Sparkling Cyanide - Agatha Christie [12]
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 meeting 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—’
‘But what is it you’re talking about, George?’
‘You must have noticed something, seen something. There must have been something she said. There must have been a reason—’
She stared at him.
He passed his hand over his forehead.
‘You don’t understand what I’m talking about. I can see that. Don’t look so scared, little girl. You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to remember every damned thing you can. Now, now, I know I sound a bit incoherent, but you’ll understand in a minute—when I’ve shown you the letters.’
He unlocked one of the drawers at the side of the desk and took out two single sheets of paper.
They were of a pale innocuous blue, with words printed on them in small prim letters.
‘Read that,’ said George.
Iris stared down at the paper. What it said was quite clear and devoid of circumlocution:
‘YOU THINK YOUR WIFE COMMITTED SUICIDE. SHE DIDN’T. SHE WAS KILLED. ’
The second ran:
‘YOUR WIFE ROSEMARY DIDN’T KILL HERSELF. SHE WAS MURDERED.’
As Iris stayed staring at the words, George went on:
‘They came about three months ago. At first I thought it was a joke—a cruel rotten sort of joke. Then I began to think. Why should Rosemary have killed herself?’
Iris said in a mechanical voice:
‘Depression after influenza.’
‘Yes, but really when you come to think of it, that’s rather piffle, isn’t it? I mean lots of people have influenza and feel a bit depressed afterwards—what?’
Iris said with an effort:
‘She might—have been unhappy?’
‘Yes, I suppose she might.’ George considered the point quite calmly. ‘But all the same I don’t see Rosemary putting an end to herself because she was unhappy. She might threaten to, but I don’t think she would really do it when it came to the point.’
‘But she must have done, George! What other explanation could there be? Why, they even found the stuff in her handbag.’
‘I know. It all hangs together. But ever since these came,’ he tapped the anonymous letters with his finger-nail, ‘I’ve been turning things over in my mind. And the more I’ve thought about it the more I feel sure there’s something in it. That’s why I’ve asked you all