"But you have come to work as usual?"
"Of course." She looked surprised - almost shocked. "It is my job. There is so much to clear up and arrange."
"George always told me how much he relied upon you," said Race gently.
She turned away. He saw her swallow quickly and blink her eyes. Her absence of any display of emotion almost convinced him of her entire innocence. Almost, but not quite. He had met women who were good actresses before now, women whose reddened eyelids and the black circles underneath whose eyes had been due to art and not to natural causes.
Reserving judgment, he said to himself: "At any rate she's a cool customer."
Ruth turned back to the desk and in answer to his last remark she said quietly:
"I was with him for many years - it will be eight years next April - and I knew his ways, and I think he - trusted me."
"I'm sure of that."
He went on: "It is nearly lunch-time. I hoped you would come out and lunch quietly with me somewhere? There is a good deal I would like to say to you."
"Thank you. I should like to very much."
He took her to a small restaurant that he knew of, where the tables were set far apart and where a quiet conversation was possible.
He ordered, and when the waiter had gone, looked across the table at his companion.
She was a good-looking girl, he decided, with her sleek dark head and her firm mouth and chin.
He talked a little on desultory topics until the food was brought, and she followed his lead, showing herself intelligent and sensible.
Presently, after a pause, she said: "You want to talk to me about last night? Please don't hesitate to do so. The whole thing is so incredible that I would like to talk about it. Except that it happened and I saw it happen, I would not have believed it."
"You've seen Chief Inspector Kemp, of course?"
"Yes, last night. He seems intelligent and experienced." She paused. "Was it really murder, Colonel Race?"
"Did Kemp tell you so?"
"He didn't volunteer any information, but his questions made it plain enough what he had in mind."
"Your opinion as to whether or not it was suicide should be as good as anyone's, Miss Lessing. You knew Barton well and you were with him most of yesterday, I imagine. How did he seem? Much as usual? Or was he disturbed - upset - excited?"
She hesitated.
"It's difficult. He was upset and disturbed - but then there was a reason for that."
She explained the situation that had arisen in regard to Victor Drake and gave a brief sketch of that young man's career.
"H'm," said Race. "The inevitable black sheep. And Barton was upset about him?"
Ruth said slowly: "It's difficult to explain. I knew Mr Barton so well, you see. He was annoyed and bothered about the business - and I gather Mrs Drake had been very tearful and upset, as she always was on these occasions - so of course he wanted to straighten it all out. But I had the impression -"
"Yes, Miss Lessing? I'm sure your impressions will be accurate."
"Well, then, I fancied that his annoyance was not quite the usual annoyance, if I may put it like that. Because we had had this same business before, in one form or another. Last year Victor Drake was in this country and in trouble, and we had to ship him off to South America, and only last June he cabled home for money. So you see I was familiar with Mr Barton's reactions. And it seemed to me this time that his annoyance was principally at the cable having arrived just at this moment when he was entirely preoccupied with the arrangements for the party he was giving. He seemed so taken up by the preparations for it that he grudged any other preoccupation arising."
"Did it strike you that there was anything odd about this party of his, Miss Lessing?"
"Yes, it did. Mr Barton was really most peculiar about it. He was excited - like a child might have been."
"Did it occur to you that there might have been a special purpose for such a party?"
"You mean that it was a replica of the party a year ago when Mrs Barton committed suicide?"
"Yes."
"Frankly, I thought it a most extraordinary idea."
"But George didn't volunteer any explanation - or confide in you in any way?"
She shook her head.
"Tell me, Miss Lessing, has there ever been any doubt in your mind as to Mrs Barton's having committed suicide?"
She looked astonished. "Oh, no."
"George Barton didn't tell you that he believed his wife had been murdered?"
She stared at him.
"George believed that?"
"I see that is news to you. Yes, Miss Lessing, George had received anonymous letters stating that his wife had not committed suicide but had been killed."
"So that is why he became so odd this summer? I couldn't think what was the matter with him."
"You knew nothing about these anonymous letters?"
"Nothing. Were there many of them?"
"He showed me two."
"And I knew nothing about them!"
There was a note of bitter hurt in her voice. He watched her for a moment or two, then he said:
"Well, Miss Lessing, what do you say? Is it possible, in your opinion, for George to have committed suicide?"
She shook her head.
"No - oh, no."
"But you said he was excited - upset?"
"Yes, but he had been like that for some time. I see why now. And I see why he was so excited about last night's party. He must have had some special idea in his head - he must have hoped that by reproducing the conditions, he would gain some additional knowledge - poor George, he must have been so muddled about it all."
"And what about Rosemary Barton, Miss Lessing? Do you still think her death was suicide?"
She frowned.
"I've never dreamt of it being anything else. It seemed so natural."
"Depression after influenza?"
"Well, rather more than that, perhaps. She was definitely very unhappy. One could see that."
"And guess the cause?"
"Well - yes. At least I did. Of course I may have been wrong. But women like Mrs Barton are very transparent - they don't trouble to hide their feelings. Mercifully I don't think Mr Barton knew anything... Oh, yes, she was very unhappy. And I know she had a bad headache that night besides being run down with 'flu."
"How did you know she had a headache?"
"I heard her telling Lady Alexandra so - in the cloakroom when we were taking off our wraps. She was wishing she had a Cachet Faivre and luckily Lady Alexandra had one with her and gave it to her."
Colonel Race's hand stopped with a glass in mid air.
"And she took it?"
"Yes."
He put his glass down untasted and looked across the table. The girl looked placid and unaware of any significance in what she had said. But it was significant. It meant that Sandra who, from her position at table, would have had the most difficulty in putting anything unseen in Rosemary's glass, had had another opportunity of administering the poison. She could have given it to Rosemary in a cachet. Ordinarily a cachet would take only a few minutes to dissolve, but possible this had been a special kind of cachet, it might have had a lining of gelatine or some other substance. Or Rosemary might possibly not have swallowed it then but later.
He said abruptly: "Did you see her take it?"
"I beg your pardon?"
He saw by her puzzled face that her mind had gone on elsewhere.
"Did you see Rosemary Barton swallow that cachet?"
Ruth looked a little startled.
"I - well, no, I didn't actually see her. She just thanked Lady Alexandra."
So Rosemary might have slipped the cachet in her bag and then, during the cabaret, with a headache increasing, she might have dropped it into her champagne glass and let it dissolve. Assumption - pure assumption - but a possibility.
Ruth said: "Why do you ask me that?"
Her eyes were suddenly alert, full of questions. He watched, so it seemed to him, her intelligence working.
Then she said: "Oh, I see. I see why George took that house down there near the Farradays. And I see why he didn't tell me about those letters. It seemed to me so extraordinary that he hadn't. But of course if he believed them, it meant that one of us, one of those five people round the table must have killed her. It might - it might even have been me!"
Race said in a very gentle voice: "Had you any reason for killing Rosemary Barton?"
He thought at first that she hadn't heard the question. She sat so very still with her eyes cast down.
But suddenly with a sigh, she raised them and looked straight at him.
"It is not the sort of thing one cares to talk about," she said. "But I think you had better know. I was in love with George Barton. I was in love with him before he even met Rosemary. I don't think he ever knew - certainly he didn't care. He was fond of me - very fond of me - but I suppose never in that way. And yet I used to think that I would have made him a good wife - that I could have made him happy. He loved Rosemary, but he wasn't happy with her."
Race said gently: "And you disliked Rosemary?"
"Yes I did. Oh! She was very lovely and very attractive and could be very charming in her way. She never bothered to be charming to me! I disliked her a good deal. I was shocked when she died - and at the way she died, but I wasn't really sorry. I'm afraid I was rather glad."
She paused.
"Please, shall we talk about something else?"
Race responded quickly: "I'd like you to tell me exactly, in detail, everything you can remember about yesterday - from the morning onwards - especially anything George did or said."
Ruth replied promptly, going over the events of the morning - George's annoyance over Victor's importunity, her own telephone calls to South America and the arrangements made and George's pleasure when the matter was settled. She then described her arrival at the Luxembourg and George's flurried excited bearing as host. She carried her narrative up to the final moment of the tragedy. Her account tallied in every respect with those he had already heard.
With a worried frown, Ruth voiced his own perplexity.
"It wasn't suicide - I'm sure it wasn't suicide - but how can it have been murder? I mean, how can it have been done? The answer is, it couldn't, not by one of us! Then was it someone who slipped the poison into George's glass while we were away dancing? But if so, who could it have been? It doesn't seem to make sense."
"The evidence is that no one went near the table while you were dancing."
"Then it really doesn't make sense! Cyanide doesn't get into a glass by itself!"
"Have you absolutely no idea - no suspicion, even, who might have put the cyanide in the glass? Think back over last night. Is there nothing, no small incident, that awakens your suspicions in any degree, however small?"
He saw her face change, saw for a moment uncertainty come into her eyes. There was a tiny, almost infinitesimal pause before she answered "Nothing."
But there had been something. He was sure of that. Something she had seen or heard or noticed that, for some reason or other, she had decided not to tell.
He did not press her. He knew that with a girl of Ruth's type that would be no good. If, for some reason, she had made up her mind to keep silence, she would not, he felt sure, change her mind.
But there had been something. That knowledge cheered him and gave him fresh assurance. It was the first sign of a crevice in the blank wall that confronted him.
He took leave of Ruth after lunch and drove to Elvaston Square thinking of the woman he had just left.
Was it possible that Ruth Lessing was guilty? On the whole, he was prepossessed in her favour. She had seemed entirely frank and straightforward.
Was she capable of murder? Most people were, if you came to it. Capable not of murder in general, but of one particular individual murder. That was what made it so difficult to weed anyone out. There was a certain quality of ruthlessness about that young woman. And she had a motive - or rather a choice of motives. By removing Rosemary she had a very good chance of becoming Mrs George Barton. Whether it was a question of marrying a rich man, or of marrying the man she had loved, the removal of Rosemary was the first essential.
Race was inclined to think that marrying a rich man was not enough. Ruth Lessing was too cool-headed and cautious to risk her neck for mere comfortable living as a rich man's wife. Love? Perhaps. For all her cool and detached manner, he suspected her of being one of those women who can be kindled to unlikely passion by one particular man.
Given love of George and hate of Rosemary, she might have coolly planned and executed Rosemary's death. The fact that it had gone off without a hitch, and that suicide had been universally accepted without demur, proved her inherent capability.
And then George had received anonymous letters (From whom? Why? That was the teasing vexing problem that never ceased to nag at him) and had grown suspicious. He had planned a trap. And Ruth had silenced him. No, that wasn't right. That didn't ring true. That spelt panic - and Ruth Lessing was not the kind of woman who panicked. She had better brains than George and could have avoided any trap that he was likely to set with the greatest of ease.
It looked as though Ruth didn't add up after all.
Chapter 6
Lucilla Drake was thrilled and delighted to see Colonel Race.
The blinds were all down and Lucilla came into the room draped in black and with a handkerchief to her eyes and explained, as she advanced a tremulous hand to meet his, how of course she couldn't have seen anyone - anyone at all - except such an old friend of dear, dear George's - and it was so dreadful to have no man in the house! Really without a man in the house one didn't know how to tackle anything. Just herself, a poor lonely widow, and Iris, just a helpless young girl, and George had always looked after everything. So kind of dear Colonel Race and really she was so grateful - no idea what they ought to do. Of course Miss Lessing would attend to all business matters - and the funeral to arrange for - but how about the inquest? and so dreadful having the police - actually in the house - plain clothes, of course, and really very considerate. But she was so bewildered and the whole thing was such an absolute tragedy and didn't Colonel Race think it must be all due to suggestion - that was what the psychoanalysts said, wasn't it, that everything is suggestion? And poor George at that horrid place, the Luxembourg, and practically the same party and remembering how poor Rosemary had died there - and it must have come over him quite suddenly, only if he'd listened to what she, Lucilla, had said, and taken that excellent tonic of dear Dr Gaskell's - run down, all the summer - yes, thoroughly run down.
