The Man in the Brown Suit
“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.
CHAPTER IX
_(Anne’s Narrative Resumed)_
It is most undignified for a heroine to be sea-sick. 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 smile 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 governness. “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 the
duties of 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
rather a nasty dusting in the Bay, but there’s smooth weather
ahead. I’ll be taking you on at quoits to-morrow.”
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 I ever 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 any one,” 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?”
I shook my head.
“My dear girl! Why don’t you change? There’s plenty of room. A lot
of people got off at Madeira, and the boat’s very empty. Talk to
the purser about it. He’s a nice little boy—he changed me into a
beautiful cabin because I didn’t care for the one I’d got. You talk
to him at lunch-time when you go down.”
I shuddered.
“I couldn’t move.”
“Don’t be silly. Come and take a walk now with me.”
She dimpled at me encouragingly. I felt very weak on my legs at
first, but as we walked briskly up and down I began to feel a
brighter and better being.
After a turn or two, Colonel Race joined us again.
“You can see the Grand Peak of Tenerife from the other side.”
“Can we? Can I get a photograph of it, do you think?”
“No—but that won’t deter you from snapping off at it.”
Mrs. Blair laughed.
“You are unkind. Some of my photographs are very good.”
“About three per cent effective, I should say.”
We all went round to the other side of the deck. There glimmering
white and snowy, enveloped in a delicate rose-coloured mist, rose
the glistening pinnacle. I uttered an exclamation of delight. Mrs.
Blair ran for her camera.
Undeterred by Colonel Race’s sardonic comments, she snapped
vigorously:
“There, that’s the end of the roll. Oh,” her tone changed to one
of chagrin, “I’ve had the thing at ‘bulb’ all the time.”
“I always like to see a child with a new toy,” murmured the Colonel.
“How horrid you are—but I’ve got another roll.”
She produced it in triumph from the pocket of her sweater. A sudden
roll of the boat upset her balance, and as she caught at the rail
to steady herself the roll of films flashed over the side.
“Oh!” cried Mrs. Blair, comically dismayed. She leaned over. “Do
you think they have gone overboard?”
“No, you may have been fortunate enough to brain an unlucky steward
in the deck below.”
A small boy who had arrived unobserved a few paces to our rear blew
a deafening blast on a bugle.
“Lunch,” declared Mrs. Blair ecstatically. “I’ve had nothing to
eat since breakfast, except two cups of beef-tea. Lunch, Miss
Beddingfeld?”
“Well,” I said waveringly. “Yes, I _do_ feel rather hungry.”
“Splendid. You’re sitting at the purser’s table, I know. Tackle
him about the cabin.”
I found my way down to the saloon, began to eat gingerly, and
finished by consuming an enormous meal. My friend of yesterday
congratulated me on my recovery. Every one was changing cabins
to-day, he told me, and he promised that my things should be moved
to an outside one without delay.
There were only four at our table, myself, a couple of elderly
ladies, and a missionary who talked a lot about “our poor black
brothers.”
I looked round at the other tables. Mrs. Blair was sitting at the
Captain’s table, Colonel Race next to her. On the other side of
the Captain was a distinguished-looking, grey-haired man. A good
many people I had already noticed on deck, but there was one man
who had not previously appeared. Had he done so, he could hardly
have escaped my notice. He was tall and dark, and had such a
peculiarly sinister type of countenance that I was quite startled.
I asked the purser, with some curiosity, who he was.
“That man? Oh, that’s Sir Eustace Pedler’s secretary. Been very
sea-sick, poor chap, and not appeared before. Sir Eustace has got
two secretaries with him, and the sea’s been too much for both of
them. The other fellow hasn’t turned up yet. This man’s name is
Pagett.”
So Sir Eustace Pedler, the owner of the Mill House, was on board.
Probably only a coincidence, and yet——
“That’s Sir Eustace,” my informant continued, “sitting next to the
Captain. Pompous old ass.”
The more I studied the secretary’s face, the less I liked it. Its
even pallor, the secretive, heavy-lidded eyes, the curiously
flattened head—it all gave me a feeling of distaste, of apprehension.
Leaving the saloon at the same time as he did, I was close behind
him as he went up on deck. He was speaking to Sir Eustace, and I
overheard a fragment or two. “I’ll see about the cabin at once
then, shall I? It’s impossible to work in yours, with all your
trunks.”
“My dear fellow,” Sir Eustace replied. “My cabin is intended (a)