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I've travelled the world twice over, Met the famous: saints and sinners, Poets and artists, kings and queens, Old stars and hopeful beginners, I've been where no-one's been before, Learned secrets from writers and cooks All with one library ticket To the wonderful world of books. © JANICE JAMES. SPARKLING CYANIDE It was All Souls' Day, the Day of the Dead. In a luxurious hotel, six people sat down to dinner at a table in an alcove laid for seven. In front of the empty place was a sprig of rosemary—in memory of Rosemary Barton who had suddenly sprawled dead across that same table exactly a year before. They all raised their glasses of champagne and drank—and one of the party slumped in his chair—fighting for his breath. Books by Agatha Christie in the Ulverscroft Large Print Series: LORD EDGWARE DIES THE HOUND OF DEATH . | MURDER IN MESOPOTAMIA t CARDS ON THE TABLE ' | THE THIRTEEN PROBLEMS THE MOVING FINGER A CARIBBEAN MYSTERY A MURDER IS ANNOUNCED POCKET FULL OF RYE AT BERTRAM'S HOTEL THE BODY IN THE LIBRARY CAT AMONG THE PIGEONS THE CLOCKS • CROOKED HOfSE DEAD MAN'S FOLLY DEATH COMES AS THE END ENDLESS NIGHT • EVIL UNDER TlIE SUN MURDER IS EASY • THE PALE HORSE THE MIRROR CRACK'D FROM SIDE TO SIDE MURDER ON THE ORIENT EXPRESS THEY DO IT WITH MIRRORS DESTINATION UNKNOWN THIRD GIRL • TOWARDS ZERO 4.50 FROM PADDINGTON AGATHA' CHRISTIE SPARKLING CYANIDE Complete and Unabridged ^y^ Q ULVERSCROFT Leicester First published in the United States as Remembered Death First published in Great Britain 1945 First Large Print Edition published November 1978 by arrangement with Collins, London & Glasgow and Dodd, Mead & Company Inc. New York Reprinted 1990 by arrangement with Collins, London & Glasgow Copyright © 1944 by the Curtis Publishing Co. Copyright © 1945 by Agatha Christie Mallowan British Library ClP_Data_ Christie, Dame Agatha Sparkling cyanide. Large print ed. (Ulverscroft large print series : mystery) I. Title 823'.9'1F PR6005.H66S/ ISBN 0708902235 P.O. 6ox63002. (CortolAalti) <o<-^lo,0^aria ft/^H 4H? Published by IF . A. Thorpe (Publishing) Ltd. Anstey, Leicestershire Printed and bound in Great Britain by T. J. Press (Padstow) Ltd., Padstow, Cornwall AGATHA CHRISTIE ArATHA CHRISTIE is known throughout the world as the Queen of Crime. Her seventy-six detective novels and books of stories have been translated into every major language, and her sales are calculated in tens of millions. She began writing at the end of the First World War, when she created Hercule Poirot, the little Belgian detective with the egg-shaped head and the passion for order--the most popular sleuth in fiction since Sherlock Holmes. Poirot, fluffy Miss Marple and her other detectives have appeared in the films, radio programmes and stage plays based on her books. Agatha Christie also wrote six romantic novels under the pseudonym Mary Westmacott, several plays and a book of poems, as well, she assisted her archaeologist husband Sir Max Mallowan on many expeditions to the Near East. BOOK I Rosemary "What can I do to drive away remembrances from mine eyes?" SIX PEOPLE were thinking of Rosemary Barton who had died nearly a year ago. . . . 1 IRIS MARLE I » IRIS MARLE was thinking about her sister. Rosemary. For nearly a year she had deliberately tried to put the thought of Rosemary away from her. She hadn't wanted to remember. The blue cyanosed face, the convulsed clutching fingers . . . The contrast between that and the gay lovely Rosemary of the day before . . . Well, perhaps not exactly gay. She had had 'flu--she had been depressed, run down . . . All that had been brought out at the inquest. Iris herself had laid stress on it. It accounted, didn't it, for Rosemary's suicide? Once the inquest was over. Iris had deliberately tried to put the whole thing out of her mind. Of what good was remembrance? Forget it all! Forget the whole horrible business. But now, she realised, she had got to remember. She had got to think back into the past. ... To remember carefully every 3 slight unimportant seeming incident. . . . That extraordinary interview with George last night necessitated remembrance. It had been so unexpected, so frightening. Wait--Aac? it been so unexpected? Hadn't there been indications beforehand? George's growing absorption, his absentmindedness, his unaccountable actions--his--well, queerness was the only word for it! All leading up to that moment last night when he had called her into the study and taken the letters from the drawer of the desk. So now there was no help for it. She had got to think about Rosemary--to remember. Rosemary--her sister. . . . With a shock Iris realised suddenly that it was the first time in her life she had ever thought about Rosemary. Thought about her, that is, objectively, as a person. She had always accepted Rosemary without thinking about her. You didn't think about your mother or your father or your sister or your aunt. They just existed, unquestioned, in those relationships. You didn't think about them as people. You didn't ask yourself, even, what they were like. What had Rosemary been like? That might be very important now. A lot 4 might depend upon it. Iris cast her mind back. Herself and Rosemary as children. . . . Rosemary had been the elder by six years. Glimpses of the past came back—brief flashes—short scenes. Herself as a small child eating bread and milk, and Rosemary, important in pig tails, "doing lessons" at a table. The seaside one summer—Iris envying Rosemary who was a "big girl" and could swim! Rosemary going to boarding schoolcoming home for the holidays. Then she herself at school, and Rosemary being "finished" in Paris. Schoolgirl Rosemary; clumsy, all arms and legs. "Finished" Rosemary coming back from Paris with a strange new frightening elegance, soft voiced, graceful, with a swaying undulating figure, with red gold chestnut hair and big black fringed dark blue eyes. A disturbing beautiful creature—grown up—in a different world! From then on they had seen very little of each other, the six-year gap had been at its widest. Iris had been still at school. Rosemary in the full swing of a "season." Even when Iris came home, the gap remained. Rosemary's life was one of late mornings in bed, fork luncheons with other debutantes, dances most evenings of the week. Iris had been in the schoolroom with Mademoiselle, had gone for walks in the Park, had had supper at nine o'clock and gone to bed at ten. The intercourse between the sisters had been limited to such brief interchanges as: "Hello, Iris, telephone for a taxi for me, there's a lamb, I'm going to be devastatingly late," or "I don't like that new frock. Rosemary. It doesn't suit you. It's all bunch and fuss." Then had come Rosemary's engagement to George Barton. Excitement, shopping, streams of parcels, bridesmaids' dresses. The wedding. Walking up the aisles behind Rosemary, hearing whispers: "What a beautiful bride she makes. ..." Why had Rosemary married George? Even at the time Iris had been vaguely surprised. There had been so many exciting young men, ringing Rosemary up, taking her out. Why choose. George, fifteen years older than herself, kindly, pleasant, but definitely dull? George was well off, but it wasn't money. Rosemary had her own money, a great deal of it. 6 Uncle Paul's money. . . . Iris searched her mind carefully, seeking to differentiate between what she knew now and what she had known then: Uncle Paul, for instance? He wasn't really an uncle, she had always known that. Without ever having been definitely told them she knew certain facts. Paul Bennett had been in love with their mother. She had preferred another and a poorer man. Paul Bennett had taken his defeat in a romantic spirit. He had remained the family friend, adopted an attitude of romantic platonic devotion. He had become Uncle Paul, had stood godfather to the firstborn child. Rosemary. When he died, it was found that he had left his entire fortune to his little god-daughter, then a child of thirteen. Rosemary, besides her beauty, had been an heiress. And she had married nice dull George Barton. Why? Iris had wondered then. She wondered now. Iris didn't believe that Rosemary had ever been in love with him. But she had seemed very happy with him and she had been fond of him--yes, definitely fond of him. Iris had good opportunities for knowing, for a year after the marriage, their 7 mother, lovely delicate Viola Marle, had died, and Iris, a girl of seventeen, had gone to live with Rosemary Barton and her husband. A girl of seventeen. Iris pondered over the picture of herself. What had she been like? What had she felt, thought, seen? She came to the conclusion that that young Iris Marle had been slow of development—unthinking, acquiescing in things as they were. Had she resented, for instance, her mother's earlier absorption in Rosemary? On