Read Online Sparkling Cyanide by Agatha Christie - Free Book Online
Authors: Agatha Christie
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earlier than the Farradays. Stephen said to Sandra that St Moritz was not very amusing. Should they cut their time short and go back to London? She agreed very amiably. Two weeks after their return, he became Rosemary's lover.
A strange ecstatic hectic period - feverish, unreal. It lasted - how long? Six months at most. Six months during which Stephen went about his work as usual, visited his constituency, asked questions in the House, spoke at various meetings, discussed politics with Sandra and thought of one thing only - Rosemary.
Their secret meetings in the little flat, her beauty, the passionate endearments he showered on her, her clinging passionate embraces. A dream. A sensual infatuated dream.
And after the dream - the awakening. It seemed to happen quite suddenly. Like coming out of a tunnel into the daylight.
One day he was a bemused lover, the next day he was Stephen Farraday again thinking that perhaps he ought not to see Rosemary quite so often. Dash it all, they had been taking some terrific risks. If Sandra was ever to suspect - He stole a look at her down the breakfast table. Thank goodness, she didn't suspect. She hadn't an idea. Yet some of his excuses for absence lately had been pretty thin. Some women would have begun to smell a rat. Thank goodness Sandra wasn't a suspicious woman.
He took a deep breath. Really he and Rosemary had been very reckless! It was a wonder her husband hadn't got wise to things. One of those foolish unsuspecting chaps - years older than she was.
What a lovely creature she was... He thought suddenly of golf links. Fresh air blowing over sand dunes, tramping round with clubs - swinging a driver - a nice clean shot off the tee - a little chip with a mashie.
Men. Men in plus fours smoking pipes. And no women allowed on the links!
He said suddenly to Sandra: “Couldn't we go down to Fairhaven?”
She looked up, surprised.
“Do you want to? Can you get away?”
“Might take the inside of a week. I'd like to get some golf. I feel stale.”
“We could go tomorrow if you like. It will mean putting off the Astleys, and I must cancel that meeting on Tuesday. But what about the Lovats?”
“Oh, let's cancel that too. We can think of some excuse. I want to get away.”
It had been peaceful at Fairhaven with Sandra and the dogs on the terrace and in the old walled garden, and with golf at Sandley Heath, and pottering down to the farm in the evening with MacTavish at his heels.
He had felt rather like someone who is recovering from an illness.
He had frowned when he saw Rosemary's writing. He'd told her not to write. It was too dangerous. Not that Sandra ever asked him who his letters were from, but all the same it was unwise. Servants weren't always to be trusted.
He ripped open the envelope with some annoyance, having taken the letter into his study. Pages. Simply pages. As he read, the old enchantment swept over him again. She adored him, she loved him more than ever, she couldn't endure not seeing him for five whole days. Was he feeling the same? Did the Leopard miss his Ethiopian?
He half-smiled, half-sighed. That ridiculous joke - born when he had bought her a man's spotted dressing-gown that she had admired. The Leopard changing his spots, and he had said, “But you mustn't change your skin, darling.” And after that she had called him Leopard and he had called her his Black Beauty.
Damned silly, really. Yes, damned silly. Rather sweet of her to have written such pages and pages. But still she shouldn't have done it. Dash it all, they'd got to be careful. Sandra wasn't the sort of woman who would stand for anything of that kind. If she once got an inkling - Writing letters was dangerous. He'd told Rosemary so. Why couldn't she wait until he got back to town? Dash it all, he'd see her in another two or three days.
There was another letter on the breakfast table the following morning. This time Stephen swore inwardly. He thought Sandra's eyes rested on it for a
A strange ecstatic hectic period - feverish, unreal. It lasted - how long? Six months at most. Six months during which Stephen went about his work as usual, visited his constituency, asked questions in the House, spoke at various meetings, discussed politics with Sandra and thought of one thing only - Rosemary.
Their secret meetings in the little flat, her beauty, the passionate endearments he showered on her, her clinging passionate embraces. A dream. A sensual infatuated dream.
And after the dream - the awakening. It seemed to happen quite suddenly. Like coming out of a tunnel into the daylight.
One day he was a bemused lover, the next day he was Stephen Farraday again thinking that perhaps he ought not to see Rosemary quite so often. Dash it all, they had been taking some terrific risks. If Sandra was ever to suspect - He stole a look at her down the breakfast table. Thank goodness, she didn't suspect. She hadn't an idea. Yet some of his excuses for absence lately had been pretty thin. Some women would have begun to smell a rat. Thank goodness Sandra wasn't a suspicious woman.
He took a deep breath. Really he and Rosemary had been very reckless! It was a wonder her husband hadn't got wise to things. One of those foolish unsuspecting chaps - years older than she was.
What a lovely creature she was... He thought suddenly of golf links. Fresh air blowing over sand dunes, tramping round with clubs - swinging a driver - a nice clean shot off the tee - a little chip with a mashie.
Men. Men in plus fours smoking pipes. And no women allowed on the links!
He said suddenly to Sandra: “Couldn't we go down to Fairhaven?”
She looked up, surprised.
“Do you want to? Can you get away?”
“Might take the inside of a week. I'd like to get some golf. I feel stale.”
“We could go tomorrow if you like. It will mean putting off the Astleys, and I must cancel that meeting on Tuesday. But what about the Lovats?”
“Oh, let's cancel that too. We can think of some excuse. I want to get away.”
It had been peaceful at Fairhaven with Sandra and the dogs on the terrace and in the old walled garden, and with golf at Sandley Heath, and pottering down to the farm in the evening with MacTavish at his heels.
He had felt rather like someone who is recovering from an illness.
He had frowned when he saw Rosemary's writing. He'd told her not to write. It was too dangerous. Not that Sandra ever asked him who his letters were from, but all the same it was unwise. Servants weren't always to be trusted.
He ripped open the envelope with some annoyance, having taken the letter into his study. Pages. Simply pages. As he read, the old enchantment swept over him again. She adored him, she loved him more than ever, she couldn't endure not seeing him for five whole days. Was he feeling the same? Did the Leopard miss his Ethiopian?
He half-smiled, half-sighed. That ridiculous joke - born when he had bought her a man's spotted dressing-gown that she had admired. The Leopard changing his spots, and he had said, “But you mustn't change your skin, darling.” And after that she had called him Leopard and he had called her his Black Beauty.
Damned silly, really. Yes, damned silly. Rather sweet of her to have written such pages and pages. But still she shouldn't have done it. Dash it all, they'd got to be careful. Sandra wasn't the sort of woman who would stand for anything of that kind. If she once got an inkling - Writing letters was dangerous. He'd told Rosemary so. Why couldn't she wait until he got back to town? Dash it all, he'd see her in another two or three days.
There was another letter on the breakfast table the following morning. This time Stephen swore inwardly. He thought Sandra's eyes rested on it for a
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