from time immemorial. And with it Iris's face adopted that same look of blank inquiry that her great-grandmother might have worn prior to saying a few minutes later, 'Oh, Mr X, this is so sudden!'
'Yes?' She turned that impossibly innocent face towards Anthony.
He was looking at her, his eyes were grave, almost stern.
'Answer me truthfully, Iris. This is my question. Do you trust me?'
It took her aback. It was not what she had expected. He saw that.
'You didn't think that that was what I was going to say? But it is a very important question, Iris. The most important question in the world to me. I ask it again. Do you trust me?'
She hesitated, a bare second, then she answered, her eyes falling: 'Yes.'
'Then I'll go on and ask you something else. Will you come up to London and marry me without telling anybody about it?'
She stared.
'But I couldn't! I simply couldn't.'
'You couldn't marry me?'
'Not in that way.'
'And yet you love me. You do love me, don't you?'
She heard herself saying: 'Yes, I love you, Anthony.'
'But you won't come and marry me at the Church of Saint Elfrida , Bloomsbury , in the parish of which I have resided for some weeks and where I can consequently get married by licence at any time?'
'How can I do a thing like that? George would be terribly hurt and Aunt Lucilla would never forgive me. And anyway I'm not of age. I'm only eighteen.'
'You'd have to lie about your age. I don't know what penalties I'd incur for marrying a minor without her guardian's consent. Who is your guardian, by the way?'
'George. He's my trustee as well.'
'As I was saying, whatever penalties I incurred, they couldn't unmarry us and that is really all I care about.'
Iris shook her head. 'I couldn't do it. I couldn't be so unkind. And in any case, why? What's the point of it?'
Anthony said: 'That's why I asked you first if you could trust me. You'd have to take my reasons on trust. Let's say that it is the simplest way. But never mind.'
Iris said timidly: 'If George only got to know you a little better. Come back now with me. It will be only he and Aunt Lucilla.'
'Are you sure? I thought –' he paused. 'As I struck up the hill I saw a man going up your drive – and the funny thing is that I believe I recognised him as a man I –' he hesitated –'had met.'
'Of course – I forgot – George said he was expecting someone.'
'The man I thought I saw was a man called Race – Colonel Race.'
'Very likely. George knows a Colonel Race. He was coming to dinner on that night when Rosemary –' She stopped, her voice quivering. Anthony gripped her hand.
'Don't go on remembering it, darling. It was beastly, I know.'
She shook her head.
'I can't help it. Anthony –'
'Yes?'
'Did it ever occur to you – did you ever think –' she found a difficulty in putting her meaning into words.
'Did it ever strike you that – that Rosemary might not have committed suicide? That she might have been – killed?'
'Good God, Iris, what put that idea into your head?'
She did not reply – merely persisted: 'That idea never occurred to you?'
'Certainly not. Of course Rosemary committed suicide.'
Iris said nothing.
'Who's been suggesting these things to you?'
For a moment she was tempted to tell him George's incredible story, but she refrained.
She said slowly: 'It was just an idea.'
'Forget it, darling idiot.' He pulled her to her feet and then kissed her cheek lightly. 'Darling morbid idiot. Forget Rosemary. Only think of me.'
Chapter 4
Puffing at his pipe, Colonel Race looked speculatively at George Barton. He had known George Barton ever since the latter's boyhood. Barton's uncle had been a country neighbour of the Races. There was a difference of nearly twenty years between the two men. Race was over sixty, a tall, erect, military figure, with sunburnt face, closely cropped iron-grey hair, and shrewd dark eyes.
There had never been any particular intimacy between the two men – but Barton had remained to Race 'young George' – one of the many vague figures associated with earlier days.
He was thinking at this moment that he had really no idea what 'young George' was like.
On the brief occasions when they had met in later years, they had found little in common. Race was an out- door man, essentially of the Empire-builder type – most of his life had been spent abroad. George was emphatically the city gentleman. Their interests were dissimilar and when they met it was to exchange rather lukewarm reminiscences of 'the old days,' after which an embarrassed silence was apt to occur. Colonel Race was not good at small talk and might indeed have posed as the model of a strong silent man so beloved by an earlier generation of novelists.
Silent at this moment, he was wondering just why 'young George' had been so very insistent on this meeting. Thinking, too, that there was some subtle change in the man since he had last seen him a year ago. George Barton had always struck him as stodgy – cautious, practical, unimaginative.
There was, he thought, something very wrong with the fellow. Jumpy as a cat. He'd already re-lit his cigar three times – and that wasn't like Barton at all.
He took his pipe out of his mouth.
'Well, young George, what's the trouble?'
'You're right, Race, it is trouble. I want your advice badly – and your help.'
The colonel nodded and waited.
'Nearly a year ago you were coming to dine with us in London – at the Luxembourg . You had to go abroad at the last minute.'
Again Race nodded. ' South Africa .'
'At the dinner party my wife died.'
Race stirred uncomfortably in his chair.
'I know. Read about it. Didn't mention it now or offer you sympathy because I didn't want to stir up things again. But I'm sorry, old man, you know that.'
'Oh, yes, yes. That's not the point. My wife was supposed to have committed suicide.'
Race fastened on the key word. His eyebrows rose.
'Supposed?'
'Read these.'
He thrust the two letters into the other's hand. Race's eyebrows rose still higher.
'Anonymous letters?'
'Yes. And I believe them.'
Race shook his head slowly.
'That's a dangerous thing to do. You'd be surprised how many lying spiteful letters get written after any event that's been given any sort of publicity in the Press.'
'I know that. But these weren't written at the time – they weren't written until six months afterwards.'
