The Layton Court Mystery
9781465686046
213 pages
Library of Alexandria
Overview
William, the gardener at Layton Court, was a man of melancholy deliberation. It did not pay, William held, to rush things; especially the important things of life, such as the removal of greenfly from roses. Before action was taken, the matter should be studied, carefully and unhappily, from every possible point of view, particularly the worst. On this summer’s morning William had been gazing despondently at the roses for just over three quarters of an hour. Pretty soon now he would feel himself sufficiently fortified to begin operations on them. “Do you always count the greenfly before you slaughter them, friend William?” asked a sudden voice behind him. William, who had been bending forward to peer gloomily into the greenfly-blown intricacies of a Caroline Testout, slewed hastily about. He hated being accosted at the best of times, but there was a spontaneous heartiness about this voice which grated intolerably on all his finer feelings. The added fact that the act of slewing hastily about had brought a portion of his person into sharp and painful contact with another rose bush did not tend to make life any more cheerful for William at that moment. “Weren’t a-countin’ em,” he observed curtly; and added naughtily under his breath, “Drat that there Mr. Sheringham!” “Oh! I thought you must be totting up the bag in advance,” remarked the newcomer gravely from behind an enormous pipe. “What’s your record bag of greenfly, William? Runs into thousands of brace, I suppose. Well, no doubt it’s an interesting enough sport for people of quiet tastes. Like stamp-collecting. You ever collect stamps, William?” “Noa,” said William, gazing sombrely at a worm. William was not one of your chatty conversationalists. “Really?” replied his interlocutor with interest. “Mad on it myself once. As a boy, of course. Silly game though, really, I agree with you.” He followed the direction of William’s eyes. “Ah, the early morning worm!” he continued brightly. “And defying all the rules of its calling by refusing to act as provender for the early bird. Highly unprofessional conduct! There’s a lesson for all of us in that worm, William, if I could only think what it is. I’ll come back and tell you when I’ve had time to go into the matter properly.” William grunted moodily. There were many things in this world of which William disapproved; but Mr. Roger Sheringham had a class all to himself. The gospel of laughter held no attractions for that stern materialist and executioner of greenfly. Roger Sheringham remained singularly unperturbed by the sublime heights of William’s disapproval. With hands thrust deep into the pockets of a perfectly incredible pair of gray flannel trousers he sauntered off among the rose beds, cheerfully poisoning the fragrant atmosphere with clouds of evil smoke from the peculiarly unsavoury pipe which he wore in the corner of his rather wide mouth. William’s eloquent snorts followed him unheeded; Roger had already forgotten William’s existence. There are many who hold that eight o’clock in the morning is the most perfect time of a summer’s day. The air, they advance, is by that time only pleasantly warmed through, without being burned to a cinder as it is an hour or two later. And there is still quite enough dew sparkling upon leaf and flower to give the poets plenty to talk about without forcing them to rise at six o’clock for their inspiration. The theory is certainly one well worth examination.
