The Man in the Brown Suit, Agatha Christie [free e novels TXT] 📗

own thoughts that I never saw Colonel Race ride up and dismount from his horse. It was not until he said “Good morning, Anne,” that I became aware of his presence.

“Oh,” I said, with a flush, “it’s you.”

“Yes. May I sit down?”

He drew a chair up beside me. It was the first time we had been alone together since that day at the Matoppos. As always, I felt that curious mixture of fascination and fear that he never failed to inspire in me.

“What is the news?” I asked.

“Smuts will be in Johannesburg tomorrow. I give this outbreak three days more before it collapses utterly. In the meantime the fighting goes on.”

“I wish,” I said, “that one could be sure that the right people were the ones to get killed. I mean the ones who wanted to fight⁠—not just all the poor people who happen to live in the parts where the fighting is going on.”

He nodded.

“I know what you mean, Anne. That’s the unfairness of war. But I’ve other news for you.”

“Yes?”

“A confession of incompetency on my part. Pedler has managed to escape.”

“What?”

“Yes. No one knows how he managed it. He was securely locked up for the night⁠—in an upper-story room of one of the farms roundabouts which the military have taken over, but this morning the room was empty and the bird had flown.”

Secretly I was rather pleased. Never, to this day, have I been able to rid myself of a sneaking fondness for Sir Eustace. I dare say it’s reprehensible, but there it is. I admired him. He was a thoroughgoing villain, I dare say⁠—but he was a pleasant one. I’ve never met anyone half so amusing since.

I concealed my feelings, of course. Naturally Colonel Race would feel quite differently about it. He wanted Sir Eustace brought to justice. There was nothing very surprising in his escape when one came to think of it. All round Jo’burg he must have innumerable spies and agents. And, whatever Colonel Race might think, I was exceedingly doubtful that they would ever catch him. He probably had a well-planned line of retreat. Indeed, he had said as much to us.

I expressed myself suitably, though in a rather lukewarm manner, and the conversation languished. Then Colonel Race asked suddenly for Harry. I told him that he had gone off at dawn and that I hadn’t seen him this morning.

“You understand, don’t you, Anne, that apart from formalities, he is completely cleared? There are technicalities, of course, but Sir Eustace’s guilt is well assured. There is nothing now to keep you apart.”

He said this without looking at me, in a slow, jerky voice.

“I understand,” I said gratefully.

“And there is no reason why he should not at once resume his real name.”

“No, of course not.”

“You know his real name?”

The question surprised me.

“Of course I do. Harry Lucas.”

He did not answer, and something in the quality of his silence struck me as peculiar.

“Anne, do you remember that, as we drove home from the Matoppos that day, I told you that I knew what I had to do?”

“Of course I remember.”

“I think that I may fairly say I have done it. The man you love is cleared of suspicion.”

“Was that what you meant?”

“Of course.”

I hung my head, ashamed of the baseless suspicion I had entertained. He spoke again in a thoughtful voice:

“When I was a mere youngster, I was in love with a girl who jilted me. After that I thought only of my work. My career meant everything to me. Then I met you, Anne⁠—and all that seemed worth nothing. But youth’s call to youth.⁠ ⁠… I’ve still got my work.”

I was silent. I suppose one can’t really love two men at once⁠—but you can feel like it. The magnetism of this man was very great. I looked up at him suddenly.

“I think that you’ll go very far,” I said dreamily. “I think that you’ve got a great career ahead of you. You’ll be one of the world’s big men.”

I felt as though I was uttering a prophecy.

“I shall be alone, though.”

“All the people who do really big things are.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it.”

He took my hand and said in a low voice:

“I’d rather have had⁠—the other.”

Then Harry came striding round the corner of the house. Colonel Race rose.

“Good morning⁠—Lucas,” he said.

For some reason Harry flushed up to the roots of his hair.

“Yes,” I said gaily, “you must be known by your real name now.”

But Harry was still staring at Colonel Race.

“So you know, sir,” he said at last.

“I never forget a face. I saw you once as a boy.”

“What’s all this about?” I asked, puzzled, looking from one to the other.

It seemed a conflict of wills between them. Race won. Harry turned slightly away.

“I suppose you’re right, sir. Tell her my real name.”

“Anne, this isn’t Harry Lucas. Harry Lucas was killed in the war. This is John Harold Eardsley.”

XXXV

With his last words Colonel Race had swung away and left us. I stood staring after him. Harry’s voice recalled me to myself.

“Anne, forgive me, say you forgive me.”

He took my hand in his and almost mechanically I drew it away.

“Why did you deceive me?”

“I don’t know that I can make you understand. I was afraid of all that sort of thing⁠—the power and fascination of wealth. I wanted you to care for me just for myself⁠—for the man I was⁠—without ornaments and trappings.”

“You mean you didn’t trust me?”

“You can put it that way if you like, but it isn’t quite true. I’d become embittered, suspicious⁠—always prone to look for ulterior motives⁠—and it was so wonderful to be cared for in the way you cared for me.”

“I see,” I said slowly. I was going over in my own mind the story he had told me. For the first time I noted discrepancies in it which I had disregarded⁠—an assurance of money, the power to buy back the diamonds of Nadina, the way in which he had preferred to speak of both