I've travelled the world twice over,
Met the famous: saints and sinners,
Poets and artists, kings and queens,
Old stars and hopeful beginners,
I've been where no-one's been before,
Learned secrets from writers and cooks
All with one library ticket
To the wonderful world of books.
© JANICE JAMES.
SPARKLING CYANIDE
It was All Souls' Day, the Day of the
Dead. In a luxurious hotel, six people sat
down to dinner at a table in an alcove laid
for seven. In front of the empty place was a
sprig of rosemary—in memory of
Rosemary Barton who had suddenly
sprawled dead across that same table
exactly a year before. They all raised their
glasses of champagne and drank—and one
of the party slumped in his chair—fighting
for his breath.
Books by Agatha Christie in the
Ulverscroft Large Print Series:
LORD EDGWARE DIES
THE HOUND OF DEATH . |
MURDER IN MESOPOTAMIA t
CARDS ON THE TABLE ' |
THE THIRTEEN PROBLEMS
THE MOVING FINGER
A CARIBBEAN MYSTERY
A MURDER IS ANNOUNCED
POCKET FULL OF RYE
AT BERTRAM'S HOTEL
THE BODY IN THE LIBRARY
CAT AMONG THE PIGEONS
THE CLOCKS • CROOKED HOfSE
DEAD MAN'S FOLLY
DEATH COMES AS THE END
ENDLESS NIGHT • EVIL UNDER TlIE SUN
MURDER IS EASY • THE PALE HORSE
THE MIRROR CRACK'D FROM SIDE TO SIDE
MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS
THEY DO IT WITH MIRRORS
DESTINATION UNKNOWN
THIRD GIRL • TOWARDS ZERO
4.50 FROM PADDINGTON
AGATHA' CHRISTIE
SPARKLING
CYANIDE
Complete and Unabridged
^y^
Q
ULVERSCROFT
Leicester
First published in the United States
as Remembered Death
First published in Great Britain 1945
First Large Print Edition
published November 1978
by arrangement with
Collins, London & Glasgow
and
Dodd, Mead & Company Inc.
New York
Reprinted 1990
by arrangement with
Collins, London & Glasgow
Copyright © 1944 by the Curtis Publishing Co. Copyright © 1945 by Agatha Christie Mallowan
British Library ClP_Data_
Christie, Dame Agatha
Sparkling cyanide. Large print ed.
(Ulverscroft large print series : mystery)
I. Title
823'.9'1F PR6005.H66S/
ISBN 0708902235
P.O. 6ox63002. (CortolAalti)
<o<-^lo,0^aria ft/^H 4H?
Published by IF . A. Thorpe (Publishing) Ltd.
Anstey, Leicestershire
Printed and bound in Great Britain by
T. J. Press (Padstow) Ltd., Padstow, Cornwall
AGATHA CHRISTIE
ArATHA CHRISTIE is known throughout
the world as the Queen of Crime.
Her seventy-six detective novels and
books of stories have been translated into
every major language, and her sales are
calculated in tens of millions.
She began writing at the end of the First
World War, when she created Hercule
Poirot, the little Belgian detective with the
egg-shaped head and the passion for
order--the most popular sleuth in fiction
since Sherlock Holmes. Poirot, fluffy Miss
Marple and her other detectives have
appeared in the films, radio programmes and
stage plays based on her books.
Agatha Christie also wrote six romantic
novels under the pseudonym Mary Westmacott,
several plays and a book of poems, as
well, she assisted her archaeologist husband
Sir Max Mallowan on many expeditions to
the Near East.
BOOK I
Rosemary
"What can I do to drive away remembrances
from mine eyes?"
SIX PEOPLE were thinking of Rosemary
Barton who had died nearly a year ago. . . .

IRIS MARLE was thinking about her
sister. Rosemary.
For nearly a year she had deliberately
tried to put the thought of Rosemary away
from her. She hadn't wanted to remember.
The blue cyanosed face, the convulsed
clutching fingers . . .
The contrast between that and the gay
lovely Rosemary of the day before . . . Well, perhaps not exactly gay. She had had 'flu--she had been depressed, run down . . .
All that had been brought out at the inquest.
Iris herself had laid stress on it. It accounted,
didn't it, for Rosemary's suicide?
Once the inquest was over. Iris had
deliberately tried to put the whole thing out
of her mind. Of what good was remembrance?
Forget it all! Forget the whole
horrible business.
But now, she realised, she had got to
remember. She had got to think back into
the past. ... To remember carefully every
3
slight unimportant seeming incident. . . .
That extraordinary interview with George
last night necessitated remembrance.
It had been so unexpected, so frightening.
Wait--Aac? it been so unexpected? Hadn't
there been indications beforehand? George's
growing absorption, his absentmindedness,
his unaccountable actions--his--well, queerness was the only word for it! All leading up
to that moment last night when he had called
her into the study and taken the letters from
the drawer of the desk.
So now there was no help for it. She had
got to think about Rosemary--to remember.
Rosemary--her sister. . . .
With a shock Iris realised suddenly that it
was the first time in her life she had ever
thought about Rosemary. Thought about
her, that is, objectively, as a person.
She had always accepted Rosemary without
thinking about her. You didn't think about
your mother or your father or your sister or
your aunt. They just existed, unquestioned, in those relationships.
You didn't think about them as people. You
didn't ask yourself, even, what they were like.
What had Rosemary been like?
That might be very important now. A lot
4
might depend upon it. Iris cast her mind
back. Herself and Rosemary as children. . . .
Rosemary had been the elder by six years.
Glimpses of the past came back—brief
flashes—short scenes. Herself as a small child
eating bread and milk, and Rosemary,
important in pig tails, "doing lessons" at a
table.
The seaside one summer—Iris envying
Rosemary who was a "big girl" and could
swim!
Rosemary going to boarding schoolcoming home for the holidays. Then she
herself at school, and Rosemary being
"finished" in Paris. Schoolgirl Rosemary;
clumsy, all arms and legs. "Finished"
Rosemary coming back from Paris with a
strange new frightening elegance, soft voiced,
graceful, with a swaying undulating figure,
with red gold chestnut hair and big black
fringed dark blue eyes. A disturbing beautiful
creature—grown up—in a different world!
From then on they had seen very little of
each other, the six-year gap had been at its
widest.
Iris had been still at school. Rosemary in
the full swing of a "season." Even when Iris
came home, the gap remained. Rosemary's
life was one of late mornings in bed, fork
luncheons with other debutantes, dances
most evenings of the week. Iris had been in
the schoolroom with Mademoiselle, had gone
for walks in the Park, had had supper at nine
o'clock and gone to bed at ten. The intercourse
between the sisters had been limited to
such brief interchanges as:
"Hello, Iris, telephone for a taxi for me, there's a lamb, I'm going to be devastatingly
late," or
"I don't like that new frock. Rosemary. It
doesn't suit you. It's all bunch and fuss."
Then had come Rosemary's engagement to
George Barton. Excitement, shopping,
streams of parcels, bridesmaids' dresses.
The wedding. Walking up the aisles behind
Rosemary, hearing whispers:
"What a beautiful bride she makes. ..."
Why had Rosemary married George? Even
at the time Iris had been vaguely surprised.
There had been so many exciting young men, ringing Rosemary up, taking her out. Why
choose. George, fifteen years older than
herself, kindly, pleasant, but definitely dull?
George was well off, but it wasn't money.
Rosemary had her own money, a great deal of it.
6
Uncle Paul's money. . . .
Iris searched her mind carefully, seeking to
differentiate between what she knew now and
what she had known then: Uncle Paul, for
instance?
He wasn't really an uncle, she had always
known that. Without ever having been
definitely told them she knew certain facts.
Paul Bennett had been in love with their
mother. She had preferred another and a
poorer man. Paul Bennett had taken his
defeat in a romantic spirit. He had remained
the family friend, adopted an attitude of
romantic platonic devotion. He had become
Uncle Paul, had stood godfather to the firstborn
child. Rosemary. When he died, it was
found that he had left his entire fortune to his
little god-daughter, then a child of thirteen.
Rosemary, besides her beauty, had been an
heiress. And she had married nice dull
George Barton.
Why? Iris had wondered then. She
wondered now. Iris didn't believe that
Rosemary had ever been in love with him.
But she had seemed very happy with him and
she had been fond of him--yes, definitely
fond of him. Iris had good opportunities for
knowing, for a year after the marriage, their
7
mother, lovely delicate Viola Marle, had
died, and Iris, a girl of seventeen, had gone to
live with Rosemary Barton and her husband.
A girl of seventeen. Iris pondered over the
picture of herself. What had she been like?
What had she felt, thought, seen?
She came to the conclusion that that young
Iris Marle had been slow of development—unthinking,
acquiescing in things as
they were. Had she resented, for instance, her
mother's earlier absorption in Rosemary? On
the whole she thought not. She had accepted,
unhesitatingly, the fact that Rosemary was
the very important one. Rosemary was
"out"—naturally her mother was occupied as
far as her health permitted with her elder
daughter. That had been natural enough. Her
own turn would come some day. Viola
Marle had always been a somewhat remote
mother, preoccupied mainly with her own
health, relegating her children to nurses,
governesses, schools, but invariably charming
to them in those brief moments when she
came across them. Hector Marle had died
when Iris was five years old. The knowledge
that he drank more than was good for him
had permeated so subtly that she had not the
least idea how it had actually come to her.
8
Seventeen-year-old Jris Marle had accepted
life as it came, had duly mourned for her
mother, had worn black clothes, had gone to
live with her sister and her sister's husband at
their house in Elvaston Square.
Sometimes it had been rather dull in that
house. Iris wasn't to come out, officially,
until the following year. In the meantime she
took French and German lessons three times
a week, and also attended domestic science
classes. There were times when she had
nothing much to do and nobody to talk to.
George was kind, invariably affectionate and
brotherly. His attitude had never varied. He
was the same now.
And Rosemary? Iris had seen very little of
Rosemary. Rosemary had been out a good
deal. Dressmakers, cocktail parties, bridge. . . .
What did she really know about Rosemary
when she came to think of it? Other tastes, of
her hopes, of her fears? Frightening, really,
how little you might know of a person after
living in the same house with them! There
had been little intimacy between the sisters.
But she'd got to think now. She'd got to
remember. It might be important.
Certainly Rosemary had seemed happy
enough.. . .
SC2 9
Until that day—a week before it happened.
She, Iris, would never forget that day. It
stood out crystal clear—each detail, each
word. The shining mahogany table, the
pushed back chair, the hurried characteristic
writing. ...
Iris closed her eyes and let the scene come
back. ...
Her own entry ^nto Rosemary's sittingroom,
her sudden stop.
It had startled her so, what she saw!
Rosemary, sitting at the writing table, her
head laid down on her outstretched arms.
Rosemary weeping with a deep abandoned
sobbing. She'd never seen Rosemary cry
before—and this bitter, violent weeping
frightened her.
True, Rosemary had had a bad go of 'flu.
She'd only been up a day or two. And
everyone knew that 'flu did leave you
depressed. Still——
Iris had cried out, her voice childish,
startled:
"Oh, Rosemary, what is it?"
Rosemary sat up, swept the hair back from
her disfigured face. She struggled very hard
to regain command of herself. She said
quickly:
10
"It's nothing—nothing—don't stare at me
like that!"
She got up and passing her sister, she ran
out of the room.
Puzzled, upset. Iris went farther into the
room. Her eyes, drawn wonderingly to the
writing table, caught sight of her own name
in her sister's handwriting. Had Rosemary
been writing to her then?
She drew nearer, looked down on the
sheet of blue notepaper with the big
characteristic sprawling writing, even more
sprawling than usual owing to the haste and
agitation behind the hand that held the pen.
Darling Iris,
There isn't any point in my making a will
because my money goes to you anyway, but
I'd like certain of my things to be given to
certain people.
To George, the jewellery he's given me,
and the little enamel casket we bought
together when we were engaged.
To Gloria King, my platinum cigarette case.
To Maisie, my Chinese Pottery horse that
she's always admir——
It stopped there, with a frantic scrawl of the
11
pen as Rosemary had dashed it down and
given way to uncontrollable weeping.
Iris stood as though turned to stone.
What did it mean? Rosemary wasn't going
to die, was she? She'd been very ill with
influenza, but she was all right now. And
anyway people didn't die of 'flu—at least
sometimes they did, but Rosemary hadn't.
She was quite well now, only weak and run
down.
Iris's 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
12
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 wjfe 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 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,
13
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! Her mind took a quick leap over the
tragedy of the birthday party. No need to think ofthat\ 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.
14
^11
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?
15
Iris had been quite willing, thankful not to
have to make new plans. Aunt Lucilla she
remembered as an amiable elderly 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 oldfashioned
and liked what she called "the
decencies" to be observed. Mrs. Drake
16
herself was still inclined to wear crepe 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
17
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--1 don't mind
about what people say. Love matters more to
me than anything else. We'll gor 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.
18
Just "I love you. I'm never going to let you
go." Oh darling——'
The letter, broke off.
Iris stood motionless, staring down 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 man? Did he love Rosemary
as much as she loved him? Surely he must
have done. Rosemary was so unbelievably
lovely. And yet, according to Rosemary's
letter, he had suggested "ending it all." 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
19
had never really cared. Somehow Iris got the
impression that that 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 that 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
20
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 undersecretaryship
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?
21
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
U.S.A. 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.
22
Ill
"And the next thing, please?"
The ridiculous phrase came unbidden into
Iris's mind and twisted her lips in a wry
smile. The glib shopkeeper'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 properJ)lace 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 couldn't 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
23
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."
24
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^er. 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 away from him, looking
down into her face. He was unsmiling now,
his voice held coldness.
SC3 25
"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 did he
manage to evade or refuse invitations there.
When she did realise it she began to wonder
why. Was it because he and Rosemary--
Then, to her astonishment, George, easygoing,
non-interfering George, spoke to her
about him.
"Who's this fellow, Anthony Browne,
you're going about with? What do you know
about him?"
26
She stared at him.
"Know about him? Why, he was a friend of
Rosemary's!"
George's face twitched. He blinked. He
said in a dull heavy voice:
"Yes, of course, so he was."
Iris cried remorsefully:
"I'm sorry. I shouldn't have reminded
you."
George Barton shook his head. He said
gently:
"No, no, I don't want her forgotten. Never
that. After all," he spoke awkwardly, his eyes
averted, "that's what her name means. Rosemary—remembrance."
He looked full at her.
"I don't want you to forget your sister. Iris."
She caught her breath. ^
"I never shall."
George went on:
"But about this young fellow, Anthony
Browne. Rosemary may have liked him, but I
don't believe she knew much about him. You
know, you've got to be careful. Iris. You're a
very rich young woman."
A kind of burning anger swept over her.
"Tony—Anthony—has plenty of money
himself. Why, he stays at Claridge's when
he's in London."
27
George Barton smiled a little. He
murmured:
"Eminently respectable—as well as costly.
All the same, my dear, nobody seems to know
much about this fellow."
"He's an American."
"Perhaps. If so, it's odd he isn't sponsored
more by his own Embassy. He doesn't come
much to this house, does he?"
"No. And I can see why, if you're so horrid
about him!"
George shook his head.
"Seem to have put my foot in it. Oh, well.
Only wanted to give you a timely warning.
I'll have a word with Lucilla."
"Lucilla!" said Iris scornfully.
George said anxiously:
"Is everything all right? I mean, does
Lucilla see to it that you get the sort of time
you ought to have? Parties—all that sort of
thing?"
"Yes, indeed, she works like a beaver.. . ."
"Because, if not, you've only got to say,
you know, child. We could get hold of
someone else. Someone younger and more up
to date. I want you to enjoy yourself."
"I do, George. Oh, George, I do."
He said rather heavily:
28
"Then that's all right. I'm not much hand
at these shows myself—never was. But see to
it you get everything you want. There's no
need to stint expense."
That was George all over—kind, awkward,
blundering.
True to his promise, or threat, he "had a
word" with Mrs. Drake on the subject of
Anthony Browne, but as Fate would have it
the moment was unpropitious for gaining
Lucilla's full attention.
She had just had a cable from that ne'er-dowell
son who was the apple of her eye and
who knew, only too well, how to wring the
maternal heartstrings to his own financial
advantage.
"Can you send me two hundred pounds.
Desperate. Life or death. Victor."
Lucilla was crying.
"Victor is so honourable. He knows how
straitened my circumstances are and he'd
never apply to me except in the last resource.
He never has. I'm always so afraid he'll shoot
himself."
"Not he," said George Barton unfeelingly.
"You don't know him. I'm his mother and
naturally I know what my own son is like. I
should never forgive myself if I didn't do
29
what he asked. I could manage by selling out
those shares."
George sighed.
"Look here, Lucilla. I'll get full information
by cable from one of my correspondents
out there. We'll find out Just exactly what
sort of jam Victor's in. But my advice to you
is to let him stew in his own juice. He'll never
make good until you do."
"You're so hard, George. The poor boy has
always been unlucky----"
George repressed his opinions on that
point. Never any good arguing with women.
He merely said:
"I'll get Ruth on to it at once. We should
hear by tomorrow."
Lucilla was partially appeased. The two
hundred was eventually cut down to fifty, but
that amount Lucilla firmly insisted on
sending.
George, Iris knew, provided the amount
himself though pretending to Lucilla that he
was selling her shares. Iris admired George
very much for his generosity and said so. His answer was simple.
"Way I look at it--always some black
sheep in the family. Always someone who's
got to be kept. Someone or other will have
30
to fork out for Victor until he dies."
"But it needn't be you. He's not your family."
"Rosemary's family's mine."
"You're a darling, George. But couldn't I do it? You're always telling me I'm rolling."
He grinned at her.
"Can't do anything of that kind until you're
twenty-one, young woman. And if you're wise
you won't do it then. But I'll give you one tip.
When a fellow wires that he'll end everything
unless he gets a couple of hundred by return, you'll usually find that twenty pounds will be
ample. ... I daresay a tenner would do! You
can't stop a mother coughing up, but you can
reduce the amount--remember that. Of course
Victor Drake would never do away with
himself, not he! These people who threaten
suicide never do it."
Never? Iris thought of Rosemary. Then she
pushed the thought away. George wasn't thinking
of Rosemary. He was thinking of an
unscrupulous, plausible young man in Rio de
Janeiro.
The net gain from Iris's point of view was
that Lucilla's maternal preoccupations kept
her from paying full attention to Iris's friendship
with Anthony Browne.
31
So--on to the "next thing. Madam." The
change in George! Iris couldn't put it off any
longer. When had that begun? What was the
cause of it?
Even now, thinking back. Iris could not put
her finger definitely on the moment when it
began. Ever since Rosemary's death George
had been abstracted, -had had fits of inattention
and brooding. He had seemed older, heavier. That was all natural enough. But
when exactly had his abstraction become
something more than natural?
It was, she thought, after their clash over
Anthony Browne, that she had first noticed
him staring at her in a bemused, perplexed
manner. Then he formed a new habit of
coming home early from business and shutting
himself up in his study. He didn't seem
to be doing anything there. She had gone in
once and found him sitting at his desk staring
straight ahead of him. He looked at her when
she came in with dull lack-lustre eyes. He
behaved like a man who has had a shock, but
to her question as to what was the matter, he
replied briefly, "Nothing."
As the days went on, he went about with
the careworn look of a man who has some
definite worry upon his mind.
32
Nobody had paid very much attention. Iris
certainly hadn't. Worries were always conveniently
"Business."
Then, at odd intervals, and with no seeming
reason, he began to ask questions. It
was then that she began to put his manner
down as definitely "queer."
"Look here. Iris, did Rosemary ever talk to
you much?"
Iris stared at him.
"Why, of course, George. At least--well,
about what?"
"Oh, herself--her friends--how things
were going with her. Whether she was
happy or unhappy. That sort of thing."
She thought she saw what was in his mind.
He must have got wind of Rosemary's
unhappy love affair.
She said slowly:
"She never said much. I mean--she was
always busy--doing things."
"And you were only a kid, of course. Yes, I
know. All the same, I thought she might have
said something."
He looked at her inquiringly--rather like a
hopeful dog.
She didn't want George to be hurt. And
anyway Rosemary never had said anything.
33
She shook her head.
George sighed. He said heavily:
"Oh, well, it doesn't matter."
Another day he asked her suddenly who
Rosemary's best women friends had ,been.
Iris reflected.
"Gloria King. Mrs. Atwell--Maisie
Atwell. Jean Raymond."
"How intimate was she with them?"
"Well, I don't know exactly."
"I mean, do you think she might have confided
in any of them?"
"I don't really know ... I don't think it's
awfully likely.... What sort of confidence do
you mean?"
Immediately she wished she hadn't asked
that last question, but George's response to it
surprised her.
"Did Rosemary ever say she was afraid of
anybody?"
"Afraid?" Iris stared.
"What I'm trying to get at is, did Rosemary
have any enemies?"
"Amongst other women?"
"No, no, not that kind of thing. Real
enemies. There wasn't anyone--that you
knew of--who--who might have had it in for
her?"
34
Iris's frank stare seemed to upset him. He
reddened, muttered:
"Sounds silly, I know. Melodramatic, but I
just wondered."
It was a day or two after that that he started
asking about the Farradays.
How much had Rosemary seen of the
Farradays?
Iris was doubtful.
"I really don't know, George."
"Did she ever talk about them?"
"No, I don't think so."
"Were they intimate at all?"
"Rosemary was very interested in politics."
"Yes. After she met the Farradays in
Switzerland. Never cared a button about
politics before that."
"No. I think Stephen Farraday interested
her in them. He used to lend her pamphlets
and things."
George said:
"What did Sandra Farraday think about
it?"
"About what?"
"About her husband lending Rosemary
pamphlets."
Iris said uncomfortably:
<<I don't know."
35
George said, "She's a very reserved
woman. Looks cold as ice. But they say she's
crazy about Farraday. Sort of woman who
might resent his having a friendship with
another woman."
"Perhaps."
"How did Rosemary and Farraday's wife
get on?"
Iris said slowly:
"I don't think they did. Rosemary laughed
at Sandra. Said she was one of those stuffed
political women like a rocking horse. (She is
rather like a horse, you know.) Rosemary
used to say that 'if you pricked her sawdust
would ooze out.' "
George grunted. Then he said:
"Still seeing a good deal of Anthony
Browne?"
"A fair amount." Iris's voice was cold, but
George did not repeat his warnings. Instead
he seemed interested.
"Knocked about a good deal, hasn't he?
Must have had an interesting life. Does he
ever talk to you about it?"
"Not much. He's travelled a lot, of
course."
"Business, I suppose."
"I suppose so."
36
"What is his business?"
<<I don't know."
"Something to do with armament firms, isn't it?"
"He's never said."
"Well, needn't mention I asked. I just
wondered. He was about a lot last Autumn
with Dewsbury, who's chairman of the
United Arms Ltd.. . . Rosemary saw rather a
lot of Anthony Browne, didn't she?"
"Yes-yes, she did."
"But she hadn't known him very long--he
was more or less of a casual acquaintance?
Used to take her dancing, didn't he?"
"Yes."
"I was rather surprised, you know, that she
wanted him at her birthday party. Didn't
realise she knew him so well."
Iris said quietly:
"He dances very well. ..."
"Yes--yes, of course . . ."
Without wishing to. Iris unwillingly let a
picture of that evening flit across her mind.
The round table at the Luxembourg, the
shaded lights, the flowers. The dance band
with its insistent rhythm. The seven people
round the table, herself, Anthony Browne,
Rosemary, Stephen Farraday, Ruth Lessing,
37
George, and on George's right, Stephen
Farraday's wife. Lady Alexandra Farraday
with her pale straight hair and those slightly
arched nostrils and her clear arrogant voice.
Such a gay party it had been, or hadn't it?
And in the middle of it. Rosemary— No, no,
better not think about that. Better only to
remember herself sitting next to Tony—that
was the first time she had really met him.
Before that he had been only a name, a
shadow in the hall, a back accompanying
Rosemary down the steps in front of the
house to a waiting taxi.
Tony——
She came back with a start. George was
11 repeating a question.
"Funny he cleared off so soon after. Where
did he go, do you know?"
She said vaguely, "Oh, Ceylon, I think, or
India."
"Never mentioned it that night."
Iris said sharply:
"Why should he? And have we got to talk
about—that night?"
His face crimsoned over.
"No, no, of course not. Sorry, old thing. By
the way, ask Browne to dinner one night. I'd
like to meet him again."
38
Iris was delighteck George was coming
round. The invitation was duly given and
accepted, but at the last minute Anthony had
to go,North on business and couldn't come.
One day at the end of July, George startled
both Lucilla and Iris by announcing that he
had bought a house in the country.
"Bought a housed Iris was incredulous.
"But I thought we were going to rent that
house at Goring for two months?"
"Nicer to have a place of one's own—eh?
Can go down for week-ends all through the
year."
"Where is it? On the river?"
"Not exactly. In fact, not at all. Sussex.
Marlingham. Little Priors, it's called.
Twelve acres—small Georgian house."
"Do you mean you've bought it without us
even seeing it?"
"Rather a chance. Just came into the
market. Snapped it up."
Mrs. Drake said:
"I suppose it will need a lot of doing up and
redecorating."
George said in an off-hand way:
"Oh, that's all right. Ruth has seen to all
that."
They received the mention of Ruth
39
Lessing, George's capable secretary, in
respectful silence. Ruth was an institution--practically
one of the family. Good
looking in a severe black-and-white kind of
way, she was the essence of efficiency combined
with tact. ...
During Rosemary's lifetime, it had been
usual for Rosemary to say, "Let's get Ruth to
see to it. She's marvellous. Oh, leave it to
Ruth."
Every difficulty could always be smoothed
out by Miss Lessing's capable fingers.
Smiling, pleasant, aloof, she surmounted all
obstacles. She ran George's office and, it was
suspected, ran George as well. He was
devoted to her and leaned upon her judgement
in every way. She seemed to have no
needs, no desires of her own.
Nevertheless on this occasion Lucilla
Drake was annoyed.
"My dear George, capable as Ruth is, well, I mean--the women of a family do like to
arrange the colour scheme of their own
drawing-room! Iris should have been consulted.
I say nothing about myself. / do not
count. But it is annoying for Iris."
George looked conscience-stricken.
"I wanted it to be a surprise!"
40
Lucilla had to smile.
"What a boy you are, George."
Iris said:
"I don't mind about colour schemes. I'm
sure Ruth will have made it perfect. She's so
clever. What shall we do down there? There's
a tennis court, I suppose."
"Yes, and golf links six miles away, and it's
only about fourteen miles to the sea. What's
more we shall have neighbours. Always wise
to go to a part of the world where you know
somebody, I think."
"What neighbours?" asked Iris sharply.
George did not meet her eyes.
"The Farradays," he said. "They live
about a mile and a half away just across the
park."
Iris stared at him. In a minute she leapt to
the conviction that the whole of this elaborate
business, the purchasing and equipping of a
country house, had been undertaken with one
object only--to bring George into close relationship
with Stephen and Sandra Farraday.
Near neighbours in the country, with adjoining
estates, the two families were bound to be
on intimate terms. Either that or a deliberate
coolness!
But why? Why this persistent harping on
the Farradays? Why this costly method of
achieving an incomprehensible aim?
Did George suspect that Rosemary and
Stephen Farraday had been something more
than friends? Was this a strange manifestation
of post-mortem jealousy? Surely that was
a thought too far-fetched for words!
But what did George want from the
Farradays? What was the point of all the odd
questions he was continually shooting at her, Iris? Wasn't there something very queer
about George lately?
The odd fuddled look he had in the evenings!
Lucilla attributed it to a glass or so too
much of port. Lucilla would!
No, there was something queer about
George lately. He seemed to be labouring
under a mixture of excitement interlarded
with great spaces of complete apathy when he
sunk in a coma.
Most of that August they spent in the
country at Little Priors. Horrible house! Iris
shivered. She hated it. A gracious well-built
house, harmoniously furnished and decorated
(Ruth Lessing was never at fault!). And
curiously, frighteningly vacant. They didn't
live there. They occupied it. As soldiers, in a
war, occupied some look-out post.
42
What made it horrible was the overlay of
ordinary normal summer living. People down
for week-ends, tennis parties, informal
dinners with the Farradays. Sandra Farraday
had been charming to them—the perfect
manner to neighbours who were already
friends. She introduced them to the county,
advised George and Iris about horses, was
prettily polite and deferential to Lucilla as an
older woman.
And behind the mask of her pale smiling
face no one could know what she was
thinking. A woman like a sphinx.
Of Stephen they had seen less. He was very
busy, often absent on political business. To
Iris it seemed certain that he deliberately
avoided the Little Priors party more than he
could help.
So August had passed and September, and
it was decided that in October they should go
back to the London house.
Iris had drawn a deep breath of relief.
Perhaps, once they were back George would
return to his normal self.
And then, last night, she had been roused
by a low tapping on her door. She switched
on the light and glanced at the time. Only one
o'clock. She had gone to bed at half-past ten
and it had seemed to her it was much later.
She threw on a dressing-gown and went to
the door. Somehow that seemed more natural
than just to shout "Come in."
George was standing outside. He had not
been to bed and was still in his evening
clothes. His breath was coming unevenly and
his face was a curious blue colour.
He said:
"Come down to the study. Iris. I've got to
talk to you. I've got to talk to someone."
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——"
44
"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 reasonShe
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 ^t 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:
45
"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
46
letters with his fingernail, "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 ...
47
She must think—go back—remember.
Rosemary, that's for remembrance.
There was to be no oblivion.
48
2
RUTH LESSING
KJTH 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
49
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 tailormades
and the crisp shirts, the small pearls in
her well-shaped ears, the pale discreetly
powdered face and the faint restrained rose
shade of her lipstick.
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 confided herself strictly to the
office affairs. George left a good deal in her
hands.
50
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
51
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
52
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 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."
53
"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 in 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 wa& 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
54
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 under-estimated 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!"
55
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
56
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
scs 57
wrong there, my dear. Wicked, perhaps. But
there's one thing to be said for me."
Her lip curled. 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
58
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
59
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 uprushing
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 a 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."
60
"I'm the fourth, IF think. You very kindly
asked me."
"Oh, of course. I'd forgotten all about
you!15
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 a dreary office for Rosemary--everything
handed to her on a golden platter. Love
affairs, a doting husband--no need to work or
plan----
Hateful, nasty, 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.
61
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.
Some day, perhaps, she would be able to
forget Rosemary Barton. But not yet.
She deliberately sent her mind back to
those November days. Sitting looking at the
telephone--feeling hatred surge up in her
heart. . . .
Giving Rosemary's message to George in
her pleasant controlled voice. Suggesting that
she herself should not come so as to leave the
number even. George had quickly overridden
that\
Coming in to report next morning on the
sailing of the San Cristobal. George's relief
and gratitude.
"So he's sailed on her all right?"
"Yes. I handed him the money just before
the gangway was taken up." She hesitated
and said, "He waved his hand as the boat
backed away from the quay and called out 'Love and kisses to George and tell him I'll
drink his health tonight.' "
"Cheek!" said George. He asked curiously, "What did you think of him, Ruth?"
62
Her voice was deliberately colourless as she
replied:
"Oh--much as I expected. A weak type."
And George saw nothing, noticed nothing!
She felt like crying out: "Why did you send
me to see him? Didn't you know what he
might do to me? Don't you realise that I'm a
different person since yesterday? Can't you
see that I'm dangerous? That there's no knowing
what I may do?"
Instead she said in her businesslike voice,
"About that San Paulo letter----"
She was the competent efficient secretary....
Five more days.
Rosemary's birthday.
A quiet day at the office--a visit to the hairdresser--the
putting on of a new black frock, a touch of make-up skilfully applied. A face
looking at her in the glass that was not quite
her own face. A pale, determined, bitter face.
It was true what Victor Drake had said.
There was no pity in her.
Later, when she was staring across the table
at Rosemary Barton's blue convulsed face,
she still felt no pity.
Now, eleven months later, thinking of
Rosemary Barton, she felt suddenly afraid ...
63
3
ANTHONY BROWNE
AITHONY BROWNE was frowning
into the middle distance as he
thought about Rosemary Barton.
A damned fool he had been ever to get
mixed up with her. Though a man might be
excused for that! Certainly she was easy upon
the eyes. That evening at the Dorchester he'd
been able to look at nothing else. As beautiful
as a houri—and probably just about as
intelligent!
Still he'd fallen for her rather badly. Used
up a lot of energy trying to find someone who
would introduce him. Quite unforgivable
really when he ought to have been attending
strictly to business. After all, he wasn't idling
his days away at Claridge's for pleasure.
But Rosemary Barton was lovely enough in
all conscience to excuse any momentary lapse
from duty. All very well to kick himself now
and wonder why he'd been such a fool.
Fortunately there was nothing to regret.
Almost as soon as he spoke to her the charm
had faded a little. Things resumed their
64
normal proportions^ This wasn't love—not
yet infatuation. A good time was to be had by
all, no more, no less.
Well, he'd enjoyed it. And Rosemary had
enjoyed it too. She danced like an angel and
wherever he took her men turned round to
stare at her. It gave a fellow a pleasant feeling.
So long as you didn't expect her to talk. He
thanked his stars he wasn't married to her.
Once you got used to all that perfection of
face and form where would you be? She
couldn't even listen intelligently. The sort of
girl who would expect you to tell her every
morning at the breakfast table that you loved
her passionately!
Oh, all very well to think those things now.
He'd fallen for her all right, hadn't he?
Danced attendance on her. Rung her up,
taken her out, danced with her, kissed her in
the taxi. Been in a fair way to making rather a
fool of himself over her until that startling,
that incredible day.
He could remember just how she had
looked, the piece of chestnut hair that had
fallen loose over one ear, the lowered lashes
and the gleam of her dark blue eyes through
them. The pout of the soft red lips.
"Anthony Browne. It's a nice name!"
65
He said lightly:
"Eminently well established and respectable.
There was a chamberlain to Henry the
Eighth called Anthony Browne."
"An ancestor, I suppose?"
"I wouldn't swear to that."
"You'd better not!"
He raised his eyebrows.
"I'm the Colonial branch."
"Not the Italian one?"
"Oh," he laughed. "My olive complexion?
I had a Spanish mother."
"That explains it."
"Explains what?"
"A great deal, Mr. Anthony Browne."
"You're very fond of my name."
"I said so. It's a nice name."
And then quickly like a bolt from the blue:
"Nicer than Tony Morelli."
For a moment he could hardly believe his
ears! It was incredible! Impossible!
He caught her by the arm. In the harshness
of his grip she winced away.
"Oh, you're hurting me!"
"Where did you get hold of that name?"
His voice was harsh, menacing.
She laughed, delighted with the effect she
had produced. The incredible little fool!
66
"Who told you?"
"Someone who recognised you."
"Who was it? This is serious. Rosemary.
I've got to know."
She shot a sideways glance at him.
"A disreputable cousin of mine, Victor
Drake."
"I've never met anyone of that name."
"I imagine he wasn't using that name at the
time you knew him. Saving the family feelings."
Anthony said slowly, "I see. It was—in
prison?"
"Yes. I was reading Victor the riot
act—telling him he was a disgrace to us all.
He didn't care, of course. Then he grinned
and said, ^You aren't always so particular
yourself, sweetheart. I saw you the other
night dancing with an ex-gaol-bird—one of
your best boy friends, in fact. Calls himself
Anthony Browne, I hear, but in stir he was
Tony Morelli'."
Anthony said in a light voice:
"I must renew my acquaintance with this
friend of my youth. We old prison ties must
stick together."
Rosemary shook her head. "Too late. He's
been shipped off to South America. He sailed
yesterday."
67
"I see." Anthony drew a deep breath. "So
you're the only person who knows my guilty
secret?"
She nodded. "I won't tell on you."
"You'd better not." His voice grew stern.
"Look here, Rosemary, this is dangerous.
You don't want your lovely face carved up,
do you? There are people who don't stick at a
little thing like ruining a girl's beauty. And
there's such a thing as being bumped off. It
doesn't only happen in books and films. It
happens in real life, too."
"Are you threatening me. Tony?"
"Warning you."
Would she take the warning? Did she
realise that he was in deadly earnest? Silly
little fool. No sense in that lovely empty
head. You couldn't rely on her to keep her
mouth shut. All the same he'd have to try and
ram his meaning home.
"Forget you've ever heard the name of
Tony Morelli? do you understand?"
"But I don't mind a bit. Tony. I'm broadminded.
It's quite a thrill for me to meet a
criminal. You needn't feel ashamed of it."
The absurd little idiot. He looked at her
coldly. He wondered in that moment how he
could ever have fancied he cared. He'd never
68
been able to suffer ^fools gladly—not even
fools with pretty faces.
"Forget about Tony Morelli," he said
grimly. "I mean it. Never mention that name
again."
He'd have to get out. That was the only
thing to do. There was no relying on this
girl's silence. She'd talk whenever she felt
inclined.
She was smiling at him—an enchanting
smile, but it left him unmoved.
"Don't be so fierce. Take me to the
Jarrows' dance next week."
"I shan't be here. I'm going away."
"Not before my birthday party. You can't
let me down. I'm counting on you. Now
don't say no. I've been miserably ill with that
horrid 'flu and I'm still feeling terribly weak.
I mustn't be crossed. You've got to come."
He might have stood firm. He might have
chucked it all—gone right away.
Instead, through an open door, he saw Iris
coming down the stairs. Iris, very straight
and slim, with her pale face and black hair
and grey eyes. Iris with much less than
Rosemary's beauty and with all the character
that Rosemary would never have.
In that moment he hated himself for having
69
fallen a victim, in however small a degree, to
Rosemary's facile charm. He felt as Romeo
felt remembering Rosaline when he had first
seen Juliet.
Anthony Browne changed his mind.
In the flash of a second he committed
himself to a totally different course of action.
70
4
STEPHEN FARRADAY
STEPHEN FARRADAY was thinking of
Rosemary--thinking of her with that
incredulous amazement that her image
always aroused in him. Usually he banished
all thoughts other from his mind as promptly
as they arose--but there were times when,
persistent in death as she had been in life, she
refused to be thus arbitrarily dismissed.
His first reaction was always the same, a
quick irresponsible shudder as he remembered
the scene in the restaurant. At least he
need not think again of that. His thoughts
turned further back, to Rosemary alive,
Rosemary smiling, breathing, gazing into his
eyes. . . .
What a fool--what an incredible fool he
had been!
And amazement contained him, sheer
bewildered amazement. How had it all come
about? He simply could not understand it. It
was as though his life were divided into two
pans, one, the larger part, a sane wellbalanced
orderly progression, the other a
71
brief uncharacteristic madness. The two parts
simply did not fit.
For with all his ability and his clever, shrewd intellect, Stephen had not the inner
perception to see that actually they fitted only
too well.
Sometimes he looked back over his life, appraising it coldly and without undue
emotion, but with a certain priggish selfcongratulation.
From a very early age he had
been determined to succeed in life, and in
spite of difficulties and certain initial disadvantages
he had succeeded.
He had always had a certain simplicity of
belief and outlook. He believed in the Will.
What a man willed, that he could do!
Little Stephen Farraday had steadfastly
cultivated his Will. He could look for little
help in life save that which he got by his own
efforts. A small pale boy of seven, with a good
forehead and a determined chin, he meant to
rise--and rise high. His parents, he already
knew, would be of no use to him. His mother
had married beneath her station in life--and
regretted it. His father, a small builder,
shrewd, cunning and cheeseparing, was
despised by his wife and also by his son . . .
For his mother, vague, aimless, and given to
72
extraordinary variations of mood, Stephen
felt only a puzzled incomprehension until the
day he found her slumped down on the
corner of a table with an empty eau-deCologne
bottle fallen from her hand. He had
never thought of drink as an explanation of
his mother's moods. She never drank spirits
or beer, and he had never realised that her
passion for eau-de-Cologne had had any other
origin than her vague explanation of
headaches.
He realised in that moment that he had
little affection for his parents. He suspected
shrewdly that they had not much for him. He
was small for his age, quiet, with a tendency
to stammer. Namby-pamby his father called
him. A well-behaved child, little trouble in
the house. His father would have preferred a
more rumbustious type. "Always getting into
mischief / was, at his age." Sometimes,
looking at Stephen he felt uneasily his own
social inferiority to his wife. Stephen took
after her folk.
Quietly, with growing determination, Stephen mapped out his own life. He was going
to succeed. As a first test of will, he determined
to master his stammer. He practised
speaking slowly, with a slight hesitation
SC6 73
between every word. And in time his efforts
were crowned with success. He no longer
stammered. In school he applied himself to
his lessons. He intended to have education.
Education got you somewhere. Soon his
teachers became interested, encouraged him.
He won a scholarship. His parents were
then approached - by the educational
authorities--the boy had promise. Mr.
Farraday, doing well out of a row of jerrybuilt
houses, was persuaded to invest money
in his son's education.
At twenty-two Stephen came down from
Oxford with a good degree, a reputation as a
good and witty speaker, and a knack of
writing articles. He had also made some
useful friends. Politics were what attracted
him. He had learnt to overcome his natural
shyness and to cultivate an admirable social
manner--modest, friendly, and with that
touch of brilliance that led people to say, "That young man will go far." Though by
predilection a Liberal, Stephen realised that
for the moment, at least, the Liberal Party
was dead. He joined the ranks of the Labour
Party. His name soon became known as that
of a "coming" young man. But the Labour
Party did not satisfy Stephen. He found it
74
less open to new ideas, more hidebound by
tradition that its great and powerful rival.
The Conservatives, on the other hand, were
on the look-out for promising young talent.
They approved of Stephen Farraday--he
was just the type they wanted. He contested a
fairly solid Labour constituency and won it
by a very narrow majority. It was with a
feeling of triumph that Stephen took his seat
in the House of Commons. His career had
begun and this was the right career he had
chosen. Into this he could put all his ability, all his ambition. He felt in him the ability to
govern, and to govern well. He had a talent
for handling people, for knowing when to
flatter and when to oppose. One day, he
swore it, he would be in the Cabinet.
Nevertheless, once the excitement of being
actually in the House had subsided, he
experienced swift disillusionment. The
hardly fought election had put him in the
limelight, now he was down in the rut, a mere
insignificant unit of the rank and file, subservient
to the party whips, and kept in his
place. It was not easy here to rise out of
obscurity. Youth here was looked upon with
suspicion. One needed something above
ability. One needed influence.
75
There were certain interests. Certain
families. You had to be sponsored.
He considered marriage. Up to now he had
thought very little about the subject. He had
a dim picture in the back of his mind of some
handsome creature who would stand hand in
hand with him sharing his life and his ambitions, who would give him children and to
whom he could unburden his thoughts and
perplexities. Some woman who felt as he did
and who would be eager for his success and
proud of him when he achieved it.
Then one day he went to one of the big
receptions at Kidderminster House. The
Kidderminster connection was the most
powerful in England. They were, and had
always been, a great political family. Lord
Kidderminster, with his little Imperial, his
tall, distinguished figure, was known by sight
everywhere. Lady Kidderminster's large
rocking-horse face was familiar on public
platforms and on committees all over
England. They had five daughters, three of
them beautiful, but all serious-minded, and
one son still at Eton.
The Kidderminsters made a point of
encouraging likely young members of the
Party. Hence Farraday's invitation.
76
He did not know many people there and he
was standing alone near a window about
twenty minutes after his arrival. The crowd
by the tea table was thinning out and passing
into the other rooms when Stephen noticed a
tall girl in black standing alone by the table
looking for a moment slightly at a loss.
Stephen Farraday had a very good eye for
faces. He had picked up that very morning in
the Tube a "Home Gossip" discarded by a
woman traveller and glanced over it with
slight amusement. There had been a rather
smudgy reproduction of Lady Alexandra
Hayle, third daughter of the Earl of Kidderminster,
and below a gossipy little extract
about her—". . . always been of a shy and
retiring disposition—devoted to animalsLady Alexandra has taken a course in
Domestic Science as Lady Kidderminster
believes in her daughters being thoroughly
grounded in all domestic subjects."
That was Lady Alexandra Hayle standing
there, and with the unerring perception of a
shy person, Stephen knew that she, too, was
shy. The plainest of the five daughters,
Alexandra had always suffered under a sense
of inferiority. Given the same education and
upbringing as her sisters, she had never quite
77
attained their savoirfaire, which annoyed her
mother considerably. Sandra must make an
effort--it was absurd to appear so awkward, so gauche.
Stephen did not know that, but he knew
that the girl was ill at ease and unhappy. And
suddenly a rush of conviction came to him.
This was his chance! "Take it, you fool, take
it! It's now or never!"
He crossed the room to the long buffet.
Standing beside the girl he picked up a sandwich.
Then, turning, and speaking nervously
and with an effort (no acting, that--he was nervous!) he said:
"I say, do you mind if I speak to you? I
don't know many people here and I can see
you don't either. Don't snub me. As a matter
of fact I'm awfully s-s-shy" (his stammer of
years ago came back at a most opportune
moment) "and--and I think you're ss-shy
too, aren't you?"
The girl flushed--her mouth opened. But
as he had guessed, she could not say it. Too
difficult to find words to say "I'm the
daughter of the house." Instead she admitted
quietly:
"As a matter of fact, I--I am shy. I always
have been."
78
Stephen went on quickly:
"It's a horrible feeling. I don't know
whether one ever gets over it. Sometimes I
feel absolutely tongue-tied."
"So do I."
He went on--talking rather quickly,
stammering a little--his manner was boyish,
appealing. It was a manner that had been
natural to him a few years ago and which was
now consciously retained and cultivated. It
was young, naive, disarming.
He led the conversation soon to the subject
of plays, mentioned one that was running
which had attracted a good deal of interest.
Sandra had seen it. They discussed it. It had
dealt with some point of the social services
and they were soon deep in a discussion of
these measures.
Stephen did not overdo things. He saw
Lady Kidderminster entering the room, her
eyes in search other daughter. It was no part
of his plan to be introduced now. He
murmured a goodbye.
"I have enjoyed talking to you. I was
simply hating the whole show till I found
you. Thank you."
He left Kidderminster House with a feeling
of exhilaration. He had taken his chance.
79
Now to consolidate what he had started.
For several days after that he haunted the
neighbourhood of Kidderminster House.
Once Sandra came out with one other sisters.
Once she left the house alone, but with a
hurried step. He shook his head. That would
not do, she was obviously en route to some
particular appointment. Then, about a week
after the party, his patience was rewarded.
She came out one morning with a small black
Scottie dog and she turned with a leisurely
step in the direction of the Park.
Five minutes later, a young man walking
rapidly in the opposite direction pulled up
short and stopped in front of Sandra. He
exclaimed blithely:
"I say, what luck! I wondered ifFd ever see
you again."
His tone was so delighted that she blushed
just a little.
He stooped to the dog.
"What a jolly little fellow. What's his
name?"
"MacTavish."
"Oh, very Scotch."
They talked dog for some moments. Then
Stephen said, with a trace of embarrassment:
"I never told you my name the other day.
80
It's Farraday. Stephen Farraday. I'm an
obscure M.P."
He looked inquiringly and saw the colour
come up in her cheeks again as she said: "I'm
Alexandra Hayle."
He responded to that very well. He might
have been back in the O.U.D.S. Surprise,
recognition, dismay, embarrassment!
"Oh, you're--you're Lady Alexandra Hayle--you--my goodness! What a stupid
fool you must have thought me the other
day!"
Her answering move was inevitable. She
was bound both by her breeding and her
natural kindliness to do all she could to put
him at his ease, to reassure him.
"I ought to have told you at the time."
"I ought to have known. What an oaf you
must think me!"
"How should you have known? What does
it matter anyway? Please, Mr. Farraday, don't look so upset. Let's walk to the Serpentine.
Look, MacTavish is simply pulling."
After that, he met her several times in the
Park. He told her his ambitions. Together
they discussed political topics. He found her
intelligent, well-informed and sympathetic.
She had good brains and a singularly
81
unbiased mind. They were friends now.
The next advance came when he was asked
to dinner at Kidderminster House and had to
go on to a dance. A man had fallen through at
the last moment. When Lady Kidderminster
was racking her brains Sandra said quietly:
"What about Stephen Farraday?"
"Stephen Farraday?"
"Yes, he was at your party the other day
and I've met him once or twice since."
Lord Kidderminster was consulted and was
all in favour of encouraging the young
hopefuls of the political world.
"Brilliant young fellow—quite brilliant.
Never heard of his people, but he'll make a
name for himself one of these days."
Stephen came and acquitted himself well.
"A useful young man to know," said Lady
Kidderminster with unconscious arrogance.
Two months later Stephen put his fortunes
to the test. They were by the Serpentine and
MacTavish sat with his head on Sandra's
foot.
"Sandra, you know—you must know that I
love you. I want you to marry me. I wouldn't
ask you if I didn't believe that I shall make a
name for myself one day. I do believe it. You
shan't be ashamed of your choice. I swear it."
82
She said, "I'm not* ashamed."
"Then do you care?"
"Didn't you know?"
"I "hoped—but I couldn't be sure. Do you
know that I've loved you since that very first
moment when I saw you across the room and
took my courage in both hands and came to
speak to you. I was never more terrified in my
life."
She said, "I think I loved you then, too...."
It was not all plain sailing. Sandra's quiet
announcement that she was going to marry
Stephen Farraday sent her family into
immediate protests. Who was he? What did
they know about him?
To Lord Kidderminster Stephen was quite
frank about his family and origin. He spared
a fleeting thought that it was just as well for
his prospects that his parents were now both
dead.
To his wife. Lord Kidderminster said,
"H'm, it might be worse."
He knew his daughter fairly well, knew that
her quiet manner/hid inflexible purpose. If
she meant to have the fellow she would have
him. She'd never give in!
"The fellow's got a career ahead of him.
With a bit of backing he'll go far. Heaven
83
knows we could do with some young blood.
He seems a decent chap, too."
Lady Kidderminster assented grudgingly.
It was not at all her idea of a good match for
her daughter. Still, Sandra was certainly the
most difficult of the family. Susan had been a
beauty and Esther had brains. Diana, clever
child, had married the young Duke of
Harwich— the parti of the season. Sandra had
certainly less charm—there was her
shyness—and if this young man had a future
as everyone seemed to think . . .
She capitulated, murmuring:
"But of course, one will have to use
influence ..."
So Alexandra Catherine Hayle took
Stephen Leonard Farraday for better and for
worse, in white satin and Brussels lace, with
six bridesmaids and two minute pages and all
the accessories of a fashionable wedding.
They went to Italy for the honeymoon and
came back to a small charming house in
Westminster, and a short time afterwards
Sandra's godmother died and left her a very
delightful small Queen Anne Manor house in
the country. Everything went well for the
young married pair. Stephen plunged into
Parliamentary life with renewed ardour,
84
Sandra aided and abetted him in every way,
identifying herself heart and soul with his
ambitions. Sometimes, Stephen would think
with an almost incredulous realisation of how
Fortune had favoured him! His alliance with
the powerful Kidderminster faction assured
him of rapid rise in his career. His own
ability and brilliance would consolidate the
position that opportunity made for him. He
believed honestly in his own powers and was
prepared to work unsparingly for the good of
his country.
Often, looking across the table at his wife,
he felt gladly what a perfect helpmate she
was—just what he had always imagined. He
liked the lovely clean lines of her head and
neck, the direct hazel eyes under their level
brows, the rather high white forehead and the
faint arrogance of her aquiline nose. She
looked, he thought, rather like a racehorse—so
very well groomed, so instinct with
breeding, so proud. He found her an ideal
companion, their minds raced alike to the
same quick conclusions. Yes, he thought,
Stephen Farraday, that little disconsolate
boy, had done very well for himself. His life
was shaping exactly as he had meant it to be.
He was only a year or two over thirty and
85
already success lay in the hollow of his hand.
And in that mood of triumphant satisfaction, he went with his wife for a fortnight to
St. Moritz, and looking across the hotel
lounge saw Rosemary Barton.
What happened to him at that moment he
never understood. By a kind of poetic revenge
the words he had spoken to another woman
came true. Across a room he fell in love.
Deeply, overwhelmingly, crazily in love. It
was the kind of desperate, headlong, adolescent
calflove that he should have experienced
years ago and got over.
He had always assumed that he was not a
passionate type of man. One or two
ephemeral affairs, a mild flirtation--that, so
far as he knew, was all that "love" meant to
him. Sensual pleasures simply did not appeal
to him. He told himself that he was too
fastidious for that sort of thing.
If he had been asked if he loved his wife, he
would have replied "Certainly"--yet he knew,
well enough, that he would not have dreamed of
marrying her if she had been, say, the daughter
of a penniless country gentleman. He liked her, admired her and felt a deep affection for her and
also a very real gratitude for what her position
had brought him.
. ^ '86
That he could fall in love with the abandon
and misery of a callow boy was a revelation.
He could think of nothing but Rosemary.
Her l6vely laughing face, the rich chestnut of
her hair, her swaying voluptuous figure. He
couldn't eat--he couldn't sleep. They went
ski-ing together. He danced with her. And as
he held her to him he knew that he wanted
her more than anything on earth. So this, this
misery, this aching longing agony--this was
love!
Even in his preoccupation he blessed Fate
for having given him a naturally imperturbable
manner. No one must guess, no one
must know, what he was feeling--except
Rosemary herself.
The Bartons left a week earlier than the
Farradays. Stephen said to Sandra that St.
Moritz was not very amusing. Should they
cut their time short and go back to London?
She agreed" very amiably. Two weeks after
their return, he became Rosemary's lover.
A strange ecstatic hectic period--feverish, unreal. It lasted--how long? Six months at
most. Six months during which Stephen went
about his work as usual, visited his constituency,
asked questions in the House, spoke at various meetings, discussed politics
87
with Sandra and thought of one thing
only—Rosemary.
Their secret meetings in the little flat,
her beauty, the passionate endearments he
showered on her, her clinging passionate
embraces. A dream. A sensual infatuated
dream.
And after the dream—the awakening.
It seemed to happen quite suddenly.
Like coming out of a tunnel into the
daylight.
One day he was a bemused lover, the next
day he was Stephen Farraday again thinking
that perhaps he ought not to see Rosemary
quite so often. Dash it all, they had been
taking some terrific risks. If Sandra was ever
to suspect——He stole a look at her down the
breakfast table. Thank goodness, she didn't
suspect. She hadn't an idea. Yet some of'his
excuses for absence lately had been pretty
thin. Some women would have begun to
smell a rat. Thank goodness Sandra wasn't a
suspicious woman.
He took a deep breath. Really he and
Rosemary had been very reckless! It was a
wonder her husband hadn't got wise to
things. One of those foolish unsuspecting
chaps—years older than she was.
88
What a lovely creaure she was . . .
He thought suddehly of golf links. Fresh
air blowing over sand dunes, tramping round
with clubs—swinging a driver—a nice clean
shot off the tee—a little chip with a mashie.
Men. Men in plus fours smoking pipes. And
no women allowed on the links!
He said suddenly to Sandra:
"Couldn't we go down to Fairhaven?"
She looked up, surprised.
"Do you want to? Can you get away?"
"Might take the inside of a week. I'd like to
get some golf. I feel stale."
"We could go tomorrow if you like. It will
mean putting off the Astleys, and I must
cancel that meeting on Tuesday. But what
about the Lovats?"
"Oh, let's cancel that too. We can think of
some excuse. I want to get away."
It had been peaceful at Fairhaven with
Sandra and the dogs on the terrace and in the
old walled garden, and with golf at Sandley
Heath, and pottering down to the farm in the
evening with MacTavish at his heels.
He had felt rather like someone who is
recovering from an illness.
He had frowned when he saw Rosemary's
writing. He'd told her not to write. It was too
SC7 89
dangerous. Not that Sandra ever asked him
who his letters were from, but all the same it
was unwise. Servants weren't always to be
trusted.
He ripped open the envelope with some
annoyance, having taken the letter into his
study. Pages. Simply pages.
As he read, the old enchantment swept over
him again. She adored him, she loved him
more than ever, she couldn't endure not
seeing him for five whole days. Was he feeling
the same? Did the Leopard miss his
Ethiopian?
He half-smiled, half-sighed. That ridiculous
joke--born when he had bought her a
man's spotted dressing-gown that she had
admired. The Leopard changing his spots, and he had said, "But you mustn't change
your skin, darling." And after that she had
called him Leopard and he had called her his
Black Beauty.
Damned silly, really. Yes, damned silly.
Rather sweet of her to have written such
pages and pages. But still she shouldn't have
done it. Dash it all, they'd got to be careful Sandra wasn't the sort of woman who would
stand for anything of that kind. If she
once got an inkling---- Writing letters was
90
dangerous. He'd told Rosemary so. Why
couldn't she wait until he got back to town?
Dash it all, he'd see her in another two or
three days
There was another letter on the breakfast
table the following morning. This time
Stephen swore inwardly. He thought
Sandra's eyes rested on it for a couple of
seconds. But she didn't say anything. Thank
goodness she wasn't the sort of woman who
asked questions about a man's correspondence.

After breakfast he took the car over to the
market town eight miles away. Wouldn't do
to put through a call from the village. He got
Rosemary on the phone.
"Hullo--that you. Rosemary? Don't write
any more letters."
"Stephen, darling, how lovely to hear your
voice!"
"Be careful, can anyone overhear you?"
"Of course not. Oh, angel, I have missed
you. Have you missed me?"
"Yes, of course. But don't write. It's much
too risky."
"Did you like my letter? Did it make you feel I
was with you? Darling, I want to be with you
every minute. Do you feel that too?"
i 91
"Yes--but not on the phone, old thing."
"You're so ridiculously cautious. What
does it matter?"
"I'm thinking of you, too. Rosemary. I
couldn't bear any trouble to come to you
through me."
"I don't care what happens to me. You
know that."
"Well, I care, sweetheart."
"When are you coming back?"
"Tuesday."
"And we'll meet at the flat, Wednesday."
"Yes--er, yes."
"Darling, I can hardly bear to wait. Can't
you make some excuse and come up today?
Oh, Stephen, you could\ Politics or something
stupid like that?"
"I'm afraid it's out of the question."
"I don't believe you miss me half as much
as I miss you."
"Nonsense, of course I do."
When he rang off he felt tired. Why should
women insist on being so damned reckless?
Rosemary and he must be more careful in
future. They'd have to meet less often.
Things after that became difficult. He was
busy--very busy. It was quite impossible to
give as much time to Rosemary--and the
92 ' trying thing was she didn't seem able to
understand. He explained but she wouldn't
listen.
"Oh, your stupid old politics--as though they were important!"
"But they are----"
She didn't realise. She didn't care. She took
no interest in his work, in his ambitions, in his career. All she wanted was to hear him
reiterate again and again that he loved her.
"Just as much as ever? Tell me again that you really love me?"
Surely, he thought, she might take that for
granted by this time! She was a lovely
creature, lovely--but the trouble was that you
couldn't talk to her.
The trouble was they'd been seeing too
much of each other. You couldn't keep up an
affair at fever heat. They must meet less
often--slacken off a bit.
But that made her resentful--very resentful.
She was always reproaching him now.
"You don't love me as you used to do."
And then he'd have to reassure her, to
swear that of course he did. And she would constantly resurrect everything he had ever
said to her.
"Do you remember when you said it would
93
be lovely if we died together? Fell asleep for
ever in each other's arms? Do you remember
when you said we'd take a caravan and go off into the desert? Just the stars and the
camels--and how we'd forget everything in
the world?"
What damned silly things one said when
one was in love! They hadn't seemed fatuous
at the time, but to have them hashed up in
cold blood! Why couldn't women let things
decently alone? A man didn't want to be continually
reminded what an ass he'd made of
himself.
She came out with sudden unreasonable
demands. Couldn't he go abroad to the South
of France and she'd meet him there? Or go to
Sicily or Corsica--one of those places where
you never saw anyone you knew? Stephen
said grimly that there was no such place in
the world. At the most unlikely spots you
always met some dear old school friend that
you'd never seen for years.
And then she had said something that
frightened him.
"Well, but it wouldn't matter, would it?"
He was alert, watchful, suddenly cold
within.
"What do you mean?"
94
She was smiling up at him, that same
enchanting smile that had once made his
heart turn over and his bones ache with
longing. Now it made him merely impatient.
"Leopard, darling, I've thought sometimes
that we're stupid to go on trying to carry on
this hole-and-corner business. It's not
worthy, somehow. Let's go away together.
Let's stop pretending. George will divorce
me and your wife will divorce you and then
we can get married."
Just like that! Disaster! Ruin! And she
couldn't see it!
"I wouldn't let you do such a thing."
"But darling, I don't care. I'm not really
very conventional."
"But I am. But I am," thought Stephen.
"I do feel that love is the most important
thing in the world. It doesn't matter what
people think of us."
"It would matter to me, my dear. An open
scandal of that kind would be the end of my
career."
"But would that really matter? There are
hundreds of other things that you could do."
"Don't be silly."
"Why have you got to do anything anyway?
I've got lots of money, you know. Of my own,
95
I mean, not George's. We could wander
about all over the world, going to the most
enchanting out-of-the-way places--places, perhaps, where nobody else has ever been. Or
to some island in the Pacific--think of it, the
hot sun and the blue sea and the coral .reefs."
He did think of it. A South Sea Island! Of
all the idiotic ideas. What sort of a man did
she think he was--a beachcomber?
He looked at her with eyes from which the
last traces of scales had fallen. A lovely
creature with brains of a hen! He'd been
mad--utterly and completely mad. But he
was sane again now. And he'd got to get out
of this fix. Unless he was careful she'd ruin
his whole life.
He said all the things that hundreds of men
had said before him. They must end it all--so
he wrote. It was only fair to her. He couldn't
risk bringing unhappiness on her. She didn't
understand--and so on and so on.
It was all over--he must make her understand
that.
But that was just what she refused to
understand. It wasn't to be as easy as that.
She adored him, she loved him more than
ever, she couldn't live without him! The only
honest thing was for 'her to tell her husband,
96
and for Stephen to tell his wife the truth! He
remembered how cold he had felt as he s^t
holding her letter. The little fool! The silly
clinging fool! She'd go and blab the whole
thing to George Barton and then George
would divorce her and cite him as co-respondent.
And Sandra would perforce divorce
him too. He hadn't any doubt of that. She
had spoken once of a friend, had said with
faint surprise, "But of course when she found
out he was having an affair with another
woman, what else could she do but divorce
him?" That was what Sandra would feel. She
was proud. She would never share a man.
And then he would be done, finished--the
influential Kidderminster backing would be
withdrawn. It would be the kind of scandal
that he would not be able to live down, even
though public opinion was broader-minded
than it used to be. But not in a flagrant case
like this! Good-bye to his dreams, his ambitions.
Everything wrecked, broken--all
because of a crazy infatuation for a silly
woman. Calf love, that was all it had been.
Calflove contracted at the wrong time of life.
He'd lose everything he'd staked. Failure!
Ignominy!
He'd lose Sandra ...
. 97
And suddenly, with a shock of surprise he
realised that it was that that he would mind
most. He'd lose Sandra. Sandra with her
square white forehead and her clear hazel
eyes. Sandra, his dear friend and companion,
his arrogant, proud, loyal Sandra. No, he couldn't lose Sandra--he couldn't. . . .
Anything but that.
The perspiration broke out on his forehead.
Somehow he must get out of this mess.
Somehow he must make Rosemary listen to
reason. . . . But would she? Rosemary and
reason didn't go together. Supposing he were
to tell her that, after all, he loved his wife?
No. She simply wouldn't believe it. She was
such a stupid woman. Empty-headed, clinging, possessive. And she loved'him still--that
was the mischief of it.
A kind of blind rage rose up in him. How
on earth was he to keep her quiet? To shut
her mouth? Nothing short of a dose of poison
would do that, he thought bitterly.
A wasp was buzzing close at hand. He
stared abstractedly. It had got inside a cutglass
jampot and was trying to get out.
Like me, he thought, entrapped by
sweetness and now--he can't get out, poor
devil.
98
But he, Stephen Farraday, was going to get
out somehow. Time, he must play for time.
Rosemary was down with 'flu at the
moment. He'd sent conventional inquiries—a
big sheaf of flowers. It gave him a respite.
Next week Sandra and he were dining with
the Bartons—a birthday party for Rosemary.
Rosemary had said, "I shan't do anything
until after my birthday—it would be too cruel
to George. He's making such a fuss about it.
He's such a dear. After it's all over we'll come
to an understanding."
Supposing he were to tell her brutally that
it was all over, that he no longer cared? He
shivered. No, he dare not do that. She might
go to George in hysterics. She might even
come to Sandra. He could hear her tearful,
bewildered voice.
"He says he doesn't care any more, but I
know it's not true. He's trying to be loyal—to
play the game with you—but I know you'll
agree with me that when people love each
other honesty is the only way. That's why I'm
asking you to give him his freedom."
That was just the sort of nauseating stuff
she would pour out. And Sandra, her face
proud and disdainful, would say, "He can
have his freedom!"
99
She wouldn't believe—how could she
believe? If Rosemary were to bring out those
letters—the letters he'd been asinine enough
to write to her. Heaven knew what he had
said in them. Enough and more than enough
to convince Sandra—letters such as he had
never written to her——
He must think of something—some way of
keeping Rosemary quiet. "It's a pity," he
thought grimly, "that we don't live in the
days of the Borgias ..."
A glass of poisoned champagne was about
the only thing that would keep Rosemary
quiet.
Yes, he had actually thought that.
Cyanide of potassium in her champagne
glass, cyanide of potassium in her evening bag.
Depression after influenza.
And across the table, Sandra's eyes meeting
his.
Nearly a year ago—and he couldn't forget.
100
5
ALEXANDRA FARRADAY
SANDRA FARRADAY had not for
gotten Rosemary Barton.
She was thinking of her at this very
minute—thinking of her slumped forward
across the table in the restaurant that night.
She remembered her own sharp indrawn
breath and how then, looking up, she had
found Stephen watching her . . .
Had he read the truth in her eyes? Had he
seen the hate, the mingling of horror and
triumph?
Nearly a year ago now—and as fresh in her
mind as if it had been yesterday! Rosemary^
that's for remembrance. How horribly true
that was. It was no good a person being dead
if they lived on in your mind. That was what
Rosemary had done. In Sandra's mind—and
in Stephen's too? She didn't know, but she
thought it probable.
The Luxembourg—that hateful place with its
excellent food, deft swift service, and luxurious
decor and setting. An impossible place to avoid,
people were always asking you there.
101
She would have liked to forget—but
everything conspired to make her remember.
Even Fairhaven was no longer exempt now
that George Barton had come to live at Little
Priors.
It was really rather extraordinary of him.
George Barton was altogether an odd man.
Not at all the kind of neighbour she liked to
have. His presence at Little Priors spoiled for
her the charm and peace of Fairhaven.
Always, up to this summer, it had been a
place of healing and rest, a place where she
and Stephen had been happy—that is, if they
ever had been happy?
Her lips pressed thinly together. Yes, a
thousand times, yes! They could have been
happy but for Rosemary. It was Rosemary
who had shattered the delicate edifice of
mutual trust and tenderness that she and
Stephen were beginning to build. Something,
some instinct, had bade her hide from
Stephen her own passion, her single-hearted
devotion. She had loved him from the
moment he came across the room to her that
day at Kidderminster House, pretending to
be shy, pretending not to know who she was.
For he had known. She could not say when
she had first accepted that fact. Some time
102
after their marriage, Jme day when he was
expounding some neat piece of political
manipulation necessary to the passing of
some Bill.
if'
The thought had flashed across her mind
then: "This reminds me of something.
What?" Later she realised that it was, in
essence, the same tactics he had used that day
at Kidderminster House. She accepted the
knowledge without surprise, as though it
were something of which she had had long
been aware, but which had only just risen to
the surface of her mind.
From the day of their marriage she had
realised that he did not love her in the same
way as she loved him. But she thought it
possible that he was actually incapable of
such a love. That power of loving her was her
own unhappy heritage. To care with a
desperation, an intensity that was, she knew, unusual among women! She would have died
for him willingly; she was ready to lie for
him, scheme for him, suffer for him! Instead
she accepted with pride and reserve the place
he wanted her to fill. He wanted her co-operation,
her sympathy, her active and
intellectual help. He wanted of her, not her
heart, but her brains, and those material
\ 103
advantages which birth had given her.
One thing she would never do, embarrass
him by the expression of a devotion to which
he could make no adequate return. And she
did believe honestly that he liked her, that he
took pleasure in her company. She foresaw a
future in which her burden would be
immeasurably lightened--a future of tenderness
and friendship.
In his way, she thought, he loved her.
And then Rosemary came.
She wondered sometimes, with a wry painful
twist of the lips, how it was that he could
imagine that she did not know. She had
known from the first minute--up there at St.
Moritz--when she had first seen the way he
looked at the woman.
She had known the very day the woman
became his mistress.
She knew the scent the creature used. . . .
She could read in Stephen's polite face,
with eyes abstracted, just what his memories
were, what he was thinking about--that
woman--the woman he had just left!
It was difficult, she thought dispassionately, to assess the suffering she had been
through. Enduring, day after day, the
tortures of the damned, with nothing to carry
104
her through but her belief in courage--her
own natural pride. She would not show, she
would never show, what she was feeling. She
lost weight, grew thinner and paler, the bones
of her head and shoulders showing more
distinctly with the flesh stretched tightly over
them. She forced herself to eat, but could not
force herself to sleep. She lay long nights, with dry eyes, staring into darkness. She
despised the taking of drugs as weakness. She
would hang on. To show herself hurt, to
plead, to protest--all these things were
abhorrent to her.
She had one crumb of comfort, a meagre
one--Stephen did not wish to leave her.
Granted that that was for the sake of his
career, not out of fondness for her, still the
fact remained. He did not want to leave her.
Some day, perhaps, the infatuation would
pass. . . .
What could he, after all, see in the girl? She
was attractive, beautiful--but so were other
women. What did he find in Rosemary
Barton that infatuated him?
She was brainless--silly--and not--she
clung to this point especially--not even
particularly amusing. If she had had wit, charm and provocation of manner--those
were the things that held men. Sandra clung
to the belief that the thing would end--that
Stephen would tire of it.
She was convinced that the main interest in
his life was his work. He was marked out for
great things and he knew it. He had a fine
statesmanlike brain and he delighted in using
it. It was his appointed task in life. Surely
once the infatuation began to wane he would
realise that fact?
Never for one minute did Sandra consider
leaving him. The idea never even came to
her. She was his, body and soul, to take or
discard. He was her life, her existence. Love
burned in her with a medieval force.
There was a moment when she had hope.
They went down to Fairhaven. Stephen
seemed more his normal self. She felt suddenly
a renewal of the old sympathy between
them. Hope rose in her heart. He wanted her
still, he enjoyed her company, he relied on
her judgment. For the moment, he had
escaped from the clutches of that woman.
He looked happier, more like his own self.
Nothing was irretrievably ruined. He was getting over it. If only he could make up his
mind to break with her. . . .
Then they went back to London and
106
Stephen relapsed. ^ He looked haggard, worried, ill. He began to be unable to fix his
mind on his work.
She thought she knew the cause. Rosemary
wanted him to go away with her. . . . He was
making up his mind to take the step--to break
with everything he cared about most. Folly!
Madness! He was the type of man with whom
his work would always come first--a very
English type. He must know that himself,
deep down---- Yes, but Rosemary was very
lovely--and very stupid. Stephen would not
be the first man who had thrown away his
career for a woman and been sorry afterwards!

Sandra caught a few words--a phrase one
day at a cocktail party.
"... telling George--got to make up our
minds."
It was soon after that that Rosemary went
down with 'flu.
A little hope rose in Sandra's heart. Suppose
she were to get pneumonia--people did
after 'flu--a young friend of hers had died
that way only last winter. If Rosemary
died----
She did not try to repress the thought--she
was not horrified at herself. She was medieval
107
enough to hate with a steady and untroubled
mind.
She hated Rosemary Barton. If thoughts
could kill, she would have killed her.
But thoughts do not kill----
Thoughts are not enough. ...
How beautiful Rosemary had looked that
night at the Luxembourg with her pale fox
furs slipping off her shoulders in the ladies' cloak-room. Thinner, paler since her
illness--an air of delicacy made her beauty
more ethereal. She had stood in front of the
glass touching up her face. . . .
Sandra, behind her, looked at their joint
reflection in the mirror. Her own face like
something sculptured, cold lifeless. No feeling
there, you would have said--a cold hard
woman.
And then Rosemary said: "Oh, Sandra, am
I taking all the glass? I've finished now. This
horrid 'flu has pulled me down a lot. I look a
sight. And I feel weak and headachy."
Sandra had asked with quiet polite concern:
"Have you got a headache tonight?"
"Just a bit of one. You haven't got an
aspirin, have you?"
"I've got a Cachet Faivre."
She had opened her handbag, taken out the
108
cachet. Rosemary had accepted it. "I'll take it
in my bag in case."
That competent dark-haired girl. Barton's
secretary, had watched the little transaction.
She came in turn to the mirror, and just put
on a slight dusting of powder. A nice-looking
girl, almost handsome. Sandra had the
impression that she didn't like Rosemary.
Then they had gone out of the cloakroom, Sandra first, then Rosemary, then Miss
Lessing--oh, and of course, the girl Iris,
Rosemary's sister, she had been there. Very
excited, with big grey eyes, and a schoolgirlish
white dress.
They had gone out and joined the men in
the hall.
And the head waiter had come bustling
forward and showed them to their table.
They had passed in under the great domed
arch and there had been nothing, absolutely
nothing, to warn one of them that she would
never come out through that door again
alive. . . .
109
6
GEORGE BARTON
K)SEMARY ...
George Barton lowered his glass and
stared rather owlishly into the fire.
He had drunk just enough to feel maudlin
with self-pity.
What a lovely girl she had been. He'd
always been crazy about her. She knew it, but
he'd always supposed she'd only laugh at
him.
Even when he first asked her to marry him, he hadn't done it with any conviction.
Mowed and mumbled. Acted like a blithering
fool.
"You know, old girl, any time--you've got
to say. I know it's no good. You wouldn't
look at me. I've always been the most awful
fool. Got a bit of a corporation, too. But you
do know what I feel, don't you, eh? I
mean--I'm always there. Know I haven't got
an earthly chance, but thought I'd just
mention it."
And Rosemary had laughed and kissed the
top of his head.
110
"You're sweet, George, and I'll remember
the kind offer, but I'm not marrying anyone just at present."
And he had said seriously: "Quite right.
Take plenty of time to look around. You can
take your pick."
He'd never had any hope--not any real
hope.
That's why he had been so incredulous, so
dazed when Rosemary had said she was going
to marry him.
She wasn't in love with him, of course. He
knew that quite well. In fact, she admitted as much.
"You do understand, don't you? I want to
feel settled down and happy and safe. I shall
with you. I'm so sick of being in love. It
always goes wrong somehow and ends in a
mess. I like you, George. You're nice and
funny and sweet and you think I'm wonderful.
That's what I want."
He had answered rather incoherently:
"Steady does it. We'll be as happy as
kings."
Well, that hadn't been far wrong. They had
been happy. He'd always felt humble in his
own mind. He'd always told himself that
there were bound to be snags. Rosemary
111
wasn't going to be satisfied with a dull kind of
chap like himself. There would be incidents! He'd schooled himself to accept--incidents!
He would hold firm to the belief that they
wouldn't be lasting! Rosemary would always
come back to him. Once let him accept that
view and all would be well.
For she was fond of him. Her affection for
him was constant and unvarying. It existed
quite apart from her flirtations and her love
affairs.
He had schooled himself to accept those.
He had told himself that they were inevitable
with someone of Rosemary's susceptible
temperament and her unusual beauty. What
he had not bargained for were his own
reactions.
Flirtations with this young man and that
were nothing, but when he first got an inkling
of a serious affair----
He'd known quick enough, sensed the
difference in her. The rising excitement, the
added beauty, the whole glowing radiance.
And then what his instinct told him was confirmed
by ugly concrete facts.
There was that day when he'd come into
her sitting-room and she had instinctively
covered with her hand the page of the letter
112
she was writing. He^d known then. She was
writing to her lover.
Presently,, when she went out of the room,
he went across to the blotter. She had taken
the letter with her, but the blotting sheet was
nearly fresh. He'd taken it across the room
and held it up to the glass—seen the words in
Rosemary's dashing script, "My own beloved
darling ..."
His blood had sung in his ears. He
understood in that moment just what Othello
had felt. Wise resolutions? Pah! Only the
natural man counted. He'd like to choke the
life out other! He'd like to murder the fellow
in cold blood. Who was it? That fellow
Browne? Or that stick Stephen Farraday?
They'd both of them been making sheep's
eyes at her.
He caught sight of his face in the glass. His
eyes were suffused with blood. He looked as
though he were going to have a fit.
As he remembered that moment, George
Barton let his glass fall from his hand. Once
again he felt the choking sensation, the
beating blood in his ears. Even now——
With an effort he pushed remembrance
away. Mustn't go over that again. It was
past—done with. He wouldn't ever suffer like
113
that again. Rosemary was dead. And at peace.
And he was at peace too. No more suffering....
Funny to think that that was what her
death had meant to him. Peace. . . .
He'd never told even Ruth that. Good girl,
Ruth. A good headpiece on her. Really, he
didn't know what he would do without her.
The way she helped. The way she always
sympathised. And never a hint of sex. Not
man mad like Rosemary . . .
Rosemary . . . Rosemary sitting at the
round table in the restaurant. A little thin in
the face after 'flu—a little pulled down—but
lovely, so lovely. And only an hour later——
No, he wouldn't think of that. Not just
now. His plan. He would think of The Plan.
He'd speak to Race first. He'd show Race
the letters. What would Race make of these
letters? Iris had been dumbfounded. She
evidently hadn't had the slightest idea.
Well, he was in charge of the situation now.
He'd got it all taped.
The Plan. All worked out. The date. The
place.
Nov. 2nd. All Souls' Day. That was a good
touch. The Luxembourg, of course. He'd try
to get the same table.
And the same guests. Anthony Browne,
114
Stephen Farraday, Sandra Farraday. Then, of
course, Ruth and Iris and himself. And as the
odd, the seventh guest he'd get Race. Race
who was originally to have been at the dinner.
And there would be one empty place
It would be splendid!
Dramatic!
A repetition of the crime.
Well, not quite a repetition. . . .
His mind went back. . . .
Rosemary's birthday. . . .
Rosemary, sprawled forward on that
table—dead. . . .
115
s
>. I
CO §
Q I
5».
-. ^ ^
-; c^ .§
-g <'
PQ 0 ^
c/^ ^
§

<
Q^ ^
^
R
\« \«

1
LJCILLA DRAKE was twittering. That
was the term always used in the
family and it was really a very apt
description of the sounds that issued from
Lucilla's kindly lips.
She was concerned on this particular morning
with many things--so many that she
found it hard to pin her attention down to one
at a time. There was the imminence of the
move back to town and the household
problems involved in that move. Servants, housekeeping, winter storage, a thousand
minor details--all these contended with a
concern over Iris's looks.
"Really, dear, I feel quite anxious about
you--you look so white and washed out--as
though you hadn't slept--did you sleep? If
not, there's that nice sleeping preparation of
Dr. Wylie's or was it Dr. Gaskell's?-- which
reminds me--I shall have to go and speak to
the grocer myself-- either the maids have been
ordering in things on their own, or else it's
deliberate swindling on his part. Packets and
118
packets of soap flakes--and I never allow
more than three a week. But perhaps a tonic
would be better? Baton's syrup, they used to
give when I was a girl. And spinach, of
course. I'll tell cook to have spinach for lunch
today."
Iris was too languid and too used to
Mrs. Drake's discursive style to inquire why
the mention of Dr. Gaskell should have
reminded her aunt of the local grocer, though
had she done so, she would have received the
immediate response: "Because the grocer's
name is Cranford, my dear." Aunt Lucilla's
reasoning was always crystal clear to herself.
Iris merely said with what energy she could
command, "I'm perfectly well. Aunt
Lucilla."
"Black under the eyes," said Mrs. Drake.
"You've been doing too much."
"I've done nothing at all--for weeks."
"So you think, dear. But too much tennis is
overtiring for young girls. And I think the air
down here is inclined to be enervating. This
place is in a hollow. If George had consulted me instead of that girl."
"Girl?"
"That Miss Lessing he thinks so much of.
All very well in the office, I daresay--but a
119
great mistake to take her out of her place.
Encourage her to think herself one of the
family. Not that she needs much encouragement,
I should say."
"Oh, well. Aunt Lucilla, Ruth is, practically
one of the family."
Mrs. Drake sniffed. "She means to
be--that's quite clear. Poor George--really an
infant in arms where women are concerned.
But it won't do. Iris. George must be protected
from himself and if I were you I should
make it very clear that nice as Miss Lessing
is, any idea of marriage is out of the
question."
Iris was startled for a moment out of her
apathy.
"I never thought of George marrying
Ruth."
"You don't see what goes on under your
nose, child. Of course you haven't had my experience
of life." Iris smiled in spite of
herself. Aunt Lucilla was really very funny
sometimes. "That young woman is out for
matrimony."
"Would it matter?" asked Iris.
"Matter? Of course it would matter."
"Wouldn't it really be rather nice?" Her
aunt stared at her. "Nice for George, I mean.
120
I think you're right about her, you know. I
think she is fond of him. And she'd be an
awfully good wife tohiin and look after him "
Mrs. Drake snorted and an almost indignant
expression appeared on her rather
4 4 « 1 1 /* LAv-1 1 d LIX^l
sheep-like amiable face.
"George is well locked after at present.
What more can he w^t, I should like to
know? Excellent meals and his mending seen
to. Very pleasant forhi^ to have an attractive
young girl like you abo^ the house and when
you marry some day I should hope I was still
capable of seeing to hi, comfort and looking
after his health. Just a^ well or better than a
young woman out of an office could do-what
does she know about housekeeping? Figures
and ledgers and shorthand and typine-what
good is that in a man's home?"
Iris smiled and shook her head, but she did
not argue the point. She was thinking of the
smooth dark satin of Ruth's head, of the clear
complexion and the figure so well set off by
the severe tailor-made^ that Ruth affected
Poor Aunt Lucilla, all her mind on comfort
and housekeeping, with romance so very far
behind her that she h^ probably forgotten
what it meant-if indeed, thought Iris,
remembering her unci^ by marriage, it had

SC9
12i

able—but, thank goodness, there was one
person at least who saw what she was up to!
Lucilla Drake nodded her head several
times, causing her soft double chins to
quiver, raised her eyebrows with an air of
superb human sapience, and abandoned the
subject for one equally interesting and
possibly even more pressing.
"It's the blankets I can't make up my mind
about, dear. You see, I can't get it clearly laid
down whether we shan't be coming down
again until next spring or whether George
means to run down for week-ends. He won't
say."
"I suppose he doesn't really know." Iris
tried to give her attention to a point that
seemed completely unimportant. "If it was
nice weather it might be fun to come down
occasionally. Though I don't think I want to
particularly. Still the house will be here if we
do want to come."
"Yes, dear, but one wants to know.
Because, you see, if we aren't coming down
until next year, then the blankets ought to be
put away with moth balls. But if we are
coming down, that wouldn't be necessary,
because the blankets would be used—and the
smell of moth balls is so unpleasant."
124
"Well, don't use them."
"Yes, but it's been such a hot summer
there are a lot of moths about. Everyone says
it's a bad year for moths. And for wasps, of
course. Hawkins told me yesterday he's taken
thirty wasps' nests this summer--thirty--just
fancy----"
Iris thought of Hawkins--stalking out at
dusk--cyanide in hand---- Cyanide--Rosemary-- Why did everything lead back to
that----?
The thin trickle of sound that was Aunt
Lucilla's voice was going on--it had reached
by now a different point----
"--and whether one ought to send the
silver to the bank or not? Lady Alexandra was
saying so many burglaries--though of course
we do have good shutters--I don't like the
way she does her hair myself--it makes her
face look so hard--but I should think she was
a hard woman. And nervy, too. Everyone is
nervy nowadays. When I was a girl people
didn't know what nerves were. Which
reminds me that I don't like the look of
George lately--I wonder if he could be going
to have 'flu? I've wondered once or twice
whether he was feverish. But perhaps it is
some business worry. He looks to me, you
IE 125
know, as though he has got something on his
mind."
Iris shivered, and Lucilla Drake exclaimed
triumphantly: "There, I said you had a
chill."
126
2
"y YOW I wish they had never ever
|----| come here."
A JL Sandra Farraday uttered the words
with such unusual bitterness that her husband
turned to look at her in surprise. It was
as though his own thoughts had been put into
words--the thoughts that he had been trying
so hard to conceal. So Sandra, too, felt as he
did? She, too, had felt that Fairhaven was
spoiled, its peace impaired, by these new
neighbours a mile away across the Park. He
said, voicing his surprise impulsively:
"I didn't know you felt like that about
them, too."
Immediately, or so it semed to him, she
withdrew into herself.
"Neighbours are so very important in the
country. One has either to be rude or
friendly, one can't, as in London, just keep
people as amiable acquaintances."
"No," said Stephen, "one can't do that. "
"And now we are committed to this extraordinary
party."
127
They were both silent, both mnning over
in their minds the scene at lunch. George
Barton had been friendly, even exuberant in
manner, with a kind of undercurrent of
excitement of which they had both been
conscious. George Barton was really very odd
these days. Stephen had never noticed him
much in the time preceding Rosemary's
death. George had just been there in the
background, the kindly dull husband of a
young and beautiful wife. Stephen had never
even felt a pang of disquiet over the betrayal
of George. George had been the kind of husband
who was born to be betrayed. So much
older--so devoid of the attractions necessary
to hold an attractive and capricious woman.
Had George himself been deceived? Stephen
did not think so. George, he thought, knew
Rosemary very well. He loved her, and he
was the kind of man who was humble about
his own powers of holding a wife's interest.
All the same, George must have suffered....
Stephen began to wonder just what George
had felt when Rosemary died.
He and Sandra had seen little of him in the
months following the tragedy. It was not
until he had suddenly appeared as a near
neighbour at Little Priors that he had
128
re-entered their live&and at once, so Stephen
thought, he had seemed so very different.
More alive, more positive. And—yes,
decidedly odd.
He had been odd to-day. That suddenly
blurted out invitation. To a party for Iris's
eighteenth birthday. He did so hope Stephen
and Sandra would both come. And Stephen
and Sandra had been so kind to them down
here.
Sandra had said quickly, of course, it would
be delightful. Naturally Stephen would be
rather tied when they got back to London and
she herself had a great many tiresome
engagements, but she did hope they would be
able to manage it.
"Then let's settle a day now, shall we?"
George's face—florid, smiling, insistent.
"I thought perhaps one day the week after
next—Wednesday or Thursday? Thursday is
November 2nd. Would that be all right? But
we'll arrange any day that suits you both."
It had been the kind of invitation that
pinned you down—there was a certain lack of
social savoir-faire. Stephen noticed that Iris
Marle had gone red and looked embarrassed.
Sandra had been perfect. She had smilingly
surrendered to the inevitable and said that
129
Thursday, November 2nd, would suit them
very well.
Suddenly voicing his thoughts, Stephen
said sharply, "We needn't go."
Sandra turned her face slightly towards
him. It wore a thoughtful considering air.
"You think not?"
"It's easy to make some excuse."
"He'll only insist on us coming some other
time—or change the day. He—he seems very
set on our coming."
"I can't think why. It's Iris's party—and I
can't believe she is so particularly anxious for
our company."
"No—no——" Sandra sounded thoughtful
Then she said:
"You know where this party is to be?"
"No."
"The Luxembourg."
The shock nearly deprived him of speech.
He felt the colour ebbing out of his cheeks.
He pulled himself together and met her eyes.
Was it his fancy or was there meaning in the
level gaze?
"But it's preposterous," he said, blustering a
little in his attempt to conceal his own personal
emotion. "The Luxembourg where—to revive
all that. The man must be mad."
130
<<I thought of that^" said Sandra.
"But then we shall certainly refuse to go.
The--the whole thing was unpleasant. You
remember all the publicity--and the pictures
in the papers."
"I remember all the unpleasantness," said
Sandra.
"Doesn't he realise how disagreeable it
would be for us?"
"He has a reason, you know, Stephen. A
reason that he gave me."
"What was it?"
He felt thankful that she was looking away
from him when she spoke.
"He took me aside after lunch. He said he
wanted to explain. He told me that the
girl--Iris--had never recovered properly
from the shock other sister's death."
She paused and Stephen said unwillingly:
"Well, I daresay that may be true
enough--she looks far from well. I thought at
lunch how ill she was looking."
"Yes, I noticed it too--although she has
seemed in good health and spirits on the
whole lately. But I am telling you what
George Barton said. He told me that Iris has
consistently avoided the Luxembourg ever
since as far as she was able."
131
"I don't wonder."
"But according to him that is all wrong. It
seems he consulted a nerve specialist on the
subject--one of these modern men--and his
advice is that after a shock of any kind, the
trouble must be faced, not avoided; The
principle, I gather, is like that of sending up
an airman again immediately after a crash."
"Does the specialist suggest another
suicide?"
Sandra replied quietly, "He suggests that
the associations of the restaurant must be
overcome. It is, after all, just a restaurant. He
proposed an ordinary pleasant party with, as
far as possible, the same people present."
"Delightful for the people!"
"Do you mind so much, Stephen?"
A swift pang of alarm shot through him. He
said quickly: "Of course I don't mind. I just
thought it rather a gruesome idea. Personally I shouldn't mind in the least... I was really thinking
of you. If you don't mind----"
She interrupted him.
"I do mind. Very much. But the way
George Barton put it made it very difficult to
refuse. After all, I have frequently been to the
Luxembourg since--so have you. One is
constantly being asked there."
132
"But not under these circumstances."
"No."
Stephen said:
"A$ you say, it is difficult to refuse—and if
we put it off the invitation will be renewed.
But there's no reason, Sandra, why you
should have to endure it. I'll go and you can
cry off at the last minute—a headache,
chill—something of that kind."
He saw her chin go up.
"That would be cowardly. No, Stephen, if
you go, I go. After all," she laid her hand on
his arm, "however little our marriage means,
it should at least mean sharing all our
difficulties."
But he was staring at her—rendered dumb
by one poignant phrase which had escaped
her so easily, as though it voiced a long
familiar and not very important fact.
Recovering himself he said, "Why do you
say that? However little our marriage means?"
She looked at him steadily, her eyes wide
and honest.
"Isn't it true?"
"No, a thousand times no. Our marriage
means everything to me."
She smiled.
"I suppose it does—in a way. We're a good
133
team, Stephen. We pull together with a
satisfactory result."
"I didn't mean that." He found his breath was
coming unevenly. He took her hand in both of
his, holding it very closely—"Sandra, don't you
know that you mean all the world to me?"
And suddenly she did know it. It was
incredible—unforeseen, but it was so.
She was in his arms and he was holding her
close, kissing her, stammering out incoherent
words.
"Sandra—Sandra—darling. I love you . . .
I've been so afraid—so afraid I'd lose you."
She heard herself saying:
"Because of Rosemary?"
"Yes." He let go other, stepped back, his
face was ludicrous in its dismay.
"You knew—about Rosemary?"
"Of course—all the time."
"And you understand?"
She shook her head.
"No, I don't understand. I don't think I
ever should. You loved her?"
"Not really. It was you I loved."
A surge of bitterness swept over her. She
quoted: "From the first moment you saw me
across the room? Don't repeat that lie—for it
was a lie!"
134
He was not taken aback by that sudden
attack. He seemed to consider her words
thoughtfully. .
"Yes^ it was a lie—and yet in a queer way it
wasn't. I'm beginning to believe that it was
true. Oh, try and understand, Sandra. You
know the people who always have a noble and
good reason to mask their meaner actions?
The people who "have to be honest' when
they want to be unkind, who "thought it their
duty to repeat so and so,' who are such
hypocrites to themselves that they go through
to their life's end convinced that every mean
and beastly action was done in a spirit of
unselfishness! Try and realise also that the
opposite of those people can exist too. People
who are so cynical, so distrustful of
themselves and of life that they can only
believe in their bad motives. You were the
woman I needed. That, at least, is true. And I
do honestly believe, now, looking back on it,
that if it hadn't been true, I should never have
gone through with it."
She said bitterly:
"You were not in love with me."
"No. I had never been in love. I was a
starved, sexless creature who prided himself—yes,
I did—on the fastidious coldness
135
of his nature! And then I did fall in
love "across a room'--a silly violent puppy
love. A thing like a midsummer thunderstorm, brief, unreal, quickly over." He added
bitterly: "Indeed a 'tale told by an idiot, full
of sound and fury, signifying nothing.' "
He paused, and then went on:
"It was here, at Fairhaven, that I woke up
and realised the truth."
"The truth?"
"That the only thing in life that mattered
to me was you--and keeping your love."
"If I had only known . . ."
"What did you think?"
"I thought you were planning to go away
with her."
"With Rosemary?" He gave a short laugh.
"That would have been penal servitude for
life!"
"Didn't she want you to go away with
her?"
"Yes, she did."
"What happened?"
Stephen drew a deep breath. They were
back again. Facing once more that intangible
menace. He said:
"The Luxembourg happened."
They were both silent, seeing, they both
136
knew, the same thing.^The blue cyanosed face
of a once lovely woman.
Staring at a dead woman, and thenlooking up to meet each other's eyes. . . .
Stephen said:
"Forget it, Sandra, for God's sake, let us
forget it!"
"It's no use forgetting. We're not going to
be allowed to forget."
There was a pause. Then Sandra said:
"What are we going to do?"
"What you said to me just now. Face
things—together. Go to this horrible party
whatever the reason for it may be."
"You don't believe what George Barton
said about Iris?"
"No. Do you?"
"It could be true. But even if it is, it's not
the real reason."
"What do you think the real reason is?"
"I don't know, Stephen. But I'm afraid."
"Of George Barton?"
"Yes, I think he-knows."
Stephen said sharply:
"Knows what?"
She turned her head slowly until her eyes
met his.
She said in a whisper:
scio 137
"We mustn't be afraid. We must have
courage—all the courage in the world. You're
going to be a great man, Stephen—a man all
the world needs—and nothing shall interfere
with that. I'm your wife and I love you."
"What do you think this party is, Sandra?"
"I think it's a trap."
He said slowly, "And we walk into it?"
"We can't afford to show we know it's a
trap."
"No, that's true."
Suddenly Sandra threw back her head and
laughed. She said: "Do your worst,
Rosemary. You won't win."
He gripped her shoulder.
"Be quiet, Sandra, Rosemary's dead."
"Is she? Sometimes—she feels very much
alive . . ."
138
^'
3


H
ALF-WAY across the Park Iris said:
"Do you mind if I don't come back
with you, George? I feel like a walk.
I thought I'd go up over Friar's Hill and
come down through the wood. I've had an
awful headache all day."
"My poor child. Do go. I won't come with
you--I'm expecting a fellow along sometime
this afternoon and I'm not quite sure when
he'll turn up."
"Right. Good-bye till teatime."
She turned abruptly and made off at right
angles to where a belt of larches showed on
the hillside.
When she came out on the brow of the hill she
drew a deep breath. It was one of those close
humid days common in October. A dank
moisture coated the leaves of the trees and the
grey cloud hung very low overhead promising
yet more rain shortly. There was not really
much more air up here on the hill than there had
been in the valley, but Iris felt nevertheless as
though she could breathe more freely.
139
"Oh, not the hatred--if true. I meant your
use of the word 'us.' My question referred to
you personally."
"Oh, I see ... I think they like me quite
well in a negative sort of way. I think it's us as
a family living next door that they mind
about. We weren't particular friends of
theirs--they were Rosemary's friends."
"Yes," said Anthony, "as you say they
were Rosemary's friends--not that I should
imagine Sandra Farraday and Rosemary were
ever bosom friends, eh?"
"No," said Iris, and she looked faintly
apprehensive as Anthony smoked peacefully.
Presently he said:
"Do you know what strikes me most about
the Farradays?"
"What?"
"Just that--that they are the Farradays. I
always think of them like that--not as
Stephen and Sandra, two individuals linked
by the State and the Established Church--but
as a definite dual entity--the Farradays. That
is rarer than you would think. They are two
people with a common aim, a common way of
life, identical hopes and fears and beliefs.
And the odd part of it is that they are actually
very dissimilar in character. Stephen, I
142
should say, is a man of wide intellectual
scope, extremely sensitive to opinion from
outside, horribly diffident about himself and
somewhat lacking in moral courage. Sandra,
on the other hand, has a narrow medieval
mind, is capable of fanatical devotion, and is
courageous to the point ofrecklessness."
"He always seems to me," said Iris, "rather
pompous and stupid."
"He's not at all stupid. He's just one of the
usual unhappy successes."
"Unhappy?"
"Most successes are unhappy. That's why
they are successes—they have to reassure
themselves about themselves by achieving
something that the world will notice."
"What very extraordinary ideas you have,
Anthony."
"You'll find they're quite true if you only
examine them. The happy people are
failures because they are on such good
terms with themselves that they don't give
a damn. Like me. They are also usually
agreeable to get on with—again like me."
"You have a very good opinion of yourself."
"I am just drawing attention to my good
points in case you mayn't have noticed
them."
143
Iris laughed. Her spirits had risen. The
dull depression and fear had lifted from her
mind. She glanced down at her watch.
"Come home and have tea, and give a few
more people the benefit of your unusually
agreeable society."
Anthony shook his head.
"Not to-day. I must be getting back."
Iris turned sharply on him.
"Why will you never come to the house?
There must be a reason."
Anthony shrugged his shoulders.
"Put it that I'm rather peculiar in my ideas
of accepting hospitality. Your brother-in-law
doesn't like me—he's made that quite clear."
"Oh, don't bother about George. If Aunt
Lucilla and I ask you—she's an old
dear—you'd like her."
"I'm sure I should—but my objection
holds."
"You used to come in Rosemary's time."
"That," said Anthony, "was different."
A faint cold hand touched Iris's heart. She
said, "What made you come down today?
Had you business in this part of the world?"
"Very important business—with you. I
came here to ask you a question. Iris."
The cold hand vanished. Instead there
144
came a faint flutter, <that throb of excitement
that women have known from time
immemorial. And with it Iris's face adopted
that same look of blank inquiry that her greatgrandmother
might have worn prior to saying
a few minutes later, "Oh, Mr. X, this is so
sudden!"
"Yes?" She turned that impossibly innocent
face towards Anthony.
He was looking at her, his eyes were grave,
almost stern.
"Answer me truthfully. Iris. This is my
question. Do you trust me?"
It took her aback. It was not what she had
expected. He saw that.
"You didn't think that that was what I was
going to say? But it is a very important question, Iris. The most important question in the
world to me. I ask it again. Do you trust me?"
She hesitated, a bare second, then she
answered, her eyes falling: "Yes."
"Then I'll go on and ask you something
else. Will you come up to London and marry
me without telling anybody about it?"
She stared.
"But I couldn't! I simply couldn't."
"You couldn't marry me?"
"Not in that way."
145
"And yet you love me. You do love me,
don't you?"
She heard herself saying:
"Yes, I love you, Anthony."
"But you won't come and marry me at the
Church of Saint Elfrida, Bloomsbury, in the
parish of which I have resided for some weeks
and where I can consequently get married by
licence at any time?"
"How can I do a thing like that? George
would be terribly hurt and Aunt Lucilla
would never forgive me. And anyway I'm not
of age. I'm only eighteen."
"You'd have to lie about your age. I don't
know what penalties I'd incur for marrying a
minor without her guardian's consent. Who
is your guardian, by the way?"
"George. He's my trustee as well."
"As I was saying, whatever penalties I
incurred, they couldn't unmarry us and that
is really all I care about."
Iris shook her head. "I couldn't do it. I
couldn't be so unkind. And in any case, why?
What's the point of it?"
Anthony said: "That's why I asked you
first if you could trust me. You'd have to take
my reasons on trust. Let's say that it is the
simplest way. But never mind."
146
Iris said timidly: ^
"If George only got to know you a little
better. Come back now with me. It will be
only he and Aunt Lucilla."
"Are you sure? I thought——" he paused.
"As I struck up the hill I saw a man going
up your drive—and the funny thing is that
I believe I recognised him as a man I"—he
hesitated—"had met."
"Of course—1 forgot—George said he was
expecting someone."
"The man I thought I saw was a man called
Race—Colonel Race."
"Very likely. George knows a Colonel
Race. He was coming to dinner on that night
when Rosemary——" She stopped, her voice
quivering. Anthony gripped her hand.
"Don't go on remembering it, darling. It
was beastly, I know."
She shook her head.
"I can't help it. Anthony——"
"Yes?"
"Did it ever occur to you—did you ever
think——" she found a difficulty in putting
her meaning into words.
"Did it ever strike you that—that Rosemary
might not have committed suicide? That she
might have been—^iY/^J?"
147
"Good God, Iris, what put that idea into
your head?"
She did not reply—merely persisted: "That
idea never occurred to you?"
"Certainly not. Of course Rosemary
committed suicide."
Iris said nothing.
"Who's been suggesting these things to
you?"
For a moment she was tempted to tell him
George's incredible story, but she refrained.
She said slowly:
"It was just an idea."
"Forget it, darling idiot." He pulled her to
her feet and then kissed her cheek lightly.
"Darling morbid idiot. Forget Rosemary.
Only think of me."
148
4
PUFFING at his pipe. Colonel Race
looked speculatively at George Barton.
He had known George Barton ever
since the latter's boyhood. Barton's uncle had
been a country neighbour of the Races. There
was a difference of nearly twenty years
between the two men. Race was over sixty, a
tall, erect, military figure, with sunburnt
face, closely cropped iron-grey hair, and
shrewd dark eyes.
There had never been any particular
intimacy between the two men—but Barton
had remained to Race "young Georges—one
of the many vague figures associated with
earlier days.
He was thinking at this moment that he had
really no idea what "young George" was like.
On the brief occasions when they had met in
later years, they had found little in common.
Race was an out-door man, essentially of the
Empire-builder type—most of his life had
been spent abroad. George was emphatically
the city gentleman. Their interests were
149
dissimilar and when they met it was to
exchange rather lukewarm reminiscences of
"the old days," after which an embarrassed
silence was apt to occur. Colonel Race was
not good at small talk and might indeed have
posed as the model of a strong silent man so
beloved by an earlier generation of novelists.
Silent at this moment, he was wondering
just why "young George" had been so very
insistent on this meeting. Thinking, too, that
there was some subtle change in the man
since he had last seen him a year ago. George
Barton had always struck him as
stodgy—cautious, practical, unimaginative.
There was, he thought, something very
wrong with the fellow. Jumpy as a cat. He'd
already re-lit his cigar three times—and that
wasn't like Barton at all.
He took his pipe out of his mouth.
"Well, young George, what's the trouble?"
"You're right. Race, it is trouble. I want
your advice badly—and your help."
The colonel nodded and waited.
"Nearly a year ago you were coming to
dine with us in London—at the Luxembourg.
You had to go abroad at the last minute."
Again Race nodded.
"South Africa."
150
"At the dinner party my wife died."
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?"
151
"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, et cetera?"
152
"Rosemary's own doctor—an elderly man
who has attended the Marle family since they
were 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 then 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 very well might act in a thoroughly
uncharacteristic manner."
Again George paused and then went on:
"It was after talking to him I realised 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.' "
sen	153
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—and usually if they have
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 that
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'
154
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 summarise 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. And 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
155
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--1 tell you
I don't know. If I had any idea----"
156
"All right--all right. I just thought you
might have a definite suspicion. Well, it
oughtn't to be difficult. How did you
git--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
157
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
158
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—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."
159
"I've known two schoolgirls who committed
murder."
"But Iris! She was devoted to Rosemary."
"Never mind. Barton. She also had the
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
160
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."
"Now 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
161
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—1
don't know anyone I think more highly of, or
have more absolute faith in."
"You're fond other," said Race, watching
him thoughtfully.
"I'm devoted to her. That girl. Race, is an
absolute trump. I depend upon her in every
162
way. She's the truest, dearest creature in the
world."
Race murmured something that sounded
like "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 very mercenary motive—she might also
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 has
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
163
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,
164
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 should 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 very 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
165
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 about 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."
166
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."
"I'm not going to give it up. I've got it all
worked out."
"Don't be so damned obstinate. I know a
bit more about these shows than you do. I
don't like the idea. It won't work. It may even
be dangerous. Have you thought of that?"
"It will be dangerous for somebody all
right."
Race sighed.
"You don't know what you're doing. Oh,
167
well, don't say I haven't warned you. For the
last time I beg you to give up this crackbrained
idea of yours."
George Barton only shook his head.
168
5
THE morning of November 2nd had
dawned wet and gloomy. It was so
dark in the dining-room of the house
in Elvaston Square that they had to have the
lights on for breakfast.
Iris, contrary to her habit, had come down
instead of having her coffee and toast sent up
to her and sat there white and ghostlike
pushing uneaten food about her plate. George
rustled his Times with a nervy hand and at
the other end of the table Lucilla Drake wept
copiously into a handkerchief.
"I know the dear boy will do something
dreadful. He's so sensitive—and he wouldn't
say it was a matter of life and death if it
wasn't."
Rustling his paper, George said sharply:
"Please don't worry, Lucilla. I've said I'll
see to it."
"I know, dear George, you are always so
kind. But I do feel any delay might be fatal.
All these inquiries you speak of making—they
will all take time."
"No, no, we'll hurry them through."
"He says: 'without fail by the 3rd' and
to-morrow is the 3rd. I should never forgive
myself if anything happened to the darling
boy."
"It won't." George took a long drink of
coffee.
"And there is still that Conversion Loan of
mine——"
"Look here, Lucilla, you leave it all to
me."
"Don't worry. Aunt Lucilla," put in Iris.
"George will be able to arrange it all. After
all, this has happened before."
"Not for a long time" ("Three months,"
said George), "not since the poor boy was
deceived by those dreadful swindling friends
of his on that horrid ranch."
George wiped his moustache on his napkin,
got up, patted Mrs. Drake kindly on the back
as he made his way out of the room.
"Now do cheer up, my dear. I'll get Ruth
to cable right away."
As he went out in the hall. Iris followed
him.
"George, don't you think we ought to put off
the party to-night? Aunt Lucilla is so upset.
Hadn't we better stay at home with her?"
170
"Certainly not!" George's pink face went
purple. "Why should that damned swindling
young crook upset our whole lives? It's
blackmail—sheer blackmail, that's what it is.
If I had my way, he shouldn't get a penny."
"Aunt Lucilla would never agree to that."
"Lucilla's a fool—always has been. These
women who have children when they're over
forty never seem to learn any sense. Spoil the
brats from the cradle by giving them every
damned thing they want. If young Victor had
once been told to get out of his mess by
himself it might have been the making of
him. Now don't argue. Iris. I'll get something
fixed up before to-night so that Lucilla can go
to bed happy. If necessary we'll take her
along with us."
"Oh, no, she hates restaurants—and gets so
sleepy, poor darling. And she dislikes the
heat and the smoky air gives her asthma."
"I know. I wasn't serious. Go and cheer her
up. Iris. Tell her everything will be all
right."
He turned away and out of the front door.
Iris turned slowly back towards the diningroom.
The telephone rang and she went to
answer it.
"Hallo—who?" Her face changed, its white
171
hopelessness then dissolved into pleasure. "Anthony!"
"Anthony himself. I rang you up yesterday
but couldn't get you. Have you been putting
in a spot of work with George?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, George was so pressing over his
invitation to your party to-night. Quite unlike
his usual style of'hands off my lovely ward'!
Absolutely insistent that I should come. I
thought perhaps it was the result of some
tactful work on your part."
"No--no--it's nothing to do with me."
"A change of heart all on his own?"
"Not exactly. It's----"
"Hallo--have you gone away?"
"No, I'm here."
"You were saying something. What's the
matter, darling? I can hear you sighing
through the telephone. Is anything the
matter?"
"No--nothing. I shall be all right
to-morrow. Everything will be all right
tomorrow."
"What touching faith. Don't they say 'to-morrow never comes'?"
"Don't"
"Iris--something is the matter?"
172
"No, nothing. I can't tell you. I promised,
you see."
"Tell me, my sweet."
"No—I can't really. Anthony, will you tell
me something?"
"If I can."
"Were you—ever in love with Rosemary?"
A momentary pause and then a laugh.
"So that's it. Yes, Iris, I was a bit in love
with Rosemary. She was very lovely, you
know. And then one day I was talking to her
and I saw you coming down the staircase—and
in a minute it was all over, blown
away. There was nobody but you in the
world. That's the cold sober truth. Don't
brood over a thing like that. Even Romeo,
you know, had his Rosaline before he was
bowled over for good and all by Juliet."
"Thank you, Anthony. I'm glad."
"See you to-night. It's your birthday, isn't
it?"
"Actually not for a week—it's my birthday
party though."
"You don't sound very enthusiastic about it."
"I'm not."
"I suppose George knows what he's doing,
but it seems to me a crazy idea to have it at
the same place where——"
173
"Oh, I've been to the Luxembourg several
times since--since Rosemary--I mean, one
can't avoid it."
"No, and it's just as well. I've got a birthday
present for you. Iris. I hope you'll like it. Au revoir."
He rang off.
Iris went back to Lucilla Drake, to argue,
persuade and reassure.
George, on his arrival at his office, sent at
once for Ruth Lessing.
His worried frown relaxed a little as she
entered, calm and smiling, in her neat black
coat and skirt.
"Good morning."
"Good morning, Ruth. Trouble again.
Look at this."
She took the cable he held out.
"Victor Drake again!"
"Yes, curse him."
She was silent a minute, holding the cable.
A lean, brown face wrinkling up round the
nose when he laughed. A mocking voice saying,
"the sort of girl who ought to marry the
Boss ..." How vividly it all came back.
She thought:
"It might have been yesterday ..."
George's voice recalled her.
174
"Wasn't it about a year ago that we shipped
him out there?"
She reflected.
"I think so, yes. Actually I believe it was
October 27th."
"What an amazing girl you are. What a
memory!"
She thought to herself that she had a better
reason for remembering than he knew. It was
fresh from Victor Drake's influence that she
had listened to Rosemary's careless voice over
the phone and decided that she hated her
employer's wife.
"I suppose we're lucky," said George,
"that he's lasted as long as he has out there.
Even if it did cost us fifty pounds three
months ago."
"Three hundred pounds now seems a lot."
"Oh, yes. He won't get as much as that.
We'll have to make the usual investigations."
"I'd better communicate with Mr.
Ogilvie."
Alexander Ogilvie was their agent in
Buenos Aires--a sober, hardheaded
Scotsman.
"Yes. Cable at once. His mother is in a
state, as usual. Practically hysterical. Makes it
very difficult with the party tonight."
175
"Would you like me to stay with her?"
"No." He negatived the idea emphatically.
"No, indeed. You're the one person who's
got to be there. I need you, Ruth." He took
her hand. "You're too unselfish."
"I'm not unselfish at all."
She smiled and suggested:
"Would it be worth trying telephonic communication
with Mr. Ogilvie? We might get
the whole thing cleared up by tonight."
"A good idea. Well worth the expense."
"I'll get busy at once."
Very gently she disengaged her hand from
his and went out.
Goerge dealt with various matters awaiting
his attention.
At half-past twelve he went out and took a
taxi to the Luxembourg.
Charles, the notorious and popular head waiter, came towards him, bending his stately
head and smiling in welcome.
"Good morning, Mr. Barton."
"Good morning, Charles. Everything all
right for tonight?"
"I think you will be satisfied, sir."
"The same table?"
"The middle one in the alcove, that is
right, is it not?"
176
"Yes--and you understand about the extra
place?"
"It is all arranged."
"And you've got the--the rosemary?"
"Yes, Mr. Barton. I am afraid it won't be
very decorative. You wouldn't like some red
berries incorporated--or say a few chrysanthemums?"

"No, no, only the rosemary."
"Very good, sir. You would like to see the
menu. Giuseppe."
With a flick of the thumb Charles produced
a smiling little middle-aged Italian.
"The menu for Mr. Barton."
It was produced.
Oysters, Clear Soup, Sole Luxembourg,
Grouse, Poires Helene, Chicken Livers in
Bacon.
George cast an indifferent eye over it.
"Yes, yes, quite all right."
He handed it back. Charles accompanied
him to the door.
Sinking his voice a little, he murmured:
"May I just mention how appreciative we
are, Mr. Barton, that you are--er--coming
back to us?"
A smile, rather a ghastly smile, showed on
George's face. He said:
177
"We've got to forget the past--can't dwell
on the past. All that is over and done with."
"Very true, Mr. Barton. You know how
shocked and grieved we were at the time. I'm
sure I hope that Mademoiselle will have a
very happy birthday party and- that
everything will be as you like it."
Gracefully bowing^ Charles withdrew and
darted like an angry dragon-fly on some very
inferior grade of waiter who was doing the
wrong thing at a table near the window.
George went out with a wry smile on his
lips. He was not an imaginative enough man
to feel a pang of sympathy for the Luxembourg.
It was not, after all, the fault of the
Luxembourg that Rosemary had decided to
commit suicide there or that someone had
decided to murder her there. It had been
decidedly hard on the Luxembourg. But like
most people with an idea, George thought
only of that idea.
He lunched at his club and went afterwards
to a directors' meeting.
On his way back to the office, he put
through a phone call to a Maida Vale number
from a public call box. He came out with a
sigh of relief. Everything was set according to
schedule.
178
He went back to the office.
Ruth came to him at once.
"About Victor Drake."
"Yes?"
"I'm afraid it's rather a bad business. A
possibility of criminal prosecution. He's been
helping himself to the firm's money over a
considerable period."
"Did Ogilvie say so?"
"Yes. I got through to him this morning
and he got a call through to us this afternoon
ten minutes ago. He says Victor was quite
brazen about the whole thing."
"He would be!"
"But he insists that they won't prosecute if
the money is refunded. Mr. Ogilvie saw the
senior partner and that seems to be correct.
The actual sum in question is one hundred
and sixty-five pounds."
"So that Master Victor was hoping to
pocket a clear hundred and thirty-five on the
transaction?"
"I'm afraid so."
"Well, we've scotched that, at any rate,"
said George with grim satisfaction.
"I told Mr. Ogilvie to go ahead and settle
the business. Was that right?"
"Personally I should be delighted to see
179
that young crook go to prison—but one has to
think of his mother. A fool—but a dear soul.
So Master Victor scores as usual."
"How good you are," said Ruth.
"Me?"
"I think you're the best man in the world."
He was touched. He felt pleased and
embarrassed at the same time. On an impulse
he picked up her hand and kissed it.
"Dearest Ruth. My dearest and best of
friends. What would I have done without
you?"
They stood very close together.
She thought: "I could have been happy
with him. I could have made him happy. If
only——"
He thought: "Shall I take Race's advice?
Shall I give it all up? Wouldn't that really be
the best thing?"
Indecision hovered over him and passed.
He said:
"9.30 at the Luxembourg."
180
6
(HEY had all come.
T
George breathed a sigh of relief. Up
to the last moment he had feared
some last minute defection—but they were all
here. Stephen Farraday, tall and stiff, a little
pompous in manner. Sandra Farraday in a
severe black velvet gown wearing emeralds
round her neck. The woman had breeding,
not a doubt of it. Her manner was completely
natural, possibly a little more gracious than
usual. Ruth also in black with no ornament
save one jewelled clip. Her raven black hair
smooth and lying close to her head, her neck
and arms very white—whiter than those of
the other women. Ruth was a working girl,
she had no long leisured ease in which to
acquire sun tan. His eyes met hers and, as
though she saw the anxiety in his, she smiled
reassurance. His heart lifted. Loyal Ruth.
Beside him Iris was unusually silent. She
alone showed consciousness of this being an
unusual party. She was pale but in some way
it suited her, gave her a grave steadfast
181
beauty. She wore a straight simple frock of
leaf-green. Anthony Browne came last, and to
George's mind, he came with the quick
stealthy step of a wild creature—a panther,
perhaps, or a leopard. The fellow was not
really quite civilised.
They were all there—all safe in George's
trap. Now, the play could begin. . . .
Cocktails were drained. They got up and
passed through the open arch into the
restaurant proper.
Dancing couples, soft negro music, deft
hurrying waiters.
Charles came forward and smilingly piloted
them to their table. It was at the far end of the
room, a shallow arched alcove which held
three tables—a big one in the middle and two
small ones for two people either side of it. A
middle-aged sallow foreigner and a blonde
lovely were at one, a slip of a boy and a girl at
the other. The middle table was reserved for
the Barton party.
George genially assigned them to their
places.
"Sandra, will you sit here, on my right.
Browne next to her. Iris, my dear, it's your
party. I must have you here next to me, and you
beyond her, Farraday. Then you, Ruth——"
182
He paused—between Ruth and Anthony
was a vacant chair—the table had been laid
for seven.
"My friend Race may be a bit late. He said
we weren't to wait for him. He'll be along
sometime. I'd like you all to know him—he's
a splendid fellow, knocked about all over the
world and can tell you some good yarns."
Iris was conscious of a feeling of anger as
she seated herself. George had done it on purpose—separated
her from Anthony. Ruth
ought to have been sitting where she was,
next to her host. So George still disliked and
mistrusted Anthony.
She stole a glance across the table. Anthony
was frowning. He did not look across at her.
Once he directed a sharp sideways glance at
the empty chair beside him. He said:
"Glad you've got another man. Barton.
There's just a chance I may have to go off
early. Quite unavoidable. But I ran into a
man here I know."
George said smilingly:
"Running business into pleasure hours?
You're too young for that, Browne. Not that
I've ever known exactly what your business
is?"
By chance there was a lull in the conversa-
183
tion. Anthony's reply came deliberately and
coolly.
"Organised crime. Barton, that's what I
always say when I'm asked. Robberies
arranged. Larcenies a feature. Families
waited upon at their private addresses.,"
Sandra Farraday laughed as she said:
"You're something to do with armaments,
aren't you, Mr. Browne? An armament king
is always the villain of the piece nowadays."
Iris saw Anthony's eyes momentarily widen
in a stare of quick surprise. He said lightly:
"You mustn't give me away. Lady
Alexandra, it's all very hush hush. The spies
of a foreign power are everywhere. Careless
talk."
He shook his head with mock solemnity.
The waiter took away the oyster plates.
Stephen asked Iris if she would like to dance.
Very soon they were all dancing. The
atmosphere lightened.
Presently Iris's turn came to dance with
Anthony.
She said: "Mean of George not to let us sit
together."
"Kind of him. This way I can look at you
all the time across the table."
"You won't really have to go early?"
184
"I might"
Presently he said:
"Did you know that Colonel Race was
coming?"
"No, I hadn't the least idea."
"Rather odd, that."
"Do you know him? Oh, yes, you said so, the other day."
She added:
"What sort of a man is he?"
"Nobody quite knows."
They went back to the table. The evening
wore on. Slowly the tension, which had
relaxed, seemed to close again. There was an
atmosphere of taut nerves about the table.
Only the host seemed genial and unconcerned.

Iris saw him glance at his watch.
Suddenly there was a roll of drums--the
lights went down. A stage rose in the room.
Chairs were pushed a little back, turned
sideways. Three men and three girls took the
floor, dancing. They were followed by a man
who could make noises. Trains, steam rollers,
aeroplanes, sewing machines, cows coughing.
He was a success. Lenny and Flo followed in
an exhibition dance which was more of a
trapeze act than a dance. More applause.
SC13 185
Then another ensemble by the Luxembourg
Six. The lights went up.
Everyone blinked.
At the same time a wave of sudden freedom
from restraint seemed to pass over the party
at the table. It was as though they had been
subconsciously expecting something that had
failed to happen. For on an earlier occasion
the going up of the tights had coincided with
the discovery of a dead body lying across the
table. It was as though now the past was
definitely past—vanished into oblivion. The
shadow of a bygone tragedy had lifted.
Sandra turned to Anthony in an animated
way. Stephen made an observation to Iris and
Ruth leaned forward to join in. Only George
sat in his chair staring—staring, his eyes fixed
on the empty chair opposite him. The place
in front of it was laid. There was champagne
in the glass. At any moment, someone might
come, might sit down there——
A nudge from Iris recalled him:
"Wake up, George. Come and dance. You
haven't danced with me yet."
He roused himself. Smiling at her he lifted
his glass.
"We'll drink a toast first—to the young
lady whose birthday we're celebrating. Iris
186
Marle, may her shadow never grow less!"
They drank it laughing, then they all got
up to dance, George and Iris, Stephen and
Ruth, Anthony and Sandra.
It was a gay jazz melody.
They all came back together, laughing and
talking. They sat down.
Then suddenly George leaned forward.
"I've something I want to ask you all. A
year ago, more or less, we were here before on
an evening that ended tragically. I don't want
to recall past sadness, but it's just that I don't
want to feel that Rosemary is completely
forgotten. I'll ask you to drink to her
memory—for Remembrance sake."
He raised his glass. Everybody obediently
raised theirs. Their faces were polite masks.
George said:
"To Rosemary for remembrance."
The glasses were raised to their lips. They
drank.
There was a pause—then George swayed
forward and slumped down in his chair, his
hands rising frenziedly to his neck, his face
turning purple as he fought for breath.
It took him a minute and a half to die.
187
BOOK III
Iris
"For I thought that the dead had peace
But it is not so . . ."
1
COLONEL RACE turned into the
doorway of New Scotland Yard. He
filled in the form that was brought
forward and a very few minutes later he was
shaking hands with Chief Inspector Kemp in
the latter's room.
The two men were well acquainted. Kemp
was slightly reminiscent of that grand old
veteran. Battle, in type. Indeed, since he had
worked under Battle for many years, he had
perhaps unconsciously copied a good many of
the older man's mannerisms. He bore about
him the same suggestion of being carved all
in one piece--but whereas Battle had suggested
some wood such as teak or oak. Chief
Inspector Kemp suggested a somewhat more
showy wood--mahogany, say, or good oldfashioned
rosewood.
"It was good of you to ring us, colonel,"
said Kemp. "We shall want all the help we
can get on this case."
"It seems to have got us into exalted
hands," said Race.
190
Kemp did not make modest disclaimers.
He accepted quite simply the indubitable fact
that only cases of extreme delicacy, wide
publicity or supreme importance came his
way. He said seriously:
"It's the Kidderminster connection. You
can imagine that means careful going."
Race nodded. He had met Lady Alexandra
Farraday several times. One of those quiet
women of unassailable position whom it
seems fantastic to associate with sensational
publicity. He had heard her speak on public
platforms—without eloquence, but clearly
and competently, with a good grasp of her
subject, and with an excellent delivery.
The kind of woman whose public life was
in all the papers, and whose private life was
practically non-existent except as a bland
domestic background.
Nevertheless, he thought, such women
have a private life. They know despair, and
love, and the agonies of jealousy. They can
lose control and risk life itself on a passionate
gamble.
He said curiously:
"Suppose she 'done it,' Kemp?"
"Lady Alexandra? Do you think she did,
sir?"
191
"I've no idea. But suppose she did. Or her
husband--who comes under the Kidderminster
mantle."
The steady sea-green eyes of Chief Inspector
Kemp looked in an untroubled way into
Race's dark ones.
"If either of them did murder, we'll do our
level best to hang him or her. You know that.
There's no fear and no favour for murderers
in this country. But we'll have to be absolutely
sure of our evidence--the public
prosecutor will insist on that."
Race nodded.
Then he said, "Let's have the doings."
"George Barton died of cyanide poisoning--same
thing as his wife a year ago. You
said you were actually in the restaurant?"
"Yes. Barton had asked me to join his
party. I refused. I didn't like what he was doing.
I protested against it and urged him, if he
had doubts about his wife's death, to go to the
proper people--to you."
Kemp nodded:
"That's what he ought to have done."
"Instead he persisted in an idea of his
own--setting a trap for the murderer. He
wouldn't tell me what that trap was. I was
uneasy about the whole business--so much so
192
that I went to the Luxembourg last night so
as to keep an eye on things. My table, necessarily, was some distance away--I didn't
want ,to be spotted too obviously. Unfortunately
I can tell you nothing. I saw nothing
in the least suspicious. The waiters and his
own party were the only people who
approached the table."
"Yes," said Kemp, "it narrows it down,
doesn't it? It was one of them or it was the
waiter, Giuseppe Bolsano. I've got him on
the mat again this morning--thought you
might like to see him--but I can't believe he
had anything to do with it. Been at the
Luxembourg for twelve years--good reputation, married, three children, good record
behind him. Gets on well with all the
clients."
"Which leaves us with the guests."
"Yes. The same party as was present when
Mrs. Barton--died."
"What about that business, Kemp?"
"I've been going into it since it seems
pretty obvious that the two hang together.
Adams handled it. It wasn't what we call a
clear case of suicide, but suicide was the most
probable solution and in the absence of any
direct evidence suggesting murder, one had
193
to let it go as suicide. Couldn't do anything
else. We've a good many cases like that in our
records, as you know. Suicide with a query
mark. The public doesn't know about the
query mark--but we keep it in mind.
Sometimes we go on quite a bit hunting about
quietly.
"Sometimes something crops up--sometimes
it doesn't. In this case it didn't."
"Until now."
"Until now. Somebody tipped Mr. Barton
off to the fact that his wife had been
murdered. He got busy on his own--he as
good as announced that he was on the right
track--whether he was or not I don't
know--but the murderer must have thought
so-so the murderer gets rattled and bumps
off Mr. Barton. That seems the way of it as
far as I can see--I hope you agree?"
"Oh, yes--that part of it seems straightforward
enough. God knows what the 'trap'
was--I noticed that there was an empty chair
at the table. Perhaps it was waiting for some
unexpected witness. Anyhow it accomplished
rather more than it was meant to do. It
alarmed the guilty person so much that he or
she didn't wait for the trap to be sprung."
"Well," said Kemp, "we've got five
194
suspects. And we've got the first case to go
on—Mrs. Barton."
"You're definitely of the opinion now that
it wa? not suicide?" "This murder seems to
prove that it wasn't. Though I don't think
you can blame us at the time for accepting the
suicide theory as the most probable. There
was some evidence for it."
"Depression after influenza?"
Kemp's wooden face showed a ripple of a
smile.
"That was for the coroner's court. Agreed
with the medical evidence and saved
everybody's feelings. That's done every day.
And there was a half-finished letter to the
sister directing how her personal belongings
were to be given away—showed she'd had the
idea of doing away with herself in her mind.
She was depressed all right, I don't doubt,
poor lady—but nine times out of ten, with
women, it's a love affair. With men it's
mostly money worries."
"So you knew Mrs. Barton had a love
affair."
"Yes, we soon found that out. It had been
discreet—but it didn't take much finding."
"Stephen Farraday?"
"Yes. They used to meet in a little flat out
195
Earl's Court way. It had been going on for
over six months. Say they'd had a quarrel—or
possibly he was getting tired of her—well, she
wouldn't be the first woman to take her life in
a fit of desperation."
"By potassium cyanide in a public
restaurant?"
"Yes—if she wanted to be dramatic about
it—with him looking on and all. Some people
have a feeling for the spectacular. From what
I could find out she hadn't much feeling for
the conventions—all the precautions were on
his side."
"Any evidence as to whether his wife knew
what was going on?"
"As far as we could learn she knew nothing
about it."
"She may have, for all that, Kemp. Not the
kind of woman to wear her heart on her
sleeve."
"Oh, quite so. Count them both in as
possibles. She for jealousy. He for his career.
Divorce would have dished that. Not that
divorce means as much as it used to, but in
his case it would have meant the antagonism
of the Kidderminster clan."
"What about the secretary girl?"
"She's a possible. Might have been sweet
196
on George Barton. They were pretty thick at
the office and there's an idea there that she
was keen on him. Actually yesterday afternoon
one of the telephone girls was giving an
imitation of Barton holding Ruth Lessing's
hand and saying he couldn't do without her, and Miss Lessing came out and caught them
and sacked the girl there and then--gave her a
month's money and told her to go. Looks as
though she was sensitive about it all. Then
the sister came into a peck of money--one's
got to remember that. Looked a nice kid, but
you can never tell. And there was Mrs.
Barton's other boy friend."
"I'm rather anxious to hear what you know
about him?" Kemp said slowly:
"Remarkably little--but what there is isn't
too good. His passport's in order. He's an
American citizen about whom we can't find
out anything, detrimental or otherwise. He
came over here, stayed at Claridge's and
managed to strike up an acquaintance with
Lord Dewsbury."
"Confidence man?"
"Might be. Dewsbury seems to have fallen
for him--asked him to stay. Rather a critical
time just then."
"Armaments," said Race. "There was that
197
trouble about the new tank trials in
Dewsbury's works."
"Yes. This fellow Browne represented
himself as interested in armaments. It was
soon after he'd been up there that, they
discovered that sabotage business--just in the
nick of time. Browne met a good many
cronies of Dewsbury--he seems to have
cultivated all the ones who were connected
with the armament firms. As a result he's
been shown a lot of stuff that in my opinion
he ought never to have seen--and in one or
two cases there's been serious trouble in the
works not long after he's been in the
neighbourhood."
"An interesting person, Mr. Anthony
Browne?"
"Yes. He's got a lot of charm, apparently, and plays it for all he's worth."
"And where did Mrs. Barton come in?
George Barton hasn't anything to do with the
armament world?"
"No. But they seem to have been fairly
intimate. He may have let out something to
her. You know, colonel, none better, what a
pretty woman can get out of a man."
Race nodded, taking the chief inspector's
words, as meant, to refer to the Counter198

Espionage Department which he had once
controlled and not as some ignorant person
might have thought--to some personal
indiscretions of his own.
He said after a minute or two:
"Have you had a go at those letters that
George Barton received?"
"Yes. Found them in his desk at his house
last night. Miss Marle found them for me."
"You know I'm interested in those letters, Kemp. What's the expert opinion on them?"
"Cheap paper, ordinary ink--fingerprints
show George Barton and Iris Marle handled
them--and a horde of unidentified dabs on
the envelope, postal employees, etc. They
were printed and the experts say by someone
of good education in normal health."
"Good education. Not a servant?"
"Presumably not."
"That makes it more interesting still."
"It means that somebody else had suspicions, at least."
"Someone who didn't go to the police.
Someone who was prepared to arouse
George's suspicions but who didn't follow
the business up. There's something odd
there, Kemp. He couldn't have written them
himself, could he?"
199
"He could have. But why?"
"As a preliminary to suicide--a suicide
which he intended to look like murder."
"With Stephen Farraday booked for the
hangman's rope? It's an idea--but he'd have
made quite sure that everything pointed to
Farraday as the murderer. As it is we've
nothing against Farraday at all."
"What about cyanide? Was there any container
found?"
"Yes. A small white paper packet under the
table. Traces of cyanide crystals inside. No
fingerprints on it. In a detective story, of
course, it would be some special kind of
paper or folded in some special way. I'd like
to give these detective story writers a course
of routine work. They'd soon learn how most
things are untraceable and nobody ever
notices anything anywhere!"
Race smiled.
"Almost too sweeping a statement. Did
anybody notice anything last night?"
"Actually that's what I'm starting on
to-day. I took a brief statement from everyone
last night and I went back to Elvaston Square
with Miss Marle and had a look through
Barton's desk and papers. I shall get fuller
statements from them all to-day--also
200
*.
statements from the people sitting at the
other two tables in the alcove^--" He rustled
through some papers--"Yes, here they are.
Gerald Tollington, Grenadier Guards, and
the Hon. Patricia Brice-Woodworth. Young
engaged couple. I'll bet they didn't see
anything but each other. And Mr. Pedro
Morales--nasty bit of goods from
Mexico--even the whites of his eyes are
yellow--and Miss Christine Shannon--a
gold-digging blonde lovely--I'll bet she
didn't see anything--dumber than you'd
believe possible except where mc^ney is concerned.
It's a hundred to one chance that any
of them saw anything, but I took rheir names
and addresses on the off chance. We'll start
off with the waiter chap, Giuseppe. He's here
now. I'll have him sent in."
SC14	201
2
GIUSEPPE BOLSANO was a middleaged
man, slight with a rather
monkey-like intelligent face. He was
nervous, but not unduly so. His English was
fluent since he had, he explained, been in the
country since he was sixteen and had married
an English wife.
Kemp treated him sympathetically.
"Now then, Giuseppe, let's hear whether
anything more has occurred to you about
this."
"It is for me very unpleasant. It is I who
serve that table. I who pour out the wine.
People will say that I am off my head, that I
put poison into the wine glasses. It is not so,
but that is what people will say. Already, Mr.
Goldstein says it is better that I take a week
away from work—so that people do not ask
me questions there and point me out. He is a
fair man, and just, and he knows it is not my
fault, and that I have been there for many
years, so he does not dismiss me as some
restaurant owners would do. M. Charles, too,
202
he has been kind, but all the same it is a great
misfortune for me—and it makes me afraid.
Have I an enemy;, I ask myself?"
"Well," said Kemp at his most wooden,
"have you?"
The sad monkey-face twitched into
laughter. Giuseppe stretched out his arms.
"I? I have not an enemy in the world.
Many good friends but no enemies."
Kemp grunted.
"Now about last night. Tell me about the
champagne."
"It was Clicquot, 1928—very good and
expensive wine. Mr. Barton was like that—he
liked good food and drink—the best."
"Had he ordered the wine beforehand?"
"Yes. He had arranged everything with
Charles."
"What about the vacant place at the table?"
"That, too, he had arranged for. He told
Charles and he told me. A young lady would
occupy it later in the evening."
"A young lady?^ Race and Kemp looked at
each other. "Do you know who the young
lady was?"
Giuseppe shook his head.
"No, I know nothing about that. She was to
come later, that is all I heard."
203
"Go on about the wine. How many
bottles?"
"Two bottles and a third to be ready if
needed. The first bottle was finished quite
quickly. The second I open not long before
the cabaret. I fill up the glasses and put the
bottle in the ice bucket."
"When did you last notice Mr. Barton
drinking from his glass?"
"Let me see, when the cabaret was over,
they drink the young lady's health. It is her
birthday so I understand. Then they go and
dance. It is after that, when they come back,
that Mr. Barton drinks and in a minute, like
that! he is dead."
"Had you filled up the glasses during the
time they were dancing?"
"No, monsieur. They were full when they
drank to mademoiselle and they did not drink
much, only a few mouthfuls. There was
plenty left in the glasses."
"Did anyone— anyone at all—come near the
table whilst they were dancing?"
"No one at all, sir. I am sure of that."
"Did they all go to dance at the same
time?"
"Yes."
"And came back at the same time?"
204
Giuseppe screwed up his eyes in an effort
of memory.
"Mr. Barton he came back first--with the
young lady. He was stouter than the rest--he
did not dance quite so long, you comprehend.
Then came the fair gentleman, Mr. Farraday, and the young lady in black. Lady Alexandra
Farraday and the dark gentleman came last."
"You know Mr. Farraday and Lady
Alexandra?"
"Yes, sir. I have seen them in the Luxembourg
often. They are very distinguished."
"Now, Giuseppe, would you have seen if
one of those people had put something in Mr.
Barton's glass?"
"That I cannot say, sir. I have my service, the other two tables in the alcove, and two
more in the main restaurant. There are dishes
to serve. I do not watch at Mr. Barton's table.
After the cabaret everyone nearly gets up and
dances, so at that time I am standing
still--and that is why I can be sure that no
one approached the table then. But as soon as
people sit down, I am at once very busy."
Kemp nodded.
"But I think," Giuseppe continued, "that
it would be very difficult to do without being
observed. It seems to me that only Mr.
205
Barton himself could do it. But you do not
think so, no?"
He looked inquiringly at the police officer.
"So that's your idea, is it?"
"Naturally I know nothing—but I wonder.
Just a year ago that beautiful lady, Mrs.
Barton, she kills herself. Could it not be that
Mr. Barton he grieves so much that he too
decides to kill himself the same way? It would
be poetic. Of course it is not good for the
restaurant—but a gentleman who is going to
kill himself would not think of that."
He looked eagerly from one to the other of
the two men.
Kemp shook his head.
"I doubt if it's as easy as that," he said.
He asked a few more questions, then
Giuseppe was dismissed.
As the door closed behind Giuseppe, Race
said:
"I wonder if that's what we are meant to
think?"
"Grieving husband kills himself on
anniversary of wife's death? Not that it was
the anniversary—but near enough."
"It was All Souls' Day," said Race.
"True. Yes, it's possible that was the
idea—but if so, whoever it was can't have
206
known about those letters being kept and that
Mr. Barton had consulted you and shown
them to Iris Marle."
He glanced at his watch.
"I'm due at Kidderminster House at 12.30.
We've time before that to go and see those
people at the other two tables—some of them
at any rate. Come with me, won't you,
colonel?"
207
3
R. MORALES was staying at the
Ritz. He was hardly a pretty sight at
this hour in the morning, still
unshaven, the whites of his eyes bloodshot
and with every sign of a severe hangover.
Mr. Morales was an American subject and
spoke a variant of the American language.
Though professing himself willing to
remember anything he could, his recollections
of the previous evening were of the
vaguest description.
"Went with Chrissie--that baby is sure
hard-boiled! She said it was a good joint.
Honey pie, I said, we'll go just where you
say. It was a classy joint, that I'll admit--and
do they know how to charge you! Set me back
the best part of thirty dollars. But the band
was punk--they just couldn't seem to swing
it."
Diverted from his recollections of his own
evening, Mr. Morales was pressed to
remember the table in the middle of the
alcove. Here he was not very helpful.
208
"Sure there was a table and some people at
it. I don't remember what they looked like, though. Didn't take much account of them
till th& guy there croaked. Thought at first he
couldn't hold his liquor. Say now, I
remember one of the dames. Dark hair and
she had what it takes, I should say."
"You mean the girl in the green velvet
dress?"
"No, not that one. She was skinny. This
baby was in black with some good curves."
It was Ruth Lessing who had taken Mr.
Morales' roving eye.
He wrinkled up his nose appreciatively.
"I watched her dancing--and say, could
that baby dance! I gave her the high sign once
or twice, but she had a frozen eye--just
looked through me in your British way."
Nothing more of value could be extracted
from Mr. Morales and he admitted frankly
that his alcoholic condition was already well
advanced by the time the cabaret was on.
Kemp thanked him and prepared to take
his leave.
"I'm sailing for New York tomorrow," said
Morales. "You wouldn't," he asked wistfully,
"care for me to stay on?"
"Thank you, but I don't think your
209
evidence will be needed at the inquest."
"You see I'm enjoying it right here--and if
it was police business the firm couldn't kick.
When the police tell you to stay put, you've
got to stay put. Maybe I could remember
something if I thought hard enough?"'
But Kemp declined to rise to this wistful
bait, and he and Race drove to Brook Street
where they were greeted by a choleric
gentleman, the father of the Hon. Patricia
BriceWoodworth.
General Lord Woodworth received them
with a good deal of outspoken comment.
What on earth was the idea of suggesting
that his daughter--A^ daughter!--was mixed
up in this sort of thing? If a girl couldn't go
out with her fiance to dine in a restaurant
without being subjected to annoyance by
detectives and Scotland Yard, what was
England coming to? She didn't even know
these people what was their name--
Hubbard--Barton? Some City fellow or
other! Showed you couldn't be too careful
where you went--Luxembourg was always
supposed to be all right--but apparently this
was the second time a thing of this sort had
happened there. Gerald must be a fool to
have taken Pat there--these young men
210
thought they knew everything. But in any
case he wasn't going to have his daughter
badgered and bullied and cross-questioned--not
without a solicitor's say so. He'd
ring up old Anderson in Lincoln's Inn and
ask him----
Here the general paused abruptly and
staring at Race said, "Seen you somewhere.
Now where----?"
Race's answer was immediate and came
with a smile.
"Badderpore. 1923."
"By Jove," said the general. "If it isn't
Johnnie Race! What are you doing mixed up
in this show?"
Race smiled.
"I was with Chief Inspector Kemp when
the question of interviewing your daughter
came up. I suggested it would be much
pleasanter for her if Inspector Kemp came
round here than if she had to come down to
Scotland Yard, and I thought I'd come along
too."
"Oh--er--well, very decent, of you. Race."
"We naturally wanted to upset the young
lady as little as possible," put in Chief
Inspector Kemp.
But at this moment the door opened and
211
Miss Patricia Brice-Woodworth walked in
and took charge of the situation with the
coolness and detachment of the very young.
"Hallo," she said. "You're from Scotland
Yard, aren't you? About last night? I've been
longing for you to come. Is father being
tiresome? Now don't daddy—you know what
the doctor said about your blood pressure.
Why you want to get into such states about
everything, I can't think. I'll just take the
inspectors or superintendents or whatever
they are into my room and I'll send Walters
to you with a whisky and soda."
The general had a choleric desire to express
himself in several blistering ways at once, but
only succeeded in saying, "Old friend of
mine. Major Race," at which introduction,
Patricia lost interest in Race and bent a
beatific smile on Chief Inspector Kemp.
With cool generalship, she shepherded
them out of the room and into her own
sitting-room, firmly shutting her father in his
study.
"Poor daddy," she observed. "He will fuss.
But he's quite easy to manage really."
The conversation then proceeded on most
amicable lines but with very little result.
"It's maddening really," said Patricia.
212
"Probably the only chance in my life that I
shall ever have of being right on the spot
when a murder was done--it is a murder, isn't it? The papers were very cautious and
vague, but I said to Gerry on the telephone
that it must be murder. Think of it a murder
done right close by me and I wasn't even
looking!"
The regret in her voice was unmistakable.
It was evident enough that, as the chief
inspector had gloomily prognosticated, the
two young people who had got engaged only
a week previously had had eyes only for each
other.
With the best will in the world, a few personalities
were all that Patricia BriceWoodworth
could muster.
"Sandra Farraday was looking very smart, but then she always does. That was a
Schiaparelli model she had on."
"You know her?" Race asked.
Patricia shook her head.
"Only by sight. He looks rather a bore,
I always think. So pompous, like most politicians."

"Did you know any of the others by sight?"
She shook her head.
"No, I'd never seen any of them before--at
213
least I don't think so. In fact, I don't suppose
I would have noticed Sandra Farraday if it
hadn't been for the Schiaparelli."
"And you'll find," said Chief Inspector
Kemp grimly as they left the house, "that
Master Tollington will be exactly the
same--only there won't have been even a
Skipper--skipper what--sounds like a sardine--to
attract his attention."
"I don't suppose," agreed Race, "that the
cut of Stephen Farraday's dress suit will have
caused him any heart pangs."
"Oh, well," said the inspector. "Let's try
Christine Shannon. Then we'll have finished
with the outside chances."
Miss Shannon was, as Chief Inspector
Kemp had stated, a blonde lovely. The
bleached hair, carefully arranged, swept back
from a soft vacant baby-like countenance.
Miss Shannon might be as Inspector Kemp
had affirmed, dumb--but she was eminently
easy to look at, and a certain shrewdness in
the large baby-blue eyes indicated that her
dumbness only extended in intellectual directions
and that where horse sense and a
knowledge of finance were indicated,
Christine Shannon was right on the spot.
She received the two men with the utmost
214
sweetness, pressing drinks upon them and
when these were refused, urging cigarettes.
Her flat was small and cheaply modernistic.
"I'd just love to be able to help you, chief
inspector. Do ask me any question you like."
Kemp led off with a few conventional questions
about the bearing and demeanour of the
party at the centre table.
At once Christine showed herself to be an
unusually keen and shrewd observer.
"The party wasn't going well--you could
see that. Stiff as stiff could be. I felt quite
sorry for the old boy--the one who was giving
it. Going all out he was to try and make
things go--and just as nervous as a cat on
wires--but all he could do didn't seem to cut
any ice. The tall woman he'd got on his right
was as stiff as though she'd swallowed the
poker and the kid on his left was just mad, you could see, because she wasn't sitting next
to the nice-looking dark boy opposite. As for
the tall fair fellow next to her he looked as
though his tummy was out of order, ate his
food as though he thought it would choke
him. The woman next to him was doing her
best, she pegged away at him, but she looked
rather as though she had the jumps herself."
"You seem to have been able to notice a
215
great deal. Miss Shannon," said Colonel
Race.
"I'll let you into a secret. I wasn't being so
much amused myself. I'd been out with that
boy friend of mine three nights running, and
was I getting tired of him! He was all out for
seeing London--especially what he called the
classy spots--and I will say for him he wasn't
mean. Champagne ^very time. We went to
the Compradour and the Mille Fleurs and
finally the Luxembourg, and I'll say he
enjoyed himself. In a way it was kind of
pathetic. But his conversation wasn't what
you'd call interesting. Just long histories of
business deals he'd put through in Mexico
and most of those I heard three times--and
going on to all the dames he'd known and
how mad they were about him. A girl gets
kind of tired of listening after a while and
you'll admit that Pedro is nothing much to
look at--so I just concentrated on the eats and
let my eyes roam round."
"Well, that's excellent from our point of
view. Miss Shannon," said the chief inspector.
"And I can only hope that you will have
seen something that may help us solve our
problem."
Christine shook her blonde head.
216
"I've no idea who bumped the old boy
off—no idea at all. He just took a drink of
champagne, went purple in the face and sort
of collapsed."
"Do you remember when he had last drunk
from his glass before that?"
The girl reflected.
"Why—yes—it was just after the cabaret.
The lights went up and he picked up his glass
and said something and the others did it too.
Seemed to me it was a toast of some kind."
The chief inspector nodded.
"And then?"
"Then the music began and they all got up
and went off to dance, pushing their chairs
back and laughing. Seemed to get warmed up
for the first time. Wonderful what
champagne will do for the stickiest parties."
"They all went together—leaving the table
empty?"
"Yes."
"And no-one touched Mr. Barton's glass."
"No one at all." Her reply came promptly.
"I'm perfectly certain of that."
"And no one—no one at all came near the
table while they were away."
"No one—except the waiter, of course."
"A waiter? Which waiter?"
•7 ^
"One of the half-fledged ones with an
apron, round about sixteen. Not the real
waiter. He was an obliging little fellow rather
like a monkey—Italian I guess he was."
Chief Inspector Kemp acknowledged this
description of Giuseppe Bolsano with. a nod
of the head.
"And what did he do, this young waiter?
He filled up the glasses?"
Christine shook her head.
"Oh, no. He didn't touch anything on the
table. He just picked up an evening bag that
one of the girls had dropped when they all got
up."
"Whose bag was it?"
Christine took a minute or two to think.
Then she said:
"That's right. It was the kid's bag—a green
and gold thing. The other two women had
black bags."
"What did the waiter do with the bag?"
Christine looked surprised.
"He just put it back on the table, that's
all."
"You're quite sure he didn't touch any of
the glasses?"
"Oh, no. He just dropped the bag down
very quick and ran off because one of the real
218
waiters was hissing at him to go somewhere
or get something and everything was going to
be his fault!"
"And that's the only time anyone went near
that table?"
"That's right."
"But of course someone might have gone to
the table without your noticing?"
But Christine shook her head very very
determinedly.
"No, I'm quite sure they didn't. You see
Pedro had been called to the telephone and
hadn't got back yet, so I had nothing to do
but look around and feel bored. I'm pretty
good at noticing things and from where I was
sitting there wasn't much else to see but the
empty table next to us."
Race asked:
"Who came back first to the table?"
"The girl in green and the old boy. They
sat down and then the fair man and the girl
in black came back and after them the
haughty piece of goods and the goodlooking
dark boy. Some dancer, he was.
When they were all back and the waiter was
warming up a dish like mad on the spirit
lamp, the old boy leaned forward and made
a kind of speech and then they all picked
219
up their glasses again. And then it
happened."
Christine paused and added brightly,
"Awful, wasn't it? Of course I thought it was
a stroke. My aunt had a stroke and she went
down just like that. Pedro came back just
then and I said, 'Look, Pedro, that man's had
a stroke.' And all Pedro would say was, 'Just
passing out—just passing out—that's all'
which was about what he was doing. I had to
keep my eye on him. They don't like you
passing out at a place like the Luxembourg.
That's why I don't like Dagoes. When
they've drunk too much they're not a bit
refined any more—a girl never knows what
unpleasantness she may be let in for."
She brooded for a moment and then
glancing at a showy looking bracelet on her
right wrist, she added, "Still, I must say
they're generous enough."
Gently distracting her from the trials and
compensations of a girl's existence Kemp
took her through her story once more.
"That's our last chance of outside help
gone," he said to Race when they had left
Miss Shannon's flat. "And it would have
been a good chance if it had come off. That
girl's the right kind of witness. Sees things
220
and remembers them" accurately. If there had
been anything to see, she'd have seen it. So
the answer is that there wasn't anything to
see. It's incredible. It's a conjuring trick!
George Barton drinks champagne and goes
and dances. He comes back, drinks from the
same glass that no one has touched and Hey
Presto it's full of cyanide. It's crazy—I tell
you—it couldn't have happened except that it
did."
He stopped a minute.
"That waiter. The little boy. Giuseppe
never mentioned him. I might look into that.
After all, he's the one person who was near
the table whilst they were all away dancing.
There might be something in it."
Race shook his head.
"If he'd put anything in Barton's glass, that
girl would have seen him. She's a born
observer of detail. Nothing to think about
inside her head and so she uses her eyes. No,
Kemp, there must be some quite simple
explanation if only we could get it."
"Yes, there's one. He dropped it in
himself."
"I'm beginning to believe that that is what
happened—that it's the only thing that can
have happened. But if so, Kemp, I'm
221
convinced he didn't know it was cyanide."
"You mean someone gave it to him? Told
him it was for indigestion or blood
pressure—something like that?"
"It could be."
"Then who was the someone? Not either of
the Farradays."
"That would certainly seem unlikely."
"And I'd say Mr. Anthony Browne is
equally unlikely. That leaves us two
people—and affectionate sister-in-law——"
"And a devoted secretary."
Kemp looked at him.
"Yes—she could have planted something of
the kind on him—— I'm due now to go to
Kidderminster House—— What about you?
Going round to see Miss Marle?
"I think I'll go and see the other one—at
the office. Condolences of an old friend. I
might take her out to lunch."
"So that is what you think."
"I don't think anything yet. I'm casting
about for spoor."
"You ought to see Iris Marle, all the
same."
"I'm going to see her—but I'd rather go to
the house first when she isn't there. Do you
know why, Kemp?"
222
"I'm sure I couldn't say."
"Because there's someone there who twitters—twitters
like a little bird. ... A little
bird told me—was a saying of my youth. It's
very " true, Kemp—these twitterers can tell
one a lot if one just lets them—twitter!"
223
4
if | 1 HE two men parted. Race halted: a taxi
| and was driven to George Barton's JL office in the' city. Chief Inspector
Kemp, mindful of his expense account, took
a bus to within a stone's throw of Kidderminster
House.
The inspector's face was rather grim as he
mounted the steps and pushed the bell. He
was, he knew, on difficult ground. The
Kidderminster faction had immense political
influence and its ramifications spread out like
a network throughout the country. Chief
Inspector Kemp had full belief in the
impartiality of British justice. If Stephen or
Alexandra Farraday had been concerned in
the death of Rosemary Barton or in that of
George Barton no "pull" or "influence" would enable them to escape the consequences.
But if they were guiltless, or the
evidence against them was too vague to
ensure conviction, then the responsible
officer must be careful how he trod or he
would be liable to get a rap over the knuckles
224
from his superiors. In these circumstances it
can be understood that the chief inspector did
not much relish what lay before him. It
seemed to him highly probable that the
Kidderminsters would, as he phrased it to
himself, "cut up rough."
Kemp soon found, however, that he had
been somewhat naive in his assumption. Lord
Kidderminster was far too experienced a
diplomat to resort to crudities.
On stating his business. Chief Inspector
Kemp was taken at once by a pontifical butler
to a dim book-lined room at the back of the
house where he found Lord Kidderminster
and his daughter and son-in-law awaiting
him.
Coming forward. Lord Kidderminster
shook hands and said courteously:
"You are exactly on time, chief inspector.
May I say that I much appreciate your
courtesy in coming here instead of
demanding that my daughter and her husband
should come to Scotland Yard which, of
course, they would have been quite prepared
to do if necessary--that goes without saying--but
they appreciate your kindness."
Sandra said in a quiet voice:
"Yes, indeed, inspector."
225
She was wearing a dress of some soft dark
red material, and sitting as she was with the
light from the long narrow window behind
her, she reminded Kemp of a stained glass
figure he had once seen in a cathedral abroad.
The long oval of her face and the slight
angularity of her shoulders helped the
illusion. Saint Somebody or other, they had
told him--but Lady Alexandra Farraday was
no saint--not by a long way. And yet some of
these old saints had been funny people from
his point of view, not kindly ordinary decent
Christian folk, but intolerant, fanatical, cruel
to themselves and others.
Stephen Farraday stood close by his wife.
His face expressed no emotion whatever. He
looked correct and formal, an appointed
legislator of the people. The natural man was
well buried. But the natural man was there, as the chief inspector knew.
Lord Kidderminster was speaking, directing
with a good deal of ability the trend of the
interview.
"I won't disguise from you, chief inspector,
that this is a very painful and disagreeable
business for us all. This is the second time
that my daughter and son-in-law have been
connected with a violent death in a public
226
-i^e—the same restaurant and two members
'ftlie same family. Publicity of such a kind is
always harmful to a man in the public eye.
py^licity, of course, cannot be avoided. We
all realise that, and both my daughter and
7\4r. Fafraday are anxious to give you all the
help they can in the hope that the matter may
be cleared up speedily and public interest in
it die down."
"Thank you. Lord Kidderminster. I much
appreciate the attitude you have taken up. It
certainly "^kes things easier for us."
Sandra Farraday said:
"Please ask us any questions you like, chief
inspector."
"Thank you. Lady Alexandra,"
"Just one point, chief inspector," said Lord
Kidderminster. "You have, of course, your
own sources of information and I gather from
my friend the Commissioner that this man
Barton's death is regarded as murder rather
than suicide, though on the face of it, to the
outside public, suicide would seem a more
likely explanation. You thought it was
suicide, didn't you, Sandra, my dear?"
The Gothic figure bowed its head slightly.
Sandra said in a thoughtful voice:
"It seemed to me so obvious last night. We
227
were there in the same restaurant and actually
at the same table where poor Rosemary
Barton poisoned herself last year. We have
seen something of Mr. Barton during the
summer in the country and he has really been
very odd—quite unlike himself—and we all
thought that his wife's death was preying on
his mind. He was very fond other, you know,
and I don't think he ever got over her death.
So that the idea of suicide seemed, if not
natural, at least possible—whereas I can't
imagine why anyone should want to murder
George Barton."
Stephen Farraday said quickly:
"No more can I. Barton was an excellent
fellow. I'm sure he hadn't got an enemy in
the world."
Chief Inspector Kemp looked at the three
inquiring faces turned towards him and
reflected a moment before speaking. "Better
let 'em have it," he thought to himself.
"What you say is quite correct, I am sure,
Lady Alexandra. But you see there are a few
things that you probably don't know yet."
Lord Kidderminster interposed quickly:
"We mustn't force the chief inspector's
hand. It is entirely in his descretion what
facts he makes public."
228
"Thanks, m'lord, but there's no reason I
shouldn't explain things a little more clearly.
I'll boil it down to this. George Barton,
before his death, expressed to two people his
belief that his wife had not, as was believed,
committed suicide, but had instead been
poisoned by some third party. He also
thought that he was on the track of that third
party, and the dinner and celebration last
night, ostensibly in honour of Miss Mark's
birthday, was really some part of a plan he
had made for finding out the identity of his
wife's murderer."
There was a moment's silence—and in that
silence Chief Inspector Kemp, who was a
sensitive man in spite of his wooden
appearance, felt the presence of something
that he classified as dismay. It was not
apparent on any face, but he could have
sworn that it was there.
Lord Kidderminster was the first to recover
himself. He said:
"But surely—that belief in itself might
point to the fact that poor Barton was not
quite—er—himself? Brooding over his wife's
death might have slightly unhinged him
mentally."
"Quite so. Lord Kidderminster, but it at
229
least shows that his frame of mind was
definitely not suicidal."
"Yes—yes, I take your point."
And again there was silence. Then Stephen
Farraday said sharply:
"But how did Barton get such an idea into
his head? After all, Mrs. Barton did commit
suicide."
Chief Inspector Kemp transferred a placid
gaze to him.
"Mr. Barton didn't think so."
Lord Kidderminster interposed.
"But the police were satisfied? There was
no suggestion of anything but suicide at the
time?"
Chief Inspector Kemp said quietly:
"The facts were compatible with suicide.
There was no evidence that her death was
due to any other agency."
He knew that a man of Lord Kidderminster's
calibre would seize on the exact
meaning of that.
Becoming slightly more official, Kemp
said, "I would like to ask you some questions
now, if I may. Lady Alexandra?"
"Certainly." She turned her head slightly
towards him.
"You had no suspicions at the time of Mr.
230
«.
Barton's death that it might be murder, not
suicide?"
"Certainly not. I was quite sure it was
suicide." She added, "I still am."
Kemp let that pass. He said:
"Have you received any anonymous letters
in the past year. Lady Alexandra?"
The calm of her manner seemed broken by
pure astonishment.
"Anonymous letters? Oh, no."
"You're quite sure? Such letters are very
unpleasant things and people usually prefer
to ignore them, but they may be particularly
important in this case, and that is why I want
to stress that if you did receive any such
letters it is most essential that I should know
about them."
"I see. But I can only assure you, chief
inspector, that I have received nothing of the
kind."
"Very well. Now you say Air. Barton's manner
has been odd this summer. In what way?"
She considered a minute.
"Well, he was jumpy, nervous. It seemed
difficult for him to focus his attention on
| what was said to him." She turned her head
towards her husband. "Was that how it
struck you, Stephen?"
231
"Yes, I should say that was a very fair
description. The man looked physically ill,
too. He had lost weight."
"Did you notice any difference in his
attitude towards you and your husband? Any
less cordiality, for instance?"
"No. On the contrary. He had bought a
house, you know, quite close to us, and he
seemed very grateful Tor what we were able to
do for him—in the way of local introductions,
I mean, and all that. Of course we were only
too pleased to do everything we could in that
line, both for him and for Iris Marle who is a
charming girl."
"Was the late Mrs. Barton a great friend of
yours. Lady Alexandra?"
"No, we were not very intimate." She gave
a light laugh. "She was really mostly
Stephen's friend. She became interested in
politics and he helped to—well educate her
politically—which I'm sure he enjoyed. She
was a very charming and attractive woman,
you know."
"And you're a very clever one," thought
Chief Inspector Kemp to himself
appreciatively. "I wonder how much you
know about those two—a good deal, I
shouldn't wonder."
232
He went on:
"Mr. Barton never expressed to you the
view that his wife did not commit suicide?"
"No, indeed. That was why I was so
startled just now."
"And Miss Marle? She never talked about
her sister's death, either?"
"No."
'"Have you any idea what made George
Barton buy a house in the country? Did
you or your husband suggest the idea to
him?"
"No. It was quite a surprise."
"And his manner to you was always
friendly?"
"Very friendly indeed."
"And what do you know about Mr.
Anthony Browne, Lady Alexandra?"
"I really know nothing at all. I have met
him occasionally and that is all."
"What about you, Mr. Farraday?"
"I think I know probably less about
Browne than my wife does. She at any rate
has danced with him. He seems a likeable
chap—American, I believe."
"Would you say from observation at the
time that he was on special terms of intimacy
with Mrs. Barton?"
scie 233
"I have absolutely no knowledge on that
point, chief inspector."
"I am simply asking you for your impression, Mr. Farraday."
Stephen frowned.
"They were friendly--that is all I can say."
"And you. Lady Alexandra?"
"Simply my impression, chief inspector?"
"Simply your impression."
"Then, for what it is worth, I did form the
impression that they knew each other well
and were on intimate terms. Simply, you
understand, from the way they looked at each
other--I have no concrete evidence."
"Ladies have often very good judgment on
these matters," said Kemp. That somewhat
fatuous smile with which he delivered this
remark would have amused Colonel Race if
he had been present. "Now, what about Miss
Lessing, Lady Alexandra?"
"Miss Lessing, I understand, was Mr.
Barton's secretary. I met her for the first time
on the evening that Mrs. Barton died. After
that I met her once when she was staying
down in the country, and last night."
"If I may ask you another informal question, did you form the impression that she
was in love with George Barton?"
234
«
"I really haven't the least idea."
"Then we'll come to the events of last
night."
He questioned both Stephen and his wife
minutely on the course of the tragic evening.
He had not hoped for much from this, and all
he got was confirmation of what he had
already been told. All accounts agreed on the
important points—Barton had proposed a
toast to Iris, had drunk it and immediately
afterwards had got up to dance. They had all
left the table together and George and Iris
had been the first to return to it. Neither of
them had any explanation to offer as to the
empty chair except that George Barton had
distinctly said that he was expecting a friend
of his, a Colonel Race, to occupy it later in
the evening—a statement which, as the
inspector knew, could not possibly be the
truth. Sandra Farraday said, and her husband
agreed, that when the lights went up after the
cabaret, George had stared at the empty chair
in a peculiar manner and had for some
moments seemed so absent-minded as not to
hear what was said to him—then he had
rallied himself and proposed Iris's health.
The only item that the chief inspector
could count as an addition to his knowledge,
235
was Sandra's account of her conversation
with George at Fairhaven—and his plea that
she and her husband would collaborate with
him over this party for Iris's sake.
It was a reasonably plausible pretext, the
chief inspector thought, though not the true
one. Closing his notebook in which he had
jotted down one or two hieroglyphics, he rose
to his feet.
"I'm very grateful to you, my lord, and to
Mr. Farraday and Lady Alexandra for your
help and collaboration."
"Will my daughter's presence be required
at the inquest?"
"The proceedings will be purely formal on
this occasion. Evidence of identification and
the medical evidence will be taken and the
inquest will then be adjourned for a week. By
then," said the chief inspector, his tone
changing slightly, "we shall, I hope, be
further on."
He turned to Stephen Farraday:
"By the way, Mr. Farraday, there are one
or two small points where I think you could
help me. No need to trouble Lady Alexandra.
If you will give me a ring at the Yard, we can
settle a time that will suit you. You are, I
know, a busy man."
236
It was pleasantly^ said, with an air of
casualness, but on three pairs of ears the
words fell with deliberate meaning.
With an air of friendly cooperation
Stephen managed to say:
"Certainly, chief inspector." Then he
looked at his watch and murmured: "I must
go along to the House."
When Stephen had hurried off, and the
chief inspector had likewise departed. Lord
Kidderminster turned to his daughter and
asked a question with no beating about the
bush.
"Had Stephen been having an affair with
that woman?"
There was a split second of a pause before
his daughter answered.
"Of course not. I should have known it if he
had. And anyway, Stephen's not that kind."
"Now, look here, my dear, no good laying
your ears back and digging your hoofs in.
These things are bound to come out. We
want to know where we are in this business."
"Rosemary Barton was a friend of that
man, Anthony Browne. They went about
everywhere together."
"Well," said Lord Kidderminster slowly.
"You should know."
237
He did not believe his daughter. His face,
as he went slowly out of the room, was grey
and perplexed. He went upstairs to his
wife's sitting-room. He had vetoed her
presence in the library, knowing too well
that her arrogant methods were .apt to
arouse antagonism and at this juncture he
felt it vital that relations with the official
police should be harmonious.
"Well?" said Lady Kidderminster. "How
did it go off?"
"Quite well on the face of it," said Lord
Kidderminster slowly. "Kemp is a
courteous fellow—very pleasant in his
manner—he handled the whole thing with
tact—just a little too much tact for my
fancy."
"It's serious, then?"
"Yes, it's serious. We should never have let
Sandra marry that fellow, Vicky."
"That's what I said."
"Yes—yes . . ." He acknowledged her
claim. "You were right—and I was wrong.
But, mind you, she would have had him
anyway. You can't turn Sandra when her
mind is fixed on a thing. Her meeting
Farraday was a disaster—a man of whose
antecedents and ancestors we know nothing.
238
When a crisis comes how does one know how
a man like that will react?"
"I see," said Lady Kidderminster. "You
think, we've taken a murderer into the
family?"
"I don't know. I don't want to condemn the
fellow offhand—but it's what the police
think—and they're pretty shrewd. He had an
affair with this Barton woman—that's plain
enough. Either she committed suicide on his
account, or else he—— Well, whatever
happened. Barton got wise to it and was
heading for an expose and scandal. I suppose
Stephen simply couldn't take it—and——"
"Poisoned him?"
"Yes."
Lady Kidderminster shook her head.
"I don't agree with you."
"I hope you're right. But somebody
poisoned him."
"If you ask me," said Lady Kidderminster,
"Stephen simply wouldn't have the nerve to
do a thing like that."
"He's in deadly earnest about his
career—he's got great gifts, you know, and
the makings of a true statesman. You can't
say what anyone will do when they're forced
into a corner."
239
His wife still shook her head.
"I still say he hasn't got the nerve. You
want someone who's a gambler and capable
of being reckless. I'm afraid, William, I'm
horribly afraid."
He stared at her. "Are you suggesting that
Sandrsi—Sandra——?"
"I hate even to suggest such a thing—but
it's no use being cowardly and refusing to
face possibilities. She's besotted about that
man—she always has been—and there's a
queer streak in Sandra. I've never really
understood her—but I've always been afraid
for her. She'd risk anything— anything— for
Stephen. Without counting the cost. And if
she's been mad enough and wicked enough to
do this thing, she's got to be protected."
"Protected? What do you meanprotected?"
"By you. We've got to do something about
our own daughter, haven't we? Mercifully
you can pull any amount of strings."
Lord Kidderminster was staring at her.
Though he had thought he knew his wife's
character well, he was nevertheless appalled
at the force and courage other realism—at her
refusal to blink at unpalatable facts—and also
at her unscrupulousness.
240
"If my daughter's a murderess, do you suggest
that I should use my official position to
rescue her from the consequences other act?"
"Of course," said Lady Kidderminster.
"My dear Vicky! You don't understand!
One can't do things like that. It would be a
breach of--of honour."
"Rubbish!" said Lady Kidderminster.
They looked at each other--so far divided
that neither could see the other's point
of view. So might Agamemnon and
Clytemnestra have stared at each other with
the word Iphigenia on their lips.
"You could bring government pressure to
bear on the police so that the whole thing is
dropped and a verdict of suicide brought in.
It has been done before--don't pretend."
"That has been when it was a matter of
public policy--in the interests of the State.
This is a personal and private matter. I doubt
very much whether I could do such a thing."
"You can if you have sufficient determination."
Lord Kidderminster flushed angrily.
"If I could, I wouldn't! It would be abusing
my public position."
"If Sandra were arrested and tried,
wouldn't you employ the best counsel and do
241
everything possible to get her off however
guilty she was?"
"Of course, of course. That's entirely different. You women never grasp these
things."
Lady Kidderminster was silent, unperturbed
by the thrust. Sandra was the least
dear to her of her children--nevertheless she
was at this moment a mother, and a mother
only--willing to defend her young by any
means, honourable or dishonourable. She
would fight with tooth and claw for Sandra.
"In any case," said Lord Kidderminster, "Sandra will not be charged unless there is an
absolutely convincing case against her. And I, for one, refuse to believe that a daughter of
mine is a murderess. I'm astonished at you,
Vicky, for entertaining such an idea for a
moment."
His wife said nothing, and Lord Kidderminster
went uneasily out of the room. To
think that Vicky-- Vicky-- whom he had
known intimately for so many years--should
prove to have such unsuspected and really
very disturbing depths in her!
242
5
KiCE found Ruth Lessing busy with
papers at a large desk. She was
dressed in a black coat and skirt and a
white blouse and he was impressed by her
quiet unhurried efficiency. He noticed the
dark circles under her eyes and the unhappy
set line other mouth, but her grief, if grief it
was, was as well controlled as all her other
emotions.
Race explained his visit and she responded
at once.
"It is very good of you to come. Of course I
know who you are. Mr. Barton was expecting
you to join us last night, was he not? I
remember his saying so."
"Did he mention that before the evening
itself?"
She thought for a moment.
"No. It was when we were actually taking
our seats round the table. I remember that I
was a little surprised——" She paused and
flushed slightly. "Not, of course, at his
inviting you. You are an old friend, I know.
243
And you were to have been at the other party
a year ago. All I meant was that I was surprised, if you were coming, that Mr. Barton
hadn't invited another woman to balance the
numbers--but of course if you were going to
be late and might perhaps not come at
all----" She broke off. "How stupid 1 am.
Why go over all these petty things that don't
matter? I am stupid this morning."
"But you have come to work as usual?"
"Of course." She looked surprised--almost
shocked. "It is my job. There is so much to
clear up and arrange."
"George always told me how much he
relied upon you," said Race gently.
She turned away. He saw her swallow
quickly and blink her eyes. Her absence of
any display of emotion almost convinced him
of her entire innocence. Almost, but not
quite. He had met women who were good
actresses before now, women whose reddened
eyelids and the black circles underneath
whose eyes had been due to art and not to
natural causes.
Reserving judgment, he said to himself:
"At any rate she's a cool customer."
Ruth turned back to the desk and in answer
to his last remark she said quietly:
244
"I was with him fo^ many years—it will be
eight years next April—and I knew his ways,
and I think he—trusted me."
"I'm sure of that."
He went on: "It is nearly lunch-time. I
hoped you would come out and lunch quietly
with me somewhere? There is a good deal I
would like to say to you."
"Thank you. I should like to very much."
He took her to a small restaurant that he
knew of, where the tables were set far apart
and where a quiet conversation was possible.
He ordered, and when the waiter had gone,
looked across the table at his companion.
She was a good-looking girl, he decided,
with her sleek dark head and her firm mouth
and chin.
He talked a little on desultory topics until
the food was brought, and she followed his
lead, showing herself intelligent and sensible.
Presently, after a pause, she said:
"You want to talk to me about last night?
Please don't hesitate to do so. The whole
thing is so incredible that I would like to talk
about it. Except that it happened and I saw it
happen, I would not have believed it."
"You've seen Chief Inspector Kemp, of
course?"
245
"Yes, last night. He seems intelligent and
experienced." She paused. "Was it really
murder. Colonel Race?"
"Did Kemp tell you so?"
"He didn't volunteer any information, but
his questions made it plain enough What he
had in mind."
" Your opinion as ,to whether or not it was
suicide should be as good as anyone's. Miss
Lessing. You knew Barton well and you were
with him most of yesterday, I imagine. How
did he seem? Much as usual? Or was he
disturbed—upset—excited?"
She hesitated.
"It's difficult. He was upset and
disturbed—but then there was a reason for
that."
She explained the situation that had arisen
in regard to Victor Drake and gave a brief
sketch of that young man's career.
"H'm," said Race. "The inevitable black
sheep. And Barton was upset about him?"
Ruth said slowly:
"It's difficult to explain. I knew Mr.
Barton so well, you see. He was annoyed and
bothered about the business—and I gather
Mrs. Drake had been very tearful and upset,
as she always was on these occasions—so of
246
course he wanted to straighten it all out. But I
had the impression----"
"Yes, Miss Lessing? I'm sure your impressions
will be accurate."
"Well, then, I fancied that his annoyance
was not quite the usual annoyance, if I may
put it like that. Because we had had this
same business before, in one form or
another. Last year Victor Drake was in this
country and in trouble, and we had to ship
him off to South America, and only last
June he cabled home for money. So you see
I was familiar with Mr. Barton's reactions.
And it seemed to me this time that his
annoyance was principally at the cable
having arrived just at this moment when he
was entirely preoccupied with the arrangements
for the party he was giving. He
seemed so taken up by the preparations for
it that he grudged any other preoccupation
arising."
"Did it strike you that there was anything
odd about this party of his. Miss Lessing?"
"Yes, it did. Mr. Barton was really most
peculiar about it. He was excited--like a child
might have been."
"Did it occur to you that there might have
been a special purpose for such a party?"
247
"You mean that it was a replica of the party
a year ago when Mrs. Barton committed
suicide?"
"Yes."
"Frankly, I thought it a most extraordinary
idea."
"But George didn't volunteer any explanation--or
confide in you in any way?"
She shook her head.
"Tell me. Miss Lessing, has there ever
been any doubt in your mind as to Mrs.
Barton's having committed suicide?"
She looked astonished. "Oh, no."
"George Barton didn't tell you that he
believed his wife had been murdered?"
She stared at him.
"George believed that?"
"I see that is news to you. Yes, Miss
Lessing. George had received anonymous
letters stating that his wife had not committed
suicide but had been killed."
"So that is why he became so odd this
summer? I couldn't think what was the
matter with him."
"You knew nothing about these
anonymous letters?"
"Nothing. Were there many of them?"
"He showed me two."
248
"And I knew nothing about them!"
There was a note ojf bitter hurt in her voice.
He watched her for a moment or two, then
he said:
"Well, Miss Lessing, what do you say? Is it
possible, in your opinion, for George to have
committed suicide?"
She shook her head.
"No-oh, no."
"But you said he was excited--upset?"
"Yes, but he had been like that for some
time. I see why now. And I see why he was so
excited about last night's party. He must have
had some special idea in his head--he must
have hoped that by reproducing the conditions, he would gain some additional
knowledge--poor George, he must have been
so muddled about it all."
"And what about Rosemary Barton, Miss
Lessing? Do you still think her death was
suicide?"
She frowned.
"I've never dreamt of it being anything
else. It seemed so natural."
"Depression after influenza?"
"Well, rather more than that, perhaps. She
was definitely very unhappy. One could see
that."
"And guess the cause?"
"Well—yes. At least I did. Of course I may
have been wrong. But women like Mrs.
Barton are very transparent—they don't
trouble to hide their feelings. Mercifully I
don't think Mr. Barton knew anything. . . .
Oh, yes, she was very unhappy. And I know
she had a bad headache that night besides
being run down with 'flu."
"How did you know she had a headache?"
"I heard her telling Lady Alexandra so—in
the cloakroom when we were taking off our
wraps. She was wishing she had a Cachet
Faivre and luckily Lady Alexandra had one
with her and gave it to her."
Colonel Race's hand stopped with a glass in
mid air.
"And she took it?"
"Yes."
He put his glass down untasted and looked
across the table. The girl looked placid and
unaware of any significance in what she had
said. But it was significant. It meant that
Sandra who, from her position at table,
would have had the most difficulty in putting
anything unseen in Rosemary's glass, had
had another opportunity of administering the
poison. She could have given it to Rosemary
250
in a cachet. Ordinarily a cachet would take
only a few minutes to dissolve, but possible
this had been a special kind of cachet, it
might have had a lining of gelatine or some
other substance. Or Rosemary might possibly
not have swallowed it then but later.
He said abruptly:
"Did you see her take it?"
<<I beg your pardon?"
He saw by her puzzled face that her mind
had gone on elsewhere.
"Did you see Rosemary Barton swallow
that cachet?"
Ruth looked a little startled.
"I--well, no, I didn't actually see her. She
just thanked Lady Alexandra."
So Rosemary might have slipped the cachet
in her bag and then, during the cabaret, with
a headache increasing, she might have
dropped it into her champagne glass and let it
dissolve. Assumption--pure assumption--but
a possibility.
Ruth said:
"Why do you ask me that?"
Her eyes were suddenly alert, full of questions.
He watched, so it seemed to him, her
intelligence working.
Then she said:
251
"Oh, I see. I see why George took that
house down there near the Farradays. And I
see why he didn't tell me about those letters.
It seemed to me so extraordinary that he
hadn't. But of course if he believed them, it
meant that one of us, one of those five people
round the table must have killed her. It
might—it might even have been me!"
Race said in a very gentle voice:
"Had you any reason for killing Rosemary
Barton?"
He thought at first that she hadn't heard
the question. She sat so very still with her
eyes cast down.
But suddenly with a sigh, she raised them
and looked straight at him.
"It is not the sort of thing one cares to talk
about," she said. "But I think you had better
know. I was in love with George Barton. I
was in love with him before he even met
Rosemary. I don't think he ever knew—
certainly he didn't care. He was fond of
me—very fond of me—but I suppose never in
that way. And yet I used to think that I would
have made him a good wife—that I could
have made him happy. He loved Rosemary,
but he wasn't happy with her."
Race said gently:
252
"And you disliked Rosemary?"
"Yes I did. Oh! She was very lovely and
very attractive and could be very charming in
her way. She never bothered to be charming
to me! I disliked her a good deal. I was
shocked when she died--and at the way she
died, but I wasn't really sorry. I'm afraid I
was rather glad."
She paused.
"Please, shall we talk about something
else?"
Race responded quickly:
"I'd like you to tell me exactly, in detail, everything you can remember about yesterday--from
the morning onwards--especially
anything George did or said."
Ruth replied promptly, going over the
events of the morning--George's annoyance
over Victor's importunity, her own
telephone calls to South America and the
arrangements made and George's pleasure
when the matter was settled. She then
described her arrival at the Luxembourg
and George's flurried excited bearing as
host. She carried her narrative up to the
final moment of the tragedy. Her account
tallied in every respect with those he had
already heard.
253
With a worried frown, Ruth voiced his own
perplexity.
"It wasn't suicide--I'm sure it wasn't
suicide--but how can it have been murder? I
mean, how can it have been done? The
answer is, it couldn't, not by one of us! Then
was it someone who slipped the poison into George's glass while we were away dancing?
But if so, who could it have been? It doesn't
seem to make sense."
"The evidence is that no one went near the
table while you were dancing."
"Then it really doesn't make sense!
Cyanide doesn't get into a glass by itself!"
"Have you absolutely no idea--no suspicion, even, who might have put the cyanide
in the glass? Think back over last night. Is
there nothing, no small incident, that
awakens your suspicions in any degree, however small?"
He saw her face change, saw for a moment
uncertainty come into her eyes. There was a
tiny, almost infinitesimal pause before she
answered "Nothing."
But there had been something. He was sure
of that. Something she had seen or heard or
noticed that, for some reason or other, she
had decided not to tell.
254
He did not press her. He knew that with a
girl of Ruth's type that would be no good. If,
for some reason, she had made up her mind
to keep silence, she would not, he felt sur^
change her mind.
But there had been something. Th^t
knowledge cheered him and gave him fresh
assurance. It was the first sign of a crevice v\\
the blank wall that confronted him.
He took leave of Ruth after lunch and
drove to Elvaston Square thinking of the
woman he had just left.
Was it possible that Ruth Lessin^ was
guilty? On the whole, he was prepossessed
in her favour. She had seemed entirely
frank and straightforward.
Was she capable of murder? Most people
were, if you came to it. Capable not of
murder in general, but of one particular
individual murder. That was what made it
so difficult to weed anyone out. There was
a certain quality of ruthlessness about that
young woman. And she had a motive—or
rather a choice of motives. By removing
Rosemary she had a very good chance of
becoming Mrs. George Barton. Whether it
was a question of marrying a rich m^n, or
of marrying the man she had loved? th^
255
removal of Rosemary was the first essential.
Race was inclined to think that marrying a
rich man was not enough. Ruth Lessing was
too cool-headed and cautious to risk her neck
for mere comfortable living as a rich man's
wife. Love? Perhaps. For all her cool and
detached manner, he suspected her of being
one of those women who can be kindled to
unlikely passion by one particular man.
Given love of George and hate of Rosemary, she might have coolly planned and executed
Rosemary's death. The fact that it had gone
off without a hitch, and that suicide had been
universally accepted without demur, proved
her inherent capability.
And then George had received anonymous
letters (From whom? Why? That was the teasing
vexing problem that never ceased to nag at
him) and had grown suspicious. He had planned
a trap. And Ruth had silenced him.
No, that wasn't right. That didn't ring
true. That spelt panic--and Ruth Lessing
was not the kind of woman who panicked.
She had better brains than George and could
have avoided any trap that he was likely to set
with the greatest of ease.
It looked as though Ruth didn't add up
after all.
256
6
EFCILLA DRAKE was thrilled and
delighted to see Colonel Race.
The blinds were all down and Lucilla
came into the room draped in black and with
a handkerchief to her eyes and explained, as
she advanced a tremulous hand to meet his,
how of course she couldn't have seen
anyone—anyone at all—except such an old
friend of dear, dear George's—and it was so
dreadful to have no man in the house! Really
without a man in the house one didn't know
how to tackle anything. Just herself, a poor
lonely widow, and Iris, just a helpless young
girl, and George had always looked after
everything. So kind of dear Colonel Race and
really she was so grateful—no idea what they
ought to do. Of course Miss Lessing would
attend to all business matters—and the
funeral to arrange for—but how about the
inquest? and so dreadful having the police—
actually in the house—plain clothes, of
course, and really very considerate. But she
was so bewildered and the whole thing was
257
such an absolute tragedy and didn't Colonel
Race think it must be all due to suggestion--that was what the psychoanalysts
said, wasn't it, that everything is suggestion? And poor George at that horrid place, the
Luxembourg, and practically the same party
and remembering how poor Rosemary had
died there--and it must have come over him
quite suddenly, only if he'd listened to what
she, Lucilla, had said, and taken that excellent
tonic of dear Dr. Gaskell's--run
down, all the summer--yes, thoroughly run
down.
Whereupon Lucilla herself ran down temporarily,
and Race had a chance to speak.
He said how deeply he sympathised and
how Mrs. Drake must count upon him in
every way.
Whereupon Lucilla started off again and
said it was indeed kind of him, and it was the
shock that had been so terrible--here today
and gone to-morrow, as it said in the Bible,
cometh up like grass and cut down in the
evening--only that wasn't quite right, but
Colonel Race would know what she meant,
and it was so nice to feel there was someone
on whom they could rely. Miss Lessing
meant well, of course, and was very efficient,
258
but rather an unsympathetic manner and
sometimes took things upon herself a little
too Jnuch, and in her, Lucilla's, opinion,
George had always relied upon her far too
much, and at one time she had been really
afraid that he might do something foolish
which would have been a great pity and
probably she would have bullied him
unmercifully once they were married. Of
course she, Lucilla, had seen what was in the
wind. Dear Iris was so unworldly, and it was
nice, didn't Colonel Race think, for young
girls to be unspoilt and simple? Iris had really
always been very young for her age and very
quiet—one didn't know half the time what
she was thinking about. Rosemary being so
pretty and so gay had been out a great deal,
and Iris had mooned about the house which
wasn't really right for a young girl—they
should go to classes—cooking and perhaps
dressmaking. It occupied their minds and one
never knew when it might come in useful. It
had really been a mercy that she, Lucilla, had
been free to come and live here after poor
Rosemary's death—that horrid 'flu, quite an
unusual kind of 'flu Dr. Gaskell had said.
Such a clever man and such a nice, breezy
manner.
259
She had wanted Iris to see him this
summer. The girl had looked so white and
pulled down. "But really. Colonel Race, I
think it was the situation of the house. Low,
you know, and damp, with quite a miasma in
the evenings." Poor George had gone off and
bought it all by himself without asking
anyone's advice—such a pity. He had said he
wanted it to be a surprise, but really it would
have been better if he had taken some older
woman's advice. Men knew nothing about
houses. George might have realised that she,
Lucilla, would have been willing to take any
amount of trouble. For, after all, what was her
life now? Her dear husband dead many years
ago, and Victor, her dear boy, far away in the
Argentine—she meant Brazil, or was it the
Argentine? Such an affectionate, handsome
boy.
Colonel Race said he had heard she had a
son abroad.
For the next quarter of an hour, he was
regaled with a full account of Victor's
multitudinous activities. Such a spirited boy,
willing to turn his hand to anything—here
followed a list of Victor's varied occupations.
Never unkind, or bearing malice to anyone.
"He's always been unlucky. Colonel Race.
260
He was misjudged b^ his house-master and I
consider the authorities at Oxford behaved
quite disgracefully. People don't seem to
understand that a clever boy with a taste for
drawing would think it an excellent joke to
imitate someone's handwriting. He did it for
the fun of the thing, not for money." But
he'd always been a good son to his mother,
and he never failed to let her know when he
was in trouble which showed, didn't it, that
he trusted her? Only it did seem curious,
didn't it, that the jobs people found for him
so often seemed to take him out of England.
She couldn't help feeling that if only he could
be given a nice job, in the Bank of England
say, he would settle down much better. He
might perhaps live a little out of London and
have a little car.
It was quite twenty minutes before Colonel
Race, having heard all Victor's perfections
and misfortunes, was able to switch Lucilla
from the subject of sons to that of servants.
Yes, it was very true what he said, the oldfashioned
type of servant didn't exist any
longer. Really the trouble people had
nowadays! Not that she ought to complain,
for really they had been very lucky. Mrs.
Pound, though she had the misfortune to be
261
slightly deaf, was an excellent woman. Her
pastry sometimes a little heavy and a tendency
to over-pepper the soup, but really on
the whole most reliable--and economical too.
She had been there ever since George married
and she had made no fuss about going to the
country this year, though there had been
trouble with the others over that and the
parlourmaid had left--but that really was all
for the best--an impertinent girl who
answered back--besides breaking six of the
best wineglasses, not one by one at odd times
which might happen to anybody, but all at
once which really meant gross carelessness, didn't Colonel Race think so?"
"Very careless indeed."
"That is what I told her. And I said to her
that I should be obliged to say so in her
reference--for I really feel one has a duty, Colonel Race. I mean, one should not
mislead. Faults should be mentioned as well
as good qualities. But the girl was--really- well, quite insolent and said that at any rate
she hoped that in her next place she wouldn't
be in the kind of house where people got
bumped off--a dreadful common expression, acquired at the cinema, I believe, and
ludicrously inappropriate since poor dear
262
Rosemary took her own life—though not at
the time responsible for her actions as the
coroner very rightly pointed out—and that
dreadful expression refers, I believe, to
gangsters executing each other with tommyguns.
I am so thankful that we have nothing
of that kind in England. And so, as I say, I
put in her reference that Betty Archdale
thoroughly understood her duties as parlourmaid
and was sober and honest, but that she
was inclined to have too many breakages and
was not always respectful in her manner. And
personally, if/had been Mrs. Rees-Talbot, I
should have read between the lines and not
engaged her. But people nowadays just jump
at anything they can get, and will sometimes
take a girl who has only stayed her month in
three places running."
Whilst Mrs. Drake paused to take breath,
Colonel Race asked quickly whether that was
Mrs. Richard Rees-Talbot? If so, he had
known her, he said, in India.
"I really couldn't say. Cadogan Square was
the address."
"Then it is my friends."
Lucilla said that the world was such a small
place, wasn't it? And that there were no
friends like old friends. Friendship was a
263
wonderful thing. She had always thought it
had been so romantic about Viola and Paul.
Dear Viola, she had been a lovely girl, and so
many men in love with her, but, oh dear,
Colonel Race wouldn't even know who she
was talking about. One did so tend to relive
the past.
Colonel Race begged her to go on and in
return for this politeness received the life
history of Hector Marle, of his upbringing by
his sister, of his peculiarities and his
weaknesses and finally, when Colonel Race
had almost forgotten her, of his marriage to
the beautiful Viola. "She was an orphan, you
know, and a ward in Chancery." He heard
how Paul Bennett, conquering his disappointment
at Viola's refusal, had
transformed himself from lover to family
friend, and of his fondness for his godchild,
Rosemary, and of his death and the terms of
his will. "Which I have always felt most romantic--such an enormous fortune! Not of
course that money is everything--no, indeed.
One has only to think of poor Rosemary's
tragic death. And even dear Iris I am not
quite happy about!" Race gave her an inquiring look.
"I find the responsibility most worrying.
264
The fact that she is a great heiress is of course
well known. I keep a very sharp eye on the
undesirable type of young man, but what can
one do. Colonel Race! One can't look after
girls nowadays as one used to do. Iris has
friends I know next to nothing about. *Ask
them to the house, dear,' is what I always
say--but I gather that some of these young
men simply will not be brought. Poor George
was worried, too. About a young man called
Browne. I myself have never seen him, but it
seems that he and Iris have been seeing a
good deal of each other. And one does feel
that she could do better. George didn't like
him--I'm quite sure of that. And I always
think. Colonel Race, that men are so much
better judges of other men. I remember
thinking Colonel Pusey, one of our churchwardens, such a charming man, but my husband
always preserved a very distant attitude
towards him and enjoined on me to do the
same--and sure enough one Sunday when he
was handing round the offertory plate, he fell
right down--completely intoxicated, it seems.
And of course afterwards--one always hears
these things afterwards, so much better if one
heard them before--we found out that dozens
of empty brandy bottles were taken out of the
sci8 265
house every week! It was very sad really, because he was truly religious, though
inclined to be Evangelical in his views. He
and my husband had a terrific battle over the
details of the service on All Saints' Day. Oh,
dear. All Saints' Day. To think that yesterday
was All Souls' Day."
A faint sound made Race look over
Lucilla's head at the open doorway. He had
seen Iris before--at Little Priors. Nevertheless
he felt that he was seeing her now for
the first time. He was struck by the extraordinary
tension behind her stillness and her
wide eyes met his with something in their expression
that he felt he ought to recognise, yet
failed to do so.
In her turn, Lucilla Drake turned her head.
"Iris, dear, I didn't hear you come in. You
know Colonel Race? He is being so very
kind."
Iris came and shook hands with him
gravely, the black dress she wore made her
look thinner and paler than he remembered
her.
"I came to see if I could be of any help to
you," said Race.
"Thank you. That was kind of you."
She had had a bad shock, that was evident,
266
and was still suffering from the effects of it.
But had she been so fond of George that his
death could affect her so powerfully?
She turned her eyes to her aunt and Race
realised that they were watchful eyes. She
said:
"What were you talking about--just now,
as I came in?"
Lucilla became pink and flustered. Race
guessed that she was anxious to avoid any
mention of the young man, Anthony Browne.
She exclaimed:
"Now let me see--oh, yes. All Saints'
Day--and yesterday being All Souls'. All
Souls'--that seems to me such an odd thing--one of those coincidences one never
believes in in real life."
"Do you mean," said Iris, "that
Rosemary came back yesterday to fetch
George?"
Lucilla gave a little scream.
"Iris, dear, don't. What a terrible
thought--so unChristian."
"Why un-Christian? It's the Day of the
Dead. In Paris people used to go and put
flowers on the graves."
"Oh, I know, dear, but then they are
Catholics, aren't they?"
267
A faint smile twisted Irises lips. Then she
said directly:
"I thought, perhaps, you were talking of
Anthony—Anthony Browne."
"Well," Lucilla's twitter became very high
and birdlike, "as a matter of fact we did just
mention him. I happened to say, you know,
that we know nothing about him——"
Iris interrupted, her voice hard:
"Why should you know anything about
him?"
"No, dear, of course not. At least, I mean,
well, it would be rather nicer, wouldn't it, if
we did?"
"You'll have every chance of doing so in
future," said Iris, "because I'm going to
marry him."
"Oh, Iris!" It was half-way between a wail
and a bleat. "You mustn't do anything
rash—I mean nothing can be settled at
present."
"It is settled. Aunt Lucilla."
"No, dear, one can't talk about things like
marriage when the funeral hasn't even taken
place yet. It wouldn't be decent. And this
dreadful inquest and everything. And really,
Iris, I don't think dear George would have
approved. He didn't like this Mr. Browne."
268
"No," said Iris, "George wouldn't have
liked it and he didn't like Anthony, but that
doesn't make any difference. It's my life, not
George's—and anyway George is dead. . . ."
Mrs. Drake gave another wail.
"Iris. Iris. What has come over you? Really
that was a most unfeeling thing to say."
"I'm sorry. Aunt Lucilla." The girl spoke
wearily. "I know it must have sounded like
that but I didn't mean it that way. I only
meant that George is at peace somewhere and
hasn't got to worry about me and my future
any more. I must decide things for myself."
"Nonsense, dear, nothing can be decided at
a time like this—it would be most unfitting.
The question simply doesn't arise."
Iris gave a sudden short laugh.
"But it has arisen. Anthony asked me to
marry him before we left Little Priors. He
wanted me to come up to London and marry
him the next day without telling anyone. I
wish now that I had."
"Surely that was a very curious request,"
said Colonel Race gently.
She turned defiant eyes to him.
"No, it wasn't. It would have saved a lot
of fuss. Why couldn't I trust him? He asked
me to trust him and I didn't. Anyway, I'll
269
marry him now as soon as he likes."
Lucilla burst out in a stream of incoherent
protest. Her plump cheeks quivered and her
eyes filled.
Colonel Race took rapid charge of the situation.

"Miss Marle, might I have a word with you
before I go? On a strictly business matter?"
Rather startled, the girl murmured "Yes,"
and found herself moving to the door. As she
passed through. Race took a couple of strides
back to Mrs. Drake.
"Don't upset yourself, Mrs. Drake. Least
said, you know, soonest mended. We'll see
what we can do."
Leaving her slightly comforted he followed
Iris who led him across the hall and into a
small room giving out on the back of the
house where a melancholy plane-tree was
shedding its last leaves.
Race spoke in a business-like tone.
"All I had to say. Miss Marle, was that
Chief Inspector Kemp is a personal friend of
mine, and that I am Sure you will find him
most helpful and kindly. His duty is an
unpleasant one, but I'm sure he will do it
with the utmost consideration possible."
She looked at him for a moment or two
270
without speaking, then she said abruptly:
"Why didn't you come and join us last
night as George expected you to do?"
He shook his head.
"George didn't expect me."
"But he said he did."
"He may have said so, but it wasn't true.
George knew perfectly well that I wasn't
coming."
She said: "But that empty chair . . . Who
was it for?"
"Not for me."
Her eyes half-closed and her face went very
white.
She whispered:
"It was for Rosemary ... I see ... It was
for Rosemary ..."
He thought she was going to fall. He came
quickly to her and steadied her, then forced
her to sit down.
"Take it easy . . ."
She said in a low breathless voice:
"I'm all right.... But I don't know what to
do. ... I don't know what to do."
"Can I help you?"
She raised her eyes to his face. They were
wistful and sombre.
Then she said: "I must get things clear. I
271
must get them"—she made a groping gesture
with her hands—"in sequence. First of all,
George believed Rosemary didn't kill
herself—but was killed. He believed that
because of those letters. Colonel Race, who
wrote those letters?"
"I don't know. Nobody knows. Have you
yourself any idea?" •
"I simply can't imagine. Anyway, George
believed what they said, and he arranged this
party last night, and he had an empty chair
and it was All Souls' Day . . . that's the Day
of the Dead—it was a day when Rosemary's
spirit could have come back and—and told
him the truth."
"You mustn't be too imaginative."
"But I've felt her myself—felt her quite
near sometimes—I'm her sister—and I think
she's trying to tell me something."
"Take it easy. Iris."
"I must talk about it. George drank
Rosemary's health and he—died.
Perhaps—she came and took him."
"The spirits of the dead don't put
potassium cyanide in a champagne glass, my
dear:"
The words seemed to restore her balance.
She said in a more normal tone:
272
"But it's so incredible. George was
killed—yes, killed. That's what the police
think and it must be true. Because there isn't
any other alternative. But it doesn't make
sense."
"Don't you think it does? If Rosemary was
killed, and George was beginning to suspect
by whom——"
She interrupted him.
"Yes, but Rosemary wasn't killed. That's
why it doesn't make sense. George believed
those stupid letters partly because depression
after influenza isn't a very convincing reason
for killing yourself. But Rosemary had a
reason. Look, I'll show you."
She ran out of the room and returned a few
moments later with a folded letter in her
hand. She thrust it on him.
"Read it. See for yourself."
He unfolded the slightly crumpled sheet.
"Leopard darling ..."
He read it twice before handing it back.
The girl said eagerly:
"You see? She was unhappy—brokenhearted.
She didn't want to go on living."
"Do you know to whom that letter was
written?"
Iris nodded.
273
"Stephen Farraday. It wasn't Anthony. She
was in love with Stephen and he was cruel to
her. So she took the stuff with her to the
restaurant and drank it there where he could
see her die. Perhaps she hoped he'd be sorry
then."
Race nodded thoughtfully, but said nothing
After a moment or two he said:
"When did you find this?"
"About six months ago. It was in the
pocket of an old dressing-gown."
"You didn't show it to George?"
Iris cried passionately:
"How could I? How could I? Rosemary
was my sister. How could I give her away to
George? He was so sure that she loved him.
How could I show him this after she was
dead? He'd got it all wrong, but I couldn't
tell him so. But what I want to know is, what
am I to do now? I've shown it to you because
you were George's friend. Has Inspector
Kemp got to see it?"
"Yes. Kemp must have it. It's evidence,
you see."
"But then they'll—they might read it out in
court?"
"Not necessarily. That doesn't follow. It's
George's death that is being investigated.
274
Nothing will be made public that is not
strictly relevant. You had better let me take
this now."
"Very well."
She went with him to the front door. As he
opened it she said abruptly:
"It does show, doesn't it, that Rosemary's
death was suicide?"
Race said:
"It certainly shows that she had a motive
for taking her own life."
She gave a deep sigh. He went down the
steps. Glancing back once, he saw her standing
framed in the open doorway, watching
him walk away across the square.
275
7
MARY REES-TALBOT just greeted
Colonel Race with a positive shriek
of unbelief.,
"My dear, I haven't seen you since you
disappeared so mysteriously from Allahabad
that time. And why are you here now? It isn't
to see me, I'm quite sure. You never pay
social calls. Come on now, own up, you
needn't be diplomatic about it."
"Diplomatic methods would be a waste of
time with you, Mary. I always have
appreciated your X-ray mind."
"Cut the cackle and come to the horses, my
pet."
Race smiled.
"Is the maid who let me in, Betty
Archdale?" he inquired.
"So that's it! Now don't tell me that that
girl, a pure Cockney if ever there was one, is a
well-known European spy because I simply
don't believe it."
"No, no, nothing of the kind."
"And don't tell me she's one of our
276
counter-espionage either, because I don't
believe that."
"Quite right. The girl is simply a parlourmaid.^'
"And
since when have you been interested
in simple parlourmaids--not that Betty is
simple--an artful dodger is more like it."
"I think," said Colonel Race, "that she
might be able to tell me something."
"If you asked her nicely? I shouldn't be
surprised if you're right. She has the close-tothedoorwhenthere'sanything-interestinggoing-on
technique very highly developed.
What does M. do?"
"M. very kindly offers me a drink and rings
for Betty and orders it."
"And when Betty brings it?"
"By then M. has very kindly gone away."
"To do some listening outside the door
herself?"
"If she likes."
"And after that I shall be bursting with Inside
Information about the latest European
crisis?"
"I'm afraid not. There is no political situation
involved in this."
"What a disappointment! All right. I'll
play!"
277
Mrs. Rees-Talbot, who was a lively nearbrunette
of forty-nine, rang the bell and
directed her good-looking parlourmaid to
bring Colonel Race a whisky and soda.
When Betty Archdale returned, with a
salver and the drink upon it, Mrs. ReesTalbot
was standing by the far door into her
own sitting-room.
"Colonel Race has some questions to ask
you," she said and went out.
Betty turned her impudent eyes on the tall
grey-haired soldier with some alarm in their
depths. He took the glass from the tray and
smiled.
"Seen the papers to-day?" he asked.
"Yes, sir." Betty eyed him warily.
"Did you see that Mr. George Barton died
last night at the Luxembourg Restaurant?"
"Oh, yes, sir." Betty's eyes sparkled with
the pleasure of public disaster. "Wasn't it
dreadful?"
"You were in service there, weren't you?"
"Yes, sir. I left last winter, soon after Mrs.
Barton died."
"She died at the Luxembourg, too."
Betty nodded. "Sort of funny, that, isn't it, sir?"
Race did not think it funny, but he knew
278
what the words; were intended to convey. He
said gravely:
"I see you've got brains. You can put two
and two together."
Betty clasped her hands and cast discretion
to the winds.
"Was he done in, too? The papers didn't
say exactly?"
"Why do you say 'too'? Mrs. Barton's
death was brought in by the coroner's jury as
suicide."
She gave him a quick look out of the corner
of her eye. Ever so old, she thought, but he's
nice looking. That quiet kind. A real
gentleman. Sort of gentleman who'd have
given you a gold sovereign when he was
young. Funny, I don't even know what a
sovereign looks like! What's he after, exactly?
She said demurely: "Yes, sir."
"But perhaps you never thought it was
suicide?'
"Well, no, sir. I didn't-not really."
"That's very interesting—very interesting
indeed. Why didn't you think so?"
She hesitated, her fingers began pleating
her apron.
"Please tell me. It may be very important."
So nicely he said that, so gravely. Made you
279
feel important and as though you wanted to
help him. And anyway she had been smart
over Rosemary Barton's death. Never been
taken in, she hadn't!
"She was done in, sir, wasn't she?"
"It seems possible that it may be so. But
how did you come to think so?"
"Well," Betty hesitated. "It was something
I heard one day."
"Yes?"
His tone was quietly encouraging.
"The door wasn't shut or anything. I mean
I'd never go and listen at a door. I don't like
that sort of thing," said Betty virtuously.
"But I was going through the hall to the
dining-room and carrying the silver on a tray
and they were speaking quite loud. Saying
something she was—Mrs. Barton I
mean—about Anthony Browne not being his
name. And then he got really nasty, Mr.
Browne did. I wouldn't have thought he had
it in him—so nice-looking and so pleasant
spoken as he was as a rule. Said something
about carving up her face—ooh! and then he
said if she didn't do what he told her he'd
bump her off. Just like that! I didn't hear any
more because Miss Iris was coming down the
stairs, and of course I didn't think very much
280
of it at the time, but after there was all the
fuss about her committing suicide at that
party and I heard he'd been there at the
time—well, it gave me shivers all down my
back—it did indeed!"
"But you didn't say anything?"
The girl shook her head.
"I didn't want to get mixed up with the
police—and anyway I didn't know
anything—not really. And perhaps if I had
said anything I'd have been bumped off too.
Or taken for a ride as they call it."
"I see." Race paused a moment and then
said in his gentlest voice: "So you just wrote
an anonymous letter to Mr. George Barton?"
She stared at him. He detected no uneasy
guilt—nothing but pure astonishment.
"Me? Write to Mr. Barton? Never."
"Now don't be afraid to tell about it. It was
really a very good idea. It warned him
without your having to give yourself away. It
was very clever of you."
"But I didn't, sir. I never thought of such a
thing. You mean write to Mr. Barton and say
that his wife had been done in? Why, the idea
never came into my head!"
She was so earnest in her denial that, in
spite of himself. Race was shaken. But if all
SC19 281
r- r
fitted in so well—it could all be explained so
naturally if only the girl had written the
letters. But she persisted in her denials, not
vehemently nor uneasily, but soberly and
without undue protestation. He found
himself reluctantly believing her.
He shifted his ground.
"Whom did you tell about this?"
She shook her head.
"I didn't tell anyone. I'll tell you honest,
sir, I was scared. I thought I'd better keep my
mouth shut. I tried to forget it. I only brought
it up once—that was when I gave Mrs. Drake
my notice—fussing terribly she'd been, more
than a girl could stand, and now wanting me
to go and bury myself in the dead of the
country and not even a bus route! And then
she turned nasty about my reference, saying I
broke things, and I said sarcastic-like that at
any rate I'd find a place where people didn't
get bumped off—and I felt scared when I'd
said it, but she didn't pay any real attention.
Perhaps I ought to have spoken out at the
time, but I couldn't really tell. I mean the
whole thing might have been a joke. People
do say all sorts of things, and Mr. Browne
was ever so nice really, and quite a one for
joking, so I couldn't tell, sir, could I?"
282
Race agreed that ^she couldn't. Then he
said:
"Mrs. Barton spoke of Browne not being
his real name. Did she mention what his real
name was?"
"Yes, she did. Because he' said, Torget
about Tony'--now what was it? Tony
something. . . . Reminded me of the cherry
jam cook had been making."
"Tony Cheriton? Cherable."
She shook her head.
"More of a fancy name than that. Began
with an M. And sounded foreign."
"Don't worry. It will come back to you, perhaps. If so, let me know. Here is my card
with my address. If you remember the name
write to me to that address."
He handed her the card and a treasury note.
"I will, sir, thank you, sir."
A gentleman, she thought, as she ran
downstairs. A pound note, not ten shillings.
It must have been nice when there were gold
sovereigns. ...
Mary Rees-Talbot came back into the
room.
"Well, successful?"
"Yes, but there's still one snag to surmount.
Can your ingenuity help me? Can
283
you think of a name that would remind you of
cherry jam?"
"What an extraordinary proposition."
"Think Mary. I'm not a domestic man.
Concentrate on jam making, cherry jam in
particular."
"One doesn't often make cherry jam."
"Why not?"
"Well, it's inclined to go very sugary--
unless you use cooking cherries, Morello
cherries^"
"That's it--bet that's it. Good-bye, Mary,
I'm endlessly grateful. Do you mind if I ring
that bell so that the girl comes and shows me
out?"
Mrs. Rees-Talbot called after him as he
hurried out of the room:
"Of all the ungrateful wretches! Aren't you
going to tell me what it's all about?"
He called back:
"I'll come and tell you the whole story
later."
"Sez you," murmured Mrs. ReesTalbot.
Downstairs, Betty waited with Race's hat
and stick.
He thanked her and passed out. On the
doorstep he paused.
284
"By the way," he said, "was the name
Morelli?"
Betty's face lighted up.
"Quite right, sir. That was it. Tony
Morelli that's the name he told her to forget.
And he said he'd been in prison, too."
Race walked down the steps smiling.
From the nearest call-box he put through a
call to Kemp.
Their interchange was brief but satisfactory.
Kemp said:
"I'll send off a cable at once. We ought to
hear by return. I must say it will be a great
relief if you're right."
"I think I'm right. The sequence is pretty
clear."
285
C
HIEF INSPECTOR KEMP was not
in a very good humour.
For the last half-hour he had been
interviewing a frightened white rabbit of
sixteen who, by virtue of his uncle Charles's
great position, was aspiring to be a waiter of
the class required by the Luxembourg. In the
meantime, he was one of six harried
underlings who ran about with aprons round
their waists to distinguish them from the
superior article, and whose duty it was to bear
the blame for everything, fetch and carry,
provide rolls and pats of butter and be occasionally
and unceasingly hissed at in French,
Italian and occasionally English. Charles, as
befitted a great man, so far from showing
favour to a blood relation, hissed, cursed and
swore at him even more than he did at the
others. Nevertheless Pierre aspired in his
heart to be no less than the head waiter of a chic restaurant himself one day in the far
future.
At the moment, however, his career had
286
received a check, and^he gathered that he was
suspected of no less than murder.
Kemp turned the lad inside out and
disgustedly convinced himself that the boy
had done no less and no more than what he
had said--namely, picked up a lady's bag
from the floor and replaced it by her plate.
"It is as I am hurrying with sauce to M.
Robert and already he is impatient, and the
young lady sweeps her bag off the table as she
goes to dance, so I pick it up and put it on the
table, and then I hurry on, for already M.
Robert he is making the signs frantically to
me. That is all, monsieur."
And that was all. Kemp disgustedly let him
go, feeling strongly tempted to add, "But
don't let me catch you doing that sort of thing
again."
Sergeant Pollock made a distraction by
announcing that they had telephoned up to
say that a young lady was asking for him or
rather for the officer in charge of the Luxembourg
case.
"Who is she?"
"Her name is Miss Chloe West."
"Let's have her up," said Kemp resignedly.
"I can give her ten minutes. Mr. Farraday's
due after that. Oh, well, won't do any harm to
287
keep him waiting a few minutes. Makes them
jittery, that does."
When Miss Chloe West walked into the
room, Kemp was at once assailed by the
impression that he recognised her. But a
minute later he abandoned that impression.
No, he had never seen this girl before,.he was
sure of that. Nevertheless the vague haunting
sense of familiarity remained to plague him.
Miss West was about twenty-five, tall, brown-haired and very pretty. Her voice was
rather conscious of its diction and she seemed
decidedly nervous.
"Well, Miss West, what can I do for you?"
Kemp spoke briskly.
"I read in the paper about the Luxembourg--the
man who died there."
"Mr. George Barton? Yes? Did you know
him?"
"Well, no, not exactly. I mean I didn't
really know him."
Kemp looked at her carefully and discarded
his first deduction.
Chloe West was looking extremely refined
and virtuous--severely so. He said pleasantly:
"Can I have your exact name and address
first, please, so that we know where we are?"
"Chloe Elizabeth West. 15 Merryvale
288
Court, Maida Vale. I'm an actress."
Kemp looked at her again out of the corner
of his eye, and decided that that was what she
really was. Repertory, he fancied--in spite of
her looks she was the earnest kind.
"Yes, Miss West?"
"When I read about Mr. Barton's death
and that the--the police were inquiring into
it, I thought perhaps I ought to come and tell
you something. I spoke to my friend about it
and she seemed to think so. I don't suppose
it's really anything to do with it, but----"
Miss West paused.
"We'll be the judge of that," said Kemp
pleasantly. "Just tell me about it."
"I'm not acting just at the moment,"
explained Miss West.
Inspector Kemp nearly said "Resting" to
show that he knew the proper terms, but
restrained himself.
"But my name is down at the agencies and
my picture in Spotlight. . . . That, I understand, is where Mr. Barton saw it. He got
into touch with me and explained what he
wanted me to do."
"Yes?"
"He told me he was having a dinner party
at the Luxembourg and that he wanted to
i 289
spring a surprise on his guests. He showed
me a photograph and told me that he wanted
me to make up as the original. I was very
much the same colouring, he said."
Illumination flashed across Kemp's mind.
The photograph of Rosemary he had seen on
the desk in George's room in Elvaston
Square. That was wl^o the girl had reminded
him of. She was like Rosemary Barton--not
perhaps startlingly so--but the general type
and cast of features was the same.
"He also brought me a dress to wear--I've
brought it with me. A greyish green silk. I
was to do my hair like the photograph (it was
a coloured one) and accentuate the
resemblance with make-up. Then I was to
come to the Luxembourg and go into the
restaurant during the first cabaret show and
sit down at Mr. Barton's table where there
would be a vacant place. He took me to lunch
there and showed me where the table would
be."
"And why didn't you keep the appointment, Miss West?"
"Because about eight o'clock that
night--someone--Mr. Barton--rang up and
said the whole thing had been put off. He
said he'd let me know next day when it was
290
coming off. Then the^next morning, I saw his
death in the papers."
"And very sensibly you came along to us,"
said Kemp pleasantly. "Well, thank you very
much. Miss West. You've cleared up one
mystery—the mystery of the vacant place. By
the way, you said just now—'someone'— and
then, 'Mr. Barton.' Why is that?"
"Because at first I didn't think it was
Mr. Barton. His voice sounded different."
"It was a man's voice?"
"Oh, yes, I think so—at least—it was rather
husky as though he had a cold."
"And that's all he said?"
"That's all."
Kemp questioned her a little longer, but
got no further.
When she had gone, he said to the sergeant:
"So that was George Barton's famous 'plan.' I
see now why they all said he stared at the empty
chair after the cabaret and looked queer and
absent-minded. His precious plan had gone
wrong."
"You don't think it was he who put her off?"
"Not on your life. And I'm not so sure it was a
man's voice, either. Huskiness is a good disguise
through the telephone. Oh, well, we're getting
on. Send in Mr. Farraday if he's here."
291
9
OUTWARDLY cool and unperturbed,
Stephen Farraday had turned into
Great Scotland Yard full of inner
shrinking. An intolerable weight burdened
his spirits. It had seemed that morning as
though things were going so well. Why had
Inspector Kemp asked for his presence here
with such significance? What did he know or
suspect? It could be only vague suspicion.
The thing to do was to keep one's head and
admit nothing.
He felt strangely bereft and lonely without
Sandra. It was as though when the two faced
a peril together it lost half its terrors.
Together they had strength, courage, power.
Alone, he was nothing, less than nothing.
And Sandra, did she feel the same? Was she
sitting now in Kidderminster House, silent,
reserved, proud and inwardly feeling horribly
vulnerable?
Inspector Kemp received him pleasantly
but gravely. There was a uniformed man
sitting at a table with a pencil and a pad of
292
paper. Having askec^ Stephen to sit down,
Kemp spoke in a strongly formal manner.
"I propose, Mr. Farraday, to take a statement
from you. That statement will be
written down and you will be asked to read it
over and sign it before you leave. At the same
time it is my duty to tell you that you are at
liberty to refuse to make such a statement and
that you are entitled to have your solicitor
present if you so desire."
Stephen was taken aback but did not show
it. He forced a wintry smile. "That sounds
very formidable, chief inspector."
"We like everything to be clearly
understood, Mr. Farraday."
"Anything I say may be used against me, is
that it?"
"We don't use the word against. Anything
you say will be liable to be used in evidence."
Stephen said quietly:
"I understand, but I cannot imagine,
inspector, why you should need any further
statement from me? You heard all I had to say
this morning."
"That was a rather informal
session--useful as a preliminary starting-off
point. And also, Mr. Farraday, there are
certain facts which I imagined you would
293
prefer to discuss with me here. Anything
irrelevant to the case we try to be as discreet
about as is compatible with the attainment of
justice. I daresay you understand what I am
driving at."
"I'm afraid I don't."
Chief Inspector Kemp sighed.
"Just this. You were on very intimate terms
with the late Mrs. Rosemary Barton----"
Stephen interrupted him.
"Who says so?"
Kemp leaned forward and took a typewritten
document from his desk.
"This is a copy of a letter found amongst
the late Mrs. Barton's belongings. The
original is filed here and handed to us by
Miss Iris Marle, who recognises the writing
as that other sister."
Stephen read:
"Leopard darling----"
A wave of sickness passed over him.
Rosemary's voice ... speaking--pleading....
Would the past never die--never consent to be buried?
He pulled himself together and looked at
Kemp.
"You may be correct in thinking Mrs.
Barton wrote this letter--but there is nothing
294
«.
to indicate that it was written to me."
"Do you deny that you paid the rent of 21
Malland Mansions, Earl's Court?"
So they knew! He wondered if they had
known all the time.
He shrugged his shoulders.
"You seem very well informed. May I ask
why my private affairs should be dragged into
the limelight?"
"They will not unless they prove to be relevant
to the death of George Barton."
"I see. You are suggesting that I first made
love to his wife, and then murdered him."
"Come, Mr. Farraday, I'll be frank with
you. You and Mrs. Barton were very close
friends--you parted by your wish, not the
lady's. She was proposing, as this letter
shows, to make trouble. Very conveniently, she died."
"She committed suicide. I daresay I may
have been partly to blame. I may reproach
myself, but it is no concern of the law's."
"It may have been suicide--it may not.
George Barton thought not. He started to
investigate--and he died. The sequence is
rather suggestive."
"I do not see why you should--well, pitch
on me."
295
"You admit that Mrs. Barton's death came
at a very convenient moment for you? A
scandal, Mr. Farraday, would have been
highly prejudicial to your career."
"There would have been no scandal. Mrs.
Barton would have seen reason."
"I wonder! Did your wife know about this
affair, Mr. Farraday?"
"Certainly not."
"You are quite sure of that statement?"
"Yes, I am. My wife has no idea that there
was anything but friendship between myself
and Mrs. Barton. I hope she will never learn
otherwise."
"Is your wife a jealous woman, Mr.
Farraday?"
"Not at all. She has never displayed the
least jealousy where I am concerned. She is
far too sensible."
The inspector did not comment on that.
Instead he said:
"Have you at any time in the past year had
cyanide in your possession, Mr. Farraday?"
"No."
"But you keep a supply of cyanide at your
country property?"
"The gardener may. I know nothing about
it."
296
"You have never purchased any yourself at
a chemist's or for photography?"
"I know nothing of photography, and I
repeat that I have never purchased cyanide."
Kemp pressed him a little further before he
finally let him go.
To his subordinate he said thoughtfully,
"He was very quick denying that his wife
knew about his affair with the Barton woman.
Why was that, I wonder?"
"Daresay he's in a funk in case she should
get to hear of it, sir."
"That may be, but I should have thought
he'd got the brains to see that if his wife was
in ignorance, and would cut up rough, that
gives him an additional motive for wanting to
silence Rosemary Barton. To save his skin his
line ought to have been that his wife more or
less knew about the affair but was content to
ignore it."
"I daresay he hadn't thought of that, sir."
Kemp shook his head. Stephen Farraday
was not a fool. He had a clear and astute
brain. And he had been passionately keen to
impress on the inspector that Sandra knew
nothing.
"Well," said Kemp, "Colonel Race seems
pleased with the line he's dug up and if he's
SC20 297
right, the Farradays are out--both of them.
I shall be glad if they are. I like this chap.
And personally I don't think he's a
murderer."
Opening the door of their sitting-room, Stephen said, "Sandra?"
She came to him out of the darkness, suddenly
holding him, her hands on his
shoulders.
"Stephen?"
"Why are you all in the dark?"
"I couldn't bear the light. Tell me."
He said:
"They know."
"About Rosemary?"
"Yes."
"And what do they think?"
"They see, of course, that I had a
motive. . . . Oh, my darling, see what I've
dragged you into. It's all my fault. If only I'd
cut loose after Rosemary's death--gone
away--left you free--so that at any rate you shouldn't be mixed up in all this horrible
business."
"No, not that. . . . Never leave me . . .
never leave me."
She clung to him--she was crying, the tears
298
coursing down her cheeks. He felt her
shudder.
"You're my life, Stephen, all my
life—never leave me . . ."
"Do you care so much, Sandra? I never
knew ..."
"I didn't want you to know. But now——"
"Yes, now. . . . We're in this together,
Sandra . . . we'll face it together . . . whatever
comes, together!"
Strength came to them as they stood there,
clasped together in the darkness.
Sandra said with determination:
"This shall not wreck our lives! It shall not.
It shall not!"
299
10
NTHONY BROWNE looked at the
A"
Lcard the little page was holding out
to him.
He frowned, then shrugged his shoulders.
He said to the boy:
"All right, show him up."
When Colonel Race came in, Anthony was
standing by the window with the bright sun
striking obliquely over his shoulder.
He saw a tall soldierly man with a lined
bronze face and iron-grey hair—a man whom
he had seen before, but not for some years,
and a man whom he knew a good deal about.
Race saw a dark graceful figure and the
outline of a well-shaped head. A pleasant
indolent voice said:
"Colonel Race? You were a friend of
George Barton's, I know. He talked about
you on that last evening. Have a cigarette."
"Thank you. I will."
Anthony said as he held a match:
"You were the unexpected guest that night
who did not turn up—just as well for you."
300
"You are wrong there. That empty place
was not for me."
Anthony's eyebrows went up.
"Really? Barton said——"
Race cut in.
"George Barton may have said so. His
plans were quite different. That chair, Mr.
Browne, was intended to be occupied when
the lights went down by an actress called
Chloe West."
Anthony stared.
"Chloe West? Never heard other. Who is
she?"
"A young actress not very well known
but who possesses a certain superficial
resemblance to Rosemary Barton."
Anthony whistled.
"I begin to see."
"She had been given a photograph of
Rosemary so that she could copy the style of
hairdressing and she also had the dress which
Rosemary wore the night she died."
"So that was George's plan? Up go the
lights—Hey Presto, gasps of supernatural
dread! Rosemary has come back. The guilty
party gasps out: "It's true—it's true—I
dunnit.' " He paused and added: "Rotteneven for an ass like poor old George."
301
"I'm not sure I understand you."
Anthony grinned.
"Oh, come now, sir—a hardened criminal
isn't going to behave like a hysterical
schoolgirl. If somebody poisoned Rosemary
Barton in cold blood, and was preparing to
administer the same fatal dose of cyanide to
George Barton, that person had a certain
amount of nerve. It would take more than an
actress dressed up as Rosemary to make him
or her spill the beans."
"Macbeth, remember, a decidedly hardened
criminal, went to pieces when he saw the ghost
ofBanquo at the feast."
"Ah, but what Macbeth saw really was a
ghost! It wasn't a ham actor wearing
Banquo's duds! I'm prepared to admit that a
real ghost might bring its own atmosphere
from another world. In fact I am willing to
admit that I believe in ghosts—have believed
in them for the last six months—one ghost in
particular."
"Really—and whose ghost is that?"
"Rosemary Barton's. You can laugh if you
like. I've not seen her—but I've felt her
presence. For some reason or other
Rosemary, poor soul, can't stay dead."
"I could suggest a reason."
302
"Because she was murdered?"
"To put it in another idiom, because she
was bumped off. How about that, Mr. Tony
MoreW?"
There was a silence. Anthony sat down,
chucked his cigarette into the grate and
lighted another one.
Then he said:
"How did you find out?"
"You admit that you are Tony Morelli?"
"I shouldn't dream of wasting time by
denying it. You've obviously cabled to
America and got all the dope."
"And you admit that when Rosemary
Barton discovered your identity you threatened
to bump her off unless she held her tongue."
"I did everything I could think of to scare
her into holding her tongue," agreed Tony
pleasantly.
A strange feeling stole over Colonel Race.
This interview was not going as it should. He
stared at the figure in front of him lounging
back in its chair—and an odd sense of
familiarity came to him.
"Shall I recapitulate what I know about
you, Morelli?"
"It might be amusing."
"You were convicted in the States of
303
attempted sabotage in the Ericsen aeroplane
works and were sentenced to a term of
imprisonment. After serving your sentence,
you came out and the authorities lost sight of
you. You were next heard of in London
staying at Claridge's and calling yourself
Anthony Browne. There you scraped
acquaintance with' Lord Dewsbury and
through him you met certain other prominent
armaments manufacturers. You stayed in
Lord Dewsbury's house and by means of
your position as his guest you were shown
things which you ought never to have seen! It
is a curious coincidence, Morelli, that a trail
of unaccountable accidents and some very
near escapes from disaster on a large scale
followed very closely after your visits to
various important works and factories."
"Coincidences," said Anthony, "are certainly
extraordinary things."
"Finally, after another lapse of time, you
reappeared in London and renewed your
acquaintance with Iris Marle, making excuses
not to visit her home, so that her family
should not realise how intimate you were
becoming. Finally you tried to induce her to
marry you secretly."
"You know," said Anthony, "it's really
304
extraordinary the way you have found out all
these things—1 don't mean the armaments
business—1 mean my threats to Rosemary,
and the tender nothings I whispered to Iris.
Surely those don't come within the province
ofM.1.5?"
Race looked sharply at him.
"You've a good deal to explain, Morelli."
"Not at all. Granted your facts are all
correct, what of them? I've served my prison
sentence. I've made some interesting friends.
I've fallen in love with a very charming girl
and am naturally impatient to marry her."
"So impatient that you would prefer the
wedding to take place before her family have
the chance of finding out anything about your
antecedents. Iris Marle is a very rich young
woman."
Anthony nodded his head agreeably.
"I know. When there's money, families are
inclined to be abominably nosy. And Iris, you
see, doesn't know anything about my murky
past. Frankly, I'd rather she didn't."
"I'm afraid she is going to know all about
it.
»?
"A pity," said Anthony.
"Possibly you don't realise—
Anthony cut in with a laugh.
305
"Oh! I can dot the i's and cross the t's.
Rosemary Barton knew my criminal past, so I
killed her. George Barton was growing
suspicious of me, so I killed him! Now I'm
after Iris's money! It's all very agreeable and
it hangs together nicely, but you haven't got a
mite of proof."
Race looked at him attentively for some
minutes. Then he got up.
"Everything I have said is true," he said.
"And it's all wrong."
Anthony Watched Aim narrowly.
"What's wrong?"
"You're wrong." Race walked slowly up
and down the room. "It hung together all
right until I saw you—but now I've seen you,
it won't do. You're not a crook. And if you're
not a crook, you're one of our kind. I'm right,
aren't I?"
Anthony looked at him in silence while a
smile slowly broadened on his face. Then he
hummed softly under his breath.
" Tor the Colonel's lady and Judy O'Grady
are sisters under the skin.' Yes, funny how one
knows one's own kind. That's why I've tried
to avoid meeting you. I was afraid you'd spot
me for what I am. It was important then that
nobody should know—important up to
306
yesterday. Now, thank goodness, the
balloon's gone up! We've swept our gang of
international saboteurs into the net. I've been
working on this assignment for three years.
Frequenting certain meetings, agitating
among workmen, getting myself the right
reputation. Finally it was fixed that I pulled
an important job and got sentenced. The
business had to be genuine if I was to
establish my bona fides.
"When I came out, things began to move.
Little by little I got further into the centre of
things—a great international net run from
Central Europe. It was as their agent I came
to London and went to Claridge's. I had
orders to get on friendly terms with Lord
Dewsbury—that was my lay, the social
butterfly! I got to know Rosemary Barton in
my character of attractive young man about
town. Suddenly, to my horror, I found that
she knew I had been in prison in America as
Tony Morelli. I was terrified for her! The
people I was working with would have had
her killed without a moment's hesitation if
they had thought she knew that. I did my best
to scare her into keeping her mouth shut, but
I wasn't very hopeful. Rosemary was born to
be indiscreet. I thought the best thing I could
307
do was to sheer off—and then I saw Iris
coming down a staircase, and I swore that
after my job was done I would come back and
marry her.
"When the active part of my work was
over, I turned up again and got into touch
with Iris, but I kept aloof from the house and
her people for I knew they'd want to make
inquiries about me and I had to keep under
cover for a bit longer. But I got worried about
her. She looked ill and afraid—and George
Barton seemed to be behaving in a very odd
fashion. I urged her to come away and marry
me. Well, she refused. Perhaps she was right.
And then I was roped in for this party. It was
as we sat down to dinner that George
mention you were to be there. I said rather
quickly that I'd met a man I knew and might
have to leave early. Actually I had seen a
fellow I knew in America—Monkey
Coleman—though he didn't remember
me—but I really wanted to avoid meeting
you. I was still on my job.
"You know what happened next—George
died. I had nothing to do with his death or
with Rosemary's. I don't know now who did
kill them."
"Not even an idea?"
308
"It must have been either the waiter or one
of the five people round the table. I don't
think Jt was the waiter. It wasn't me and it
wasn't Iris. It could have been Sandra Farraday
or it could have been Stephen Farraday, or it
could have been both of them together. But
the best bet, in my opinion, is Ruth Lessing."
"Have you anything to support that belief?"
"No. She seems to me the most likely person--but
I don't see in the least how she did
it! In both tragedies she was so placed at the
table that it would be practically impossible
for her to tamper with the champagne
glass--and the more I think over what happened
the other night, the more it seems to
me impossible that George could have been
poisoned at all--and yet he was!" Anthony
paused. "And there's another thing that gets
me--have you found out who wrote those
anonymous letters that started him on the
track?"
Race shook his head.
"No. I thought I had--but I was wrong."
"Because the interesting thing is that it means that there is someone, somewhere, who
knows that Rosemary was murdered, so that,
unless you're careful--that person will be
murdered next!"
309
11
FROM information received over the
telephone Anthony knew that Lucilla
Drake was going out at five o'clock to
drink a cup of tea with a dear old friend.
Allowing for possible contingencies (returning
for a purse, determination after all to take
an umbrella just in case, and last-minute chats on the doorstep) Anthony timed his
own arrival at Elvaston Square at precisely
twenty-five minutes past five. It was Iris he
wanted to see, not her aunt. And by all
accounts once shown into Lucilla's presence,
he would have had very little chance of
uninterrupted conversation with his lady.
He was told by the parlourmaid (a girl lacking
the impudent polish of Betty Archdale)
that Miss Iris had just come in and was in the
study.
Anthony said with a smile, "Don't bother.
I'll find my way," and went past her and
along to the study door.
Iris spun round at his entrance with a
nervous start.
310
"Oh, it's you."
He came over to her swiftly.
"What's the matter, darling?"
"Nothing." She paused, then said quickly, "Nothing. Only I was nearly run over. Oh,
my own fault, I expect I was thinking so hard
and mooning across the road without looking, and the car came tearing round the corner
and just missed me."
He gave her a gentle little shake.
"You mustn't do that sort of thing. Iris.
I'm worried about you--oh! not about your
miraculous escape from under the wheels of a
car, but about the reason that lets you moon
about in the midst of traffic. What is it,
darling? There's something special, isn't
there?"
She nodded. Her eyes, raised mournfully to
his, were large and dark with fear. He
recognised their message even before she said
very low and quick:
"I'm afraid."
Anthony recovered his calm smiling poise.
He sat down beside Iris on a wide settee.
"Come on," he said, "let's have it."
"I don't think I want to tell you, Anthony."
"Now then, funny, don't be like the
311
heroines of third-rate thrillers who start in the
very first chapter by having something they
can't possibly tell for no real reason except to
gum up the hero and make the book spin
itself out for another fifty thousand words."
She gave a faint pale smile.
"I want to tell you, Anthony, but I don't
know what you'd • think—I don't know if
you'd believe——"
Anthony raised a hand and began to check
off the fingers.
"One, an illegitimate baby. Two, a
blackmailing lover. Three——"
She interrupted him indignantly:
"Of course not. Nothing of that kind."
"You relieve my mind," said Anthony.
"Come on, little idiot."
Iris's face clouded over again.
"It's nothing to laugh at. It's—it's about
the other night."
"Yes?" His voice sharpened.
Iris said:
"You were at the inquest this morning—
you heard——"
She paused.
"Very little," said Anthony. "The police
surgeon being technical about cyanides
generally and the effect of potassium cyanide
312
on George, and the police evidence as given
by that first inspector, not Kemp, the one
with the smart moustache who arrived first at
the Luxembourg and took charge. Identification
of the body by George's chief clerk. The
inquest was then adjourned for a week by a
properly docile coroner."
"It's the inspector I mean," said Iris. "He
described finding a small paper packet under the
table containing traces of potassium cyanide."
Anthony looked interested.
"Yes. Obviously whoever slipped that stuff into George's glass just dropped the paper
that had contained it under the table.
Simplest thing to do. Couldn't risk having it
found on him--or her."
To his surprise Iris began to tremble
violently.
"Oh, no Anthony. Oh, no, it wasn't like
that."
"What do you mean, darling? What do you
know about it?"
Iris said, "7 dropped that packet under the
table."
He turned astonished eyes upon her.
"Listen, Anthony. You remember how
George drank off that champagne and then it
happened?"
seal 313
He nodded.
"It was awful—like a bad dream. Coming
just when everything had seemed to be all
right. I mean that, after the cabaret, when the
lights went up—1 felt so relieved. Because it
was then, you know, that we found Rosemary
dead—and somehow, I don't know why, I felt
I'd see it all happen again. ... I felt she was
there, dead, at the table ..."
"Darling . . ."
"Oh, I know. It was just nerves. But
anyway, there we were, and there was
nothing awful and suddenly it seemed the
whole thing was really done with at last and
one could—I don't know how to explain
it—begin again. And so I danced with George
and really felt I was enjoying myself at last,
and we came back to the table. And then
George suddenly talked about Rosemary and
asked us to drink to her memory and then he
died and all the nightmare had come back.
"I just felt paralysed I think. I stood there,
shaking. You came round to look at him, and
I moved back a little, and the waiters came
and some asked for a doctor. And all the time
I was standing there frozen. Then suddenly a
big lump came in my throat and tears began
to run down my cheeks and I jerked open my
314
bag to get my handkerchief. I just fumbled in
it, not seeing properly, and got out my handkerchief, but there was something caught up
inside the handkerchief--a folded stiff bit of
white paper, like the kind you get powders in
from the chemist. Only, you see, Anthony, it
hadn h been in my bag when I started from
home. I hadn't had anything like that! I'd put
the things in myself when the bag was quite
empty--a powder compact, a lip-stick, my
handkerchief, my evening comb in its case
and a shilling and a couple of sixpences. Somebody had put that packet in my bag--they must have done. And I remembered how
they'd found a packet like that in Rosemary's
bag after she died and how it had had cyanide
in it. I was frightened, Anthony, I was
horribly frightened. My fingers went limp
and the packet fluttered down from the handkerchief
under the table. I let it go. And I
didn't say anything. I was too frightened.
Somebody meant it to look as though I had
killed George, and I didn't."
Anthony gave vent to a long and prolonged
whistle.
"And nobody saw you?" he said
Iris hesitated.
"I'm not sure," she said slowly. "I believe
315
Ruth noticed. But she was looking so dazed
that I don't know whether she really noticed—
or if she was just staring at me blankly."
Anthony gave another whistle.
"This," he remarked, "is a pretty kettle of
fish."
Iris said:
"It's got worse and worse. I've been so
afraid they'd find out."
"Why weren't your fingerprints on it, I
wonder? The first thing they'd do would be
to fingerprint it."
"I suppose it was because I was holding it
through the handkerchief."
Anthony nodded.
"Yes, you had luck there."
"But who could have put it in my bag? I
had my bag with me all the evening."
"That's not so impossible as you think.
When you went to dance after the cabaret,
you left your bag on the table. Somebody may
have tampered with it then. And there are the
women. Could you get up and give me an
imitation of just how a woman behaves in the
ladies' cloakroom? It's the sort of thing I
wouldn't know. Do you congregate and chat
or do you drift off to different mirrors?"
Iris considered.
316
"We all went to the same table—a great
long glass-topped one. And we put our bags
down and looked at our faces, you know."
"Actually I don't. Go on."
"Ruth powdered her nose and Sandra patted
her hair and pushed a hairpin in and I took off
my fox cape and gave it to the woman and then I
saw I'd got some dirt on my hand—a smear of
mud and I went over to the washbasins."
"Leaving your bag on the glass table?"
"Yes. And I washed my hands. Ruth was
still fixing her face I think and Sandra went
and gave up her cloak and then she went back
to the glass and Ruth came and washed her
hands and I went back to the table and just
fixed my hair a little."
"So either of those two could have put
something in your bag without your seeing?"
"Yes, but I can't believe either Ruth or
Sandra would do such a thing."
"You think too highly of people. Sandra is
the kind of Gothic creature who would have
burned her enemies at the stake in the Middle
Ages—and Ruth would make the most
devastatingly practical poisoner that ever
stepped this earth."
"If it was Ruth why didn't she say she saw
me drop it?"
317
"You have me there. If Ruth deliberately
planted cyanide on you, she'd take jolly good
care you didn't get rid of it. So it looks as
though it wasn't Ruth. In fact the waiter is far
and away the best bet. The waiter, the waiter!
If only we had a strange waiter, a peculiar
waiter, a waiter hired for that evening only.
But instead we have- Giuseppe and Pierre and
they just don't fit . .."
Iris sighed.
"I'm glad I've told you- No one will ever
know now, will they? Only you and I?"
Anthony looked at her with a rather embarrassed
expression.
"It's not going to be just like that, Iris. In
fact you're coming with me now in a taxi to
old man Kemp. We can't l^eep this under our
hats."
"Oh, no, Anthony. They'll think I killed
George."
"They'll certainly think so if they find out
later that you sat tight and said nothing about
all this! Your explanation will then sound extremely
thin. If you volunteer it now there's a
likelihood of its being believed."
"Please, Anthony."
"Look here. Iris, you're in a tight place.
But apart from anything else, there's such a
318
thing as truth. You can't play safe and take
care of your own skin when it's a question of
justice."
"Oh, Anthony, must you be so grand?"
"That," said Anthony, "was a very shrewd
blow! But all the same we're going to Kemp!
Now!"
Unwillingly she came with him out into the
hall. Her coat was lying tossed on a chair and
he took it and held it out for her to put on.
There was both mutiny and fear in her
eyes, but Anthony showed no sign of
relenting. He said:
"We'll pick up a taxi at the end of the
Square."
As they went towards the hall door the bell
was pressed and they heard it ringing in the
basement below.
Iris gave an exclamation.
"I forgot. It's Ruth. She was coming here
when she left the office to settle about the
funeral arrangements. It's to be the day after
to-morrow. I thought we could settle things
better while Aunt Lucilla was out. She does
confuse things so."
Anthony stepped forward and opened the
door, forestalling the parlourmaid who came
running up the stairs from below.
319
"It's all right, Evans," said Iris, and the
girl went down again.
Ruth was looking tired and rather
dishevelled. She was carrying a large-sized
attache case.
"I'm sorry I'm late, but the tube-was so
terribly crowded to-night and then I had to
wait for three buses and not a taxi in sight."
It was, thought Anthony, unlike the efficient
Ruth to apologise. Another sign that
George's death had succeeded in shattering
that almost inhuman efficiency.
Iris said:
"I can't come with you now, Anthony.
Ruth and I must settle things."
Anthony said firmly:
"I'm afraid this is more important. . . . I'm
awfully sorry. Miss Lessing, to drag Iris off
like this, but it really is important."
Ruth said quickly:
"That's quite all right, Mr. Browne. I can
arrange everything with Mrs. Drake when
she comes in." She smiled faintly. "I can
really manage her quite well, you know."
"I'm sure you could manage anyone. Miss
Lessing," said Anthony admiringly.
"Perhaps, Iris, if you can tell me any
special points?"
320
"There aren't an^. I suggested arranging
this together because Aunt Lucilla changes
her mind about everything every two
minutes, and I thought it would be rather
hard on you. You've had so much to do. But I
really don't care what sort of funeral it is!
Aunt Lucilla likes funerals, but I hate them.
You've got to bury people, but I hate making
a fuss about it. It can't matter to the people
themselves. They've got away from it all.
The dead don't come back."
Ruth did not answer, and Iris repeated with
a strange defiant insistence: "The dead don't
come back!"
"Come on," said Anthony, and pulled her
out through the open door.
A cruising taxi was coming slowly along the
Square. Anthony hailed it and helped Iris in.
"Tell me, beautiful," he said, after he had
directed the driver to go to Scotland Yard.
"Who exactly did you feel was there in the
hall when you found it so necessary to affirm
that the dead are dead? Was it George or
Rosemary?"
"Nobody! Nobody at all! I just hate
funerals, I tell you."
Antlrny sighed.
"Definitely," he said, "I must be psychic!"
321
12
^"T^HREE men sat at a small round
| marble-topped table.
JL Colonel Race and Chief Inspector
Kemp were drinking cups of dark brown tea,
rich in tannin. Anthony was drinking an
English cafe's idea of a nice cup of coffee. It
was not Anthony's idea, but he endured it for
the sake of being admitted on equal terms to
the other two men's conference. Chief
Inspector Kemp, having painstakingly
verified Anthony's credentials, had consented
to recognise him as a colleague.
"If you ask me," said the chief inspector,
dropping several lumps of sugar into his
black brew and stirring it, "this case will
never be brought to trial. We'll never get the
evidence."
"You think not?" asked Race.
Kemp shook his head and took an
approving sip of his tea.
"The only hope was to get evidence concerning
the actual purchasing or handling of
cyanide by one of those five. I've drawn a
322
blank everywhere. It'll be one of those cases
where you know -who did it, and can't prove
it."
"So you know who did it?" Anthony
regarded him with interest.
"Well I'm pretty certain in my own mind.
Lady Alexandra Farraday."
"So that's your bet," said Race.
"Reasons?"
"You shall have 'em. I'd say she's the type
that's madly jealous. And autocratic, too.
Like that queen in history—Eleanor of
Something, that followed the clue to Fair
Rosamund's Bower and offered her the
choice of a dagger or a cup of poison."
"Only in this case," said Anthony, "she
didn't offer Fair Rosemary any choice."
Chief Inspector Kemp went on:
"Someone tips Mr. Barton off. He becomes
suspicious—and I should say his suspicions
were pretty definite. He wouldn't have gone
so far as actually buying a house in the
country unless he wanted to keep an eye on
the Farradays. He must have made it pretty
plain to her—harping on this party and
urging them to come to it. She's not the kind
to Wait and See. Autocratic again, she fmished
him off! That, you say so far, is all theory and
323
shorthand report made when I took her statement.
If I had, the poor fellow would have
been in hospital with writer's cramp."
"Well," said Anthony. "I daresay you're
right, chief inspector, in saying that the case
will never come to trial--but that's a very
unsatisfactory finish--and there's one thing
we still don't know--who wrote those letters
to George Barton telling him his wife was
murdered? We haven't the least idea who that
person is."
Race said: "Your suspicions still the same,
Browne?"
"Ruth Lessing? Yes, I stick to her as my
candidate. You told me that she admitted to
you she was in love with George. Rosemary
by all accounts was pretty poisonous to her.
Say she saw suddenly a chance of getting rid
of Rosemary, and was fairly convinced that
with Rosemary out of the way, she could
marry George out of hand."
"I grant you all that," said Race. "I'll
admit that Ruth Lessing has the calm practical
efficiency that can contemplate and
carry out murder, and she perhaps lacks that
quality of pity which is essentially a product
of imagination. Yes, I give you the first
murder. But I simply can't see her commit326
ting the second one. I^simply cannot see her
panicking and poisoning the man she loved
and wanted to marry! Another point that
rules her out--why did she hold her tongue
when she saw Iris throw the cyanide packet
under the table?"
"Perhaps she didn't see her do it," suggested
Anthony, rather doubtfully.
"I'm fairly sure she did," said Race.
"When I was questioning her, I had the
impression that she was keeping something
back. And Iris Marle herself thought Ruth
Lessing saw her."
"Come now, colonel," said Kemp. "Let's
have your 'spot.' You've got one, I suppose?"
Race nodded.
"Out with it. Fair's fair. You've listened to ours--and raised objections."
Race's eyes went thoughfully from Kemp's
face to Anthony and rested there.
Anthony's eyebrows rose.
"Don't say you still think I am the villain
of the piece?"
Slowly Race shook his head.
"I can imagine no possible reason why you
should kill George Barton. I think I know
who did kill him--and Rosemary Barton
too.
327
"Who is it?"
Race said musingly:
"Curious how we have all selected women
as suspects. I suspect a woman, too." He
paused and said quietly: "I think the guilty
person is Iris Marle."
With a crash Anthony pushed his chair
back. For a moment his face went dark
crimson--then with an effort, he regained
command of himself. His voice, when he
spoke, had a very slight tremor but was
deliberately as light and mocking as ever.
"By all means let us discuss the
possibility," he said. "Why Iris Marle? And
if so, why should she, of her own accord, tell
me about dropping the cyanide paper under
the table?"
"Because," said Race, "she knew that Ruth
Lessing had seen her do it."
Anthony considered the reply, his head on
one side. Finally he nodded.
"Passed," he said. "Go on. Why did you
suspect her in the first place?"
"Motive," said Race. "An enormous fortune
had been left to Rosemary in which Iris
was not to participate. For all we know she
may have struggled for years with a sense of
unfairness. She was aware that if Rosemary
328
died childless, all that money came to her.
And Rosemary was depressed, unhappy, run
down after 'flu, just the mood when a verdict
of suicide would be accepted without
question."
"That's right, make the girl out a
monster!" said Anthony.
"Not a monster," said Race. "There is
another reason why I suspected her--a farfetched
one, it may seem to you--Victor
Drake."
"Victor Drake?" Anthony stared.
"Bad blood. You see, I didn't listen to
Lucilla Drake for nothing. I know all about
the Marle family. Victor Drake--not so much
weak as positively evil. His mother, feeble in
intellect and incapable of concentration.
Hector Marle, weak, vicious and a drunkard.
Rosemary, emotionally unstable. A family
history of weakness, vice and instability.
Predisposing causes.''
Anthony lit a cigarette. His hands trembled.
"Don't you believe that there may be a
sound blossom on a weak or even a bad
stock?"
"Of course there may. But I am not sure
that Iris Marle is a sound blossom."
"And my word doesn't count," Anthony
SC22 329
said slowly, "because I'm in love with her.
George showed her those letters, and she got
in a funk and killed him? That's how it goes
on, is it?"
"Yes. Panic would obtain in her case."
"And how did she get the stuff into
George's champagne glass?"
"That, I confess,. I do not know."
"I'm thankful there's something you don't
know." Anthony tilted his chair back and
then forward. His eyes were angry and
dangerous. "You've got a nerve saying all this
ft k
to me."
Race replied quietly:
"I know. But I considered it had to be
said."
Kemp watched them both with interest, but he did not speak. He stirred his tea round
and round absentmindedly.
"Very well." Anthony sat upright.
"Things have changed. It's no longer a question
of sitting round a table, drinking
disgusting fluids, and airing academic
theories. This case has got to be solved.
We've got to resolve all the difficulties and get
at the truth. That's got to be my job--and I'll
do it somehow. I've got to hammer at the
things we don't know--because when we do
330
know them, the whole thing will be clear.
"I'll re-state the problem. Who knew that
Rosemary had been murdered? Who wrote to
George telling him so? Why did they write to
him?
"And now the murders themselves. Wash
out the first one. Ifs too long ago, and we
don't know exactly what happened. But the
second murder took place in front of my eyes.
I saw it happen. Therefore I ought to know
how it happened. The ideal time to put the
cyanide in George's glass was during the
cabaret—but it couldn't have been put in then
because he drank from his glass immediately
afterwards. I saw him drink. After he drank,
nobody put anything in his glass. Nobody
touched his glass, nevertheless next time he
drank, it was full of cyanide. He couldn't have
been poisoned—but he was! There was
cyanide in his glass—but nobody could have
put it there! Are we getting on?"
"No," said Chief Inspector Kemp.
"Yes," said Anthony. "The thing has now
entered into the realm of a conjuring trick. Or
a spirit manifestation. I will now outline my
psychic theory. Whilst we were dancing, the
ghost of Rosemary hovers near George's glass
and drops in some cleverly materialised
331
cyanide—any spirit can make cyanide out of
ectoplasm. George comes back and drinks her
health and—oh, LordV
The other two stared curiously at him. His
hands were holding his head. He rocked to
and fro in apparent mental agony. He'said:
"That's it... that's it ... the bag ... the
waiter ..."
"The waiter?" Kemp was alert.
Anthony shook his head.
"No, no. I don't mean what you mean. I
did think once that what we needed was a
waiter who was not a waiter but a conjurer—a
waiter who had been engaged the day before.
Instead we had a waiter who had always been
a waiter—and a little waiter who was of the
royal line of waiters—a cherubic waiter—a
waiter above suspicion. And he's still above
suspicion—but he played his part! Oh, Lord,
yes, he played a star part."
He stared at them.
"Don't you see it? A waiter could have
poisoned the champagne but the waiter
didn't. Nobody touched George's glass but
George was poisoned. A, indefinite article.
The definite article. George's glass! George!
Two separate things. And the money—lots
and lots of money! And who knows—perhaps
332
love as well? Don't look at me as though I'm
mad. Come on, I'll show you."
Thrusting his chair back he sprang to his
feet and caught Kemp by the arm.
"Come with me."
Kemp cast a regretful glance at his half-full
cup.
"Got to pay," he muttered.
"No, no, we'll be back in a moment. Come
on. I must show you outside. Come on,
Race."
Pushing the table aside, he swept them
away with him to the vestibule.
"You see that telephone box there?"
"Yes?"
Anthony felt in his pockets.
"Damn, I haven't got twopence. Never
mind. On second thoughts I'd rather not do it
that way. Come back."
They went back into the cafe, Kemp first,
Race following with Anthony's hand on his
arm.
Kemp had a frown on his face as he sat
down and picked up his pipe. He blew down
it carefully and began to operate on it with a
hairpin which he brought out of his waistcoat
pocket.
Race was frowning at Anthony with a
333
puzzled face. He leaned back and picked up
his cup, draining the remaining fluid in it.
"Damn," he said violently. "It's got sugar
in it!"
He looked across the table to meet
Anthony's slowly widening smile.
"Hallo," said Kemp, as he took a sip from
his cup. "What the hell's this?"
"Coffee," said Anthony. "And I don't
think you'll like it. I didn't."
334
13
ATTHONY had the pleasure of seeing
instant comprehension flash into the
eyes of both his companions.
His satisfaction was short-lived, for another
thought struck him with the force of a
physical blow.
He ejaculated out loud:
"My God--that carF
He sprang up.
"Fool that I was--idiot! She told me that a
car had nearly run her down--and I hardly
listened. Come on, quick!"
Kemp said:
"She said she was going straight home
when she left the Yard."
"Yes. Why didn't I go with her?"
"Who's at the house?" asked Race.
"Ruth Lessing was there, waiting for Mrs.
Drake. It's possible that they're both discussing
the funeral still!"
"Discussing everything else as well if I know
Mrs. Drake," said Race. He added abruptly,
"Has Iris Marle any other relations?"
335
"Not that I know of."
"I think I see the direction in which your
throughts, ideas, are leading you. But--is it
physically possible?"
"I think so. Consider for yourself how
much has been taken for granted on one
person's word."
Kemp was paying the check. The three
men hurried out as Kemp said:
"You think the danger is acute? To Miss
Marle?"
"Yes, I do."
Anthony swore under his breath and hailed
a taxi. The three men got in and the driver
was told to go to Elvaston Square as quickly
as possible.
Kemp said slowly:
"I've only got the general idea as yet. It
washes the Farradays right out."
"Yes."
"Thank goodness for that. But surely there
wouldn't be another attempt--so soon?"
"The sooner the better," said Race.
"Before there's any chance of our minds running
on the right track. Third time lucky--
that will be the idea." He added: "Iris Marle
told me, in front of Mrs. Drake, that she
would marry you as soon as you wanted her to."
336
They spoke in spasihodic jerks, for the taxidriver
was taking their directions literally and
was hurtling round corners and cutting
through traffic with immense enthusiasm.
Turning with a final spurt into Elvaston
Square, he drew up with a terrific jerk in
front of the house.
Elvaston Square had never looked more
peaceful.
Anthony, with an effort regaining his usual
cool manner, murmured:
"Quite like the movies. Makes one feel
rather a fool, somehow."
But he was on the top step ringing the bell
while Race paid off the taxi and Kemp
followed up the steps.
The parlourmaid opened the door.
Anthony said sharply:
"Has Miss Iris got back?"
Evans looked a little surprised.
"Oh, yes, sir. She came in half an hour ago."
Anthony breathed a sigh of relief.
Everything in the house was so calm and
normal that he felt ashamed of his recent
melodramatic fears.
"Where is she?"
"I expect she's in the drawing-room with
Mrs. Drake."
337
Anthony nodded and took the stairs in easy
strides. Race and Kemp close beside him.
In the drawing-room, placid under its
shaded electric lights, Lucilla Drake was
hunting through the pigeon holes of the desk
with the hopeful absorption of a terrier and
murmuring audibly:
"Dear, dear, now where did I put Mrs.
Marsham's letter? Now, let me see . . ."
"Where is Iris?" demanded Anthony
abruptly.
Lucilla turned and stared.
"Iris? She—1 beg your pardon!" She drew
herself up. "May I ask who you are?^
Race came forward from behind him and
Lucilla's face cleared. She did not yet see
Chief Inspector Kemp who was the third to
enter the room.
"Oh, dear, Colonel Race! How kind of you
to come! But I do wish you could have been
here a little earlier—I should have liked to
consult you about the funeral arrangements—a
man's advice, so valuable—and
really I was feeling so upset, as I said to Miss
Lessing, that really I couldn't even
think—and I must say that Miss Lessing was
really very sympathetic for once and offered
to do everything she could to take the burden
338
off my shoulders—only, as she put it very
reasonably, naturally I should be the person
most Jikely to know what were George's
favourite hymns—not that I actually did,
because I'm afraid George didn't very often
go to church—but naturally? as a clergyman's
wife—1 mean widow—1 do know what is
suitable——"
Race took advantage of a momentary pause
to slip in his question: "Where is Miss
Marle?"
"Iris? She came in some time ago. She said
she had a headache and was going straight up
to her room. Young girls, you know, do not
seem to me to have very much stamina
nowadays—they don't eat enough spinach—
and she seems positively to dislike talking
about the funeral arrangements, but after all,
someone has to do these things—and one does
want to feel that everything has been done for
the best, and proper respect shown to the
dead—not that I have ever thought motor
hearses really reverent—if you know what I
mean—not like horses with their long black
tails—but, of course, I said at once that it was
quite all right, and Ruth—I called her Ruth
and not Miss Lessing—and I were managing
splendidly, and she could leave everything to
us."
339

Kemp asked:
"Miss Lessing has gone?"
"Yes, we settled everything, and Miss
Lessing left about ten minutes ago. She took
the announcements for the papers with her.
No flowers, under the circumstances—and
Canon Westbury to take the service——"
As the flow went on, Anthony edged gently
out of the door. He had left the room before
Lucilla, suddenly interrupting her narrative,
paused to say: "Who was that young man
who came with you? I didn't realise at first
that you had brought him. I thought possibly
he might have been one of those dreadful
reporters. We have had such trouble with
them."
Anthony was running lightly up the stairs.
Hearing footsteps behind him, he turned his
head, and grinned at Chief Inspector Kemp.
"You deserted too? Poor old Race!"
Kemp muttered.
"He does these things so nicely. I'm not
popular in that quarter."
They were on the second floor and just
preparing to start up the third when Anthony
heard a light footstep descending. He pulled
Kemp inside an adjacent bathroom door.
The footsteps went on down the stairs.
340
&
Anthony emerged and ran up the next
flight of stairs. Iris's room, he knew, was the
small one at the back. He rapped lightly on
the door.
"Hi—Iris." There was no reply—and he
knocked and called again. Then he tried the
handle but found the door locked.
With real urgency now he beat upon it.
"Iris-Iris——"
After a second or two, he stopped and
glanced down. He was standing on one of
those woolly old-fashioned rugs made to fit
outside doors to obviate draughts. This one
was close up against the door and Anthony
kicked it away. The space under the door at
the bottom was quite wide—sometime, he
deduced, it had been cut to clear a fitted
carpet instead of stained boards.
He stooped to the keyhole but could see
nothing, but suddenly he raised his head and
sniffed. Then he lay down flat and pressed
his nose against the crack under the door.
Springing up, he shouted: "Kemp!"
There was no sign of the chief inspector.
Anthony shouted again.
It was Colonel Race, however, who came
running up the stairs. Anthony gave him no
chance to speak. He said:
341
"Gas--pouring out! We'll have to break the
door down."
Race had a powerful physique. Both he and
Anthony made short shrift of the obstacle.
With a splintering, cracking noise, the lock
gave.
They fell back for a moment, then Race said:
"She's there by the fireplace. I'll dash in
and break the window. You get her."
Iris Marle was lying by the gas fire--her
mouth and nose lying on the wide open gas jet.
A minute or two later, choking and
spluttering, Anthony and Race laid the
unconscious girl on the landing floor in the
draught of the passage window.
Race said:
"I'll work on her. You get a doctor
quickly."
Anthony swung down the stairs. Race
called after him:
"Don't worry. I think she'll be all right.
We got here in time.'3
In the hall Anthony- dialled and spoke into
the mouthpiece, hampered by a background
of exclamations from Lucilla Drake.
He turned at last from the telephone to say
with a sigh of relief:
342
"Caught him. He lives just across the
Square. He'll be here in a couple of
minutes."
"—^ut I must know what has happened! Is
Iris ill?"
It was a final wail from Lucilla.
Anthony said:
"She was in her room. Door locked. Her
head in the gas fire and the gas full on."
"Iris?" Mrs. Drake gave a piercing shriek.
"Iris has committed suicide? I can't believe it.
I don't believe it!"
A faint ghost of Anthony's grin returned to
him.
"You don't need to believe it," he said. "It
isn't true."
343
14

" ^ ND now, please. Tony, will you tell
A"
fJL me all about it?" ./ JL Iris was lying on a sofa, and the
valiant November sunshine was making a
brave show outside the windows of Little
Priors.
Anthony looked across at Colonel Race
who was sitting on the window-sill, and
grinned engagingly:
"I don't mind admitting. Iris, that I've
been waiting for this moment. If I don't explain
to someone soon how clever I've been, I
shall burst. There will be no modesty in this
recital. It will be a shameless blowing of my
own trumpet with suitable pauses to enable
you to say 'Anthony, how clever of you' or 'Tony, how wonderful' or some phrase of a
like nature. Ahem! The performance will
now begin. Here we go.
"The thing as a whole looked simple
enough. What I mean is, that it looked like a
clear case of cause and effect. Rosemary's
death, accepted at the time as suicide, was not
344
suicide. George became suspicious, started
investigating, was presumably getting near
the truth, and before he could unmask the
murderer he was, in his turn, murdered. The
sequence, if I may put it that way, seems
perfectly clear.
"But almost at once we came across some
apparent contradictions. Such as: A. George
could not be poisoned. B. George was poisoned. And: A. Nobody touched George's
glass. B. George's glass was tampered with.
"Actually I was overlooking a very significant
fact--the varied use of the possessive
case. George's ear is George's ear
indisputably because it is attached to his head
and cannot be removed without a surgical
operation! But by George's watch, I mean the
watch that George is wearing--the question
might arise whether it is his or maybe one
lent him by someone else. And when I come
to George's glass, or George's teacup, I begin
to realise that I mean something very vague
indeed. All I actually mean is the glass or cup
out of which George has lately been drinking--and
which has nothing to distinguish it
from several other cups and glasses of the
same pattern.
"To illustrate this, I tried an experiment.
Race was drinking tea without sugar, Kemp
was drinking tea with sugar, and I was drinking
coffee. In appearance the three fluids
were of much the same colour. We were sitting
round a small marble-topped table
among several other round marble-topped
tables. On the pretext of an urgent brainwave
I urged the other two out of their seats
and out into the vestibule, pushing the chairs
aside as we went, and also managing to move
Kemp's pipe which was lying by his plate to a
similar position by my plate but without
letting him see me do it. As soon as we were
outside I made an excuse and we returned,
Kemp slightly ahead. He pulled the chair to
the table and sat down opposite the plate that
was marked by the pipe he had left behind
him. Race sat on his right as before and I on
his left--but mark what happened--a, new A.
and B. contradiction! A. Kemp's cup has
sugared tea in it. B. Kemp's cup has coffee in
it. Two conflicting statements that cannot both be true---- But they are both true. The
misleading term is Kemp's cup. Kemp's cup
when he left the table and Kemp's cup when
he returned to the table are not the same.
"And that, Iris, is what happened at the
Luxembourg that night. After the cabaret,
346
when you all went ^to dance, you d^PP^ your bag. A waiter picked it up--P01 ^ waiter, the waiter attending on that tal^6 ^o
knew just where you had been sittings- but a waiter, an anxious hurried little wait^ wlt^ everybody bullying him, running along wltrL a sauce, and who quickly stooped, picked up
the bag and placed it by a plate--actually by
the plate one place to the left of wh^re you
had been sitting. You and George canie back
first and you went without a thought Straight
to the place marked by your bag--'J1181 as Kemp did to the place marked by his pipe.
George sat down in what he thought tO be his
place, on your right. And when he proposed
his toast in memory of Rosemary, h€ drank
from what he thought was his glass but was in
reality your glass--the glass that cal1 quite
easily have been poisoned without needing a conjuring trick to explain it, because the t^ty
person who did not drink after the cabaret, was necessarily the person whose health was being drunk!
"Now go over the whole business ag^111 ^d the set-up is entirely different! You W ^ intended victim, not George! So it looks, doesn't it, as though George is being use^- What, if things had not gone wrong, would
347
have been the story as the world would see it?
A repetition of the party a year ago—and a
repetition of—suicide! Clearly people would
say, a suicidal streak in that family! Bit of
paper which has contained cyanide found in
your bag. Clear case! Poor girl has-been
brooding over her sister's death. Very
sad—but these rich girls are sometimes very
neurotic!"
Iris interrupted him. She cried out:
"But why should anyone want to kill me?
Why? Why?"
"All that lovely money, angel. Money,
money, money! Rosemary's money went to
you on her death. Now suppose you were to
die—unmarried. What would happen to that
money? The answer was it would go to your
next of kin—to your aunt, Lucilla Drake.
Now from all accounts of the dear lady, I
could hardly see Lucilla Drake as First
Murderess. But is there anyone else who
would benefit? Yes, indeed. Victor Drake. If
Lucilla has money, it will be exactly the same
as Victor having it—Victor will see to that!
He has always been able to do what he likes
with his mother. And there is nothing
difficult about seeing Victor as First
Murderer. All along, from the very start of
348
the case, there had been reference to Victor,
mentions of Victor. He has been in the offing,
a shadowy, unsubstantial, evil figure."
"But Victor's in the Argentine! He's been
in South America for over a year."
"Has he? We're coming now to what has
been said to be the fundamental plot of every
story. 'Girl meets Boy!' When Victor met
Ruth Lessing, this particular story started.
He got hold of her. I think she must have
fallen for him pretty badly. Those quiet,
level-headed, law-abiding women are the kind
that often fall for a real bad lot.
"Think a minute and you'll realise that all
the evidence for Victor's being in South
America depends on Ruth's word. None of it
was verified because it was never a main
issue! Ruth said that she had seen Victor off
on the s.s. Cristobal before Rosemary's death!
It was Ruth who suggested putting a call
through to Buenos Aires on the day of
George's death—and later sacked the
telephone girl who might have inadvertantly
let out that she did no such thing.
"Of course it's been easy to check up now!
Victor Drake arrived in Buenos Aires by a
boat leaving England the day after
Rosemary's death a year ago. Ogilvie, in
349
Buenos Aires, had no telephone conversation
with Ruth on the subject of Victor Drake on
the day of George's death. And Victor Drake
left Buenos Aires for New York some weeks
ago. Easy enough for him to arrange for a
cable to be sent off in his name on a certain
day--one of those well-known cables asking
for money that seemed proof positive that he
was many thousands of miles away. Instead of
which----"
"Yes, Anthony?"
"Instead of which," said Anthony, leading
up to his climax with intense pleasure, "he
was sitting at the next table to ours at the
Luxembourg with a not so dumb blonde!"
"Not that awful looking man?"
"A yellow blotchy complexion and bloodshot
eyes are easy things to assume, and they
make a lot of difference to a man. Actually, of
our party, / was the only person (apart from Ruth Lessing) who had ever seen Victor
Drake--and I had never known him under that name! In any case I was sitting with my
back to him. I did think I recognised, in the
cocktail lounge outside, as we came in, a man
I had known in my prison days--Monkey
Coleman. But as I was now leading a highly
respectable life I was not too anxious that he
350
should recognise me. I never for one moment
suspected that Monkey Coleman had had
anything to do with the crime--much less
that he and Victor Drake were one and the
same."
"But I don't see now how he did it?"
Colonel Race took up the tale.
"In the easiest way in the world. During
the cabaret he went out to telephone, passing
our table. Drake had been an actor and he had
been something more important--a waiter. To assume the make-up and play the part of
Pedro Morales was child's play to an actor, but to move deftly round a table, with the
step and gait of a waiter, filling up the champagne
glasses, needed the definite knowledge
and technique of a man who had actually been a waiter. A clumsy action or movement
would have drawn your attention to him, but
as-a bona ride waiter none of you noticed or
saw him. You were looking at the cabaret, not noticing that portion of the restaurant's
furnishings--the waiter!"
Iris said in a hesitating voice:
"And Ruth?"
Anthony said:
"It was Ruth, of course, who put the
cyanide paper in your bag--probably in the
351
cloak-room at the beginning of the evening.
The same technique she had adopted a year
ago—with Rosemary."
"I always thought it odd," said Iris, "that
George hadn't told Ruth about those letters.
He consulted her about everything."
Anthony gave a short laugh.
"Of course he told her—first thing. She
knew he would. That's why she wrote them.
Then she arranged all of his ^lan' for
him—having first got him well worked up.
And so she had the stage set—all nicely
arranged for suicide No. 2—and if George
chose to believe that you had killed Rosemary
and were committing suicide out of remorse
or panic—well, that wouldn't make any
difference to Ruth!"
"And to think I liked her—liked her very
much! And actually wanted her to marry
George."
"She'd probably have made him a very
good wife, if she hadn't come across Victor,"
said Anthony. "Moral: every murderess was a
nice girl once."
Iris shivered. "All that for money!"
"You innocent, money is what these things
are done for! Victor certainly did it for
money. Ruth partly for money, partly for
352
Victor, and partly, I think, because she hated
Rosemary. Yes, she'd travelled a long way by
the time she deliberately tried to run you
down in a car, and still further when she left
Lucilla in the drawing-room, banged the
front door and then ran up to your bedroom.
What did she seem like? Excited at all?"
Iris considered.
"I don't think so. She just tapped on the
door, came in and said everything was fixed
up and she hoped I was feeling all right. I said
yes, I was just a bit tired. And then she picked
up my big rubber-covered torch and said
what a nice torch that was and after that I
don't seem to remember anything."
"No, dear," said Anthony. "Because she
hit you a nice little crack, not too hard, on the
back of the neck with your nice torch. Then
she arranged you artistically by the gas fire,
shut the windows tight, turned on the gas,
went out, locking the door and passing the
key underneath it, pushed the woolly mat
close up against the crack so as to shut out
any draught and tripped gently down the
stairs. Kemp and I just got into the bathroom
in time. I raced on up to you and Kemp
followed Miss Ruth Lessing unbeknownst to
where she had left that car parked—you
353
know, I felt at the time there was something
fishy and uncharacteristic about the way
Ruth tried to force it on our minds that she
had come by bus and tube!"
Iris gave a shudder.
"It's horrible—to think anyone was as
determined to kill me as all that. Did she hate
me too by then?"
"Oh, I shouldn't think so. But Miss Ruth
Lessing is a very efficient young woman.
She'd already been an accessory in two
murders and she didn't fancy having risked
her neck for nothing. I've no doubt Lucilla
Drake bleated out your decision to marry me
at a moment's notice, and in that case there
was no time to lose. Once married, I should
be your next of kin and not Lucilla."
"Poor Lucilla. I'm so terribly sorry for
her."
"I think we all are. She's a harmless, kindly
soul."
"Is he really arrested?"
Anthony looked at Race, who nodded and
said:
"This morning, when he landed in New
York."
"Was he going to marry Ruth—
afterwards?"
354
"That was Ruth's Kiea. I think she would
have brought it off too."
"Anthony--I don't think I like my money
very much."
"All right, sweet--we'll do something
noble with it if you like. I've got enough
money to live on--and to keep a wife in
reasonable comfort. We'll give it all away if
you like--endow homes for children, or provide
free tobacco for old men, or--how about
a campaign for serving better coffee all over
England?"
"I shall keep a little," said Iris. "So that if I
ever wanted to, I could be grand and walk out
and leave you."
"I don't think. Iris, that is the right spirit
into which to enter upon married life. And, by the way, you didn't once say 'Tony, how
wonderful' or "Anthony, how clever of you'!"
Colonel Race smiled and got up.
"Going over to the Farradays for tea," he
exclaimed. There was a faint twinkle in his
eye as he said to Anthony: "Don't suppose
you're coming?"
Anthony shook his head and Race went out
of the room. He paused in the doorway to
say, over his shoulder:
"Good show."
355
"That," said Anthony as the door closed
behind him, "denotes supreme British
approval."
Iris asked in a calm voice:
"He thought I'd done it, didn't he?"
"You mustn't hold that against him," said
Anthony. "You see, he's known so many
beautiful spies, all stealing secret formulas
and wheedling secrets out of major-generals,
that it's soured his nature and warped his
judgment. He thinks it's just got to be the
beautiful girl in the case!"
"Why did you know I hadn't, Tony?"
"Just love, I suppose," said Anthony lightly.
Then his face changed, grew suddenly
serious. He touched a little vase by Iris's side
in which was a single sprig of grey-green with
a mauve flower.
"What's that doing in flower at this time of
year?"
"It does sometimes—just an odd sprig—if
it's a mild autumn."
Anthony took it out of the glass and held it
for a moment against his cheek. He halfclosed
his eyes and saw rich chestnut hair,
laughing blue eyes and a red passionate
mouth. . . .
He said in a quiet conversational tone:
356
"She's not around now any longer, is she?"
"Who do you mean?"
"You know who I mean. Rosemary. ... I
think she knew. Iris, that you were in
danger."
He touched the sprig of fragrant green with
his lips and threw it lightly out of the
window.
"Good-bye, Rosemary, thank you. . . ."
Iris said softly:
"That's for remembrance ..."
And more softly still:
"Pray love remember ..."
THE END