'I'm afraid not. There is no political situation involved in this.'
'What a disappointment! All right. I'll play!'
Mrs Rees-Talbot, who was a lively near-brunette of forty-nine, rang the bell and directed her good-looking parlourmaid to bring Colonel Race a whisky and soda.
When Betty Archdale returned, with a salver and the drink upon it, Mrs Rees-Talbot was standing by the far door into her own sitting-room.
'Colonel Race has some questions to ask you,' she said and went out.
Betty turned her impudent eyes on the tall grey-haired soldier with some alarm in their depths. He took the glass from the tray and smiled.
'Seen the papers today?' he asked.
'Yes, sir.' Betty eyed him warily.
'Did you see that Mr George Barton died last night at the Luxembourg Restaurant?'
'Oh, yes, sir.' Betty's eyes sparkled with the pleasure of public disaster. 'Wasn't it dreadful?'
'You were in service there, weren't you?'
'Yes, sir. I left last winter, soon after Mrs Barton died.'
'She died at the Luxembourg , too.'
Betty nodded. 'Sort of funny, that, isn't it, sir?' Race did not think it funny, but he knew what the words were intended to convey. He said gravely:
'I see you've got brains. You can put two and two together.'
Betty clasped her hands and cast discretion to the winds.
'Was he done in, too? The papers didn't say exactly?'
'Why do you say 'too'? Mrs Barton's death was brought in by the coroner's jury as suicide.'
She gave him a quick look out of the corner of her eye. Ever so old, she thought, but he's nice looking. That quiet kind. A real gentleman. Sort of gentleman who'd have given you a gold sovereign when he was young. Funny, I don't even know what a sovereign looks like! What's he after, exactly?
She said demurely: 'Yes, sir.'
'But perhaps you never thought it was suicide?'
'Well, no, sir. I didn't – not really.'
'That's very interesting – very interesting indeed. Why didn't you think so?'
She hesitated, her fingers began pleating her apron.
'Please tell me. It may be very important.'
So nicely he said that, so gravely. Made you feel important and as though you wanted to help him. And anyway she had been smart over Rosemary Barton's death. Never been taken in, she hadn't!
'She was done in, sir, wasn't she?'
'It seems possible that it may be so. But how did you come to think so?'
'Well,' Betty hesitated. 'It was something I heard one day.'
'Yes?'
His tone was quietly encouraging.
'The door wasn't shut or anything. I mean I'd never go and listen at a door. I don't like that sort of thing,' said Betty virtuously. 'But I was going through the hall to the dining-room and carrying the silver on a tray and they were speaking quite loud. Saying something she was – Mrs Barton I mean – about Anthony Browne not being his name. And then he got really nasty, Mr Browne did. I wouldn't have thought he had it in him – so nice-looking and so pleasant spoken as he was as a rule. Said something about carving up her face – ooh! and then he said if she didn't do what he told her he'd bump her off. Just like that! I didn't hear any more because Miss Iris was coming down the stairs, and of course I didn't think very much of it at the time, but after there was all the fuss about her committing suicide at that party and I heard he'd been there at the time – well, it gave me shivers all down my back – it did indeed!'
'But you didn't say anything?'
The girl shook her head.
'I didn't want to get mixed up with the police – and anyway I didn't know anything – not really. And perhaps if I had said anything I'd have been bumped off too. Or taken for a ride as they call it.'
'I see.' Race paused a moment and then said in his gentlest voice: 'So you just wrote an anonymous letter to Mr George Barton?'
She stared at him. He detected no uneasy guilt – nothing but pure astonishment.
'Me? Write to Mr Barton? Never.'
'Now don't be afraid to tell about it. It was really a very good idea. It warned him without your having to give yourself away. It was very clever of you.'
'But I didn't, sir. I never thought of such a thing. You mean write to Mr Barton and say that his wife had been done in? Why, the idea never came into my head!'
She was so earnest in her denial that, in spite of himself, Race was shaken. But if all fitted in so well – it could all be explained so naturally if only the girl had written the letters. But she persisted in her denials, not vehemently nor uneasily, but soberly and without undue protestation. He found himself reluctantly believing her.
He shifted his ground.
'Whom did you tell about this?'
She shook her head.
'I didn't tell anyone. I'll tell you honest, sir, I was scared. I thought I'd better keep my mouth shut. I tried to forget it. I only brought it up once – that was when I gave Mrs Drake my notice – fussing terribly she'd been, more than a girl could stand, and now wanting me to go and bury myself in the dead of the country and not even a bus route! And then she turned nasty about my reference, saying I broke things, and I said sarcastic-like that at any rate I'd find a place where people didn't get bumped off – and I felt scared when I'd said it, but she didn't pay any real attention. Perhaps I ought to have spoken out at the time, but I couldn't really tell. I mean the whole thing might have been a joke. People do say all sorts of things, and Mr Browne was ever so nice really, and quite a one for joking, so I couldn't tell, sir, could I?'
Race agreed that she couldn't. Then he said:
'Mrs Barton spoke of Browne not being his real name. Did she mention what his real name was?'
'Yes, she did. Because he said, 'Forget about Tony' – now what was it? Tony something… Reminded me of the cherry jam cook had been making.'
'Tony Cheriton? Cherable.'
She shook her head.
'More of a fancy name than that. Began with an M. And sounded foreign.'
'Don't worry. It will come back to you, perhaps. If so, let me know. Here is my card with my address. If you remember the name write to me to that address.'
He handed her the card and a treasury note.
'I will, sir, thank you, sir.'
A gentleman, she thought, as she ran downstairs. A pound note, not ten shillings. It must have been nice when there were gold sovereigns…
Mary Rees-Talbot came back into the room.
'Well, successful?'
'Yes, but there's still one snag to surmount. Can your ingenuity help me? Can you think of a name that would remind you of cherry jam?'
'What an extraordinary proposition.'
'Think Mary. I'm not a domestic man. Concentrate on jam making, cherry jam in particular.'
'One doesn't often make cherry jam.'
'Why not?'
'Well, it's inclined to go very sugary – unless you use cooking cherries, Morello cherries.'
'That's it – I bet that's it. Good-bye, Mary, I'm endlessly grateful. Do you mind if I ring that bell so that the girl comes and shows me out?'
Mrs Rees-Talbot called after him as he hurried out of the room:
