Sparkling Cyanide - Agatha Christie [8]
Since then Anthony had definitely become part of her life. She saw him at least once a week.
She met him in the Park, at various dances, found him put next to her at dinner.
The only place he never came to was the house in Elvaston Square. It was some time before she noticed this, so adroitly did he manage to evade or refuse invitations there. When she did realize it she began to wonder why. Was it because he and Rosemary—
Then, to her astonishment, George, easy-going, non-interfering George, spoke to her about him.
‘Who’s this fellow, Anthony Browne, you’re going about with? What do you know about him?’
She stared at him.
‘Know about him? Why, he was a friend of Rosemary’s!’
George’s face twitched. He blinked. He said in a dull heavy voice:
‘Yes, of course, so he was.’
Iris cried remorsefully:
‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reminded you.’
George Barton shook his head. He said gently:
‘No, no, I don’t want her forgotten. Never that. After all,’ he spoke awkwardly, his eyes averted, ‘that’s what her name means. Rosemary—remembrance.’ He looked full at her. ‘I don’t want you to forget your sister, Iris.’
She caught her breath.
‘I never shall.’
George went on:
‘But about this young fellow, Anthony Browne. Rosemary may have liked him, but I don’t believe she knew much about him. You know, you’ve got to be careful, Iris. You’re a very rich young woman.’
A kind of burning anger swept over her.
‘Tony—Anthony—has plenty of money himself. Why, he stays at Claridge’s when he’s in London.’
George Barton smiled a little. He murmured:
‘Eminently respectable—as well as costly. All the same, my dear, nobody seems to know much about this fellow.’
‘He’s an American.’
‘Perhaps. If so, it’s odd he isn’t sponsored more by his own Embassy. He doesn’t come much to this house, does he?’
‘No. And I can see why, if you’re so horrid about him!’
George shook his head.
‘Seem to have put my foot in it. Oh well. Only wanted to give you a timely warning. I’ll have a word with Lucilla.’
‘Lucilla!’ said Iris scornfully.
George said anxiously:
‘Is everything all right? I mean, does Lucilla see to it that you get the sort of time you ought to have? Parties—all that sort of thing?’
‘Yes, indeed, she works like a beaver…’
‘Because, if not, you’ve only got to say, you know, child. We could get hold of someone else. Someone younger and more up to date. I want you to enjoy yourself.’
‘I do, George. Oh, George, I do.’
He said rather heavily:
‘Then that’s all right. I’m not much hand at these shows myself—never was. But see to it you get everything you want. There’s no need to stint expense.’
That was George all over—kind, awkward, blundering.
True to his promise, or threat, he ‘had a word’ with Mrs Drake on the subject of Anthony Browne, but as Fate would have it the moment was unpropitious for gaining Lucilla’s full attention.
She had just had a cable from that ne’er-do-well son who was the apple of her eye and who knew, only too well, how to wring the maternal heartstrings to his own financial advantage.
‘Can you send me two hundred pounds. Desperate. Life or death. Victor.’
‘Victor is so honourable. He knows how straitened my circumstances are and he’d never apply to me except in the last resource. He never has. I’m always so afraid he’ll shoot himself.’
‘Not he,’ said George Barton unfeelingly.
‘You don’t know him. I’m his mother and naturally I know what my own son is like. I should never forgive myself if I didn’t do what he asked. I could manage by selling out those shares.’
George sighed.
‘Look here, Lucilla. I’ll get full information by cable from one of my correspondents out there. We’ll find out just exactly what sort of a jam Victor’s in. But my advice to you is to let him stew in his own juice. He’ll never make good until you do.’
‘You’re so hard, George. The poor boy has always been unlucky—’
George repressed his opinions on that point. Never any good arguing with women.
He merely said:
‘I’ll get Ruth on to it at once. We should hear by tomorrow.