Sparkling Cyanide Read online

Race stirred uncomfortably in his chair.

  ‘I know. Read about it. Didn’t mention it now or offer you sympathy because I didn’t want to stir up things again. But I’m sorry, old man, you know that.’

  ‘Oh, yes, yes. That’s not the point. My wife was supposed to have committed suicide.’

  Race fastened on the key word. His eyebrows rose.

  ‘Supposed?’

  ‘Read these.’

  He thrust the two letters into the other’s hand. Race’s eyebrows rose still higher.

  ‘Anonymous letters?’

  ‘Yes. And I believe them.’

  Race shook his head slowly.

  ‘That’s a dangerous thing to do. You’d be surprised how many lying spiteful letters get written after any event that’s been given any sort of publicity in the Press.’

  ‘I know that. But these weren’t written at the time—they weren’t written until six months afterwards.’

  Race nodded.

  ‘That’s a point. Who do you think wrote them?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t care. The point is that I believe what they say is true. My wife was murdered.’

  Race laid down his pipe. He sat up a little straighter in his chair.

  ‘Now just why do you think that? Had you any suspicion at the time. Had the police?’

  ‘I was dazed when it happened—completely bowled over. I just accepted the verdict at the inquest. My wife had had ’flu, was run down. No suspicion of anything but suicide arose. The stuff was in her handbag, you see.’

  ‘What was the stuff?’

  ‘Cyanide.’

  ‘I remember. She took it in champagne.’

  ‘Yes. It seemed, at the time, all quite straightforward.’

  ‘Had she ever threatened to commit suicide?’

  ‘No, never. Rosemary,’ said George Barton, ‘loved life.’

  Race nodded. He had only met George’s wife once. He had thought her a singularly lovely nit-wit—but certainly not a melancholic type.

  ‘What about the medical evidence as to state of mind, etcetera?’

  ‘Rosemary’s own doctor—an elderly man who has attended the Marle family since they were young children—was away on a sea voyage. His partner, a young man, attended Rosemary when she had ’flu. All he said, I remember, was that the type of ’flu about was inclined to leave serious depression.’

  George paused and went on.

  ‘It wasn’t until after I got these letters that I talked with Rosemary’s own doctor. I said nothing of the letters, of course—just discussed what had happened. He told me then that he was very surprised at what had happened. He would never have believed it, he said. Rosemary was not at all a suicidal type. It showed, he said, how even a patient one knew well might act in a thoroughly uncharacteristic manner.’

  Again George paused and then went on:

  ‘It was after talking to him that I realized how absolutely unconvincing to me Rosemary’s suicide was. After all, I knew her very well. She was a person who was capable of violent fits of unhappiness. She could get very worked up over things, and she would on occasions take very rash and unconsidered action, but I have never known her in the frame of mind that “wanted to get out of it all.”’

  Race murmured in a slightly embarrassed manner:

  ‘Could she have had a motive for suicide apart from mere depression? Was she, I mean, definitely unhappy about anything?’

  ‘I—no—she was perhaps rather nervy.’

  Avoiding looking at his friend, Race said:

  ‘Was she at all a melodramatic person? I only saw her once, you know. But there is a type that—well—might get a kick out of attempted suicide—usually if they’ve quarrelled with someone. The rather childish motive of—“I’ll make them sorry!”’

  ‘Rosemary and I hadn’t quarrelled.’

  ‘No. And I must say that the fact of cyanide having been used rather rules that possibility out. It’s not the kind of thing you can monkey about with safely—and everybody knows it.’

  ‘That’s another point. If by any chance Rosemary had contemplated doing away with herself, surely she’d never do it that way? Painful and—and ugly. An overdose of some sleeping stuff would be far more likely.’

  ‘I agree. Was there any evidence as to her purchasing or getting hold of the cyanide?’

  ‘No. But she had been staying with friends in the country and they had taken a wasps’ nest one day. It was suggested that she might have taken a handful of potassium cyanide crystals then.’

  ‘Yes—it’s not a difficult thing to get hold of. Most gardeners keep a stock of it.’

  He paused and then said:

  ‘Let me summarize the position. There was no positive evidence as to a disposition to suicide, or to any preparation for it. The whole thing was negative. But there can also have been no positive evidence pointing to murder, or the police would have got hold of it. They’re quite wide awake, you know.’

  ‘The mere idea of murder would have seemed fantastic.’

  ‘But it didn’t seem fantastic to you six months later?’

  George said slowly:

  ‘I think I must have been unsatisfied all along. I think I must have been subconsciously preparing myself so that when I saw the thing written down in black and white I accepted it without doubt.’

  ‘Yes.’ Race nodded. ‘Well, then, let’s have it. Who do you suspect?’

  George leaned forward—his face twitching.

  ‘That’s what is so terrible. If Rosemary was killed, one of those people round the table, one of our friends, must have done it. No one else came near the table.’

  ‘Waiters? Who poured out the wine?’

  ‘Charles, the head waiter at the Luxembourg. You know Charles?’

  Race assented. Everybody knew Charles. It seemed quite impossible to imagine that Charles could have deliberately poisoned a client.

  ‘And the waiter who looked after us was Giuseppe. We know Giuseppe well. I’ve known him for years. He always looks after me there. He’s a delightful cheery little fellow.’

  ‘So we come to the dinner party. Who was there?’

  ‘Stephen Farraday, the M.P. His wife, Lady Alexandra Farraday. My secretary, Ruth Lessing. A fellow called Anthony Browne. Rosemary’s sister, Iris, and myself. Seven in all. We should have been eight if you had come. When you dropped out we couldn’t think of anybody suitable to ask at the last minute.’

  ‘I see. Well, Barton, who do you think did it?’

  George cried out: ‘I don’t know—I tell you I don’t know. If I had any idea—’

  ‘All right—all right. I just thought you might have a definite suspicion. Well, it oughtn’t to be difficult. How did you sit—starting with yourself?’

  ‘I had Sandra Farraday on my right, of course. Next to her, Anthony Browne. Then Rosemary. Then Stephen Farraday, then Iris, then Ruth Lessing who sat on my left.’

  ‘I see. And your wife had drunk champagne earlier in the evening?’

  ‘Yes. The glasses had been filled up several times. It—it happened while the cabaret show was on. There was a lot of noise—it was one of those negro shows and we were all watching it. She slumped forward on the table just before the lights went up. She may have cried out—or gasped—but nobody heard anything. The doctor said that death must have been practically instantaneous. Thank God for that.’

  ‘Yes, indeed. Well, Barton—on the face of it, it seems fairly obvious.’

  ‘You mean?’

  ‘Stephen Farraday of course. He was on her right hand. Her champagne glass would be close to his left hand. Easiest thing in the world to put the stuff in as soon as the lights were lowered and general attention went to the raised stage. I can’t see that anybody else had anything like as good an opportunity. I know those Luxembourg tables. There’s plenty of room round them—I doubt very much if anybody could have leaned across the table, for instance, without being noticed even if the lights were down. The same thing applies to
the fellow on Rosemary’s left. He would have had to lean across her to put anything in her glass. There is one other possibility, but we’ll take the obvious person first. Any reason why Stephen Farraday, M.P., should want to do away with your wife?’

  George said in a stifled voice:

  ‘They—they had been rather close friends. If—if Rosemary had turned him down, for instance, he might have wanted revenge.’

  ‘Sounds highly melodramatic. That is the only motive you can suggest?’

  ‘Yes,’ said George. His face was very red. Race gave him the most fleeting of glances. Then he went on:

  ‘We’ll examine possibility No. 2. One of the women.’

  ‘Why the women?’

  ‘My dear George, has it escaped your notice that in a party of seven, four women and three men, there will probably be one or two periods during the evening when three couples are dancing and one woman is sitting alone at the table? You did all dance?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Good. Now before the cabaret, can you remember who was sitting alone at any moment?’

  George thought a minute.

  ‘I think—yes, Iris was odd man out last, and Ruth the time before.’

  ‘You don’t remember when your wife drank champagne last?’

  ‘Let me see, she had been dancing with Browne. I remember her coming back and saying that had been pretty strenuous—he’s rather a fancy dancer. She drank up the wine in her glass then. A few minutes later they played a waltz and she—she danced with me. She knew a waltz is the only dance I’m really any good at. Farraday danced with Ruth and Lady Alexandra with Browne. Iris sat out. Immediately after that, they had the cabaret.’

  ‘Then let’s consider your wife’s sister. Did she come into any money on your wife’s death?’

  George began to splutter.

  ‘My dear Race—don’t be absurd. Iris was a mere child, a schoolgirl.’

  ‘I’ve known two schoolgirls who committed murder.’

  ‘But Iris! She was devoted to Rosemary.’

  ‘Never mind, Barton. She had opportunity. I want to know if she had motive. Your wife, I believe, was a rich woman. Where did her money go—to you?’

  ‘No, it went to Iris—a trust fund.’

  He explained the position, to which Race listened attentively.

  ‘Rather a curious position. The rich sister and the poor sister. Some girls might have resented that.’

  ‘I’m sure Iris never did.’

  ‘Maybe not—but she had a motive all right. We’ll try that tack now. Who else had a motive?’

  ‘Nobody—nobody at all. Rosemary hadn’t an enemy in the world, I’m sure. I’ve been looking into all that—asking questions—trying to find out. I’ve even taken this house near the Farradays’ so as to—’

  He stopped. Race took up his pipe and began to scratch at its interior.

  ‘Hadn’t you better tell me everything, young George?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re keeping something back—it sticks out a mile. You can sit there defending your wife’s reputation—or you can try and find out if she was murdered or not—but if the latter matters most to you, you’ll have to come clean.’

  There was a silence.

  ‘All right then,’ said George in a stifled voice. ‘You win.’

  ‘You’d reason to believe your wife had a lover, is that it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Stephen Farraday?’

  ‘I don’t know! I swear to you I don’t know! It might have been him or it might have been the other fellow, Browne. I couldn’t make up my mind. It was hell.’

  ‘Tell me what you know about this Anthony Browne? Funny, I seem to have heard the name.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about him. Nobody does. He’s a good-looking, amusing sort of chap—but nobody knows the first thing about him. He’s supposed to be an American but he’s got no accent to speak of.’

  ‘Oh, well, perhaps the Embassy will know something about him. You’ve no idea—which?’

  ‘No—no, I haven’t. I’ll tell you, Race. She was writing a letter—I—I examined the blotting-paper afterwards. It—it was a love letter all right—but there was no name.’

  Race turned his eyes away carefully.

  ‘Well, that gives us a bit more to go on. Lady Alexandra, for instance—she comes into it, if her husband was having an affair with your wife. She’s the kind of woman, you know, who feels things rather intensely. The quiet, deep type. It’s a type that will do murder at a pinch. We’re getting on. There’s Mystery Browne and Farraday and his wife, and young Iris Marle. What about this other woman, Ruth Lessing?’

  ‘Ruth couldn’t have had anything to do with it. She at least had no earthly motive.’

  ‘Your secretary, you say? What sort of a girl is she?’

  ‘The dearest girl in the world.’ George spoke with enthusiasm. ‘She’s practically one of the family. She’s my right hand—I don’t know anyone I think more highly of, or have more absolute faith in.’

  ‘You’re fond of her,’ said Race, watching him thoughtfully.

  ‘I’m devoted to her. That girl, Race, is an absolute trump. I depend upon her in every way. She’s the truest, dearest creature in the world.’

  Race murmured something that sounded liked ‘Umhum’ and left the subject. There was nothing in his manner to indicate to George that he had mentally chalked down a very definite motive to the unknown Ruth Lessing. He could imagine that this ‘dearest girl in the world’ might have a very decided reason for wanting the removal of Mrs George Barton to another world. It might be a mercenary motive—she might have envisaged herself as the second Mrs Barton. It might be that she was genuinely in love with her employer. But the motive for Rosemary’s death was there.

  Instead he said gently: ‘I suppose it’s occurred to you, George, that you had a pretty good motive yourself.’

  ‘I?’ George looked flabbergasted.

  ‘Well, remember Othello and Desdemona.’

  ‘I see what you mean. But—but it wasn’t like that between me and Rosemary. I adored her, of course, but I always knew that there would be things that—that I’d have to endure. Not that she wasn’t fond of me—she was. She was very fond of me and sweet to me always. But of course I’m a dull stick, no getting away from it. Not romantic, you know. Anyway, I’d made up my mind when I married her that it wasn’t going to be all beer and skittles. She as good as warned me. It hurt, of course, when it happened—but to suggest that I’d have touched a hair of her head—’

  He stopped, and then went on in a different tone:

  ‘Anyway, if I’d done it, why on earth should I go raking it all up? I mean, after a verdict of suicide, and everything all settled and over. It would be madness.’

  ‘Absolutely. That’s why I don’t seriously suspect you, my dear fellow. If you were a successful murderer and got a couple of letters like these, you’d put them quietly in the fire and say nothing at all about it. And that brings me to what I think is the one really interesting feature of the whole thing. Who wrote those letters?’

  ‘Eh?’ George looked rather startled. ‘I haven’t the least idea.’

  ‘The point doesn’t seem to have interested you. It interests me. It’s the first question I asked you. We can assume, I take it, that they weren’t written by the murderer. Why should he queer his own pitch when, as you say, everything had settled down and suicide was universally accepted? Then who wrote them? Who is it who is interested in stirring the whole thing up again?’

  ‘Servants?’ hazarded George vaguely.

  ‘Possibly. If so, what servants, and what do they know? Did Rosemary have a confidential maid?’

  George shook his head.

  ‘No. At the time we had a cook—Mrs Pound—we’ve still got her, and a couple of maids. I think they’ve both left. They weren’t with us very long.’

  ‘Well, Barton, if you want my advice, which I gather you do, I sh
ould think the matter over very carefully. On one side there’s the fact that Rosemary is dead. You can’t bring her back to life whatever you do. If the evidence for suicide isn’t particularly good, neither is the evidence for murder. Let us say, for the sake of argument, that Rosemary was murdered. Do you really wish to rake up the whole thing? It may mean a lot of unpleasant publicity, a lot of washing of dirty linen in public, your wife’s love affairs becoming public property—’

  George Barton winced. He said violently:

  ‘Do you really advise me to let some swine get away with it? That stick Farraday, with his pompous speeches, and his precious career—and all the time, perhaps, a cowardly murderer.’

  ‘I only want you to be clear what it involves.’

  ‘I want to get at the truth.’

  ‘Very well. In that case, I should go to the police with these letters. They’ll probably be able to find out fairly easily who wrote them and if the writer knows anything. Only remember that once you’ve started them on the trail, you won’t be able to call them off.’

  ‘I’m not going to the police. That’s why I wanted to see you. I’m going to set a trap for the murderer.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Listen, Race. I’m going to have a party at the Luxembourg. I want you to come. The same people, the Farradays, Anthony Browne, Ruth, Iris, myself. I’ve got it all worked out.’

  ‘What are you going to do?’

  George gave a faint laugh.

  ‘That’s my secret. It would spoil it if I told anyone beforehand—even you. I want you to come with an unbiased mind and—see what happens.’

  Race leant forward. His voice was suddenly sharp.

  ‘I don’t like it, George. These melodramatic ideas out of books don’t work. Go to the police—there’s no better body of men. They know how to deal with these problems. They’re professionals. Amateur shows in crime aren’t advisable.’

  ‘That’s why I want you there. You’re not an amateur.’

  ‘My dear fellow. Because I once did work for M.I.5? And anyway you propose to keep me in the dark.’

  ‘That’s necessary.’

  Race shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry. I refuse. I don’t like your plan and I won’t be a party to it. Give it up, George, there’s a good fellow.’