AgathaChristie-TheManInTheBrownSuit Read online

  chimpanzee approach more nearly to the

  human than the adult chimpanzee does. That

  seems to show that whereas our ancestors

  were more Simian than we are, the

  chimpanzee's were of a higher type than

  the present species--in other words, the

  chimpanzee is a degenerate. That enterprising

  newspaper, the Daily Budget, being

  13

  hard up for something spicy, immediately

  brought itself out with large headlines. " We

  are not descended from monkeys, but are

  monkeys descended from us^ Eminent

  Professor says chimpanzees are decadent

  humans." Shortly afterwards, a reporter

  called to see Papa, and endeavoured to induce

  him to write a series of popular articles on the

  theory. I have seldom seen Papa so angry. He

  turned the reporter out of the house with

  scant ceremony, much to my secret sorrow, as

  we were particularly short of money at the

  moment. In fact, for a moment I meditated

  running after the young man and informing

  him that my father had changed his mind and

  would send the articles in question. I could

  easily have written them myself, and the

  probabilities were that Papa would never

  have learnt of the transaction, not being a

  reader of the Daily Budget. However, I

  rejected this course as being too risky, so I

  merely put on my best hat and went sadly

  down the village to interview our justly irate

  grocer.

  The reporter from the Daily Budget was the

  only young man who ever came to our house.

  There were times when I envied Emily, our

  little servant, who "walked out" whenever

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  occasion offered with a large sailor to whom

  she was affianced. In between times, to "keep

  her hand in," as she expressed it, she walked

  out with the greengrocer's young man, and

  the chemist's assistant. I reflected sadly that I

  had no one to "keep my hand in" with. All

  Papa's friends were aged Professors—usually

  with long beards. It is true that Professor

  Peterson once clasped me affectiontely and

  said I had a "neat little waist" and then tried

  to kiss me. The phrase alone dated him

  hopelessly. No self-respecting female has had

  a "neat little waist" since I was in my cradle.

  I yearned for adventure, for love, for

  romance, and I seemed condemned to an

  existence of drab utility. The village

  possessed a lending library, full of tattered

  works of fiction, and I enjoyed perils and

  love-making at second hand, and went to

  sleep dreaming of stern silent Rhodesians,

  and of strong men who always "felled their

  opponent with a single blow." There was no

  one in the village who even looked as though

  they could "fell" an opponent, with a single

  blow or with several.

  There was the cinema, too, with a weekly

  episode of "The Perils of Pamela." Pamela

  was a magnificent young woman. Nothing

  15

  daunted her. She fell out of aeroplanes, adventured in submarines, climbed skyscrapers

  and crept about in the Underworld

  without turning a hair. She was not really

  clever, the Master Criminal of the Underworld

  caught her each time, but as he seemed

  loath to knock her on the head in a simple

  way, and always doomed her to death in a

  sewer-gas-chamber or by some new and

  marvellous means, the hero was always able

  to rescue her at the beginning of the

  following week's episode. I used to come out

  with my head in a delirious whirl--and then I

  would get home and find a notice from the

  Gas Company threatening to cut us off if the

  outstanding account was not paid!

  And yet, though I did not suspect it, every

  moment was bringing adventure nearer to

  me.

  It is possible that there are many people in

  the world who have never heard of the

  finding of an antique skull at the Broken Hill

  Mine in Northern Rhodesia. I came down

  one morning to find Papa excited to the point

  of apoplexy. He poured out the whole story

  to me.

  "You understand, Anne? There are

  undoubtedly certain resemblances to the Java

  16

  skull, but superficial--superficial only. No,

  here we have what I have always maintained--the

  ancestral form of the Neanderthal

  race. You grant that the Gibraltar skull is the

  most primitive of the Neanderthal skulls

  found? Why? The cradle of the race was in

  Africa. They passed to Europe----"

  "Not marmalade on kippers. Papa," I said

  hastily, arresting my parent's absentminded

  hand. "Yes, you were saying?"

  "They passed to Europe on----"

  Here he broke down with a bad fit of

  choking, the result of an immoderate

  mouthful of kipper-bones.

  "But we must start at once," he declared,

  as he rose to his feet at the conclusion of the

  meal. "There is no time to be lost. We must

  be on the spot--there are doubtless

  incalculable finds to be found in the

  neighbourhood. I shall be interested to note

  whether the implements are typical of the

  Mousterian period--there will be the remains

  of the primitive ox, I should say, but not

  those of the woolly rhinoceros. Yes, a little

  army will be starting soon. We must get

  ahead of them. You will write to Cook's today,

  Anne?"

  17

  "What about money. Papa?" I hinted

  delicately.

  He turned a reproachful eye upon me.

  "Your point of view always depresses me,

  my child. We must not be sordid. No, no, in

  the cause of science one must not be sordid."

  "I feel Cook's might be sordid. Papa."

  Papa looked pained.

  "My dear Anne, you will pay them in ready

  money."

  "I haven't got any ready money."

  Papa looked thoroughly exasperated.

  "My child, I really cannot be bothered

  with these vulgar money details. The bank—1

  had something from the Manager yesterday,

  saying I had twenty-seven pounds."

  "That's your overdraft, I fancy."

  "Ah, I have it! Write to my publishers."

  I acquiesced doubtfully. Papa's books

  bringing in more glory than money. I liked

  the idea of going to Rhodesia immensely.

  "Stern silent men," I murmured to myself in

  an ecstasy. Then something in my parent's

  appearance struck me as unusual.

  "You have odd boots on. Papa," I said.

  "Take off the brown one and put on the other

  black one. And don't forget your muffler. It's

  a very cold day."

  18

  In a few minutes Papa stalked off, correctly

  booted and well mufflered.

  He returned late that evening, and, to my

  dismay, I saw his muffler and overcoat were
/>   missing.

  "Dear me, Anne, you are quite right. I took

  them off to go into the cavern. One gets so

  dirty there."

  I nodded feelingly, remembering an

  occasion when Papa had returned literally

  plastered from head to foot with rich

  Pleistocene clay.

  Our principal reason for settling in Little

  Hampsley had been the neighbourhood of

  Hampsley Cavern, a buried cave rich in

  deposits of the Aurignacian culture. We had a

  tiny museum in the village, and the curator

  and Papa spent most of their days messing

  about underground and bringing to light

  portions of woolly rhinoceros and cave bear.

  Papa coughed badly all the evening, and

  the following morning I saw he had a

  temperature and sent for the doctor.

  Poor Papa, he never had a chance. It was

  double pneumonia. He died four days later.

  19

  2

  EVERYONE was very kind to me. Dazed

  as I was, I appreciated that. I felt no

  overwhelming grief. Papa had never

  loved me; I knew that well enough. If he had,

  I might have loved him in return. No, there

  had not been love between us, but we had

  belonged together, and I had looked after

  him, and had secretly admired his learning

  and his uncompromising devotion to science.

  And it hurt me that Papa should have died

  just when the interest of life was at its height

  for him. I should have felt happier if I could

  have buried him in a cave, with paintings of

  reindeer and flint implements, but the force

  of public opinion constrained a neat tomb

  (with marble slab) in our hideous local

  churchyard. The vicar's consolations, though

  well meant, did not console me in the least.

  It took some time to dawn upon me that the

  thing I had always longed for—freedom—was

  at last mine. I was an orphan, and practically

  penniless, but free. At the same time I

  realized the extraordinary kindness of all

  20

  these good people. The vicar did his best to

  persuade me that his wife was in urgent need

  of a companion help. Our tiny local library

  suddenly made up its mind to have an

  assistant librarian. Finally, the doctor called

  upon me, and after making various ridiculous

  excuses for failing to send in a proper bill, he

  hummed and hawed a good deal and

  suddenly suggested that I should marry him.

  I was very much astonished. The doctor

  was nearer forty than thirty and a round,

  tubby little man. He was not at all like the

  hero of "The Perils of Pamela," and even less

  like a stern and silent Rhodesian. I reflected a

  minute and then asked him why he wanted to

  marry me. That seemed to fluster him a good

  deal, and he murmured that a wife was a great

  help to a general practitioner. The position

  seemed even more unromantic than before,

  and yet something in me urged towards its

  acceptance. Safety, that was what I was being

  offered. Safety—and a Comfortable Home.

  Thinking it over now, I believe I did the little

  man an injustice. He was honestly in love

  with me, but a mistaken delicacy prevented

  him from pressing his suit on those lines.

  Anyway, my love of romance rebelled.

  "It's extremely kind of you," I said. "But

  21

  it's impossible. I could never marry a man

  unless I loved him madly."

  "You don't think——?"

  "No, I don't," I said firmly.

  He sighed.

  "But, my dear child, what do you propose

  to do?"

  "Have adventures and see the world," I

  replied, without the least hesitation.

  "Miss Anne, you are very much of a child

  still. You don't understand——"

  "The practical difficulties? Yes, I do,

  doctor. I'm not a sentimental schoolgirl—I'm

  a hard-headed mercenary shrew! You'd know

  it if you married me!"

  "I wish you would reconsider——"

  "I can't."

  He sighed again.

  "I have another proposal to make. An aunt

  of mine who lives in Wales is in want of a

  young lady to help her. How would that suit

  you?"

  "No, doctor, I'm going to London. If

  things happen anywhere, they happen in

  London. I shall keep my eyes open and,

  you'll see, something will turn up! You'll

  hear of me next in China or Timbuctoo."

  My next visitor was Mr. Flemming, Papa's

  22

  London solicitor. He came down specially

  from town to see me. An ardent anthropologist

  himself, he was a great admirer of

  Papa's works. He was a tall, spare man with a

  thin face and grey hair. He rose to meet me as

  I entered the room and taking both my hands

  in his, patted them affectionately.

  "My poor child," he said. "My poor, poor

  child."

  Without conscious hypocrisy, I found

  myself assuming the demeanour of a bereaved

  orphan. He hypnotized me into it. He was

  benignant, kind and fatherly--and without

  the least doubt he regarded me as a perfect

  fool of a girl left adrift to face an unkind

  world. From the first I felt that it was quite

  useless to try to convince him of the contrary.

  As things turned out, perhaps it was just as

  well I didn't.

  "My dear child, do you think you can listen

  to me whilst I try to make a few things clear

  to you?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "Your father, as you know, was a very great

  man. Posterity will appreciate him. But he

  was not a good man of business."

  I knew that quite as well, if not better than

  Mr. Flemming, but I restrained myself from

  23

  saying so. He continued: "I do not suppose

  you understand much of these matters. I will

  try to explain as clearly as I can."

  He explained at unnecessary length. The

  upshot seemed to be that I was left to face life

  with the sum of £87 17s 4d. It seemed a

  strangely unsatisfying amount. I waited in

  some trepidation for what was coming next. I

  feared that Mr. Flemming would be sure to

  have an aunt in Scotland who was in want

  of a bright young companion. Apparently,

  however, he hadn't.

  "The question is," he went on, "the

  future. I understand you have no living

  relatives?"

  "I'm alone in the world," I said, and was

  struck anew by my likeness to a film heroine.

  "You have friends?"

  "Everyone has been very kind to me," I

  said gratefully.

  "Who would not be kind to one so young

  and charming?" said Mr. Flemming

  gallantly. "Well, well, my dear, we must see

  what can be done." He hesitated a minute,

  and then said: "Supposing—how would it be

  if you came to us for
a time?"

  I jumped at the chance. London! The place

  for things to happen.

  24

  "It's awfully kind of you," I said. "Might I

  really? Just while I'm looking round. I must

  start out to earn my living, you know?"

  "Yes, yes, my dear child. I quite

  understand. We will look round for

  something--suitable.''

  I felt instinctively that Mr. Flemming's

  ideas of "something suitable" and mine were

  likely to be widely divergent, but it was

  certainly not the moment to air my views.

  "That is settled then. Why not return with

  me today?"

  "Oh, thank you, but will Mrs.

  Flemming----"

  "My wife will be delighted to welcome

  you."

  I wonder if husbands know as much about

  their wives as they think they do. If I had a

  husband, I should hate him to bring home

  orphans without consulting me first.

  "We will send her a wire from the station,"

  continued the lawyer.

  My few personal belongings were soon

  packed. I contemplated my hat sadly before

  putting it on. It had orginally been what I call

  a "Mary" hat, meaning by that the kind of

  hat a housemaid ought to wear on her day

  25

  out—but doesn't! A limp thing of black straw

  with a suitably depressed brim. With the

  inspiration of genius, I had kicked it once,

  punched it twice, dented in the crown and

  affixed to it a thing like a cubist's dream of a

  jazz carrot. The result had been distinctly

  chic. The carrot I had already removed, of

  course, and now I proceeded to undo the rest

  of my handiwork. The "Mary" hat resumed

  its former status with an additional battered

  appearance which made it even more

  depressing than formerly. I might as well

  look as much like the popular conception of

  an orphan as possible. I was just a shade

  nervous of Mrs. Flemming's reception, but

  hoped my appearance might have a

  sufficiently disarming effect.

  Mr. Flemming was nervous too. I realized

  that as we went up the stairs of the tall

  house in a quiet Kensington square. Mrs.

  Flemming greeted me pleasantly enough. She

  was a stout, placid woman of the "good wife

  and mother" type. She took me up to a

  spotless chintz-hung bedroom, hoped I had

  everything I wanted, informed me that tea

  would be ready in about a quarter of an hour,

  and left me to my own devices.