The Man in the Brown Suit. Агата Кристи

roll.’

      She produced it in triumph from the pocket of her sweater. A sudden roll of the boat upset her balance, and as she caught at the rail to steady herself the roll of films flashed over the side.

      ‘Oh!’ cried Mrs Blair, comically dismayed. She leaned over. ‘Do you think they have gone overboard?’

      ‘No, you may have been fortunate enough to brain an unlucky steward in the deck below.’

      A small boy who had arrived unobserved a few paces to our rear blew a deafening blast on a bugle.

      ‘Lunch,’ declared Mrs Blair ecstatically. ‘I’ve had nothing to eat since breakfast, except two cups of beef-tea. Lunch, Miss Beddingfeld?’

      ‘Well,’ I said waveringly. ‘Yes, I do feel rather hungry.’

      ‘Splendid. You’re sitting at the purser’s table, I know. Tackle him about the cabin.’

      I found my way down to the saloon, began to eat gingerly, and finished by consuming an enormous meal. My friend of yesterday congratulated me on my recovery. Everyone was changing cabins today, he told me, and he promised that my things should be moved to an outside one without delay.

      There were only four at our table, myself, a couple of elderly ladies, and a missionary who talked a lot about ‘our poor black brothers’.

      I looked round at the other tables. Mrs Blair was sitting at the Captain’s table. Colonel Race next to her. On the other side of the Captain was a distinguished-looking, grey-haired man. A good many people I had already noticed on deck, but there was one man who had not previously appeared. Had he done so, he could hardly have escaped my notice. He was tall and dark, and had such a peculiarly sinister type of countenance that I was quite startled. I asked the purser, with some curiosity, who he was.

      ‘That man? Oh, that’s Sir Eustace Pedler’s secretary. Been very sea-sick, poor chap, and not appeared before. Sir Eustace has got two secretaries with him, and the sea’s been too much for both of them. The other fellow hasn’t turned up yet. This man’s name is Pagett.’

      So Sir Eustace Pedler, the owner of the Mill House, was on board. Probably only a coincidence, and yet—

      ‘That’s Sir Eustace,’ my informant continued, ‘sitting next to the Captain. Pompous old ass.’

      The more I studied the secretary’s face, the less I liked it. Its even pallor, the secretive, heavy-lidded eyes, the curiously flattened head—it all gave a feeling of distaste, of apprehension.

      Leaving the saloon at the same time as he did, I was close behind him as he went up on deck. He was speaking to Sir Eustace, and I overheard a fragment or two.

      ‘I’ll see about the cabin at once then, shall I? It’s impossible to work in yours, with all your trunks.’

      ‘My dear fellow,’ Sir Eustace replied. ‘My cabin is intended (a) for me to sleep in, and (b) to attempt to dress in. I never had any intentions of allowing you to sprawl about the place making an infernal clicking with that typewriter of yours.’

      ‘That’s just what I say, Sir Eustace, we must have somewhere to work—’

      Here I parted company from them, and went below to see if my removal was in progress. I found my steward busy at the task.

      ‘Very nice cabin, miss. On D deck. No. 13.’