Sparkling Cyanide

What did she really know about Rosemary when she came to think of it? Of her tastes, of her hopes, of her fears? Frightening, really, how little you might know of a person after living in the same house with them! There had been little or no intimacy between the sisters.

But she’d got to think now. She’d got to remember. It might be important.

Certainly Rosemary had seemed happy enough …

Until that day—a week before it happened.

She, Iris, would never forget that day. It stood out crystal clear—each detail, each word. The shining mahogany table, the pushed back chair, the hurried characteristic writing …

Iris closed her eyes and let the scene come back …

Her own entry into Rosemary’s sitting-room, her sudden stop.

It had startled her so; what she saw! Rosemary, sitting at the writing table, her head laid down on her outstretched arms. Rosemary weeping with a deep abandoned sobbing. She’d never seen Rosemary cry before—and this bitter, violent weeping frightened her.

True, Rosemary had had a bad go of ’flu. She’d only been up a day or two. And everyone knew that ’flu did leave you depressed. Still—

Iris had cried out, her voice childish, startled:

‘Oh, Rosemary, what is it?’

Rosemary sat up, swept the hair back from her disfigured face. She struggled to regain command of herself. She said quickly:

‘It’s nothing—nothing—don’t stare at me like that!’

She got up and passing her sister, she ran out of the room.

Puzzled, upset, Iris went farther into the room. Her eyes, drawn wonderingly to the writing table, caught sight of her own name in her sister’s handwriting. Had Rosemary been writing to her then?

She drew nearer, looked down on the sheet of blue notepaper with the big characteristic sprawling writing, even more sprawling than usual owing to the haste and agitation behind the hand that held the pen.

Darling Iris,

There isn’t any point in my making a will because my money goes to you anyway, but I’d like certain of my things to be given to certain people.

To George, the jewellery he’s given me, and the little enamel casket we bought together when we were engaged.

To Gloria King, my platinum cigarette case.

To Maisie, my Chinese Pottery horse that she’s always admir—

It stopped there, with a frantic scrawl of the pen as Rosemary had dashed it down and given way to uncontrollable weeping.

Iris stood as though turned to stone.

What did it mean? Rosemary wasn’t going to die, was she? She’d been very ill with influenza, but she was all right now. And anyway people didn’t die of ’flu—at least sometimes they did, but Rosemary hadn’t. She was quite well now, only weak and run down.

Iris’s eyes went over the words again and this time a phrase stood out with startling effect:

‘… my money goes to you anyway …’

It was the first intimation she had had of the terms of Paul Bennett’s will. She had known since she was a child that Rosemary had inherited Uncle Paul’s money, that Rosemary was rich whilst she herself was comparatively poor. But until this moment she had never questioned what would happen to that money on Rosemary’s death.

If she had been asked, she would have replied that she supposed it would go to George as Rosemary’s husband, but would have added that it seemed absurd to think of Rosemary dying before George!

But here it was, set down in black and white, in Rosemary’s own hand. At Rosemary’s death the money came to her, Iris. But surely that wasn’t legal? A husband or wife got any money, not a sister. Unless, of course, Paul Bennett had left it that way in his will. Yes, that must be it. Uncle Paul had said the money was to go to her if Rosemary died. That did make it rather less unfair—

Unfair? She was startled as the word leapt to her thoughts. Had she then been thinking that it was unfair for Rosemary to get all Uncle Paul’s money? She supposed that, deep down, she must have been feeling just that. It was unfair. They were sisters, she and Rosemary. They were both her mother’s children. Why should Uncle Paul give it all to Rosemary?

Rosemary always had everything!

Parties and frocks and young men in love with her and an adoring husband.

The only unpleasant thing that ever happened to Rosemary was having an attack of ’flu! And even that hadn’t lasted longer than a week!

Iris hesitated, standing by the desk. That sheet of paper—would Rosemary want it left about for the servants to see?

After a minute’s hesitation she picked it up, folded it in two and slipped it into one of the drawers of the desk.

It was found there after the fatal birthday party, and provided an additional proof, if proof was necessary, that Rosemary had been in a depressed and unhappy state of mind after her illness, and had possibly been thinking of suicide even then.

Depression after influenza. That was the motive brought forward at the inquest, the motive that Iris’s evidence helped to establish. An inadequate motive, perhaps, but the only one available, and consequently accepted. It had been a bad type of influenza that year.

Neither Iris nor George Barton could have suggested any other motive—then.

Now, thinking back over the incident in the attic, Iris wondered that she could have been so blind.

The whole thing must have been going on under her eyes! And she had seen nothing, noticed nothing!

Her mind took a quick leap over the tragedy of the birthday party. No need to think of that! That was over—done with. Put away the horror of that and the inquest and George’s twitching face and bloodshot eyes. Go straight on to the incident of the trunk in the attic.

That had been about six months after Rosemary’s death.

Iris had continued to live at the house in Elvaston Square. After the funeral the Marle family solicitor, a courtly old gentleman with a shining bald head and unexpectedly shrewd eyes, had had an interview with Iris. He had explained with admirable clarity that under the will of Paul Bennett, Rosemary had inherited his estate in trust to pass at her death to any children she might have. If Rosemary died childless, the estate was to go to Iris absolutely. It was, the solicitor explained, a very large fortune which would belong to her absolutely upon attaining the age of twenty-one or on her marriage.

In the meantime, the first thing to settle was her place of residence. Mr George Barton had shown himself anxious for her to continue living with him and had suggested that her father’s sister, Mrs Drake, who was in impoverished circumstances owing to the financial claims of a son (the black sheep of the Marle family), should make her home with them and chaperon Iris in society. Did Iris approve of this plan?

Iris had been quite willing, thankful not to have to make new plans. Aunt Lucilla she remembered as an amiable friendly sheep with little will of her own.

So the matter had been settled. George Barton had been touchingly pleased to have his wife’s sister still with him and treated her affectionately as a younger sister. Mrs Drake, if not a stimulating companion, was completely subservient to Iris’s wishes. The household settled down amicably.

It was nearly six months later that Iris made her discovery in the attic.

The attics of the Elvaston Square house were used as storage rooms for odds and ends of furniture, and a number of trunks and suitcases.

Iris had gone up there one day after an unsuccessful hunt for an old red pullover for which she had an affection. George had begged her not to wear mourning for Rosemary, Rosemary had always been opposed to the idea, he said. This, Iris knew, was true, so she acquiesced and continued to wear ordinary clothes, somewhat to the disapproval of Lucilla Drake, who was old-fashioned and liked what she called ‘the decencies’ to be observed. Mrs Drake herself was still inclined to wear crêpe for a husband deceased some twenty-odd years ago!

Various unwanted clothes, Iris knew, had been packed away in a trunk upstairs. She started hunting through it for her pullover, coming across, as she did so, various forgotten belongings, a grey coat and skirt, a pile of stockings, her skiing kit and one or two old bathing dresses.