Sparkling Cyanide - Agatha Christie [69]
‘But you didn’t say anything?’
The girl shook her head.
‘I didn’t want to get mixed up with the police—and anyway I didn’t know anything—not really. And perhaps if I had said anything I’d have been bumped off too. Or taken for a ride as they call it.’
‘I see.’ Race paused a moment and then said in his gentlest voice: ‘So you just wrote an anonymous letter to Mr George Barton?’
She stared at him. He detected no uneasy guilt—nothing but pure astonishment.
‘Me? Write to Mr Barton? Never.’
‘Now don’t be afraid to tell about it. It was really a very good idea. It warned him without your having to give yourself away. It was very clever of you.’
‘But I didn’t, sir. I never thought of such a thing. You mean write to Mr Barton and say that his wife had been done in? Why, the idea never came into my head!’
She was so earnest in her denial that, in spite of himself, Race was shaken. But it all fitted in so well—it could all be explained so naturally if only the girl had written the letters. But she persisted in her denials, not vehemently or uneasily, but soberly and without undue protestation. He found himself reluctantly believing her.
He shifted his ground.
‘Whom did you tell about this?’
She shook her head.
‘I didn’t tell anyone. I’ll tell you honest, sir, I was scared. I thought I’d better keep my mouth shut. I tried to forget it. I only brought it up once—that was when I gave Mrs Drake my notice—fussing terribly she’d been, more than a girl could stand, and now wanting me to go and bury myself in the dead of the country and not even a bus route! And then she turned nasty about my reference, saying I broke things, and I said sarcastic-like that at any rate I’d find a place where people didn’t get bumped off—and I felt scared when I’d said it, but she didn’t pay any real attention. Perhaps I ought to have spoken out at the time, but I couldn’t really tell. I mean the whole thing might have been a joke. People do say all sorts of things, and Mr Browne was ever so nice really, and quite a one for joking, so I couldn’t tell, sir, could I?’
Race agreed that she couldn’t. Then he said:
‘Mrs Barton spoke of Browne not being his real name. Did she mention what his real name was?’
‘Yes, she did. Because he said, “Forget about Tony”—now what was it? Tony something…Reminded me of the cherry jam cook had been making.’
‘Tony Cheriton? Cherable.’
She shook her head.
‘More of a fancy name than that. Began with an M. And sounded foreign.’
‘Don’t worry. It will come back to you, perhaps. If so, let me know. Here is my card with my address. If you remember the name write to me at that address.’
He handed her the card and a treasury note.
‘I will, sir, thank you, sir.’
A gentleman, she thought, as she ran downstairs. A pound note, not ten shillings. It must have been nice when there were gold sovereigns…
Mary Rees-Talbot came back into the room.
‘Well, successful?’
‘Yes, but there’s still one snag to surmount. Can your ingenuity help me? Can you think of a name that would remind you of cherry jam?’
‘What an extraordinary proposition.’
‘Think Mary. I’m not a domestic man. Concentrate on jam making, cherry jam in particular.’
‘One doesn’t often make cherry jam.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, it’s inclined to go sugary—unless you use cooking cherries, Morello cherries.’
Race gave an exclamation.
‘That’s it—I bet that’s it. Goodbye, Mary, I’m endlessly grateful. Do you mind if I ring that bell so that the girl comes and shows me out?’
Mrs Rees-Talbot called after him as he hurried out of the room:
‘Of all the ungrateful wretches! Aren’t you going to tell me what it’s all about?’
He called back:
‘I’ll come and tell you the whole story later.’
‘Sez you,’ murmured Mrs Rees-Talbot.
Downstairs, Betty waited with Race’s hat and stick.
He thanked her and passed out.