The Red House Mystery
“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 protégé 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