Red Money by Fergus Hume (read dune .txt) 📕

Chapter 1 (The Drama Of Little Things) Pg 1

"Gypsies! How Very Delightful! I Really Must Have My Fortune Told. The

Dear Things Know All About The Future."

 

As Mrs. Belgrove Spoke She Peered Through Her Lorgnette To See If Anyone

At The Breakfast-Table Was Smiling. The Scrutiny Was Necessary,  Since

She Was The Oldest Person Present,  And There Did Not Appear To Be Any

Future For Her,  Save That Very Certain One Connected With A Funeral. But

A Society Lady Of Sixty,  Made Up To Look Like One Of Forty (Her Maid

Could Do No More),  With An Excellent Digestion And A Constant Desire,

Like The Athenians Of Old,  For "Something New!" Can Scarcely Be Expected

To Dwell Upon Such A Disagreeable Subject As Death. Nevertheless,  Mrs.

Belgrove Could Not Disguise From Herself That Her Demise Could Not Be

Postponed For Many More Years,  And Examined The Faces Of The Other

Guests To See If They Thought So Too. If Anyone Did,  He And She Politely

Suppressed A Doubtful Look And Applauded The Suggestion Of A

Fortune-Telling Expedition.

 

"Let Us Make Up A Party And Go," Said The Hostess,  Only Too Thankful To

Find Something To Amuse The House-Party For A Few Hours. "Where Did You

Say The Gypsies Were,  Garvington?"

 

"In The Abbot's Wood," Replied Her Husband,  A Fat,  Small Round-Faced

Man,  Who Was Methodically Devouring A Large Breakfast.

 

"That's Only Three Miles Away. We Can Drive Or Ride."

 

"Or Motor,  Or Bicycle,  Or Use Shanks' Mare," Remarked Miss Greeby Rather

Vulgarly. Not That Any One Minded Such A Speech From Her,  As Her

Vulgarity Was Merely Regarded As Eccentricity,  Because She Had Money And

Brains,  An Exceedingly Long Tongue,  And A Memory Of Other People's

Failings To Match.

 

Lord Garvington Made No Reply,  As Breakfast,  In His Opinion,  Was Much

Too Serious A Business To Be Interrupted. He Reached For The Marmalade,

And Requested That A Bowl Of Devonshire Cream Should Be Passed Along.

His Wife,  Who Was Lean And Anxious-Looking Even For An August Hostess,

Looked At Him Wrathfully. He Never Gave Her Any Assistance In

Entertaining Their Numerous Guests,  Yet Always Insisted That The House

Should Be Full For The Shooting Season. And Being Poor For A Titled

Pair,  They Could Not Afford To Entertain Even A Shoeblack,  Much Less A

Crowd Of Hungry Sportsmen And A Horde Of Frivolous Women,  Who Required

To Be Amused Expensively. It Was Really Too Bad Of Garvington.

 

Chapter 1 (The Drama Of Little Things) Pg 2

"Gypsies! How Very Delightful! I Really Must Have My Fortune Told. The

Dear Things Know All About The Future."

 

As Mrs. Belgrove Spoke She Peered Through Her Lorgnette To See If Anyone

At The Breakfast-Table Was Smiling. The Scrutiny Was Necessary,  Since

She Was The Oldest Person Present,  And There Did Not Appear To Be Any

Future For Her,  Save That Very Certain One Connected With A Funeral. But

A Society Lady Of Sixty,  Made Up To Look Like One Of Forty (Her Maid

Could Do No More),  With An Excellent Digestion And A Constant Desire,

Like The Athenians Of Old,  For "Something New!" Can Scarcely Be Expected

To Dwell Upon Such A Disagreeable Subject As Death. Nevertheless,  Mrs.

Belgrove Could Not Disguise From Herself That Her Demise Could Not Be

Postponed For Many More Years,  And Examined The Faces Of The Other

Guests To See If They Thought So Too. If Anyone Did,  He And She Politely

Suppressed A Doubtful Look And Applauded The Suggestion Of A

Fortune-Telling Expedition.

 

"Let Us Make Up A Party And Go," Said The Hostess,  Only Too Thankful To

Find Something To Amuse The House-Party For A Few Hours. "Where Did You

Say The Gypsies Were,  Garvington?"

 

"In The Abbot's Wood," Replied Her Husband,  A Fat,  Small Round-Faced

Man,  Who Was Methodically Devouring A Large Breakfast.

 

"That's Only Three Miles Away. We Can Drive Or Ride."

 

"Or Motor,  Or Bicycle,  Or Use Shanks' Mare," Remarked Miss Greeby Rather

Vulgarly. Not That Any One Minded Such A Speech From Her,  As Her

Vulgarity Was Merely Regarded As Eccentricity,  Because She Had Money And

Brains,  An Exceedingly Long Tongue,  And A Memory Of Other People's

Failings To Match.

 

Lord Garvington Made No Reply,  As Breakfast,  In His Opinion,  Was Much

Too Serious A Business To Be Interrupted. He Reached For The Marmalade,

And Requested That A Bowl Of Devonshire Cream Should Be Passed Along.

His Wife,  Who Was Lean And Anxious-Looking Even For An August Hostess,

Looked At Him Wrathfully. He Never Gave Her Any Assistance In

Entertaining Their Numerous Guests,  Yet Always Insisted That The House

Should Be Full For The Shooting Season. And Being Poor For A Titled

Pair,  They Could Not Afford To Entertain Even A Shoeblack,  Much Less A

Crowd Of Hungry Sportsmen And A Horde Of Frivolous Women,  Who Required

To Be Amused Expensively. It Was Really Too Bad Of Garvington.

 

At This Point The Reflections Of The Hostess Were Interrupted By Miss

Greeby,  Who Always Had A Great Deal To Say,  And Who Always Tried,  As An

American Would Observe,  "To Run The Circus." "I Suppose You Men Will Go

Out Shooting As Usual?" She Said In Her Sharp,  Clear Voice.

 

The Men Present Collectively Declared That Such Was Their Intention,  And

That They Had Come To "The Manor" For That Especial Purpose,  So It Was

Useless To Ask Them,  Or Any One Of Them,  To Go On A Fortune-Telling

Expedition When They Could Find Anything Of That Sort In Bond Street.

"And It's All A Lot Of Rot,  Anyhow," Declared One Sporting Youth With

Obviously More Muscle And Money Than Brains; "No One Can Tell My

Fortune."

 

"I Can,  Billy. You Will Be Prime Minister," Flashed Out Miss Greeby,  At

Which There Was A General Laugh. Then Garvington Threw A Bombshell.

 

"You'd Better Get Your Fortunes Told To-Day,  If You Want To," He

Grunted,  Wiping His Mustache; "For To-Morrow I'm Going To Have These

Rotters Moved Off My Land Straight Away. They're Thieves And Liars."

 

"So Are Many Other People," Snapped Miss Greeby,  Who Had Lost Heavily At

Bridge On The Previous Night And Spoke Feelingly.

 

Her Host Paid No Attention To Her. "There's Been A Lot Of Burglaries In

This Neighborhood Of Late. I Daresay These Gypsies Are Mixed Up In

Them."

 

"Burglaries!" Cried Mrs. Belgrove,  And Turned Pale Under Her Rouge,  As

She Remembered That She Had Her Diamonds With Her.

 

"Oh,  It's All Right! Don't Worry," Said Garvington,  Pushing Back His

Chair. "They Won't Try On Any Games In This House While I'm Here. If Any

One Tries To Get In I'll Shoot The Beast."

 

"Is That Allowed By Law?" Asked An Army Officer With A Shrug.

 

"I Don't Know And I Don't Care," Retorted Garvington. "An Englishman's

House Is His Castle,  You Know,  And He Can Jolly Well Shoot Any One Who

Tries To Get Into It. Besides,  I Shouldn't Mind Potting A Burglar. Great

Sport."

 

"You'd Ask His Intentions First,  I Presume," Said Lady Garvington

Tartly.

 

"Not Me. Any One Getting Into The House After Dark Doesn't Need His

Intentions To Be Asked. I'd Shoot."

 

"What About Romeo?" Asked A Poetic-Looking Young Man. "He Got Into

Juliet's House,  But Did Not Come As A Burglar."

 

"He Came As A Guest,  I Believe," Said A Quiet,  Silvery Voice At The End

Of The Table,  And Every One Turned To Look At Lady Agnes Pine,  Who Had

Spoken.

Chapter 1 (The Drama Of Little Things) Pg 3

She Was Garvington's Sister,  And The Wife Of Sir Hubert Pine,  The

Millionaire,  Who Was Absent From The House Party On This Occasion. As A

Rule,  She Spoke Little,  And Constantly Wore A Sad Expression On Her Pale

And Beautiful Face. And Agnes Pine Really Was Beautiful,  Being One Of

Those Tall,  Slim Willowy-Looking Women Who Always Look Well And Act

Charmingly. And,  Indeed,  Her Undeniable Charm Of Manner Probably Had

More To Do With Her Reputation As A Handsome Woman Than Her Actual

Physical Grace. With Her Dark Hair And Dark Eyes,  Her Greek Features And

Ivory Skin Faintly Tinted With A Tea-Rose Hue,  She Looked Very Lovely

And Very Sad. Why She Should Be,  Was A Puzzle To Many Women,  As Being

The Wife Of A Superlatively Rich Man,  She Had All The Joys That Money

Could Bring Her. Still It Was Hinted On Good Authority--But No One Ever

Heard The Name Of The Authority--That Garvington Being Poor Had Forced

Her Into Marrying Sir Hubert,  For Whom She Did Not Care In The Least.

People Said That Her Cousin Noel Lambert Was The Husband Of Her Choice,

But That She Had Sacrificed Herself,  Or Rather Had Been Compelled To Do

So,  In Order That Garvington Might Be Set On His Legs. But Lady Agnes

Never Gave Any One The Satisfaction Of Knowing The Exact Truth. She

Moved Through The Social World Like A Gentle Ghost,  Fulfilling Her

Duties Admirably,  But Apparently Indifferent To Every One And

Everything. "Clippin' To Look At," Said The Young Men,  "But Tombs To

Talk To. No Sport At All." But Then The Young Men Did Not Possess The

Key To Lady Agnes Pine's Heart. Nor Did Her Husband Apparently.

 

Her Voice Was Very Low And Musical,  And Every One Felt Its Charm.

Garvington Answered Her Question As He Left The Room. "Romeo Or No

Romeo,  Guest Or No Guest," He Said Harshly,  "I'll Shoot Any Beast Who

Tries To Enter My House. Come On,  You Fellows. We Start In Half An Hour

For The Coverts."

 

When The Men Left The Room,  Miss Greeby Came And Sat Down In A Vacant

Seat Near Her Hostess. "What Did Garvington Mean By That Last Speech?"

She Asked With A Significant Look At Lady Agnes.

 

"Oh,  My Dear,  When Does Garvington Ever Mean Anything?" Said The Other

Woman Fretfully. "He Is So Selfish; He Leaves Me To Do Everything."

 

"Well," Drawled Miss Greeby With A Pensive Look On Her Masculine

Features,  "He Looked At Agnes When He Spoke."

 

"What Do You Mean?" Demanded Lady Garvington Sharply.

 

Miss Greeby Gave A Significant Laugh. "I Notice That Mr. Lambert Is Not

In The House," She Said Carelessly. "But Some One Told Me He Was Near At

Hand In The Neighborhood. Surely Garvington Doesn't Mean To Shoot Him."

 

"Clara." The Hostess Sat Up Very Straight,  And A Spot Of Color Burned On

Either Sallow Cheek. "I Am Surprised At You. Noel Is Staying In The

Abbot's Wood Cottage,  And Indulging In Artistic Work Of Some Sort. But

He Can Come And Stay Here,  If He Likes. You Don't Mean To Insinuate That

He Would Climb Into The House Through A Window After Dark Like A

Burglar?"

Chapter