“The application for the post of gardener at Stormly Park, sir. Did you wish to attend to that yourself?”
“What has happened to Timmins? Wasn’t that his name? Is he dead?”
“Oh, no.”
“He wishes to go?”
Mr. Clisson shook his head. “It is simply a matter of routine, sir. Timmins is a very excellent man, but the invariable rule is that no one remains after they are fifty-five.”
“After they are fifty-five?” repeated Christopher slowly.
“Not those employed in manual labour: with very few exceptions that is. Timmins will be fifty-five next month. He suffers from rheumatism already, I find.”
Christopher never took his eyes from the other’s face.
“He would be pensioned, I suppose.”
“Oh, dear me, no. We have no pension list. Timmins has received very high wages. He has no doubt put by a nice little sum.”