Sparkling Cyanide - Agatha Christie [41]
‘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 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, 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 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 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 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.’
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