made a mistake, I think,’ he said, smiling.
‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘I’m sure I haven’t.’
‘You’ve given me the wrong roll. This is an unexposed one.’
I walked out with what dignity I could muster. I dare say it is good for one now and again to realize what an idiot one can be! But nobody relishes the process.
And then, just as I was passing one of the big shipping offices, I came to a sudden halt. In the window was a beautiful model of one of the company’s boats, and it was labelled ‘Kenilworth Castle’. A wild idea shot through my brain. I pushed the door open and went in. I went up to the counter and in a faltering voice (genuine this time!) I murmured:
‘Kilmorden Castle?’
‘On the 17th from Southampton. Cape Town? First or second class?’
‘How much is it?’
‘First class, eighty-seven pounds—’
I interrupted him. The coincidence was too much for me. Exactly the amount of my legacy! I would put all my eggs in one basket.
‘First class,’ I said.
I was now definitely committed to the adventure.
(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.
‘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
