Agatha Christie - Sparkling Cyanide

"You'd have to lie about your age. I don't know what penalties I'd incur for marrying a minor without her guardian's consent. Who is your guardian, by the way?"

"George. He's my trustee as well."

"As I was saying, whatever penalties I incurred, they couldn't unmarry us and that is really all I care about."

Iris shook her head. "I couldn't do it. I couldn't be so unkind. And in any case, why? What's the point of it?"

Anthony said: "That's why I asked you first if you could trust me. You'd have to take my reasons on trust. Let's say that it is the simplest way. But never mind."

Iris said timidly: "If George only got to know you a little better. Come back now with me. It will be only he and Aunt Lucilla."

"Are you sure? I thought –" he paused. "As I struck up the hill I saw a man going up your drive – and the funny thing is that I believe I recognised him as a man I –" he hesitated –"had met."

"Of course – I forgot – George said he was expecting someone."

"The man I thought I saw was a man called Race – Colonel Race."

"Very likely. George knows a Colonel Race. He was coming to dinner on that night when Rosemary –" She stopped, her voice quivering. Anthony gripped her hand.

"Don't go on remembering it, darling. It was beastly, I know."

She shook her head.

"I can't help it. Anthony –"

"Yes?"

"Did it ever occur to you – did you ever think –" she found a difficulty in putting her meaning into words.

"Did it ever strike you that – that Rosemary might not have committed suicide? That she might have been – killed?"

"Good God, Iris, what put that idea into your head?"

She did not reply – merely persisted: "That idea never occurred to you?"

"Certainly not. Of course Rosemary committed suicide."

Iris said nothing.

"Who's been suggesting these things to you?"

For a moment she was tempted to tell him George's incredible story, but she refrained.

She said slowly: "It was just an idea."

"Forget it, darling idiot." He pulled her to her feet and then kissed her cheek lightly. "Darling morbid idiot. Forget Rosemary. Only think of me."

Puffing at his pipe, Colonel Race looked speculatively at George Barton. He had known George Barton ever since the latter's boyhood. Barton's uncle had been a country neighbour of the Races. There was a difference of nearly twenty years between the two men. Race was over sixty, a tall, erect, military figure, with sunburnt face, closely cropped iron-grey hair, and shrewd dark eyes.

There had never been any particular intimacy between the two men – but Barton had remained to Race "young George" – one of the many vague figures associated with earlier days.

He was thinking at this moment that he had really no idea what "young George" was like.

On the brief occasions when they had met in later years, they had found little in common. Race was an out-door man, essentially of the Empire-builder type – most of his life had been spent abroad. George was emphatically the city gentleman. Their interests were dissimilar and when they met it was to exchange rather lukewarm reminiscences of "the old days," after which an embarrassed silence was apt to occur. Colonel Race was not good at small talk and might indeed have posed as the model of a strong silent man so beloved by an earlier generation of novelists.

Silent at this moment, he was wondering just why "young George" had been so very insistent on this meeting. Thinking, too, that there was some subtle change in the man since he had last seen him a year ago. George Barton had always struck him as stodgy – cautious, practical, unimaginative.

There was, he thought, something very wrong with the fellow. Jumpy as a cat. He'd already re-lit his cigar three times – and that wasn't like Barton at all.

He took his pipe out of his mouth.

"Well, young George, what's the trouble?"

"You're right, Race, it is trouble. I want your advice badly – and your help."

The colonel nodded and waited.

"Nearly a year ago you were coming to dine with us in London – at the Luxembourg . You had to go abroad at the last minute."

Again Race nodded. " South Africa ."

"At the dinner party my wife died."

Race stirred uncomfortably in his chair.

"I know. Read about it. Didn't mention it now or offer you sympathy because I didn't want to stir up things again. But I'm sorry, old man, you know that."

"Oh, yes, yes. That's not the point. My wife was supposed to have committed suicide."

Race fastened on the key word. His eyebrows rose.

"Supposed?"

"Read these."

He thrust the two letters into the other's hand. Race's eyebrows rose still higher.

"Anonymous letters?"

"Yes. And I believe them."

Race shook his head slowly.

"That's a dangerous thing to do. You'd be surprised how many lying spiteful letters get written after any event that's been given any sort of publicity in the Press."

"I know that. But these weren't written at the time – they weren't written until six months afterwards."

Race nodded.

"That's a point. Who do you think wrote them?"

"I don't know. I don't care. The point is that I believe what they say is true. My wife was murdered."

Race laid down his pipe. He sat up a little straighter in his chair.

"Now just why do you think that? Had you any suspicion at the time. Had the police?"

"I was dazed when it happened – completely bowled over. I just accepted the verdict at the inquest. My wife had had 'flu, was run down. No suspicion of anything but suicide arose. The stuff was in her handbag, you see."

"What was the stuff?"

"Cyanide."

"I remember. She took it in champagne."

"Yes. It seemed, at the time, all quite straightforward."

"Had she ever threatened to commit suicide?"

"No, never. Rosemary," said George Barton, "loved life."

Race nodded. He had only met George's wife once. He had thought her a singularly lovely nit-wit – but certainly not a melancholic type.

"What about the medical evidence as to state of mind, et cetera?"

"Rosemary's own doctor – an elderly man who has attended the Marle family since they were children – was away on a sea voyage. His partner, a young man, attended Rosemary when she had 'flu. All he said, I remember, was that the type of 'flu about was inclined to leave serious depression."

George paused and went on.

"It wasn't until after I got these letters that I then talked with Rosemary's own doctor. I said nothing of the letters, of course – just discussed what had happened. He told me then that he was very surprised at what had happened. He would never have believed it, he said, Rosemary was not at all a suicidal type. It showed, he said, how even a patient one knew very well might act in a thoroughly uncharacteristic manner."

Again George paused and then went on: "It was after talking to him I realised how absolutely unconvincing to me Rosemary's suicide was. After all, I knew her very well. She was a person who was capable of violent fits of unhappiness. She could get very worked up over things, and she would on occasions take very rash and unconsidered action, but I have never known her in the frame of mind that 'wanted to get out of it all.'"

Race murmured in a slightly embarrassed manner:

"Could she have had a motive for suicide apart from mere depression? Was she, I mean, definitely unhappy about anything?"

"I – no – she was perhaps rather nervy."

Avoiding looking at his friend, Race said: "Was she at all a melodramatic person? I only saw her once, you know. But there is a type that – well – might get a kick out of attempted suicide – and usually if they have quarrelled with someone. The rather childish motive of – 'I'll make them sorry!'"