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  Wondering, still dazed with sleep, she obeyed.

  Inside the study, he shut the door and motioned her to sit opposite him at the desk. He pushed the cigarette box across to her, at the same time taking one and lighting it, after one or two attempts, with a shaking hand.

  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

  Ruth Lessing

  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.

  ‘Every family’s got a black sheep,’ said George.

  She nodded comprehendingly.

  ‘This is a cousin of my wife’s—a thorough bad hat, I’m afraid. He’s half ruined his mother—a fatuous sentimental soul who has sold out most of what few shares she has on his behalf. He started by forging a cheque at Oxford—they got that hushed up and since then he’s been shipped about the world—never making good anywhere.’

  Ruth listened without much interest. She was familiar with the type. They grew oranges, started chicken farms, went as jackaroos to Australian stations, got jobs with meat-freezing concerns in New Zealand. They never made good, never stayed anywhere long, and invariably got through any money that had been invested on their behalf. They had never interested her much. She preferred success.

  ‘He’s turned up now in London and I find he’s been worrying my wife. She hadn’t
set eyes on him since she was a schoolgirl, but he’s a plausible sort of scoundrel and he’s been writing to her for money, and I’m not going to stand for that. I’ve made an appointment with him for twelve o’clock this morning at his hotel. I want you to deal with it for me. The fact is I don’t want to get into contact with the fellow. I’ve never met him and I never want to and I don’t want Rosemary to meet him. I think the whole thing can be kept absolutely businesslike if it’s fixed up through a third party.’

  ‘Yes, that is always a good plan. What is the arrangement to be?’

  ‘A hundred pounds cash and a ticket to Buenos Aires. The money to be given to him actually on board the boat.’

  Ruth smiled.

  ‘Quite so. You want to be sure he actually sails!’

  ‘I see you understand.’

  ‘It’s not an uncommon case,’ she said indifferently.

  ‘No, plenty of that type about.’ He hesitated. ‘Are you sure you don’t mind doing this?’

  ‘Of course not.’ She was a little amused. ‘I can assure you I am quite capable of dealing with the matter.’

  ‘You’re capable of anything.’

  ‘What about booking his passage? What’s his name, by the way?’

  ‘Victor Drake. The ticket’s here. I rang up the steamship company yesterday. It’s the San Cristobal, sails from Tilbury tomorrow.’

  Ruth took the ticket, glanced over it to make sure of its correctness and put it into her handbag.

  ‘That’s settled. I’ll see to it. Twelve o’clock. What address?’

  ‘The Rupert, off Russell Square.’

  She made a note of it.

  ‘Ruth, my dear, I don’t know what I should do without you—’ He put a hand on her shoulder affectionately; it was the first time he had ever done such a thing. ‘You’re my right hand, my other self.’

  She flushed, pleased.

  ‘I’ve never been able to say much—I’ve taken all you do for granted—but it’s not really like that. You don’t know how much I rely on you for everything—’ he repeated: ‘everything. You’re the kindest, dearest, most helpful girl in the world!’

  Ruth said, laughing to hide her pleasure and embarrassment, ‘You’ll spoil me saying such nice things.’

  ‘Oh, but I mean them. You’re part of the firm, Ruth. Life without you would be unthinkable.’

  She went out feeling a warm glow at his words. It was still with her when she arrived at the Rupert Hotel on her errand.

  Ruth felt no embarrassment at what lay before her. She was quite confident of her powers to deal with any situation. Hard-luck stories and people never appealed to her. She was prepared to take Victor Drake as all in the day’s work.

  He was very much as she had pictured him, though perhaps definitely more attractive. She made no mistake in her estimate of his character. There was not much good in Victor Drake. As cold-hearted and calculating a personality as could exist, well masked behind an agreeable devilry. What she had not allowed for was his power of reading other people’s souls, and the practised ease with which he could play on the emotions. Perhaps, too, she had underestimated her own resistance to his charm. For he had charm.

  He greeted her with an air of delighted surprise.

  ‘George’s emissary? But how wonderful. What a surprise!’

  In dry even tones, she set out George’s terms. Victor agreed to them in the most amiable manner.

  ‘A hundred pounds? Not bad at all. Poor old George. I’d have taken sixty—but don’t tell him so! Conditions:—“Do not worry lovely Cousin Rosemary—do not contaminate innocent Cousin Iris—do not embarrass worthy Cousin George.” All agreed to! Who is coming to see me off on the San Cristobal? You are, my dear Miss Lessing? Delightful.’ He wrinkled up his nose, his dark eyes twinkled sympathetically. He had a lean brown face and there was a suggestion about him of a toreador—romantic conception! He was attractive to women and knew it!

  ‘You’ve been with Barton some time, haven’t you, Miss Lessing?’

  ‘Six years.’

  ‘And he wouldn’t know what to do without you. Oh yes, I know all about it. And I know all about you, Miss Lessing.’

  ‘How do you know?’ asked Ruth sharply.

  Victor grinned. ‘Rosemary told me.’

  ‘Rosemary? But—’

  ‘That’s all right. I don’t propose to worry Rosemary any further. She’s already been very nice to me—quite sympathetic. I got a hundred out of her, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘You—’

  Ruth stopped and Victor laughed. His laugh was infectious. She found herself laughing too.

  ‘That’s too bad of you, Mr Drake.’

  ‘I’m a very accomplished sponger. Highly finished technique. The mater, for instance, will always come across if I send a wire hinting at imminent suicide.’

  ‘You ought to be ashamed of yourself.’

  ‘I disapprove of myself very deeply. I’m a bad lot, Miss Lessing. I’d like you to know just how bad.’

  ‘Why?’ She was curious.

  ‘I don’t know. You’re different. I couldn’t play up the usual technique to you. Those clear eyes of yours—you wouldn’t fall for it. No, “More sinned against than sinning, poor fellow,” wouldn’t cut any ice with you. You’ve no pity in you.’

  Her face hardened.

  ‘I despise pity.’

  ‘In spite of your name? Ruth is your name, isn’t it? Piquant that. Ruth the ruthless.’

  She said, ‘I’ve no sympathy with weakness!’

  ‘Who said I was weak? No, no, you’re wrong there, my dear. Wicked, perhaps. But there’s one thing to be said for me.’

  Her lip curled a little. The inevitable excuse.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I enjoy myself. Yes,’ he nodded, ‘I enjoy myself immensely. I’ve seen a good deal of life, Ruth. I’ve done almost everything. I’ve been an actor and a storekeeper and a waiter and an odd job man, and a luggage porter, and a property man in a circus! I’ve sailed before the mast in a tramp steamer. I’ve been in the running for President in a South American Republic. I’ve been in prison! There are only two things I’ve never done, an honest day’s work, or paid my own way.’

  He looked at her, laughing. She ought, she felt, to have been revolted. But the strength of Victor Drake was the strength of the devil. He could make evil seem amusing. He was looking at her now with that uncanny penetration.

  ‘You needn’t look so smug, Ruth! You haven’t as many morals as you think you have! Success is your fetish. You’re the kind of girl who ends up by marrying the boss. That’s what you ought to have done with George. George oughtn’t to have married that little ass Rosemary. He ought to have married you. He’d have done a damned sight better for himself if he had.’

  ‘I think you’re rather insulting.’

  ‘Rosemary’s a damned fool, always has been. Lovely as paradise and dumb as a rabbit. She’s the kind men fall for but never stick to. Now you—you’re different. My God, if a man fell in love with you—he’d never tire.’

  He had reached the vulnerable spot. She said with sudden raw sincerity:

  ‘If! But he wouldn’t fall in love with me!’

  ‘You mean George didn’t? Don’t fool yourself, Ruth. If anything happened to Rosemary, George would marry you like a shot.’

  (Yes, that was it. That was the beginning of it all.)

  Victor said, watching her:

  ‘But you know that as well as I do.’

  (George’s hand on hers, his voice affectionate, warm—Yes, surely it was true…He turned to her, depended on her…)

  Victor said gently: ‘You ought to have more confidence in yourself, my dear girl. You could twist George round your little finger. Rosemary’s only a silly little fool.’

  ‘It’s true,’ Ruth thought. ‘If it weren’t for Rosemary, I could make George ask me to marry him. I’d be good to him. I’d look after him well.’

  She felt a sudden blind anger, an uprushi
ng of passionate resentment. Victor Drake was watching her with a good deal of amusement. He liked putting ideas into people’s heads. Or, as in this case, showing them the ideas that were already there…

  Yes, that was how it started—that chance meeting with the man who was going to the other side of the globe on the following day. The Ruth who came back to the office was not quite the same Ruth who had left it, though no one could have noticed anything different in her manner or appearance.

  Shortly after she had returned to the office Rosemary Barton rang up on the telephone.

  ‘Mr Barton has just gone out to lunch. Can I do anything?’

  ‘Oh, Ruth, would you? That tiresome Colonel Race has sent a telegram to say he won’t be back in time for my party. Ask George who he’d like to ask instead. We really ought to have another man. There are four women—Iris is coming as a treat and Sandra Farraday and—who on earth’s the other? I can’t remember.’

  ‘I’m the fourth, I think. You very kindly asked me.’

  ‘Oh, of course. I’d forgotten all about you!’

  Rosemary’s laugh came light and tinkling. She could not see the sudden flush, the hard line of Ruth Lessing’s jaw.

  Asked to Rosemary’s party as a favour—a concession to George! ‘Oh, yes, we’ll have your Ruth Lessing. After all she’ll be pleased to be asked, and she is awfully useful. She looks quite presentable too.’

  In that moment Ruth Lessing knew that she hated Rosemary Barton.

  Hated her for being rich and beautiful and careless and brainless. No routine hard work in an office for Rosemary—everything handed to her on a golden platter. Love affairs, a doting husband—no need to work or plan—

  Hateful, condescending, stuck-up, frivolous beauty…

  ‘I wish you were dead,’ said Ruth Lessing in a low voice to the silent telephone.

  Her own words startled her. They were so unlike her. She had never been passionate, never vehement, never been anything but cool and controlled and efficient.

  She said to herself: ‘What’s happening to me?’

  She had hated Rosemary Barton that afternoon. She still hated Rosemary Barton on this day a year later.