The Red House Mystery

By A. A. (Alan Alexander) Milne

The setting is an eng country house, where Mark Ablett has been entertaining a house party consisting of a widow and her marriageable daughter, a retired major, a wilful actress, and Bill Beverley, a young man about town. Mark's long-lost brother Robert, the black sheep of the family, arrives from Australia and shortly thereafter is found dead, shot through the head. Mark Ablett has disappeared, so Tony Gillingham, a stranger who has just arrived to call on his friend Bill, decides to investigate…
(Excerpt from Wikipedia)

• Language: English
• Publisher: Otbebookpublishing
• Release date: Dec 27, 2015
• ISBN: 9783956760846

A. A. (Alan Alexander) Milne

Alan Alexander Milne (18 January 1882 – 31 January 1956) was an English author, best known for his books about the teddy bear Winnie-the-Pooh and for various poems. Milne was a noted writer, primarily as a playwright, before the huge success of Pooh overshadowed all his previous work. Milne served in both World Wars, joining the British Army in World War I, and was a captain of the British Home Guard in World War II. (Wikipedia)

Book preview

THE RED HOUSE MYSTERY

By A. A. Milne

TO JOHN VINE MILNE MY DEAR FATHER,

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.

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 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.

CHAPTER II. Mr. Gillingham Gets Out at the Wrong Station

Whether Mark Ablett was a bore or not depended on the point of view, but it may be said at once that he never bored his company on the subject of his early life. However, stories get about. There is always somebody who knows. It was understood—and this, anyhow, on Mark's own authority—that his father had been a country clergyman. It was said that, as a boy, Mark had attracted the notice, and patronage, of some rich old spinster of the neighbourhood, who had paid for his education, both at school and university. At about the time when he was coming down from Cambridge, his father had died; leaving behind him a few debts, as a warning to his family, and a reputation for short sermons, as an example to his successor. Neither warning nor example seems to have been effective. Mark went to London, with an allowance from his patron, and (it is generally agreed) made acquaintance with the money-lenders. He was supposed, by his patron and any others who inquired, to be writing; but what he wrote, other than letters asking for more time to pay, has never been discovered. However, he attended the theatres and music halls very regularly—no doubt with a view to some serious articles in the Spectator on the decadence of the English stage.

Fortunately (from Mark's point of view) his patron died during his third year in London, and left him all the money he wanted. From that moment his life loses its legendary character, and becomes more a matter of history. He settled accounts with the money-lenders, abandoned his crop of wild oats to the harvesting of others, and became in his turn a patron. He patronized the Arts. It was not only usurers who discovered that Mark Ablett no longer wrote for money; editors were now offered free contributions as well as free lunches; publishers were given agreements for an occasional slender volume, in which the author paid all expenses and waived all royalties; promising young painters and poets dined with him; and he even took a theatrical company on tour, playing host and lead with equal lavishness.

He was not what most people call a snob. A snob has been defined carelessly as a man who loves a lord; and, more carefully, as a mean lover of mean things—which would be a little unkind to the peerage if the first definition were true. Mark had his vanities undoubtedly, but he would sooner have met an actor-manager than an earl; he would have spoken of his friendship with Dante—had that been possible—more glibly than of his friendship with the Duke. Call him a snob if you like, but not the worst kind of snob; a hanger-on, but to the skirts of Art, not Society; a climber, but in the neighbourhood of Parnassus, not Hay Hill.

His patronage did not stop at the Arts. It also included Matthew Cayley, a small cousin of thirteen, whose circumstances were as limited as had been Mark's own before his

Reviews for The Red House Mystery

[bettesbooks · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A classic mystery of yesteryear. Invoked the Sherlock Holmes/Agatha Christy method of investigation by reasoning, logic and observation. Enjoyable and relaxing read.

[pennsylady · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Red House Mystery (1922)by A A Milne (Winnie The Pooh)Guests at an English country estate become amateur sleuths....in the tradition of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's Sherlock Holmes storiesE Reader147pgF2F Mystery Lovers Book Club (Feb selection)(2013)

[jtck121166 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Excellent 'golden age' country house locked-room novel - one would think it a glorious pastiche if it hadn't, in fact, been written in 1922. In his preface, the author seems to regret the eclipse by a certain bear of his crime-writing career. In this, one looks in vain for Milne's distinctive voice; perhaps it would have emerged in future mysteries - or perhaps this single effort will do very nicely, thank you very much.

[chazzifrazz · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A.A. Milne is known for Winnie the Pooh. This was a great surprise.

With a taste of Sherlock Holmes and Peter Whimsey, this mystery took place at a strange Red House. One brother murdered the other, but who murdered who?

As you read along and come upon the clues you may think you have it, but then things veer off in another direction. Quite the mind game.

[antiquary_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A classic-style English mystery by the author of Winnie-the-Pooh. This edition includes a delightful introduction in which he sets out his experience with his agent and publisher (first they were against his writing it, then they wanted him to go on writing it instead of moving on to nursery rhymes --he could quite possibly have become a rival of Christie and Sayers instead of the creator of Christopher Robin. He also explains his own criteria for a good mystery, which very much match the "golden age" image. According to the tradition, a long-absent brother comes home to an English country home and is promptly murdered.

[janicseblen · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

This was a delightful book to read. Mr. Milne did a wonderful job of introducing you to his characters and time they lived in. Wish he had written another mystery or two.

[vivienner_3 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A mystery from the golden age, featuring amateur detective Antony Gillingham. Although not a bad story I found it a bit repetitive in parts. In 1922 when this was written the plot may have been unique, but the solution was pretty obvious to a reader of mystery stories nowadays. Still, it was a fun read.Favourite quote: "There was indeed a frightful lot of books. The four walls of the library were plastered with them from floor to ceiling, save only where the door and the two windows insisted on living their own life, even though an illiterate one."

[kimmr_2 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

AA Milne wrote this novel - his only foray into the murder mystery genre - in 1922, during the period he worked as a columnist for Punch magazine and before the Winnie-the-Pooh books were published. It's a pleasant read, with an attractive amateur sleuth hero and an entertaining if slightly dim sidekick. Much more of a why-and-howdunnit than a whodunnit (the culprit is reasonably obvious early on), the charm of the work is more in the witty prose and the clever allusions to Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson than in the mystery itself. Had it not been for the way in which the mystery is resolved, I would have been tempted to give this an extra 1/2 star. However, I have a (probably quite unreasonable) aversion to the lengthy-and-discursive-confession-by-the-culprit device. When I come across it - in this case it takes the form of a letter written by the culprit to the sleuth - it makes me a bit crazy.

I'm not sure that the adventures of Anthony (amateur sleuth) and Bill (sidekick) could have been spun into a series. In reality, probably not. Still, I'm glad that Milne had a go at the genre and I'm glad I read his effort. This was a quick and easy read and fun to share with my friend Jemidar and others in the English Mysteries Club.

[leslie398 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I really enjoyed this mystery, despite the fact that I figured it out fairly early. The main character, Anthony Gillingham, was particularly well-written and a good believable amateur detective.

[iambookish-1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A cute little mystery with wisps of Agatha Christie. It was just kind of easy to guess who done it, and I usually can NEVER figure that out!

[mysterymax_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

An exacting use of words makes this short, solid mystery by Milne very charming. Written in 1922, it provides the reader with all the facts needed to solve the crime. Antony Gillingham is enjoying a relaxing weekend at a country mansion. One of the guests turns up dead. Antony and his friend, Bill, solve the crime in a manner that would make Holmes and Watson proud.

[chrisriesbeck · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

IMO more a mystery pastiche than a true mystery. In his preface Milne lays out the criteria for what is for him a perfect mystery, including all the usual bits for "cosy" English mysteries, plus the necessity that the sleuth be an amateur. Unfortunately in this case the sleuth is way too self-conscious of his role as Holmes, and spends much time commenting on that circumstance. There are very few other characters in this short novel. The bulk of the usual suspects are dismissed in just a few chapters, leaving just the hero and his Watson. The chief suspect and the inspector are brought in as little as possible. All this leads to a fairly uninteresting but quick read. Recommended only to fans of both Milne and locked room mysteries (which this isn't but might as well be).While not quite a locked room mystery, this short novel shares many of the qualities of those carefully constructed puzzles.

[irenef_288826 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Pleasant, breezy, and short, The Red House Mystery is just the thing for a lazy afternoon or a boring plane trip. It takes place in the idyllic England of the 1920's, the one where the right people were invited up to country estates to amuse themselves and be tended to by a battalion of housemaids and gardeners. A shot is fired and an unfortunate visitor gains a bullet hole in the forehead. A clever young guest sets about solving the mystery. Such jolly fun!Milne's practiced style is what sets this apart from the run of the Colonel Mustard genre of English mystery. The mystery is not terribly mysterious, the logic hasn't quite got its laces tied, and the dramatis personae are fairly stock characters, yet Milne keeps us amused to the end.

[mrslee_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

I thought this a very fun mystery. The puzzle itself was not very difficult, but the lead characters who were detecting were fun to read. Set in the early 1900s, in England, the story moves along at the relaxed pace of a weekend in the country. Antony Gillingham stumbles upon a dead man when he seeks out his friend, Bill, who is staying in the Red House as a guest. I'm a bit sad that Milne didn't choose to continue writing mysteries with Gillingham as a detective.

[harrymacdonald · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

Raymond Chandler disliked this book, and without going into my feelings one way or another about his work, let me say that I concur. This has about as much substance as one might reasonably expect from the perpetrator of those smarmy kid-classics involving Pooh and the other other suspects.

[christina_e_mitchell · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

A. A. Milne? Of Pooh, Tigger, and Eeyore fame? Yes, it is!

I am very much enjoying these first days of summer. I get to read whatever I choose! I stayed up late last night and woke early this morning to read this little mystery I found in one of my favorite used bookstores in Hillcrest (San Diego, CA). It had been calling to me for weeks; but alas, final term papers required my attention. At the earliest moment of freedom, I snatched it out of my stacks of unread books and plunged in like Pooh breaking into his crock of honey. (Ok, that was a bit cheesy but I think you would expect some sort of Pooh-ish simile somewhere in here.)

You will enjoy this book if you answer in the affirmative this one question: Do you adore P. G. Wodehouse? Seriously, that's it. If you love the humor of Wodehouse with his endless teasing of British upper-crust society you'll eat up every second of this little volume. And, don't skip the introduction wherein Mr. Milne gives you his prerequisites for a good mystery, including:

On the great Love question opinions may be divided, but for myself I will have none of it. A reader, all agog to know whether the white substance on the muffins was arsenic or face-powder, cannot be held up while Roland clasps Angela's hand "a moment longer than the customary usages of society dictate." Much might have happened in that moment, properly spent; footprints made or discovered; cigarette-ends picked up and put in envelopes. By all means let Roland have a book to himself in which to clasp anything he likes, but in a detective story he must attend strictly to business. (p. x)

I've no idea who Mr. Milne was quoting - that is, the author who dared have the detective hold a hand (a stare, an ass cheek...) a moment longer than customary. I did a quotation search and citations led back to Mr. Milne's The Red House Mystery. Thus, we've a mystery within a mystery concerning who insulted Mr. Milne's sensitivities so completely as to be called out in print for their misdeed.

The misdeeds of other mystery writers aside, Mr. Milne's little book is a gem. It's perfect for a light, bright, summer afternoon of reading accompanied by a pitcher of martinis.

[lisahgolden · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A fun read. I enjoyed the character of Antony Gillingham and his banter with Bill Beverly. I say, it was a jolly good book. It didn't bend the brain. Light reading. Completely of its time.

[reneh-2 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The only detective novel written by A.A.Milne, and a very good one. Many surprises and a very acceptable plot. I hugely enjoyed it.

[eyejaybee · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

Well I fell for this one hook line and sinker! If it hadn't been for the fact that I was on a train and had nothing else to read I wouldn't have been able to summon the strength of spirit to finish this. I still think it proved to be in a waste of shame, though.

[overthemoon_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A nice edition of A.A.Milne's one and only detective story, set in a country house belonging to a wealthy man who extends his hospitality to friends who come to stay for a weekend (to play golf, bowls etc.) or longer. As in Cluedo and many Christie novels there is a murder - behind a locked door. Brothers, cousins, girlfriends, hangers-on, who dunnit? There is a great deal of cogitation, a secret passage, missing keys, and detailed description of the layout of the Red House which has led the editors of this edition to include a map as the endpapers. On p. xix (introduction) the reader is told that the map proved more difficult than expected, and this is hardly surprising as the bowling green moves from west to east halfway through the book. I read it all very carefully, with constant references to the map, and came up with quite a few discrepancies which I feel tempted to list below, but maybe I won't as I'm not fond of spoilers.Apart from some little weaknesses in the plot, it was an enjoyable read and led me to think about the bygone times of maids, housekeepers and houseguests.Incidentally, I did guess what happened quite early on, but not the whys and the wherefores.

[alic_77 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

A precursor to the classic age of British mystery writing. But not as good as what it ushered in.

[eurydice_2 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

This is of fairly limited interest: as terribly popular, pre-Pooh Milne, and as an example of the English mystery c. 1920. Sadly, I found it far less engaging than other mysteries of that era. I'd forgive, and even glory in, its improbabilities, if it had more of the humor and wry charm for which Milne is still justifiably famous.

[jeffome · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A very fun murder mystery with lots of unexpected little twists and turns. Ultimately solved by an unexpected passer-by that had the misfortune of showing up just as the ghastly event took place, our sleuth has the blessing of absolutely no prior knowledge of anyone or anything, and is thus freed of the preconceived notions of the rest. A remarkable casualness to the entire official investigation allows our hero free reign to ultimately figure it out. Slightly quirky, but a very fun, quick read.

[pauntley · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Too small a cast of characters for a Whodunnit - it’s a Whydiddydoit, resolved in the end by the murderer’s epistolary confession. Country house mystery. Period charm and engaging prose with a pair of jolly pipe smoking chaps, guests of the murdered host, playing at Holmes and Watson.

[dtw42 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Great fun, in a very 1920s sort of way – amateur sleuths lighting pipes all the time and declaring "rather!" to each other. Clearly written with a great affection for the genre.

[rainpebble_1 · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

The Red House Mystery by A.A. Milne; (4*)Such a fun mystery! Considered to be a 'locked room mystery', I enjoyed every aspect of this little book. Milne's father loved mysteries and that is said to be the reason behind the writing of this one. Sweet, that. But aside........I truly wish that he had written more of the genre. However I guess the genre was not dear to HIS heart. So it will have to be back to the children's lit for me to get more of Milne. No great sacrifice there.

[bookconcierge · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

3.5***

Mark Ablett inherited a stately manor – The Red House – and an income to maintain it. He enjoys the life of a gentleman and patron of the arts, filling his home with guests who enjoy fine dining and the various sports an estate offers. When his prodigal brother, Robert, suddenly returns from his exile in Australia things quickly go awry. Enter the charming Antony Gillingham, who is a friend of one of Mark’s guests, Bill Beverly. Antony happens to be in the area and decides to pay his friend a quick visit when he stumbles upon a chaotic scene and quickly becomes involved in the murder investigation.

The author of the beloved children’s books starring “Winnie the Pooh” and his friends turns his attention to a mystery for adults. In the vein of Agatha Christie, this is a typical “locked-room” conundrum, featuring an amateur sleuth and a cast of colorful characters. I liked his parallel to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes. There isn’t a great deal of action – typical for books written in the early 20th century – but there is enough intrigue to keep me turning pages, and enough red herrings to keep me guessing. Like Christie’s And Then There Were None the final reveal comes in the form of a confession – a device that irritates me a little. Still, it’s a quick, enjoyable cozy.

[bcquinnsmom · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

My copy of this book is so old it's not even listed here; it's published by Methuen, the 14th edition that I found in a little antique/book store near my house and paid a dollar for. The Red House Mystery is not a bad read -- neither is it, as Milne says in his introduction, "very nearly the ideal detective story." It's a country-house, locked-room sort of story, with lots of red herrings, two amateurs playing at Holmes and Watson and an ending that I sort of guessed but not really. It's also one of those books where you have to make yourself get through the first few chapters, but after that you'll encounter pretty smooth sailing the rest of the way.Antony (Tony) Gillingham, the less important son of a privileged family, came into an inheritance at 21, and decided to see the world -- through its people. Now at age 30, he has decided to go and visit a friend, Bill Beverley, whom he met earlier while working at a tobacconist's shop. Bill, it seems, is a guest at a house party at Mark Ablett's Red House, and Antony decides to go and see him. As it turns out, he arrives just in time for a murder -- that of Robert Ablett, Mark's "wastrel" brother from Australia who had just recently arrived. Everyone else is asked to leave; Bill and Antony stay on at the house until the inquest with Mark's cousin and protégé Matthew Cayley. Having time on his hands, and "wanting a new profession," Antony decides that becoming a "private sleuthhound," and "being Sherlocky" are just the ticket, and tags Bill as his ever-faithful Watson. Anthony's already got the murderer pegged, but how he/she did it is another question altogether. While Bill sees it as a Sherlockian lark, Tony sometimes finds the going tough:"Of course, it's very hampering being a detective, when you don't know anything about detecting, and when nobody knows that you're doing detection, and you can't have people up to cross-examine them, and you have neither the energy nor the means to make proper inquiries; and, in short, when you're doing the whole thing in a thoroughly amateur, haphazard way."Now here, refreshingly, is a character who understands his limitations -- and the possibility that he could be wrong about some things actually occurs to him from time to time. Nevertheless, the two do a proper bit of sleuthing here, even if at times it seems as though they're playing at silly buggers.The amateur approach to crime solving here is interesting and I'm sure the author meant well, given his "passion for detective stories," but when it comes right down to it, there are several PPIs (problematic plot issues) that are really noticeable, especially for avid crime-reading junkies. Still, it's a fun little mystery novel, and I have a secret fondness for stately English-manor mysteries, so I found it quite enjoyable -- more so for the two main characters and how they go about pretending to partake in a Sherlockian adventure than for the plot itself. I also loved the introduction to this book, where Milne (yes, the Winnie-the-Pooh guy) talks about his love of detective stories and his ideas about the elements of the perfect detective story. I have to agree with him on most points.Some readers may find the language a little stilted -- one reader noted it as being "tedious," but fans of crime writing during this era are used to it so it's not really that big of a deal. And there's nothing at all tedious about it. If you're looking beyond Agatha Christie for a 1920s-period novel, you might enjoy this one.

[stewartry · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Long long ago, not so very far away, I read this, completely delighted by the fact that the creator of Winnie-the-Pooh wrote a murder mystery. I loved it then, and so was happy when The Red House Mystery was chosen as a book of the month for the Goodreads English Mysteries Club. Unfortunately, I didn't love the reread so much. The writing was fun, with occasional Pooh-ish moments – "Perhaps it was true that inspectors liked dragging ponds, but the question was, Did Cayleys like having them dragged?" - But there were a great many moments that stopped me cold, thinking Sorry, what was that now? The latitude the amateur detective is given is a figment of the mystery writer's imagination; the ineptitude of the constabulary in their failure to make certain surely routine checks and confirmations was absurd; parts of the mystery itself were more than a little silly. But still. As a light and undemanding read it was enjoyable. In fact, it rather has to be read as undemanding, the sort of thing you just settle in with a cup of tea and enjoy without questioning. If you think about it too much it all falls apart.

[paradiseporch · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

The Red House Mystery is A.A. Milne’s only mystery novel; he is better known for his humorous writing, children’s stories (including the timeless Winnie the Pooh), and poems.A ‘locked-room whodunit’ with an amateur detective, this book followed Agatha Christie’s Mysterious Affair at Styles by only two years (and predates her other work). It’s an elegant and witty, and it’s a perfect time capsule of early 1920s English country manor life. AND it has a solid mystery that’s fairly clued.I wish Milne had written 50 more like this. I haven’t enjoyed a book so much in a long time – and I read it on my Kindle! 4½ starsRead this if: you’d like a stylish vintage English murder mystery. 4½ stars