Sparkling Cyanide

She said, ‘Is anything the matter, George?’

She was really alarmed now. He looked ghastly.

George spoke between small gasps, like a man who has been running.

‘I can’t go on by myself. I can’t keep it any longer. You’ve got to tell me what you think—whether it’s true—whether it’s possible—’

‘But what is it you’re talking about, George?’

‘You must have noticed something, seen something. There must have been something she said. There must have been a reason—’

She stared at him.

He passed his hand over his forehead.

‘You don’t understand what I’m talking about. I can see that. Don’t look so scared, little girl. You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to remember every damned thing you can. Now, now, I know I sound a bit incoherent, but you’ll understand in a minute—when I’ve shown you the letters.’

He unlocked one of the drawers at the side of the desk and took out two single sheets of paper.

They were of a pale innocuous blue, with words printed on them in small prim letters.

‘Read that,’ said George.

Iris stared down at the paper. What it said was quite clear and devoid of circumlocution:

‘YOU THINK YOUR WIFE COMMITTED SUICIDE. SHE DIDN’T. SHE WAS KILLED. ’

The second ran:

‘YOUR WIFE ROSEMARY DIDN’T KILL HERSELF. SHE WAS MURDERED.’

As Iris stayed staring at the words, George went on:

‘They came about three months ago. At first I thought it was a joke—a cruel rotten sort of joke. Then I began to think. Why should Rosemary have killed herself?’

Iris said in a mechanical voice:

‘Depression after influenza.’

‘Yes, but really when you come to think of it, that’s rather piffle, isn’t it? I mean lots of people have influenza and feel a bit depressed afterwards—what?’

Iris said with an effort:

‘She might—have been unhappy?’

‘Yes, I suppose she might.’ George considered the point quite calmly. ‘But all the same I don’t see Rosemary putting an end to herself because she was unhappy. She might threaten to, but I don’t think she would really do it when it came to the point.’

‘But she must have done, George! What other explanation could there be? Why, they even found the stuff in her handbag.’

‘I know. It all hangs together. But ever since these came,’ he tapped the anonymous letters with his finger-nail, ‘I’ve been turning things over in my mind. And the more I’ve thought about it the more I feel sure there’s something in it. That’s why I’ve asked you all those questions—about Rosemary ever making any enemies. About anything she’d ever said that sounded as though she were afraid of someone. Whoever killed her must have had a reason—’

‘But, George, you’re crazy—’

‘Sometimes I think I am. Other times I know that I’m on the right track. But I’ve got to know. I’ve got to find out. You’ve got to help me, Iris. You’ve got to think. You’ve got to remember. That’s it—remember. Go back over that night again and again. Because you do see, don’t you, that if she was killed, it must have been someone who was at the table that night? You do see that, don’t you?’

Yes, she had seen that. There was no pushing aside the remembrance of that scene any longer. She must remember it all. The music, the roll of drums, the lowered lights, the cabaret and the lights going up again and Rosemary sprawled forward on the table, her face blue and convulsed.

Iris shivered. She was frightened now—horribly frightened …

She must think—go back—remember.

Rosemary, that’s for remembrance.

There was to be no oblivion.

CHAPTER 2 (#u24d098e3-ecaa-592b-9511-dab1ac0cff72)

Ruth Lessing (#u24d098e3-ecaa-592b-9511-dab1ac0cff72)

Ruth Lessing, during a momentary lull in her busy day, was remembering her employer’s wife, Rosemary Barton.

She had disliked Rosemary Barton a good deal. She had never known quite how much until that November morning when she had first talked with Victor Drake.

That interview with Victor had been the beginning of it all, had set the whole train in motion. Before then, the things she had felt and thought had been so far below the stream of her consciousness that she hadn’t really known about them.

She was devoted to George Barton. She always had been. When she had first come to him, a cool, competent young woman of twenty-three, she had seen that he needed taking charge of. She had taken charge of him. She had saved him time, money and worry. She had chosen his friends for him, and directed him to suitable hobbies. She had restrained him from ill-advised business adventures, and encouraged him to take judicious risks on occasions. Never once in their long association had George suspected her of being anything other than subservient, attentive and entirely directed by himself. He took a distinct pleasure in her appearance, the neat shining dark head, the smart tailor-mades and crisp shirts, the small pearls in her well-shaped ears, the pale discreetly powdered face and the faint restrained rose shade of her lip-stick.

Ruth, he felt, was absolutely right.

He liked her detached impersonal manner, her complete absence of sentiment or familiarity. In consequence he talked to her a good deal about his private affairs and she listened sympathetically and always put in a useful word of advice.

She had nothing to do, however, with his marriage. She did not like it. However, she accepted it and was invaluable in helping with the wedding arrangements, relieving Mrs Marle of a great deal of work.

For a time after the marriage, Ruth was on slightly less confidential terms with her employer. She confined herself strictly to the office affairs. George left a good deal in her hands.

Nevertheless such was her efficiency that Rosemary soon found that George’s Miss Lessing was an invaluable aid in all sorts of ways. Miss Lessing was always pleasant, smiling and polite.

George, Rosemary and Iris all called her Ruth and she often came to Elvaston Square to lunch. She was now twenty-nine and looked exactly the same as she had looked at twenty-three.

Without an intimate word ever passing between them, she was always perfectly aware of George’s slightest emotional reactions. She knew when the first elation of his married life passed into an ecstatic content, she was aware when that content gave way to something else that was not so easy to define. A certain inattention to detail shown by him at this time was corrected by her own forethought.

However distrait George might be, Ruth Lessing never seemed to be aware of it. He was grateful to her for that.

It was on a November morning that he spoke to her of Victor Drake.

‘I want you to do a rather unpleasant job for me, Ruth?’

She looked at him inquiringly. No need to say that certainly she would do it. That was understood.