Appleby at Allington Read Online Free

pleased with having had anything to do with it, and no further information ever came to him. It seemed natural to suppose that it had ended with young Allington out of a job. He had mixed up his professional affairs – it was the only possible interpretation – with some shady project of his own; had made a mess of this; and had been so convinced that the consequences were going to be disastrous to him that he had shot himself in a blind funk. The probability was that he deserved to be in gaol at this moment. Yet he might simply have ended up with promotion. At this very moment, he might positively be Colonel Carruthers’ white-headed boy. The Carruthers world was quite as crazy as that.
    And Appleby’s chief memory of the business was an uncomfortable one, which he would have wished to forget. He had disliked Martin Allington. Martin Allington had been merely a supine figure under a grey blanket, a blanched and bloodied face, a racked figure fighting for life. Appleby had been repelled by him, nevertheless. It was a nasty thought.
    ‘Martin is a delightful chap.’ It was with a start that Appleby recovered from his retrospection on hearing these words. Owain Allington was again looking expectantly at Rasselas, rather as if he wanted the sagacious creature to offer some remark supporting this solid family line. ‘And I’m sure he will enjoy meeting you again.’
    ‘I think I may have misled you,’ Appleby said. ‘I’ve met your nephew, after a fashion, but I’m not sure he can be said to have met me. He had – well, passed out.’
    ‘Dear me!’ If Allington was startled by this odd remark he didn’t show it. ‘Martin does drink a little too much at times, no doubt. And that reminds me–’ He broke off – perhaps because Appleby had shown signs of getting to his feet, or perhaps because Rasselas had actually done so. Rasselas must suddenly have decided it was time to speed the parting guest, for he was no sooner on his paws than he gave Appleby a challenging glance and moved rapidly to the door of the library. ‘I can see we have whisky,’ Allington went on, ‘but I’m sure you like ice.’ He leant forward and pressed an electric bell. ‘It’s something Enzo regularly forgets. Italians are pleasant enough in their way, but far from being as reliable as English servants in the old style.’
    ‘I’m quite sure I don’t want ice.’ Appleby, now unchallengeably on his feet, glanced towards a side-table. ‘But a very little whisky, and a splash of soda, will be just right. I’m afraid it’s shockingly late, and I hope you won’t blame Enzo if he’s already in bed.’ Allington, Appleby was reflecting, was rather more fussy about services than a man of presumably intellectual habit ought to be. ‘And Rasselas is ready for bed as well.’
    ‘He’s proposing to see you to your car.’ Allington poured whisky, and the two men drank. ‘You must be right about that lad who was supposed to wait up,’ Allington said, after some minutes passed. ‘He’s gone to bed. But I don’t expect it’s beyond me to find you your coat.’
    ‘I haven’t brought a coat,’ Appleby put down his glass. ‘Thank you for a very pleasant evening.’
    They left the house together and walked down a long terrace. Rasselas vanished into the soft darkness. The night was rather warm and completely still.
    ‘If we go down these steps,’ Allington said, ‘we’ll find your car just round a corner.’ He flashed a torch which he had picked up in the hall. ‘Can you see? The auditorium, as I suppose it should be called, is straight ahead. And over to the left is the control point for the whole show. I wonder whether the juice is still on? I could give you a private performance.’
    Appleby didn’t want a private performance; he wanted only to get home and go to sleep. But Owain Allington’s hospitable zeal had unfortunately renewed itself, and there was nothing to do except follow him across a broad expanse of turf.