The Man in the Brown Suit, Agatha Christie [ebook and pdf reader .txt] 📗
- Author: Agatha Christie
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He held me to him, kissing me until I could hardly breathe.
“I can’t do without you any longer, Anne. I can’t indeed. I hate all this money. Let Race have it. Come on. Let’s go.”
“My toothbrush?” I demurred.
“You can buy one. I know I’m a lunatic, but for God’s sake, come!”
He stalked off at a furious pace. I followed him as meekly as the Barotsi woman I had observed at the Falls. Only I wasn’t carrying a frying-pan on my head. He walked so fast that it was very difficult to keep up with him.
“Harry,” I said at last, in a meek voice, “are we going to walk all the way to Rhodesia?”
He turned suddenly and with a great shout of laughter gathered me up in his arms.
“I’m mad, sweetheart, I know it. But I do love you so.”
“We’re a couple of lunatics. And, oh, Harry, you never asked me, but I’m not making a sacrifice at all! I wanted to come!”
That was two years ago. We still live on the island. Before me, on the rough wooden table, is the letter that Suzanne wrote me.
Dear Babes in the Wood—Dear Lunatics in Love,
I’m not surprised—not at all. All the time we’ve been talking Paris and frocks I felt that it wasn’t a bit real—that you’d vanish into the blue some day to be married over the tongs in the good old gipsy fashion. But you are a couple of lunatics! This idea of renouncing a vast fortune is absurd. Colonel Race wanted to argue the matter, but I have persuaded him to leave the argument to time. He can administer the estate for Harry—and none better. Because, after all, honeymoons don’t last forever—you’re not here, Anne, so I can safely say that without having you fly out at me like a little wild-cat—Love in the wilderness will last a good while, but one day you will suddenly begin to dream of houses in Park Lane, sumptuous furs, Paris frocks, the largest thing in motors and the latest thing in perambulators, French maids and Norland nurses! Oh, yes, you will!
But have your honeymoon, dear lunatics, and let it be a long one. And think of me sometimes, comfortably putting on weight amidst the fleshpots!
P.S.—I am sending you an assortment of frying-pans as a wedding present, and an enormous terrine of pâté de foie gras to remind you of me.
There is another letter that I sometimes read. It came a good while after the other and was accompanied by a bulky packet. It appeared to be written from somewhere in Bolivia.
My dear Anne Beddingfeld,
I can’t resist writing to you, not so much for the pleasure it gives me to write, as for the enormous pleasure I know it will give you to hear from me. Our friend Race wasn’t quite as clever as he thought himself, was he?
I think I shall appoint you my literary executor. I’m sending you my diary. There’s nothing in it that would interest Race and his crowd, but I fancy that there are passages in it which may amuse you. Make use of it in any way you like. I suggest an article for the Daily Budget, “Criminals I have met.” I only stipulate that I shall be the central figure.
By this time I have no doubt that you are no longer Anne Beddingfeld, but Lady Eardsley, queening it in Park Lane. I should just like to say that I bear you no malice whatever. It is hard, of course, to have to begin all over again at my time of life, but, entre nous, I had a little reserve fund carefully put aside for such a contingency. It has come in very usefully and I am getting together a nice little connection. By the way, if you ever come across that funny friend of yours, Arthur Minks, just tell him that I haven’t forgotten him, will you? That will give him a nasty jar.
On the whole I think I have displayed a most Christian and forgiving spirit. Even to Pagett. I happened to hear that he—or rather Mrs. Pagett—had brought a sixth child into the world the other day. England will be entirely populated by Pagetts soon. I sent the child a silver mug, and, on a post card, declared my willingness to act as god-father. I can see Pagett taking both mug and post card straight to Scotland Yard without a smile on his face!
Bless you, liquid eyes. Some day you will see what a mistake you have made in not marrying me.
Harry was furious. It is the one point on which he and I do not see eye to eye. To him, Sir Eustace was the man who tried to murder me and whom he regards as responsible for the death of his friend. Sir Eustace’s attempts on my life have always puzzled me. They are not in the picture, so to speak. For I am sure that he always had a genuinely kindly feeling towards me.
Then why did he twice attempt to take my life? Harry says “because he’s a damned scoundrel,” and seems to think that settles the matter. Suzanne was more discriminating. I talked it over with her, and she put it down to a “fear complex.” Suzanne goes in rather for psycho-analysis. She pointed out to me that Sir Eustace’s whole life was actuated by a desire to be safe and comfortable. He had an acute sense of self-preservation. And the murder of Nadina removed certain inhibitions. His actions did not represent the state of his feeling towards me, but were the result of his acute fears for his own safety. I think Suzanne is right. As for Nadina, she was the kind of woman who deserved to die. Men do all sorts of questionable things in order to get rich, but women shouldn’t pretend to be in love when they aren’t for ulterior motives.
I can forgive Sir Eustace easily enough, but I shall never forgive Nadina. Never, never, never!
The other day I was unpacking some tins that were wrapped in bits of an old Daily Budget, and I suddenly came upon the words, “The Man in the Brown Suit.” How long ago it seemed! I had, of course, severed my connection with the Daily Budget long ago—I had done with it sooner than it had done with me. My Romantic Wedding was given a halo of publicity.
My son is lying in the sun, kicking his legs. There’s a “man in a brown suit” if you like. He’s wearing as little as possible, which is the best costume for Africa, and is as brown as a berry. He’s always burrowing in the earth. I think he takes after Papa. He’ll have that same mania for Pleiocene clay.
Suzanne sent me a cable when he was born:
“Congratulations and love to the latest arrival on Lunatics’ Island. Is his head dolichocephalic or brachycephalic?”
I wasn’t going to stand that from Suzanne. I sent her a reply of one word, economical and to the point:
“Platycephalic!”
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