The Man in the Brown Suit

Eight
(Extracts from the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler, MP)
It is an extraordinary thing that I never seem to get any peace. I am a man who likes a
quiet life. I like my Club, my rubber of Bridge, a well-cooked meal, a sound wine. I like
England in the summer, and the Riviera in the winter. I have no desire to participate in
sensational happenings. Sometimes, in front of a good fire, I do not object to reading
about them in the newspaper. But that is as far as I am willing to go. My object in life is
to be thoroughly comfortable. I have devoted a certain amount of thought, and a
considerable amount of money, to further that end. But I cannot say that I always
succeed. If things do not actually happen to me, they happen round me, and frequently, in
spite of myself, I become involved. I hate being involved.
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.

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“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?”