The Red House Mystery
by
A. A. Milne
Part 5 out of 5
"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.
Antony stood watching him with a little smile at his enthusiasm.
Then he looked round slowly, as if in search of something.
Suddenly he saw what he wanted. Twenty yards farther on a lane
wandered off to the left, and there was a gate a little way up on
the right-hand side of it. Antony walked to the gate, filling
his pipe as he went. Then he lit his pipe, sat on the gate, and
took his head in his hands.
"Now then," he said to himself, "let's begin at the beginning."
It was nearly eight o'clock when William Beverley, the famous
sleuth-hound, arrived, tired and dusty, at the "George," to find
Antony, cool and clean, standing bare-headed at the door, waiting
for him.
"Is dinner ready?" were Bill's first words.
"Yes."
"Then I'll just have a wash. Lord, I'm tired."
"I never ought to have asked you," said Antony penitently.
"That's all right. I shan't be a moment." Half-way up the
stairs he turned round and asked, "Am I in your room?"
"Yes. Do you know the way?"
"Yes. Start carving, will you? And order lots of beer." He
disappeared round the top of the staircase. Antony went slowly
in.
When the first edge of his appetite had worn off, and he was able
to spare a little time between the mouthfuls, Bill gave an
account of his adventures. The landlord of the "Plough and
Horses" had been sticky, decidedly sticky--Bill had been unable
at first to get anything out of him. But Bill had been tactful;
lorblessyou, how tactful he had been.
"He kept on about the inquest, and what a queer affair it had
been, and so on, and how there'd been an inquest in his wife's
family once, which he seemed rather proud about, and I kept
saying, 'Pretty busy, I suppose, just now, what?' and then he'd
say, 'Middlin',' and go on again about Susan--that was the one
that had the inquest--he talked about it as if it were a disease
--and then I'd try again, and say, 'Slack times, I expect, just
now, eh?' and he'd say 'Middlin' again, and then it was time to
offer him another drink, and I didn't seem to be getting much
nearer. But I got him at last. I asked him if he knew John
Borden--he was the man who said he'd seen Mark at the station.
Well, he knew all about Borden, and after he'd told me all about
Borden's wife's family, and how one of them had been burnt to
death--after you with the beer; thanks--well, then I said
carelessly that it must be very hard to remember anybody whom you
had just seen once, so as to identify him afterwards, and he
agreed that it would be 'middlin' hard,' and then--"
"Give me three guesses," interrupted Antony. "You asked him if
he remembered everybody who came to his inn?"
"That's it. Bright, wasn't it?"
"Brilliant. And what was the result?"
"The result was a woman."
"A woman?" said Antony eagerly.
"A woman," said Bill impressively. "Of course I thought it was
going to be Robert--so did you, didn't you?--but it wasn't. It
was a woman. Came quite late on Monday night in a car--driving
herself--went off early next morning."
"Did he describe her?"
"Yes. She was middlin'. Middlin' tall, middlin' age, middlin'
colour, and so on. Doesn't help much, does it? But still--a
woman. Does that upset your theory?"
Antony shook his head.
"No, Bill, not at all," he said.
"You knew all the time? At least, you guessed?"
"Wait till to-morrow. I'll tell you everything to-morrow."
"To-morrow!" said Bill in great disappointment.
"Well, I'll tell you one thing to-night, if you'll promise not to
ask any more questions. But you probably know it already."
"What is it?"
"Only that Mark Albett did not kill his brother."
"And Cayley did?"
"That's another question, Bill. However, the answer is that
Cayley didn't, either."
"Then who on earth--"
"Have some more beer," said Antony with a smile. And Bill had to
be content with that.
They were early to bed that evening, for both of them were tired.
Bill slept loudly and defiantly, but Antony lay awake, wondering.
What was happening at the Red House now? Perhaps he would hear
in the morning; perhaps he would get a letter. He went over the
whole story again from the beginning--was there any possibility
of a mistake? What would the police do? Would they ever find
out? Ought he to have told them? Well, let them find out; it
was their job. Surely he couldn't have made a mistake this time.
No good wondering now; he would know definitely in the morning.
In the morning there was a letter for him.
CHAPTER XXI
Cayley's Apology
"My Dear Mr. Gillingham,
"I gather from your letter that you have made certain discoveries
which you may feel it your duty to communicate to the police, and
that in this case my arrest on a charge of murder would
inevitably follow. Why, in these circumstances, you should give
me such ample warning of your intentions I do not understand,
unless it is that you are not wholly out of sympathy with me.
But whether or not you sympathize, at any rate you will want to
know--and I want you to know--the exact manner in which Ablett
met his death and the reasons which made that death necessary.
If the police have to be told anything, I would rather that they
too knew the whole story. They, and even you, may call it
murder, but by that time I shall be out of the way. Let them
call it what they like.
"I must begin by taking you back to a summer day fifteen years
ago, when I was a boy of thirteen and Mark a young man of
twenty-five. His whole life was make-believe, and just now he
was pretending to be a philanthropist. He sat in our little
drawing-room, flicking his gloves against the back of his left
hand, and my mother, good soul, thought what a noble young
gentleman he was, and Philip and I, hastily washed and crammed
into collars, stood in front of him, nudging each other and
kicking the backs of our heels and cursing him in our hearts for
having interrupted our game. He had decided to adopt one of us,
kind Cousin Mark. Heaven knows why he chose me. Philip was
eleven; two years longer to wait. Perhaps that was why.
"Well, Mark educated me. I went to a public school and to
Cambridge, and I became his secretary. Well, much more than his
secretary as your friend Beverley perhaps has told you: his land
agent, his financial adviser, his courier, his--but this most of
all--his audience. Mark could never live alone. There must
always be somebody to listen to him. I think in his heart he
hoped I should be his Boswell. He told me one day that he had
made me his literary executor--poor devil. And he used to write
me the absurdest long letters when I was away from him, letters
which I read once and then tore up. The futility of the man!
"It was three years ago that Philip got into trouble. He had
been hurried through a cheap grammar school and into a London
office, and discovered there that there was not much fun to be
got in this world on two pounds a week. I had a frantic letter
from him one day, saying that he must have a hundred at once, or
he would be ruined, and I went to Mark for the money. Only to
borrow it, you understand; he gave me a good salary and I could
have paid it back in three months. But no. He saw nothing for
himself in it, I suppose; no applause, no admiration. Philip's
gratitude would be to me, not to him. I begged, I threatened, we
argued; and while we were arguing, Philip was arrested. It
killed my mother--he was always her favourite--but Mark, as
usual, got his satisfaction out of it. He preened himself on his
judgment of character in having chosen me and not Philip twelve
years before!
"Later on I apologized to Mark for the reckless things I had said
to him, and he played the part of a magnanimous gentleman with
his accustomed skill, but, though outwardly we were as before to
each other, from that day forward, though his vanity would never
let him see it, I was his bitterest enemy. If that had been all,
I wonder if I should have killed him? To live on terms of
intimate friendship with a man whom you hate is dangerous work
for your friend. Because of his belief in me as his admiring and
grateful protege and his belief in himself as my benefactor, he
was now utterly in my power. I could take my time and choose my
opportunity. Perhaps I should not have killed him, but I had
sworn to have my revenge--and there he was, poor vain fool, at my
mercy. I was in no hurry.
"Two years later I had to reconsider my position, for my revenge
was being taken out of my hands. Mark began to drink. Could I
have stopped him? I don't think so, but to my immense surprise I
found myself trying to. Instinct, perhaps, getting the better of
reason; or did I reason it out and tell myself that, if he drank
himself to death, I should lose my revenge? Upon my word, I
cannot tell you; but, for whatever motive, I did genuinely want
to stop it. Drinking is such a beastly thing, anyhow.
"I could not stop him, but I kept him within certain bounds, so
that nobody but myself knew his secret. Yes, I kept him
outwardly decent; and perhaps now I was becoming like the
cannibal who keeps his victim in good condition for his own ends.
I used to gloat over Mark, thinking how utterly he was mine to
ruin as I pleased, financially, morally, whatever way would give
me most satisfaction. I had but to take my hand away from him
and he sank. But again I was in no hurry.
"Then he killed himself. That futile little drunkard, eaten up
with his own selfishness and vanity, offered his beastliness to
the truest and purest woman on this earth. You have seen her,
Mr. Gillingham, but you never knew Mark Ablett. Even if he had
not been a drunkard, there was no chance for her of happiness
with him. I had known him for many years, but never once had I
seen him moved by any generous emotion. To have lived with that
shrivelled little soul would have been hell for her; and a
thousand times worse hell when he began to drink.
"So he had to be killed. I was the only one left to protect her,
for her mother was in league with Mark to bring about her ruin.
I would have shot him openly for her sake, and with what
gladness, but I had no mind to sacrifice myself needlessly. He
was in my power; I could persuade him to almost anything by
flattery; surely it would not be difficult to give his death the
appearance of an accident.
"I need not take up your time by telling you of the many plans I
made and rejected. For some days I inclined towards an
unfortunate boating accident in the pond--Mark, a very
indifferent swimmer, myself almost exhausted in a gallant attempt
to hold him up. And then he himself gave me the idea, he and
Miss Norris between them, and so put himself in my hands; without
risk of discovery, I should have said, had you not discovered me.
"We were talking about ghosts. Mark had been even more vain,
pompous and absurd than usual, and I could see that Miss Norris
was irritated by it. After dinner she suggested dressing up as a
ghost and frightening him. I thought it my duty to warn her that
Mark took any joke against himself badly, but she was determined
to do it. I gave way reluctantly. Reluctantly, also, I told her
the secret of the passage. (There is an underground passage from
the library to the bowling-green. You should exercise your
ingenuity, Mr. Gillingham, in trying to discover it. Mark came
upon it by accident a year ago. It was a godsend to him; he
could drink there in greater secrecy. But he had to tell me
about it. He wanted an audience, even for his vices.)
"I told Miss Norris, then, because it was necessary for my plan
that Mark should be thoroughly frightened. Without the passage
she could never have got close enough to the bowling-green to
alarm him properly, but as I arranged it with her she made the
most effective appearance, and Mark was in just the state of rage
and vindictiveness which I required. Miss Norris, you
understand, is a professional actress. I need not say that to
her I appeared to be animated by no other feeling than a boyish
desire to bring off a good joke--a joke directed as much against
the others as against Mark.
"He came to me that night, as I expected, still quivering with
indignation. Miss Norris must never be asked to the house again;
I was to make a special note of it; never again. It was
outrageous. Had he not a reputation as a host to keep up, he
would pack her off next morning. As it was, she could stay;
hospitality demanded it; but never again would she come to the
Red House--he was absolutely determined about that. I was to
make a special note of it.
"I comforted him, I smoothed down his ruffled feathers. She had
behaved very badly, but he was quite right; he must try not to
show how much he disapproved of her. And of course she would
never come again--that was obvious. And then suddenly I began to
laugh. He looked up at me indignantly.
"'Is there a joke?" he said coldly.
"I laughed gently again.
"'I was just thinking,' I said, 'that it would be rather amusing
if you--well, had your revenge."
"'My revenge? How do you mean?'
"'Well, paid her back in her own coin.'
"'Do you mean try and frighten her?'
"'No, no; but dressed up and pulled her leg a bit. Made her look
a fool in front of the others.' I laughed to myself again.
'Serve her jolly well right.'
"He jumped up excitedly.
"'By Jove, Cay!' he cried. 'If I could! How? You must think of
a way.
"I don't know if Beverley has told you about Mark's acting. He
was an amateur of all the arts, and vain of his little talents,
but as an actor he seemed to himself most wonderful. Certainly
he had some ability for the stage, so long as he had the stage to
himself and was playing to an admiring audience. As a
professional actor in a small part he would have been hopeless;
as an amateur playing the leading part, he deserved all that the
local papers had ever said about him. And so the idea of giving
us a private performance, directed against a professional actress
who had made fun of him, appealed equally to his vanity and his
desire for retaliation. If he, Mark Albett, by his wonderful
acting could make Ruth Norris look a fool in front of the others,
could take her in, and then join in the laugh at her afterwards,
he would indeed have had a worthy revenge!
"It strikes you as childish, Mr. Gillingham? Ah, you never knew
Mark Ablett.
"'How, Cay, how?' he said eagerly.
"'Well, I haven't really thought it out,' I protested. 'It was
just an idea.'
"He began to think it out for himself.
"'I might pretend to be a manager, come down to see her--but I
suppose she knows them all. What about an interviewer?'
"'It's going to be difficult,' I said thoughtfully. 'You've got
rather a characteristic face, you know. And your beard--'
"'I'd shave it off,' he snapped.
"'My dear Mark!'
"He looked away, and mumbled, 'I've been thinking of taking it
off, anyhow. And besides, if I'm going to do the thing, I'm
going to do it properly.'
"'Yes, you always were an artist,' I said, looking at him
admiringly.
"He purred. To be called an artist was what he longed for most.
Now I knew that I had him.
"'All the same,' I went on, 'even without your beard and
moustache you might be recognizable. Unless, of course--' I
broke off.
"'Unless what?'
"'You pretend to be Robert.' I began to laugh to myself again.
'By Jove!' I said, 'that's not a bad idea. Pretend to be Robert,
the wastrel brother, and make yourself objectionable to Miss
Norris. Borrow money from her, and that sort of thing.'
"He looked at me, with his bright little eyes, nodding eagerly.
"'Robert,' he said. 'Yes. How shall we work it?'
"There was really a Robert, Mr. Gillingham, as I have no doubt
you and the Inspector both discovered. And he was a wastrel and
he went to Australia. But he never came to the Red House on
Tuesday afternoon. He couldn't have, because he died
(unlamented) three years ago. But there was nobody who knew
this, save Mark and myself, for Mark was the only one of the
family left, his sister having died last year. Though I doubt,
anyhow, if she knew whether Robert was alive or dead. He was not
talked about.
"For the next two days Mark and I worked out our plans. You
understand by now that our aims were not identical. Mark's
endeavour was that his deception should last for, say, a couple
of hours; mine that it should go to the grave with him. He had
only to deceive Miss Norris and the other guests; I had to
deceive the world. When he was dressed up as Robert, I was going
to kill him. Robert would then be dead, Mark (of course)
missing. What could anybody think but that Mark had killed
Robert? But you see how important it was for Mark to enter fully
into his latest (and last) impersonation. Half-measures would be
fatal.
"You will say that it was impossible so do the thing thoroughly
enough. I answer again that you never knew Mark. He was being
what he wished most to be--an artist. No Othello ever blacked
himself all over with such enthusiasm as did Mark. His beard was
going anyhow--possible a chance remark of Miss Norbury's helped
here. She did not like beards. But it was important for me that
the dead man's hands should not be the hands of a manicured
gentleman. Five minutes playing upon the vanity of the artist
settled his hands. He let the nails grow and then cut them
raggedly. 'Miss Norris would notice your hands at once,' I had
said. 'Besides, as an artist--'
"So with his underclothes. It was hardly necessary to warn him
that his pants might show above the edge of his socks; as an
artist he had already decided upon Robertian pants. I bought
them, and other things, in London for him. Even if I had not cut
out all trace of the maker's name, he would instinctively have
done it. As an Australian and an artist, he could not have an
East London address on his underclothes. Yes, we were doing the
thing thoroughly, both of us; he as an artist, I as a--well, you
may say murderer, if you like. I shall not mind now.
"Our plans were settled. I went to London on the Monday and
wrote him a letter from Robert. (The artistic touch again.) I
also bought a revolver. On the Tuesday morning he announced
the arrival of Robert at the breakfast-table. Robert was now alive
--we had six witnesses to prove it; six witnesses who knew that he
was coming that afternoon. Our private plan was that Robert
should present himself at three o'clock, in readiness for the
return of the golfing-party shortly afterwards. The maid would
go to look for Mark, and having failed to find him, come back to
the office to find me entertaining Robert in Mark's absence. I
would explain that Mark must have gone out somewhere, and would
myself introduce the wastrel brother to the tea-table. Mark's
absence would not excite any comment, for it would be generally
felt--indeed Robert would suggest it--that he had been afraid of
meeting his brother. Then Robert would make himself amusingly
offensive to the guests, particularly, of course, Miss Norris,
until he thought that the joke had gone far enough.
"That was our private plan. Perhaps I should say that it was
Mark's private plan. My own was different.
"The announcement at breakfast went well. After the
golfing-party had gone off, we had the morning in which to
complete our arrangements. What I was chiefly concerned about
was to establish as completely as possible the identity of
Robert. For this reason I suggested to Mark that, when dressed,
he should go out by the secret passage to the bowling-green, and
come back by the drive, taking care to enter into conversation
with the lodge-keeper. In this way I would have two more
witnesses of Robert's arrival--first the lodge-keeper, and
secondly one of the gardeners whom I would have working on the
front lawn. Mark, of course, was willing enough. He could
practise his Australian accent on the lodge-keeper. It was
really amusing to see how readily he fell into every suggestion
which I made. Never was a killing more carefully planned by its
victim.
"He changed into Robert's clothes in the office bedroom. This
was the safest way--for both of us. When he was ready, he called
me in, and I inspected him. It was extraordinary how well he
looked the part. I suppose that the signs of his dissipation had
already marked themselves on, his face, but had been concealed
hitherto by his moustache and beard; for now that he was
clean-shaven they lay open to the world from which we had so
carefully hidden them, and he was indeed the wastrel which he was
pretending to be.
"'By Jove, you're wonderful,' I said.
"He smirked, and called my attention to the various artistic
touches which I might have missed.
"'Wonderful,' I said to myself again. 'Nobody could possibly
guess.'
"I peered into the hall. It was empty. We hurried across to the
library; he got into the passage and made off. I went back to
the bedroom, collected all his discarded clothes, did them up in
a bundle and returned with them to the passage. Then I sat down
in the hall and waited.
"You heard the evidence of Stevens, the maid. As soon as she was
on her way to the Temple in search of Mark, I stepped into the
office. My hand was in my side-pocket, and in my hand was the
revolver.
"He began at once in his character of Robert--some rigmarole
about working his passage over from Australia; a little private
performance for my edification. Then in his natural voice,
gloating over his well-planned retaliation on Miss Norris, he
burst out, 'It's my turn now. You wait.' It was this which
Elsie heard. She had no business to be there and she might have
ruined everything, but as it turned out it was the luckiest thing
which could have happened. For it was the one piece of evidence
which I wanted; evidence, other than my own, that Mark and Robert
were in the room together.
"I said nothing. I was not going to take the risk of being heard
to speak in that room. I just smiled at the poor little fool,
and took out my revolver, and shot him. Then I went back into
the library and waited--just as I said in my evidence.
"Can you imagine, Mr. Gillingham, the shock which your sudden
appearance gave me? Can you imagine the feelings of a 'murderer'
who has (as he thinks) planned for every possibility, and is then
confronted suddenly with an utterly new problem? What difference
would your coming make? I didn't know. Perhaps none; perhaps
all. And I had forgotten to open the window!
"I don't know whether you will think my plan for killing Mark a
clever one. Perhaps not. But if I do deserve any praise in the
matter, I think I deserve it for the way I pulled myself together
in the face of the unexpected catastrophe of your arrival. Yes,
I got a window open, Mr. Gillingham, under your very nose; the
right window too, you were kind enough to say. And the keys
--yes, that was clever of you, but I think I was cleverer. I
deceived you over the keys, Mr. Gillingham, as I learnt when I
took the liberty of listening to a conversation on the
bowling-green between you and your friend Beverley. Where was I?
Ah, you must have a look for that secret passage, Mr. Gillingham.
"But what am I saying? Did I deceive you at all? You have found
out the secret--that Robert was Mark--and that is all that
matters. How have you found out? I shall never know now. Where
did I go wrong? Perhaps you have been deceiving me all the time.
Perhaps you knew about the keys, about the window, even about the
secret passage. You are a clever man, Mr. Gillingham.
"I had Mark's clothes on my hands. I might have left them in the
passage, but the secret of the passage was now out. Miss Norris
knew it. That was the weak point of my plan, perhaps, that Miss
Norris had to know it. So I hid them in the pond, the inspector
having obligingly dragged it for me first. A couple of keys
joined them, but I kept the revolver. Fortunate, wasn't it, Mr.
Gillingham?
"I don't think that there is any more to tell you. This is a
long letter, but then it is the last which I shall write. There
was a time when I hoped that there might be a happy future for
me, not at the Red House, not alone. Perhaps it was never more
than an idle day-dream, for I am no more worthy of her than Mark
was. But I could have made her happy, Mr. Gillingham. God, how
I would have worked to make her happy! But now that is
impossible. To offer her the hand of a murderer would be as bad
as to offer her the hand of a drunkard. And Mark died for that.
I saw her this morning. She was very sweet. It is a difficult
world to understand.
"Well, well, we are all gone now--the Abletts and the Cayleys. I
wonder what old Grandfather Cayley thinks of it all. Perhaps it
is as well that we have died out. Not that there was anything
wrong with Sarah--except her temper. And she had the Ablett
nose--you can't do much with that. I'm glad she left no
children.
"Good-bye, Mr. Gillingham. I'm sorry that your stay with us was
not of a pleasanter nature, but you understand the difficulties
in which I was placed. Don't let Bill think too badly of me. He
is a good fellow; look after him. He will he surprised. The
young are always surprised. And thank you for letting me end my
own way. I expect you did sympathize a little, you know. We
might have been friends in another world--you and I, and I and
she. Tell her what you like. Everything or nothing. You will
know what is best. Good-bye, Mr. Gillingham.
"MATTHEW CAYLEY.
"I am lonely to-night without Mark. That's funny, isn't it?"
CHAPTER XXII
Mr. Beverley Moves On
"Good Lord!" said Bill, as he put down the letter.
"I thought you'd say that," murmured Antony.
"Tony, do you mean to say that you knew all this?"
"I guessed some of it. I didn't quite know all of it, of
course."
"Good Lord!" said Bill again, and returned to the letter. In a
moment he was looking up again. "What did you write to him? Was
that last night? After I'd gone into Stanton?"
"Yes."
"What did you say? That you'd discovered that Mark was Robert?"
"Yes. At least I said that this morning I should probably
telegraph to Mr. Cartwright of Wimpole Street, and ask him to--"
Bill burst in eagerly on the top of the sentence. "Yes, now what
was all that about? You were so damn Sherlocky yesterday all of
a sudden. We'd been doing the thing together all the time, and
you'd been telling me everything, and then suddenly you become
very mysterious and private and talk enigmatically--is that the
word?--about dentists and swimming and the 'Plough and Horses,'
and--well, what was it all about? You simply vanished out of
sight; I didn't know what on earth we were talking about."
Antony laughed and apologized.
"Sorry, Bill. I felt like that suddenly. Just for the last
half-hour; just to end up with. I'll tell you everything now.
Not that there's anything to tell, really. It seems so easy when
you know it--so obvious. About Mr. Cartwright of Wimpole Street.
Of course he was just to identify the body."
"But whatever made you think of a dentist for that?"
"Who could do it better? Could you have done it? How could you?
You'd never gone bathing with Mark; you'd never seen him
stripped. He didn't swim. Could his doctor do it? Not unless
he'd had some particular operation, and perhaps not then. But
his dentists could--at any time, always--if he had been to his
dentist fairly often. Hence Mr. Cartwright of Wimpole Street."
Bill nodded thoughtfully and went back again to the letter.
"I see. And you told Cayley that you were telegraphing to
Cartwright to identify the body?"
"Yes. And then of course it was all up for him. Once we knew
that Robert was Mark we knew everything."
"How did you know?"
Antony got up from the breakfast table and began to fill his
pipe.
"I'm not sure that I can say, Bill. You know those problems in
Algebra where you say, 'Let x be the answer,' and then you work
it out and find what x is. Well, that's one way; and another
way, which they never give you any marks for at school, is to
guess the answer. Pretend the answer is 4--well, will that
satisfy the conditions of the problem? No. Then try 6; and if 6
doesn't either, then what about 5?--and so on. Well, the
Inspector and the Coroner and all that lot had guessed their
answer, and it seemed to fit, but you and I knew it didn't really
fit; there were several conditions in the problem which it didn't
fit at all. So we knew that their answer was wrong, and we had
to think of another--an answer which explained all the things
which were puzzling us. Well, I happened to guess the right one.
Got a match?"
Bill handed him a box, and he lit his pipe.
"Yes, but that doesn't quite do, old boy. Something must have
put you on to it suddenly. By the way, I'll have my matches
back, if you don't mind."
Antony laughed and took them out of his pocket.
"Sorry .... Well then, let's see if I can go through my own mind
again, and tell you how I guessed it. First of all, the
clothes."
"Yes?"
"To Cayley the clothes seemed an enormously important clue. I
didn't quite see why, but I did realize that to a man in Cayley's
position the smallest clue would have an entirely
disproportionate value. For some reason, then, Cayley attached
this exaggerated importance to the clothes which Mark was wearing
on that Tuesday morning; all the clothes, the inside ones as well
as the outside ones. I didn't know why, but I did feel certain
that, in that case, the absence of the collar was unintentional.
In collecting the clothes he had overlooked the collar. Why?"
"It was the one in the linen-basket?"
"Yes. It seemed probable. Why had Cayley put it there? The
obvious answer was that he hadn't. Mark had put it there. I
remembered what you told me about Mark being finicky, and having
lots of clothes and so on, and I felt that he was just the sort
of man who would never wear the same collar twice." He paused,
and then asked, "Is that right, do you think?"
"Absolutely," said Bill with conviction.
"Well, I guessed it was. So then I began to see an x which would
fit just this part of the problem--the clothes part. I saw Mark
changing his clothes; I saw him instinctively dropping the collar
in the linen-basket, just as he had always dropped every collar
he had ever taken off, but leaving the rest of the clothes on a
chair in the ordinary way; and I saw Cayley collecting all the
clothes afterwards--all the visible clothes--and not realizing
that the collar wasn't there."
"Go on," said Bill eagerly.
"Well, I felt pretty sure about that, and I wanted an explanation
of it. Why had Mark changed down there instead of in his
bedroom? The only answer was that the fact of his changing had
to be kept secret. When did he change? The only possible time
was between lunch (when he would be seen by the servants) and the
moment of Robert's arrival. And when did Cayley collect the
clothes in a bundle? Again, the only answer was 'Before Robert's
arrival.' So another x was wanted--to fit those three
conditions."
"And the answer was that a murder was intended, even before
Robert arrived?"
"Yes. Well now, it couldn't be intended on the strength of that
letter, unless there was very much more behind the letter than we
knew. Nor was it possible a murder could be intended without any
more preparation than the changing into a different suit in which
to escape. The thing was too childish. Also, if Robert was to
be murdered, why go out of the way to announce his existence to
you all--even, at the cost of some trouble, to Mrs. Norbury?
What did it all mean? I didn't know. But I began to feel now
that Robert was an incident only; that the plot was a plot of
Cayley's against Mark--either to get him to kill his brother, or
to get his brother to kill him--and that for some inexplicable
reason Mark seemed to be lending himself to the plot." He was
silent for a little, and then said, almost to himself, "I had
seen the empty brandy bottles in that cupboard."
"You never said anything about them" complained Bill.
"I only saw them afterwards. I was looking for the collar, you
remember. They came back to me afterwards; I knew how Cayley
would feel about it .... Poor devil!"
"Go on," said Bill.
"Well, then, we had the inquest, and of course I noticed, and I
suppose you did too, the curious fact that Robert had asked his
way at the second lodge and not at the first. So I talked to
Amos and Parsons. That made it more curious. Amos told me that
Robert had gone out of his way to speak to him; had called to
him, in fact. Parsons told me that his wife was out in their
little garden at the first lodge all the afternoon, and was
certain that Robert had never come past it. He also told me that
Cayley had put him on to a job on the front lawn that afternoon.
So I had another guess. Robert had used the secret passage--the
passage which comes out into the park between the first and
second lodges. Robert, then, had been in the house; it was a
put-up job between Robert and Cayley. But how could Robert be
there without Mark knowing? Obviously, Mark knew too. What
did it all mean?"
"When was this?" interrupted Bill. "Just after the inquest--after
you'd seen Amos and Parsons, of course?"
"Yes. I got up and left them, and came to look for you. I'd got
back to the clothes then. Why did Mark change his clothes so
secretly? Disguise? But then what about his face? That was
much more important than clothes. His face, his beard--he'd have
to shave off his beard--and then--oh, idiot! I saw you looking
at that poster. Mark acting, Mark made-up, Mark disguised. Oh,
priceless idiot! Mark was Robert .... Matches, please."
Bill passed over the matches again, waited till Antony had relit
his pipe, and then held out his hand for them, just as they were
going into the other's pocket.
"Yes," said Bill thoughtfully. "Yes .... But wait a moment.
What about the 'Plough and Horses'?" Antony looked comically at
him.
"You'll never forgive me, Bill," he said. "You'll never come
clue-hunting with me again."
"What do you mean?"
Antony sighed.
"It was a fake, Watson. I wanted you out of the way. I wanted
to be alone. I'd guessed at my x, and I wanted to test it--to
test it every way, by everything we'd discovered. I simply had
to be alone just then. So--" he smiled and added, "Well, I knew
you wanted a drink."
"You are a devil," said Bill, staring at him. "And your interest
when I told you that a woman had been staying there--"
"Well, it was only polite to be interested when you'd taken so
much trouble."
"You brute! You--you Sherlock! And then you keep trying to
steal my matches. Well, go on."
"That's all. My x fitted."
"Did you guess Miss Norris and all that?"
"Well, not quite. I didn't realize that Cayley had worked for it
from the beginning--had put Miss Norris up to frightening Mark.
I thought he'd just seized the opportunity."
Bill was silent for a long time. Then, puffing at his pipe, he
said slowly, "Has Cayley shot himself?"
Antony shrugged his shoulders.
"Poor devil," said Bill. "It was decent of you to give him a
chance. I'm glad you did."
"I couldn't help liking Cayley in a kind of way, you know."
"He's a clever devil. If you hadn't turned up just when you did,
he would never have been found out."
"I wonder. It was ingenious, but it's often the ingenious thing
which gets found out. The awkward thing from Cayley's point of
view was that, though Mark was missing, neither he nor his body
could ever be found. Well, that doesn't often happen with a
missing man. He generally gets discovered in the end; a
professional criminal; perhaps not--but an amateur like Mark! He
might have kept the secret of how he killed Mark, but I think it
would have become obvious sooner or later that he had killed
him."
"Yes, there's something in that .... Oh, just tell me one thing.
Why did Mark tell Miss Norbury about his imaginary brother?"
"That's puzzled me rather, too, Bill. It may be that he was just
doing the Othello business--painting himself black all over. I
mean he may have been so full of his appearance as Robert that he
had almost got to believe in Robert, and had to tell everybody.
More likely, though, he felt that, having told all of you at the
house, he had better tell Miss Norbury, in case she met one of
you; in which case, if you mentioned the approaching arrival of
Robert, she might say, 'Oh, I'm certain he has no brother; he
would have told me if he had,' and so spoil his joke. Possibly,
too, Cayley put him on to it; Cayley obviously wanted as many
people as possible to know about Robert."
"Are you going to tell the police?"
"Yes, I suppose they'll have to know. Cayley may have left
another confession. I hope he won't give me away; you see, I've
been a sort of accessory since yesterday evening. And I must go
and see Miss Norbury."
"I asked," explained Bill, "because I was wondering what I should
say to--to Betty. Miss Calladine. You see, she's bound to ask."
"Perhaps you won't see her again for a long, long time," said
Antony sadly.
"As a matter of fact, I happen to know that she will be at the
Barringtons. And I go up there to-morrow."
"Well, you had better tell her. You're obviously longing to.
Only don't let her say anything for a day or two. Ill write to
you."
"Righto!"
Antony knocked the ashes out of his pipe and got up.
"The Barringtons," he said. "Large party?"
"Fairly, I think."
Antony smiled at his friend.
"Yes. Well, if any of 'em should happen to be murdered, you
might send for me. I'm just getting into the swing of it."
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