The Red House Mystery Read Free Page A

of the painter,
who was acting hostess on this occasion for Mark. Ruth Norris took
herself seriously as an actress and, on her holidays, seriously as a
golfer. She was quite competent as either. Neither the Stage Society nor
Sandwich had any terrors for her.
    "By the way, the car will be round at 10.30," said Cayley, looking up
from his letters. "You're lunching there, and driving back directly
afterwards. Isn't that right?"
    "I don't see why we shouldn't have—two rounds," said Bill hopefully.
    "Much too hot in the afternoon," said the Major. "Get back comfortably
for tea."
    Mark came in. He was generally the last. He greeted them and sat down to
toast and tea. Breakfast was not his meal. The others chattered gently
while he read his letters.
    "Good God!" said Mark suddenly.
    There was an instinctive turning of heads towards him. "I beg your
pardon, Miss Norris. Sorry, Betty."
    Miss Norris smiled her forgiveness. She often wanted to say it herself,
particularly at rehearsals.
    "I say, Cay!" He was frowning to himself—annoyed, puzzled. He held 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
station-master 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