The Red House Mystery
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.