Sparkling Cyanide

Six people sit down to a sumptuous meal at a table laid for seven. In front of the empty place is a sprig of rosemary: rosemary for remembrance. A strange sentiment considering no one is likely to forget the night exactly a year ago, that Rosemary Barton died at exactly the same table, her beautiful face unrecognizable, convulsed with pain and horror. But then Rosemary had always been memorable: she had the ability to arouse strong passions in most people she met. In one such case, strong enough to kill.