The Red House Mystery, A. A. Milne [that summer book .TXT] 📗
- Author: A. A. Milne
- Performer: 0486401294
Book online «The Red House Mystery, A. A. Milne [that summer book .TXT] 📗». Author A. A. Milne
He had made inquiries about the deceased. Deceased had left for Australia some fifteen years ago, owing to some financial trouble at home. Deceased was not well spoken of in the village from which he and his brother had come. Deceased and his brother had never been on good terms, and the fact that Mark Ablett had come into money had been a cause of great bitterness between them. It was shortly after this that Robert had left for Australia.
He had made inquiries at Stanton station. It had been market-day at Stanton and the station had been more full of arrivals than usual. Nobody had particularly noticed the arrival of Robert Ablett; there had been a good many passengers by the 2.10 train that afternoon, the train by which Robert had undoubtedly come from London. A witness, however, would state that he noticed a man resembling Mark Ablett at the station at 3.53 p.m. that afternoon, and this man caught the 3.55 up train to town.
There was a pond in the grounds of the Red House. He had dragged this, but without result ….
Antony listened to him carelessly, thinking his own thoughts all the time. Medical evidence followed, but there was nothing to be got from that. He felt so close to the truth; at any moment something might give his brain the one little hint which it wanted. Inspector Birch was just pursuing the ordinary. Whatever else this case was, it was not ordinary. There was something uncanny about it.
John Borden was giving evidence. He was on the up platform seeing a friend off by the 3.55 on Tuesday afternoon. He had noticed a man on the platform with coat collar turned up and a scarf round his chin. He had wondered why the man should do this on such a hot day. The man seemed to be trying to escape observation. Directly the train came in, he hurried into a carriage. And so on.
“There’s always a John Borden at every murder case, said Antony to himself.
“Have you ever seen Mark Ablett?”
“Once or twice, sir.”
“Was it he?”
“I never really got a good look at him, sir, what with his collar turned up and the scarf and all. But directly I heard of the sad affair, and that Mr. Ablett was missing, I said to Mrs. Borden, ‘Now I wonder if that was Mr. Ablett I saw at the station?’ So then we talked it over and decided that I ought to come and tell Inspector Birch. It was just Mr. Ablett’s height, sir.”
Antony went on with his thoughts ….
The Coroner was summing up. The jury, he said, had now heard all the evidence and would have to decide what had happened in that room between the two brothers. How had the deceased met his death? The medical evidence would probably satisfy them that Robert Ablett had died from the effects of a bullet-wound in the head. Who had fired that bullet? If Robert Ablett had fired it himself, no doubt they would bring in a verdict of suicide, but if this had been so, where was the revolver which had fired it, and what had become of Mark Ablett? If they disbelieved in this possibility of suicide, what remained? Accidental death, justifiable homicide, and murder. Could the deceased have been killed accidentally? It was possible, but then would Mark Ablett have run away? The evidence that he had run away from the scene of the crime was strong. His cousin had seen him go into the room, the servant Elsie Wood had heard him quarrelling with his brother in the room, the door had been locked from the inside, and there were signs that outside the open window some one had pushed his way very recently through the shrubbery. Who, if not Mark? They would have then to consider whether he would have run away if he had been guiltless of his brother’s death. No doubt innocent people lost their heads sometimes. It was possible that if it were proved afterwards that Mark Ablett had shot his brother, it might also be proved that he was justified in so doing, and that when he ran away from his brother’s corpse he had really nothing to fear at the hands of the Law. In this connection he need hardly remind the jury that they were not the final tribunal, and that if they found Mark Ablett guilty of murder it would not prejudice his trial in any way if and when he was apprehended …. The jury could consider their verdict.
They considered it. They announced that the deceased had died as the result of a bullet-wound, and that the bullet had been fired by his brother Mark Ablett.
Bill turned round to Antony at his side. But Antony was gone. Across the room he saw Andrew Amos and Parsons going out of the door together, and Antony was between them.
Mr. Beverley is Tactful
The inquest had been held at the “Lamb” at Stanton; at Stanton Robert Ablett was to be buried next day. Bill waited about outside for his friend, wondering where he had gone. Then, realizing that Cayley would be coming out to his car directly, and that a farewell talk with Cayley would be a little embarrassing, he wandered round to the yard at the back of the inn, lit a cigarette, and stood surveying a torn and weather-beaten poster on the stable wall. “GRAND THEATRICAL ENTER” it announced, to take place on “Wednesday, Decem.” Bill smiled to himself as he looked at it, for the part of Joe, a loquacious postman, had been played by “William B. Beverl,” as the remnants of the poster still maintained, and he had been much less loquacious than the author had intended, having forgotten his words completely, but it had all been great fun. And then he stopped smiling, for there would be no more fun now at the Red House.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” said the voice of Antony behind him. “My old friends Amos and Parsons insisted on giving me a drink.”
He slipped his hand into the crook of Bill’s arm, and smiled happily at him.
“Why were you so keen about them?” asked Bill a little resentfully. “I couldn’t think where on earth you had got to.”
Antony didn’t say anything. He was staring at the poster.
“When did this happen?” he asked.
“What?”
Antony waved to the poster.
“Oh, that? Last Christmas. It was rather fun.”
Antony began to laugh to himself.
“Were you good?”
“Rotten. I don’t profess to be an actor.”
“Mark good?”
“Oh, rather. He loves it.”
“Rev. Henry Stutters—Mr. Matthew Cay,” read Antony.
“Was that our friend Cayley?”
“Yes.”
“Any good?”
“Well, much better than I expected. He wasn’t keen, but Mark made him.”
“Miss Norris wasn’t playing, I see.”
“My dear Tony, she’s a professional. Of course she wasn’t.”
Antony laughed again.
“A great success, was it?”
“Oh, rather!”
“I’m a fool, and a damned fool,” Antony announced solemnly. “And a damned fool,” he said again under his breath, as he led Bill away from the poster, and out of the yard into the road. “And a damned fool. Even now—” He broke off and then asked suddenly, “Did Mark ever have much trouble with his teeth?”
“He went to his dentist a good deal. But what on earth—”
Antony laughed a third time.
“What luck!” he chuckled. “But how do you know?”
“We go to the same man; Mark recommended him to me. Cartwright, in Wimpole Street.”
“Cartwright in Wimpole Street,” repeated Antony thoughtfully. “Yes, I can remember that. Cartwright in Wimpole Street. Did Cayley go to him too, by any chance?”
“I expect so. Oh, yes, I know he did. But what on earth—”
“What was Mark’s general health like? Did he see a doctor much?”
“Hardly at all, I should think. He did a lot of early morning exercises which were supposed to make him bright and cheerful at breakfast. They didn’t do that, but they seemed to keep him pretty fit. Tony, I wish you’d—”
Antony held up a hand and hushed him into silence.
“One last question,” he said. “Was Mark fond of swimming?”
“No, he hated it. I don’t believe he could swim. Tony, are you mad, or am I? Or is this a new game?”
Antony squeezed his arm.
“Dear old Bill,” he said. “It’s a game. What a game! And the answer is Cartwright in Wimpole Street.”
They walked in silence for half a mile or so along the road to Waldheim. Bill tried two or three times to get his friend to talk, but Antony had only grunted in reply. He was just going to make another attempt, when Antony came to a sudden stop and turned to him anxiously.
“I wonder if you’d do something for me,” he said, looking at him with some doubt.
“What sort of thing?”
“Well, it’s really dashed important. It’s just the one thing I want now.”
Bill was suddenly enthusiastic again.
“I say, have you really found it all out?”
Antony nodded.
“At least, I’m very nearly there, Bill. There’s just this one thing I want now. It means your going back to Stanton. Well, we haven’t come far; it won’t take you long. Do you mind?”
“My dear Holmes, I am at your service.”
Antony gave him a smile and was silent for a little, thinking.
“Is there another inn at Stanton—fairly close to the station?”
“The ‘Plough and Horses’—just at the corner where the road goes up to the station—is that the one you mean?”
“That would be the one. I suppose you could do with a drink, couldn’t you?”
“Rather!” said Bill, with a grin.
“Good. Then have one at the ‘Plough and Horses.’ Have two, if you like, and talk to the landlord, or landlady, or whoever serves you. I want you to find out if anybody stayed there on Monday night.”
“Robert?” said Bill eagerly.
“I didn’t say Robert,” said Antony, smiling. “I just want you to find out if they had a visitor who slept there on Monday night. A stranger. If so, then any particulars you can get of him, without letting the landlord know that you are interested—”
“Leave it to me,” broke in Bill. “I know just what you want.”
“Don’t assume that it was Robert—or anybody else. Let them describe the man to you. Don’t influence them unconsciously by suggesting that he was short or tall, or anything of that sort. Just get them talking. If it’s the landlord, you’d better stand him a drink or two.”
“Right you are,” said Bill confidently. “Where do I meet you again?”
“Probably at the ‘George.’ If you get there before me, you can order dinner for eight o’clock. Anyhow we’ll meet at eight, if not before.”
“Good.” He nodded to Antony and strode off back to Stanton again.
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