Sparkling Cyanide. Agatha Christie
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.
It was then that she came across an old dressing-gown that had belonged to Rosemary and which had somehow or other escaped being given away with the rest of Rosemary’s things. It was a mannish affair of spotted silk with big pockets.
Iris shook it out, noting that it was in perfectly good condition. Then she folded it carefully and returned it to the trunk. As she did so, her hand felt something crackle in one of the pockets. She thrust in her hand and drew out a crumpled-up piece of paper. It was in Rosemary’s handwriting and she smoothed it out and read it.
Leopard darling, you can’t mean it … You can’t—you can’t … We love each other! We belong together! You must know that just as I know it! We can’t just say goodbye and go on coolly with our own lives. You know that’s impossible, darling—quite impossible. You and I belong together—for ever and ever. I’m not a conventional woman—I don’t mind about what people say. Love matters more to me than anything else. We’ll go away together—and be happy—I’ll make you happy. You said to me once that life without me was dust and ashes to you—do you remember, Leopard darling? And now you write calmly that all this had better end—that it’s only fair to me. Fair to me? But I can’t live without you! I’m sorry about George—he’s always been sweet to me—but he’ll understand. He’ll want to give me my freedom. It isn’t right to live together if you don’t love each other any more. God meant us for each other, darling—I know He did. We’re going to be wonderfully happy—but we must be brave. I shall tell George myself—I want to be quite straight about the whole thing—but not until after my birthday.
I know I’m doing what’s right, Leopard darling—and I can’t live without you—can’t, can’t—CAN’T. How stupid it is of me to write all this. Two lines would have done. Just ‘I love you. I’m never going to let you go.’ Oh darling—
The letter broke off.
Iris stood motionless, staring down at it.
How little one knew of one’s own sister!
So Rosemary had had a lover—had written him passionate love letters—had planned to go away with him?
What had happened? Rosemary had never sent the letter after all. What letter had she sent? What had been finally decided between Rosemary and this unknown man?
(‘Leopard!’ What extraordinary fancies people had when they were in love. So silly. Leopard indeed!)
Who was this