Roy Jacobsen suggested that I improve my education in classic mystery stories by reading The Red House by A. A. Milne (yes, that A. A. Milne). My previous knowledge of it was confined to the analysis contained in Raymond Chandler’s essay, “The Simple Art of Murder.” He found it wanting in almost every respect.
I didn’t hate the book, but I tend to agree with Chandler overall. I think that might be largely a function of history, though. The book’s central “trick,” surprising to readers in 1922, seemed fairly obvious to me, having read pretty extensively in the corpus of detective fiction from before and after this work. Also I may have gotten the solution from Chandler, but I’m pretty sure I’d forgotten it.
Mark Ablett, wealthy owner of The Red House, which sits on a large estate in England, receives a surprise visit from his long-lost brother, a wastrel recently returned from years in Australia. Voices from his office indicate a fight between the brothers, there is a gunshot, and when the locked door is opened by his secretary, the rascal brother is found dead. Mark, meanwhile, has vanished.
By pure chance, Tony Gillingham, a friend of one of Mark’s house guests, Bill Beverly, shows up just after the murder. More or less to amuse themselves, Tony and Bill stay on to play Holmes and Watson, and figure out what happened to Mark.
My main problem with The Red House, as I said, was that I figured out the trick of the thing well before the end. After that, I got impatient with the amateur sleuths, who talked, and talked, and talked, and operated in the most leisurely fashion imaginable.
The Red House is worth reading for its importance in the history of detective fiction, and it’s amusing enough at times (though not, I think, as amusing as the author thinks). There’s nothing whatever in the way of objectionable content – on the contrary, everyone is irreproachably proper in speech and deportment, except for the small matter of shooting someone.
