The Red House Mystery A. A. Milne (most life changing books TXT) 📖

up a letter and shook it. “Who do you think this is from?”

Cayley, at the other end of the table, shrugged his shoulders. How could he possibly guess?

“Robert,” said Mark.

“Robert?” It was difficult to surprise Cayley. “Well?”

“It’s all very well to say ‘well?’ like that,” said Mark peevishly. “He’s coming here this afternoon.”

“I thought he was in Australia, or somewhere.”

“Of course. So did I.” He looked across at Rumbold. “Got any brothers, Major?”

“No.”

“Well, take my advice, and don’t have any.”

“Not likely to now,” said the Major.

Bill laughed. Miss Norris said politely: “But you haven’t any brothers, Mr. Ablett?”

“One,” said Mark grimly. “If you’re back in time you’ll see him this afternoon. He’ll probably ask you to lend him five pounds. Don’t.”

Everybody felt a little uncomfortable.

“I’ve got a brother,” said Bill helpfully, “but I always borrow from him.”

“Like Robert,” said Mark.

“When was he in England last?” asked Cayley.

“About fifteen years ago, wasn’t it? You’d have been a boy, of course.”

“Yes, I remember seeing him once about then, but I didn’t know if he had been back since.”

“No. Not to my knowledge.” Mark, still obviously upset, returned to his letter.

“Personally,” said Bill, “I think relations are a great mistake.”

“All the same,” said Betty a little daringly, “it must be rather fun having a skeleton in the cupboard.”

Mark looked up, frowning.

“If you think it’s fun, I’ll hand him over to you, Betty. If he’s anything like he used to be, and like his few letters have been⁠—well, Cay knows.”

Cayley grunted.

“All I knew was that one didn’t ask questions about him.”

It may have been meant as a hint to any too curious guest not to ask more questions, or a reminder to his host not to talk too freely in front of strangers, although he gave it the sound of a mere statement of fact. But the subject dropped, to be succeeded by the more fascinating one of the coming foursome. Mrs. Calladine was driving over with the players in order to lunch with an old friend who lived near the links, and Mark and Cayley were remaining at home⁠—on affairs. Apparently “affairs” were now to include a prodigal brother. But that need not make the foursome less enjoyable.

At about the time when the Major (for whatever reasons) was fluffing his tee-shot at the sixteenth, and Mark and his cousin were at their business at the Red House, an attractive gentleman of the name of Antony Gillingham was handing up his ticket at Woodham station and asking the way to the village. Having received directions, he left his bag with the stationmaster and walked off leisurely. He is an important person to this story, so that it is as well we should know something about him before letting him loose in it. Let us stop him at the top of the hill on some excuse, and have a good look at him.

The first thing we realize is that he is doing more of the looking than we are. Above a clean-cut, clean-shaven face, of the type usually associated with the Navy, he carries a pair of grey eyes which seem to be absorbing every detail of our person. To strangers this look is almost alarming at first, until they discover that his mind is very often elsewhere; that he has, so to speak, left his eyes on guard, while he himself follows a train of thought in another direction. Many people do this, of course; when, for instance, they are talking to one person and trying to listen to another; but their eyes betray them. Antony’s never did.

He had seen a good deal of the world with those eyes, though never as a sailor. When at the age of twenty-one he came into his mother’s money, £400 a year, old Gillingham looked up from the Stockbreeders’ Gazette to ask what he was going to do.

“See the world,” said Antony.

“Well, send me a line from America, or wherever you get to.”

“Right,” said Antony.

Old Gillingham returned to his paper. Antony was a younger son, and, on the whole, not so interesting to his father as the cadets of certain other families; Champion Birket’s, for instance. But, then, Champion Birket was the best Hereford bull he had ever bred.

Antony, however, had no intention of going further away than London. His idea of seeing the world was to see, not countries, but people; and to see them from as many angles as possible. There are all sorts in London if you know how to look at them. So Antony looked at them⁠—from various strange corners; from the viewpoint of the valet, the newspaper-reporter, the waiter, the shop-assistant. With the independence of £400 a year behind him, he enjoyed it immensely. He never stayed long in one job, and generally closed his connection with it by telling his employer (contrary to all etiquette as understood between master and servant) exactly what he thought of him. He had no difficulty in finding a new profession. Instead of experience and testimonials he offered his personality and a sporting bet. He would take no wages the first month, and⁠—if he satisfied his employer⁠—double wages the second. He always got his double wages.

He was now thirty. He had come to Woodham for a holiday, because he liked the look of the station. His ticket entitled him to travel further, but he had always intended to please himself in the matter. Woodham attracted him, and he had a suitcase in the carriage with him and money in his pocket. Why not get out?

The landlady of the George was only too glad to put him up, and promised that her husband would drive over that afternoon for his luggage.

“And you would like some lunch, I expect, sir.”

“Yes, but don’t give yourself any trouble about it. Cold anything-you’ve-got.”

“What about beef, sir?” she asked, as if she had a hundred varieties of meat to select from, and was offering him her best.

“That will do splendidly. And a pint of beer.”

While he was finishing his lunch, the landlord came