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    The Red House Mystery
    The Red House Mystery
    The Red House Mystery
    Ebook249 pages4 hours

    The Red House Mystery

    By A. A. Milne

    3.5/5

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    A refreshing blend of wit and intrigue, A. A. Milne’s only mystery novel is a masterpiece

    Mark Ablett is not really a snob—not the worst kind of snob, at least. He simply prefers artists to everyone else, and the discussion of his own creative abilities to any other talk whatsoever. His vanities are easily forgiven especially since he is generous with his money—inherited not from his clergyman father but from a neighborhood spinster who took a liking to him—and he is always willing to play the host at the Red House, his delightful country estate.

    One lazy summer morning, as his guests enjoy breakfast before a round of golf, Mark opens a surprising letter. His brother Robert, the black sheep of the family, gone some fifteen years now, is back from Australia and plans to call at the Red House that very afternoon. It is the first that Mark’s friends and servants have heard of a brother, but that shock is nothing compared to what happens next: After being shown into an empty office to wait for the master of the house, Robert is shot dead. Mark is nowhere to be found, not unlike the pistol that fired the fatal bullet. It is up to Tony Gillingham, man of leisure, and his young friend Bill Beverley to assume the roles of Sherlock and Watson and solve a crime so clever that Alexander Woollcott pronounced it “one of the three best mystery stories of all time.”

    Beloved children’s author A. A. Milne was a great fan of detective stories. His first and last attempt at the genre is an absolute delight—one of the most original and charming novels of the Golden Age of crime fiction. 

    This ebook has been professionally proofread to ensure accuracy and readability on all devices.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMysteriousPress.com Open Road
    Release dateMay 27, 2014
    ISBN9781480493940
    Author

    A. A. Milne

    A.A.Milne was born in London in 1882 and became a highly successful writer of plays, poems and novels. He based Winnie-the-Pooh, Piglet and friends on the real nursery toys of his son Christopher Robin and published the first book of their adventures together in 1926. Since then, Pooh has become a world-famous bear, and Milne’s stories have been translated into seventy-two languages.

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    Reviews for The Red House Mystery

    3.5/5

    315 ratings42 reviews

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    • 4/5
      A classic mystery of yesteryear. Invoked the Sherlock Holmes/Agatha Christy method of investigation by reasoning, logic and observation. Enjoyable and relaxing read.
    • 4/5
      This was a delightful book to read. Mr. Milne did a wonderful job of introducing you to his characters and time they lived in. Wish he had written another mystery or two.
    • 4/5
      Excellent 'golden age' country house locked-room novel - one would think it a glorious pastiche if it hadn't, in fact, been written in 1922. In his preface, the author seems to regret the eclipse by a certain bear of his crime-writing career. In this, one looks in vain for Milne's distinctive voice; perhaps it would have emerged in future mysteries - or perhaps this single effort will do very nicely, thank you very much.
    • 3/5
      A cute little mystery with wisps of Agatha Christie. It was just kind of easy to guess who done it, and I usually can NEVER figure that out!
    • 4/5
      A. A. Milne? Of Pooh, Tigger, and Eeyore fame? Yes, it is!

      I am very much enjoying these first days of summer. I get to read whatever I choose! I stayed up late last night and woke early this morning to read this little mystery I found in one of my favorite used bookstores in Hillcrest (San Diego, CA). It had been calling to me for weeks; but alas, final term papers required my attention. At the earliest moment of freedom, I snatched it out of my stacks of unread books and plunged in like Pooh breaking into his crock of honey. (Ok, that was a bit cheesy but I think you would expect some sort of Pooh-ish simile somewhere in here.)

      You will enjoy this book if you answer in the affirmative this one question: Do you adore P. G. Wodehouse? Seriously, that's it. If you love the humor of Wodehouse with his endless teasing of British upper-crust society you'll eat up every second of this little volume. And, don't skip the introduction wherein Mr. Milne gives you his prerequisites for a good mystery, including:

      On the great Love question opinions may be divided, but for myself I will have none of it. A reader, all agog to know whether the white substance on the muffins was arsenic or face-powder, cannot be held up while Roland clasps Angela's hand "a moment longer than the customary usages of society dictate." Much might have happened in that moment, properly spent; footprints made or discovered; cigarette-ends picked up and put in envelopes. By all means let Roland have a book to himself in which to clasp anything he likes, but in a detective story he must attend strictly to business. (p. x)

      I've no idea who Mr. Milne was quoting - that is, the author who dared have the detective hold a hand (a stare, an ass cheek...) a moment longer than customary. I did a quotation search and citations led back to Mr. Milne's The Red House Mystery. Thus, we've a mystery within a mystery concerning who insulted Mr. Milne's sensitivities so completely as to be called out in print for their misdeed.

      The misdeeds of other mystery writers aside, Mr. Milne's little book is a gem. It's perfect for a light, bright, summer afternoon of reading accompanied by a pitcher of martinis.
    • 5/5
      A very fun murder mystery with lots of unexpected little twists and turns. Ultimately solved by an unexpected passer-by that had the misfortune of showing up just as the ghastly event took place, our sleuth has the blessing of absolutely no prior knowledge of anyone or anything, and is thus freed of the preconceived notions of the rest. A remarkable casualness to the entire official investigation allows our hero free reign to ultimately figure it out. Slightly quirky, but a very fun, quick read.
    • 3/5
      A nice edition of A.A.Milne's one and only detective story, set in a country house belonging to a wealthy man who extends his hospitality to friends who come to stay for a weekend (to play golf, bowls etc.) or longer. As in Cluedo and many Christie novels there is a murder - behind a locked door. Brothers, cousins, girlfriends, hangers-on, who dunnit? There is a great deal of cogitation, a secret passage, missing keys, and detailed description of the layout of the Red House which has led the editors of this edition to include a map as the endpapers. On p. xix (introduction) the reader is told that the map proved more difficult than expected, and this is hardly surprising as the bowling green moves from west to east halfway through the book. I read it all very carefully, with constant references to the map, and came up with quite a few discrepancies which I feel tempted to list below, but maybe I won't as I'm not fond of spoilers.Apart from some little weaknesses in the plot, it was an enjoyable read and led me to think about the bygone times of maids, housekeepers and houseguests.Incidentally, I did guess what happened quite early on, but not the whys and the wherefores.
    • 5/5
      A.A. Milne is known for Winnie the Pooh. This was a great surprise.

      With a taste of Sherlock Holmes and Peter Whimsey, this mystery took place at a strange Red House. One brother murdered the other, but who murdered who?

      As you read along and come upon the clues you may think you have it, but then things veer off in another direction. Quite the mind game.
    • 4/5
      The Red House Mystery (1922)by A A Milne (Winnie The Pooh)Guests at an English country estate become amateur sleuths....in the tradition of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes storiesE Reader147pgF2F Mystery Lovers Book Club (Feb selection)(2013)
    • 4/5
      A classic-style English mystery by the author of Winnie-the-Pooh. This edition includes a delightful introduction in which he sets out his experience with his agent and publisher (first they were against his writing it, then they wanted him to go on writing it instead of moving on to nursery rhymes --he could quite possibly have become a rival of Christie and Sayers instead of the creator of Christopher Robin. He also explains his own criteria for a good mystery, which very much match the "golden age" image. According to the tradition, a long-absent brother comes home to an English country home and is promptly murdered.
    • 3/5
      A mystery from the golden age, featuring amateur detective Antony Gillingham. Although not a bad story I found it a bit repetitive in parts. In 1922 when this was written the plot may have been unique, but the solution was pretty obvious to a reader of mystery stories nowadays. Still, it was a fun read.Favourite quote: "There was indeed a frightful lot of books. The four walls of the library were plastered with them from floor to ceiling, save only where the door and the two windows insisted on living their own life, even though an illiterate one."
    • 4/5
      The only detective novel written by A.A.Milne, and a very good one. Many surprises and a very acceptable plot. I hugely enjoyed it.
    • 1/5
      Well I fell for this one hook line and sinker! If it hadn't been for the fact that I was on a train and had nothing else to read I wouldn't have been able to summon the strength of spirit to finish this. I still think it proved to be in a waste of shame, though.
    • 2/5
      IMO more a mystery pastiche than a true mystery. In his preface Milne lays out the criteria for what is for him a perfect mystery, including all the usual bits for "cosy" English mysteries, plus the necessity that the sleuth be an amateur. Unfortunately in this case the sleuth is way too self-conscious of his role as Holmes, and spends much time commenting on that circumstance. There are very few other characters in this short novel. The bulk of the usual suspects are dismissed in just a few chapters, leaving just the hero and his Watson. The chief suspect and the inspector are brought in as little as possible. All this leads to a fairly uninteresting but quick read. Recommended only to fans of both Milne and locked room mysteries (which this isn't but might as well be).While not quite a locked room mystery, this short novel shares many of the qualities of those carefully constructed puzzles.
    • 4/5
      An exacting use of words makes this short, solid mystery by Milne very charming. Written in 1922, it provides the reader with all the facts needed to solve the crime. Antony Gillingham is enjoying a relaxing weekend at a country mansion. One of the guests turns up dead. Antony and his friend, Bill, solve the crime in a manner that would make Holmes and Watson proud.
    • 3/5
      Where I got the book: free public domain download on the Kindle.A rather coy little country-house murder mystery set just after World War I, and yet the war is never mentioned. Which sets the tone: a little bit of escapist fantasy, Winnie-the-Pooh's creator's try at a genre that took off like a rocket in the between-wars period, providing an intellectual puzzle to distract the reader from the fact that their world was up sh*t creek without a paddle.And a very self-conscious stab at the genre at that: Antony, the detective, makes it clear that we're moving around inside a novel with pronouncements such as "I oughtn't to explain till the last chapter." He sees himself as Holmes and his pal Bill as Watson; hilariously the two are always walking around arm-in-arm, which makes the modern reader put an unintended slant on their relationship. Those were simpler times.I found the story quite entertaining but ground my teeth when Milne fell back on the murderer's confession in the form of a letter. That. Is. Cheating. No wonder Antony found the exercise so delightfully easy. He didn't actually do the work. And there were other ways in which Milne made things too easy, such as eliminating most of the possible suspects (including all the women, so that there wouldn't be any love interest) by sending them away early in the story. I don't suppose I'm the only reader who figured out whodunnit very early on.But still, it's worth reading as a fun snapshot of a time and a genre. The novel was a success and Milne's agent wanted him to write more but he refused, preferring to exploit his only child write the famous Pooh novels. Perhaps even a mystery novel came too close to real life for a man who'd had a "debilitating illness" during the War, for which I read shell shock or what would now be called PTSD. I'm sure it's way more complicated than that, but writers lay themselves open to analysis by amateurs and I stand on my rights.
    • 3/5
      Too small a cast of characters for a Whodunnit - it’s a Whydiddydoit, resolved in the end by the murderer’s epistolary confession. Country house mystery. Period charm and engaging prose with a pair of jolly pipe smoking chaps, guests of the murdered host, playing at Holmes and Watson.
    • 4/5
      The Red House Mystery by A.A. Milne; (4*)Such a fun mystery! Considered to be a 'locked room mystery', I enjoyed every aspect of this little book. Milne's father loved mysteries and that is said to be the reason behind the writing of this one. Sweet, that. But aside........I truly wish that he had written more of the genre. However I guess the genre was not dear to HIS heart. So it will have to be back to the children's lit for me to get more of Milne. No great sacrifice there.
    • 4/5
      Great fun, in a very 1920s sort of way – amateur sleuths lighting pipes all the time and declaring "rather!" to each other. Clearly written with a great affection for the genre.
    • 4/5
      I picked this up as a curiosity, a mystery novel by the author of Winnie-the-Pooh, and it turns out to be stellar puzzle solving. Its structure is wonderfully different to what else I've read. The investigator Anthony almost immediately picks up on irregularities in others' behaviour and unravels secrets at a hare's pace that keeps the story rocketing ahead. No slow build-up through interviewing multiple suspects, no having to guess at the broad outlines of what he is piecing together as he goes along, only the details he hints at that he is still uncertain of. That could sap the novel of some of its suspense, but there is always the thought: what if he is wrong? Will it continue to unfold as he predicts at each step, or will everything go unexpectedly sideways? Bill is the Watson-like sidekick (the comparison is made overt) who is caught up in the adventures and frustrations of it all, as he struggles to keep up.
    • 5/5
      Before there was Winnie-the-Pooh, Christopher Robins, Eeyore and Piglet, there was murder most foul. Before there was murder most foul, there was a stint as editor of Punch, a British weekly magazine of humour and satire published until 2002. Now I don't see a huge influence of the murder most foul at the house on Pooh corner, but Punch definitely left its mark on The Red House Mystery. A.A. Milne set out to write a traditional mystery following all the 'rules' of fair play, and he took the plotting very seriously, but that did not keep him from planting his tongue firmly in his cheek while he wrote the story. It's alive with small jokes aimed at Holmes and Watson, mysteries in general, and at the characters themselves. As such, it's a great mystery - heaps of fun to read, if sometimes it felt a tad long. I thought to only give it four stars for this reason, but I'm giving it the benefit of the doubt for two reasons: I read this while flat out with hideous, unrelenting back pain, and I read the introduction. The former might be more obvious than the latter, but Milne was very careful in his introduction, to state his desire to play fair and make sure the reader had all the same clues as the amateur detective. So I might have over-focused on recognising the clues instead of enjoying the ride. Not that it did me an ounce of good. By the time the denouement arrived I had no idea who did it or why. I can't say the ending was a massive ::gasp:: shock, but it was definitely not anti-climatic. I wouldn't' suggest for a moment that the world could have done with less Winnie-the-Pooh, but it is a shame that Milne didn't write more than this one murder mystery. I can't help but wonder if this was his first effort, what future bafflement, wonder and entertainment he might have achieved with a bit more practice. (For the Golden Age of Crime bingo, this could be used for Singleton, or Birth of the Golden Age of Crime)
    • 3/5
      Read mostly because Raymond Chandler hammered it in his essay The Simple Art of Murder. Chandler’s correct, or course – I love this quote (describing the amateur detective and hero Antony Gillingham):“He is not making any money on the assignment, but is always available when the local gendarmerie loses its notebook. The English police seem to endure him with their customary stoicism; but I shudder to think of what the boys down at the Homicide Bureau in my city would do to him.”You really don’t have to read The Red House Mystery; you can get all you need to know from Chandler’s essay. It is a typical English-country-house murder; I’m amazed that anyone ever ventures even close to an English country house given the likelihood of being murdered in one. Chandler, of course, protests too much in his insistence on realism. The English-country-house-murder is a genre, like poor-but-feisty-heroine marries rich-but-bored duke, or great-evil-crazy must be defeated by band-of-rag-tag-adventurers, etc. Those books stay on print because people like them; it doesn’t matter that Hercule Poirot is no more realistic than Aragorn son of Arathorn. Fun if you like this sort of thing; dull if you don’t.
    • 4/5
      Revisiting the Golden Age of Mystery, this novel by Winnie the Pooh's creator has so many of the tropes common in English mysteries between the wars – manor house, troops of house party guests of various sorts, scads of servants, slow witted police, secret passage ways and general upper class behavior. It also has a nifty plot, slowly revealed. I enjoyed it, though on reflection some of the plot turns seem forced.
    • 3/5
      Entering into Mark Ablett's well planned life, living in the Red House, is his wastrel of a brother Robert. But then Robert is found shot, in a locked room. Who and why was he killed. Into this situation comes Anthony Gillingham, visiting his friend Bill Beverley who is staying at the House.
      An interesting mystery written in 1922.
    • 3/5
      This was a pleasant diversion -- a likable detective working his way through a decently- constructed mystery -- without being brilliant.
    • 3/5
      Surprised that I liked this locked room mystery better than I thought I would when I first started. Dated but clever in putting forth motivation for the murder of the owner's brother. Two guests play Holmes and Watson and try to figure out the solution. Christie fans may be interested. Milne shows here that he is more than his famous children's' books.
    • 3/5
      Milne is better taken in smaller doses. His short stories (both for kids and adults) are great, but this novel suffers from a lack of direction in the middle and a rushed conclusion. Still, given his writing style it was enjoyable enough to download from Project Gutenberg and read in short snippets while I was otherwise indisposed.
    • 4/5
      My copy of this book is so old it's not even listed here; it's published by Methuen, the 14th edition that I found in a little antique/book store near my house and paid a dollar for. The Red House Mystery is not a bad read -- neither is it, as Milne says in his introduction, "very nearly the ideal detective story." It's a country-house, locked-room sort of story, with lots of red herrings, two amateurs playing at Holmes and Watson and an ending that I sort of guessed but not really. It's also one of those books where you have to make yourself get through the first few chapters, but after that you'll encounter pretty smooth sailing the rest of the way.Antony (Tony) Gillingham, the less important son of a privileged family, came into an inheritance at 21, and decided to see the world -- through its people. Now at age 30, he has decided to go and visit a friend, Bill Beverley, whom he met earlier while working at a tobacconist's shop. Bill, it seems, is a guest at a house party at Mark Ablett's Red House, and Antony decides to go and see him. As it turns out, he arrives just in time for a murder -- that of Robert Ablett, Mark's "wastrel" brother from Australia who had just recently arrived. Everyone else is asked to leave; Bill and Antony stay on at the house until the inquest with Mark's cousin and protégé Matthew Cayley. Having time on his hands, and "wanting a new profession," Antony decides that becoming a "private sleuthhound," and "being Sherlocky" are just the ticket, and tags Bill as his ever-faithful Watson. Anthony's already got the murderer pegged, but how he/she did it is another question altogether. While Bill sees it as a Sherlockian lark, Tony sometimes finds the going tough:"Of course, it's very hampering being a detective, when you don't know anything about detecting, and when nobody knows that you're doing detection, and you can't have people up to cross-examine them, and you have neither the energy nor the means to make proper inquiries; and, in short, when you're doing the whole thing in a thoroughly amateur, haphazard way."Now here, refreshingly, is a character who understands his limitations -- and the possibility that he could be wrong about some things actually occurs to him from time to time. Nevertheless, the two do a proper bit of sleuthing here, even if at times it seems as though they're playing at silly buggers.The amateur approach to crime solving here is interesting and I'm sure the author meant well, given his "passion for detective stories," but when it comes right down to it, there are several PPIs (problematic plot issues) that are really noticeable, especially for avid crime-reading junkies. Still, it's a fun little mystery novel, and I have a secret fondness for stately English-manor mysteries, so I found it quite enjoyable -- more so for the two main characters and how they go about pretending to partake in a Sherlockian adventure than for the plot itself. I also loved the introduction to this book, where Milne (yes, the Winnie-the-Pooh guy) talks about his love of detective stories and his ideas about the elements of the perfect detective story. I have to agree with him on most points.Some readers may find the language a little stilted -- one reader noted it as being "tedious," but fans of crime writing during this era are used to it so it's not really that big of a deal. And there's nothing at all tedious about it. If you're looking beyond Agatha Christie for a 1920s-period novel, you might enjoy this one.
    • 3/5
      3.5***

      Mark Ablett inherited a stately manor – The Red House – and an income to maintain it. He enjoys the life of a gentleman and patron of the arts, filling his home with guests who enjoy fine dining and the various sports an estate offers. When his prodigal brother, Robert, suddenly returns from his exile in Australia things quickly go awry. Enter the charming Antony Gillingham, who is a friend of one of Mark’s guests, Bill Beverly. Antony happens to be in the area and decides to pay his friend a quick visit when he stumbles upon a chaotic scene and quickly becomes involved in the murder investigation.

      The author of the beloved children’s books starring “Winnie the Pooh” and his friends turns his attention to a mystery for adults. In the vein of Agatha Christie, this is a typical “locked-room” conundrum, featuring an amateur sleuth and a cast of colorful characters. I liked his parallel to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. There isn’t a great deal of action – typical for books written in the early 20th century – but there is enough intrigue to keep me turning pages, and enough red herrings to keep me guessing. Like Christie’s And Then There Were None the final reveal comes in the form of a confession – a device that irritates me a little. Still, it’s a quick, enjoyable cozy.
    • 5/5
      The Red House Mystery is A.A. Milne’s only mystery novel; he is better known for his humorous writing, children’s stories (including the timeless Winnie the Pooh), and poems.A ‘locked-room whodunit’ with an amateur detective, this book followed Agatha Christie’s Mysterious Affair at Styles by only two years (and predates her other work). It’s an elegant and witty, and it’s a perfect time capsule of early 1920s English country manor life. AND it has a solid mystery that’s fairly clued.I wish Milne had written 50 more like this. I haven’t enjoyed a book so much in a long time – and I read it on my Kindle! 4½ starsRead this if: you’d like a stylish vintage English murder mystery. 4½ stars

    Book preview

    The Red House Mystery - A. A. Milne

    CHAPTER I.

    Mrs. Stevens is Frightened

    IN THE DROWSY HEAT of the summer afternoon the Red House was taking its siesta. There was a lazy murmur of bees in the flower-borders, a gentle cooing of pigeons in the tops of the elms. From distant lawns came the whir of a mowing-machine, that most restful of all country sounds; making ease the sweeter in that it is taken while others are working.

    It was the hour when even those whose business it is to attend to the wants of others have a moment or two for themselves. In the housekeeper’s room Audrey Stevens, the pretty parlour-maid, re-trimmed her best hat, and talked idly to her aunt, the cook-housekeeper of Mr. Mark Ablett’s bachelor home.

    For Joe? said Mrs. Stevens placidly, her eye on the hat. Audrey nodded. She took a pin from her mouth, found a place in the hat for it, and said, He likes a bit of pink.

    I don’t say I mind a bit of pink myself, said her aunt. Joe Turner isn’t the only one.

    It isn’t everybody’s colour, said Audrey, holding the hat out at arm’s length, and regarding it thoughtfully. Stylish, isn’t it?

    Oh, it’ll suit you all right, and it would have suited me at your age. A bit too dressy for me now, though wearing better than some other people, I daresay. I was never the one to pretend to be what I wasn’t. If I’m fifty-five, I’m fifty-five—that’s what I say.

    Fifty-eight, isn’t it, auntie?

    I was just giving that as an example, said Mrs. Stevens with great dignity.

    Audrey threaded a needle, held her hand out and looked at her nails critically for a moment, and then began to sew.

    Funny thing that about Mr. Mark’s brother. Fancy not seeing your brother for fifteen years. She gave a self-conscious laugh and went on, Wonder what I should do if I didn’t see Joe for fifteen years.

    As I told you all this morning, said her aunt, I’ve been here five years, and never heard of a brother. I could say that before everybody if I was going to die to-morrow. There’s been no brother here while I’ve been here.

    You could have knocked me down with a feather when he spoke about him at breakfast this morning. I didn’t hear what went before, naturally, but they was all talking about the brother when I went in—now what was it I went in for—hot milk, was it, or toast?—well, they was all talking, and Mr. Mark turns to me, and says—you know his way—‘Stevens,’ he says, ‘my brother is coming to see me this afternoon; I’m expecting him about three,’ he says. ‘Show him into the office,’ he says, just like that. ‘Yes, sir,’ I says quite quietly, but I was never so surprised in my life, not knowing he had a brother. ‘My brother from Australia,’ he says—there, I’d forgotten that. From Australia.

    Well, he may have been in Australia, said Mrs. Stevens, judicially; I can’t say for that, not knowing the country; but what I do say is he’s never been here. Not while I’ve been here, and that’s five years.

    Well, but, auntie, he hasn’t been here for fifteen years. I heard Mr. Mark telling Mr. Cayley. ‘Fifteen years,’ he says. Mr. Cayley having arst him when his brother was last in England. Mr. Cayley knew of him, I heard him telling Mr. Beverley, but didn’t know when he was last in England—see? So that’s why he arst Mr. Mark.

    I’m not saying anything about fifteen years, Audrey. I can only speak for what I know, and that’s five years Whitsuntide. I can take my oath he’s not set foot in the house since five years Whitsuntide. And if he’s been in Australia, as you say, well, I daresay he’s had his reasons.

    What reasons? said Audrey lightly.

    Never mind what reasons. Being in the place of a mother to you, since your poor mother died, I say this, Audrey—when a gentleman goes to Australia, he has his reasons. And when he stays in Australia fifteen years, as Mr. Mark says, and as I know for myself for five years, he has his reasons. And a respectably brought-up girl doesn’t ask what reasons.

    Got into trouble, I suppose, said Audrey carelessly. They were saying at breakfast he’d been a wild one. Debts. I’m glad Joe isn’t like that. He’s got fifteen pounds in the post-office savings’ bank. Did I tell you?

    But there was not to be any more talk of Joe Turner that afternoon. The ringing of a bell brought Audrey to her feet—no longer Audrey, but now Stevens. She arranged her cap in front of the glass.

    There, that’s the front door, she said. That’s him. ‘Show him into the office,’ said Mr. Mark. I suppose he doesn’t want the other ladies and gentlemen to see him. Well, they’re all out at their golf, anyhow—Wonder if he’s going to stay—P’raps he’s brought back a lot of gold from Australia—I might hear something about Australia, because if anybody can get gold there, then I don’t say but what Joe and I—

    Now, now, get on, Audrey.

    Just going, darling. She went out.

    To anyone who had just walked down the drive in the August sun, the open door of the Red House revealed a delightfully inviting hall, of which even the mere sight was cooling. It was a big low-roofed, oak-beamed place, with cream-washed walls and diamond-paned windows, blue-curtained. On the right and left were doors leading into other living-rooms, but on the side which faced you as you came in were windows again, looking on to a small grass court, and from open windows to open windows such air as there was played gently. The staircase went up in broad, low steps along the right-hand wall, and, turning to the left, led you along a gallery, which ran across the width of the hall, to your bedroom. That is, if you were going to stay the night. Mr. Robert Ablett’s intentions in this matter were as yet unknown.

    As Audrey came across the hall she gave a little start as she saw Mr. Cayley suddenly, sitting unobtrusively in a seat beneath one of the front windows, reading. No reason why he shouldn’t be there; certainly a much cooler place than the golf-links on such a day; but somehow there was a deserted air about the house that afternoon, as if all the guests were outside, or—perhaps the wisest place of all—up in their bedrooms, sleeping. Mr. Cayley, the master’s cousin, was a surprise; and, having given a little exclamation as she came suddenly upon him, she blushed, and said, Oh, I beg your pardon, sir, I didn’t see you at first, and he looked up from his book and smiled at her. An attractive smile it was on that big ugly face. Such a gentleman, Mr. Cayley, she thought to herself as she went on, and wondered what the master would do without him. If this brother, for instance, had to be bundled back to Australia, it was Mr. Cayley who would do most of the bundling.

    So this is Mr. Robert, said Audrey to herself, as she came in sight of the visitor.

    She told her aunt afterwards that she would have known him anywhere for Mr. Mark’s brother, but she would have said that in any event. Actually she was surprised. Dapper little Mark, with his neat pointed beard and his carefully curled moustache; with his quick-darting eyes, always moving from one to the other of any company he was in, to register one more smile to his credit when he had said a good thing, one more expectant look when he was only waiting his turn to say it; he was a very different man from this rough-looking, ill-dressed colonial, staring at her so loweringly.

    I want to see Mr. Mark Ablett, he growled. It sounded almost like a threat.

    Audrey recovered herself and smiled reassuringly at him. She had a smile for everybody.

    Yes, sir. He is expecting you, if you will come this way.

    Oh! So you know who I am, eh?

    Mr. Robert Ablett?

    Ay, that’s right. So he’s expecting me, eh? He’ll be glad to see me, eh?

    If you will come this way, sir, said Audrey primly.

    She went to the second door on the left, and opened it.

    Mr. Robert Ab— she began, and then broke off. The room was empty. She turned to the man behind her. If you will sit down, sir, I will find the master. I know he’s in, because he told me that you were coming this afternoon.

    Oh! He looked round the room. What d’you call this place, eh?

    The office, sir.

    The office?

    The room where the master works, sir.

    Works, eh? That’s new. Didn’t know he’d ever done a stroke of work in his life.

    Where he writes, sir, said Audrey, with dignity. The fact that Mr. Mark wrote, though nobody knew what, was a matter of pride in the housekeeper’s room.

    Not well-dressed enough for the drawing-room, eh?

    I will tell the master you are here, sir, said Audrey decisively.

    She closed the door and left him there.

    Well! Here was something to tell auntie! Her mind was busy at once, going over all the things which he had said to her and she had said to him—quiet-like. Directly I saw him I said to myself— Why, you could have knocked her over with a feather. Feathers, indeed, were a perpetual menace to Audrey.

    However, the immediate business was to find the master. She walked across the hall to the library, glanced in, came back a little uncertainly, and stood in front of Cayley.

    If you please, sir, she said in a low, respectful voice, can you tell me where the master is? It’s Mr. Robert called.

    What? said Cayley, looking up from his book. Who?

    Audrey repeated her question.

    I don’t know. Isn’t he in the office? He went up to the Temple after lunch. I don’t think I’ve seen him since.

    Thank you, sir. I will go up to the Temple.

    Cayley returned to his book.

    The Temple was a brick summer-house, in the gardens at the back of the house, about three hundred yards away. Here Mark meditated sometimes before retiring to the office to put his thoughts upon paper. The thoughts were not of any great value; moreover, they were given off at the dinner-table more often than they got on to paper, and got on to paper more often than they got into print. But that did not prevent the master of The Red House from being a little pained when a visitor treated the Temple carelessly, as if it had been erected for the ordinary purposes of flirtation and cigarette-smoking. There had been an occasion when two of his guests had been found playing fives in it. Mark had said nothing at the time, save to ask with a little less than his usual point—whether they couldn’t find anywhere else for their game, but the offenders were never asked to The Red House again.

    Audrey walked slowly up to the Temple, looked in and walked slowly back. All that walk for nothing. Perhaps the master was upstairs in his room. Not well-dressed enough for the drawing-room. Well, now, Auntie, would you like anyone in your drawing-room with a red handkerchief round his neck and great big dusty boots, and—listen! One of the men shooting rabbits. Auntie was partial to a nice rabbit, and onion sauce. How hot it was; she wouldn’t say no to a cup of tea. Well, one thing, Mr. Robert wasn’t staying the night; he hadn’t any luggage. Of course Mr. Mark could lend him things; he had clothes enough for six. She would have known him anywhere for Mr. Mark’s brother.

    She came into the house. As she passed the housekeeper’s room on her way to the hall, the door opened suddenly, and a rather frightened face looked out.

    Hallo, Aud, said Elsie. It’s Audrey, she said, turning into the room.

    Come in, Audrey, called Mrs. Stevens.

    What’s up? said Audrey, looking in at the door.

    Oh, my dear, you gave me such a turn. Where have you been?

    Up to the Temple.

    Did you hear anything?

    Hear what?

    Bangs and explosions and terrible things.

    Oh! said Audrey, rather relieved. One of the men shooting rabbits. Why, I said to myself as I came along, ‘Auntie’s partial to a nice rabbit,’ I said, and I shouldn’t be surprised if—

    Rabbits! said her aunt scornfully. It was inside the house, my girl.

    Straight it was, said Elsie. She was one of the housemaids. I said to Mrs. Stevens—didn’t I, Mrs. Stevens?—‘That was in the house,’ I said.

    Audrey looked at her aunt and then at Elsie.

    Do you think he had a revolver with him? she said in a hushed voice.

    Who? said Elsie excitedly.

    That brother of his. From Australia. I said as soon as I set eyes on him, ‘You’re a bad lot, my man!’ That’s what I said, Elsie. Even before he spoke to me. Rude! She turned to her aunt. Well, I give you my word.

    If you remember, Audrey, I always said there was no saying with anyone from Australia. Mrs. Stevens lay back in her chair, breathing rather rapidly. I wouldn’t go out of this room now, not if you paid me a hundred thousand pounds.

    Oh, Mrs. Stevens! said Elsie, who badly wanted five shillings for a new pair of shoes, I wouldn’t go as far as that, not myself, but—

    There! cried Mrs. Stevens, sitting up with a start. They listened anxiously, the two girls instinctively coming closer to the older woman’s chair.

    A door was being shaken, kicked, rattled.

    Listen!

    Audrey and Elsie looked at each other with frightened eyes.

    They heard a man’s voice, loud, angry.

    Open the door! it was shouting. Open the door! I say, open the door!

    Don’t open the door! cried Mrs. Stevens in a panic, as if it was her door which was threatened. Audrey! Elsie! Don’t let him in!

    Damn it, open the door! came the voice again.

    We’re all going to be murdered in our beds, she quavered. Terrified, the two girls huddled closer, and with an arm round each, Mrs. Stevens sat there, waiting.

    CHAPTER II.

    Mr. Gillingham Gets Out at the Wrong Station

    WHETHER MARK ABLETT WAS a bore or not depended on the point of view, but it may be said at once that he never bored his company on the subject of his early life. However, stories get about. There is always somebody who knows. It was understood—and this, anyhow, on Mark’s own authority—that his father had been a country clergyman. It was said that, as a boy, Mark had attracted the notice, and patronage, of some rich old spinster of the neighbourhood, who had paid for his education, both at school and university. At about the time when he was coming down from Cambridge, his father had died; leaving behind him a few debts, as a warning to his family, and a reputation for short sermons, as an example to his successor. Neither warning nor example seems to have been effective. Mark went to London, with an allowance from his patron, and (it is generally agreed) made acquaintance with the money-lenders. He was supposed, by his patron and any others who inquired, to be writing; but what he wrote, other than letters asking for more time to pay, has never been discovered. However, he attended the theatres and music halls very regularly—no doubt with a view to some serious articles in the Spectator on the decadence of the English stage.

    Fortunately (from Mark’s point of view) his patron died during his third year in London, and left him all the money he wanted. From that moment his life loses its legendary character, and becomes more a matter of history. He settled accounts with the money-lenders, abandoned his crop of wild oats to the harvesting of others, and became in his turn a patron. He patronized the Arts. It was not only usurers who discovered that Mark Ablett no longer wrote for money; editors were now offered free contributions as well as free lunches; publishers were given agreements for an occasional slender volume, in which the author paid all expenses and waived all royalties; promising young painters and poets dined with him; and he even took a theatrical company on tour, playing host and lead with equal lavishness.

    He was not what most people call a snob. A snob has been defined carelessly as a man who loves a lord; and, more carefully, as a mean lover of mean things—which would be a little unkind to the peerage if the first definition were true. Mark had his vanities undoubtedly, but he would sooner have met an actor-manager than an earl; he would have spoken of his friendship with Dante—had that been possible—more glibly than of his friendship with the Duke. Call him a snob if you like, but not the worst kind of snob; a hanger-on, but to the skirts of Art, not Society; a climber, but in the neighbourhood of Parnassus, not Hay Hill.

    His patronage did not stop at the Arts. It also included Matthew Cayley, a small cousin of thirteen, whose circumstances were as limited as had been Mark’s own before his patron had rescued him. He sent the Cayley cousin to school and Cambridge. His motives, no doubt, were unworldly enough at first; a mere repaying to his account in the Recording Angel’s book of the generosity which had been lavished on himself; a laying-up of treasure in heaven. But it is probable that, as the boy grew up, Mark’s designs for his future were based on his own interests as much as those of his cousin, and that a suitably educated Matthew Cayley of twenty-three was felt by him to be a useful property for a man in his position; a man, that is to say, whose vanities left him so little time for his affairs.

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