Roger Sheringham and the Vane Mystery Read Free

the latter Roger and Anthony put their traps in the combined ticket office, porter’s room, luggage depot and cloakroom, and proceeded to make enquiries regarding hotels.
    ‘“Otel?” repeated the combined porter, stationmaster and ticket inspector, scratching the top of his head with an air of profound cogitation. “Why, there ain’t no ‘otel’ ereabouts. Leastaways, not what you might call an ‘otel, there ain’t.”
    “Well, a pub, then,” rejoined Roger a trifle irritably. The journey had been a long and tiresome one, and since changing at Bournemouth they had seemed to progress at the rate of ten miles an hour. For one who was as eager to get going as Roger had been all that day, few things could have been more maddening than the journey as habitually performed between Bournemouth and Ludmouth. It is not to say that the train does not go fast when it is going, but stations seem to demoralise it completely; it sits down and ruminates for a matter of twenty minutes in each one before it can bring itself to go on to the next. “What’s the name of the best pub in Ludmouth?”
    The combination chuckled hoarsely. “The best pub?” he echoed with considerable amusement. “The best pub, hey? Oho! Hoo!”
    “I’ve said something funny,” Roger pointed out to Anthony. “You see? The gentleman is amused. I asked the name of the best pub, so no wonder he’s convulsed with mirth.”
    Anthony inspected the combination with some attention. “I don’t think he’s laughing at you at all. I think he’s just seen a joke that Gladstone made in 1884.”
    “There ain’t nobbut one!” roared the combination. “So when you says the best pub I –”
    “Where is the one pub in Ludmouth?” asked Roger patiently.
    “Why, in the village, o’ course.”
    “Where is the village of Ludmouth and its one pub?”
    Roger pursued with almost superhuman self-restraint.
    This time a more lucid reply was forthcoming, and the two strode out into the hot sunshine and down the country road in the direction indicated, leaving behind them a combination of porter, stationmaster and ticket inspector guffawing at irregular intervals as some fresh aspect of this cream of jests appeared to occur to him.
    It was a warm walk into the village, and they were glad enough to plunge into the gloom of the little old-fashioned inn which stood in the middle of the small cluster of houses which constitutes the nucleus of the village. A smart rap or two on the counter brought the landlord, a large man of aspect not unlike a benevolent ox and perspiring almost audibly.
    “Can’t serve you, gents, I’m afraid,” he rumbled cheerfully. “Leastaways lemonade you can have, or ginger beer, for the matter of that; but nothing else.”
    “That so?” said Roger. “Then produce two large tankards of beer, the biggest tankards and the wettest beer you’ve got, for we came not as travellers but as residents.”
    “You don’t mean you want to stay ‘ere as well? You want rooms?”
    “Rooms we shall want, certainly; but what we want just at the moment is beer – and don’t forget what I told you about the size of those tankards.”
    “Oh, well, that’s a different matter, that is,” agreed the landlord. “I can let you have a couple of quart tankards, if they’re any use to you.”
    “Any use? You watch!”
    With much wheezing and creaking the landlord filled the two huge tankards, and the two fell upon them gratefully. Then Roger replaced his on the counter and wiped his mouth.
    “So this is the only inn hereabouts, is it?” he asked with a careless air.
    “Yes, sir; it is that. Ludmouth’s a small village, you see, as far as the village goes.”
    “What do you mean by that?”
    “Well, there’s far more big ‘ouses round and gentry and suchlike than there is of us villagers, and naturally they don’t want public ‘ouses.”
    “Oh, I see. Yes, quite so. By the way, I believe there’s a friend of mine somewhere about here