Agatha Christie - Sparkling Cyanide

She looked at him for a moment or two without speaking, then she said abruptly:

"Why didn't you come and join us last night as George expected you to do?"

He shook his head.

"George didn't expect me."

"But he said he did."

"He may have said so, but it wasn't true. George knew perfectly well that I wasn't coming."

She said: "But that empty chair… Who was it for?"

"Not for me."

Her eyes half-closed and her face went very white.

She whispered: "It was for Rosemary… I see… It was for Rosemary…"

He thought she was going to fall. He came quickly to her and steadied her, then forced her to sit down.

"Take it easy…"

She said in a low breathless voice: "I'm all right… But I don't know what to do… I don't know what to do."

"Can I help you?"

She raised her eyes to his face. They were wistful and sombre.

Then she said: "I must get things clear. I must get them –" she made a groping gesture with her hands – "in sequence. First of all, George believed Rosemary didn't kill herself – but was killed. He believed that because of those letters. Colonel Race, who wrote those letters?"

"I don't know. Nobody knows. Have you yourself any idea?"

"I simply can't imagine. Anyway, George believed what they said, and he arranged this party last night, and he had an empty chair and it was All Souls' Day… that's the Day of the Dead – it was a day when Rosemary's spirit could have come back and – and told him the truth."

"You mustn't be too imaginative."

"But I've felt her myself – felt her quite near sometimes – I'm her sister – and I think she's trying to tell me something."

"Take it easy, Iris."

"I must talk about it. George drank Rosemary's health and he – died. Perhaps – she came and took him."

"The spirits of the dead don't put potassium cyanide in a champagne glass, my dear!"

The words seemed to restore her balance.

She said in a more normal tone: "But it's so incredible. George was killed – yes, killed. That's what the police think and it must be true. Because there isn't any other alternative. But it doesn't make sense."

"Don't you think it does? If Rosemary was killed, and George was beginning to suspect by whom –"

She interrupted him.

"Yes, but Rosemary wasn't killed. That's why it doesn't make sense. George believed those stupid letters partly because depression after influenza isn't a very convincing reason for killing yourself. But Rosemary had a reason. Look, I'll show you."

She ran out of the room and returned a few moments later with a folded letter in her hand. She thrust it on him.

"Read it. See for yourself."

He unfolded the slightly crumpled sheet.

"Leopard darling…"

He read it twice before handing it back.

The girl said eagerly: "You see? She was unhappy – broken-hearted. She didn't want to go on living."

"Do you know to whom that letter was written?"

Iris nodded.

"Stephen Farraday. It wasn't Anthony. She was in love with Stephen and he was cruel to her. So she took the stuff with her to the restaurant and drank it there where he could see her die. Perhaps she hoped he'd be sorry then."

Race nodded thoughtfully, but said nothing

After a moment or two he said: "When did you find this?"

"About six months ago. It was in the pocket of an old dressing-gown."

"You didn't show it to George?"

Iris cried passionately: "How could I? How could I? Rosemary was my sister. How could I give her away to George? He was so sure that she loved him. How could I show him this after she was dead? He'd got it all wrong, but I couldn't tell him so. But what I want to know is, what am I to do now? I've shown it to you because you were George's friend. Has Inspector Kemp got to see it?"

"Yes. Kemp must have it. It's evidence, you see."

"But then they'll – they might read it out in court?"

"Not necessarily. That doesn't follow. It's George's death that is being investigated. Nothing will be made public that is not strictly relevant. You had better let me take this now."

"Very well."

She went with him to the front door. As he opened it she said abruptly:

"It does show, doesn't it, that Rosemary's death was suicide?"

Race said: "It certainly shows that she had a motive for taking her own life."

She gave a deep sigh. He went down the steps. Glancing back once, he saw her standing framed in the open doorway, watching him walk away across the square.

Mary Rees-Talbot just greeted Colonel Race with a positive shriek of unbelief.

"My dear, I haven't seen you since you disappeared so mysteriously from Allahabad that time. And why are you here now? It isn't to see me, I'm quite sure. You never pay social calls. Come on now, own up, you needn't be diplomatic about it."

"Diplomatic methods would be a waste of time with you, Mary. I always have appreciated your X-ray mind."

"Cut the cackle and come to the horses, my pet."

Race smiled.

"Is the maid who let me in, Betty Archdale?" he inquired.

"So that's it! Now don't tell me that that girl, a pure Cockney if ever there was one, is a well-known European spy because I simply don't believe it."

"No, no, nothing of the kind."

"And don't tell me she's one of our counter-espionage either, because I don't believe that."

"Quite right. The girl is simply a parlourmaid."

"And since when have you been interested in simple parlourmaids – not that Betty is simple – an artful dodger is more like it."

"I think," said Colonel Race, "that she might be able to tell me something."

"If you asked her nicely? I shouldn't be surprised if you're right. She has the close-to-the-door-when-there's-anything-interesting-going-on technique very highly developed. What does M. do?"

"M. very kindly offers me a drink and rings for Betty and orders it."

"And when Betty brings it?"

"By then M. has very kindly gone away."

"To do some listening outside the door herself?"

"If she likes."

"And after that I shall be bursting with Inside Information about the latest European crisis?"

"I'm afraid not. There is no political situation involved in this."

"What a disappointment! All right. I'll play!"

Mrs Rees-Talbot, who was a lively near-brunette of forty-nine, rang the bell and directed her good-looking parlourmaid to bring Colonel Race a whisky and soda.

When Betty Archdale returned, with a salver and the drink upon it, Mrs Rees-Talbot was standing by the far door into her own sitting-room.

"Colonel Race has some questions to ask you," she said and went out.

Betty turned her impudent eyes on the tall grey-haired soldier with some alarm in their depths. He took the glass from the tray and smiled.

"Seen the papers today?" he asked.

"Yes, sir." Betty eyed him warily.

"Did you see that Mr George Barton died last night at the Luxembourg Restaurant?"

"Oh, yes, sir." Betty's eyes sparkled with the pleasure of public disaster. "Wasn't it dreadful?"

"You were in service there, weren't you?"

"Yes, sir. I left last winter, soon after Mrs Barton died."

"She died at the Luxembourg , too."

Betty nodded. "Sort of funny, that, isn't it, sir?" Race did not think it funny, but he knew what the words were intended to convey. He said gravely:

"I see you've got brains. You can put two and two together."

Betty clasped her hands and cast discretion to the winds.

"Was he done in, too? The papers didn't say exactly?"

"Why do you say 'too'? Mrs Barton's death was brought in by the coroner's jury as suicide."

She gave him a quick look out of the corner of her eye. Ever so old, she thought, but he's nice looking. That quiet kind. A real gentleman. Sort of gentleman who'd have given you a gold sovereign when he was young. Funny, I don't even know what a sovereign looks like! What's he after, exactly?