The Red House Mystery | Page 7

mother's money, 400 pounds 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 view-point of the valet, the
newspaper-reporter, the waiter, the shop-assistant. With the independence of 400 pounds
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 Waldheim 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. Waldheim attracted him, and he had a suit-case 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 in to ask about the luggage. Antony
ordered another pint, and soon had him talking.
"It must be rather fun to keep a country inn," he said, thinking that it was about time he
started another profession.
"I don't know about fun, sir. It gives us a living, and a bit over."
"You ought to take a holiday," said Antony, looking at him thoughtfully.
"Funny thing your saying that," said the landlord, with a smile. "Another gentleman, over
from The Red House, was saying that only yesterday. Offered to take my place 'n all." He
laughed rumblingly.
"The Red House? Not the Red House, Stanton?"
"That's right, sir. Stanton's the next station to Waldheim. The Red House is about a mile
from here--Mr. Ablett's."
Antony took a letter from his pocket. It was addressed from "The Red House, Stanton,"
and signed "Bill."
"Good old Bill," he murmured to himself. "He's getting on."
Antony had met Bill Beverley two years before in a tobacconist's shop. Gillingham was
on one side of the counter and Mr. Beverley on the other. Something about Bill, his youth
and freshness, perhaps, attracted Antony; and when cigarettes had been ordered, and an
address given to which they were to be sent, he remembered that he had come across an
aunt of Beverley's once at a country-house. Beverley and he met again a little later at a
restaurant. Both of them were in evening-dress, but they did different things with their
napkins, and Antony was the more polite of the two. However, he still liked Bill. So on
one of his holidays, when he was unemployed, he arranged an introduction through a
mutual friend. Beverley was a little inclined to be shocked when he was reminded of their
previous meetings, but his uncomfortable feeling soon wore off, and he and Antony
quickly became intimate. But Bill generally addressed him as "Dear Madman" when he
happened to write.
Antony decided to stroll over to The Red House after lunch and call upon his friend.
Having inspected his bedroom which was not quite the lavender-smelling country-inn
bedroom of fiction, but sufficiently clean and comfortable, he set out over the fields.
As he came down the drive and approached the old red-brick front of the house, there
was a lazy murmur of bees in the flower-borders, a gentle cooing of pigeons in the tops of
the elms, and from distant lawns the whir of a mowing-machine,