Appleby's End Read Online Free

well.”
    â€œI hardly see–”
    â€œFor a long time she was just missing, and her house at Sneak – a very nice house – stood empty. But when she came up with the bucket one day” – Mr Raven was methodically stowing the Scholars and Men of Science in his suitcase – “and it was quite clear that she was dead, Gregory Grope’s mother moved to Sneak from Snarl.”
    â€œDo I understand,” asked Appleby resignedly, “that Gregory Grope is an engine-driver?”
    â€œExactly so. If I may say so, Mr Appleby, you possess a keen power of inference. Gregory Grope drives the Snarl train, and the train, of course, spends the night at Snarl. But Gregory has to get home on his motor bicycle to Sneak, and his mother is decidedly strict about late hours. It appears that it was as the consequence of a nocturnal diversion, somewhat surprising in a woman of her years, that old Mrs Grope came to her unfortunate end. But I digress. The point is that Gregory and his train now leave Linger somewhat earlier than before. Of course you could complain to the district superintendent and I dare say something might be done about it in time.”
    â€œNo doubt.” The train had stopped and Appleby opened the window and looked out. Abbot’s Yatter, in its aspect as a railway station, appeared to consist of an exiguous wooden scaffolding now rapidly disappearing beneath drifts of snow. As the locality was not one that he hoped to visit again the prospect of the district superintendent’s eventual curbing of Mrs Grope’s matriarchal power had uncommonly small appeal. “No doubt. But perhaps you can tell me if there is an inn at Linger?”
    â€œAn inn? Dear me, no. Of course, there is a waiting-room. But I think I am right in saying that it is used at present for Brettingham Scurl’s Gloucester Old Spots.”
    â€œBrettingham Scurl?” said Appleby dully.
    â€œThe porter at Linger.”
    â€œGloucester Old Spots?”
    â€œGloucester Old Spots. Quite a cleanly variety of pig, I have been told. Nevertheless–”
    â€œWhat about King’s Yatter – or Drool? Is there a pub, or somebody who might let a room?”
    â€œLet me see.” Mr Raven frowned thoughtfully. “There is old Mrs Ulstrup at Drool. She used to let a room. But I doubt if she does now. Not since she went out of her mind, poor old soul. Though, of course, you might try.” Mr Raven peered out into the darkness. “Here is King’s Yatter already. Do you know the George at King’s Yatter?”
    â€œThe George?” asked Appleby hopefully.
    â€œFine little hotel. Incomparable Stilton and very good draught beer.”
    â€œThen I think–” said Appleby, and grabbed at his suitcase.
    â€œMy dear sir, I am sorry to say it was burnt down last year. By Hannah Hoobin’s boy.”
    â€œOh,” said Appleby.
    â€œI was on the Bench at the time. It seems that Hannah Hoobin’s boy gets a great deal of erotic satisfaction from that sort of thing. I am glad to say that I was instrumental in persuading my fellow magistrates to take an enlightened view of the case.”
    â€œOh,” said Appleby again. His disinterest in the recondite pleasures of Hannah Hoobin’s boy was extreme. “I suppose it’s snowing still?”
    â€œHeavily. Ah, I told you we should be beginning to fill up.” And Mr Raven stepped back from the window to allow a newcomer to enter the compartment.
    The stranger had not the appearance of one who was likely to bring gaiety to the tail-end of a Sabbath railway journey. He wore a somewhat threadbare suit of cypress green, a flowing and inky cloak, and a large black hat of the kind which popular illustrators used to associate with Anarchy or the Arts. His face was disposed in lines of noble melancholy on each side of a long nose. He looked abstractedly at Appleby, abstractedly at Mr Raven, and then