The Red House Mystery
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