The Man Who Killed Himself Read Free Page A

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    Matrimonial Assistance Limited operated in a manner similar to that of some other, although not the largest and most reputable, matrimonial agencies. The Major advertised in local newspapers and on dozens of newsagents’ boards. His correspondents received an encouraging letter saying that there were hundreds of bachelors, spinsters, widowers and widows on his books. A small remittance would bring the correspondent a list of a dozen names of ladies (or gentlemen, as the case might be) who wished, in the words of the duplicated letter, to assume ‘the sweet bonds of matrimony.’ The brief descriptions did not include addresses because, as the letter explained, it was a fixed rule that all introductions must be handled through Matrimonial Assistance. ‘This is our pleasure and your safeguard,’ the letter said. Letters came in and were forwarded, correspondents eventually met in the office (by appointment only, for the Major was not there every day), and marriages no doubt took place. It was not Major Mellon’s part, as he had sometimes to say firmly, to examine the antecedents of people who wrote to him. He credited them all with honesty and common sense, and if some were lacking in one or other of these qualities that was hardly Major Mellon’s business.
    He looked at his diary and saw that he had only two appointments, one at eleven-thirty, the other half an hour later. There was time to do some typing. The first applications received his duplicated letter, signed ‘Easonby Mellon’ with Major, RAC (retd.)’ beneath. Major Mellon signed these letters dashingly, with his left hand. Then came the follow-ups, from people who had responded to the duplicate letter and sent remittances. They got their list of names taken from the files with a request that they should not write to more than one name on the list at a time – although, of course, this request was not always obeyed. That left four letters needing more personal attention. He skimmed through one of them, in a woman’s hand:
    ‘…seemed a perfect gentleman, or otherwise as you can imagine I should never have invited him into my home, but as soon as he was inside he began to behave like a wild beast, I feel sure that you…’
    How foolish people were! He chuckled a little at the thought of it. The man described himself on his record card as ‘Poultry breeder (55) of loving disposition,’ and he lived in Norfolk. The Major reflected that he would have to write to the fellow seriously, and of course he must send a sympathetic note to the lady (‘Widow, petite, early 40s but attractive’), something about her fatal charm perhaps? It was now, however, time for his eleven-thirty visitors.
    These proved to be a Mr Lake, a gangling Australian with a terrible squint, and a nervous ageing spinster named Amelia Bonnamie. Could that really be her name? But there again, what she chose to call herself was not his concern. He said that his secretary had just gone out, expanded on it a little (‘To tell the truth I asked her to step out for a few minutes, thought it might be easier for everybody’) and talked briefly about the sacred bond of matrimony. They seemed pleased, with him and with each other. As they were going he tapped Lake on the shoulder.
    ‘Just a moment.’ He closed the door on Miss Bonnamie, leaving her in the tiny outer hall. ‘When an introduction is effected a small fee is payable by the gentleman. Three guineas.’
    ‘Of course. Sorry I forgot.’ The Australian almost fell over himself in his eagerness to get out the money.
    The Major took it, gave him a receipt and said with what might have been a twinkle in his eye, ‘I hope your intentions are serious.’
    ‘You bet,’ said Lake, and was gone. It was a nicely ambiguous reply.
    The other appointment – well, the Major drew down the corners of his mouth as he thought of that, and re-read the letter on his desk signed in a neat hand ‘Patricia Parker (Miss).’ The letter said