The Man in the Brown Suit by Agatha Christie

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.
    â€œMy dear fellow,” I cried, “You shall go tomorrow. 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, guidebook in hand, religiously doing all the picture galleries. And a week’s freedom was cheap to me at the price.
    It has been a delightful 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 standing between me and the light at the unearthly hour of 9 am this morning, I realized that freedom was over.
    â€œMy 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.
    â€œSo you know, Sir Eustace?”
    â€œKnow what?” I said crossly. “From the expression on your face I inferred that one of your near and dear relatives was to be interred this morning.”
    Pagett ignored the sally as far as possible.
    â€œI 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 am as practically the middle of the day—“and I thought that under the circumstances—” He tapped the telegram again.
    â€œWhat is that thing?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s a telegram from the police at Marlow. A woman has been murdered in your house.”
    That aroused me in earnest.
    â€œWhat colossal cheek,” I exclaimed. “Why in my house? Who murdered her?”
    â€œThey don’t say. I suppose we shall go back to England at once, Sir Eustace?”
    â€œYou need suppose nothing of the kind. Why should we go back?”
    â€œThe police—”
    â€œWhat on earth have I to do with the police?”
    â€œWell, it is your house.”
    â€œThat,” I said, “appears to be more my misfortune than my fault.”
    Guy Pagett shook his head gloomily.
    â€œIt will have a very unfortunate effect upon the constituency,” he remarked lugubriously.
    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 accounting for the view the respectable British public takes of a matter.
    â€œShe’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.
    â€œGood 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 lodge to live in solely on account of Caroline’s cooking.
    â€œI don’t suppose she’ll stay after this,” said Pagett.
    â€œYou 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 pacify.
    Three days later.
    It is incredible to me that anyone who can get away