take my reasons on trust. Let's say that it is the simplest way. But never mind.”
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 - I 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 - killed?”
“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.”
Sparkling Cyanide
Chapter 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 George” - 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 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.”
“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
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 - I 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 - killed?”
“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.”
Sparkling Cyanide
Chapter 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 George” - 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 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.”
“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
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