The Red House Mystery
“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 _out_side 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