“Sparkling Cyanide” by Agatha Christie

Everyone believed Rosemary Barton’s death to be suicide. She was poisoned by cyanide at her own birthday party. She had been depressed, unhappy, deserted by her lover – she’d been actually caught writing a letter to her sister instructing her what to do with her things. Everyone accepted the suicide version.

In a few months her husband George receives a letter telling him his wife was murdered. Then another one. He starts asking himself if it could be true and, if so, who of those nice respectable people at the party could have been the murderer. He invents a plan. A clever plan, he believes it to be. Another party, a year later. The same guests. He’ll set a trap. He’ll find out.

Might have worked, but in the middle of the second party George himself dies, having drunk from a glass of champagne. This time, the police don’t believe in suicide.

In this book there’s no Hercule Poirot or Miss Marple – not even Tommy and Tuppence to solve the mystery. Some Anthony Browne, unheard of – we are told it’s not even his real name – is to be the clever one and solve the whole riddle. It’s not an easy one to solve (Agatha Christie is true to herself). Nearly everyone present at the first party had a distinct, strong motive to wish Rosemary dead, even including her husband (what a shame – granted, she was unfaithful, obtrusive, tactless and arrogant, but she was so beautiful!). But his own death a year after clears him – it’s assumed he’s got too close to the murderer and has been silenced so he won’t tell anyone.

But we know it’s never that simple in Agatha Christie’s books, don’t we? An attempted murder of Iris Marle, Rosemary’s younger sister, follows…

And then, as always, a totally unexpected explanation of the mystery.

“Sparkling Cyanide” is an excellent detective novel – not very long, but I don’t like very long detective novels: they tease my curiosity all the time while I read, and since it can take several days (I have work to do, apart from reading), I arrive at the end completely exasperated from the torture. Agatha Christie is usually merciful to the reader: her books can usually be consumed within an evening or two and still have everything in them to reward the reader for the effort.

She is not so merciful to her characters though. I felt terribly sorry for the beautiful Rosemary (though what a relief her death must have been to Stephen Farraday!) I felt sorrier still for George – a quiet, reliable, kind and honourable man, even if a little dull. And to subject the lovely Iris to the danger – now that’s a little too much! But we have a happy end finally.

I can safely recommend the book to all Agatha Christie’s fans: you won’t be disappointed.