Sparkling Cyanide - Agatha Christie [40]
‘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.’
‘I’ve known two schoolgirls who committed murder.’
‘But Iris! She was devoted to Rosemary.’
‘Never mind, Barton. She had 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 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.’
‘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 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—I don’t know anyone I think more highly of, or have more absolute faith in.’
‘You’re fond of her,’ said Race, watching him thoughtfully.
‘I’m devoted to her. That girl, Race, is an absolute trump. I depend upon her in every way. She’s the truest, dearest creature in the world.’
Race murmured something that sounded liked ‘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 mercenary motive—she might 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’s occurred to you,