CHAPTER III.

Two Men and a Body

Cayley looked round suddenly at the voice.

“Can I help?” said Antony politely.

“Something’s happened,” said Cayley. He was breathing quickly. “I heard

a shot—it sounded like a shot—I was in the library. A loud bang—I

didn’t know what it was. And the door’s locked.” He rattled the handle

again, and shook it. “Open the _door!_” he cried. “I say, Mark, what is

it? Open the door!”

“But he must have locked the door on purpose,” said Antony. “So why

should he open it just because you ask him to?”

Cayley looked at him in a bewildered way. Then he turned to the door

again. “We must break it in,” he said, putting his shoulder to it.

“Help me.”

“Isn’t there a window?”

Cayley turned to him stupidly.

“Window? Window?”

“So much easier to break in a window,” said Antony with a smile. He

looked very cool and collected, as he stood just inside the hall,

leaning on his stick, and thinking, no doubt, that a great deal of fuss

was being made about nothing. But then, he had not heard the shot.

“Window—of course! What an idiot I am.”

He pushed past Antony, and began running out into the drive. Antony

followed him. They ran along the front of the house, down a path to the

left, and then to the left again over the grass, Cayley in front, the

other close behind him. Suddenly Cayley looked over his shoulder and

pulled up short.

“Here,” he said.

They had come to the windows of the locked room, French windows which

opened on to the lawns at the back of the house. But now they were

closed. Antony couldn’t help feeling a thrill of excitement as he

followed Cayley’s example, and put his face close up to the glass. For

the first time he wondered if there really _had_ been a revolver shot

in this mysterious room. It had all seemed so absurd and melodramatic

from the other side of the door. But if there had been one shot, why

should there not be two more?—at the careless fools who were pressing

their noses against the panes, and asking for it.

“My God, can you see it?” said Cayley in a shaking voice. “Down there.

Look!”

The next moment Antony saw it. A man was lying on the floor at the far

end of the room, his back towards them. A man? Or the body of a man?

“Who is it?” said Antony.

“I don’t know,” the other whispered.

“Well, we’d better go and see.” He considered the windows for a moment.

“I should think, if you put your weight into it, just where they join,

they’ll give all right. Otherwise, we can kick the glass in.”

Without saying anything, Cayley put his weight into it. The window

gave, and they went into the room. Cayley walked quickly to the body,

and dropped on his knees by it. For the moment he seemed to hesitate;

then with an effort he put a hand on to its shoulder and pulled it

over.

“Thank God!” he murmured, and let the body go again.

“Who is it?” said Antony.

“Robert Ablett.”

“Oh!” said Antony. “I thought his name was Mark,” he added, more to

himself than to the other.

“Yes, Mark Ablett lives here. Robert is his brother.” He shuddered, and

said, “I was afraid it was Mark.”

“Was Mark in the room too?”

“Yes,” said Cayley absently. Then, as if resenting suddenly these

questions from a stranger, “Who are you?”

But Antony had gone to the locked door, and was turning the handle. “I

suppose he put the key in his pocket,” he said, as he came back to the

body again.

“Who?”

Antony shrugged his shoulders.

“Whoever did this,” he said, pointing to the man on the floor. “Is he

dead?”

“Help me,” said Cayley simply.

They turned the body on to its back, nerving themselves to look at it.

Robert Ablett had been shot between the eyes. It was not a pleasant

sight, and with his horror Antony felt a sudden pity for the man beside

him, and a sudden remorse for the careless, easy way in which he had

treated the affair. But then one always went about imagining that these

things _didn’t_ happen—except to other people. It was difficult to

believe in them just at first, when they happened to yourself.

“Did you know him well?” said Antony quietly. He meant, “Were you fond

of him?”

“Hardly at all. Mark is _my_ cousin. I mean, Mark is the brother I know

best.”

“Your cousin?”

“Yes.” He hesitated, and then said, “Is he dead? I suppose he is. Will

you—do you know anything about—about that sort of thing? Perhaps I’d

better get some water.”

There was another door opposite to the locked one, which led, as Antony

was to discover for himself directly, into a passage from which opened

two more rooms. Cayley stepped into the passage, and opened the door on

the right. The door from the office, through which he had gone,

remained open. The door, at the end of the short passage was shut.

Antony, kneeling by the body, followed Cayley with his eyes, and, after

he had disappeared, kept his eyes on the blank wall of the passage, but

he was not conscious of that at which he was looking, for his mind was

with the other man, sympathizing with him.

“Not that water is any use to a dead body,” he said to himself, “but

the feeling that you’re doing something, when there’s obviously nothing

to be done, is a great comfort.”

Cayley came into the room again. He had a sponge in one hand, a

handkerchief in the other. He looked at Antony. Antony nodded. Cayley

murmured something, and knelt down to bathe the dead man’s face. Then

he placed the handkerchief over it. A little sigh escaped Antony, a

sigh of relief.

They stood up and looked at each other.

“If I can be of any help to you,” said Antony, “please let me.”

“That’s very kind of you. There will be things to do. Police, doctors—I

don’t know. But you mustn’t let me trespass on your kindness. Indeed, I

should apologise for having trespassed so much already.”

“I came to see Beverley. He is an old friend of mine.”

“He’s out playing golf. He will be back directly.” Then, as if he had

only just realized it, “They will all be back directly.”

“I will stay if I can be of any help.”

“Please do. You see, there are women. It will be rather painful. If you

would—” He hesitated, and gave Antony a timid little smile, pathetic in

so big and self-reliant a man. “Just your moral support, you know. It

would be something.”

“Of course.” Antony smiled back at him, and said cheerfully, “Well,

then, I’ll begin by suggesting that you should ring up the police.”

“The police? Y-yes.” He looked doubtfully at the other. “I suppose—”

Antony spoke frankly.

“Now, look here, Mr.—er—”

“Cayley. I’m Mark Ablett’s cousin. I live with him.”

“My name’s Gillingham. I’m sorry, I ought to have told you before. Well

now, Mr. Cayley, we shan’t do any good by pretending. Here’s a man been

shot—well, somebody shot him.”

“He might have shot himself,” mumbled Cayley.

“Yes, he might have, but he didn’t. Or if he did, somebody was in the

room at the time, and that somebody isn’t here now. And that somebody

took a revolver away with him. Well, the police will want to say a word

about that, won’t they?”

Cayley was silent, looking on the ground.

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking, and believe me I do sympathize with

you, but we can’t be children about it. If your cousin Mark Ablett was

in the room with this”—he indicated the body—“this man, then—”

“Who said he was?” said Cayley, jerking his head up suddenly at Antony.

“You did.”

“I was in the library. Mark went in—he may have come out again—I know

nothing. Somebody else may have gone in—”

“Yes, yes,” said Antony patiently, as if to a little child. “You know

your cousin; I don’t. Let’s agree that he had nothing to do with it.

But somebody was in the room when this man was shot, and—well, the

police will have to know. Don’t you think—” He looked at the telephone.

“Or would you rather I did it?”

Cayley shrugged his shoulders and went to the telephone.

“May I—er—look round a bit?” Antony nodded towards the open door.

“Oh, do. Yes.” He sat down and drew the telephone towards him. “You

must make allowances for me, Mr. Gillingham. You see, I’ve known Mark

for a very long time. But, of course, you’re quite right, and I’m

merely being stupid.” He took off the receiver.

Let us suppose that, for the purpose of making a first acquaintance

with this “office,” we are coming into it from the hall, through the

door which is now locked, but which, for our special convenience, has

been magically unlocked for us. As we stand just inside the door, the

length of the room runs right and left; or, more accurately, to the

right only, for the left-hand wall is almost within our reach.

Immediately opposite to us, across the breadth of the room (some

fifteen feet), is that other door, by which Cayley went out and

returned a few minutes ago. In the right-hand wall, thirty feet away

from us, are the French windows. Crossing the room and going out by the

opposite door, we come into a passage, from which two rooms lead. The

one on the right, into which Cayley went, is less than half the length

of the office, a small, square room, which has evidently been used some

time or other as a bedroom. The bed is no longer there, but there is a

basin, with hot and cold taps, in a corner; chairs; a cupboard or two,

and a chest of drawers. The window faces the same way as the French

windows in the next room; but anybody looking out of the bedroom window

has his view on the immediate right shut off by the outer wall of the

office, which projects, by reason of its greater length, fifteen feet

further into the lawn.

The room on the other side of the bedroom is a bathroom. The three

rooms together, in fact, form a sort of private suite; used, perhaps,

during the occupation of the previous owner, by some invalid, who could

not manage the stairs, but allowed by Mark to fall into disuse, save

for the living-room. At any rate, he never slept downstairs.

Antony glanced at the bathroom, and then wandered into the bedroom, the

room into which Cayley had been. The window was open, and he looked out

at the well-kept grass beneath him, and the peaceful stretch of park

beyond; and he felt very sorry for the owner of it all, who was now

mixed up in so grim a business.

“Cayley thinks he did it,” said Antony to himself. “That’s obvious. It

explains why he wasted so much time banging on the door. Why should he

try to break a lock when it’s so much easier to break a window? Of

course he might just have lost his head; on the other hand, he

might—well, he might have wanted to give his cousin a chance of getting

away. The same about the police, and—oh, lots of things. Why, for

instance, did we run all the way round the house in order to get to the

windows? Surely there’s a back way out through the hall. I must have a

look later on.”

Antony, it will be observed, had by no means lost _his_ head.

There was a step in the passage outside, and he turned round, to see

Cayley in the doorway. He remained looking at him for a moment, asking

himself a question. It was rather a curious question. He was asking

himself why the door was open.

Well, not exactly why the door was open; that could be explained easily

enough. But why had he expected the door to be shut? He did not

remember shutting it, but somehow he was surprised to see it open now,

to see Cayley through the doorway, just coming into the room. Something

working sub-consciously in his brain had told him that it was

surprising. Why?

He tucked the matter away in a corner of his mind for the moment; the

answer would come to him later on. He had a wonderfully retentive mind.

Everything which he saw or heard seemed to make its corresponding

impression somewhere in his brain; often without his being conscious of

it; and these photographic impressions were always there ready for him

when he wished to develop them.

Cayley joined him at the window.

“I’ve telephoned,” he said. “They’re sending an inspector or some one

from Middleston, and the local police and doctor from Stanton.” He

shrugged his shoulders. “We’re in for it now.”

“How far away is Middleston?” It was the town for which Antony had

taken a ticket that morning—only six hours ago. How absurd it seemed.

“About twenty miles. These people will be coming back soon.”

“Beverley, and the others?”

“Yes. I expect they’ll want to go away at once.”

“Much better that they should.”

“Yes.” Cayley was silent for a little. Then he said, “You’re staying

near here?”

“I’m at ‘The George,’ at Woodham.”

“If you’re by yourself, I wish you’d put up here. You see,” he went on

awkwardly, “you’ll have to _be_ here—for the—the inquest and—and so on.

If I may offer you my cousin’s hospitality in his—I mean if he

doesn’t—if he really has—”

Antony broke in hastily with his thanks and acceptance.

“That’s good. Perhaps Beverley will stay on, if he’s a friend of yours.

He’s a good fellow.”

Antony felt quite sure, from what Cayley had said and had hesitated to

say, that Mark had been the last to see his brother alive. It didn’t

follow that Mark Ablett was a murderer. Revolvers go off accidentally;

and when they have gone off, people lose their heads and run away,

fearing that their story will not be believed. Nevertheless, when

people run away, whether innocently or guiltily, one can’t help

wondering which way they went.

“I suppose this way,” said Antony aloud, looking out of the window.

“Who?” said Cayley stubbornly.

“Well, whoever it was,” said Antony, smiling to himself. “The murderer.

Or, let us say, the man who locked the door after Robert Ablett was

killed.”

“I wonder.”

“Well, how else could he have got away? He didn’t go by the windows in

the next room, because they were shut.”

“Isn’t that rather odd?”

“Well, I thought so at first, but—” He pointed to the wall jutting out

on the right. “You see, you’re protected from the rest of the house if

you get out here, and you’re quite close to the shrubbery. If you go

out at the French windows, I imagine you’re much more visible. All that

part of the house—” he waved his right hand—“the west, well, north-west

almost, where the kitchen parts are—you see, you’re hidden from them

here. Oh, yes! he knew the house, whoever it was, and he was quite

right to come out of this window. He’d be into the shrubbery at once.”

Cayley looked at him thoughtfully.

“It seems to me, Mr. Gillingham, that _you_ know the house pretty well,

considering that this is the first time you’ve been to it.”

Antony laughed.

“Oh, well, I notice things, you know. I was born noticing. But I’m

right, aren’t I, about why he went out this way?”

“Yes, I think you are.” Cayley looked away—towards the shrubbery. “Do

you want to go noticing in _there_ now?” He nodded at it.

“I think we might leave that to the police,” said Antony gently.

“It’s—well, there’s no hurry.”

Cayley gave a little sigh, as if he had been holding his breath for the

answer, and could now breathe again.

“Thank you, Mr. Gillingham,” he said.