’s one thing which worries me rather,”
said Antony. “Where does Cayley sleep?”
“Next door to me. Why?”
“Well, it’s just possible that he might
have another look at you after he’s come
back from the pond. I don’t think he’d
bother about it in the ordinary way, but if
he is actually passing your door, I think
he might glance in.”
“I shan’t be there. I shall be at the
bottom of the pond, sucking up mud.”
“Yes.... Do you think you could leave something
in your bed that looked vaguely like you in
the dark? A bolster with a pyjama-coat round
it, and one arm outside the blanket, and a
pair of socks or something for the head. You
know the kind of thing. I think it would please
him to feel that you were still sleeping peacefully.”
Bill chuckled to himself.
“Rather. I’m awfully good at that. I’ll
make him up something really good. But what
about you?”
“I’m at the other end of the house; he’s
hardly likely to bother about me a second
time. And I shall be so very fast asleep at
his first visit. Still, I may as well to be
on the safe side.”
They went into the house. Cayley was in the
hall as they came in. He nodded, and took
out his watch.
“Time to change?” he said.
“Just about,” said Bill.
“You didn’t forget my letter?”
“I did not. In fact, we had tea there.”
“Ah!” He looked away and said carelessly,
“How were they all?”
“They sent all sorts of sympathetic messages
to you, and—and all that sort of thing.”
“Oh, yes.”
Bill waited for him to say something more,
and then, as nothing was coming, he turned
round, said, “Come on, Tony,” and led
the way upstairs.
“Got all you want?” he said at the top
of the stairs.
“I think so. Come and see me before you
go down.”
“Righto.”
Antony shut his bedroom door behind him and
walked over to the window. He pushed open
a casement and looked out. His bedroom was
just over the door at the back of the house.
The side wall of the office, which projected
out into the lawn beyond the rest of the house,
was on his left. He could step out on to the
top of the door, and from there drop easily
to the ground. Getting back would be little
more difficult. There was a convenient water-pipe
which would help.
He had just finished his dressing when Bill
came in. “Final instructions?” he asked,
sitting down on the bed. “By the way, how
are we amusing ourselves after dinner? I mean
immediately after dinner.”
“Billiards?”
“Righto. Anything you like.”
“Don’t talk too loud,” said Antony in
a lower voice. “We’re more or less over
the hall, and Cayley may be there.” He led
the way to the window. “We’ll go out this
way to-night. Going downstairs is too risky.
It’s easy enough; better put on tennis-shoes.”
“Right. I say, in case I don’t get another
chance alone with you what do I do when Cayley
comes to tuck me up?”
“It’s difficult to say. Be as natural
as you can. I mean, if he just knocks lightly
and looks in, be asleep. Don’t overdo the
snoring. But if he makes a hell of a noise,
you’ll have to wake up and rub your eyes,
and wonder what on earth he’s doing in your
room at all. You know the sort of thing.”
“Right. And about the dummy figure. I’ll
make it up directly we come upstairs, and
hide it under the bed.”
“Yes.... I think we’d better go completely
to bed ourselves. We shan’t take a moment
dressing again, and it will give him time
to get safely into the passage. Then come
into my room.”
“Right.... Are you ready?”
“Yes.”
They went downstairs together.
CHAPTER XVII. Mr. Beverley Takes the Water
Cayley seemed very fond of them that night.
After dinner was over, he suggested a stroll
outside. They walked up and down the gravel
in front of the house, saying very little
to each other, until Bill could stand it no
longer. For the last twenty turns he had been
slowing down hopefully each time they came
to the door, but the hint had always been
lost on his companions, and each time another
turn had been taken. But in the end he had
been firm.
“What about a little billiards?” he said,
shaking himself free from the others.
“Will you play?” said Antony to Cayley.
“I’ll watch you,” he said, and he had
watched them resolutely until the game, and
then another game after that, had been played.
They went into the hall and attacked the drinks.
“Well, thank heaven for bed,” said Bill;
putting down his glass. “Are you coming?”
“Yes,” said Antony, and finished his drink.
He looked at Cayley.
“I’ve just got one or two little things
to do,” said Cayley. “I shan’t be long
following you.”
“Well, good night, then.”
“Good night.”
“Good night,” called Bill from half-way
up the stairs. “Good night, Tony.”
“Good night.”
Bill looked at his watch. Half-past eleven.
Not much chance of anything happening for
another hour. He pulled open a drawer and
wondered what to wear on their expedition.
Grey flannel trousers, flannel shirt, and
a dark coat; perhaps a sweater, as they might
be lying out in the copse for some time. And
good idea a towel. He would want it later
on, and meanwhile he could wear it round his
waist.
Tennis-shoes.... There. Everything was ready.
Now then for the dummy figure.
He looked at his watch again before getting
into bed. Twelve-fifteen. How long to wait
before Cayley came up? He turned out the light,
and then, standing by the door in his pyjamas,
waited for his eyes to become accustomed to
the new darkness.... He could only just make
out the bed in the corner of the room. Cayley
would want more light than that if he were
to satisfy himself from the door that the
bed was occupied. He pulled the curtains a
little way back. That was about right. He
could have another look later on, when he
had the dummy figure in the bed.
How long would it be before Cayley came up?
It wasn’t that he wanted his friends, Beverley
and Gillingham, to be asleep before he started
on his business at the pond; all that he wanted
was to be sure that they were safely in their
bedrooms. Cayley’s business would make no
noise, give no sign, to attract the most wakeful
member of the household, so long as the household
was really inside the house. But if he wished
to reassure himself about his guests, he would
have to wait until they were far enough on
their way to sleep not to be disturbed by
him as he came up to reassure himself. So
it amounted to the same thing, really. He
would wait until they were asleep.... until
they were asleep.... asleep....
With a great effort Bill regained the mastery
over his wandering thoughts and came awake
again. This would never do. It would be fatal
if he went to sleep.... if he went to sleep....
to sleep .... And then, in an instant, he
was intensely awake. Suppose Cayley never
came at all!
Suppose Cayley was so unsuspicious that, as
soon as they had gone upstairs, he had dived
down into the passage and set about his business.
Suppose, even now, he was at the pond, dropping
into it that secret of his. Good heavens,
what fools they had been! How could Antony
have taken such a risk? Put yourself in Cayley’s
place, he had said. But how was it possible?
They weren’t Cayley. Cayley was at the pond
now. They would never know what he had dropped
into it.
Listen!.... Somebody at the door. He was asleep.
Quite naturally now. Breathe a little more
loudly, perhaps. He was asleep.... The door
was opening. He could feel it opening behind
him.... Good Lord, suppose Cayley really was
a murderer! Why, even now he might be—no,
he mustn’t think of that. If he thought
of that, he would have to turn round. He mustn’t
turn round. He was asleep; just peacefully
asleep. But why didn’t the door shut? Where
was Cayley now? Just behind him? And in his
hand no, he mustn’t think of that. He was
asleep. But why didn’t the door shut?
The door was shutting. There was a sigh from
the sleeper in the bed, a sigh of relief which
escaped him involuntarily. But it had a very
natural sound—a deep breath from a heavy
sleeper. He added another one to it to make
it seem more natural. The door was shut.
Bill counted a hundred slowly and then got
up. As quickly and as noiselessly as possible
he dressed himself in the dark. He put the
dummy figure in the bed, arranged the clothes
so that just enough but not too much of it
was showing, and stood by the door looking
at it. For a casual glance the room was just
about light enough. Then very quietly, very
slowly he opened the door. All was still.
There was no light from beneath the door of
Cayley’s room. Very quietly, very carefully
he crept along the passage to Antony’s room.
He opened the door and went in.
Antony was still in bed. Bill walked across
to wake him up, and then stopped rigid, and
his heart thumped against his ribs. There
was somebody else in the room.
“All right, Bill,” said a whispering voice,
and Antony stepped out from the curtains.
Bill gazed at him without saying anything.
“Rather good, isn’t it?” said Antony,
coming closer and pointing to the bed. “Come
on; the sooner we get out now, the better.”
He led the way out of the window, the silent
Bill following him. They reached the ground
safely and noiselessly, went quickly across
the lawn and so, over the fence, into the
park. It was not until they were out of sight
of the house that Bill felt it safe to speak.
“I quite thought it was you in bed,” he
said.
“I hoped you would. I shall be rather disappointed
now if Cayley doesn’t call again. It’s
a pity to waste it.”
“He came all right just now?”
“Oh, rather. What about you?”
Bill explained his feelings picturesquely.
“There wouldn’t have been much point in
his killing you,” said Antony prosaically.
“Besides being too risky.”
“Oh!” said Bill. And then, “I had rather
hoped that it was his love for me which restrained
him.”
Antony laughed.
“I doubt it.... You didn’t turn up your
light when you dressed?”
“Good Lord, no. Did you want me to?”
Antony laughed again and took him by the arm.
“You’re a splendid conspirator, Bill.
You and I could take on anything together.”
The pond was waiting for them, more solemn
in the moonlight. The trees which crowned
the sloping bank on the far side of it were
mysteriously silent. It seemed that they had
the world very much to themselves.
Almost unconsciously Antony spoke in a whisper.
“There’s your tree, there’s mine. As
long as you don’t move, there’s no chance
of his seeing you. After he’s gone, don’t
come out till I do. He won’t be here for
a quarter of an hour or so, so don’t be
impatient.”
“Righto,” whispered Bill.
Antony gave him a nod and a smile, and they
walked off to their posts.
The minutes went by slowly. To Antony, lying
hidden in the undergrowth at the foot of his
tree, a new problem was presenting itself.
Suppose Cayley had to make more than one journey
that night? He might come back to find them
in the boat; one of them, indeed, in the water.
And if they decided to wait in hiding, on
the chance of Cayley coming back again, what
was the least time they could safely allow?
Perhaps it would be better to go round to
the front of the house and watch for his return
there, the light in his bedroom, before conducting
their experiments at the pond. But then they
might miss his second visit in this way, if
he made a second visit. It was difficult.
His eyes were fixed on the boat as he considered
these things, and suddenly, as if materialized
from nowhere, Cayley was standing by the boat.
In his hand was a small brown bag.
Cayley put the bag in the bottom of the boat,
stepped in, and using an oar as a punt-pole,
pushed slowly off. Then, very silently, he
rowed towards the middle of the pond.
He had stopped. The oars rested on the water.
He picked up the bag from between his feet,
leant over the nose of the boat, and rested
it lightly on the water for a moment. Then
he let go. It sank slowly. He waited there,
watching; afraid, perhaps, that it might rise
again. Antony began to count....
And now Cayley was back at his starting-place.
He tied up the boat, looked carefully round
to see that he had left no traces behind him,
and then turned to the water again. For a
long time, as it seemed to the watchers, he
stood there, very big, very silent, in the
moonlight. At last he seemed satisfied. Whatever
his secret was, he had hidden it; and so with
a gentle sigh, as unmistakable to Antony as
if he had heard it, Cayley turned away and
vanished again as quietly as he had come.
Antony gave him three minutes, and stepped
out from the trees. He waited there for Bill
to join him.
“Six,” whispered Bill.
Antony nodded.
“I’m going round to the front of the house.
You get back to your tree and watch, in case
Cayley comes again. Your bedroom is the left-hand
end one, and Cayley’s the end but one? Is
that right?”
Bill nodded.
“Right. Wait in hiding till I come back.
I don’t know how long I shall be, but don’t
be impatient. It will seem longer than it
is.” He patted Bill on the shoulder, and
with a smile and a nod of the head he left
him there.
What was in the bag? What could Cayley want
to hide other than a key or a revolver? Keys
and revolvers sink of themselves; no need
to put them in a bag first. What was in the
bag? Something which wouldn’t sink of itself;
something which needed to be helped with stones
before it would hide itself safely in the
mud.
Well, they would find that out. There was
no object in worrying about it now. Bill had
a dirty night’s work in front of him. But
where was the body which Antony had expected
so confidently or, if there were no body,
where was Mark?
More immediately, however, where was Cayley?
As quickly as he could Antony had got to the
front of the house and was now lying in the
shrubbery which bordered the lawn, waiting
for the light to go up in Cayley’s window.
If it went up in Bill’s window, then they
were discovered. It would mean that Cayley
had glanced into Bill’s room, had been suspicious
of the dummy figure in the bed, and had turned
up the light to make sure. After that, it
was war between them. But if it went up in
Cayley’s room—
There was a light. Antony felt a sudden thrill
of excitement. It was in Bill’s room. War!
The light stayed there, shining vividly, for
a wind had come up, blowing the moon behind
a cloud, and casting a shadow over the rest
of the house. Bill had left his curtains undrawn.
It was careless of him; the first stupid thing
he had done, but—
The moon slipped out again.... and Antony
laughed to himself in the bushes. There was
another window beyond Cayley’s, and there
was no light in it. The declaration of war
was postponed.
Antony lay there, watching Cayley into bed.
After all it was only polite to return Cayley’s
own solicitude earlier in the night. Politeness
demanded that one should not disport oneself
on the pond until one’s friends were comfortably
tucked up.
Meanwhile Bill was getting tired of waiting.
His chief fear was that he might spoil everything
by forgetting the number “six.” It was
the sixth post. Six. He broke off a twig and
divided it into six pieces. These he arranged
on the ground in front of him. Six. He looked
at the pond, counted up to the sixth post,
and murmured “six” to himself again. Then
he looked down at his twigs. One-two-three-four-five-six-seven.
Seven! Was it seven? Or was that seventh bit
of a twig an accidental bit which had been
on the ground anyhow? Surely it was six! Had
he said “six” to Antony? If so, Antony
would remember, and it was all right. Six.
He threw away the seventh twig and collected
the other six together. Perhaps they would
be safer in his pocket. Six. The height of
a tall man—well, his own height. Six feet.
Yes, that was the way to remember it. Feeling
a little safer on the point, he began to wonder
about the bag, and what Antony would say to
it, and the possible depth of the water and
of the mud at the bottom; and was still so
wondering, and saying, “Good Lord, what
a life!” to himself, when Antony reappeared.
Bill got up and came down the slope to meet
him.
“Six,” he said firmly. “Sixth post from
the end.”
“Good,” smiled Antony. “Mine was the
eighteenth—a little way past it.”
“What did you go off for?”
“To see Cayley into bed.”
“Is it all right?”
“Yes. Better hang your coat over the sixth
post, and then we shall see it more easily.
I’ll put mine on the eighteenth. Are you
going to undress here or in the boat?”
“Some here, and some in the boat. You’re
quite sure that you wouldn’t like to do
the diving yourself?”
“Quite, thanks.”
They had walked round to the other side of
the pond. Coming to the sixth post of the
fence, Bill took off his coat and put it in
position, and then finished his undressing,
while Antony went off to mark the eighteenth
post. When they were ready, they got into
the boat, Antony taking the oars.
“Now, Bill, tell me as soon as I’m in
a line with your two marks.”
He rowed slowly towards the middle of the
pond.
“You’re about there now,” said Bill
at last.
Antony stopped rowing and looked about him.
“Yes, that’s pretty well right.” He
turned the boat’s nose round until it was
pointing to the pine-tree under which Bill
had lain. “You see my tree and the other
coat?”
“Yes,” said Bill.
“Right. Now then, I’m going to row gently
along this line until we’re dead in between
the two. Get it as exact as you can—for
your own sake.”
“Steady!” said Bill warningly. “Back
a little.... a little more .... a little more
forward again.... Right.” Antony left the
oars on the water and looked around. As far
as he could tell, they were in an exact line
with each pair of landmarks.
“Now then, Bill, in you go.”
Bill pulled off his shirt and trousers, and
stood up.
“You mustn’t dive from the boat, old boy,”
said Antony hastily. “You’ll shift its
position. Slide in gently.”
Bill slid in from the stern and swam slowly
round to Antony.
“What’s it like?” said Antony.
“Cold. Well, here’s luck to it.”
He gave a sudden kick, flashed for a moment
in the water, and was gone. Antony steadied
the boat, and took another look at his landmarks.
Bill came up behind him with a loud explosion.
“It’s pretty muddy,” he protested.
“Weeds?”
“No, thank the Lord.”
“Well, try again.”
Bill gave another kick and disappeared. Again
Antony coaxed the boat back into position,
and again Bill popped up, this time in front
of him.
“I feel that if I threw you a sardine,”
said Antony, with a smile, “you’d catch
it in your mouth quite prettily.”
“It’s awfully easy to be funny from where
you are. How much longer have I got to go
on doing this?”
Antony looked at his watch.
“About three hours. We must get back before
daylight. But be quicker if you can, because
it’s rather cold for me sitting here.”
Bill flicked a handful of water at him and
disappeared again. He was under for almost
a minute this time, and there was a grin on
his face when it was visible again.
“I’ve got it, but it’s devilish hard
to get up. I’m not sure that it isn’t
too heavy for me.”
“That’s all right,” said Antony. He
brought out a ball of thick string from his
pocket. “Get this through the handle if
you can, and then we can both pull.”
“Good man.” He paddled to the side, took
one end of the string and paddled back again.
“Now then.”
Two minutes later the bag was safely in the
boat. Bill clambered in after it, and Antony
rowed back. “Well done, Watson,” he said
quietly, as they landed. He fetched their
two coats, and then waited, the bag in his
hand, while Bill dried and dressed himself.
As soon as the latter was ready, he took his
arm and led him into the copse. He put the
bag down and felt in his pockets.
“I shall light a pipe before I open it,”
he said. “What about you?”
“Yes.”
With great care they filled and lit their
pipes. Bill’s hand was a little unsteady.
Antony noticed it and gave him a reassuring
smile.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
They sat down, and taking the bag between
his knees, Antony pressed the catch and opened
it.
“Clothes!” said Bill.
Antony pulled out the top garment and shook
it out. It was a wet brown flannel coat.
“Do you recognize it?” he asked.
“Mark’s brown flannel suit.”
“The one he is advertised as having run
away in?”
“Yes. It looks like it. Of course he had
a dashed lot of clothes.”
Antony put his hand in the breast-pocket and
took out some letters. He considered them
doubtfully for a moment.
“I suppose I’d better read them,” he
said. “I mean, just to see—” He looked
inquiringly at Bill, who nodded. Antony turned
on his torch and glanced at them. Bill waited
anxiously.
“Yes. Mark.... Hallo!”
“What is it?”
“The letter that Cayley was telling the
Inspector about. From Robert. ‘Mark, your
loving brother is coming to see you—’
Yes, I suppose I had better keep this. Well,
that’s his coat. Let’s have out the rest
of it.” He took the remaining clothes from
the bag and spread them out.
“They’re all here,” said Bill. “Shirt,
tie, socks, underclothes, shoes—yes, all
of them.”
“All that he was wearing yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“What do you make of it?”
Bill shook his head, and asked another question.
“Is it what you expected?”
Antony laughed suddenly.
“It’s too absurd,” he said. “I expected—well,
you know what I expected. A body. A body in
a suit of clothes. Well, perhaps it would
be safer to hide them separately. The body
here, and the clothes in the passage, where
they would never betray themselves. And now
he takes a great deal of trouble to hide the
clothes here, and doesn’t bother about the
body at all.” He shook his head. “I’m
a bit lost for the moment, Bill, and that’s
the fact.”
“Anything else there?”
Antony felt in the bag.
“Stones and—yes, there’s something else.”
He took it out and held it up. “There we
are, Bill.”
It was the office key.
“By Jove, you were right.”
Antony felt in the bag again, and then turned
it gently upside down on the grass. A dozen
large stones fell out—and something else.
He flashed down his torch.
“Another key,” he said.
He put the two keys in his pocket, and sat
there for a long time in silence, thinking.
Bill was silent, too, not liking to interrupt
his thoughts, but at last he said:
“Shall I put these things back?”
Antony looked up with a start.
“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.
CHAPTER XVIII. Guess-work
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.
“We haven’t got the envelope, unfortunately.”
“And you think that he got this letter on
Monday.”
“I’m inclined to think so, Bill. Anyhow,
I think—I feel almost certain—that he
knew on Monday that his brother was coming.”
“Is that going to help us much?”
“No. It makes it more difficult. There’s
something rather uncanny about it all. I don’t
understand it.” He was silent for a little,
and then added, “I wonder if the inquest
is going to help us.
“What about last night? I’m longing to
hear what you make of that. Have you been
thinking it out at all?”
“Last night,” said Antony thoughtfully
to himself. “Yes, last night wants some
explaining.”
Bill waited hopefully for him to explain.
What, for instance, had Antony been looking
for in the cupboard?
“I think,” began Antony slowly, “that
after last night we must give up the idea
that Mark has been killed; killed, I mean,
by Cayley. I don’t believe anybody would
go to so much trouble to hide a suit of clothes
when he had a body on his hands. The body
would seem so much more important. I think
we may take it now that the clothes are all
that Cayley had to hide.”
“But why not have kept them in the passage?”
“He was frightened of the passage. Miss
Norris knew about it.”
“Well, then, in his own bedroom, or even,
in Mark’s. For all you or I or anybody knew,
Mark might have had two brown suits. He probably
had, I should think.”
“Probably. But I doubt if that would reassure
Cayley. The brown suit hid a secret, and therefore
the brown suit had to be hidden. We all know
that in theory the safest hiding-place is
the most obvious, but in practice very few
people have the nerve to risk it.”
Bill looked rather disappointed.
“Then we just come back to where we were,”
he complained. “Mark killed his brother,
and Cayley helped him to escape through the
passage; either in order to compromise him,
or because there was no other way out of it.
And he helped him by telling a lie about his
brown suit.”
Antony smiled at him in genuine amusement.
“Bad luck, Bill,” he said sympathetically.
“There’s only one murder, after all. I’m
awfully sorry about it. It was my fault for—”
“Shut up, you ass. You know I didn’t mean
that.”
“Well, you seemed awfully disappointed.”
Bill said nothing for a little, and then with
a sudden laugh confessed.
“It was so exciting yesterday,” he said
apologetically, “and we seemed to be just
getting there, and discovering the most wonderful
things, and now—”
“And now?”
“Well, it’s so much more ordinary.”
Antony gave a shout of laughter.
“Ordinary!” he cried. “Ordinary! Well,
I’m dashed! Ordinary! If only one thing
would happen in an ordinary way, we might
do something, but everything is ridiculous.”
Bill brightened up again.
“Ridiculous? How?”
“Every way. Take those ridiculous clothes
we found last night. You can explain the brown
suit, but why the under clothes. You can explain
the underclothes in some absurd way, if you
like—you can say that Mark always changed
his underclothes whenever he interviewed anybody
from Australia—but why, in that case, my
dear Watson, why didn’t he change his collar?”
“His collar?” said Bill in amazement.
“His collar, Watson.”
“I don’t understand.”
“And it’s all so ordinary,” scoffed
Antony.
“Sorry, Tony, I didn’t mean that. Tell
me about the collar.”
“Well, that’s all. There was no collar
in the bag last night. Shirt, socks, tie—everything
except a collar. Why?”
“Was that what you were looking for in the
cupboard?” said Bill eagerly.
“Of course. ‘Why no collar?’ I said.
For some reason Cayley considered it necessary
to hide all Mark’s clothes; not just the
suit, but everything which he was wearing,
or supposed to be wearing, at the time of
the murder. But he hadn’t hidden the collar.
Why? Had he left it out by mistake? So I looked
in the cupboard. It wasn’t there. Had he
left it out on purpose? If so, why?—and
where was it? Naturally I began to say to
myself, ‘Where have I seen a collar lately?
A collar all by itself?’ And I remembered—what,
Bill?”
Bill frowned heavily to himself, and shook
his head.
“Don’t ask me, Tony. I can’t—By Jove!”
He threw up his head, “In the basket in
the office bedroom!”
“Exactly.”
“But is that the one?”
“The one that goes with the rest of the
clothes? I don’t know. Where else can it
be? But if so, why send the collar quite casually
to the wash in the ordinary way, and take
immense trouble to hide everything else? Why,
why, why?”
Bill bit hard at his pipe, but could think
of nothing to say.
“Anyhow,” said Antony, getting up restlessly,
“I’m certain of one thing. Mark knew on
the Monday that Robert was coming here.”
CHAPTER XIX. The Inquest
The Coroner, having made a few commonplace
remarks as to the terrible nature of the tragedy
which they had come to investigate that afternoon,
proceeded to outline the case to the jury.
Witnesses would be called to identify the
deceased as Robert Ablett, the brother of
the owner of the Red House, Mark Ablett. It
would be shown that he was something of a
ne’er-do-well, who had spent most of his
life in Australia, and that he had announced,
in what might almost be called a threatening
letter, his intention of visiting his brother
that afternoon. There would be evidence of
his arrival, of his being shown into the scene
of the tragedy—a room in the Red House,
commonly called “the office”—and of
his brother’s entrance into that room. The
jury would have to form their own opinion
as to what happened there. But whatever happened,
happened almost instantaneously. Within two
minutes of Mark Ablett’s entrance, as would
be shown in the evidence, a shot was heard,
and when—perhaps five minutes later—the
room was forced open, the dead body of Robert
Ablett was found stretched upon the floor.
As regards Mark Ablett, nobody had seen him
from the moment of his going into the room,
but evidence would be called to show that
he had enough money on him at the time to
take him to any other part of the country,
and that a man answering to his description
had been observed on the platform of Stanton
station, apparently waiting to catch the 3.55
up train to London. As the jury would realize,
such evidence of identity was not always reliable.
Missing men had a way of being seen in a dozen
different places at once. In any case, there
was no doubt that for the moment Mark Ablett
had disappeared.
“Seems a sound man,” whispered Antony
to Bill. “Doesn’t talk too much.”
Antony did not expect to learn much from the
evidence—he knew the facts of the case so
well by now—but he wondered if Inspector
Birch had developed any new theories. If so,
they would appear in the Coroner’s examination,
for the Coroner would certainly have been
coached by the police as to the important
facts to be extracted from each witness. Bill
was the first to be put through it.
“Now, about this letter, Mr. Beverley?”
he was asked when his chief evidence was over.
“Did you see it at all?”
“I didn’t see the actual writing. I saw
the back of it. Mark was holding it up when
he told us about his brother.”
“You don’t know what was in it, then?”
Bill had a sudden shock. He had read the letter
only that morning. He knew quite well what
was in it. But it wouldn’t do to admit this.
And then, just as he was about to perjure
himself, he remembered: Antony had heard Cayley
telling the Inspector.
“I knew afterwards. I was told. But Mark
didn’t read it out at breakfast.”
“You gathered, however, that it was an unwelcome
letter?”
“Oh, yes!”
“Would you say that Mark was frightened
by it?”
“Not frightened. Sort of bitter—and resigned.
Sort of ‘Oh, Lord, here we are again!’”
There was a titter here and there. The Coroner
smiled, and tried to pretend that he hadn’t.
“Thank you, Mr. Beverley.”
The next witness was summoned by the name
of Andrew Amos, and Antony looked up with
interest, wondering who he was.
“He lives at the inner lodge,” whispered
Bill to him.
All that Amos had to say was that a stranger
had passed by his lodge at a little before
three that afternoon, and had spoken to him.
He had seen the body and recognized it as
the man.
“What did he say?”
“‘Is this right for the Red House?’
or something like that, sir.”
“What did you say?”
“I said, ‘This is the Red House. Who do
you want to see?’ He was a bit rough-looking,
you know, sir, and I didn’t know what he
was doing there.”
“Well?”
“Well, sir, he said, ‘Is Mister Mark Ablett
at home?’ It doesn’t sound much put like
that, sir, but I didn’t care about the way
he said it. So I got in front of him like,
and said, ‘What do you want, eh?’ and
he gave a sort of chuckle and said, ‘I want
to see my dear brother Mark.’ Well, then
I took a closer look at him, and I see that
p’raps he might be his brother, so I said,
‘If you’ll follow the drive, sir, you’ll
come to the house. Of course I can’t say
if Mr. Ablett’s at home.’ And he gave
a sort of nasty laugh again, and said, ‘Fine
place Mister Mark Ablett’s got here. Plenty
of money to spend, eh?’ Well, then I had
another look at him, sir, because gentlemen
don’t talk like that, and if he was Mr.
Ablett’s brother—but before I could make
up my mind, he laughed and went on. That’s
all I can tell you, sir.”
Andrew Amos stepped down and moved away to
the back of the room, nor did Antony take
his eyes off him until he was assured that
Amos intended to remain there until the inquest
was over.
“Who’s Amos talking to now?” he whispered
to Bill.
“Parsons. One of the gardeners. He’s at
the outside lodge on the Stanton road. They’re
all here to-day. Sort of holiday for ‘em.
“I wonder if he’s giving evidence too,”
thought Antony. He was. He followed Amos.
He had been at work on the lawn in front of
the house, and had seen Robert Ablett arrive.
He didn’t hear the shot—not to notice.
He was a little hard of hearing. He had seen
a gentleman arrive about five minutes after
Mr. Robert.
“Can you see him in court now?” asked
the Coroner. Parsons looked round slowly.
Antony caught his eye and smiled.
“That’s him,” said Parsons, pointing.
Everybody looked at Antony.
“That was about five minutes afterwards?”
“About that, sir.”
“Did anybody come out of the house before
this gentleman’s arrival?”
“No, sir. That is to say I didn’t see
‘em.”
Stevens followed. She gave her evidence much
as she had given it to the Inspector. Nothing
new was brought out by her examination. Then
came Elsie. As the reporters scribbled down
what she had overheard, they added in brackets
“Sensation” for the first time that afternoon.
“How soon after you had heard this did the
shot come?” asked the Coroner.
“Almost at once, sir.”
“A minute?”
“I couldn’t really say, sir. It was so
quick.”
“Were you still in the hall?”
“Oh, no, sir. I was just outside Mrs. Stevens’
room. The housekeeper, sir.”
“You didn’t think of going back to the
hall to see what had happened?”
“Oh, no, sir. I just went in to Mrs. Stevens,
and she said, ‘Oh, what was that?’ frightened-like.
And I said, ‘That was in the house, Mrs.
Stevens, that was.’ Just like something
going off, it was.”
“Thank you,” said the Coroner.
There was another emotional disturbance in
the room as Cayley went into the witness-box;
not “Sensation” this time, but an eager
and, as it seemed to Antony, sympathetic interest.
Now they were getting to grips with the drama.
He gave his evidence carefully, unemotionally—the
lies with the same slow deliberation as the
truth. Antony watched him intently, wondering
what it was about him which had this odd sort
of attractiveness. For Antony, who knew that
he was lying, and lying (as he believed) not
for Mark’s sake but his own, yet could not
help sharing some of that general sympathy
with him.
“Was Mark ever in possession of a revolver?”
asked the Coroner.
“Not to my knowledge. I think I should have
known if he had been.”
“You were alone with him all that morning.
Did he talk about this visit of Robert’s
at all?”
“I didn’t see very much of him in the
morning. I was at work in my room, and outside,
and so on. We lunched together and he talked
of it then a little.”
“In what terms?”
“Well—” he hesitated, and then went
on. “I can’t think of a better word than
‘peevishly.’ Occasionally he said, ‘What
do you think he wants?’ or ‘Why couldn’t
he have stayed where he was?’ or ‘I don’t
like the tone of his letter. Do you think
he means trouble?’ He talked rather in that
kind of way.”
“Did he express his surprise that his brother
should be in England?”
“I think he was always afraid that he would
turn up one day.”
“Yes.... You didn’t hear any conversation
between the brothers when they were in the
office together?”
“No. I happened to go into the library just
after Mark had gone in, and I was there all
the time.”
“Was the library door open?”
“Oh, yes.”
“Did you see or hear the last witness at
all?”
“No.”
“If anybody had come out of the office while
you were in the library, would you have heard
it?”
“I think so. Unless they had come out very
quietly on purpose.”
“Would you call Mark a hasty-tempered man?”
Cayley considered this carefully before answering.
“Hasty-tempered, yes,” he said. “But
not violent-tempered.”
“Was he fairly athletic? Active and quick?”
“Active and quick, yes. Not particularly
strong.”
“Yes.... One question more. Was Mark in
the habit of carrying any considerable sum
of money about with him?”
“Yes. He always had one 100 pound note on
him, and perhaps ten or twenty pounds as well.”
“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.
CHAPTER XX. Mr. Beverley is Tactful
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.”
“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.
CHAPTER XXI. Cayley’s Apology
“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!
“It strikes you as childish, Mr. Gillingham?
Ah, you never knew Mark Ablett.
“‘How, Cay, how?’ he said eagerly.
“‘Well, I haven’t really thought it
out,’ I protested. ‘It was just an idea.’
“He began to think it out for himself.
“‘I might pretend to be a manager, come
down to see her—but I suppose she knows
them all. What about an interviewer?’
“‘It’s going to be difficult,’ I said
thoughtfully. ‘You’ve got rather a characteristic
face, you know. And your beard—’
“‘I’d shave it off,’ he snapped.
“‘My dear Mark!’
“He looked away, and mumbled, ‘I’ve
been thinking of taking it off, anyhow. And
besides, if I’m going to do the thing, I’m
going to do it properly.’
“‘Yes, you always were an artist,’ I
said, looking at him admiringly.
“He purred. To be called an artist was what
he longed for most. Now I knew that I had
him.
“‘All the same,’ I went on, ‘even
without your beard and moustache you might
be recognizable. Unless, of course—’ I
broke off.
“‘Unless what?’
“‘You pretend to be Robert.’ I began
to laugh to myself again. ‘By Jove!’ I
said, ‘that’s not a bad idea. Pretend
to be Robert, the wastrel brother, and make
yourself objectionable to Miss Norris. Borrow
money from her, and that sort of thing.’
“He looked at me, with his bright little
eyes, nodding eagerly.
“‘Robert,’ he said. ‘Yes. How shall
we work it?’
“There was really a Robert, Mr. Gillingham,
as I have no doubt you and the Inspector both
discovered. And he was a wastrel and he went
to Australia. But he never came to the Red
House on Tuesday afternoon. He couldn’t
have, because he died (unlamented) three years
ago. But there was nobody who knew this, save
Mark and myself, for Mark was the only one
of the family left, his sister having died
last year. Though I doubt, anyhow, if she
knew whether Robert was alive or dead. He
was not talked about.
“For the next two days Mark and I worked
out our plans. You understand by now that
our aims were not identical. Mark’s endeavour
was that his deception should last for, say,
a couple of hours; mine that it should go
to the grave with him. He had only to deceive
Miss Norris and the other guests; I had to
deceive the world. When he was dressed up
as Robert, I was going to kill him. Robert
would then be dead, Mark (of course) missing.
What could anybody think but that Mark had
killed Robert? But you see how important it
was for Mark to enter fully into his latest
(and last) impersonation. Half-measures would
be fatal.
“You will say that it was impossible to
do the thing thoroughly enough. I answer again
that you never knew Mark. He was being what
he wished most to be—an artist. No Othello
ever blacked himself all over with such enthusiasm
as did Mark. His beard was going anyhow—possible
a chance remark of Miss Norbury’s helped
here. She did not like beards. But it was
important for me that the dead man’s hands
should not be the hands of a manicured gentleman.
Five minutes playing upon the vanity of the
artist settled his hands. He let the nails
grow and then cut them raggedly. ‘Miss Norris
would notice your hands at once,’ I had
said. ‘Besides, as an artist—’
“So with his underclothes. It was hardly
necessary to warn him that his pants might
show above the edge of his socks; as an artist
he had already decided upon Robertian pants.
I bought them, and other things, in London
for him. Even if I had not cut out all trace
of the maker’s name, he would instinctively
have done it. As an Australian and an artist,
he could not have an East London address on
his underclothes. Yes, we were doing the thing
thoroughly, both of us; he as an artist, I
as a—well, you may say murderer, if you
like. I shall not mind now.
“Our plans were settled. I went to London
on the Monday and wrote him a letter from
Robert. (The artistic touch again.) I also
bought a revolver. On the Tuesday morning
he announced the arrival of Robert at the
breakfast-table. Robert was now alive—we
had six witnesses to prove it; six witnesses
who knew that he was coming that afternoon.
Our private plan was that Robert should present
himself at three o’clock, in readiness for
the return of the golfing-party shortly afterwards.
The maid would go to look for Mark, and having
failed to find him, come back to the office
to find me entertaining Robert in Mark’s
absence. I would explain that Mark must have
gone out somewhere, and would myself introduce
the wastrel brother to the tea-table. Mark’s
absence would not excite any comment, for
it would be generally felt—indeed Robert
would suggest it—that he had been afraid
of meeting his brother. Then Robert would
make himself amusingly offensive to the guests,
particularly, of course, Miss Norris, until
he thought that the joke had gone far enough.
“That was our private plan. Perhaps I should
say that it was Mark’s private plan. My
own was different.
“The announcement at breakfast went well.
After the golfing-party had gone off, we had
the morning in which to complete our arrangements.
What I was chiefly concerned about was to
establish as completely as possible the identity
of Robert. For this reason I suggested to
Mark that, when dressed, he should go out
by the secret passage to the bowling-green,
and come back by the drive, taking care to
enter into conversation with the lodge-keeper.
In this way I would have two more witnesses
of Robert’s arrival—first the lodge-keeper,
and secondly one of the gardeners whom I would
have working on the front lawn. Mark, of course,
was willing enough. He could practise his
Australian accent on the lodge-keeper. It
was really amusing to see how readily he fell
into every suggestion which I made. Never
was a killing more carefully planned by its
victim.
“He changed into Robert’s clothes in the
office bedroom. This was the safest way—for
both of us. When he was ready, he called me
in, and I inspected him. It was extraordinary
how well he looked the part. I suppose that
the signs of his dissipation had already marked
themselves on his face, but had been concealed
hitherto by his moustache and beard; for now
that he was clean-shaven they lay open to
the world from which we had so carefully hidden
them, and he was indeed the wastrel which
he was pretending to be.
“‘By Jove, you’re wonderful,’ I said.
“He smirked, and called my attention to
the various artistic touches which I might
have missed.
“‘Wonderful,’ I said to myself again.
‘Nobody could possibly guess.’
“I peered into the hall. It was empty. We
hurried across to the library; he got into
the passage and made off. I went back to the
bedroom, collected all his discarded clothes,
did them up in a bundle and returned with
them to the passage. Then I sat down in the
hall and waited.
“You heard the evidence of Stevens, the
maid. As soon as she was on her way to the
Temple in search of Mark, I stepped into the
office. My hand was in my side-pocket, and
in my hand was the revolver.
“He began at once in his character of Robert—some
rigmarole about working his passage over from
Australia; a little private performance for
my edification. Then in his natural voice,
gloating over his well-planned retaliation
on Miss Norris, he burst out, ‘It’s my
turn now. You wait.’ It was this which Elsie
heard. She had no business to be there and
she might have ruined everything, but as it
turned out it was the luckiest thing which
could have happened. For it was the one piece
of evidence which I wanted; evidence, other
than my own, that Mark and Robert were in
the room together.
“I said nothing. I was not going to take
the risk of being heard to speak in that room.
I just smiled at the poor little fool, and
took out my revolver, and shot him. Then I
went back into the library and waited—just
as I said in my evidence.
“Can you imagine, Mr. Gillingham, the shock
which your sudden appearance gave me? Can
you imagine the feelings of a ‘murderer’
who has (as he thinks) planned for every possibility,
and is then confronted suddenly with an utterly
new problem? What difference would your coming
make? I didn’t know. Perhaps none; perhaps
all. And I had forgotten to open the window!
“I don’t know whether you will think my
plan for killing Mark a clever one. Perhaps
not. But if I do deserve any praise in the
matter, I think I deserve it for the way I
pulled myself together in the face of the
unexpected catastrophe of your arrival. Yes,
I got a window open, Mr. Gillingham, under
your very nose; the right window too, you
were kind enough to say. And the keys—yes,
that was clever of you, but I think I was
cleverer. I deceived you over the keys, Mr.
Gillingham, as I learnt when I took the liberty
of listening to a conversation on the bowling-green
between you and your friend Beverley. Where
was I? Ah, you must have a look for that secret
passage, Mr. Gillingham.
“But what am I saying? Did I deceive you
at all? You have found out the secret—that
Robert was Mark—and that is all that matters.
How have you found out? I shall never know
now. Where did I go wrong? Perhaps you have
been deceiving me all the time. Perhaps you
knew about the keys, about the window, even
about the secret passage. You are a clever
man, Mr. Gillingham.
“I had Mark’s clothes on my hands. I might
have left them in the passage, but the secret
of the passage was now out. Miss Norris knew
it. That was the weak point of my plan, perhaps,
that Miss Norris had to know it. So I hid
them in the pond, the Inspector having obligingly
dragged it for me first. A couple of keys
joined them, but I kept the revolver. Fortunate,
wasn’t it, Mr. Gillingham?
“I don’t think that there is any more
to tell you. This is a long letter, but then
it is the last which I shall write. There
was a time when I hoped that there might be
a happy future for me, not at the Red House,
not alone. Perhaps it was never more than
an idle day-dream, for I am no more worthy
of her than Mark was. But I could have made
her happy, Mr. Gillingham. God, how I would
have worked to make her happy! But now that
is impossible. To offer her the hand of a
murderer would be as bad as to offer her the
hand of a drunkard. And Mark died for that.
I saw her this morning. She was very sweet.
It is a difficult world to understand.
“Well, well, we are all gone now—the Abletts
and the Cayleys. I wonder what old Grandfather
Cayley thinks of it all. Perhaps it is as
well that we have died out. Not that there
was anything wrong with Sarah—except her
temper. And she had the Ablett nose—you
can’t do much with that. I’m glad she
left no children.
“Good-bye, Mr. Gillingham. I’m sorry that
your stay with us was not of a pleasanter
nature, but you understand the difficulties
in which I was placed. Don’t let Bill think
too badly of me. He is a good fellow; look
after him. He will be surprised. The young
are always surprised. And thank you for letting
me end my own way. I expect you did sympathize
a little, you know. We might have been friends
in another world—you and I, and I and she.
Tell her what you like. Everything or nothing.
You will know what is best. Good-bye, Mr.
Gillingham.
“MATTHEW CAYLEY.
“I am lonely to-night without Mark. That’s
funny, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER XXII. Mr. Beverley Moves On
“Good Lord!” said Bill, as he put down
the letter.
“I thought you’d say that,” murmured
Antony.
“Tony, do you mean to say that you knew
all this?”
“I guessed some of it. I didn’t quite
know all of it, of course.”
“Good Lord!” said Bill again, and returned
to the letter. In a moment he was looking
up again. “What did you write to him? Was
that last night? After I’d gone into Stanton?”
“Yes.”
“What did you say? That you’d discovered
that Mark was Robert?”
“Yes. At least I said that this morning
I should probably telegraph to Mr. Cartwright
of Wimpole Street, and ask him to—”
Bill burst in eagerly on the top of the sentence.
“Yes, now what was all that about? You were
so damn Sherlocky yesterday all of a sudden.
We’d been doing the thing together all the
time, and you’d been telling me everything,
and then suddenly you become very mysterious
and private and talk enigmatically—is that
the word?—about dentists and swimming and
the ‘Plough and Horses,’ and—well, what
was it all about? You simply vanished out
of sight; I didn’t know what on earth we
were talking about.”
Antony laughed and apologized.
“Sorry, Bill. I felt like that suddenly.
Just for the last half-hour; just to end up
with. I’ll tell you everything now. Not
that there’s anything to tell, really. It
seems so easy when you know it—so obvious.
About Mr. Cartwright of Wimpole Street. Of
course he was just to identify the body.”
“But whatever made you think of a dentist
for that?”
“Who could do it better? Could you have
done it? How could you? You’d never gone
bathing with Mark; you’d never seen him
stripped. He didn’t swim. Could his doctor
do it? Not unless he’d had some particular
operation, and perhaps not then. But his dentists
could—at any time, always—if he had been
to his dentist fairly often. Hence Mr. Cartwright
of Wimpole Street.”
Bill nodded thoughtfully and went back again
to the letter.
“I see. And you told Cayley that you were
telegraphing to Cartwright to identify the
body?”
“Yes. And then of course it was all up for
him. Once we knew that Robert was Mark we
knew everything.”
“How did you know?”
Antony got up from the breakfast table and
began to fill his pipe.
“I’m not sure that I can say, Bill. You
know those problems in Algebra where you say,
‘Let x be the answer,’ and then you work
it out and find what x is. Well, that’s
one way; and another way, which they never
give you any marks for at school, is to guess
the answer. Pretend the answer is 4—well,
will that satisfy the conditions of the problem?
No. Then try 6; and if 6 doesn’t either,
then what about 5?—and so on. Well, the
Inspector and the Coroner and all that lot
had guessed their answer, and it seemed to
fit, but you and I knew it didn’t really
fit; there were several conditions in the
problem which it didn’t fit at all. So we
knew that their answer was wrong, and we had
to think of another—an answer which explained
all the things which were puzzling us. Well,
I happened to guess the right one. Got a match?”
Bill handed him a box, and he lit his pipe.
“Yes, but that doesn’t quite do, old boy.
Something must have put you on to it suddenly.
By the way, I’ll have my matches back, if
you don’t mind.”
Antony laughed and took them out of his pocket.
“Sorry.... Well then, let’s see if I can
go through my own mind again, and tell you
how I guessed it. First of all, the clothes.”
“Yes?”
“To Cayley the clothes seemed an enormously
important clue. I didn’t quite see why,
but I did realize that to a man in Cayley’s
position the smallest clue would have an entirely
disproportionate value. For some reason, then,
Cayley attached this exaggerated importance
to the clothes which Mark was wearing on that
Tuesday morning; all the clothes, the inside
ones as well as the outside ones. I didn’t
know why, but I did feel certain that, in
that case, the absence of the collar was unintentional.
In collecting the clothes he had overlooked
the collar. Why?”
“It was the one in the linen-basket?”
“Yes. It seemed probable. Why had Cayley
put it there? The obvious answer was that
he hadn’t. Mark had put it there. I remembered
what you told me about Mark being finicky,
and having lots of clothes and so on, and
I felt that he was just the sort of man who
would never wear the same collar twice.”
He paused, and then asked, “Is that right,
do you think?”
“Absolutely,” said Bill with conviction.
“Well, I guessed it was. So then I began
to see an x which would fit just this part
of the problem—the clothes part. I saw Mark
changing his clothes; I saw him instinctively
dropping the collar in the linen-basket, just
as he had always dropped every collar he had
ever taken off, but leaving the rest of the
clothes on a chair in the ordinary way; and
I saw Cayley collecting all the clothes afterwards—all
the visible clothes—and not realizing that
the collar wasn’t there.”
“Go on,” said Bill eagerly.
“Well, I felt pretty sure about that, and
I wanted an explanation of it. Why had Mark
changed down there instead of in his bedroom?
The only answer was that the fact of his changing
had to be kept secret. When did he change?
The only possible time was between lunch (when
he would be seen by the servants) and the
moment of Robert’s arrival. And when did
Cayley collect the clothes in a bundle? Again,
the only answer was ‘Before Robert’s arrival.’
So another x was wanted—to fit those three
conditions.”
“And the answer was that a murder was intended,
even before Robert arrived?”
“Yes. Well now, it couldn’t be intended
on the strength of that letter, unless there
was very much more behind the letter than
we knew. Nor was it possible a murder could
be intended without any more preparation than
the changing into a different suit in which
to escape. The thing was too childish. Also,
if Robert was to be murdered, why go out of
the way to announce his existence to you all—even,
at the cost of some trouble, to Mrs. Norbury?
What did it all mean? I didn’t know. But
I began to feel now that Robert was an incident
only; that the plot was a plot of Cayley’s
against Mark—either to get him to kill his
brother, or to get his brother to kill him—and
that for some inexplicable reason Mark seemed
to be lending himself to the plot.” He was
silent for a little, and then said, almost
to himself, “I had seen the empty brandy
bottles in that cupboard.”
“You never said anything about them” complained
Bill.
“I only saw them afterwards. I was looking
for the collar, you remember. They came back
to me afterwards; I knew how Cayley would
feel about it.... Poor devil!”
“Go on,” said Bill.
“Well, then, we had the inquest, and of
course I noticed, and I suppose you did too,
the curious fact that Robert had asked his
way at the second lodge and not at the first.
So I talked to Amos and Parsons. That made
it more curious. Amos told me that Robert
had gone out of his way to speak to him; had
called to him, in fact. Parsons told me that
his wife was out in their little garden at
the first lodge all the afternoon, and was
certain that Robert had never come past it.
He also told me that Cayley had put him on
to a job on the front lawn that afternoon.
So I had another guess. Robert had used the
secret passage—the passage which comes out
into the park between the first and second
lodges. Robert, then, had been in the house;
it was a put-up job between Robert and Cayley.
But how could Robert be there without Mark
knowing? Obviously, Mark knew too. What did
it all mean?”
“When was this?” interrupted Bill. “Just
after the inquest—after you’d seen Amos
and Parsons, of course?”
“Yes. I got up and left them, and came to
look for you. I’d got back to the clothes
then. Why did Mark change his clothes so secretly?
Disguise? But then what about his face? That
was much more important than clothes. His
face, his beard—he’d have to shave off
his beard—and then—oh, idiot! I saw you
looking at that poster. Mark acting, Mark
made-up, Mark disguised. Oh, priceless idiot!
Mark was Robert.... Matches, please.”
Bill passed over the matches again, waited
till Antony had relit his pipe, and then held
out his hand for them, just as they were going
into the other’s pocket.
“Yes,” said Bill thoughtfully. “Yes....
But wait a moment. What about the ‘Plough
and Horses’?” Antony looked comically
at him.
“You’ll never forgive me, Bill,” he
said. “You’ll never come clue-hunting
with me again.”
“What do you mean?”
Antony sighed.
“It was a fake, Watson. I wanted you out
of the way. I wanted to be alone. I’d guessed
at my x, and I wanted to test it—to test
it every way, by everything we’d discovered.
I simply had to be alone just then. So—”
he smiled and added, “Well, I knew you wanted
a drink.”
“You are a devil,” said Bill, staring
at him. “And your interest when I told you
that a woman had been staying there—”
“Well, it was only polite to be interested
when you’d taken so much trouble.”
“You brute! You—you Sherlock! And then
you keep trying to steal my matches. Well,
go on.”
“That’s all. My x fitted.”
“Did you guess Miss Norris and all that?”
“Well, not quite. I didn’t realize that
Cayley had worked for it from the beginning—had
put Miss Norris up to frightening Mark. I
thought he’d just seized the opportunity.”
Bill was silent for a long time. Then, puffing
at his pipe, he said slowly, “Has Cayley
shot himself?”
Antony shrugged his shoulders.
“Poor devil,” said Bill. “It was decent
of you to give him a chance. I’m glad you
did.”
“I couldn’t help liking Cayley in a kind
of way, you know.”
“He’s a clever devil. If you hadn’t
turned up just when you did, he would never
have been found out.”
“I wonder. It was ingenious, but it’s
often the ingenious thing which gets found
out. The awkward thing from Cayley’s point
of view was that, though Mark was missing,
neither he nor his body could ever be found.
Well, that doesn’t often happen with a missing
man. He generally gets discovered in the end;
a professional criminal; perhaps not—but
an amateur like Mark! He might have kept the
secret of how he killed Mark, but I think
it would have become obvious sooner or later
that he had killed him.”
“Yes, there’s something in that.... Oh,
just tell me one thing. Why did Mark tell
Miss Norbury about his imaginary brother?”
“That’s puzzled me rather, too, Bill.
It may be that he was just doing the Othello
business—painting himself black all over.
I mean he may have been so full of his appearance
as Robert that he had almost got to believe
in Robert, and had to tell everybody. More
likely, though, he felt that, having told
all of you at the house, he had better tell
Miss Norbury, in case she met one of you;
in which case, if you mentioned the approaching
arrival of Robert, she might say, ‘Oh, I’m
certain he has no brother; he would have told
me if he had,’ and so spoil his joke. Possibly,
too, Cayley put him on to it; Cayley obviously
wanted as many people as possible to know
about Robert.”
“Are you going to tell the police?”
“Yes, I suppose they’ll have to know.
Cayley may have left another confession. I
hope he won’t give me away; you see, I’ve
been a sort of accessory since yesterday evening.
And I must go and see Miss Norbury.”
“I asked,” explained Bill, “because
I was wondering what I should say to—to
Betty. Miss Calladine. You see, she’s bound
to ask.”
“Perhaps you won’t see her again for a
long, long time,” said Antony sadly.
“As a matter of fact, I happen to know that
she will be at the Barringtons. And I go up
there to-morrow.”
“Well, you had better tell her. You’re
obviously longing to. Only don’t let her
say anything for a day or two. I’ll write
to you.”
“Righto!”
Antony knocked the ashes out of his pipe and
got up.
“The Barringtons,” he said. “Large party?”
“Fairly, I think.”
Antony smiled at his friend.
“Yes. Well, if any of ‘em should happen
to be murdered, you might send for me. I’m
just getting into the swing of it.”
