The Red House Mystery, A. A. Milne [that summer book .TXT] 📗

intention of visiting his brother that afternoon. There would be evidence of his arrival, of his being shown into the scene of the tragedy—a room in the Red House, commonly called “the office”—and of his brother’s entrance into that room. The jury would have to form their own opinion as to what happened there. But whatever happened, happened almost instantaneously. Within two minutes of Mark Abletts entrance, as would be shown in the evidence, a shot was heard, and when—perhaps five minutes later—the room was forced open, the dead body of Robert Ablett was found stretched upon the floor. As regards Mark Ablett, nobody had seen him from the moment of his going into the room, but evidence would be called to show that he had enough money on him at the time to take him to any other part of the country, and that a man answering to his description had been observed on the platform of Stanton station, apparently waiting to catch the 3.55 up train to London. As the jury would realize, such evidence of identity was not always reliable. Missing men had a way of being seen in a dozen different places at once. In any case, there was no doubt that for the moment Mark Ablett had disappeared.

“Seems a sound man,” whispered Antony to Bill. “Doesn’t talk too much.”

Antony did not expect to learn much from the evidence—he knew the facts of the case so well by now—but he wondered if Inspector Birch had developed any new theories. If so, they would appear in he Coroner’s examination, for the Coroner would certainly have been coached by the police as to the important facts to be extracted from each witness. Bill was the first to be put through it.

“Now, about this letter, Mr. Beverley?” he was asked when his chief evidence was over. “Did you see it at all?”

“I didn’t see the actual writing. I saw the back of it. Mark was holding it up when he told us about his brother.”

“You don’t know what was in it, then?”

Bill had a sudden shock. He had read the letter only that morning. He knew quite well what was in it. But it wouldn’t do to admit this. And then, just as he was about to perjure himself, he remembered: Antony had heard Cayley telling the Inspector.

“I knew afterwards. I was told. But Mark didn’t read it out at breakfast.”

“You gathered, however, that it was an unwelcome letter?”

“Oh, yes!”

“Would you say that Mark was frightened by it?”

“Not frightened. Sort of bitter—and resigned. Sort of ‘Oh, Lord, here we are again!’”

There was a titter here and there. The Coroner smiled, and tried to pretend that he hadn’t.

“Thank you, Mr. Beverley.”

The next witness was summoned by the name of Andrew Amos, and Antony looked up with interest, wondering who he was.

“He lives at the inner lodge,” whispered Bill to him.

All that Amos had to say was that a stranger had passed by his lodge at a little before three that afternoon, and had spoken to him. He had seen the body and recognized it as the man.

“What did he say?”

“‘Is this right for the Red House?’ or something like that, sir.

“What did you say?”

“I said, ‘This is the Red House. Who do you want to see?’ He was a bit rough-looking, you know, sir, and I didn’t know what he was doing there.”

“Well?”

“Well, sir, he said, ‘Is Mister Mark Ablett at home?’ It doesn’t sound much put like that, sir, but I didn’t care about the way he said it. So I got in front of him like, and said, ‘What do you want, eh?’ and he gave a sort of chuckle and said, ‘I want to see my dear brother Mark.’ Well, then I took a closer look at him, and I see that p’raps he might be his brother, so I said, ‘If you’ll follow the drive, sir, you’ll come to the house. Of course I can’t say if Mr. Ablett’s at home.’ And he gave a sort of nasty laugh again, and said, ‘Fine place Mister Mark Ablett’s got here. Plenty of money to spend, eh?’ Well, then I had another look at him, sir, because gentlemen don’t talk like that, and if he was Mr. Ablett’s brother—but before I could make up my mind, he laughed and went on. That’s all I can tell you, sir.”

Andrew Amos stepped down and moved away to the back of the room, nor did Antony take his eyes off him until he was assured that Amos intended to remain there until the inquest was over.

“Who’s Amos talking to now?” he whispered to Bill.

“Parsons. One of the gardeners. He’s at the outside lodge on the Stanton road. They’re all here to-day. Sort of holiday for em.

“I wonder if he’s giving evidence too,” thought Antony. He was. He followed Amos. He had been at work on the lawn in front of the house, and had seen Robert Ablett arrive. He didn’t hear the shot—not to notice. He was a little hard of hearing. He had seen a gentleman arrive about five minutes after Mr. Robert.

“Can you see him in court now?” asked the Coroner. Parsons looked round slowly. Antony caught his eye and smiled.

“That’s him,” said Parsons, pointing.

Everybody looked at Antony.

“That was about five minutes afterwards?”

“About that, sir.”

“Did anybody come out of the house before this gentleman’s arrival?”

“No, sir. That is to say I didn’t see ‘em.”

Stevens followed. She gave her evidence much as she had given it to the Inspector. Nothing new was brought out by her examination. Then came Elsie. As the reporters scribbled down what she had overheard, they added in brackets “Sensation” for the first time that afternoon.

“How soon after you had heard this did the shot come?” asked the Coroner.

“Almost at once, sir.”

“A minute?”

“I couldn’t really say, sir. It was so quick.”

“Were you still in the hall?”

“Oh, no, sir. I was just outside Mrs. Stevens’ room. The housekeeper, sir.”

“You didn’t think of going back to the hall to see what had happened?”

“Oh, no, sir. I just went in to Mrs. Stevens, and she said, ‘Oh, what was that?’ frightened-like. And I said, ‘That was in the house, Mrs. Stevens, that was.’ Just like something going off, it was.”

“Thank you,” said the Coroner.

There was another emotional disturbance in the room as Cayley went into the witness-box; not “Sensation” this time, but an eager and, as it seemed to Antony, sympathetic interest. Now they were getting to grips with the drama.

He gave his evidence carefully, unemotionally—the lies with the same slow deliberation as the truth. Antony watched him intently, wondering what it was about him which had this odd sort of attractiveness. For Antony, who knew that he was lying, and lying (as he believed) not for Mark’s sake but his own, yet could not help sharing some of that general sympathy with him.

“Was Mark ever in possession of a revolver?” asked the Coroner.

“Not to my knowledge. I think I should have known if he had been.”

“You were alone with him all that morning. Did he talk about this visit of Robert’s at all?”

“I didn’t see very much of him in the morning. I was at work in my room, and outside, and so on. We lunched together and he talked of it then a little.”

“In what terms?”

“Well—” he hesitated, and then went on. “I can’t think of a better word than ‘peevishly.’ Occasionally he said, ‘What do you think he wants?’ or ‘Why couldn’t he have stayed where he was?’ or ‘I don’t like the tone of his letter. Do you think he means trouble?’ He talked rather in that kind of way.

“Did he express his surprise that his brother should be in England?”

“I think he was always afraid that he would turn up one day.”

“Yes …. You didn’t hear any conversation between the brothers when they were in the office together?”

“No. I happened to go into the library just after Mark had gone in, and I was there all the time.”

“Was the library door open?”

“Oh, yes.”

“Did you see or hear the last witness at all?”

“No.”

“If anybody had come out of the office while you were in the library, would you have heard it?”

“I think so. Unless they had come out very quietly on purpose.”

“Would you call Mark a hasty-tempered man?”

Cayley considered this carefully before answering.

“Hasty-tempered, yes,” he said. “But not violent-tempered.”

“Was he fairly athletic? Active and quick?”

“Active and quick, yes. Not particularly strong.”

“Yes …. One question more. Was Mark in the habit of carrying any considerable sum of money about with him?”

“Yes. He always had one 100 pound note on him, and perhaps ten or twenty pounds as well.”

“Thank you, Mr. Cayley.”

Cayley went back heavily to his seat. “Damn it,” said Antony to himself, “why do I like the fellow?”

“Antony Gillingham!”

Again the eager interest of the room could be felt. Who was this stranger who had got mixed up in the business so mysteriously?

Antony smiled at Bill and stepped up to give his evidence.

He explained how he came to be staying at the “George” at Waldheim, how he had heard that the Red House was in the neighbourhood, how he had walked over to see his friend Beverley, and had arrived just after the tragedy. Thinking it over afterwards he was fairly certain that he had heard the shot, but it had not made any impression on him at the time. He had come to the house from the Waldheim end and consequently had seen nothing of Robert Ablett, who had been a few minutes in front of him. From this point his evidence coincided with Cayley’s.

“You and the last witness reached the French windows together and found them shut?”

“Yes.”

“You pushed them in and came to the body. Of course you had no idea whose body it was?”

“No.”

“Did Mr. Cayley say anything?”

“He turned the body over, just so as to see the face, and when he saw it, he said, ‘Thank God.’”

Again the reporters wrote “Sensation.”

“Did you understand what he meant by that?”

“I asked him who it was, and he said that it was Robert Ablett. Then he explained that he was afraid at first it was the cousin with whom he lived—Mark.”

“Yes. Did he seem upset?”

“Very much so at first. Less when he found that it wasn’t Mark.”

There was a sudden snigger from a nervous gentleman in the crowd at the back of the room, and the Coroner put on his glasses and stared sternly in the direction from which it came. The nervous gentleman hastily decided that the time had come to do up his bootlace. The Coroner put down his glasses and continued.

“Did anybody come out of the house while you were coming up the drive?”

“No.”

“Thank you, Mr. Gillingham.”

He was followed by Inspector Birch. The Inspector, realizing that this was his afternoon, and that the eyes of the world were upon him, produced a plan of the house and explained the situation of the different rooms. The plan was then handed to the jury.

Inspector Birch, so he told the world, had arrived at the Red House at 4.42 p.m. on the afternoon in question. He had been received by Mr. Matthew Cayley, who had made a short statement to him, and he had then proceeded to examine the scene of the crime. The French windows had been forced from outside. The door leading into the hall was locked; he had searched the room thoroughly and had found no trace of a key. In