Sparkling Cyanide - Agatha Christie [46]
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. 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 lights 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 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. Everyone else 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.
Book 3
Iris
‘For I thought that the dead had peace
But it is not so…’
Chapter 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 old-fashioned 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.
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