Agatha Christie - Sparkling Cyanide

"Rosemary and I hadn't quarrelled."

"No. And I must say that the fact of cyanide having been used rather rules that possibility out. It's not the kind of thing that you can monkey about with safely – and everybody knows it."

"That's another point. If by any chance Rosemary had contemplated doing away with herself surely she'd never do it that way? Painful and – and ugly. An overdose of some sleeping stuff would be far more likely."

"I agree. Was there any evidence as to her purchasing or getting hold of the cyanide?"

"No. But she had been staying with friends in the country and they had taken a wasps' nest one day. It was suggested that she might have taken a handful of potassium cyanide crystals then."

"Yes – it's not a difficult thing to get hold of. Most gardeners keep a stock of it."

He paused and then said: "Let me summarise the position. There was no positive evidence as to a disposition to suicide, or to any preparation for it. The whole thing was negative. But there can also have been no positive evidence pointing to murder, or the police would have got hold of it. They're quite wide awake, you know."

"The mere idea of murder would have seemed fantastic."

"But it didn't seem fantastic to you six months later?"

George said slowly: "I think I must have been unsatisfied all along. And I think I must have been subconsciously preparing myself so that when I saw the thing written down in black and white I accepted it without doubt."

"Yes." Race nodded. "Well, then, let's have it. Who do you suspect?"

George leaned forward – his face twitching.

"That's what is so terrible. If Rosemary was killed, one of those people round the table, one of our friends, must have done it. No one else came near the table."

"Waiters? Who poured out the wine?"

"Charles, the head waiter at the Luxembourg . You know Charles?"

Race assented. Everybody knew Charles. It seemed quite impossible to imagine that Charles could have deliberately poisoned a client.

"And the waiter who looked after us was Giuseppe. We know Giuseppe well. I've known him for years. He always looks after me there. He's a delightful cheery little fellow."

"So we come to the dinner party. Who was there?"

"Stephen Farraday, the M.P. His wife, Lady Alexandra Farraday. My secretary, Ruth Lessing. A fellow called Anthony Browne, Rosemary's sister Iris, and myself. Seven in all. We should have been eight if you had come. When you dropped out we couldn't think of anybody suitable to ask at the last minute."

"I see. Well, Barton, who do you think did it?"

George cried out: "I don't know – I tell you I don't know. If I had any idea –"

"All right – all right. I just thought you might have a definite suspicion. Well, it oughtn't to be difficult. How did you sit – starting with yourself?"

"I had Sandra Farraday on my right, of course. Next to her, Anthony Browne. Then Rosemary. Then Stephen Farraday, then Iris, then Ruth Lessing who sat on my left."

"I see. And your wife had drunk champagne earlier in the evening?"

"Yes. The glasses had been filled up several times. It – it happened while the cabaret show was on. There was a lot of noise – it was one of those negro shows and we were all watching it. She slumped forward on the table just before the lights went up. She may have cried out – or gasped – but nobody heard anything. The doctor said that death must have been practically instantaneous. Thank God for that."

"Yes, indeed. Well, Barton – on the face of it, it seems fairly obvious."

"You mean?"

"Stephen Farraday of course. He was on her right hand. Her champagne glass would be close to his left hand. Easiest thing in the world to put the stuff in as soon as the lights were lowered and general attention went to the raised stage. I can't see that anybody else had anything like as good an opportunity. I know those Luxembourg tables. There's plenty of room round them – I doubt very much if anybody could have leaned across the table, for instance, without being noticed even if the lights were down. The same thing applies to the fellow on Rosemary's left. He would have had to, lean across her to put anything in her glass. There is one other possibility, but we'll take the obvious person first. Any reason why Stephen Farraday, M.P., should want to do away with your wife?"

George said in a stifled voice: "They – they had been rather close friends. If – if Rosemary had turned him down, for instance, he might have wanted revenge."

"Sounds highly melodramatic. That is the only motive you can suggest?"

"Yes," said George. His face was very red. Race gave him the most fleeting of glances.

Then he went on: "We'll examine possibility No. 2. One of the women."

"Why the women?"

"My dear George, has it escaped your notice that in a party of seven, four women and three men, there will probably be one or two periods during the evening when three couples are dancing and one woman is sitting alone at the table? You did all dance?"

"Oh, yes."

"Good. Now before the cabaret, can you remember who was sitting alone at any moment?"

George thought a minute.

"I think – yes. Iris was odd man out last, and Ruth the time before."

"You don't remember when your wife drank champagne last?"

"Let me see, she had been dancing with Browne. I remember her coming back and saying that had been pretty strenuous – he's rather a fancy dancer. She drank up the wine in her glass then. A few minutes later they played a waltz and she – danced with me. She knew a waltz is the only dance I'm really any good at. Farraday danced with Ruth and Lady Alexandra with Browne. Iris sat out. Immediately after that, they had the cabaret."

"Then let's consider your wife's sister. Did she come into any money on your wife's death?"

George began to splutter.

"My dear Race – don't be absurd. Iris was a mere child, a schoolgirl."

"I've known two schoolgirls who committed murder."

"But Iris! She was devoted to Rosemary."

"Never mind, Barton. She also had the opportunity. I want to know if she had motive. Your wife, I believe, was a rich woman. Where did her money go – to you?"

"No, it went to Iris – a trust fund."

He explained the position, to which Race listened attentively.

"Rather a curious position. The rich sister and the poor sister. Some girls might have resented that."

"I'm sure Iris never did."

"Maybe not – but she had a motive all right. We'll try that tack now. Who else had a motive?"

"Nobody – nobody at all. Rosemary hadn't an enemy in the world, I'm sure. I've been looking into all that – asking questions – trying to find out. I've even taken this house near the Farradays' so as to –"

He stopped. Race took up his pipe and began to scratch at its interior.

"Hadn't you better tell me everything, young George?"

"What do you mean?"

"You're keeping something back – it sticks out a mile. You can sit there defending your wife's reputation – or you can try and find out if she was murdered or not – but if the latter matters most to you, you'll have to come clean."

There was a silence.

"All right then," said George in a stifled voice. "You win."

"You'd reason to believe your wife had a lover, is that it?"

"Yes."

"Stephen Farraday?"

"I don't know! I swear to you I don't know! It might have been him or it might have been the other fellow, Browne. I couldn't make up my mind. It was hell."

"Now tell me what you know about this Anthony Browne? Funny, I seem to have heard the name."

"I don't know anything about him. Nobody does. He's a good-looking amusing sort of chap – but nobody knows the first thing about him. He's supposed to be an American but he's got no accent to speak of."