Sparkling Cyanide - Agatha Christie [7]
It was Rosemary who had been his friend. There was no reason why he should go on coming to see the rest of them. He had been Rosemary’s friend. But not Rosemary’s lover! She didn’t want him to have been Rosemary’s lover. That would hurt—that would hurt terribly…
She looked down at the letter in her hand. She crumpled it up. She’d throw it away, burn it…
It was sheer instinct that stopped her.
Some day it might be important to produce that letter…
She smoothed it out, took it down with her and locked it away in her jewel case.
It might be important, some day, to show why Rosemary took her own life.
V
‘And the next thing, please?’
The ridiculous phrase came unbidden into Iris’s mind and twisted her lips into a wry smile. The glib shop-keeper’s question seemed to represent so exactly her own carefully directed mental processes.
Was not that exactly what she was trying to do in her survey of the past? She had dealt with the surprising discovery in the attic. And now—on to ‘the next thing, please!’ What was the next thing?
Surely the increasingly odd behaviour of George. That dated back for a long time. Little things that had puzzled her became clear now in the light of the surprising interview last night. Disconnected remarks and actions took their proper place in the course of events.
And there was the reappearance of Anthony Browne. Yes, perhaps that ought to come next in sequence, since it had followed the finding of the letter by just one week.
Iris couldn’t recall her sensations exactly…
Rosemary had died in November. In the following May, Iris, under the wing of Lucilla Drake, had started her social young girl’s life. She had gone to luncheons and teas and dances without, however, enjoying them very much. She had felt listless and unsatisfied. It was at a somewhat dull dance towards the end of June that she heard a voice say behind her:
‘It is Iris Marle, isn’t it?’
She had turned, flushing, to look into Anthony’s—Tony’s—dark quizzical face.
He said:
‘I don’t expect you to remember me, but—’
She interrupted.
‘Oh, but I do remember you. Of course I do!’
‘Splendid. I was afraid you’d have forgotten me. It’s such a long time since I saw you.’
‘I know. Not since Rosemary’s birthday par—’
She stopped. The words had come gaily, unthinkingly, to her lips. Now the colour rushed away from her cheeks, leaving them white and drained of blood. Her lips quivered. Her eyes were suddenly wide and dismayed.
Anthony Browne said quickly:
‘I’m terribly sorry. I’m a brute to have reminded you.’
Iris swallowed. She said:
‘It’s all right.’
(Not since the night of Rosemary’s birthday party. Not since the night of Rosemary’s suicide. She wouldn’t think of it. She would not think of it!)
Anthony Browne said again:
‘I’m terribly sorry. Please forgive me. Shall we dance?’
She nodded. Although already engaged for the dance that was just beginning, she had floated on to the floor in his arms. She saw her partner, a blushing immature young man whose collar seemed too big for him, peering about for her. The sort of partner, she thought scornfully, that debs have to put up with. Not like this man—Rosemary’s friend.
A sharp pang went through her. Rosemary’s friend. That letter. Had it been written to this man she was dancing with now? Something in the easy feline grace with which he danced lent substance to the nickname ‘Leopard’. Had he and Rosemary—
She said sharply:
‘Where have you been all this time?’
He held her a little way from him, looking down into her face. He was unsmiling now, his voice held coldness.
‘I’ve been travelling—on business.’
‘I see.’ She went on uncontrollably, ‘Why have you come back?’
He smiled then. He said lightly:
‘Perhaps—to see you, Iris Marle.’
And suddenly gathering her up a little closer, he executed a long daring glide through the dancers, a miracle of timing and steering. Iris wondered why, with a sensation