However, all readers - sooner or later - find for themselves a literary genre that is fundamentally different from all others. The Red House Mystery by A. A. Milne (best electronic book reader .TXT) đ
- Author: A. A. Milne
- Performer: 0486401294
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âNow then,â he said to himself, âletâs begin at the beginning.â
It was nearly eight oâclock when William Beverley, the famous sleuthhound, arrived, tired and dusty, at the âGeorge,â to find Antony, cool and clean, standing bare-headed at the door, waiting for him.
âIs dinner ready?â were Billâs first words.
âYes.â
âThen Iâll just have a wash. Lord, Iâm tired.â
âI never ought to have asked you,â said Antony penitently.
âThatâs all right. I shanât be a moment.â Half-way up the stairs he turned round and asked, âAm I in your room?â
âYes. Do you know the way?â
âYes. Start carving, will you? And order lots of beer.â 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 âPlough and Horsesâ had been sticky, decidedly stickyâBill had been unable at first to get anything out of him. But Bill had been tactful; lorblessyou, how tactful he had been.
âHe kept on about the inquest, and what a queer affair it had been, and so on, and how thereâd been an inquest in his wifeâs family once, which he seemed rather proud about, and I kept saying, âPretty busy, I suppose, just now, what?â and then heâd say, âMiddlinâ,â and go on again about Susanâthat was the one that had the inquestâhe talked about it as if it were a disease âand then Iâd try again, and say, âSlack times, I expect, just now, eh?â and heâd say âMiddlinâ again, and then it was time to offer him another drink, and I didnât seem to be getting much nearer. But I got him at last. I asked him if he knew John Bordenâhe was the man who said heâd seen Mark at the station. Well, he knew all about Borden, and after heâd told me all about Bordenâs wifeâs family, and how one of them had been burnt to deathâafter you with the beer; thanksâwell, 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 âmiddlinâ hard,â and thenââ
âGive me three guesses,â interrupted Antony. âYou asked him if he remembered everybody who came to his inn?â
âThatâs it. Bright, wasnât it?â
âBrilliant. And what was the result?â
âThe result was a woman.â
âA woman?â said Antony eagerly.
âA woman,â said Bill impressively. âOf course I thought it was going to be Robertâso did you, didnât you?âbut it wasnât. It was a woman. Came quite late on Monday night in a carâdriving herselfâwent off early next morning.â
âDid he describe her?â
âYes. She was middlinâ. Middlinâ tall, middlinâ age, middlinâ colour, and so on. Doesnât help much, does it? But stillâa woman. Does that upset your theory?â
Antony shook his head.
âNo, Bill, not at all,â he said.
âYou knew all the time? At least, you guessed?â
âWait till to-morrow. Iâll tell you everything to-morrow.â
âTo-morrow!â said Bill in great disappointment.
âWell, Iâll tell you one thing to-night, if youâll promise not to ask any more questions. But you probably know it already.â
âWhat is it?â
âOnly that Mark Albett did not kill his brother.â
âAnd Cayley did?â
âThatâs another question, Bill. However, the answer is that Cayley didnât, either.â
âThen who on earthââ
âHave some more beer,â 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 beginningâwas 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 couldnât 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.
âMy Dear Mr. Gillingham,
âI 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 knowâand I want you to knowâthe 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.
âI 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.
âWell, 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, hisâbut this most of allâhis 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 executorâpoor 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!
âIt 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. Philipâs 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 motherâhe was always her favouriteâbut 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!
âLater 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 revengeâand there he was, poor vain fool, at my mercy. I was in no hurry.
âTwo 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 donât 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.
âI 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.
âThen 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.
âSo 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.
âI 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 pondâMark, 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.
âWe were talking about ghosts. Mark had been even more vain, pompous and absurd than usual, and I could see that Miss Norris was irritated
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