Read Appleby's End for Free Online

reasonably sober, I should say. Noblet’s Lane, though. Mustn’t mind the bumps. Worry about the axle. But soft fall in the snow.”
    There was a moment of much confusion, at the end of which Appleby found himself in darkness, in a confined space, and in some doubt as to which adjacent protuberances were potatoes and cattle cake and which Judith Raven. These difficulties, sufficiently harassing under conditions of relative stability, were presently increased by the carriage’s giving a violent lurch and then settling down into a wobbling motion discomposing to the stomach and centripetal in mechanical effect. Appleby felt something pressing heavily on his head. This proved to be the roof. He was, in fact, perched up on the bottle of hay.
    â€œIf you remain up there when we get in the lane you will break your neck.” Miss Raven offered this information in the most impersonal way. “And if you come down you will find some six inches of seat between me and that sack. You will probably judge social embarrassment preferable to a dislocated cervical vertebra.”
    This was scarcely what could be called a come-hither attitude; nor on the other hand was it positively frosty. Appleby made a noise which he hoped was indicative of mild jollity and easy good fellowship. “I’ll see what can be done,” he said, and slid cautiously down the side of the bottle. Judith gave a little on the one side and the hay gave a little more on the other. But it was an extremely tight fit. The carriage began to wobble in a particularly agonising way, and it was just possible to hear Heyhoe cursing on the box. “I believe,” said Appleby, “that it was Dr Johnson who held few pleasures to exceed that of driving through the country in a post-chaise with a pretty woman.”
    There was a moment’s silence. “I should say,” said Judith, “that you weigh about eleven stone six.”
    â€œWell, yes – I do.”
    â€œAnd you must be just on five foot eleven. Which suggests you are in pretty good condition – for a don.”
    â€œA don!” Whether because of this arbitrary attribution to the academic profession or because of Miss Raven’s concentration upon the appraisal of the mere physical and ponderable man, Appleby felt distinctly offended.
    â€œOnly a don would bring out a pedantic thing like that about Dr Johnson. Besides, cousin Everard is always picking up dons. Not, of course” – Judith was suddenly polite – “that we’re not very pleased that he should have picked up you.”
    â€œThank you. But I’m not a don. I’m a policeman.”
    â€œA policeman? Do you mean a detective ?” There was a silence during which Appleby received the impression that his companion was rapidly thinking. “Shades of Great-uncle Ranulph! No wonder Everard nobbled you. He’s always harking back to the disreputable family past.”
    â€œHe hasn’t mentioned your Great-uncle Ranulph. Was he someone who had to be – well – detected by a detective?”
    â€œCertainly not.” It was Judith who was offended now. “Do you mean to say you’ve never heard of Ranulph Raven?”
    Appleby, who had been considerately supporting some of his eleven stone six on his toes, shifted his position and found that he was now quite frankly sitting on his companion. “Ranulph Raven?” he said, a shade wildly. “I seem to remember a Pre-Raphaelite painter–”
    â€œThat was his cousin.”
    â€œAnd a bishop who said something witty about Matthew Arnold–”
    â€œRanulph’s younger brother.”
    Appleby made some attempt to change his posture anew. The attempt, being something like that of a small boy who makes an abortive effort to wriggle from the lap of a displeasing relative, merely made things additionally awkward. “A poet,” he suggested hopefully. “Who was in the