Sparkling Cyanide - Agatha Christie [78]
Iris sighed.
‘I’m glad I’ve told you. No one will ever know now, will they? Only you and I?’
Anthony looked at her with a rather embarrassed expression.
‘It’s not going to be just like that, Iris. In fact you’re coming with me now in a taxi to old man Kemp. We can’t keep this under our hats.’
‘Oh, no, Anthony. They’ll think I killed George.’
They’ll certainly think so if they find out later that you sat tight and said nothing about all this! Your explanation will then sound extremely thin. If you volunteer it now there’s a likelihood of its being believed.’
‘Please, Anthony.’
‘Look here, Iris, you’re in a tight place. But apart from anything else, there’s such a thing as truth. You can’t play safe and take care of your own skin when it’s a question of justice.’
‘Oh, Anthony, must you be so grand?’
‘That,’ said Anthony, ‘was a very shrewd blow! But all the same we’re going to Kemp! Now!’
Unwillingly she came with him out into the hall. Her coat was lying tossed on a chair and he took it and held it out for her to put on.
There was both mutiny and fear in her eyes, but Anthony showed no sign of relenting. He said:
‘We’ll pick up a taxi at the end of the Square.’
As they went towards the hall door the bell was pressed and they heard it ringing in the basement below.
Iris gave an exclamation.
‘I forgot. It’s Ruth. She was coming here when she left the office to settle about the funeral arrangements. It’s to be the day after tomorrow. I thought we could settle things better while Aunt Lucilla was out. She does confuse things so.’
Anthony stepped forward and opened the door, forestalling the parlourmaid who came running up the stairs from below.
‘It’s all right, Evans,’ said Iris, and the girl went down again.
Ruth was looking tired and rather dishevelled. She was carrying a large-sized attaché case.
‘I’m sorry I’m late, but the tube was so terribly crowded tonight and then I had to wait for three buses and not a taxi in sight.’
It was, thought Anthony, unlike the efficient Ruth to apologize. Another sign that George’s death had succeeded in shattering that almost inhuman efficiency.
Iris said:
‘I can’t come with you now, Anthony. Ruth and I must settle things.’
Anthony said firmly:
‘I’m afraid this is more important…I’m awfully sorry, Miss Lessing, to drag Iris off like this, but it really is important.’
Ruth said quickly:
‘That’s quite all right, Mr Browne. I can arrange everything with Mrs Drake when she comes in.’ She smiled faintly. ‘I can really manage her quite well, you know.’
‘I’m sure you could manage anyone, Miss Lessing,’ said Anthony admiringly.
‘Perhaps, Iris, if you can tell me any special points?’
‘There aren’t any. I suggested our arranging this together simply because Aunt Lucilla changes her mind about everything every two minutes, and I thought it would be rather hard on you. You’ve had so much to do. But I really don’t care what sort of funeral it is! Aunt Lucilla likes funerals, but I hate them. You’ve got to bury people, but I hate making a fuss about it. It can’t matter to the people themselves. They’ve got away from it all. The dead don’t come back.’
Ruth did not answer, and Iris repeated with a strange defiant insistence: ‘The dead don’t come back!’
‘Come on,’ said Anthony, and pulled her out through the open door.
A cruising taxi was coming slowly along the Square. Anthony hailed it and helped Iris in.
‘Tell me, beautiful,’ he said, after he had directed the driver to go to Scotland Yard. ‘Who exactly did you feel was there in the hall when you found it so necessary to affirm that the dead are dead? Was it George or Rosemary?’
‘Nobody! Nobody at all! I just hate funerals, I tell you.’
Anthony sighed.
‘Definitely,’ he said. ‘I must be psychic!’
Chapter 12
Three men sat at a small round marble-topped table.
Colonel Race and Chief Inspector Kemp were drinking cups of dark brown tea, rich in tannin. Anthony was