The Red House Mystery
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 Woodham—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.