The Man in the Brown Suit Read online

  All this because Guy Pagett came into my bedroom this morning with a telegram in his hand and a face as long as a mute at a funeral.

  Guy Pagett is my secretary, a zealous, painstaking, hardworking fellow, admirable in every respect. I know no one who annoys me more. For a long time I have been racking my brains as to how to get rid of him. But you cannot very well dismiss a secretary because he prefers work to play, likes getting up early in the morning, and has positively no vices. The only amusing thing about the fellow is his face. He has the face of a fourteenth-century poisoner—the sort of man the Borgias got to do their odd jobs for them.

  I wouldn’t mind so much if Pagett didn’t make me work too. My idea of work is something that should be undertaken lightly and airily—trifled with, in fact! I doubt if Guy Pagett has ever trifled with anything in his life. He takes everything seriously. That is what makes him so difficult to live with.

  Last week I had the brilliant idea of sending him off to Florence. He talked about Florence and how much he wanted to go there.

  “My dear fellow,” I cried, “You shall go tomorrow. I will pay all your expenses.”

  January isn’t the usual time for going to Florence, but it would be all one to Pagett. I could imagine him going about, guidebook in hand, religiously doing all the picture galleries. And a week’s freedom was cheap to me at the price.

  It has been a delightful week. I have done everything I wanted to, and nothing that I did not want to do. But when I blinked my eyes open, and perceived Pagett standing between me and the light at the unearthly hour of 9 am this morning, I realized that freedom was over.

  “My dear fellow,” I said, “has the funeral already taken place, or is it for later in the morning?”

  Pagett does not appreciate dry humour. He merely stared.

  “So you know, Sir Eustace?”

  “Know what?” I said crossly. “From the expression on your face I inferred that one of your near and dear relatives was to be interred this morning.”

  Pagett ignored the sally as far as possible.

  “I thought you couldn’t know about this.” He tapped the telegram. “I know you dislike being aroused early—but it is nine o’clock”—Pagett insists on regarding 9 am as practically the middle of the day—“and I thought that under the circumstances—” He tapped the telegram again.

  “What is that thing?” I asked.

  “It’s a telegram from the police at Marlow. A woman has been murdered in your house.”

  That aroused me in earnest.

  “What colossal cheek,” I exclaimed. “Why in my house? Who murdered her?”

  “They don’t say. I suppose we shall go back to England at once, Sir Eustace?”

  “You need suppose nothing of the kind. Why should we go back?”

  “The police—”

  “What on earth have I to do with the police?”

  “Well, it is your house.”

  “That,” I said, “appears to be more my misfortune than my fault.”

  Guy Pagett shook his head gloomily.

  “It will have a very unfortunate effect upon the constituency,” he remarked lugubriously.

  I don’t see why it should have—and yet I have a feeling that in such matters Pagett’s instincts are always right. On the face of it, a Member of Parliament will be none the less efficient because a stray young woman comes and gets herself murdered in an empty house that belongs to him—but there is no accounting for the view the respectable British public takes of a matter.

  “She’s a foreigner too, and that makes it worse,” continued Pagett gloomily.

  Again I believe he is right. If it is disreputable to have a woman murdered in your house, it becomes more disreputable if the woman is a foreigner. Another idea struck me.

  “Good heavens,” I exclaimed, “I hope this won’t upset Caroline.”

  Caroline is the lady who cooks for me. Incidentally she is the wife of my gardener. What kind of a wife she makes I do not know, but she is an excellent cook. James, on the other hand, is not a good gardener—but I support him in idleness and give him the lodge to live in solely on account of Caroline’s cooking.

  “I don’t suppose she’ll stay after this,” said Pagett.

  “You always were a cheerful fellow,” I said.

  I expect I shall have to go back to England. Pagett clearly intends that I shall. And there is Caroline to pacify.

  Three days later.

  It is incredible to me that anyone who can get away from England in winter does not do so! It is an abominable climate. All this trouble is very annoying. The house agents say it will be next to impossible to let the Mill House after all the publicity. Caroline has been pacified—with double pay. We could have sent her a cable to that effect from Cannes. In fact, as I have said all along, there was no earthly purpose to serve by our coming over. I shall go back tomorrow.

  One day later.

  Several very suprising things have occurred. To begin with, I met Augustus Milray, the most perfect example of an old ass the present Government has produced. His manner oozed diplomatic secrecy as he drew me aside in the Club into a quiet corner. He talked a good deal. About South Africa and the industrial situation there. About the growing rumours of a strike on the Rand. Of the secret causes actuating that strike. I listened as patiently as I could. Finally, he dropped his voice to a whisper and explained that certain documents had come to light which ought to be placed in the hands of General Smuts.

  “I’ve no doubt you’re quite right,” I said, stifling a yawn.

  “But how are we to get them to him? Our position in the matter is delicate—very delicate.”

  “What’s wrong with the post?” I said cheerfully. “Put a two-penny stamp on and drop ’em in the nearest letter box.”

  He seemed quite shocked at the suggestion.

  “My dear Pedler! The common post!”

  It has always been a mystery to me why Governments employ King’s Messengers and draw such attention to their confidential documents.

  “If you don’t like the post, send one of your own young fellows. He’ll enjoy the trip.”

  “Impossible,” said Milray, wagging his head in a senile fashion. “There are reasons, my dear Pedler—I assure you there are reasons.”

  “Well,” I said rising, “all this is very interesting, but I must be off—”

  “One minute, my dear Pedler, one minute, I beg of you. Now tell me, in confidence, is it not true that you intend visiting South Africa shortly yourself? You have large interests in Rhodesia, I know, and the question of Rhodesia joining in the Union is one in which you have a vital interest.”

  “Well, I had thought of going out in about a month’s time.”

  “You couldn’t possibly make it sooner? This month? This week, in fact?”

  “I could,” I said, eyeing him with some interest. “But I don’t know that I particularly want to.”

  “You would be doing the Government a great service—a very great service. You would not find them—er—ungrateful.”

  “Meaning, you want me to be the postman?”

  “Exactly. Your position is an unofficial one, your journey is bona fide. Everything would be eminently satisfactory.”

  “Well,” I said slowly, “I don’t mind if I do. The one thing I am anxious to do is to get out of England again as soon as possible.”

  “You will find the climate of South Africa delightful—quite delightful.”

  “My dear fellow, I know all about the climate. I was out there shortly before the war.”

  “I am really much obliged to you, Pedler. I will send you round the package by messenger. To be placed in General Smuts’s own hands, you understand? The Kilmorden Castle sails on Saturday—quite a good boat.”

  I accompanied him a short way along Pall Mall, before we parted. He shook me warmly by the hand, and thanked me again effusively. I walked home reflecting on the curious byways of Governmental policy.

  It was the
following evening that Jarvis, my butler, informed me that a gentleman wished to see me on private business, but declined to give his name. I have always a lively apprehension of insurance touts, so told Jarvis to say I could not see him. Guy Pagett, unfortunately, when he might for once have been of real use, was laid up with a bilious attack. These earnest, hardworking young men with weak stomachs are always liable to bilious attacks.

  Jarvis returned.

  “The gentleman asked me to tell you, Sir Eustace, that he comes to you from Mr. Milray.”

  That altered the complexion of things. A few minutes later I was confronting my visitor in the library. He was a well-built young fellow with a deeply tanned face. A scar ran diagonally from the corner of his eye to the jaw, disfiguring what would otherwise have been a handsome though somewhat reckless countenance.

  “Well,” I said, “what’s the matter?”

  “Mr. Milray sent me to you, Sir Eustace. I am to accompany you to South Africa as your secretary.”

  “My dear fellow,” I said, “I’ve got a secretary already. I don’t want another.”

  “I think you do, Sir Eustace. Where is your secretary now?”

  “He’s down with a bilious attack,” I explained.

  “You are sure it’s only a bilious attack?”

  “Of course it is. He’s subject to them.”

  My visitor smiled.

  “It may or may not be a bilious attack. Time will show. But I can tell you this, Sir Eustace, Mr. Milray would not be surprised if an attempt were made to get your secretary out of the way. Oh, you need have no fear for yourself”—I suppose a momentary alarm had flickered across my face—“you are not threatened. Your secretary out of the way, access to you would be easier. In any case, Mr. Milray wishes me to accompany you. The passage money will be our affair, of course, but you will take the necessary steps about the passport, as though you had decided that you needed the services of a second secretary.”

  He seemed a determined young man. We stared at each other and he stared me down.

  “Very well,” I said feebly.

  “You will say nothing to anyone as to my accompanying you.”

  “Very well,” I said again.

  After all, perhaps it was better to have this fellow with me, but I had a premonition that I was getting into deep waters. Just when I thought I had attained peace!

  I stopped my visitor as he was turning to depart.

  “It might be just as well if I knew my new secretary’s name,” I observed sarcastically.

  He considered for a minute.

  “Harry Rayburn seems quite a suitable name,” he observed.

  It was a curious way of putting it.

  “Very well,” I said for the third time.

  Nine

  (Anne’s Narrative Resumed)

  It is most undignified for a heroine to be seasick. In books the more it rolls and tosses, the better she likes it. When everybody else is ill, she alone staggers along the deck, braving the elements and positively rejoicing in the storm. I regret to say that at the first roll the Kilmorden gave, I turned pale and hastened below. A sympathetic stewardess received me. She suggested dry toast and ginger ale.

  I remained groaning in my cabin for three days. Forgotten was my quest. I had no longer any interest in solving mysteries. I was a totally different Anne to the one who had rushed back to the South Kensington square so jubilantly from the shipping office.

  I smiled now as I remember my abrupt entry into the drawing room. Mrs. Flemming was alone there. She turned her head as I entered.

  “Is that you, Anne, my dear? There is something I want to talk over with you.”

  “Yes?” I said, curbing my impatience.

  “Miss Emery is leaving me.” Miss Emery was the governess. “As you have not yet succeeded in finding anything, I wondered if you would care—it would be so nice if you remained with us altogether?”

  I was touched. She didn’t want me, I knew. It was sheer Christian charity that prompted the offer. I felt remorseful for my secret criticism of her. Getting up, I ran impulsively across the room and flung my arms round her neck.

  “You’re a dear,” I said. “A dear, a dear, a dear! And thank you ever so much. But it’s all right, I’m off to South Africa on Saturday.”

  My abrupt onslaught had startled the good lady. She was not used to sudden demonstrations of affection. My words startled her still more.

  “To South Africa? My dear Anne. We would have to look into anything of that kind very carefully.”

  That was the last thing I wanted. I explained that I had already taken my passage, and that upon arrival I proposed to take up duties as a parlourmaid. It was the only thing I could think of on the spur of the moment. There was, I said, a great demand for parlourmaids in South Africa. I assured her that I was equal to taking care of myself, and in the end, with a sigh of relief at getting me off her hands, she accepted the project without further query. At parting, she slipped an envelope into my hand. Inside it I found five new crisp five-pound notes and the words: “I hope you will not be offended and will accept this with my love.” She was a very good, kind woman. I could not have continued to live in the same house with her, but I did recognize her intrinsic worth.

  So here I was, with twenty-five pounds in my pocket, facing the world and pursuing my adventure.

  It was on the fourth day that the stewardess finally urged me up on deck. Under the impression that I should die quicker below, I had steadfastly refused to leave my bunk. She now tempted me with the advent of Madeira. Hope rose in my breast. I could leave the boat and go ashore and be a parlourmaid there. Anything for dry land.

  Muffled in coats and rugs, and weak as a kitten on my legs, I was hauled up and deposited, an inert mass, on a deck chair. I lay there with my eyes closed, hating life. The purser, a fair-haired young man, with a round boyish face, came and sat down beside me.

  “Hullo! Feeling rather sorry for yourself, eh?”

  “Yes,” I replied, hating him.

  “Ah, you won’t know yourself in another day or two. We’ve had a rather nasty dusting in the Bay, but there’s smooth weather ahead. I’ll be taking you on at quoits tomorrow.”

  I did not reply.

  “Think you’ll never recover, eh? But I’ve seen people much worse than you, and two days later they were the life and soul of the ship. You’ll be the same.”

  I did not feel sufficiently pugnacious to tell him outright that he was a liar. I endeavoured to convey it by a glance. He chatted pleasantly for a few minutes more, then he mercifully departed. People passed and repassed, brisk couples “exercising,” curveting children, laughing young people. A few other pallid sufferers lay, like myself, in deck chairs.

  The air was pleasant, crisp, not too cold, and the sun was shining brightly. Insensibly, I felt a little cheered. I began to watch the people. One woman in particular attracted me. She was about thirty, of medium height and very fair with a round dimpled face and very blue eyes. Her clothes, though perfectly plain, had that indefinable air of “cut” about them which spoke of Paris. Also, in a pleasant but self-possessed way, she seemed to own the ship!

  Deck stewards ran to and fro obeying her commands. She had a special deck chair, and an apparently inexhaustible supply of cushions. She changed her mind three times as to where she would like it placed. Throughout everything she remained attractive and charming. She appeared to be one of those rare people in the world who know what they want, see that they get it, and manage to do so without being offensive. I decided that if ever I recovered—but of course I shouldn’t—it would amuse me to talk to her.

  We reached Madeira about midday. I was still too inert to move, but I enjoyed the picturesque-looking merchants who came on board and spread their merchandise about the decks. There were flowers too. I buried my nose in an enormous bunch of sweet wet violets and felt distinctly better. In fact, I thought I might just possibly last out the end of the voyage. When my stewardess spoke of
the attractions of a little chicken broth, I only protested feebly. When it came I enjoyed it.

  My attractive woman had been ashore. She came back escorted by a tall, soldierly-looking man with dark hair and a bronzed face whom I had noticed striding up and down the deck earlier in the day. I put him down at once as one of the strong silent men of Rhodesia. He was about forty, with a touch of greying hair at either temple, and was easily the best-looking man on board.

  When the stewardess brought me up an extra rug, I asked her if she knew who my attractive woman was.

  “That’s a well-known society lady, the Hon. Mrs. Clarence Blair. You must have read about her in the papers.”

  I nodded, looking at her with renewed interest. Mrs. Blair was very well-known indeed as one of the smartest women of the day. I observed, with some amusement, that she was the centre of a good deal of attention. Several people essayed to scrape acquaintance with the pleasant informality that a boat allows. I admired the polite way that Mrs. Blair snubbed them. She appeared to have adopted the strong, silent man as her special cavalier, and he seemed duly sensible of the privilege accorded him.

  The following morning, to my surprise, after taking a few turns round the deck with her attentive companion, Mrs. Blair came to a halt by my chair.

  “Feeling better this morning?”

  I thanked her, and said I felt slightly more like a human being.

  “You did look ill yesterday. Colonel Race and I decided that we should have the excitement of a funeral at sea—but you’ve disappointed us.”

  I laughed.

  “Being up in the air has done me good.”

  “Nothing like fresh air,” said Colonel Race, smiling.

  “Being shut up in those stuffy cabins would kill anyone,” declared Mrs. Blair, dropping into a seat by my side and dismissing her companion with a little nod. “You’ve got an outside one, I hope?”