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 sensational1 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 thoroughly2 comfortable. I have devoted3 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 zealous4, painstaking5, 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 positively6 no vices7. 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 delightful8 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 standing9 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 interred10 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.
“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 lugubriously12.
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 accounting13 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 lodge14 to live in solely15 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 pacify16.
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 abominable17 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 publicity18. 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 ass19 the present Government has produced. His manner oozed20 diplomatic secrecy21 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 rumours22 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.
“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 confidential24 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 eminently25 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 Pall26 Mall before we parted. He shook me warmly by the hand, and thanked me again effusively27.
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 apprehension28 of insurance touts29, 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 bilious30 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 complexion31 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 jaw32, disfiguring what would otherwise have been a handsome though somewhat reckless countenance33.
“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 momentary34 alarm had flickered35 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 decided36 that you needed the services of a second secretary.”
He seemed a determined37 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 attained38 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 sarcastically39.
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.
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1
sensational
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| adj.使人感动的，非常好的，轰动的，耸人听闻的 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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3
devoted
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| adj.忠诚的，忠实的，热心的，献身于...的 | |
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zealous
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| adj.狂热的，热心的 | |
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painstaking
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| adj.苦干的；艰苦的，费力的，刻苦的 | |
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positively
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| adv.明确地，断然，坚决地；实在，确实 | |
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7
vices
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| 缺陷( vice的名词复数 )； 恶习； 不道德行为； 台钳 | |
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8
delightful
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| adj.令人高兴的，使人快乐的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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interred
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| v.埋，葬( inter的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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colossal
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| adj.异常的，庞大的 | |
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lugubriously
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accounting
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| n.会计，会计学，借贷对照表 | |
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lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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solely
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| adv.仅仅，唯一地 | |
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16
pacify
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| vt.使(某人)平静(或息怒)；抚慰 | |
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17
abominable
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| adj.可厌的，令人憎恶的 | |
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18
publicity
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| n.众所周知，闻名；宣传，广告 | |
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19
ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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20
oozed
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| v.（浓液等）慢慢地冒出，渗出( ooze的过去式和过去分词 )；使（液体）缓缓流出；（浓液）渗出，慢慢流出 | |
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21
secrecy
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| n.秘密，保密，隐蔽 | |
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rumours
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| n.传闻( rumour的名词复数 )；风闻；谣言；谣传 | |
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23
stifling
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| a.令人窒息的 | |
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confidential
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| adj.秘（机）密的，表示信任的，担任机密工作的 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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pall
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| v.覆盖，使平淡无味；n.柩衣，棺罩；棺材；帷幕 | |
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effusively
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| adv.变溢地，热情洋溢地 | |
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apprehension
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| n.理解，领悟；逮捕，拘捕；忧虑 | |
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29
touts
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| n.招徕( tout的名词复数 )；（音乐会、体育比赛等的）卖高价票的人；侦查者；探听赛马的情报v.兜售( tout的第三人称单数 )；招揽；侦查；探听赛马情报 | |
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30
bilious
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| adj.胆汁过多的；易怒的 | |
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complexion
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| n.肤色；情况，局面；气质，性格 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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momentary
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| adj.片刻的，瞬息的；短暂的 | |
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flickered
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| （通常指灯光）闪烁，摇曳( flicker的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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attained
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| （通常经过努力）实现( attain的过去式和过去分词 )； 达到； 获得； 达到（某年龄、水平、状况） | |
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sarcastically
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| adv.挖苦地，讽刺地 | |
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