The Red House Mystery 17Mr. Beverley Takes the Water
18
Literature · Detective Fiction
The Red House Mystery 17
Mr. Beverley Takes the Water
MilneEnglish
Cayley seemed very fond of them that night. After dinner was over, he suggested a stroll outside. They walked up and down the gravel in front of the house, saying very little to each other, until Bill could stand it no longer. For the last twenty turns he had been slowing down hopefully each time they came to the door, but the hint had always been lost on his companions, and each time another turn had been taken. But in the end he had been firm.
“What about a little billiards?” he said, shaking himself free from the others.
“Will you play?” said Antony to Cayley.
“I’ll watch you,” he said, and he had watched them resolutely until the game, and then another game after that, had been played.
They went into the hall and attacked the drinks.
“Well, thank heaven for bed,” said Bill; putting down his glass. “Are you coming?”
“Yes,” said Antony, and finished his drink. He looked at Cayley.
“I’ve just got one or two little things to do,” said Cayley. “I shan’t be long following you.”
“Well, good night, then.”
“Good night.”
“Good night,” called Bill from half-way up the stairs. “Good night, Tony.”
“Good night.”
Bill looked at his watch. Half-past eleven. Not much chance of anything happening for another hour. He pulled open a drawer and wondered what to wear on their expedition. Grey flannel trousers, flannel shirt, and a dark coat; perhaps a sweater, as they might be lying out in the copse for some time. And—good idea—a towel. He would want it later on, and meanwhile he could wear it round his waist.
Tennis-shoes.... There. Everything was ready. Now then for the dummy figure.
He looked at his watch again before getting into bed. Twelve-fifteen. How long to wait before Cayley came up? He turned out the light, and then, standing by the door in his pyjamas, waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the new darkness.... He could only just make out the bed in the corner of the room. Cayley would want more light than that if he were to satisfy himself from the door that the bed was occupied. He pulled the curtains a little way back. That was about right. He could have another look later on, when he had the dummy figure in the bed.
How long would it be before Cayley came up? It wasn’t that he wanted his friends, Beverley and Gillingham, to be asleep before he started on his business at the pond; all that he wanted was to be sure that they were safely in their bedrooms. Cayley’s business would make no noise, give no sign, to attract the most wakeful member of the household, so long as the household was really inside the house. But if he wished to reassure himself about his guests, he would have to wait until they were far enough on their way to sleep not to be disturbed by him as he came up to reassure himself. So it amounted to the same thing, really. He would wait until they were asleep.... until they were asleep.... asleep....
With a great effort Bill regained the mastery over his wandering thoughts and came awake again. This would never do. It would be fatal if he went to sleep.... if he went to sleep.... to sleep .... And then, in an instant, he was intensely awake. Suppose Cayley never came at all!
Suppose Cayley was so unsuspicious that, as soon as they had gone upstairs, he had dived down into the passage and set about his business. Suppose, even now, he was at the pond, dropping into it that secret of his. Good heavens, what fools they had been! How could Antony have taken such a risk? Put yourself in Cayley’s place, he had said. But how was it possible? They weren’t Cayley. Cayley was at the pond now. They would never know what he had dropped into it.
Listen!.... Somebody at the door. He was asleep. Quite naturally now. Breathe a little more loudly, perhaps. He was asleep.... The door was opening. He could feel it opening behind him.... Good Lord, suppose Cayley really was a murderer! Why, even now he might be—no, he mustn’t think of that. If he thought of that, he would have to turn round. He mustn’t turn round. He was asleep; just peacefully asleep. But why didn’t the door shut? Where was Cayley now? Just behind him? And in his hand—no, he mustn’t think of that. He was asleep. But why didn’t the door shut?
The door was shutting. There was a sigh from the sleeper in the bed, a sigh of relief which escaped him involuntarily. But it had a very natural sound—a deep breath from a heavy sleeper. He added another one to it to make it seem more natural. The door was shut.
Bill counted a hundred slowly and then got up. As quickly and as noiselessly as possible he dressed himself in the dark. He put the dummy figure in the bed, arranged the clothes so that just enough but not too much of it was showing, and stood by the door looking at it. For a casual glance the room was just about light enough. Then very quietly, very slowly he opened the door. All was still. There was no light from beneath the door of Cayley’s room. Very quietly, very carefully he crept along the passage to Antony’s room. He opened the door and went in.
Antony was still in bed. Bill walked across to wake him up, and then stopped rigid, and his heart thumped against his ribs. There was somebody else in the room.
“All right, Bill,” said a whispering voice, and Antony stepped out from the curtains.
Bill gazed at him without saying anything.
“Rather good, isn’t it?” said Antony, coming closer and pointing to the bed. “Come on; the sooner we get out now, the better.”
He led the way out of the window, the silent Bill following him. They reached the ground safely and noiselessly, went quickly across the lawn and so, over the fence, into the park. It was not until they were out of sight of the house that Bill felt it safe to speak.
“I quite thought it was you in bed,” he said.
“I hoped you would. I shall be rather disappointed now if Cayley doesn’t call again. It’s a pity to waste it.”
“He came all right just now?”
“Oh, rather. What about you?”
Bill explained his feelings picturesquely.
“There wouldn’t have been much point in his killing you,” said Antony prosaically. “Besides being too risky.”
“Oh!” said Bill. And then, “I had rather hoped that it was his love for me which restrained him.”
Antony laughed.
“I doubt it.... You didn’t turn up your light when you dressed?”
“Good Lord, no. Did you want me to?”
Antony laughed again and took him by the arm.
“You’re a splendid conspirator, Bill. You and I could take on anything together.”
The pond was waiting for them, more solemn in the moonlight. The trees which crowned the sloping bank on the far side of it were mysteriously silent. It seemed that they had the world very much to themselves.
Almost unconsciously Antony spoke in a whisper.
“There’s your tree, there’s mine. As long as you don’t move, there’s no chance of his seeing you. After he’s gone, don’t come out till I do. He won’t be here for a quarter of an hour or so, so don’t be impatient.”
“Righto,” whispered Bill.
Antony gave him a nod and a smile, and they walked off to their posts.
The minutes went by slowly. To Antony, lying hidden in the undergrowth at the foot of his tree, a new problem was presenting itself. Suppose Cayley had to make more than one journey that night? He might come back to find them in the boat; one of them, indeed, in the water. And if they decided to wait in hiding, on the chance of Cayley coming back again, what was the least time they could safely allow? Perhaps it would be better to go round to the front of the house and watch for his return there, the light in his bedroom, before conducting their experiments at the pond. But then they might miss his second visit in this way, if he made a second visit. It was difficult.
His eyes were fixed on the boat as he considered these things, and suddenly, as if materialized from nowhere, Cayley was standing by the boat. In his hand was a small brown bag.
Cayley put the bag in the bottom of the boat, stepped in, and using an oar as a punt-pole, pushed slowly off. Then, very silently, he rowed towards the middle of the pond.
He had stopped. The oars rested on the water. He picked up the bag from between his feet, leant over the nose of the boat, and rested it lightly on the water for a moment. Then he let go. It sank slowly. He waited there, watching; afraid, perhaps, that it might rise again. Antony began to count....
And now Cayley was back at his starting-place. He tied up the boat, looked carefully round to see that he had left no traces behind him, and then turned to the water again. For a long time, as it seemed to the watchers, he stood there, very big, very silent, in the moonlight. At last he seemed satisfied. Whatever his secret was, he had hidden it; and so with a gentle sigh, as unmistakable to Antony as if he had heard it, Cayley turned away and vanished again as quietly as he had come.
Antony gave him three minutes, and stepped out from the trees. He waited there for Bill to join him.
“Six,” whispered Bill.
Antony nodded.
“I’m going round to the front of the house. You get back to your tree and watch, in case Cayley comes again. Your bedroom is the left-hand end one, and Cayley’s the end but one? Is that right?”
Bill nodded.
“Right. Wait in hiding till I come back. I don’t know how long I shall be, but don’t be impatient. It will seem longer than it is.” He patted Bill on the shoulder, and with a smile and a nod of the head he left him there.
What was in the bag? What could Cayley want to hide other than a key or a revolver? Keys and revolvers sink of themselves; no need to put them in a bag first. What was in the bag? Something which wouldn’t sink of itself; something which needed to be helped with stones before it would hide itself safely in the mud.
Well, they would find that out. There was no object in worrying about it now. Bill had a dirty night’s work in front of him. But where was the body which Antony had expected so confidently or, if there were no body, where was Mark?
More immediately, however, where was Cayley? As quickly as he could Antony had got to the front of the house and was now lying in the shrubbery which bordered the lawn, waiting for the light to go up in Cayley’s window. If it went up in Bill’s window, then they were discovered. It would mean that Cayley had glanced into Bill’s room, had been suspicious of the dummy figure in the bed, and had turned up the light to make sure. After that, it was war between them. But if it went up in Cayley’s room—
There was a light. Antony felt a sudden thrill of excitement. It was in Bill’s room. War!
The light stayed there, shining vividly, for a wind had come up, blowing the moon behind a cloud, and casting a shadow over the rest of the house. Bill had left his curtains undrawn. It was careless of him; the first stupid thing he had done, but—
The moon slipped out again.... and Antony laughed to himself in the bushes. There was another window beyond Cayley’s, and there was no light in it. The declaration of war was postponed.
Antony lay there, watching Cayley into bed. After all it was only polite to return Cayley’s own solicitude earlier in the night. Politeness demanded that one should not disport oneself on the pond until one’s friends were comfortably tucked up.
Meanwhile Bill was getting tired of waiting. His chief fear was that he might spoil everything by forgetting the number “six.” It was the sixth post. Six. He broke off a twig and divided it into six pieces. These he arranged on the ground in front of him. Six. He looked at the pond, counted up to the sixth post, and murmured “six” to himself again. Then he looked down at his twigs. One—two—three—four—five—six—seven. Seven! Was it seven? Or was that seventh bit of a twig an accidental bit which had been on the ground anyhow? Surely it was six! Had he said “six” to Antony? If so, Antony would remember, and it was all right. Six. He threw away the seventh twig and collected the other six together. Perhaps they would be safer in his pocket. Six. The height of a tall man—well, his own height. Six feet. Yes, that was the way to remember it. Feeling a little safer on the point, he began to wonder about the bag, and what Antony would say to it, and the possible depth of the water and of the mud at the bottom; and was still so wondering, and saying, “Good Lord, what a life!” to himself, when Antony reappeared.
Bill got up and came down the slope to meet him.
“Six,” he said firmly. “Sixth post from the end.”
“Good,” smiled Antony. “Mine was the eighteenth—a little way past it.”
“What did you go off for?”
“To see Cayley into bed.”
“Is it all right?”
“Yes. Better hang your coat over the sixth post, and then we shall see it more easily. I’ll put mine on the eighteenth. Are you going to undress here or in the boat?”
“Some here, and some in the boat. You’re quite sure that you wouldn’t like to do the diving yourself?”
“Quite, thanks.”
They had walked round to the other side of the pond. Coming to the sixth post of the fence, Bill took off his coat and put it in position, and then finished his undressing, while Antony went off to mark the eighteenth post. When they were ready, they got into the boat, Antony taking the oars.
“Now, Bill, tell me as soon as I’m in a line with your two marks.”
He rowed slowly towards the middle of the pond.
“You’re about there now,” said Bill at last.
Antony stopped rowing and looked about him.
“Yes, that’s pretty well right.” He turned the boat’s nose round until it was pointing to the pine-tree under which Bill had lain. “You see my tree and the other coat?”
“Yes,” said Bill.
“Right. Now then, I’m going to row gently along this line until we’re dead in between the two. Get it as exact as you can—for your own sake.”
“Steady!” said Bill warningly. “Back a little.... a little more .... a little more forward again.... Right.” Antony left the oars on the water and looked around. As far as he could tell, they were in an exact line with each pair of landmarks.
“Now then, Bill, in you go.”
Bill pulled off his shirt and trousers, and stood up.
“You mustn’t dive from the boat, old boy,” said Antony hastily. “You’ll shift its position. Slide in gently.”
Bill slid in from the stern and swam slowly round to Antony.
“What’s it like?” said Antony.
“Cold. Well, here’s luck to it.”
He gave a sudden kick, flashed for a moment in the water, and was gone. Antony steadied the boat, and took another look at his landmarks.
Bill came up behind him with a loud explosion. “It’s pretty muddy,” he protested.
“Weeds?”
“No, thank the Lord.”
“Well, try again.”
Bill gave another kick and disappeared. Again Antony coaxed the boat back into position, and again Bill popped up, this time in front of him.
“I feel that if I threw you a sardine,” said Antony, with a smile, “you’d catch it in your mouth quite prettily.”
“It’s awfully easy to be funny from where you are. How much longer have I got to go on doing this?”
Antony looked at his watch.
“About three hours. We must get back before daylight. But be quicker if you can, because it’s rather cold for me sitting here.”
Bill flicked a handful of water at him and disappeared again. He was under for almost a minute this time, and there was a grin on his face when it was visible again.
“I’ve got it, but it’s devilish hard to get up. I’m not sure that it isn’t too heavy for me.”
“That’s all right,” said Antony. He brought out a ball of thick string from his pocket. “Get this through the handle if you can, and then we can both pull.”
“Good man.” He paddled to the side, took one end of the string and paddled back again. “Now then.”
Two minutes later the bag was safely in the boat. Bill clambered in after it, and Antony rowed back. “Well done, Watson,” he said quietly, as they landed. He fetched their two coats, and then waited, the bag in his hand, while Bill dried and dressed himself. As soon as the latter was ready, he took his arm and led him into the copse. He put the bag down and felt in his pockets.
“I shall light a pipe before I open it,” he said. “What about you?”
“Yes.”
With great care they filled and lit their pipes. Bill’s hand was a little unsteady. Antony noticed it and gave him a reassuring smile.
“Ready?”
“Yes.”
They sat down, and taking the bag between his knees, Antony pressed the catch and opened it.
“Clothes!” said Bill.
Antony pulled out the top garment and shook it out. It was a wet brown flannel coat.
“Do you recognize it?” he asked.
“Mark’s brown flannel suit.”
“The one he is advertised as having run away in?”
“Yes. It looks like it. Of course he had a dashed lot of clothes.”
Antony put his hand in the breast-pocket and took out some letters. He considered them doubtfully for a moment.
“I suppose I’d better read them,” he said. “I mean, just to see—” He looked inquiringly at Bill, who nodded. Antony turned on his torch and glanced at them. Bill waited anxiously.
“Yes. Mark.... Hallo!”
“What is it?”
“The letter that Cayley was telling the Inspector about. From Robert. ‘Mark, your loving brother is coming to see you—’ Yes, I suppose I had better keep this. Well, that’s his coat. Let’s have out the rest of it.” He took the remaining clothes from the bag and spread them out.
“They’re all here,” said Bill. “Shirt, tie, socks, underclothes, shoes—yes, all of them.”
“All that he was wearing yesterday?”
“Yes.”
“What do you make of it?”
Bill shook his head, and asked another question.
“Is it what you expected?”
Antony laughed suddenly.
“It’s too absurd,” he said. “I expected—well, you know what I expected. A body. A body in a suit of clothes. Well, perhaps it would be safer to hide them separately. The body here, and the clothes in the passage, where they would never betray themselves. And now he takes a great deal of trouble to hide the clothes here, and doesn’t bother about the body at all.” He shook his head. “I’m a bit lost for the moment, Bill, and that’s the fact.”
“Anything else there?”
Antony felt in the bag.
“Stones and—yes, there’s something else.” He took it out and held it up. “There we are, Bill.”
It was the office key.
“By Jove, you were right.”
Antony felt in the bag again, and then turned it gently upside down on the grass. A dozen large stones fell out—and something else. He flashed down his torch.
“Another key,” he said.
He put the two keys in his pocket, and sat there for a long time in silence, thinking. Bill was silent, too, not liking to interrupt his thoughts, but at last he said:
“Shall I put these things back?”
Antony looked up with a start.
“What? Oh, yes. No, I’ll put them back. You give me a light, will you?”
Very slowly and carefully he put the clothes back in the bag, pausing as he took up each garment, in the certainty, as it seemed to Bill, that it had something to tell him if only he could read it. When the last of them was inside, he still waited there on his knees, thinking.
“That’s the lot,” said Bill.
Antony nodded at him.
“Yes, that’s the lot,” he said; “and that’s the funny thing about it. You’re sure it is the lot?”
“What do you mean?”
“Give me the torch a moment.” He took it and flashed it over the ground between them. “Yes, that’s the lot. It’s funny.” He stood up, the bag in his hands. “Now let’s find a hiding-place for these, and then—” He said no more, but stepped off through the trees, Bill following him meekly.
As soon as they had got the bag off their hands and were clear of the copse, Antony became more communicative. He took the two keys out of his pocket.
“One of them is the office key, I suppose, and the other is the key of the passage cupboard. So I thought that perhaps we might have a look at the cupboard.”
“I say, do you really think it is?”
“Well, I don’t see what else it can be.”
“But why should he want to throw it away?”
“Because it has now done its work, whatever it was, and he wants to wash his hands of the passage. He’d throw the passage away if he could. I don’t think it matters much one way or another, and I don’t suppose there’s anything to find in the cupboard, but I feel that we must look.”
“Do you still think Mark’s body might be there?”
“No. And yet where else can it be? Unless I’m hopelessly wrong, and Cayley never killed him at all.”
Bill hesitated, wondering if he dare advance his theory.
“I know you’ll think me an ass—”
“My dear Bill, I’m such an obvious ass myself that I should be delighted to think you are too.”
“Well, then, suppose Mark did kill Robert, and Cayley helped him to escape, just as we thought at first. I know you proved afterwards that it was impossible, but suppose it happened in a way we don’t know about and for reasons we don’t know about. I mean, there are such a lot of funny things about the whole show that—well, almost anything might have happened.”
“You’re quite right. Well?”
“Well, then, this clothes business. Doesn’t that seem rather to bear out the escaping theory? Mark’s brown suit was known to the police. Couldn’t Cayley have brought him another one in the passage, to escape in, and then have had the brown one on his hands? And thought it safest to hide it in the pond?”
“Yes,” said Anthony thoughtfully. Then: “Go on.”
Bill went on eagerly:
“It all seems to fit in, you know. I mean even with your first theory—that Mark killed him accidentally and then came to Cayley for help. Of course, if Cayley had played fair, he’d have told Mark that he had nothing to be afraid of. But he isn’t playing fair; he wants to get Mark out of the way because of the girl. Well, this is his chance. He makes Mark as frightened as possible, and tells him that his only hope is to run away. Well, naturally, he does all he can to get him well away, because if Mark is caught, the whole story of Cayley’s treachery comes out.”
“Yes. But isn’t it overdoing it rather to make him change his underclothes and everything? It wastes a good deal of time, you know.”
Bill was pulled up short, and said, “Oh!” in great disappointment.
“No, it’s not as bad as that, Bill,” said Antony with a smile. “I daresay the underclothes could be explained. But here’s the difficulty. Why did Mark need to change from brown to blue, or whatever it was, when Cayley was the only person who saw him in brown?”
“The police description of him says that he is in a brown suit.”
“Yes, because Cayley told the police. You see, even if Mark had had lunch in his brown suit, and the servants had noticed it, Cayley could always have pretended that he had changed into blue after lunch, because only Cayley saw him afterwards. So if Cayley had told the Inspector that he was wearing blue, Mark could have escaped quite comfortably in his brown, without needing to change at all.”
“But that’s just what he did do,” cried Bill triumphantly. “What fools we are!”
Antony looked at him in surprise, and then shook his head.
“Yes, yes!” insisted Bill. “Of course! Don’t you see? Mark did change after lunch, and, to give him more of a chance of getting away, Cayley lied and said that he was wearing the brown suit in which the servants had seen him. Well, then he was afraid that the police might examine Mark’s clothes and find the brown suit still there, so he hid it, and then dropped it in the pond afterwards.”
He turned eagerly to his friend, but Antony said nothing. Bill began to speak again, and was promptly waved into silence.
“Don’t say anything more, old boy; you’ve given me quite enough to think about. Don’t let’s bother about it to-night. We’ll just have a look at this cupboard and then get to bed.”
But the cupboard had not much to tell them that night. It was empty save for a few old bottles.
“Well, that’s that,” said Bill.
But Antony, on his knees with the torch in his hand, continued to search for something.
“What are you looking for?” asked Bill at last.
“Something that isn’t there,” said Antony, getting up and dusting his trousers. And he locked the door again.
