Gwendoline Butler - The Red Staircase

‘She did not die from her bath, that is certain,’ said Ariadne.

‘In a way she did,’ I said sadly. ‘That is, I think it must have given her the idea. Wasn’t it Marat who was stabbed in a bath?’

Ariadne gave a little hiss of alarm. ‘Stabbed?’

‘Yes. You asked for the truth, and this is it: Mademoiselle Laure severed the arteries in both wrists with her pen-knife and then sat in the warm bath to die.’

My news was received with shocked silence. Then Peter said: ‘The Roman way to die.’

‘Yes, I had the same thought.’

‘It’s terrible,’ said Ariadne. She was very white, her cheerful ebullience dowsed. ‘Much worse than I thought. Poor Mademoiselle.’ She stood up. ‘I grieve for her.’

‘Had you any idea this was likely to happen, Miss Rose?’ asked Peter Alexandrov.

‘No. How could I have? I hardly knew her.’ I was even startled that he should ask me.

‘But you were with her last night.’

‘I didn’t think she was going to kill herself,’ I said sadly. ‘No, I got a totally different idea. She did say that at last she felt free .’

‘Ah,’ said Peter.

‘But I did not interpret freedom as death.’

‘To the sick mind it may seem so.’

‘I suppose it couldn’t be – no,’ I stopped short.

‘What? What couldn’t it be?’ he asked sharply.

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