The Red House Mystery Read Free

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.
    Cayley, then, at twenty-three, looked after his cousin's affairs. By
this time Mark had bought the Red House and the considerable amount of
land which went with it. Cayley superintended the necessary staff.
His duties, indeed, were many. He was not quite secretary, not quite
land-agent, not quite business-adviser, not quite companion, but
something of all four. Mark leant upon him and called him "Cay,"
objecting quite rightly in the circumstances to the name of Matthew.
Cay, he felt was, above all, dependable; a big, heavy-jawed, solid
fellow, who didn't bother you with unnecessary talk—a boon to a man who
liked to do most of the talking himself.
    Cayley was now twenty-eight, but had all the appearance of forty, which
was his patron's age. Spasmodically they entertained a good deal at the
Red House, and Mark's preference—call it kindliness or vanity, as
you please—was for guests who were not in a position to repay his
hospitality. Let us have a look at them as they came down to that
breakfast, of which Stevens, the parlour-maid, has already given us a
glimpse.
    The first to appear was Major Rumbold, a tall, grey-haired,
grey-moustached, silent man, wearing a Norfolk coat and grey flannel
trousers, who lived on his retired pay and wrote natural history
articles for the papers. He inspected the dishes on the side-table,
decided carefully on kedgeree, and got to work on it. He had passed on
to a sausage by the time of the next arrival. This was Bill Beverly, a
cheerful young man in white flannel trousers and a blazer.
    "Hallo, Major," he said as he came in, "how's the gout?"
    "It isn't gout," said the Major gruffly.
    "Well, whatever it is."
    The Major grunted.
    "I make a point of being polite at breakfast," said Bill, helping
himself largely to porridge. "Most people are so rude. That's why I
asked you. But don't tell me if it's a secret. Coffee?" he added, as he
poured himself out a cup.
    "No, thanks. I never drink till I've finished eating."
    "Quite right, Major; it's only manners." He sat down opposite to the
other. "Well, we've got a good day for our game. It's going to be dashed
hot, but that's where Betty and I score. On the fifth green, your old
wound, the one you got in that frontier skirmish in '43, will begin to
trouble you; on the eighth, your liver, undermined by years of curry,
will drop to pieces; on the twelfth—"
    "Oh, shut up, you ass!"
    "Well, I'm only warning you. Hallo; good morning, Miss Norris. I was
just telling the Major what was going to happen to you and him this
morning. Do you want any assistance, or do you prefer choosing your own
breakfast?"
    "Please don't get up," said Miss Norris. "I'll help myself. Good
morning, Major." She smiled pleasantly at him. The Major nodded.
    "Good morning. Going to be hot."
    "As I was telling him," began Bill, "that's where—Hallo, here's Betty.
Morning, Cayley."
    Betty Calladine and Cayley had come in together. Betty was the
eighteen-year-old daughter of Mrs. John Calladine, widow