The Red House Mystery

By A. A. Milne

The creator of such beloved storybook characters for children as Winnie-the-Pooh, Piglet, and Eeyore, A. A. Milne was also the author of numerous dramas, essays, and novels for adults — among them, this droll and finely crafted whodunit.
In it, Milne takes readers to the Red House, a comfortable residence in the placid English countryside that is the bachelor home of Mr. Mark Ablett. While visiting this cozy retreat, amateur detective Anthony Gillingham and his chum, Bill Beverley, investigate their genial host's disappearance and its connection with a mysterious shooting. Was the victim, whose body was found after a heated exchange with the host, shot in an act of self-defense? If so, why did the host flee, and if not, what drove him to murder?
Between games of billiards and bowls, the taking of tea, and other genteel pursuits, Gillingham and Beverley explore the possibilities in a light-hearted series of capers involving secret passageways, underwater evidence, and other atmospheric devices.
Sparkling with witty dialogue, deft plotting, and an intriguing cast of characters, this rare gem will charm mystery lovers, Anglophiles, and general readers alike.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Dover Publications
• Release date: Jul 3, 2012
• ISBN: 9780486137230

A. A. Milne

A.A. Milne (1882-1956) was an English writer. Born in London, Milne was educated at an independent school run by his father. Milne went on to Trinity College, London, where he earned a B.A. in Mathematics while editing and writing for the student magazine Granta. Upon graduating in 1903, Milne worked as a contributor and assistant editor for Punch, Britain’s leading humor magazine, while playing amateur cricket. He served in the British Army in the Great War as an officer and was injured at the Battle of the Somme in July of 1916, which led to his work as a propaganda writer for Military Intelligence before his discharge in 1919. Having married in 1913, Milne and his wife Dorothy de Sélincourt welcomed their son Christopher Robin Milne into the world in 1920. Around this time, Milne worked as a screenwriter for the British film industry while continuing to publish in Punch, where his poem “Teddy Bear” appeared in 1924. Marking the first appearance of his character Pooh, this launched Milne’s career as a successful children’s author. Winnie-the Pooh (1926) and The House at Pooh Corner (1928) were immediate bestsellers for Milne and continue to be read, cherished, and adapted today. Following this success, disturbed by the fame surrounding his son Christopher Robin, who figured as a character in his Pooh stories, Milne turned to writing adult fiction and plays, including Toad of Toad Hall (1929), an adaptation of Kenneth Grahame’s beloved novel The Wind in the Willows (1908).

Book preview

GREENE

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 parlourmaid, 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,’ 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 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 golflinks 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—quietlike. 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 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 neighborhood of Parnassus, not of 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 patron had rescued him. He sent the Cayley cousin to school and Cambridge. His motives, no doubt, were unworldly enough at first; a mere repaying to his account in the Recording Angel’s book of the generosity which had been lavished on himself; a laying-up of treasure in heaven. But it is probable that, as the boy grew up, Mark’s designs for his future were based on his own interests as much as those of his cousin, and that a suitably educated Matthew Cayley of twenty-three was felt by him to be a useful property for a man in his position; a man, that is to say, whose vanities left him so little time for his affairs.

Cayley, then, at twenty-three, looked after his cousin’s affairs. By this time Mark had bought the Red House and the considerable amount of land which went

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.

[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.

[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.

[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!

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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)

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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."

[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.

[janesteen_1 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Where I got the book: free public domain download on the Kindle.A rather coy little country-house murder mystery set just after World War I, and yet the war is never mentioned. Which sets the tone: a little bit of escapist fantasy, Winnie-the-Pooh's creator's try at a genre that took off like a rocket in the between-wars period, providing an intellectual puzzle to distract the reader from the fact that their world was up sh*t creek without a paddle.And a very self-conscious stab at the genre at that: Antony, the detective, makes it clear that we're moving around inside a novel with pronouncements such as "I oughtn't to explain till the last chapter." He sees himself as Holmes and his pal Bill as Watson; hilariously the two are always walking around arm-in-arm, which makes the modern reader put an unintended slant on their relationship. Those were simpler times.I found the story quite entertaining but ground my teeth when Milne fell back on the murderer's confession in the form of a letter. That. Is. Cheating. No wonder Antony found the exercise so delightfully easy. He didn't actually do the work. And there were other ways in which Milne made things too easy, such as eliminating most of the possible suspects (including all the women, so that there wouldn't be any love interest) by sending them away early in the story. I don't suppose I'm the only reader who figured out whodunnit very early on.But still, it's worth reading as a fun snapshot of a time and a genre. The novel was a success and Milne's agent wanted him to write more but he refused, preferring to exploit his only child write the famous Pooh novels. Perhaps even a mystery novel came too close to real life for a man who'd had a "debilitating illness" during the War, for which I read shell shock or what would now be called PTSD. I'm sure it's way more complicated than that, but writers lay themselves open to analysis by amateurs and I stand on my rights.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[setnahkt · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Read mostly because Raymond Chandler hammered it in his essay The Simple Art of Murder. Chandler’s correct, or course – I love this quote (describing the amateur detective and hero Antony Gillingham):“He is not making any money on the assignment, but is always available when the local gendarmerie loses its notebook. The English police seem to endure him with their customary stoicism; but I shudder to think of what the boys down at the Homicide Bureau in my city would do to him.”You really don’t have to read The Red House Mystery; you can get all you need to know from Chandler’s essay. It is a typical English-country-house murder; I’m amazed that anyone ever ventures even close to an English country house given the likelihood of being murdered in one. Chandler, of course, protests too much in his insistence on realism. The English-country-house-murder is a genre, like poor-but-feisty-heroine marries rich-but-bored duke, or great-evil-crazy must be defeated by band-of-rag-tag-adventurers, etc. Those books stay on print because people like them; it doesn’t matter that Hercule Poirot is no more realistic than Aragorn son of Arathorn. Fun if you like this sort of thing; dull if you don’t.

[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.

[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

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[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.

[leslitgs · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

 Anthony Gillingham is a financially comfortable young man who wanders around the countryside trying out new jobs at his leisure. When he happens to come upon a panicked man and a corpse on his way to visit his friend Bill, Gillingham decides that his newest career path will be detective. With Bill at his side as a faithful Watson, the two proceed to discreetly poke their noses into corners and secret passages to uncover the truth and missing murderer. The saying goes 'never judge a book by it's cover,' but lets be honest, the covers are pretty darn important anymore. In a world where covers are no longer simple cloth bindings with gilt letters and accents, every cover competes for attention and love from a potential reader. Consequently, many are brilliantly colored with incredible designs and eye-catching glitz. Some even are glittery, and many are embossed. But it is just this state of covers that will draw the casual peruser's eye to something very simple and straightforward, and this is why, in fact, I picked up The Red House Mystery by Milne. I did not even really stop to think about the fact that--hey, Pooh Corner! You know? I just saw a white cover with black and read print and a small picture of a man with a gun smack in the center. Then I picked it up and read the first page and was hooked. You see, me and mysteries go way back. I used to be massively into them, devouring the Cat Who series along with some stand alone mystery novels and YA series. I was seriously a mystery fan. Then, somewhere along the way, I branched out and never really got back into them as hugely. I think part of what really killed it was the fact that the Cat Who series began to decline into repetitious mush and a couple of other bad apples over the years. I lost faith in the genre. But Milne has reignited my interest! As we follow our lead, Gillingham, through his mystery-hunting, we find ourselves privvy to all that he knows and some of what he suspects [though, admittedly, he grows rather fond of being vague and Holmes-ish and pointedly leaves Bill out of the loop at times]. Like any solid mystery novel, the reader is provided enough information to begin formulating his or her assumptions and theories to be proven or disproven at the end. Something else to be enjoyed, in my opinion, is the casual pacing of the novel. The story is set in an English Gentleman's home where all the necessities are provided and the only activities are urbane sports and entertainments. Inasmuch, Anthony and Bill are strolling around the gardens, playing billiards and generally enjoying what would amount to a blissful vacation in the modern middle class terms. The book is short, so most of the text is, in fact, their conversations. The set-up takes very little time and the rest is the investigation being allowed to unfold for the audience. Evidence is presented here and there, clues are discovered, and all the while, Gillingham is there, absorbing and pondering, like the reader. In the end, there is only one real complaint I have against the book, and that is, indeed, the finale. Not that the case's solution lacked intrigue or satisfaction, but the presentation of the information was...easy. Lackluster, in a way. It was not entirely out of place, and managed to wrap things up neatly, but...well, I suppose that's just me being a whiner. Good book. Good story. I hope to lay my hands on some other Milne in the future--heaven knows I have the Pooh books.

[camillahoel · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Sometimes it is rather annoying to read a detective story which your friends haven't read. I mean of course when you think you have been terribly clever and worked it all out before the detective has. Because you cannot tell anyone what you think the solution is in case it is the right one. This is doubly true if you have had another theory earlier, which you have now had to abandon or revise. Any attempt at sharing your genius with the world at large must be so vague as to be completely useless as a corroboration when you close the book and say "hah! I was right!".This is my main objection to A.A. Milne's (no, not Winnie the Pooh) The Red House Mystery. It is excellent. I find it a little shocking that nobody took the time to introduce me to it earlier (perhaps there is a reason why my edition of it is labelled "A rediscovered classic". Someone clearly forgot about it). It does the formal detective story ("whodunnit") very well. Better, perhaps than any other formal detective story I have come across. Which may be why I got there before the detective did: contrary to popular belief, most formal detective stories don't really give you all that you need to know before the dénouement; they merely provide the illusion that they do. Usually, the coherence of the plot is a retroactive affair in which the reader looks back over what he (or, indeed, in these modern times, she) has read, compares it with the ending, and realises that there were clues to that (oh, dear, the butler did it) effect the whole time. It does not follow from this that one could have taken these clues and built the solution. But in Milne's book the logic of the detective is constantly held up to scrutiny. A provisional explanation of events are given which sounds plausible enough (if a little boring), but is then undermined by new information that forces a revision. This happens a lot, but the core of the resolution is given very early on in true detective fiction style. I enjoyed the detective character and his Watson, immensely. They are well aware of the tradition they are working within and frequently refer to Conan Doyle's characters as models to be interacted with or measured against. Even their conversation frequently ironically mimics that of Holmes/Watson. From this we can deduce that this is not a book which takes itself too seriously, and this increases the charm of it as far as I am concerned. A.A. Milne, in his introduction to it, writes about his demands for a detective novel that,It should be written in English. ... It is, to me, a distressing thought that in nine-tenths of the detective stories of the world murderers are continually effecting egresses when they might just as easily go out. The sleuth, the hero and the many suspected all use this same strange tongue, and we may be forgiven for feeling that neither the natural excitement of killing the right man, nor the strain of suspecting the wrong one, is sufficient excuse for so steady a flow of bad language.Indeed. Well, Milne writes English. I hardly noticed I was reading it. It translated very seamlessly into a film in my imagination. There were occasional excellent wordings that I remarked on, but there were no egresses that I could find. Of course, the excellent wordings and the witty phrase could be said to be as much part of writing in English as keeping to plain language is. There is a style to it which made me want to drink gin & tonic and ideally sit in a park. In that respect it reminds me of Wodehouse, but that could give you entirely the wrong impression. Or the right one. One never knows.My one problem with the book was that it seemed obsessed, at times, with the size of rooms and their relation to one another. It may be that this seemed unnecessary to me because I have never been the type to sit down and actually try to work out the solution (except through brilliant intuitive flashes, of course). I dare say someone who did would find it useful. All in all, I recommend it. It was thoroughly enjoying and it made me feel smart.