A. A. Milne's The Red House Mystery

When you hear the name “A. A. Milne,” do you immediately think of Winnie-the-Pooh? Certainly Milne is most famous for the four children’s books featuring the lovable bear and his friend, Christopher Robin. During his lifetime, he was also known as a distinguished dramatist, writing 34 plays. Most readers are surprised to learn that Milne also composed a noteworthy detective novel. The Red House Mystery has remained in print for 87 years, and continues to attract new readers.

The novel begins in typical golden-age fashion in a quaint country house. The sound of a gunshot pierces the air, surprising everyone on a drowsy summer afternoon. When Antony Gillingham arrives at the red house, he hears loud banging on a door and a voice yelling, “Open the door, I say; open the door!” (19). The library is locked from within; it contains the dead body of the host’s brother. Antony and his friend Bill are intrigued with the case, and adopt the role of the amateur detective. The plot is cleverly worked out, keeping us guessing right until the end.

In the introduction to the novel, Milne describes his favourite mystery stories:

It is the amateur detective who alone can expose the guilty man by the light of cool inductive reasoning and the logic of stern remorseless facts. Indeed, this light and this logic are all which I will allow him. Away with the scientific detective, the man with the microscope! (x)

Antony is the ideal detective, relying on his powers of acute observation and logical deduction. “I notice things, you know. I was born noticing,” he tells Cayley (28). This young Sherlock Holmes asks Bill if he will adopt the role of Watson: “Are you prepared to have quite obvious things explained to you, to ask futile questions, to give me chances of scoring off you, to make brilliant discoveries of your own two or three days after I have made them myself?” (69). Milne knows the value of a Watson-type character. In his introduction to the novel, he writes, “Let us know from chapter to chapter what the detective is thinking. For this he must watsonize or soliloquize” (xi).

The narrative tone of the novel is comic, witty, almost tongue-in-cheek. Milne, as we know from his children’s works, excels in humorous writing. He began his career as the assistant editor of Punch, the English magazine known for satirical cartoons and anti-establishment pieces.

The country house setting includes mysterious Gothic elements such as a secret passage and a resident house ghost. Indeed The Red House Mystery incorporates a number of classic cozy elements such as these, features typical of Golden Age mysteries. The conventions are both delightful and unrealistic. As Symons points out, “There are improbabilities that have to be ignored as Milne ignores them, but the charm remains potent” (1992, 120).

The amateur detectives in this novel have enormous fun in their roles. Bill admits, “How could he help feeling that this was not real tragedy, but merely a jolly kind of detective game that he and Antony were playing?” (83). If you prefer mysteries that involve you emotionally, this one is not for you. Milne distances us from the reality of the crime by treating it like a puzzle or game to be solved. The narrator continually calls attention to the fictional nature of the text. But if you like a novel with an intellectual challenge, you will find it difficult to put down The Red House Mystery.

Milne, A. A. The Red House Mystery. London: Vintage Books, 1922.

Symons, Julian. Bloody Murder: From the Detective Story to the Crime Novel. New York: Mysterious Press, 1992.

CHAPTER I

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?"

"I was just giving that as an example," said Mrs. Stevens with great

dignity.

Audrey threaded a needle, held her hand out and looked at her

nails critically for a moment, and then began to sew.

"Funny thing that about Mr. Mark’s brother. Fancy not seeing your

brother for fifteen years." She gave a self–conscious laugh and went

on, "Wonder what I should do if I didn’t see Joe for fifteen years."

"As I told you all this morning," said her aunt, "I’ve been here five

years, and never heard of a brother. I could say that before everybody

if I was going to die to–morrow. There’s been no brother here while

I’ve been here."

"You could have knocked me down with a feather when he spoke

about him at breakfast this morning. I didn’t hear what went before,

naturally, but they was all talking about the brother when I went in—

now what was it I went in for—hot milk, was it, or toast?—well, they

was all talking, and Mr. Mark turns to me, and says—you know his

way—'Stevens,' he says, 'my brother is coming to see me this

afternoon; I’m expecting him about three,' he says. 'Show him into the

office,' he says, just like that. 'Yes, sir,' I says quite quietly, but I was

never so surprised in my life, not knowing he had a brother. 'My

brother from Australia,' he says—there, I’d forgotten that. From

Australia."

"Well, he may have been in Australia," said Mrs. Stevens, judicially;

"I can’t say for that, not knowing the country; but what I do say is he’s

never been here. Not while I’ve been here, and that’s five years."

"Well, but, auntie, he hasn’t been here for fifteen years. I heard

Mr. Mark telling Mr. Cayley. 'Fifteen years,' he says. Mr. Cayley

having arst him when his brother was last in England. Mr. Cayley

knew of him, I heard him telling Mr. Beverley, but didn’t know when he

was last in England—see? So that’s why he arst Mr. Mark."

"I’m not saying anything about fifteen years, Audrey. I can only

speak for what I know, and that’s five years Whitsuntide. I can take

my oath he’s not set foot in the house since five years Whitsuntide.

And if he’s been in Australia, as you say, well, I daresay he’s had his

reasons."

"What reasons?" said Audrey lightly.

"Never mind what reasons. Being in the place of a mother to you,

since your poor mother died, I say this, Audrey—when a gentleman

goes to Australia, he has his reasons. And when he stays in Australia

fifteen years, as Mr. Mark says, and as I know for myself for five

years, he has his reasons. And a respectably brought–up girl doesn’t

ask what reasons."

"Got into trouble, I suppose," said Audrey carelessly. "They were

saying at breakfast he’d been a wild one. Debts. I’m glad Joe isn’t

like that. He’s got fifteen pounds in the post–office savings' bank. Did

I tell you?"

But there was not to be any more talk of Joe Turner that afternoon.

The ringing of a bell brought Audrey to her feet—no longer Audrey,

but now Stevens. She arranged her cap in front of the glass.

"There, that’s the front door," she said. "That’s him. 'Show him into

the office,' said Mr. Mark. I suppose he doesn’t want the other ladies

and gentlemen to see him. Well, they’re all out at their golf, anyhow—

Wonder if he’s going to stay—P’raps he’s brought back a lot of gold

from Australia—I might hear something about Australia, because if

anybody can get gold there, then I don’t say but what Joe and I—"

"Now, now, get on, Audrey."

"Just going, darling." She went out.

To anyone who had just walked down the drive in the August sun,

the open door of the Red House revealed a delightfully inviting hall, of

which even the mere sight was cooling. It was a big low–roofed, oak–

beamed place, with cream–washed walls and diamond–paned

windows, blue–curtained. On the right and left were doors leading

into other living–rooms, but on the side which faced you as you came

in were windows again, looking on to a small grass court, and from

open windows to open windows such air as there was played gently.

The staircase went up in broad, low steps along the right–hand wall,

and, turning to the left, led you along a gallery, which ran across the

width of the hall, to your bedroom. That is, if you were going to stay

the night. Mr. Robert Ablett’s intentions in this matter were as yet

unknown.

As Audrey came across the hall she gave a little start as she saw

Mr. Cayley suddenly, sitting unobtrusively in a seat beneath one of the

front windows, reading. No reason why he shouldn’t be there;

certainly a much cooler place than the golf–links on such a day; but

somehow there was a deserted air about the house that afternoon,

as if all the guests were outside, or—perhaps the wisest place of all

—up in their bedrooms, sleeping. Mr. Cayley, the master’s cousin,

was a surprise; and, having given a little exclamation as she came

suddenly upon him, she blushed, and said, "Oh, I beg your pardon,

sir, I didn’t see you at first," and he looked up from his book and

smiled at her. An attractive smile it was on that big ugly face. "Such a

gentleman, Mr. Cayley," she thought to herself as she went on, and

wondered what the master would do without him. If this brother, for

instance, had to be bundled back to Australia, it was Mr. Cayley who

would do most of the bundling.

"So this is Mr. Robert," said Audrey to herself, as she came in sight

of the visitor.

She told her aunt afterwards that she would have known him

anywhere for Mr. Mark’s brother, but she would have said that in any

event. Actually she was surprised. Dapper little Mark, with his neat

pointed beard and his carefully curled moustache; with his quick–

darting eyes, always moving from one to the other of any company he

was in, to register one more smile to his credit when he had said a

good thing, one more expectant look when he was only waiting his

turn to say it; he was a very different man from this rough–looking, ill–

dressed colonial, staring at her so loweringly.

"I want to see Mr. Mark Ablett," he growled. It sounded almost like a

threat.

Audrey recovered herself and smiled reassuringly at him. She had

a smile for everybody.

"Yes, sir. He is expecting you, if you will come this way."

"Oh! So you know who I am, eh?"

"Mr. Robert Ablett?"

"Ay, that’s right. So he’s expecting me, eh? He’ll be glad to see me,

eh?"

"If you will come this way, sir," said Audrey primly.

She went to the second door on the left, and opened it.

"Mr. Robert Ab—" she began, and then broke off. The room was

empty. She turned to the man behind her. "If you will sit down, sir, I will

find the master. I know he’s in, because he told me that you were

coming this afternoon."

"Oh!" He looked round the room. "What d’you call this place, eh?"

"The office, sir."

"The office?"

"The room where the master works, sir."

"Works, eh? That’s new. Didn’t know he’d ever done a stroke of

work in his life."

"Where he writes, sir," said Audrey, with dignity. The fact that

Mr. Mark "wrote," though nobody knew what, was a matter of pride in

the housekeeper’s room.

"Not well–dressed enough for the drawing–room, eh?"

"I will tell the master you are here, sir," said Audrey decisively.

She closed the door and left him there.

Well! Here was something to tell auntie! Her mind was busy at

once, going over all the things which he had said to her and she had

said to him—quiet–like. "Directly I saw him I said to myself—" Why,

you could have knocked her over with a feather. Feathers, indeed,

were a perpetual menace to Audrey.

However, the immediate business was to find the master. She

walked across the hall to the library, glanced in, came back a little

uncertainly, and stood in front of Cayley.

"If you please, sir," she said in a low, respectful voice, "can you tell

me where the master is? It’s Mr. Robert called."

"What?" said Cayley, looking up from his book. "Who?"

Audrey repeated her question.

"I don’t know. Isn’t he in the office? He went up to the Temple after

lunch. I don’t think I’ve seen him since."

"Thank you, sir. I will go up to the Temple."

Cayley returned to his book.

The "Temple" was a brick summer–house, in the gardens at the

back of the house, about three hundred yards away. Here Mark

meditated sometimes before retiring to the "office" to put his

thoughts upon paper. The thoughts were not of any great value;

moreover, they were given off at the dinner–table more often than

they got on to paper, and got on to paper more often than they got

into print. But that did not prevent the master of The Red House from

being a little pained when a visitor treated the Temple carelessly, as

if it had been erected for the ordinary purposes of flirtation and

cigarette–smoking. There had been an occasion when two of his

guests had been found playing fives in it. Mark had said nothing at

the time, save to ask with a little less than his usual point—whether

they couldn’t find anywhere else for their game, but the offenders

were never asked to The Red House again.

Audrey walked slowly up to the Temple, looked in and walked

slowly back. All that walk for nothing. Perhaps the master was

upstairs in his room. "Not well–dressed enough for the drawing–

room." Well, now, Auntie, would you like anyone in your drawing–

room with a red handkerchief round his neck and great big dusty

boots, and—listen! One of the men shooting rabbits. Auntie was

partial to a nice rabbit, and onion sauce. How hot it was; she wouldn’t

say no to a cup of tea. Well, one thing, Mr. Robert wasn’t staying the

night; he hadn’t any luggage. Of course Mr. Mark could lend him

things; he had clothes enough for six. She would have known him

anywhere for Mr. Mark’s brother.

She came into the house. As she passed the housekeeper’s room

on her way to the hall, the door opened suddenly, and a rather

frightened face looked out.

"Hallo, Aud," said Elsie. "It’s Audrey," she said, turning into the

room.

"Come in, Audrey," called Mrs. Stevens.

"What’s up?" said Audrey, looking in at the door.

"Oh, my dear, you gave me such a turn. Where have you been?"

"Up to the Temple."

"Did you hear anything?"

"Hear what?"

"Bangs and explosions and terrible things."

"Oh!" said Audrey, rather relieved. "One of the men shooting

rabbits. Why, I said to myself as I came along, 'Auntie’s partial to a

nice rabbit,' I said, and I shouldn’t be surprised if—"

"Rabbits!" said her aunt scornfully. "It was inside the house, my

girl."

"Straight it was," said Elsie. She was one of the housemaids. "I

said to Mrs. Stevens—didn’t I, Mrs. Stevens?—'That was in the

house,' I said."

Audrey looked at her aunt and then at Elsie.

"Do you think he had a revolver with him?" she said in a hushed

voice.

"Who?" said Elsie excitedly.

"That brother of his. From Australia. I said as soon as I set eyes on

him, 'You’re a bad lot, my man!' That’s what I said, Elsie. Even before

he spoke to me. Rude!" She turned to her aunt. "Well, I give you my

word."

"If you remember, Audrey, I always said there was no saying with

anyone from Australia." Mrs. Stevens lay back in her chair, breathing

rather rapidly. "I wouldn’t go out of this room now, not if you paid me a

hundred thousand pounds."

"Oh, Mrs. Stevens!" said Elsie, who badly wanted five shillings for a

new pair of shoes, "I wouldn’t go as far as that, not myself, but—"

"There!" cried Mrs. Stevens, sitting up with a start. They listened

anxiously, the two girls instinctively coming closer to the older

woman’s chair.

A door was being shaken, kicked, rattled.

"Listen!"

Audrey and Elsie looked at each other with frightened eyes.

They heard a man’s voice, loud, angry.

"Open the door!" it was shouting. "Open the door! I say, open the

"Open the door!" it was shouting. "Open the door! I say, open the

door!"

"Don’t open the door!" cried Mrs. Stevens in a panic, as if it was

her door which was threatened. "Audrey! Elsie! Don’t let him in!"

"Damn it, open the door!" came the voice again.

"We’re all going to be murdered in our beds," she quavered.

Terrified, the two girls huddled closer, and with an arm round each,

Mrs. Stevens sat there, waiting.

(Continue reading Chapter 2 at: https://arthursbookshelf.com/20th/milne/The%20Red%20House%20Mystery%20-%20A.%20A.%20Milne.pdf)