Cayley’s Apology
“My Dear Mr. Gillingham,
“I gather from your letter that you have made certain discoveries which
you may feel it your duty to communicate to the police, and that in
this case my arrest on a charge of murder would inevitably follow. Why,
in these circumstances, you should give me such ample warning of your
intentions I do not understand, unless it is that you are not wholly
out of sympathy with me. But whether or not you sympathize, at any rate
you will want to know—and I want you to know—the exact manner in which
Ablett met his death and the reasons which made that death necessary.
If the police have to be told anything, I would rather that they too
knew the whole story. They, and even you, may call it murder, but by
that time I shall be out of the way. Let them call it what they like.
“I must begin by taking you back to a summer day fifteen years ago,
when I was a boy of thirteen and Mark a young man of twenty-five. His
whole life was make-believe, and just now he was pretending to be a
philanthropist. He sat in our little drawing-room, flicking his gloves
against the back of his left hand, and my mother, good soul, thought
what a noble young gentleman he was, and Philip and I, hastily washed
and crammed into collars, stood in front of him, nudging each other and
kicking the backs of our heels and cursing him in our hearts for having
interrupted our game. He had decided to adopt one of us, kind Cousin
Mark. Heaven knows why he chose me. Philip was eleven; two years longer
to wait. Perhaps that was why.
“Well, Mark educated me. I went to a public school and to Cambridge,
and I became his secretary. Well, much more than his secretary as your
friend Beverley perhaps has told you: his land agent, his financial
adviser, his courier, his—but this most of all—his audience. Mark could
never live alone. There must always be somebody to listen to him. I
think in his heart he hoped I should be his Boswell. He told me one day
that he had made me his literary executor—poor devil. And he used to
write me the absurdest long letters when I was away from him, letters
which I read once and then tore up. The futility of the man!
“It was three years ago that Philip got into trouble. He had been
hurried through a cheap grammar school and into a London office, and
discovered there that there was not much fun to be got in this world on
two pounds a week. I had a frantic letter from him one day, saying that
he must have a hundred at once, or he would be ruined, and I went to
Mark for the money. Only to borrow it, you understand; he gave me a
good salary and I could have paid it back in three months. But no. He
saw nothing for himself in it, I suppose; no applause, no admiration.
Philip’s gratitude would be to me, not to him. I begged, I threatened,
we argued; and while we were arguing, Philip was arrested. It killed my
mother—he was always her favourite—but Mark, as usual, got his
satisfaction out of it. He preened himself on his judgment of character
in having chosen me and not Philip twelve years before!
“Later on I apologized to Mark for the reckless things I had said to
him, and he played the part of a magnanimous gentleman with his
accustomed skill, but, though outwardly we were as before to each
other, from that day forward, though his vanity would never let him see
it, I was his bitterest enemy. If that had been all, I wonder if I
should have killed him? To live on terms of intimate friendship with a
man whom you hate is dangerous work for your friend. Because of his
belief in me as his admiring and grateful protégé and his belief in
himself as my benefactor, he was now utterly in my power. I could take
my time and choose my opportunity. Perhaps I should not have killed
him, but I had sworn to have my revenge—and there he was, poor vain
fool, at my mercy. I was in no hurry.
“Two years later I had to reconsider my position, for my revenge was
being taken out of my hands. Mark began to drink. Could I have stopped
him? I don’t think so, but to my immense surprise I found myself trying
to. Instinct, perhaps, getting the better of reason; or did I reason it
out and tell myself that, if he drank himself to death, I should lose
my revenge? Upon my word, I cannot tell you; but, for whatever motive,
I did genuinely want to stop it. Drinking is such a beastly thing,
anyhow.
“I could not stop him, but I kept him within certain bounds, so that
nobody but myself knew his secret. Yes, I kept him outwardly decent;
and perhaps now I was becoming like the cannibal who keeps his victim
in good condition for his own ends. I used to gloat over Mark, thinking
how utterly he was mine to ruin as I pleased, financially, morally,
whatever way would give me most satisfaction. I had but to take my hand
away from him and he sank. But again I was in no hurry.
“Then he killed himself. That futile little drunkard, eaten up with his
own selfishness and vanity, offered his beastliness to the truest and
purest woman on this earth. You have seen her, Mr. Gillingham, but you
never knew Mark Ablett. Even if he had not been a drunkard, there was
no chance for her of happiness with him. I had known him for many
years, but never once had I seen him moved by any generous emotion. To
have lived with that shrivelled little soul would have been hell for
her; and a thousand times worse hell when he began to drink.
“So he had to be killed. I was the only one left to protect her, for
her mother was in league with Mark to bring about her ruin. I would
have shot him openly for her sake, and with what gladness, but I had no
mind to sacrifice myself needlessly. He was in my power; I could
persuade him to almost anything by flattery; surely it would not be
difficult to give his death the appearance of an accident.
“I need not take up your time by telling you of the many plans I made
and rejected. For some days I inclined towards an unfortunate boating
accident in the pond—Mark, a very indifferent swimmer, myself almost
exhausted in a gallant attempt to hold him up. And then he himself gave
me the idea, he and Miss Norris between them, and so put himself in my
hands; without risk of discovery, I should have said, had you not
discovered me.
“We were talking about ghosts. Mark had been even more vain, pompous
and absurd than usual, and I could see that Miss Norris was irritated
by it. After dinner she suggested dressing up as a ghost and
frightening him. I thought it my duty to warn her that Mark took any
joke against himself badly, but she was determined to do it. I gave way
reluctantly. Reluctantly, also, I told her the secret of the passage.
(There is an underground passage from the library to the bowling-green.
You should exercise your ingenuity, Mr. Gillingham, in trying to
discover it. Mark came upon it by accident a year ago. It was a godsend
to him; he could drink there in greater secrecy. But he had to tell me
about it. He wanted an audience, even for his vices.)
“I told Miss Norris, then, because it was necessary for my plan that
Mark should be thoroughly frightened. Without the passage she could
never have got close enough to the bowling-green to alarm him properly,
but as I arranged it with her she made the most effective appearance,
and Mark was in just the state of rage and vindictiveness which I
required. Miss Norris, you understand, is a professional actress. I
need not say that to her I appeared to be animated by no other feeling
than a boyish desire to bring off a good joke—a joke directed as much
against the others as against Mark.
“He came to me that night, as I expected, still quivering with
indignation. Miss Norris must never be asked to the house again; I was
to make a special note of it; never again. It was outrageous. Had he
not a reputation as a host to keep up, he would pack her off next
morning. As it was, she could stay; hospitality demanded it; but never
again would she come to the Red House—he was absolutely determined
about that. I was to make a special note of it.
“I comforted him, I smoothed down his ruffled feathers. She had behaved
very badly, but he was quite right; he must try not to show how much he
disapproved of her. And of course she would never come again—that was
obvious. And then suddenly I began to laugh. He looked up at me
indignantly.
“Is there a joke?” he said coldly.
“I laughed gently again.
“‘I was just thinking,’ I said, ‘that it would be rather amusing if
you—well, had your revenge.”
“‘My revenge? How do you mean?’
“‘Well, paid her back in her own coin.’
“‘Do you mean try and frighten her?’
“‘No, no; but dressed up and pulled her leg a bit. Made her look a fool
in front of the others.’ I laughed to myself again. ‘Serve her jolly
well right.’
“He jumped up excitedly.
“‘By Jove, Cay!’ he cried. ‘If I could! How? You must think of a way.’
“I don’t know if Beverley has told you about Mark’s acting. He was an
amateur of all the arts, and vain of his little talents, but as an
actor he seemed to himself most wonderful. Certainly he had some
ability for the stage, so long as he had the stage to himself and was
playing to an admiring audience. As a professional actor in a small
part he would have been hopeless; as an amateur playing the leading
part, he deserved all that the local papers had ever said about him.
And so the idea of giving us a private performance, directed against a
professional actress who had made fun of him, appealed equally to his
vanity and his desire for retaliation. If he, Mark Ablett, by his
wonderful acting could make Ruth Norris look a fool in front of the
others, could take her in, and then join in the laugh at her
afterwards, he would indeed have had a worthy revenge!
“It strikes you as childish, Mr. Gillingham? Ah, you never knew Mark
Ablett.
“‘How, Cay, how?’ he said eagerly.
“‘Well, I haven’t really thought it out,’ I protested. ‘It was just an
idea.’
“He began to think it out for himself.
“‘I might pretend to be a manager, come down to see her—but I suppose
she knows them all. What about an interviewer?’
“‘It’s going to be difficult,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘You’ve got rather
a characteristic face, you know. And your beard—’
“‘I’d shave it off,’ he snapped.
“‘My dear Mark!’
“He looked away, and mumbled, ‘I’ve been thinking of taking it off,
anyhow. And besides, if I’m going to do the thing, I’m going to do it
properly.’
“‘Yes, you always were an artist,’ I said, looking at him admiringly.
“He purred. To be called an artist was what he longed for most. Now I
knew that I had him.
“‘All the same,’ I went on, ‘even without your beard and moustache you
might be recognizable. Unless, of course—’ I broke off.
“‘Unless what?’
“‘You pretend to be Robert.’ I began to laugh to myself again. ‘By
Jove!’ I said, ‘that’s not a bad idea. Pretend to be Robert, the
wastrel brother, and make yourself objectionable to Miss Norris. Borrow
money from her, and that sort of thing.’
“He looked at me, with his bright little eyes, nodding eagerly.
“‘Robert,’ he said. ‘Yes. How shall we work it?’
“There was really a Robert, Mr. Gillingham, as I have no doubt you and
the Inspector both discovered. And he was a wastrel and he went to
Australia. But he never came to the Red House on Tuesday afternoon. He
couldn’t have, because he died (unlamented) three years ago. But there
was nobody who knew this, save Mark and myself, for Mark was the only
one of the family left, his sister having died last year. Though I
doubt, anyhow, if she knew whether Robert was alive or dead. He was not
talked about.
“For the next two days Mark and I worked out our plans. You understand
by now that our aims were not identical. Mark’s endeavour was that his
deception should last for, say, a couple of hours; mine that it should
go to the grave with him. He had only to deceive Miss Norris and the
other guests; I had to deceive the world. When he was dressed up as
Robert, I was going to kill him. Robert would then be dead, Mark (of
course) missing. What could anybody think but that Mark had killed
Robert? But you see how important it was for Mark to enter fully into
his latest (and last) impersonation. Half-measures would be fatal.
“You will say that it was impossible to do the thing thoroughly enough.
I answer again that you never knew Mark. He was being what he wished
most to be—an artist. No Othello ever blacked himself all over with
such enthusiasm as did Mark. His beard was going anyhow—possible a
chance remark of Miss Norbury’s helped here. She did not like beards.
But it was important for me that the dead man’s hands should not be the
hands of a manicured gentleman. Five minutes playing upon the vanity of
the artist settled his hands. He let the nails grow and then cut them
raggedly. ‘Miss Norris would notice your hands at once,’ I had said.
‘Besides, as an artist—’
“So with his underclothes. It was hardly necessary to warn him that his
pants might show above the edge of his socks; as an artist he had
already decided upon Robertian pants. I bought them, and other things,
in London for him. Even if I had not cut out all trace of the maker’s
name, he would instinctively have done it. As an Australian and an
artist, he could not have an East London address on his underclothes.
Yes, we were doing the thing thoroughly, both of us; he as an artist, I
as a—well, you may say murderer, if you like. I shall not mind now.
“Our plans were settled. I went to London on the Monday and wrote him a
letter from Robert. (The artistic touch again.) I also bought a
revolver. On the Tuesday morning he announced the arrival of Robert at
the breakfast-table. Robert was now alive—we had six witnesses to prove
it; six witnesses who knew that he was coming that afternoon. Our
private plan was that Robert should present himself at three o’clock,
in readiness for the return of the golfing-party shortly afterwards.
The maid would go to look for Mark, and having failed to find him, come
back to the office to find me entertaining Robert in Mark’s absence. I
would explain that Mark must have gone out somewhere, and would myself
introduce the wastrel brother to the tea-table. Mark’s absence would
not excite any comment, for it would be generally felt—indeed Robert
would suggest it—that he had been afraid of meeting his brother. Then
Robert would make himself amusingly offensive to the guests,
particularly, of course, Miss Norris, until he thought that the joke
had gone far enough.
“That was our private plan. Perhaps I should say that it was Mark’s
private plan. My own was different.
“The announcement at breakfast went well. After the golfing-party had
gone off, we had the morning in which to complete our arrangements.
What I was chiefly concerned about was to establish as completely as
possible the identity of Robert. For this reason I suggested to Mark
that, when dressed, he should go out by the secret passage to the
bowling-green, and come back by the drive, taking care to enter into
conversation with the lodge-keeper. In this way I would have two more
witnesses of Robert’s arrival—first the lodge-keeper, and secondly one
of the gardeners whom I would have working on the front lawn. Mark, of
course, was willing enough. He could practise his Australian accent on
the lodge-keeper. It was really amusing to see how readily he fell into
every suggestion which I made. Never was a killing more carefully
planned by its victim.
“He changed into Robert’s clothes in the office bedroom. This was the
safest way—for both of us. When he was ready, he called me in, and I
inspected him. It was extraordinary how well he looked the part. I
suppose that the signs of his dissipation had already marked themselves
on his face, but had been concealed hitherto by his moustache and
beard; for now that he was clean-shaven they lay open to the world from
which we had so carefully hidden them, and he was indeed the wastrel
which he was pretending to be.
“‘By Jove, you’re wonderful,’ I said.
“He smirked, and called my attention to the various artistic touches
which I might have missed.
“‘Wonderful,’ I said to myself again. ‘Nobody could possibly guess.’
“I peered into the hall. It was empty. We hurried across to the
library; he got into the passage and made off. I went back to the
bedroom, collected all his discarded clothes, did them up in a bundle
and returned with them to the passage. Then I sat down in the hall and
waited.
“You heard the evidence of Stevens, the maid. As soon as she was on her
way to the Temple in search of Mark, I stepped into the office. My hand
was in my side-pocket, and in my hand was the revolver.
“He began at once in his character of Robert—some rigmarole about
working his passage over from Australia; a little private performance
for my edification. Then in his natural voice, gloating over his
well-planned retaliation on Miss Norris, he burst out, ‘It’s my turn
now. You wait.’ It was this which Elsie heard. She had no business to
be there and she might have ruined everything, but as it turned out it
was the luckiest thing which could have happened. For it was the one
piece of evidence which I wanted; evidence, other than my own, that
Mark and Robert were in the room together.
“I said nothing. I was not going to take the risk of being heard to
speak in that room. I just smiled at the poor little fool, and took out
my revolver, and shot him. Then I went back into the library and
waited—just as I said in my evidence.
“Can you imagine, Mr. Gillingham, the shock which your sudden
appearance gave me? Can you imagine the feelings of a ‘murderer’ who
has (as he thinks) planned for every possibility, and is then
confronted suddenly with an utterly new problem? What difference would
your coming make? I didn’t know. Perhaps none; perhaps all. And I had
forgotten to open the window!
“I don’t know whether you will think my plan for killing Mark a clever
one. Perhaps not. But if I do deserve any praise in the matter, I think
I deserve it for the way I pulled myself together in the face of the
unexpected catastrophe of your arrival. Yes, I got a window open, Mr.
Gillingham, under your very nose; the right window too, you were kind
enough to say. And the keys—yes, that was clever of you, but I think I
was cleverer. I deceived you over the keys, Mr. Gillingham, as I learnt
when I took the liberty of listening to a conversation on the
bowling-green between you and your friend Beverley. Where was I? Ah,
you must have a look for that secret passage, Mr. Gillingham.
“But what am I saying? Did I deceive you at all? You have found out the
secret—that Robert was Mark—and that is all that matters. How have you
found out? I shall never know now. Where did I go wrong? Perhaps you
have been deceiving me all the time. Perhaps you knew about the keys,
about the window, even about the secret passage. You are a clever man,
Mr. Gillingham.
“I had Mark’s clothes on my hands. I might have left them in the
passage, but the secret of the passage was now out. Miss Norris knew
it. That was the weak point of my plan, perhaps, that Miss Norris had
to know it. So I hid them in the pond, the Inspector having obligingly
dragged it for me first. A couple of keys joined them, but I kept the
revolver. Fortunate, wasn’t it, Mr. Gillingham?
“I don’t think that there is any more to tell you. This is a long
letter, but then it is the last which I shall write. There was a time
when I hoped that there might be a happy future for me, not at the Red
House, not alone. Perhaps it was never more than an idle day-dream, for
I am no more worthy of her than Mark was. But I could have made her
happy, Mr. Gillingham. God, how I would have worked to make her happy!
But now that is impossible. To offer her the hand of a murderer would
be as bad as to offer her the hand of a drunkard. And Mark died for
that. I saw her this morning. She was very sweet. It is a difficult
world to understand.
“Well, well, we are all gone now—the Abletts and the Cayleys. I wonder
what old Grandfather Cayley thinks of it all. Perhaps it is as well
that we have died out. Not that there was anything wrong with
Sarah—except her temper. And she had the Ablett nose—you can’t do much
with that. I’m glad she left no children.
“Good-bye, Mr. Gillingham. I’m sorry that your stay with us was not of
a pleasanter nature, but you understand the difficulties in which I was
placed. Don’t let Bill think too badly of me. He is a good fellow; look
after him. He will be surprised. The young are always surprised. And
thank you for letting me end my own way. I expect you did sympathize a
little, you know. We might have been friends in another world—you and
I, and I and she. Tell her what you like. Everything or nothing. You
will know what is best. Good-bye, Mr. Gillingham.
“MATTHEW CAYLEY.
“I am lonely to-night without Mark. That’s funny, isn’t it?”