Sparkling Cyanide. Agatha Christie
That suggested—what? Caution? He had evidently said that the break was for Rosemary’s sake. That it was only fair to her. Yes, but didn’t men say that sort of thing to save their faces? Didn’t it really mean that the man, whoever he was, was tired of it all? Perhaps it had been to him a mere passing distraction. Perhaps he had never really cared. Somehow Iris got the impression that the unknown man had been very determined to break with Rosemary finally …
But Rosemary had thought differently. Rosemary wasn’t going to count the cost. Rosemary had been determined, too …
Iris shivered.
And she, Iris, hadn’t known a thing about it! Hadn’t even guessed! Had taken it for granted that Rosemary was happy and contented and that she and George were quite satisfied with one another. Blind! She must have been blind not to know a thing like that about her own sister.
But who was the man?
She cast her mind back, thinking, remembering. There had been so many men about, admiring Rosemary, taking her out, ringing her up. There had been no one special. But there must have been—the rest of the bunch were mere camouflage for the one, the only one, that mattered. Iris frowned perplexedly, sorting her remembrances carefully.
Two names stood out. It must, yes, positively it must, be one or the other. Stephen Farraday? It must be Stephen Farraday. What could Rosemary have seen in him? A stiff pompous young man—and not so very young either. Of course people did say he was brilliant. A rising politician, an under-secretaryship prophesied in the near future, and all the weight of the influential Kidderminster connection behind him. A possible future Prime Minister! Was that what had given him glamour in Rosemary’s eyes? Surely she couldn’t care so desperately for the man himself—such a cold self-contained creature? But they said that his own wife was passionately in love with him, that she had gone against all the wishes of her powerful family in marrying him—a mere nobody with political ambitions! If one woman felt like that about him, another woman might also. Yes, it must be Stephen Farraday.
Because, if it wasn’t Stephen Farraday, it must be Anthony Browne.
And Iris didn’t want it to be Anthony Browne.
True, he’d been very much Rosemary’s slave, constantly at her beck and call, his dark good-looking face expressing a kind of humorous desperation. But surely that devotion had been too open, too freely declared to go really deep?
Odd the way he had disappeared after Rosemary’s death. They had none of them seen him since.
Still not so odd really—he was a man who travelled a lot. He had talked about the Argentine and Canada and Uganda and the USA. She had an idea that he was actually an American or a Canadian, though he had hardly any accent. No, it wasn’t really strange that they shouldn’t have seen anything of him since.
It was Rosemary who had been his friend. There was no reason why he should go on coming to see the rest of them. He had been Rosemary’s friend. But not Rosemary’s lover! She didn’t want him to have been Rosemary’s lover. That would hurt—that would hurt terribly …
She looked down at the letter in her hand. She crumpled it up. She’d throw it away, burn it …
It was sheer instinct that stopped her.
Some day it might be important to produce that letter …
She smoothed it out, took it down with her and locked it away in her jewel case.
It might be important, some day, to show why Rosemary took her own life.
‘And the next thing, please?’
The ridiculous phrase came unbidden into Iris’s mind and twisted her lips into a wry smile. The glib shop-keeper’s question seemed to represent so exactly her own carefully directed mental processes.
Was not that exactly what she was trying to do in her survey of the past? She had dealt with the surprising discovery in the attic. And now—on to ‘the next thing, please!’ What was the next thing?
Surely the increasingly odd behaviour of George. That dated back for a long time. Little things that had puzzled her became clear now in the light of the surprising interview last night. Disconnected remarks and actions took their proper place in the course of events.
And there was the reappearance of Anthony Browne. Yes, perhaps that ought to come next in sequence, since it had followed the finding of the letter by just one week.
Iris could recall her sensations exactly …
Rosemary had died in November. In the following May, Iris, under the wing of Lucilla Drake, had started her social young girl’s life. She had gone to luncheons and teas and dances without, however, enjoying them very much. She had felt listless and unsatisfied. It was at a somewhat dull dance towards the end of June that she heard a voice say behind her:
‘It is Iris Marle, isn’t it?’
She had turned, flushing, to look into Anthony’s—Tony’s—dark quizzical face.
He said:
‘I don’t expect you remember me, but—’
She interrupted.
‘Oh, but I do remember you. Of course I do!’
‘Splendid. I was afraid you’d have forgotten me. It’s such a long time since I saw you.’
‘I know. Not since Rosemary’s birthday par—’
She stopped. The words had come gaily, unthinkingly, to her lips. Now the colour rushed away from her cheeks, leaving them white and drained of blood. Her lips quivered. Her eyes were suddenly wide and dismayed.
Anthony Browne said quickly:
‘I’m terribly sorry. I’m a brute to have reminded you.’
Iris swallowed. She said:
‘It’s all right.’
(Not since the night of Rosemary’s birthday party. Not since the night of Rosemary’s suicide. She wouldn’t think of it. She would not think of it!)
Anthony Browne said again:
‘I’m terribly sorry. Please forgive me. Shall we dance?’
She nodded. Although already engaged for the dance that was just beginning, she had floated on to the floor in his arms. She saw her partner, a blushing immature young man whose collar seemed too big for him, peering about for her. The sort of partner, she thought scornfully, that debs have to put up with. Not like this man—Rosemary’s friend.
A sharp pang went through her. Rosemary’s friend. That letter. Had it been written to this man she was dancing with now? Something in the easy feline grace with which he danced lent substance to the nickname ‘Leopard’. Had he and Rosemary—
She said sharply:
‘Where have you been all this time?’
He held her a little way from him, looking down into her face. He was unsmiling now, his voice held coldness.
‘I’ve been travelling—on business.’
‘I see.’ She went on uncontrollably, ‘Why have you come back?’
He smiled then. He said lightly:
‘Perhaps—to see you, Iris Marle.’
And suddenly gathering her up a little closer, he executed a long daring glide through the dancers, a miracle of timing and steering. Iris wondered why, with a sensation that was almost wholly pleasure, she should feel afraid.
Since then Anthony had definitely become part of her life. She saw him at least once a week.
She met him in the park, at various dances, found him put next to her at dinner.
The only place he never came to was the house in Elvaston Square. It was some time before she noticed this, so adroitly