Agatha Christie - Sparkling Cyanide

Iris sighed.

"I'm glad I've told you– No one will ever know now, will they? Only you and I?"

Anthony looked at her with a rather embarrassed expression.

"It's not going to be just like that, Iris. In fact you're coming with me now in a taxi to old man Kemp. We can't keep this under our hats."

"Oh, no, Anthony. They'll think I killed George."

"They'll certainly think so if they find out later that you sat tight and said nothing about all this! Your explanation will then sound extremely thin. If you volunteer it now there's a likelihood of its being believed."

"Please, Anthony."

"Look here, Iris, you're in a tight place. But apart from anything else, there's such a thing as truth. You can't play safe and take care of your own skin when it's a question of justice."

"Oh, Anthony, must you be so grand?"

"That," said Anthony, "was a very shrewd blow! But all the same we're going to Kemp! Now!"

Unwillingly she came with him out into the hall. Her coat was lying tossed on a chair and he took it and held it out for her to put on.

There was both mutiny and fear in her eyes, but Anthony showed no sign of relenting. He said:

"We'll pick up a taxi at the end of the Square."

As they went towards the hall door the bell was pressed and they heard it ringing in the basement below.

Iris gave an exclamation.

"I forgot. It's Ruth. She was coming here when she left the office to settle about the funeral arrangements. It's to be the day after tomorrow. I thought we could settle things better while Aunt Lucilla was out. She does confuse things so."

Anthony stepped forward and opened the door, forestalling the parlourmaid who came running up the stairs from below.

"It's all right, Evans," said Iris, and the girl went down again.

Ruth was looking tired and rather dishevelled. She was carrying a large-sized attache case.

"I'm sorry I'm late, but the tube-was so terribly crowded tonight and then I had to wait for three buses and not a taxi in sight."

It was, thought Anthony, unlike the efficient Ruth to apologise. Another sign that George's death had succeeded in shattering that almost inhuman efficiency.

Iris said: "I can't come with you now, Anthony. Ruth and I must settle things."

Anthony said firmly: "I'm afraid this is more important… I'm awfully sorry, Miss Lessing, to drag Iris off like this, but it really is important."

Ruth said quickly: "That's quite all right, Mr Browne. I can arrange everything with Mrs Drake when she comes in." She smiled faintly. "I can really manage her quite well, you know."

"I'm sure you could manage anyone, Miss Lessing," said Anthony admiringly.

"Perhaps, Iris, if you can tell me any special points?"

"There aren't any. I suggested arranging this together because Aunt Lucilla changes her mind about everything every two minutes, and I thought it would be rather hard on you. You've had so much to do. But I really don't care what sort of funeral it is! Aunt Lucilla likes funerals, but I hate them. You've got to bury people, but I hate making a fuss about it. It can't matter to the people themselves. They've got away from it all. The dead don't come back."

Ruth did not answer, and Iris repeated with a strange defiant insistence: "The dead don't come back!"

"Come on," said Anthony, and pulled her out through the open door.

A cruising taxi was coming slowly along the Square. Anthony hailed it and helped Iris in.

"Tell me, beautiful," he said, after he had directed the driver to go to Scotland Yard. "Who exactly did you feel was there in the hall when you found it so necessary to affirm that the dead are dead? Was it George or Rosemary?"

"Nobody! Nobody at all! I just hate funerals, I tell you."

Anthony sighed.

"Definitely," he said, "I must be psychic!"

Three men sat at a small round marble-topped table.

Colonel Race and Chief Inspector Kemp were drinking cups of dark brown tea, rich in tannin. Anthony was drinking an English café's idea of a nice cup of coffee. It was not Anthony's idea, but he endured it for the sake of being admitted on equal terms to the other two men's conference. Chief Inspector Kemp, having painstakingly verified Anthony's credentials, had consented to recognise him as a colleague.

"If you ask me," said the Chief Inspector, dropping several lumps of sugar into his black brew and stirring it, "this case will never be brought to trial. We'll never get the evidence."

"You think not?" asked Race.

Kemp shook his head and took an approving sip of his tea.

"The only hope was to get evidence concerning the actual purchasing or handling of cyanide by one of those five. I've drawn a blank everywhere. It'll be one of those cases where you know who did it, and can't prove it."

"So you know who did it?" Anthony regarded him with interest. "Well I'm pretty certain in my own mind. Lady Alexandra Farraday."

"So that's your bet," said Race. "Reasons?"

"You shall have 'em. I'd say she's the type that's madly jealous. And autocratic, too. Like that queen in history – Eleanor of Something, that followed the clue to Fair Rosamund's Bower and offered her the choice of a dagger or a cup of poison."

"Only in this case," said Anthony, "she didn't offer Fair Rosemary any choice."

Chief Inspector Kemp went on: "Someone tips Mr Barton off. He becomes suspicious – and I should say his suspicions were pretty definite. He wouldn't have gone so far as actually buying a house in the country unless he wanted to keep an eye on the Farradays. He must have made it pretty plain to her – harping on this party and urging them to come to it. She's not the kind to Wait and See. Autocratic again, she finished him off! That, you say so far, is all theory and shorthand report made when I took her statement. If I had, the poor fellow would have been in hospital with writer's cramp."

"Well," said Anthony. "I daresay you're right, Chief Inspector, in saying that the case will never come to trial – but that's a very unsatisfactory finish – and there's one thing we still don't know – who wrote those letters to George Barton telling him his wife was murdered? We haven't the least idea who that person is."

Race said: "Your suspicions still the same, Browne?"

"Ruth Lessing? Yes, I stick to her as my candidate. You told me that she admitted to you she was in love with George. Rosemary by all accounts was pretty poisonous to her. Say she saw suddenly a chance of getting rid of Rosemary, and was fairly convinced that with Rosemary out of the way, she could marry George out of hand."

"I grant you all that," said Race. "I'll admit that Ruth Lessing has the calm practical efficiency that can contemplate and carry out murder, and she perhaps lacks that quality of pity which is essentially a product of imagination. Yes, I give you the first murder. But I simply can't see her committing the second one. I simply cannot see her panicking and poisoning the man she loved and wanted to marry! Another point that rules her out – why did she hold her tongue when she saw Iris throw the cyanide packet under the table?"

"Perhaps she didn't see her do it," suggested Anthony, rather doubtfully.

"I'm fairly sure she did," said Race. "When I was questioning her, I had the impression that she was keeping something back. And Iris Marle herself thought Ruth Lessing saw her."

"Come now, colonel," said Kemp. "Let's have your 'spot.' You've got one, I suppose?"

Race nodded.

"Out with it. Fair's fair. You've listened to ours – and raised objections."

Race's eyes went thoughtfully from Kemp's face to Anthony and rested there.

Anthony's eyebrows rose.

"Don't say you still think I am the villain of the piece?"

Slowly Race shook his head.