Agatha Christie - 1945 - Sparkling Cyanide by Agatha Christie

Author:Agatha Christie [Christie, Agatha]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, General, Mystery & Detective
ISBN: 9780061752636
Google: j-LvpueYYHcC
Amazon: B000FC13WW
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2009-03-17T05:00:00+00:00

BOOK 3

IRIS

“For I thought that the dead had peace

But it is not so . . .”

One

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 good grasp of her subject, and with an excellent delivery.

The kind of woman whose public life was in all the papers, and whose private life was practically nonexistent except as a bland domestic background.

Nevertheless, he thought, such women have a private life. They know despair, and love, and the agonies of jealousy. They can lose control and risk life itself on a passionate gamble.

He said curiously:

“Suppose she ‘done it,’ Kemp?”

“Lady Alexandra? Do you think she did, sir?”

“I’ve no idea. But suppose she did. Or her husband—who comes under the Kidderminster mantle.”

The steady sea-green eyes of Chief Inspector Kemp looked in an untroubled way into Race’s dark ones.

“If either of them did murder, we’ll do our level best to hang him or her. You know that. There’s no fear and no favour for murderers in this country. But we’ll have to be absolutely sure of our evidence—the public prosecutor will insist on that.”

Race nodded.

Then he said, “Let’s have the doings.”

“George Barton died of cyanide poisoning—same thing as his wife a year ago. You said you were actually in the restaurant?”

“Yes. Barton had asked me to join his party. I refused. I didn’t like what he was doing. I protested against it and urged him, if he had doubts about his wife’s death, to go to the proper people—to you.”

Kemp nodded.

“That’s what he ought to have done.”

“Instead he persisted in an idea of his own—setting a trap for the murderer. He wouldn’t tell me what that trap was. I was uneasy about the whole business—so much so that I went to the Luxembourg last night so as to keep an eye on things.

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