The Red House Mystery

Like all really nice people, you have a weakness for detective stories, and feel that there are not enough of them. So, after all that you have done for me, the least that I can do for you is to write you one. Here it is: with more gratitude and affection than I can well put down here. A.A.M. Contents CHAPTER II. Mr. Gillingham Gets Out at the Wrong Station CHAPTER V. Mr. Gillingham Chooses a New Profession CHAPTER VIII. “Do You Follow Me, Watson?” CHAPTER IX. Possibilities of a Croquet Set CHAPTER X. Mr. Gillingham Talks Nonsense CHAPTER XI. The Reverend Theodore Ussher CHAPTER XIV. Mr. Beverley Qualifies for the Stage CHAPTER XV. Mrs. Norbury Confides in Dear Mr. Gillingham CHAPTER XVI. Getting Ready for the Night CHAPTER XVII. Mr. Beverley Takes the Water Mrs. Stevens is Frightened In the drowsy heat of the summer afternoon the Red House was taking its siesta. There was a lazy murmur of bees in the flower-borders, a gentle cooing of pigeons in the tops of the elms. From distant lawns came the whir of a mowing-machine, that most restful of all country sounds; making ease the sweeter in that it is taken while others are working. It was the hour when even those whose business it is to attend to the wants of others have a moment or two for themselves. In the housekeeper’s room Audrey Stevens, the pretty parlour-maid, re-trimmed her best hat, and talked idly to her aunt, the cook-housekeeper of Mr. Mark Ablett’s bachelor home. “For Joe?” said Mrs. Stevens placidly, her eye on the hat. Audrey nodded. She took a pin from her mouth, found a place in the hat for it, and said, “He likes a bit of pink.” “I don’t say I mind a bit of pink myself,” said her aunt. “Joe Turner isn’t the only one.” “It isn’t everybody’s colour,” said Audrey, holding the hat out at arm’s length, and regarding it thoughtfully. “Stylish, isn’t it?” “Oh, it’ll suit you all right, and it would have suited me at your age. A bit too dressy for me now, though wearing better than some other people, I daresay. I was never the one to pretend to be what I wasn’t. If I’m fifty-five, I’m fifty-five—that’s what I say.” “Fifty-eight, isn’t it, auntie?”