The Red House Mystery | Page 5

not what most people call a snob. A snob has been defined carelessly as a man
who loves a lord; and, more carefully, as a mean lover of mean things--which would be a
little unkind to the peerage if the first definition were true. Mark had his vanities
undoubtedly, but he would sooner have met an actor-manager than an earl; he would
have spoken of his friendship with Dante--had that been possible--more glibly than of his
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 of the painter, who was acting hostess on this

occasion for Mark. Ruth Norris took herself seriously as an actress and, on her holidays,