CHAPTER VIII

_(Extracts from the diary of Sir Eustace Pedler, M.P.)_

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, hard-working

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 to-morrow. 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, guide-book

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 a.m. 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 of 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 a.m. 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 was 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 any one 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 to-morrow.

_One day later._

Several very surprising 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 Kings’

Messengers and draw such attention to their confidential documents.

“If you don’t like the post, send one of your young Foreign Office

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 by-ways 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, hard-working 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 any one 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.