The Man in the Brown Suit by Agatha Christie

head, dissatisfied. Surely that was past history now. But what else could there be?
    I wanted to think. The events of last night, though exciting, had not really done anything to elucidate matters. Who was the young man who had burst into my cabin so abruptly? I had not seen him on board previously, either on deck or in the saloon. Was he one of the ship's company or was he a passenger? Who had stabbed him? Why had they stabbed him? And why, in the name of goodness, should Cabin No. 17 figure so prominently? It was all a mystery, but there was no doubt that some very peculiar occurrences were taking place on the Kilmorden Castle.
    I counted off on my fingers the people on whom it behoved me to keep a watch.
    Setting aside my visitor of the night before, but promising myself that I would discover him on board before another day had passed, I selected the following persons as worthy of my notice:
    (1) Sir Eustace Pedler. He was the owner of the Mill House, and his
    presence on the Kilmorden Castle seemed something of a coincidence.
    (2) Mr. Pagett, the sinister-looking secretary, whose eagerness to obtain
    Cabin 17 had been so very marked. N.B. - Find out whether he had
    accompanied Sir Eustace to Cannes.
    (3) The Rev. Edward Chichester. All I had against him was his obstinacy
    over Cabin 17, and that might be entirely due to his own peculiar
    temperament. Obstinacy can be an amazing thing.
    But a little conversation with Mr. Chichester would not come amiss, I decided. Hastily tying a handkerchief round my hair, I went up on deck again, full of purpose. I was in luck. My quarry was leaning against the rail, drinking beef-tea. I went up to him.
    “I hope you've forgiven me over Cabin 17,” I said, with my best smile.
    “I consider it unchristian to bear a grudge,” said Mr. Chichester coldly. “But the purser had distinctly promised me that cabin.”
    “Pursers are such busy men, aren't they?” I said vaguely. “I suppose they're bound to forget sometimes.”
    Mr. Chichester did not reply.
    “Is this your first visit to Africa?” I inquired conversationally.
    “To South Africa, yes. But I have worked for the last two years among the cannibal tribes in the interior of East Africa.”
    “How thrilling! Have you had many narrow escapes?” “Escapes?”
    “Of being eaten, I mean?”
    “You should not treat sacred subjects with levity. Miss Beddingfield.” “I didn't know that cannibalism was a sacred subject,” I retorted, stung.
    As the words left my lips, another idea struck me. If Mr. Chichester had indeed spent the last two years in the interior of Africa, how was it that he was not more sunburnt? His skin was as pink and white as a baby's. Surely there was something fishy there? Yet his manner and voice were so absolutely it. Too much so, perhaps. Was he - or was he not - just a little like a stage clergyman?
    I cast my mind back to the curates I had known at Little Hampsley. Some of them I had liked, some of them I had not, but certainly none of them had been quite like Mr. Chichester. They had been human - he was a glorified type.
    I was debating all this when Sir Eustace Pedler passed down the deck. Just as he was abreast of Mr. Chichester, he stooped and picked up a piece of paper which he handed to him, remarking, “You've dropped something.”
    He passed on without stopping, and so probably did not notice Mr. Chichester's agitation. I did. Whatever it was he had dropped, its recovery agitated him considerably. He turned a sickly green, and crumpled up the sheet of paper into a ball. My suspicions were accentuated a hundredfold.
    He caught my eye, and hurried into explanations.
    “A - a - fragment of a sermon I was composing,” he said with a sickly smile.
    “Indeed?” I rejoined politely.
    A fragment of a sermon, indeed! No, Mr. Chichester - too weak for words!
    He soon left me with a muttered excuse. I wished, oh, how I wished, that I had been the one to pick up that paper and not Sir Eustace