THE RED HOUSE MYSTERY
By A. A. Milne
"So that you weren't surprised when you saw him coming down?"
"Oh, not a bit."
"Well, did he say anything?"
"He said, 'Robert's here?' or something of the sort. I suppose he'd heard the bell, or the voices in the hall."
"Which way does his bedroom face? Could he have seen him coming down the drive?"
"He might have, yes."
"Well?"
"Well, then, I said 'Yes,' and he gave a sort of shrug, and said, 'Don't go too far away, I might want you'; and then went in."
"What did you think he meant by that?"
"Well, he consults me a good deal, you know. I'm his sort of unofficial solicitor in a kind of way."
"This was a business meeting rather than a brotherly one?"
"Oh, yes. That's how he regarded it, I'm sure."
"Yes. How long was it before you heard the shot?"
"Very soon. Two minutes, perhaps."
The inspector finished his writing, and then regarded Cayley thoughtfully. Suddenly he said:
"What is your theory of Robert's death?"
Cayley shrugged his shoulders.
"You've probably seen more than I've seen," he answered. "It's your job.
I can only speak as a layman—and Mark's friend."
"Well?"
"Then I should say that Robert came here meaning trouble, and bringing a revolver with him. He produced it almost at once, Mark tried to get it from him, there was a little struggle perhaps, and it went off. Mark lost his head, finding himself there with a revolver in his hand and a dead man at his feet. His one idea was to escape. He locked the door almost instinctively, and then, when he heard me hammering at it, went out of the window."
"Y-yes. Well, that sounds reasonable enough. What do you say, Mr.
Gillingham?"
"I should hardly call it 'reasonable' to lose your head," said Antony, getting up from his chair and coming towards them.
"Well, you know what I mean. It explains things."
"Oh, yes. Any other explanation would make them much more complicated."
"Have you any other explanation?"
"Not I."
"Are there any points on which you would like to correct Mr.
Cayley?—anything that he left out after you arrived here?"
"No, thanks. He described it all very accurately."
"Ah! Well now, about yourself. You're not staying in the house, I gather?"
Antony explained his previous movements.
"Yes. Did you hear the shot?"
Antony put his head on one side, as if listening. "Yes. Just as I came in sight of the house. It didn't make any impression at the time, but I remember it now."
"Where were you then?"
"Coming up the drive. I was just in sight of the house."
"Nobody left the house by the front door after the shot?"
Antony closed his eyes and considered.
"Nobody," he said. "No."
"You're certain of that?"
"Absolutely," said Antony, as though rather surprised that he could be suspected of a mistake.
"Thank you. You're at 'The George,' if I want you?"
"Mr. Gillingham is staying here until after the inquest," explained
Cayley.
"Good. Well now, about these servants?"
As Cayley went over to the bell, Antony got up and moved to the door.
"Well, you won't want me, I suppose, inspector," he said.
"No, thank you, Mr. Gillingham. You'll be about, of course?"
"Oh, yes."
The inspector hesitated.
"I think, Mr. Cayley, it would be better if I saw the servants alone. You know what they are; the more people about, the more they get alarmed. I expect I can get at the truth better by myself."
"Oh, quite so. In fact, I was going to ask you to excuse me. I feel rather responsible towards these guests of ours. Although Mr. Gillingham very kindly—" He smiled at Antony, who was waiting at the door, and left his sentence unfinished.
"Ah, that reminds me," said the Inspector. "Didn't you say that one of your guests—Mr. Beverley was it?—a friend of Mr. Gillingham's, was staying on?"
"Yes; would you like to see him?"
"Afterwards, if I may."
"I'll warn him. I shall be up in my room, if you want me. I have a room upstairs where I work—any of the servants will show you. Ah, Stevens, Inspector Birch would like to ask you a few questions."
"Yes, sir," said Audrey primly, but inwardly fluttering. The housekeeper's room had heard something of the news by this time, and Audrey had had a busy time explaining to other members of the staff exactly what he had said, and what she had said. The details were not quite established yet, but this much at least was certain: that Mr. Mark's brother had shot himself and spirited Mr. Mark away, and that Audrey had seen at once that he was that sort of man when she opened the door to him. She had passed the remark to Mrs. Stevens. And Mrs. Stevens—if you remember, Audrey—had always said that people didn't go away to Australia except for very good reasons. Elsie agreed with both of them, but she had a contribution of her own to make. She had actually heard Mr. Mark in the office, threatening his brother.
"You mean Mr. Robert," said the second parlour-maid. She had been having a little nap in her room, but she had heard the bang. In fact, it had woken her up—just like something going off, it was.
"It was Mr. Mark's voice," said Elsie firmly.
"Pleading for mercy," said an eager-eyed kitchen-maid hopefully from the door, and was hurried out again by the others, wishing that she had not given her presence away. But it was hard to listen in silence when she knew so well from her novelettes just what happened on these occasions.
"I shall have to give that girl a piece of my mind," said Mrs. Stevens.
"Well, Elsie?"
"He said, I heard him say it with my own ears, 'It's my turn now,' he said, triumphant-like."
"Well, if you think that's a threat, dear, you're very particular, I must say."
But Audrey remembered Elsie's words when she was in front of Inspector Birch. She gave her own evidence with the readiness of one who had already repeated it several times, and was examined and cross-examined by the Inspector with considerable skill. The temptation to say, "Never mind about what you said to him," was strong, but he resisted it, knowing that in this way he would discover best what he said to her. By this time both his words and the looks he gave her were getting their full value from Audrey, but the general meaning of them seemed to be well-established.
"Then you didn't see Mr. Mark at all."
"No, sir; he must have come in before and gone up to his room. Or come in by the front door, likely enough, while I was going out by the back."
"Yes. Well, I think that's all that I want to know, thank you very much.
Now what about the other servants?"
"Elsie heard the master and Mr. Robert talking together," said Audrey eagerly. "He was saying—Mr. Mark, I mean—"
"Ah! Well, I think Elsie had better tell me that herself. Who is Elsie, by the way?"
"One of the housemaids. Shall I send her to you, sir?"
"Please."
Elsie was not sorry to get the message. It interrupted a few remarks from Mrs. Stevens about Elsie's conduct that afternoon which were (Elsie thought) much better interrupted. In Mrs. Stevens' opinion any crime committed that afternoon in the office was as nothing to the double crime committed by the unhappy Elsie.
For Elsie realized too late that she would have done better to have said nothing about her presence in the hall that afternoon. She was bad at concealing the truth and Mrs. Stevens was good at discovering it. Elsie knew perfectly well that she had no business to come down the front stairs, and it was no excuse to say that she happened to come out of Miss Norris' room just at the head of the stairs, and didn't think it would matter, as there was nobody in the hall, and what was she doing anyhow in Miss Norris' room at that time? Returning a magazine? Lent by Miss Norris, might she ask? Well, not exactly lent. Really, Elsie!—and this in a respectable house! In vain for poor Elsie to plead that a story by her favourite author was advertised on the cover, with a picture of the villain falling over the cliff. "That's where you'll go to, my girl, if you aren't careful," said Mrs. Stevens firmly.
But, of course, there was no need to confess all these crimes to Inspector Birch. All that interested him was that she was passing through the hall, and heard voices in the office.
"And stopped to listen?"
"Certainly not," said Elsie with dignity, feeling that nobody really understood her. "I was just passing through the hall, just as you might have been yourself, and not supposing they was talking secrets, didn't think to stop my ears, as no doubt I ought to have done." And she sniffed slightly.
"Come, come," said the Inspector soothingly, "I didn't mean to suggest—"
"Everyone is very unkind to me," said Elsie between sniffs, "and there's that poor man lying dead there, and sorry they'd have been, if it had been me, to have spoken to me as they have done this day."
"Nonsense, we're going to be very proud of you. I shouldn't be surprised if your evidence were of very great importance. Now then, what was it you heard? Try to remember the exact words."
Something about working in a passage, thought Elsie.
"Yes, but who said it?"
"Mr. Robert."
"How do you know it was Mr. Robert? Had you heard his voice before?"
"I don't take it upon myself to say that I had had any acquaintance with Mr. Robert, but seeing that it wasn't Mr. Mark, nor yet Mr. Cayley, nor any other of the gentlemen, and Miss Stevens had shown Mr. Robert into the office not five minutes before—"
"Quite so," said the Inspector hurriedly. "Mr. Robert, undoubtedly.
Working in a passage?"
"That was what it sounded like, sir."
"H'm. Working a passage over—could that have been it?"
"That's right, sir," said Elsie eagerly. "He'd worked his passage over."
"Well?"
"And then Mr. Mark said loudly—sort of triumphant-like—'It's my turn now. You wait.'"
"Triumphantly?"
"As much as to say his chance had come."
"And that's all you heard?"
"That's all, sir—not standing there listening, but just passing through the hall, as it might be any time."
"Yes. Well, that's really very important, Elsie. Thank you."
Elsie gave him a smile, and returned eagerly to the kitchen. She was ready for Mrs. Stevens or anybody now.
Meanwhile Antony had been exploring a little on his own. There was a point which was puzzling him. He went through the hall to the front of the house and stood at the open door, looking out on to the drive. He and Cayley had run round the house to the left. Surely it would have been quicker to have run round to the right? The front door was not in the middle of the house, it was to the end. Undoubtedly they went the longest way round. But perhaps there was something in the way, if one went to the right—a wall, say. He strolled off in that direction, followed a path round the house and came in sight of the office windows. Quite simple, and about half the distance of the other way. He went on a little farther, and came to a door, just beyond the broken-in windows. It opened easily, and he found himself in a passage. At the end of the passage was another door. He opened it and found himself in the hall again.
"And, of course, that's the quickest way of the three," he said to himself. "Through the hall, and out at the back; turn to the left and there you are. Instead of which, we ran the longest way round the house. Why? Was it to give Mark more time in which to escape? Only, in that case—why run? Also, how did Cayley know then that it was Mark who was trying to escape? If he had guessed—well, not guessed, but been afraid—that one had shot the other, it was much more likely that Robert had shot Mark. Indeed, he had admitted that this was what he thought. The first thing he had said when he turned the body over was, 'Thank God! I was afraid it was Mark.' But why should he want to give Robert time in which to get away? And again—why run, if he did want to give him time?"
Antony went out of the house again to the lawns at the back, and sat down on a bench in view of the office windows.
"Now then," he said, "let's go through Cayley's mind carefully, and see what we get."
Cayley had been in the hall when Robert was shown into the office. The servant goes off to look for Mark, and Cayley goes on with his book. Mark comes down the stairs, warns Cayley to stand by in case he is wanted, and goes to meet his brother. What does Cayley expect? Possibly that he won't be wanted at all; possibly that his advice may be wanted in the matter, say, of paying Robert's debts, or getting him a passage back to Australia; possibly that his physical assistance may be wanted to get an obstreperous Robert out of the house. Well, he sits there for a moment, and then goes into the library. Why not? He is still within reach, if wanted. Suddenly he hears a pistol-shot. A pistol-shot is the last noise you expect to hear in a country-house; very natural, then, that for the moment he would hardly realize what it was. He listens—and hears nothing more. Perhaps it wasn't a pistol-shot after all. After a moment or two he goes to the library door again. The profound silence makes him uneasy now. Was it a pistol-shot? Absurd! Still—no harm in going into the office on some excuse, just to reassure himself. So he tries the door—and finds it locked!
What are his emotions now? Alarm, uncertainty. Something is happening. Incredible though it seems, it must have been a pistol-shot. He is banging at the door and calling out to Mark, and there is no answer. Alarm—yes. But alarm for whose safety? Mark's, obviously. Robert is a stranger; Mark is an intimate friend. Robert has written a letter that morning, the letter of a man in a dangerous temper. Robert is the tough customer; Mark the highly civilized gentleman. If there has been a quarrel, it is Robert who has shot Mark. He bangs at the door again.
Of course, to Antony, coming suddenly upon this scene, Cayley's conduct had seemed rather absurd, but then, just for the moment, Cayley had lost his head. Anybody else might have done the same. But, as soon as Antony suggested trying the windows, Cayley saw that that was the obvious thing to do. So he leads the way to the windows—the longest way.
Why? To give the murderer time to escape? If he had thought then that Mark was the murderer, perhaps, yes. But he thinks that Robert is the murderer. If he is not hiding anything, he must think so. Indeed he says so, when he sees the body; "I was afraid it was Mark," he says, when he finds that it is Robert who is killed. No reason, then, for wishing to gain time. On the contrary, every instinct would urge him to get into the room as quickly as possible, and seize the wicked Robert. Yet he goes the longest way round. Why? And then, why run?
"That's the question," said Antony to himself, as he filled his pipe, "and bless me if I know the answer. It may be, of course, that Cayley is just a coward. He was in no hurry to get close to Robert's revolver, and yet wanted me to think that he was bursting with eagerness. That would explain it, but then that makes Cayley out a coward. Is he? At any rate he pushed his face up against the window bravely enough. No, I want a better answer than that."
He sat there with his unlit pipe in his hand, thinking. There were one or two other things in the back of his brain, waiting to be taken out and looked at. For the moment he left them undisturbed. They would come back to him later when he wanted them.
He laughed suddenly, and lit his pipe.
"I was wanting a new profession," he thought, "and now I've found it.
Antony Gillingham, our own private sleuthhound. I shall begin to-day."
Whatever Antony Gillingham's other qualifications for his new profession, he had at any rate a brain which worked clearly and quickly. And this clear brain of his had already told him that he was the only person in the house at that moment who was unhandicapped in the search for truth. The inspector had arrived in it to find a man dead and a man missing. It was extremely probable, no doubt, that the missing man had shot the dead man. But it was more than extremely probable, it was almost certain that the Inspector would start with the idea that this extremely probable solution was the one true solution, and that, in consequence, he would be less disposed to consider without prejudice any other solution. As regards all the rest of them—Cayley, the guests, the servants—they also were prejudiced; in favour of Mark (or possibly, for all he knew, against Mark); in favour of, or against, each other; they had formed some previous opinion, from what had been said that morning, of the sort of man Robert was. No one of them could consider the matter with an unbiased mind.
But Antony could. He knew nothing about Mark; he knew nothing about Robert. He had seen the dead man before he was told who the dead man was. He knew that a tragedy had happened before he knew that anybody was missing. Those first impressions, which are so vitally important, had been received solely on the merits of the case; they were founded on the evidence of his senses, not on the evidence of his emotions or of other people's senses. He was in a much better position for getting at the truth than was the Inspector.
It is possible that, in thinking this, Antony was doing Inspector Birch a slight injustice. Birch was certainly prepared to believe that Mark had shot his brother. Robert had been shown into the office (witness Audrey); Mark had gone in to Robert (witness Cayley); Mark and Robert had been heard talking (witness Elsie); there was a shot (witness everybody); the room had been entered and Robert's body had been found (witness Cayley and Gillingham). And Mark was missing. Obviously, then, Mark had killed his brother: accidentally, as Cayley believed, or deliberately, as Elsie's evidence seemed to suggest. There was no point in looking for a difficult solution to a problem, when the easy solution had no flaw in it. But at the same time Birch would have preferred the difficult solution, simply because there was more credit attached to it. A "sensational" arrest of somebody in the house would have given him more pleasure than a commonplace pursuit of Mark Ablett across country. Mark must be found, guilty or not guilty. But there were other possibilities. It would have interested Antony to know that, just at the time when he was feeling rather superior to the prejudiced inspector, the Inspector himself was letting his mind dwell lovingly upon the possibilities in connection with Mr. Gillingham. Was it only a coincidence that Mr. Gillingham had turned up just when he did? And Mr. Beverley's curious answers when asked for some account of his friend. An assistant in a tobacconist's, a waiter! An odd man, Mr. Gillingham, evidently. It might be as well to keep an eye on him.
The guests had said good-bye to Cayley, according to their different manner. The Major, gruff and simple: "If you want me, command me. Anything I can do—Good-bye"; Betty, silently sympathetic, with everything in her large eyes which she was too much overawed to tell; Mrs. Calladine, protesting that she did not know what to say, but apparently finding plenty; and Miss Norris, crowding so much into one despairing gesture that Cayley's unvarying "Thank you very much" might have been taken this time as gratitude for an artistic entertainment.
Bill had seen them into the car, had taken his own farewells (with a special squeeze of the hand for Betty), and had wandered out to join Antony on his garden seat.
"Well, this is a rum show," said Bill as he sat down.
"Very rum, William."
"And you actually walked right into it?"
"Right into it," said Antony.
"Then you're the man I want. There are all sorts of rumours and mysteries about, and that inspector fellow simply wouldn't keep to the point when I wanted to ask him about the murder, or whatever it is, but kept asking me questions about where I'd met you first, and all sorts of dull things like that. Now, what really happened?"
Antony told him as concisely as he could all that he had already told the Inspector, Bill interrupting him here and there with appropriate "Good Lords" and whistles.
"I say, it's a bit of a business, isn't it? Where do I come in, exactly?"
"How do you mean?"
"Well, everybody else is bundled off except me, and I get put through it by that inspector as if I knew all about it—what's the idea?"
Antony smiled at him.
"Well, there's nothing to worry about, you know. Naturally Birch wanted to see one of you so as to know what you'd all been doing all day. And Cayley was nice enough to think that you'd be company for me, as I knew you already. And well, that's all."
"You're staying here, in the house?" said Bill eagerly. "Good man.
That's splendid."
"It reconciles you to the departure of some of the others?"
Bill blushed.
"Oh, well, I shall see her again next week, anyway," he murmured.
"I congratulate you. I liked her looks. And that grey dress. A nice comfortable sort of woman."
"You fool, that's her mother."
"Oh, I beg your pardon. But anyhow, Bill, I want you more than she does just now. So try and put up with me."
"I say, do you really?" said Bill, rather flattered. He had a great admiration for Antony, and was very proud to be liked by him.
"Yes. You see, things are going to happen here soon."
"Inquests and that sort of thing?"
"Well, perhaps something before that. Hallo, here comes Cayley."
Cayley was walking across the lawn towards them, a big, heavy-shouldered man, with one of those strong, clean-shaven, ugly faces which can never quite be called plain. "Bad luck on Cayley," said Bill. "I say, ought I to tell him how sorry I am and all that sort of thing? It seems so dashed inadequate."
"I shouldn't bother," said Antony.
Cayley nodded as he came to them, and stood there for a moment.
"We can make room for you," said Bill, getting up.
"Oh, don't bother, thanks. I just came to say," he went on to Antony, "that naturally they've rather lost their heads in the kitchen, and dinner won't be till half-past eight. Do just as you like about dressing, of course. And what about your luggage?"
"I thought Bill and I would walk over to the inn directly, and see about it."
"The car can go and fetch it as soon as it comes back from the station."
"It's very good of you, but I shall have to go over myself, anyhow, to pack up and pay my bill. Besides, it's a good evening for a walk. If you wouldn't mind it, Bill?"
"I should love it."
"Well, then, if you leave the bag there, I'll send the car round for it later."
"Thanks very much."
Having said what he wanted to say, Cayley remained there a little awkwardly, as if not sure whether to go or to stay. Antony wondered whether he wanted to talk about the afternoon's happenings, or whether it was the one subject he wished to avoid. To break the silence he asked carelessly if the Inspector had gone.
Cayley nodded. Then he said abruptly, "He's getting a warrant for Mark's arrest."
Bill made a suitably sympathetic noise, and Antony said with a shrug of the shoulders, "Well, he was bound to do that, wasn't he? It doesn't follow that—well, it doesn't mean anything. They naturally want to get hold of your cousin, innocent or guilty."
"Which do you think he is, Mr. Gillingham?" said Cayley, looking at him steadily.
"Mark? It's absurd," said Bill impetuously.
"Bill's loyal, you see, Mr. Cayley."
"And you owe no loyalty to anyone concerned?"
"Exactly. So perhaps I might be too frank."
Bill had dropped down on the grass, and Cayley took his place on the seat, and sat there heavily, his elbows on his knees, his chin on his hands, gazing at the ground.
"I want you to be quite frank," he said at last. "Naturally I am prejudiced where Mark is concerned. So I want to know how my suggestion strikes you who have no prejudices either way."
"Your suggestion?"
"My theory that, if Mark killed his brother, it was purely accidental as
I told the Inspector."
Bill looked up with interest.
"You mean that Robert did the hold-up business," he said, "and there was a bit of a struggle, and the revolver went off, and then Mark lost his head and bolted? That sort of idea?"
"Exactly."
"Well, that seems all right." He turned to Antony. "There's nothing wrong with that, is there? It's the most natural explanation to anyone who knows Mark."
Antony pulled at his pipe.
"I suppose it is," he said slowly. "But there's one thing that worries me rather."
"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 outside 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.
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.