THE RED HOUSE MYSTERY. A. A. Milne

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СКАЧАТЬ you think it’s fun, I’ll hand him over to you, Betty. If he’s anything like he used to be, and like his few letters have been — well, Cay knows.”

      Cayley grunted.

      “All I knew was that one didn’t ask questions about him.”

      It may have been meant as a hint to any too curious guest not to ask more questions, or a reminder to his host not to talk too freely in front of strangers, although he gave it the sound of a mere statement of fact. But the subject dropped, to be succeeded by the more fascinating one of the coming foursome. Mrs. Calladine was driving over with the players in order to lunch with an old friend who lived near the links, and Mark and Cayley were remaining at home — on affairs. Apparently “affairs” were now to include a prodigal brother. But that need not make the foursome less enjoyable.

      At about the time when the Major (for whatever reasons) was fluffing his tee-shot at the sixteenth, and Mark and his cousin were at their business at the Red House, an attractive gentleman of the name of Antony Gillingham was handing up his ticket at Woodham station and asking the way to the village. Having received directions, he left his bag with the station-master and walked off leisurely. He is an important person to this story, so that it is as well we should know something about him before letting him loose in it. Let us stop him at the top of the hill on some excuse, and have a good look at him.

      The first thing we realize is that he is doing more of the looking than we are. Above a clean-cut, clean-shaven face, of the type usually associated with the Navy, he carries a pair of grey eyes which seem to be absorbing every detail of our person. To strangers this look is almost alarming at first, until they discover that his mind is very often elsewhere; that he has, so to speak, left his eyes on guard, while he himself follows a train of thought in another direction. Many people do this, of course; when, for instance, they are talking to one person and trying to listen to another; but their eyes betray them. Antony’s never did.

      He had seen a good deal of the world with those eyes, though never as a sailor. When at the age of twenty-one he came into his mother’s money, 400 pounds a year, old Gillingham looked up from the “Stockbreeders’ Gazette” to ask what he was going to do.

      “See the world,” said Antony.

      “Well, send me a line from America, or wherever you get to.”

      “Right,” said Antony.

      Old Gillingham returned to his paper. Antony was a younger son, and, on the whole, not so interesting to his father as the cadets of certain other families; Champion Birket’s, for instance. But, then, Champion Birket was the best Hereford bull he had ever bred.

      Antony, however, had no intention of going further away than London. His idea of seeing the world was to see, not countries, but people; and to see them from as many angles as possible. There are all sorts in London if you know how to look at them. So Antony looked at them — from various strange corners; from the view-point of the valet, the newspaper-reporter, the waiter, the shop-assistant. With the independence of 400 pounds a year behind him, he enjoyed it immensely. He never stayed long in one job, and generally closed his connection with it by telling his employer (contrary to all etiquette as understood between master and servant) exactly what he thought of him. He had no difficulty in finding a new profession. Instead of experience and testimonials he offered his personality and a sporting bet. He would take no wages the first month, and — if he satisfied his employer — double wages the second. He always got his double wages.

      He was now thirty. He had come to Waldheim for a holiday, because he liked the look of the station. His ticket entitled him to travel further, but he had always intended to please himself in the matter. Waldheim attracted him, and he had a suit-case in the carriage with him and money in his pocket. Why not get out?

      The landlady of ‘The George’ was only too glad to put him up, and promised that her husband would drive over that afternoon for his luggage.

      “And you would like some lunch, I expect, sir.”

      “Yes, but don’t give yourself any trouble about it. Cold anything-you’ve-got.”

      “What about beef, sir?” she asked, as if she had a hundred varieties of meat to select from, and was offering him her best.

      “That will do splendidly. And a pint of beer.”

      While he was finishing his lunch, the landlord came in to ask about the luggage. Antony ordered another pint, and soon had him talking.

      “It must be rather fun to keep a country inn,” he said, thinking that it was about time he started another profession.

      “I don’t know about fun, sir. It gives us a living, and a bit over.”

      “You ought to take a holiday,” said Antony, looking at him thoughtfully.

      “Funny thing your saying that,” said the landlord, with a smile. “Another gentleman, over from the Red House, was saying that only yesterday. Offered to take my place ‘n all.” He laughed rumblingly.

      “The Red House? Not the Red House, Stanton?”

      “That’s right, sir. Stanton’s the next station to Waldheim. The Red House is about a mile from here — Mr. Ablett’s.”

      Antony took a letter from his pocket. It was addressed from “The Red House, Stanton,” and signed “Bill.”

      “Good old Bill,” he murmured to himself. “He’s getting on.”

      Antony had met Bill Beverley two years before in a tobacconist’s shop. Gillingham was on one side of the counter and Mr. Beverley on the other. Something about Bill, his youth and freshness, perhaps, attracted Antony; and when cigarettes had been ordered, and an address given to which they were to be sent, he remembered that he had come across an aunt of Beverley’s once at a country-house. Beverley and he met again a little later at a restaurant. Both of them were in evening-dress, but they did different things with their napkins, and Antony was the more polite of the two. However, he still liked Bill. So on one of his holidays, when he was unemployed, he arranged an introduction through a mutual friend. Beverley was a little inclined to be shocked when he was reminded of their previous meetings, but his uncomfortable feeling soon wore off, and he and Antony quickly became intimate. But Bill generally addressed him as “Dear Madman” when he happened to write.

      Antony decided to stroll over to the Red House after lunch and call upon his friend. Having inspected his bedroom which was not quite the lavender-smelling country-inn bedroom of fiction, but sufficiently clean and comfortable, he set out over the fields.

      As he came down the drive and approached the old red-brick front of the house, there was a lazy murmur of bees in the flower-borders, a gentle cooing of pigeons in the tops of the elms, and from distant lawns the whir of a mowing-machine, that most restful of all country sounds....

      And in the hall a man was banging at a locked door, and shouting, “Open the door, I say; open the door!”

      “Hallo!” said Antony in amazement.

      CHAPTER III

       Two Men and a Body

       Table of Contents

      Cayley СКАЧАТЬ