"The Mysterious Affair at Styles"
Contents
CHAPTER I. I GO TO STYLES
CHAPTER II. THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY
CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT OF THE TRAGEDY
CHAPTER IV. POIROT INVESTIGATES
CHAPTER V. "IT ISN'T STRYCHNINE, IS IT?"
CHAPTER VI. THE INQUEST
CHAPTER VII. POIROT PAYS HIS DEBTS
CHAPTER VIII. FRESH SUSPICIONS
CHAPTER IX. DR. BAUERSTEIN
CHAPTER X. THE ARREST
CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION
CHAPTER XII. THE LAST LINK
CHAPTER XIII. POIROT EXPLAINS
CHAPTER I. I GO TO STYLES
The intense interest aroused in the public by
what was known at the time as "The Styles Case" has
now somewhat subsided. Nevertheless, in view of the
world-wide notoriety which attended it, I have been
asked, both by my friend Poirot and the family
themselves, to write an account of the whole story.
This, we trust, will effectually silence the
sensational rumours which still persist.
I will therefore briefly set down the
circumstances which led to my being connected with
the affair.
I had been invalided home from the Front; and,
after spending some months in a rather depressing
Convalescent Home, was given a month's sick leave.
Having no near relations or friends, I was trying to
make up my mind what to do, when I ran across John
Cavendish. I had seen very little of him for some
years. Indeed, I had never known him particularly
well. He was a good fifteen years my senior, for one
thing, though he hardly looked his forty-five years.
As a boy, though, I had often stayed at Styles, his
mother's place in Essex.
We had a good yarn about old times, and it ended
in his inviting me down to Styles to spend my leave
there.
"The mater will be delighted to see you
again—after all those years," he added.
"Your mother keeps well?" I asked.
"Oh, yes. I suppose you know that she has married
again?"
I am afraid I showed my surprise rather plainly.
Mrs. Cavendish, who had married John's father when
he was a widower with two sons, had been a handsome
woman of middle-age as I remembered her. She
certainly could not be a day less than seventy now.
I recalled her as an energetic, autocratic
personality, somewhat inclined to charitable and
social notoriety, with a fondness for opening
bazaars and playing the Lady Bountiful. She was a
most generous woman, and possessed a considerable
fortune of her own.
Their country-place, Styles Court, had been
purchased by Mr. Cavendish early in their married
life. He had been completely under his wife's
ascendancy, so much so that, on dying, he left the
place to her for her lifetime, as well as the larger
part of his income; an arrangement that was
distinctly unfair to his two sons. Their
step-mother, however, had always been most generous
to them; indeed, they were so young at the time of
their father's remarriage that they always thought
of her as their own mother.
Lawrence, the younger, had been a delicate youth.
He had qualified as a doctor but early relinquished
the profession of medicine, and lived at home while
pursuing literary ambitions; though his verses never
had any marked success.
John practiced for some time as a barrister, but
had finally settled down to the more congenial life
of a country squire. He had married two years ago,
and had taken his wife to live at Styles, though I
entertained a shrewd suspicion that he would have
preferred his mother to increase his allowance,
which would have enabled him to have a home of his
own. Mrs. Cavendish, however, was a lady who liked
to make her own plans, and expected other people to
fall in with them, and in this case she certainly
had the whip hand, namely: the purse strings.
John noticed my surprise at the news of his
mother's remarriage and smiled rather ruefully.
"Rotten little bounder too!" he said savagely. "I
can tell you, Hastings, it's making life jolly
difficult for us. As for Evie—you remember Evie?"
"No."
"Oh, I suppose she was after your time. She's the
mater's factotum, companion, Jack of all trades! A
great sport—old Evie! Not precisely young and
beautiful, but as game as they make them."
"You were going to say——?"
"Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on
the pretext of being a second cousin or something of
Evie's, though she didn't seem particularly keen to
acknowledge the relationship. The fellow is an
absolute outsider, anyone can see that. He's got a
great black beard, and wears patent leather boots in
all weathers! But the mater cottoned to him at once,
took him on as secretary—you know how she's always
running a hundred societies?"
I nodded.
"Well, of course the war has turned the hundreds
into thousands. No doubt the fellow was very useful
to her. But you could have knocked us all down with
a feather when, three months ago, she suddenly
announced that she and Alfred were engaged! The
fellow must be at least twenty years younger than
she is! It's simply bare-faced fortune hunting; but
there you are—she is her own mistress, and she's
married him."
"It must be a difficult situation for you all."
"Difficult! It's damnable!"
Thus it came about that, three days later, I
descended from the train at Styles St. Mary, an
absurd little station, with no apparent reason for
existence, perched up in the midst of green fields
and country lanes. John Cavendish was waiting on the
platform, and piloted me out to the car.
"Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see," he
remarked. "Mainly owing to the mater's activities."
The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about
two miles from the little station, and Styles Court
lay a mile the other side of it. It was a still,
warm day in early July. As one looked out over the
flat Essex country, lying so green and peaceful
under the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible
to believe that, not so very far away, a great war
was running its appointed course. I felt I had
suddenly strayed into another world. As we turned in
at the lodge gates, John said:
"I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet down here,
Hastings."
"My dear fellow, that's just what I want."
"Oh, it's pleasant enough if you want to lead the
idle life. I drill with the volunteers twice a week,
and lend a hand at the farms. My wife works
regularly 'on the land'. She is up at five every
morning to milk, and keeps at it steadily until
lunchtime. It's a jolly good life taking it all
round—if it weren't for that fellow Alfred
Inglethorp!" He checked the car suddenly, and
glanced at his watch. "I wonder if we've time to
pick up Cynthia. No, she'll have started from the
hospital by now."
"Cynthia! That's not your wife?"
"No, Cynthia is a protegee of my mother's, the
daughter of an old schoolfellow of hers, who married
a rascally solicitor. He came a cropper, and the
girl was left an orphan and penniless. My mother
came to the rescue, and Cynthia has been with us
nearly two years now. She works in the Red Cross
Hospital at Tadminster, seven miles away."
As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front
of the fine old house. A lady in a stout tweed
skirt, who was bending over a flower bed,
straightened herself at our approach.
"Hullo, Evie, here's our wounded hero! Mr.
Hastings—Miss Howard."
Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost
painful, grip. I had an impression of very blue eyes
in a sunburnt face. She was a pleasant-looking woman
of about forty, with a deep voice, almost manly in
its stentorian tones, and had a large sensible
square body, with feet to match—these last encased
in good thick boots. Her conversation, I soon found,
was couched in the telegraphic style.
"Weeds grow like house afire. Can't keep even
with 'em. Shall press you in. Better be careful."
"I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to make
myself useful," I responded.
"Don't say it. Never does. Wish you hadn't
later."
"You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing.
"Where's tea to-day—inside or out?"
"Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the
house."
"Come on then, you've done enough gardening for
to-day. 'The labourer is worthy of his hire', you
know. Come and be refreshed."
"Well," said Miss Howard, drawing off her
gardening gloves, "I'm inclined to agree with you."
She led the way round the house to where tea was
spread under the shade of a large sycamore.
A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and
came a few steps to meet us.
"My wife, Hastings," said John.
I shall never forget my first sight of Mary
Cavendish. Her tall, slender form, outlined against
the bright light; the vivid sense of slumbering fire
that seemed to find expression only in those
wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes,
different from any other woman's that I have ever
known; the intense power of stillness she possessed,
which nevertheless conveyed the impression of a wild
untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilised body—all
these things are burnt into my memory. I shall never
forget them.
She greeted me with a few words of pleasant
welcome in a low clear voice, and I sank into a
basket chair feeling distinctly glad that I had
accepted John's invitation. Mrs. Cavendish gave me
some tea, and her few quiet remarks heightened my
first impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating
woman. An appreciative listener is always
stimulating, and I described, in a humorous manner,
certain incidents of my Convalescent Home, in a way
which, I flatter myself, greatly amused my hostess.
John, of course, good fellow though he is, could
hardly be called a brilliant conversationalist.
At that moment a well remembered voice floated
through the open French window near at hand:
"Then you'll write to the Princess after tea,
Alfred? I'll write to Lady Tadminster for the second
day, myself. Or shall we wait until we hear from the
Princess? In case of a refusal, Lady Tadminster
might open it the first day, and Mrs. Crosbie the
second. Then there's the Duchess—about the school
fete."
There was the murmur of a man's voice, and then
Mrs. Inglethorp's rose in reply:
"Yes, certainly. After tea will do quite well.
You are so thoughtful, Alfred dear."
The French window swung open a little wider, and
a handsome white-haired old lady, with a somewhat
masterful cast of features, stepped out of it on to
the lawn. A man followed her, a suggestion of
deference in his manner.
Mrs. Inglethorp greeted me with effusion.
"Why, if it isn't too delightful to see you
again, Mr. Hastings, after all these years. Alfred,
darling, Mr. Hastings—my husband."
I looked with some curiosity at "Alfred darling".
He certainly struck a rather alien note. I did not
wonder at John objecting to his beard. It was one of
the longest and blackest I have ever seen. He wore
gold-rimmed pince-nez, and had a curious impassivity
of feature. It struck me that he might look natural
on a stage, but was strangely out of place in real
life. His voice was rather deep and unctuous. He
placed a wooden hand in mine and said:
"This is a pleasure, Mr. Hastings." Then, turning
to his wife: "Emily dearest, I think that cushion is
a little damp."
She beamed fondly on him, as he substituted
another with every demonstration of the tenderest
care. Strange infatuation of an otherwise sensible
woman!
With the presence of Mr. Inglethorp, a sense of
constraint and veiled hostility seemed to settle
down upon the company. Miss Howard, in particular,
took no pains to conceal her feelings. Mrs.
Inglethorp, however, seemed to notice nothing
unusual. Her volubility, which I remembered of old,
had lost nothing in the intervening years, and she
poured out a steady flood of conversation, mainly on
the subject of the forthcoming bazaar which she was
organizing and which was to take place shortly.
Occasionally she referred to her husband over a
question of days or dates. His watchful and
attentive manner never varied. From the very first I
took a firm and rooted dislike to him, and I flatter
myself that my first judgments are usually fairly
shrewd.
Presently Mrs. Inglethorp turned to give some
instructions about letters to Evelyn Howard, and her
husband addressed me in his painstaking voice:
"Is soldiering your regular profession, Mr.
Hastings?"
"No, before the war I was in Lloyd's."
"And you will return there after it is over?"
"Perhaps. Either that or a fresh start
altogether."
Mary Cavendish leant forward.
"What would you really choose as a profession, if
you could just consult your inclination?"
"Well, that depends."
"No secret hobby?" she asked. "Tell me—you're
drawn to something? Every one is—usually something
absurd."
"You'll laugh at me."
She smiled.
"Perhaps."
"Well, I've always had a secret hankering to be a
detective!"
"The real thing—Scotland Yard? Or Sherlock
Holmes?"
"Oh, Sherlock Holmes by all means. But really,
seriously, I am awfully drawn to it. I came across a
man in Belgium once, a very famous detective, and he
quite inflamed me. He was a marvellous little
fellow. He used to say that all good detective work
was a mere matter of method. My system is based on
his—though of course I have progressed rather
further. He was a funny little man, a great dandy,
but wonderfully clever."
"Like a good detective story myself," remarked
Miss Howard. "Lots of nonsense written, though.
Criminal discovered in last chapter. Every one
dumbfounded. Real crime—you'd know at once."
"There have been a great number of undiscovered
crimes," I argued.
"Don't mean the police, but the people that are
right in it. The family. You couldn't really
hoodwink them. They'd know."
"Then," I said, much amused, "you think that if
you were mixed up in a crime, say a murder, you'd be
able to spot the murderer right off?"
"Of course I should. Mightn't be able to prove it
to a pack of lawyers. But I'm certain I'd know. I'd
feel it in my fingertips if he came near me."
"It might be a 'she,'" I suggested.
"Might. But murder's a violent crime. Associate
it more with a man."
"Not in a case of poisoning." Mrs. Cavendish's
clear voice startled me. "Dr. Bauerstein was saying
yesterday that, owing to the general ignorance of
the more uncommon poisons among the medical
profession, there were probably countless cases of
poisoning quite unsuspected."
"Why, Mary, what a gruesome conversation!" cried
Mrs. Inglethorp. "It makes me feel as if a goose
were walking over my grave. Oh, there's Cynthia!"
A young girl in V. A. D. uniform ran lightly
across the lawn.
"Why, Cynthia, you are late to-day. This is Mr.
Hastings—Miss Murdoch."
Cynthia Murdoch was a fresh-looking young
creature, full of life and vigour. She tossed off
her little V. A. D. cap, and I admired the great
loose waves of her auburn hair, and the smallness
and whiteness of the hand she held out to claim her
tea. With dark eyes and eyelashes she would have
been a beauty.
She flung herself down on the ground beside John,
and as I handed her a plate of sandwiches she smiled
up at me.
"Sit down here on the grass, do. It's ever so
much nicer."
I dropped down obediently.
"You work at Tadminster, don't you, Miss
Murdoch?"
She nodded.
"For my sins."
"Do they bully you, then?" I asked, smiling.
"I should like to see them!" cried Cynthia with
dignity.
"I have got a cousin who is nursing," I remarked.
"And she is terrified of 'Sisters'."
"I don't wonder. Sisters are, you know,
Mr. Hastings. They simp—ly are! You've no
idea! But I'm not a nurse, thank heaven, I work in
the dispensary."
"How many people do you poison?" I asked,
smiling.
Cynthia smiled too.
"Oh, hundreds!" she said.
"Cynthia," called Mrs. Inglethorp, "do you think
you could write a few notes for me?"
"Certainly, Aunt Emily."
She jumped up promptly, and something in her
manner reminded me that her position was a dependent
one, and that Mrs. Inglethorp, kind as she might be
in the main, did not allow her to forget it.
My hostess turned to me.
"John will show you your room. Supper is at
half-past seven. We have given up late dinner for
some time now. Lady Tadminster, our Member's
wife—she was the late Lord Abbotsbury's
daughter—does the same. She agrees with me that one
must set an example of economy. We are quite a war
household; nothing is wasted here—every scrap of
waste paper, even, is saved and sent away in sacks."
I expressed my appreciation, and John took me
into the house and up the broad staircase, which
forked right and left half-way to different wings of
the building. My room was in the left wing, and
looked out over the park.
John left me, and a few minutes later I saw him
from my window walking slowly across the grass arm
in arm with Cynthia Murdoch. I heard Mrs. Inglethorp
call "Cynthia" impatiently, and the girl started and
ran back to the house. At the same moment, a man
stepped out from the shadow of a tree and walked
slowly in the same direction. He looked about forty,
very dark with a melancholy clean-shaven face. Some
violent emotion seemed to be mastering him. He
looked up at my window as he passed, and I
recognized him, though he had changed much in the
fifteen years that had elapsed since we last met. It
was John's younger brother, Lawrence Cavendish. I
wondered what it was that had brought that singular
expression to his face.
Then I dismissed him from my mind, and returned
to the contemplation of my own affairs.
The evening passed pleasantly enough; and I
dreamed that night of that enigmatical woman, Mary
Cavendish.
The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and I
was full of the anticipation of a delightful visit.
I did not see Mrs. Cavendish until lunch-time,
when she volunteered to take me for a walk, and we
spent a charming afternoon roaming in the woods,
returning to the house about five.
As we entered the large hall, John beckoned us
both into the smoking-room. I saw at once by his
face that something disturbing had occurred. We
followed him in, and he shut the door after us.
"Look here, Mary, there's the deuce of a mess.
Evie's had a row with Alfred Inglethorp, and she's
off."
"Evie? Off?"
John nodded gloomily.
"Yes; you see she went to the mater, and—Oh,
here's Evie herself."
Miss Howard entered. Her lips were set grimly
together, and she carried a small suit-case. She
looked excited and determined, and slightly on the
defensive.
"At any rate," she burst out, "I've spoken my
mind!"
"My dear Evelyn," cried Mrs. Cavendish, "this
can't be true!"
Miss Howard nodded grimly.
"True enough! Afraid I said some things to Emily
she won't forget or forgive in a hurry. Don't mind
if they've only sunk in a bit. Probably water off a
duck's back, though. I said right out: 'You're an
old woman, Emily, and there's no fool like an old
fool. The man's twenty years younger than you, and
don't you fool yourself as to what he married you
for. Money! Well, don't let him have too much of it.
Farmer Raikes has got a very pretty young wife. Just
ask your Alfred how much time he spends over there.'
She was very angry. Natural! I went on, 'I'm going
to warn you, whether you like it or not. That man
would as soon murder you in your bed as look at you.
He's a bad lot. You can say what you like to me, but
remember what I've told you. He's a bad lot!'"
"What did she say?"
Miss Howard made an extremely expressive grimace.
"'Darling Alfred'—'dearest Alfred'—'wicked
calumnies' —'wicked lies'—'wicked woman'—to accuse
her 'dear husband'! The sooner I left her house the
better. So I'm off."
"But not now?"
"This minute!"
For a moment we sat and stared at her. Finally
John Cavendish, finding his persuasions of no avail,
went off to look up the trains. His wife followed
him, murmuring something about persuading Mrs.
Inglethorp to think better of it.
As she left the room, Miss Howard's face changed.
She leant towards me eagerly.
"Mr. Hastings, you're honest. I can trust you?"
I was a little startled. She laid her hand on my
arm, and sank her voice to a whisper.
"Look after her, Mr. Hastings. My poor Emily.
They're a lot of sharks—all of them. Oh, I know what
I'm talking about. There isn't one of them that's
not hard up and trying to get money out of her. I've
protected her as much as I could. Now I'm out of the
way, they'll impose upon her."
"Of course, Miss Howard," I said, "I'll do
everything I can, but I'm sure you're excited and
overwrought."
She interrupted me by slowly shaking her
forefinger.
"Young man, trust me. I've lived in the world
rather longer than you have. All I ask you is to
keep your eyes open. You'll see what I mean."
The throb of the motor came through the open
window, and Miss Howard rose and moved to the door.
John's voice sounded outside. With her hand on the
handle, she turned her head over her shoulder, and
beckoned to me.
"Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil—her
husband!"
There was no time for more. Miss Howard was
swallowed up in an eager chorus of protests and
good-byes. The Inglethorps did not appear.
As the motor drove away, Mrs. Cavendish suddenly
detached herself from the group, and moved across
the drive to the lawn to meet a tall bearded man who
had been evidently making for the house. The colour
rose in her cheeks as she held out her hand to him.
"Who is that?" I asked sharply, for instinctively
I distrusted the man.
"That's Dr. Bauerstein," said John shortly.
"And who is Dr. Bauerstein?"
"He's staying in the village doing a rest cure,
after a bad nervous breakdown. He's a London
specialist; a very clever man—one of the greatest
living experts on poisons, I believe."
"And he's a great friend of Mary's," put in
Cynthia, the irrepressible.
John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject.
"Come for a stroll, Hastings. This has been a
most rotten business. She always had a rough tongue,
but there is no stauncher friend in England than
Evelyn Howard."
He took the path through the plantation, and we
walked down to the village through the woods which
bordered one side of the estate.
As we passed through one of the gates on our way
home again, a pretty young woman of gipsy type
coming in the opposite direction bowed and smiled.
"That's a pretty girl," I remarked
appreciatively.
John's face hardened.
"That is Mrs. Raikes."
"The one that Miss Howard——"
"Exactly," said John, with rather unnecessary
abruptness.
I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big
house, and that vivid wicked little face that had
just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of
foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside.
"Styles is really a glorious old place," I said
to John.
He nodded rather gloomily.
"Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some
day—should be mine now by rights, if my father had
only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so
damned hard up as I am now."
"Hard up, are you?"
"My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that
I'm at my wit's end for money."
"Couldn't your brother help you?"
"Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever
had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No,
we're an impecunious lot. My mother's always been
awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up to now.
Since her marriage, of course——" he broke off,
frowning.
For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn
Howard, something indefinable had gone from the
atmosphere. Her presence had spelt security. Now
that security was removed—and the air seemed rife
with suspicion. The sinister face of Dr. Bauerstein
recurred to me unpleasantly. A vague suspicion of
every one and everything filled my mind. Just for a
moment I had a premonition of approaching evil.
CHAPTER II. THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY
I had arrived at Styles on the 5th of July. I
come now to the events of the 16th and 17th of that
month. For the convenience of the reader I will
recapitulate the incidents of those days in as exact
a manner as possible. They were elicited
subsequently at the trial by a process of long and
tedious cross-examinations.
I received a letter from Evelyn Howard a couple
of days after her departure, telling me she was
working as a nurse at the big hospital in
Middlingham, a manufacturing town some fifteen miles
away, and begging me to let her know if Mrs.
Inglethorp should show any wish to be reconciled.
The only fly in the ointment of my peaceful days
was Mrs. Cavendish's extraordinary, and, for my
part, unaccountable preference for the society of
Dr. Bauerstein. What she saw in the man I cannot
imagine, but she was always asking him up to the
house, and often went off for long expeditions with
him. I must confess that I was quite unable to see
his attraction.
The 16th of July fell on a Monday. It was a day
of turmoil. The famous bazaar had taken place on
Saturday, and an entertainment, in connection with
the same charity, at which Mrs. Inglethorp was to
recite a War poem, was to be held that night. We
were all busy during the morning arranging and
decorating the Hall in the village where it was to
take place. We had a late luncheon and spent the
afternoon resting in the garden. I noticed that
John's manner was somewhat unusual. He seemed very
excited and restless.
After tea, Mrs. Inglethorp went to lie down to
rest before her efforts in the evening and I
challenged Mary Cavendish to a single at tennis.
About a quarter to seven, Mrs. Inglethorp called
us that we should be late as supper was early that
night. We had rather a scramble to get ready in
time; and before the meal was over the motor was
waiting at the door.
The entertainment was a great success, Mrs.
Inglethorp's recitation receiving tremendous
applause. There were also some tableaux in which
Cynthia took part. She did not return with us,
having been asked to a supper party, and to remain
the night with some friends who had been acting with
her in the tableaux.
The following morning, Mrs. Inglethorp stayed in
bed to breakfast, as she was rather overtired; but
she appeared in her briskest mood about 12.30, and
swept Lawrence and myself off to a luncheon party.
"Such a charming invitation from Mrs. Rolleston.
Lady Tadminster's sister, you know. The Rollestons
came over with the Conqueror—one of our oldest
families."
Mary had excused herself on the plea of an
engagement with Dr. Bauerstein.
We had a pleasant luncheon, and as we drove away
Lawrence suggested that we should return by
Tadminster, which was barely a mile out of our way,
and pay a visit to Cynthia in her dispensary. Mrs.
Inglethorp replied that this was an excellent idea,
but as she had several letters to write she would
drop us there, and we could come back with Cynthia
in the pony-trap.
We were detained under suspicion by the hospital
porter, until Cynthia appeared to vouch for us,
looking very cool and sweet in her long white
overall. She took us up to her sanctum, and
introduced us to her fellow dispenser, a rather
awe-inspiring individual, whom Cynthia cheerily
addressed as "Nibs."
"What a lot of bottles!" I exclaimed, as my eye
travelled round the small room. "Do you really know
what's in them all?"
"Say something original," groaned Cynthia. "Every
single person who comes up here says that. We are
really thinking of bestowing a prize on the first
individual who does not say: 'What a lot of
bottles!' And I know the next thing you're going to
say is: 'How many people have you poisoned?'"
I pleaded guilty with a laugh.
"If you people only knew how fatally easy it is
to poison some one by mistake, you wouldn't joke
about it. Come on, let's have tea. We've got all
sorts of secret stories in that cupboard. No,
Lawrence—that's the poison cupboard. The big
cupboard—that's right."
We had a very cheery tea, and assisted Cynthia to
wash up afterwards. We had just put away the last
tea-spoon when a knock came at the door. The
countenances of Cynthia and Nibs were suddenly
petrified into a stern and forbidding expression.
"Come in," said Cynthia, in a sharp professional
tone.
A young and rather scared looking nurse appeared
with a bottle which she proffered to Nibs, who waved
her towards Cynthia with the somewhat enigmatical
remark:
"I'm not really here to-day."
Cynthia took the bottle and examined it with the
severity of a judge.
"This should have been sent up this morning."
"Sister is very sorry. She forgot."
"Sister should read the rules outside the door."
I gathered from the little nurse's expression
that there was not the least likelihood of her
having the hardihood to retail this message to the
dreaded "Sister".
"So now it can't be done until to-morrow,"
finished Cynthia.
"Don't you think you could possibly let us have
it to-night?"
"Well," said Cynthia graciously, "we are very
busy, but if we have time it shall be done."
The little nurse withdrew, and Cynthia promptly
took a jar from the shelf, refilled the bottle, and
placed it on the table outside the door.
I laughed.
"Discipline must be maintained?"
"Exactly. Come out on our little balcony. You can
see all the outside wards there."
I followed Cynthia and her friend and they
pointed out the different wards to me. Lawrence
remained behind, but after a few moments Cynthia
called to him over her shoulder to come and join us.
Then she looked at her watch.
"Nothing more to do, Nibs?"
"No."
"All right. Then we can lock up and go."
I had seen Lawrence in quite a different light
that afternoon. Compared to John, he was an
astoundingly difficult person to get to know. He was
the opposite of his brother in almost every respect,
being unusually shy and reserved. Yet he had a
certain charm of manner, and I fancied that, if one
really knew him well, one could have a deep
affection for him. I had always fancied that his
manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that
she on her side was inclined to be shy of him. But
they were both gay enough this afternoon, and
chatted together like a couple of children.
As we drove through the village, I remembered
that I wanted some stamps, so accordingly we pulled
up at the post office.
As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man
who was just entering. I drew aside and apologised,
when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped
me in his arms and kissed me warmly.
"Mon ami Hastings!" he cried. "It is indeed mon
ami Hastings!"
"Poirot!" I exclaimed.
I turned to the pony-trap.
"This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss
Cynthia. This is my old friend, Monsieur Poirot,
whom I have not seen for years."
"Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia
gaily. "But I had no idea he was a friend of yours."
"Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously. "I know
Mademoiselle Cynthia. It is by the charity of that
good Mrs. Inglethorp that I am here." Then, as I
looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my friend, she had
kindly extended hospitality to seven of my
countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their
native land. We Belgians will always remember her
with gratitude."
Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man.
He was hardly more than five feet, four inches, but
carried himself with great dignity. His head was
exactly the shape of an egg, and he always perched
it a little on one side. His moustache was very
stiff and military. The neatness of his attire was
almost incredible. I believe a speck of dust would
have caused him more pain than a bullet wound. Yet
this quaint dandyfied little man who, I was sorry to
see, now limped badly, had been in his time one of
the most celebrated members of the Belgian police.
As a detective, his flair had been extraordinary,
and he had achieved triumphs by unravelling some of
the most baffling cases of the day.
He pointed out to me the little house inhabited
by him and his fellow Belgians, and I promised to go
and see him at an early date. Then he raised his hat
with a flourish to Cynthia, and we drove away.
"He's a dear little man," said Cynthia. "I'd no
idea you knew him."
"You've been entertaining a celebrity unawares,"
I replied.
And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to
them the various exploits and triumphs of Hercule
Poirot.
We arrived back in a very cheerful mood. As we
entered the hall, Mrs. Inglethorp came out of her
boudoir. She looked flushed and upset.
"Oh, it's you," she said.
"Is there anything the matter, Aunt Emily?" asked
Cynthia.
"Certainly not," said Mrs. Inglethorp sharply.
"What should there be?" Then catching sight of
Dorcas, the parlourmaid, going into the dining-room,
she called to her to bring some stamps into the
boudoir.
"Yes, m'm." The old servant hesitated, then added
diffidently: "Don't you think, m'm, you'd better get
to bed? You're looking very tired."
"Perhaps you're right, Dorcas—yes—no—not now.
I've some letters I must finish by post-time. Have
you lighted the fire in my room as I told you?"
"Yes, m'm."
"Then I'll go to bed directly after supper."
She went into the boudoir again, and Cynthia
stared after her.
"Goodness gracious! I wonder what's up?" she said
to Lawrence.
He did not seem to have heard her, for without a
word he turned on his heel and went out of the
house.
I suggested a quick game of tennis before supper
and, Cynthia agreeing, I ran upstairs to fetch my
racquet.
Mrs. Cavendish was coming down the stairs. It may
have been my fancy, but she, too, was looking odd
and disturbed.
"Had a good walk with Dr. Bauerstein?" I asked,
trying to appear as indifferent as I could.
"I didn't go," she replied abruptly. "Where is
Mrs. Inglethorp?"
"In the boudoir."
Her hand clenched itself on the banisters, then
she seemed to nerve herself for some encounter, and
went rapidly past me down the stairs across the hall
to the boudoir, the door of which she shut behind
her.
As I ran out to the tennis court a few moments
later, I had to pass the open boudoir window, and
was unable to help overhearing the following scrap
of dialogue. Mary Cavendish was saying in the voice
of a woman desperately controlling herself:
"Then you won't show it to me?"
To which Mrs. Inglethorp replied:
"My dear Mary, it has nothing to do with that
matter."
"Then show it to me."
"I tell you it is not what you imagine. It does
not concern you in the least."
To which Mary Cavendish replied, with a rising
bitterness:
"Of course, I might have known you would shield
him."
Cynthia was waiting for me, and greeted me
eagerly with:
"I say! There's been the most awful row! I've got
it all out of Dorcas."
"What kind of a row?"
"Between Aunt Emily and him. I do hope
she's found him out at last!"
"Was Dorcas there, then?"
"Of course not. She 'happened to be near the
door'. It was a real old bust-up. I do wish I knew
what it was all about."
I thought of Mrs. Raikes's gipsy face, and Evelyn
Howard's warnings, but wisely decided to hold my
peace, whilst Cynthia exhausted every possible
hypothesis, and cheerfully hoped, "Aunt Emily will
send him away, and will never speak to him again."
I was anxious to get hold of John, but he was
nowhere to be seen. Evidently something very
momentous had occurred that afternoon. I tried to
forget the few words I had overheard; but, do what I
would, I could not dismiss them altogether from my
mind. What was Mary Cavendish's concern in the
matter?
Mr. Inglethorp was in the drawing-room when I
came down to supper. His face was impassive as ever,
and the strange unreality of the man struck me
afresh.
Mrs. Inglethorp came down last. She still looked
agitated, and during the meal there was a somewhat
constrained silence. Inglethorp was unusually quiet.
As a rule, he surrounded his wife with little
attentions, placing a cushion at her back, and
altogether playing the part of the devoted husband.
Immediately after supper, Mrs. Inglethorp retired to
her boudoir again.
"Send my coffee in here, Mary," she called. "I've
just five minutes to catch the post."
Cynthia and I went and sat by the open window in
the drawing-room. Mary Cavendish brought our coffee
to us. She seemed excited.
"Do you young people want lights, or do you enjoy
the twilight?" she asked. "Will you take Mrs.
Inglethorp her coffee, Cynthia? I will pour it out."
"Do not trouble, Mary," said Inglethorp. "I will
take it to Emily." He poured it out, and went out of
the room carrying it carefully.
Lawrence followed him, and Mrs. Cavendish sat
down by us.
We three sat for some time in silence. It was a
glorious night, hot and still. Mrs. Cavendish fanned
herself gently with a palm leaf.
"It's almost too hot," she murmured. "We shall
have a thunderstorm."
Alas, that these harmonious moments can never
endure! My paradise was rudely shattered by the
sound of a well known, and heartily disliked, voice
in the hall.
"Dr. Bauerstein!" exclaimed Cynthia. "What a
funny time to come."
I glanced jealously at Mary Cavendish, but she
seemed quite undisturbed, the delicate pallor of her
cheeks did not vary.
In a few moments, Alfred Inglethorp had ushered
the doctor in, the latter laughing, and protesting
that he was in no fit state for a drawing-room. In
truth, he presented a sorry spectacle, being
literally plastered with mud.
"What have you been doing, doctor?" cried Mrs.
Cavendish.
"I must make my apologies," said the doctor. "I
did not really mean to come in, but Mr. Inglethorp
insisted."
"Well, Bauerstein, you are in a plight," said
John, strolling in from the hall. "Have some coffee,
and tell us what you have been up to."
"Thank you, I will." He laughed rather ruefully,
as he described how he had discovered a very rare
species of fern in an inaccessible place, and in his
efforts to obtain it had lost his footing, and
slipped ignominiously into a neighbouring pond.
"The sun soon dried me off," he added, "but I'm
afraid my appearance is very disreputable."
At this juncture, Mrs. Inglethorp called to
Cynthia from the hall, and the girl ran out.
"Just carry up my despatch-case, will you, dear?
I'm going to bed."
The door into the hall was a wide one. I had
risen when Cynthia did, John was close by me. There
were therefore three witnesses who could swear that
Mrs. Inglethorp was carrying her coffee, as yet
untasted, in her hand.
My evening was utterly and entirely spoilt by the
presence of Dr. Bauerstein. It seemed to me the man
would never go. He rose at last, however, and I
breathed a sigh of relief.
"I'll walk down to the village with you," said
Mr. Inglethorp. "I must see our agent over those
estate accounts." He turned to John. "No one need
sit up. I will take the latch-key."
CHAPTER III. THE NIGHT OF THE TRAGEDY
To make this part of my story clear, I append the
following plan of the first floor of Styles. The
servants' rooms are reached through the door B. They
have no communication with the right wing, where the
Inglethorps' rooms were situated.
It seemed to be the middle of the night when I
was awakened by Lawrence Cavendish. He had a candle
in his hand, and the agitation of his face told me
at once that something was seriously wrong.
"What's the matter?" I asked, sitting up in bed,
and trying to collect my scattered thoughts.
"We are afraid my mother is very ill. She seems
to be having some kind of fit. Unfortunately she has
locked herself in."
"I'll come at once."
I sprang out of bed; and, pulling on a
dressing-gown, followed Lawrence along the passage
and the gallery to the right wing of the house.
John Cavendish joined us, and one or two of the
servants were standing round in a state of
awe-stricken excitement. Lawrence turned to his
brother.
"What do you think we had better do?"
Never, I thought, had his indecision of character
been more apparent.
John rattled the handle of Mrs. Inglethorp's door
violently, but with no effect. It was obviously
locked or bolted on the inside. The whole household
was aroused by now. The most alarming sounds were
audible from the interior of the room. Clearly
something must be done.
"Try going through Mr. Inglethorp's room, sir,"
cried Dorcas. "Oh, the poor mistress!"
Suddenly I realized that Alfred Inglethorp was
not with us—that he alone had given no sign of his
presence. John opened the door of his room. It was
pitch dark, but Lawrence was following with the
candle, and by its feeble light we saw that the bed
had not been slept in, and that there was no sign of
the room having been occupied.
We went straight to the connecting door. That,
too, was locked or bolted on the inside. What was to
be done?
"Oh, dear, sir," cried Dorcas, wringing her
hands, "what ever shall we do?"
"We must try and break the door in, I suppose.
It'll be a tough job, though. Here, let one of the
maids go down and wake Baily and tell him to go for
Dr. Wilkins at once. Now then, we'll have a try at
the door. Half a moment, though, isn't there a door
into Miss Cynthia's rooms?"
"Yes, sir, but that's always bolted. It's never
been undone."
"Well, we might just see."
He ran rapidly down the corridor to Cynthia's
room. Mary Cavendish was there, shaking the girl—who
must have been an unusually sound sleeper—and trying
to wake her.
In a moment or two he was back.
"No good. That's bolted too. We must break in the
door. I think this one is a shade less solid than
the one in the passage."
We strained and heaved together. The framework of
the door was solid, and for a long time it resisted
our efforts, but at last we felt it give beneath our
weight, and finally, with a resounding crash, it was
burst open.
We stumbled in together, Lawrence still holding
his candle. Mrs. Inglethorp was lying on the bed,
her whole form agitated by violent convulsions, in
one of which she must have overturned the table
beside her. As we entered, however, her limbs
relaxed, and she fell back upon the pillows.
John strode across the room, and lit the gas.
Turning to Annie, one of the housemaids, he sent her
downstairs to the dining-room for brandy. Then he
went across to his mother whilst I unbolted the door
that gave on the corridor.
I turned to Lawrence, to suggest that I had
better leave them now that there was no further need
of my services, but the words were frozen on my
lips. Never have I seen such a ghastly look on any
man's face. He was white as chalk, the candle he
held in his shaking hand was sputtering onto the
carpet, and his eyes, petrified with terror, or some
such kindred emotion, stared fixedly over my head at
a point on the further wall. It was as though he had
seen something that turned him to stone. I
instinctively followed the direction of his eyes,
but I could see nothing unusual. The still feebly
flickering ashes in the grate, and the row of prim
ornaments on the mantelpiece, were surely harmless
enough.
The violence of Mrs. Inglethorp's attack seemed
to be passing. She was able to speak in short gasps.
"Better now—very sudden—stupid of me—to lock
myself in."
A shadow fell on the bed and, looking up, I saw
Mary Cavendish standing near the door with her arm
around Cynthia. She seemed to be supporting the
girl, who looked utterly dazed and unlike herself.
Her face was heavily flushed, and she yawned
repeatedly.
"Poor Cynthia is quite frightened," said Mrs.
Cavendish in a low clear voice. She herself, I
noticed, was dressed in her white land smock. Then
it must be later than I thought. I saw that a faint
streak of daylight was showing through the curtains
of the windows, and that the clock on the
mantelpiece pointed to close upon five o'clock.
A strangled cry from the bed startled me. A fresh
access of pain seized the unfortunate old lady. The
convulsions were of a violence terrible to behold.
Everything was confusion. We thronged round her,
powerless to help or alleviate. A final convulsion
lifted her from the bed, until she appeared to rest
upon her head and her heels, with her body arched in
an extraordinary manner. In vain Mary and John tried
to administer more brandy. The moments flew. Again
the body arched itself in that peculiar fashion.
At that moment, Dr. Bauerstein pushed his way
authoritatively into the room. For one instant he
stopped dead, staring at the figure on the bed, and,
at the same instant, Mrs. Inglethorp cried out in a
strangled voice, her eyes fixed on the doctor:
"Alfred—Alfred——" Then she fell back motionless
on the pillows.
With a stride, the doctor reached the bed, and
seizing her arms worked them energetically, applying
what I knew to be artificial respiration. He issued
a few short sharp orders to the servants. An
imperious wave of his hand drove us all to the door.
We watched him, fascinated, though I think we all
knew in our hearts that it was too late, and that
nothing could be done now. I could see by the
expression on his face that he himself had little
hope.
Finally he abandoned his task, shaking his head
gravely. At that moment, we heard footsteps outside,
and Dr. Wilkins, Mrs. Inglethorp's own doctor, a
portly, fussy little man, came bustling in.
In a few words Dr. Bauerstein explained how he
had happened to be passing the lodge gates as the
car came out, and had run up to the house as fast as
he could, whilst the car went on to fetch Dr.
Wilkins. With a faint gesture of the hand, he
indicated the figure on the bed.
"Ve—ry sad. Ve—ry sad," murmured Dr. Wilkins.
"Poor dear lady. Always did far too much—far too
much—against my advice. I warned her. Her heart was
far from strong. 'Take it easy,' I said to her,
'Take—it—easy'. But no—her zeal for good works was
too great. Nature rebelled. Na—ture—re—belled."
Dr. Bauerstein, I noticed, was watching the local
doctor narrowly. He still kept his eyes fixed on him
as he spoke.
"The convulsions were of a peculiar violence, Dr.
Wilkins. I am sorry you were not here in time to
witness them. They were quite—tetanic in character."
"Ah!" said Dr. Wilkins wisely.
"I should like to speak to you in private," said
Dr. Bauerstein. He turned to John. "You do not
object?"
"Certainly not."
We all trooped out into the corridor, leaving the
two doctors alone, and I heard the key turned in the
lock behind us.
We went slowly down the stairs. I was violently
excited. I have a certain talent for deduction, and
Dr. Bauerstein's manner had started a flock of wild
surmises in my mind. Mary Cavendish laid her hand
upon my arm.
"What is it? Why did Dr. Bauerstein seem
so—peculiar?"
I looked at her.
"Do you know what I think?"
"What?"
"Listen!" I looked round, the others were out of
earshot. I lowered my voice to a whisper. "I believe
she has been poisoned! I'm certain Dr. Bauerstein
suspects it."
"What?" She shrank against the wall, the
pupils of her eyes dilating wildly. Then, with a
sudden cry that startled me, she cried out: "No,
no—not that—not that!" And breaking from me, fled up
the stairs. I followed her, afraid that she was
going to faint. I found her leaning against the
bannisters, deadly pale. She waved me away
impatiently.
"No, no—leave me. I'd rather be alone. Let me
just be quiet for a minute or two. Go down to the
others."
I obeyed her reluctantly. John and Lawrence were
in the dining-room. I joined them. We were all
silent, but I suppose I voiced the thoughts of us
all when I at last broke it by saying:
"Where is Mr. Inglethorp?"
John shook his head.
"He's not in the house."
Our eyes met. Where was Alfred Inglethorp?
His absence was strange and inexplicable. I
remembered Mrs. Inglethorp's dying words. What lay
beneath them? What more could she have told us, if
she had had time?
At last we heard the doctors descending the
stairs. Dr. Wilkins was looking important and
excited, and trying to conceal an inward exultation
under a manner of decorous calm. Dr. Bauerstein
remained in the background, his grave bearded face
unchanged. Dr. Wilkins was the spokesman for the
two. He addressed himself to John:
"Mr. Cavendish, I should like your consent to a
postmortem."
"Is that necessary?" asked John gravely. A spasm
of pain crossed his face.
"Absolutely," said Dr. Bauerstein.
"You mean by that——?"
"That neither Dr. Wilkins nor myself could give a
death certificate under the circumstances."
John bent his head.
"In that case, I have no alternative but to
agree."
"Thank you," said Dr. Wilkins briskly. "We
propose that it should take place to-morrow night—or
rather to-night." And he glanced at the daylight.
"Under the circumstances, I am afraid an inquest can
hardly be avoided—these formalities are necessary,
but I beg that you won't distress yourselves."
There was a pause, and then Dr. Bauerstein drew
two keys from his pocket, and handed them to John.
"These are the keys of the two rooms. I have
locked them and, in my opinion, they would be better
kept locked for the present."
The doctors then departed.
I had been turning over an idea in my head, and I
felt that the moment had now come to broach it. Yet
I was a little chary of doing so. John, I knew, had
a horror of any kind of publicity, and was an
easygoing optimist, who preferred never to meet
trouble half-way. It might be difficult to convince
him of the soundness of my plan. Lawrence, on the
other hand, being less conventional, and having more
imagination, I felt I might count upon as an ally.
There was no doubt that the moment had come for me
to take the lead.
"John," I said, "I am going to ask you
something."
"Well?"
"You remember my speaking of my friend Poirot?
The Belgian who is here? He has been a most famous
detective."
"Yes."
"I want you to let me call him in—to investigate
this matter."
"What—now? Before the post-mortem?"
"Yes, time is an advantage if—if—there has been
foul play."
"Rubbish!" cried Lawrence angrily. "In my opinion
the whole thing is a mare's nest of Bauerstein's!
Wilkins hadn't an idea of such a thing, until
Bauerstein put it into his head. But, like all
specialists, Bauerstein's got a bee in his bonnet.
Poisons are his hobby, so of course he sees them
everywhere."
I confess that I was surprised by Lawrence's
attitude. He was so seldom vehement about anything.
John hesitated.
"I can't feel as you do, Lawrence," he said at
last. "I'm inclined to give Hastings a free hand,
though I should prefer to wait a bit. We don't want
any unnecessary scandal."
"No, no," I cried eagerly, "you need have no fear
of that. Poirot is discretion itself."
"Very well, then, have it your own way. I leave
it in your hands. Though, if it is as we suspect, it
seems a clear enough case. God forgive me if I am
wronging him!"
I looked at my watch. It was six o'clock. I
determined to lose no time.
Five minutes' delay, however, I allowed myself. I
spent it in ransacking the library until I
discovered a medical book which gave a description
of strychnine poisoning.
CHAPTER IV. POIROT INVESTIGATES
The house which the Belgians occupied in the
village was quite close to the park gates. One could
save time by taking a narrow path through the long
grass, which cut off the detours of the winding
drive. So I, accordingly, went that way. I had
nearly reached the lodge, when my attention was
arrested by the running figure of a man approaching
me. It was Mr. Inglethorp. Where had he been? How
did he intend to explain his absence?
He accosted me eagerly.
"My God! This is terrible! My poor wife! I have
only just heard."
"Where have you been?" I asked.
"Denby kept me late last night. It was one
o'clock before we'd finished. Then I found that I'd
forgotten the latch-key after all. I didn't want to
arouse the household, so Denby gave me a bed."
"How did you hear the news?" I asked.
"Wilkins knocked Denby up to tell him. My poor
Emily! She was so self-sacrificing—such a noble
character. She over-taxed her strength."
A wave of revulsion swept over me. What a
consummate hypocrite the man was!
"I must hurry on," I said, thankful that he did
not ask me whither I was bound.
In a few minutes I was knocking at the door of
Leastways Cottage.
Getting no answer, I repeated my summons
impatiently. A window above me was cautiously
opened, and Poirot himself looked out.
He gave an exclamation of surprise at seeing me.
In a few brief words, I explained the tragedy that
had occurred, and that I wanted his help.
"Wait, my friend, I will let you in, and you
shall recount to me the affair whilst I dress."
In a few moments he had unbarred the door, and I
followed him up to his room. There he installed me
in a chair, and I related the whole story, keeping
back nothing, and omitting no circumstance, however
insignificant, whilst he himself made a careful and
deliberate toilet.
I told him of my awakening, of Mrs. Inglethorp's
dying words, of her husband's absence, of the
quarrel the day before, of the scrap of conversation
between Mary and her mother-in-law that I had
overheard, of the former quarrel between Mrs.
Inglethorp and Evelyn Howard, and of the latter's
innuendoes.
I was hardly as clear as I could wish. I repeated
myself several times, and occasionally had to go
back to some detail that I had forgotten. Poirot
smiled kindly on me.
"The mind is confused? Is it not so? Take time,
mon ami. You are agitated; you are excited—it is but
natural. Presently, when we are calmer, we will
arrange the facts, neatly, each in his proper place.
We will examine—and reject. Those of importance we
will put on one side; those of no importance,
pouf!"—he screwed up his cherub-like face, and
puffed comically enough—"blow them away!"
"That's all very well," I objected, "but how are
you going to decide what is important, and what
isn't? That always seems the difficulty to me."
Poirot shook his head energetically. He was now
arranging his moustache with exquisite care.
"Not so. Voyons! One fact leads to another—so we
continue. Does the next fit in with that? A
merveille! Good! We can proceed. This next little
fact—no! Ah, that is curious! There is something
missing—a link in the chain that is not there. We
examine. We search. And that little curious fact,
that possibly paltry little detail that will not
tally, we put it here!" He made an extravagant
gesture with his hand. "It is significant! It is
tremendous!"
"Y—es—"
"Ah!" Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely at
me that I quailed before it. "Beware! Peril to the
detective who says: 'It is so small—it does not
matter. It will not agree. I will forget it.' That
way lies confusion! Everything matters."
"I know. You always told me that. That's why I
have gone into all the details of this thing whether
they seemed to me relevant or not."
"And I am pleased with you. You have a good
memory, and you have given me the facts faithfully.
Of the order in which you present them, I say
nothing—truly, it is deplorable! But I make
allowances—you are upset. To that I attribute the
circumstance that you have omitted one fact of
paramount importance."
"What is that?" I asked.
"You have not told me if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well
last night."
I stared at him. Surely the war had affected the
little man's brain. He was carefully engaged in
brushing his coat before putting it on, and seemed
wholly engrossed in the task.
"I don't remember," I said. "And, anyway, I don't
see——"
"You do not see? But it is of the first
importance."
"I can't see why," I said, rather nettled. "As
far as I can remember, she didn't eat much. She was
obviously upset, and it had taken her appetite away.
That was only natural."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "it was only
natural."
He opened a drawer, and took out a small
despatch-case, then turned to me.
"Now I am ready. We will proceed to the chateau,
and study matters on the spot. Excuse me, mon ami,
you dressed in haste, and your tie is on one side.
Permit me." With a deft gesture, he rearranged it.
"Ca y est! Now, shall we start?"
We hurried up the village, and turned in at the
lodge gates. Poirot stopped for a moment, and gazed
sorrowfully over the beautiful expanse of park,
still glittering with morning dew.
"So beautiful, so beautiful, and yet, the poor
family, plunged in sorrow, prostrated with grief."
He looked at me keenly as he spoke, and I was
aware that I reddened under his prolonged gaze.
Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the
sorrow at Mrs. Inglethorp's death so great? I
realized that there was an emotional lack in the
atmosphere. The dead woman had not the gift of
commanding love. Her death was a shock and a
distress, but she would not be passionately
regretted.
Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded
his head gravely.
"No, you are right," he said, "it is not as
though there was a blood tie. She has been kind and
generous to these Cavendishes, but she was not their
own mother. Blood tells—always remember that—blood
tells."
"Poirot," I said, "I wish you would tell me why
you wanted to know if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last
night? I have been turning it over in my mind, but I
can't see how it has anything to do with the
matter?"
He was silent for a minute or two as we walked
along, but finally he said:
"I do not mind telling you—though, as you know,
it is not my habit to explain until the end is
reached. The present contention is that Mrs.
Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably
administered in her coffee."
"Yes?"
"Well, what time was the coffee served?"
"About eight o'clock."
"Therefore she drank it between then and
half-past eight—certainly not much later. Well,
strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects
would be felt very soon, probably in about an hour.
Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp's case, the symptoms do not
manifest themselves until five o'clock the next
morning: nine hours! But a heavy meal, taken at
about the same time as the poison, might retard its
effects, though hardly to that extent. Still, it is
a possibility to be taken into account. But,
according to you, she ate very little for supper,
and yet the symptoms do not develop until early the
next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my
friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to
explain it. In the meantime, remember it."
As we neared the house, John came out and met us.
His face looked weary and haggard.
"This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur
Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you
that we are anxious for no publicity?"
"I comprehend perfectly."
"You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have
nothing to go upon."
"Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only."
John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case,
and lighting a cigarette as he did so.
"You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?"
"Yes. I met him."
John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed,
a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's
feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly.
"It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him."
"That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced
Poirot quietly.
John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the
portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two
keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me.
"Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to
see."
"The rooms are locked?" asked Poirot.
"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
"Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies
matters for us."
We went up together to the room of the tragedy.
For convenience I append a plan of the room and the
principal articles of furniture in it.
Poirot locked the door on the inside, and
proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He
darted from one object to the other with the agility
of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to
obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem
grateful to me for my forbearance.
"What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you
remain there like—how do you say it?—ah, yes, the
stuck pig?"
I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any
foot-marks.
"Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already
been practically an army in the room! What
foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come here and
aid me in my search. I will put down my little case
until I need it."
He did so, on the round table by the window, but
it was an ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it
being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated the
despatch-case on the floor.
"Eh voila une table!" cried Poirot. "Ah, my
friend, one may live in a big house and yet have no
comfort."
After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his
search.
A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the
lock, on the writing-table, engaged his attention
for some time. He took out the key from the lock,
and passed it to me to inspect. I saw nothing
peculiar, however. It was an ordinary key of the
Yale type, with a bit of twisted wire through the
handle.
Next, he examined the framework of the door we
had broken in, assuring himself that the bolt had
really been shot. Then he went to the door opposite
leading into Cynthia's room. That door was also
bolted, as I had stated. However, he went to the
length of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it
several times; this he did with the utmost
precaution against making any noise. Suddenly
something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his
attention. He examined it carefully, and then,
nimbly whipping out a pair of small forceps from his
case, he drew out some minute particle which he
carefully sealed up in a tiny envelope.
On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a
spirit lamp and a small saucepan on it. A small
quantity of a dark fluid remained in the saucepan,
and an empty cup and saucer that had been drunk out
of stood near it.
I wondered how I could have been so unobservant
as to overlook this. Here was a clue worth having.
Poirot delicately dipped his finger into liquid, and
tasted it gingerly. He made a grimace.
"Coco—with—I think—rum in it."
He passed on to the debris on the floor, where
the table by the bed had been overturned. A
reading-lamp, some books, matches, a bunch of keys,
and the crushed fragments of a coffee-cup lay
scattered about.
"Ah, this is curious," said Poirot.
"I must confess that I see nothing particularly
curious about it."
"You do not? Observe the lamp—the chimney is
broken in two places; they lie there as they fell.
But see, the coffee-cup is absolutely smashed to
powder."
"Well," I said wearily, "I suppose some one must
have stepped on it."
"Exactly," said Poirot, in an odd voice. "Some
one stepped on it."
He rose from his knees, and walked slowly across
to the mantelpiece, where he stood abstractedly
fingering the ornaments, and straightening them—a
trick of his when he was agitated.
"Mon ami," he said, turning to me, "somebody
stepped on that cup, grinding it to powder, and the
reason they did so was either because it contained
strychnine or—which is far more serious—because it
did not contain strychnine!"
I made no reply. I was bewildered, but I knew
that it was no good asking him to explain. In a
moment or two he roused himself, and went on with
his investigations. He picked up the bunch of keys
from the floor, and twirling them round in his
fingers finally selected one, very bright and
shining, which he tried in the lock of the purple
despatch-case. It fitted, and he opened the box, but
after a moment's hesitation, closed and relocked it,
and slipped the bunch of keys, as well as the key
that had originally stood in the lock, into his own
pocket.
"I have no authority to go through these papers.
But it should be done—at once!"
He then made a very careful examination of the
drawers of the wash-stand. Crossing the room to the
left-hand window, a round stain, hardly visible on
the dark brown carpet, seemed to interest him
particularly. He went down on his knees, examining
it minutely—even going so far as to smell it.
Finally, he poured a few drops of the coco into a
test tube, sealing it up carefully. His next
proceeding was to take out a little notebook.
"We have found in this room," he said, writing
busily, "six points of interest. Shall I enumerate
them, or will you?"
"Oh, you," I replied hastily.
"Very well, then. One, a coffee-cup that has been
ground into powder; two, a despatch-case with a key
in the lock; three, a stain on the floor."
"That may have been done some time ago," I
interrupted.
"No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells
of coffee. Four, a fragment of some dark green
fabric—only a thread or two, but recognizable."
"Ah!" I cried. "That was what you sealed up in
the envelope."
"Yes. It may turn out to be a piece of one of
Mrs. Inglethorp's own dresses, and quite
unimportant. We shall see. Five, this!" With
a dramatic gesture, he pointed to a large splash of
candle grease on the floor by the writing-table. "It
must have been done since yesterday, otherwise a
good housemaid would have at once removed it with
blotting-paper and a hot iron. One of my best hats
once—but that is not to the point."
"It was very likely done last night. We were very
agitated. Or perhaps Mrs. Inglethorp herself dropped
her candle."
"You brought only one candle into the room?"
"Yes. Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he
was very upset. He seemed to see something over
here"—I indicated the mantelpiece—"that absolutely
paralysed him."
"That is interesting," said Poirot quickly. "Yes,
it is suggestive"—his eye sweeping the whole length
of the wall—"but it was not his candle that made
this great patch, for you perceive that this is
white grease; whereas Monsieur Lawrence's candle,
which is still on the dressing-table, is pink. On
the other hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had no candlestick
in the room, only a reading-lamp."
"Then," I said, "what do you deduce?"
To which my friend only made a rather irritating
reply, urging me to use my own natural faculties.
"And the sixth point?" I asked. "I suppose it is
the sample of coco."
"No," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I might have
included that in the six, but I did not. No, the
sixth point I will keep to myself for the present."
He looked quickly round the room. "There is
nothing more to be done here, I think, unless"—he
stared earnestly and long at the dead ashes in the
grate. "The fire burns—and it destroys. But by
chance—there might be—let us see!"
Deftly, on hands and knees, he began to sort the
ashes from the grate into the fender, handling them
with the greatest caution. Suddenly, he gave a faint
exclamation.
"The forceps, Hastings!"
I quickly handed them to him, and with skill he
extracted a small piece of half charred paper.
"There, mon ami!" he cried. "What do you think of
that?"
I scrutinized the fragment. This is an exact
reproduction of it:—
I was puzzled. It was unusually thick, quite
unlike ordinary notepaper. Suddenly an idea struck
me.
"Poirot!" I cried. "This is a fragment of a
will!"
"Exactly."
I looked up at him sharply.
"You are not surprised?"
"No," he said gravely, "I expected it."
I relinquished the piece of paper, and watched
him put it away in his case, with the same
methodical care that he bestowed on everything. My
brain was in a whirl. What was this complication of
a will? Who had destroyed it? The person who had
left the candle grease on the floor? Obviously. But
how had anyone gained admission? All the doors had
been bolted on the inside.
"Now, my friend," said Poirot briskly, "we will
go. I should like to ask a few questions of the
parlourmaid—Dorcas, her name is, is it not?"
We passed through Alfred Inglethorp's room, and
Poirot delayed long enough to make a brief but
fairly comprehensive examination of it. We went out
through that door, locking both it and that of Mrs.
Inglethorp's room as before.
I took him down to the boudoir which he had
expressed a wish to see, and went myself in search
of Dorcas.
When I returned with her, however, the boudoir
was empty.
"Poirot," I cried, "where are you?"
"I am here, my friend."
He had stepped outside the French window, and was
standing, apparently lost in admiration, before the
various shaped flower beds.
"Admirable!" he murmured. "Admirable! What
symmetry! Observe that crescent; and those
diamonds—their neatness rejoices the eye. The
spacing of the plants, also, is perfect. It has been
recently done; is it not so?"
"Yes, I believe they were at it yesterday
afternoon. But come in—Dorcas is here."
"Eh bien, eh bien! Do not grudge me a moment's
satisfaction of the eye."
"Yes, but this affair is more important."
"And how do you know that these fine begonias are
not of equal importance?"
I shrugged my shoulders. There was really no
arguing with him if he chose to take that line.
"You do not agree? But such things have been.
Well, we will come in and interview the brave
Dorcas."
Dorcas was standing in the boudoir, her hands
folded in front of her, and her grey hair rose in
stiff waves under her white cap. She was the very
model and picture of a good old-fashioned servant.
In her attitude towards Poirot, she was inclined
to be suspicious, but he soon broke down her
defences. He drew forward a chair.
"Pray be seated, mademoiselle."
"Thank you, sir."
"You have been with your mistress many years, is
it not so?"
"Ten years, sir."
"That is a long time, and very faithful service.
You were much attached to her, were you not?"
"She was a very good mistress to me, sir."
"Then you will not object to answering a few
questions. I put them to you with Mr. Cavendish's
full approval."
"Oh, certainly, sir."
"Then I will begin by asking you about the events
of yesterday afternoon. Your mistress had a
quarrel?"
"Yes, sir. But I don't know that I ought——"
Dorcas hesitated. Poirot looked at her keenly.
"My good Dorcas, it is necessary that I should
know every detail of that quarrel as fully as
possible. Do not think that you are betraying your
mistress's secrets. Your mistress lies dead, and it
is necessary that we should know all—if we are to
avenge her. Nothing can bring her back to life, but
we do hope, if there has been foul play, to bring
the murderer to justice."
"Amen to that," said Dorcas fiercely. "And,
naming no names, there's one in this house
that none of us could ever abide! And an ill day it
was when first he darkened the threshold."
Poirot waited for her indignation to subside, and
then, resuming his business-like tone, he asked:
"Now, as to this quarrel? What is the first you
heard of it?"
"Well, sir, I happened to be going along the hall
outside yesterday——"
"What time was that?"
"I couldn't say exactly, sir, but it wasn't
tea-time by a long way. Perhaps four o'clock—or it
may have been a bit later. Well, sir, as I said, I
happened to be passing along, when I heard voices
very loud and angry in here. I didn't exactly mean
to listen, but—well, there it is. I stopped. The
door was shut, but the mistress was speaking very
sharp and clear, and I heard what she said quite
plainly. 'You have lied to me, and deceived me,' she
said. I didn't hear what Mr. Inglethorp replied. He
spoke a good bit lower than she did—but she
answered: 'How dare you? I have kept you and clothed
you and fed you! You owe everything to me! And this
is how you repay me! By bringing disgrace upon our
name!' Again I didn't hear what he said, but she
went on: 'Nothing that you can say will make any
difference. I see my duty clearly. My mind is made
up. You need not think that any fear of publicity,
or scandal between husband and wife will deter me.'
Then I thought I heard them coming out, so I went
off quickly."
"You are sure it was Mr. Inglethorp's voice you
heard?"
"Oh, yes, sir, whose else's could it be?"
"Well, what happened next?"
"Later, I came back to the hall; but it was all
quiet. At five o'clock, Mrs. Inglethorp rang the
bell and told me to bring her a cup of tea—nothing
to eat—to the boudoir. She was looking dreadful—so
white and upset. 'Dorcas,' she says, 'I've had a
great shock.' 'I'm sorry for that, m'm,' I says.
'You'll feel better after a nice hot cup of tea,
m'm.' She had something in her hand. I don't know if
it was a letter, or just a piece of paper, but it
had writing on it, and she kept staring at it,
almost as if she couldn't believe what was written
there. She whispered to herself, as though she had
forgotten I was there: 'These few words—and
everything's changed.' And then she says to me:
'Never trust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' I
hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea,
and she thanked me, and said she'd feel better when
she'd drunk it. 'I don't know what to do,' she says.
'Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful
thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.'
Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say
any more."
"She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in
her hand?" "Yes, sir."
"What would she be likely to do with it
afterwards?"
"Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock
it up in that purple case of hers."
"Is that where she usually kept important
papers?"
"Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every
morning, and took it up every night."
"When did she lose the key of it?"
"She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and
told me to look carefully for it. She was very much
put out about it."
"But she had a duplicate key?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to
tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a
lost key? Poirot smiled.
"Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know
things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from
his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of
the despatch-case upstairs.
Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out
of her head.
"That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you
find it? I looked everywhere for it."
"Ah, but you see it was not in the same place
yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another
subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her
wardrobe?"
Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected
question.
"No, sir."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?"
Dorcas reflected.
"Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress."
"Light or dark green?"
"A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call
it."
"Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has
anything green?"
"No, sir—not that I know of."
Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether
he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely
remarked:
"Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you
any reason to believe that your mistress was likely
to take a sleeping powder last night?"
"Not last night, sir, I know she didn't."
"Why do you know so positively?"
"Because the box was empty. She took the last one
two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up."
"You are quite sure of that?"
"Positive, sir."
"Then that is cleared up! By the way, your
mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper
yesterday?"
"To sign a paper? No, sir."
"When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in
yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy
writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea
to whom these letters were addressed?"
"I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the
evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's
a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away
last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to
look after things."
Poirot lifted his hand.
"Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a
little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine
them."
"Very well, sir."
"What time did you go out last evening?"
"About six o'clock, sir."
"Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask
you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have
been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners
are employed here, by the way?"
"Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the
war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should
be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair
sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and
young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in
breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful
times!"
"The good times will come again, Dorcas. At
least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me
here?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took
sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as
Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and
the duplicate?"
"One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders,
I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small
cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders.
"Where did you find it?"
"In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's
bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue."
"But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two
days ago, it is not of much importance?"
"Probably not, but do you notice anything that
strikes you as peculiar about this box?"
I examined it closely.
"No, I can't say that I do."
"Look at the label."
I read the label carefully: "'One powder to be
taken at bedtime, if required. Mrs. Inglethorp.' No,
I see nothing unusual."
"Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?"
"Ah!" I exclaimed. "To be sure, that is odd!"
"Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box
like that, without his printed name?"
"No, I can't say that I have."
I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped
my ardour by remarking:
"Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not
intrigue yourself, my friend."
An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of
Annie, so I had no time to reply.
Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was
evidently labouring under intense excitement,
mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of the
tragedy.
Poirot came to the point at once, with a
business-like briskness.
"I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you
might be able to tell me something about the letters
Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last night. How many were
there? And can you tell me any of the names and
addresses?"
Annie considered.
"There were four letters, sir. One was to Miss
Howard, and one was to Mr. Wells, the lawyer, and
the other two I don't think I remember, sir—oh, yes,
one was to Ross's, the caterers in Tadminster. The
other one, I don't remember."
"Think," urged Poirot.
Annie racked her brains in vain.
"I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't
think I can have noticed it."
"It does not matter," said Poirot, not betraying
any sign of disappointment. "Now I want to ask you
about something else. There is a saucepan in Mrs.
Inglethorp's room with some coco in it. Did she have
that every night?"
"Yes, sir, it was put in her room every evening,
and she warmed it up in the night—whenever she
fancied it."
"What was it? Plain coco?"
"Yes, sir, made with milk, with a teaspoonful of
sugar, and two teaspoonfuls of rum in it."
"Who took it to her room?"
"I did, sir."
"Always?"
"Yes, sir."
"At what time?"
"When I went to draw the curtains, as a rule,
sir."
"Did you bring it straight up from the kitchen
then?"
"No, sir, you see there's not much room on the
gas stove, so Cook used to make it early, before
putting the vegetables on for supper. Then I used to
bring it up, and put it on the table by the swing
door, and take it into her room later."
"The swing door is in the left wing, is it not?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the table, is it on this side of the door,
or on the farther—servants' side?"
"It's this side, sir."
"What time did you bring it up last night?"
"About quarter-past seven, I should say, sir."
"And when did you take it into Mrs. Inglethorp's
room?"
"When I went to shut up, sir. About eight
o'clock. Mrs. Inglethorp came up to bed before I'd
finished."
"Then, between 7.15 and 8 o'clock, the coco was
standing on the table in the left wing?"
"Yes, sir." Annie had been growing redder and
redder in the face, and now she blurted out
unexpectedly:
"And if there was salt in it, sir, it
wasn't me. I never took the salt near it."
"What makes you think there was salt in it?"
asked Poirot.
"Seeing it on the tray, sir."
"You saw some salt on the tray?"
"Yes. Coarse kitchen salt, it looked. I never
noticed it when I took the tray up, but when I came
to take it into the mistress's room I saw it at
once, and I suppose I ought to have taken it down
again, and asked Cook to make some fresh. But I was
in a hurry, because Dorcas was out, and I thought
maybe the coco itself was all right, and the salt
had only gone on the tray. So I dusted it off with
my apron, and took it in."
I had the utmost difficulty in controlling my
excitement. Unknown to herself, Annie had provided
us with an important piece of evidence. How she
would have gaped if she had realized that her
"coarse kitchen salt" was strychnine, one of the
most deadly poisons known to mankind. I marvelled at
Poirot's calm. His self-control was astonishing. I
awaited his next question with impatience, but it
disappointed me.
"When you went into Mrs. Inglethorp's room, was
the door leading into Miss Cynthia's room bolted?"
"Oh! Yes, sir; it always was. It had never been
opened."
"And the door into Mr. Inglethorp's room? Did you
notice if that was bolted too?"
Annie hesitated.
"I couldn't rightly say, sir; it was shut but I
couldn't say whether it was bolted or not."
"When you finally left the room, did Mrs.
Inglethorp bolt the door after you?"
"No, sir, not then, but I expect she did later.
She usually did lock it at night. The door into the
passage, that is."
"Did you notice any candle grease on the floor
when you did the room yesterday?"
"Candle grease? Oh, no, sir. Mrs. Inglethorp
didn't have a candle, only a reading-lamp."
"Then, if there had been a large patch of candle
grease on the floor, you think you would have been
sure to have seen it?"
"Yes, sir, and I would have taken it out with a
piece of blotting-paper and a hot iron."
Then Poirot repeated the question he had put to
Dorcas:
"Did your mistress ever have a green dress?"
"No, sir."
"Nor a mantle, nor a cape, nor a—how do you call
it?—a sports coat?"
"Not green, sir."
"Nor anyone else in the house?"
Annie reflected.
"No, sir."
"You are sure of that?"
"Quite sure."
"Bien! That is all I want to know. Thank you very
much."
With a nervous giggle, Annie took herself
creakingly out of the room. My pent-up excitement
burst forth.
"Poirot," I cried, "I congratulate you! This is a
great discovery."
"What is a great discovery?"
"Why, that it was the coco and not the coffee
that was poisoned. That explains everything! Of
course it did not take effect until the early
morning, since the coco was only drunk in the middle
of the night."
"So you think that the coco—mark well what I say,
Hastings, the coco—contained strychnine?"
"Of course! That salt on the tray, what else
could it have been?"
"It might have been salt," replied Poirot
placidly.
I shrugged my shoulders. If he was going to take
the matter that way, it was no good arguing with
him. The idea crossed my mind, not for the first
time, that poor old Poirot was growing old.
Privately I thought it lucky that he had associated
with him some one of a more receptive type of mind.
Poirot was surveying me with quietly twinkling
eyes.
"You are not pleased with me, mon ami?"
"My dear Poirot," I said coldly, "it is not for
me to dictate to you. You have a right to your own
opinion, just as I have to mine."
"A most admirable sentiment," remarked Poirot,
rising briskly to his feet. "Now I have finished
with this room. By the way, whose is the smaller
desk in the corner?"
"Mr. Inglethorp's."
"Ah!" He tried the roll top tentatively. "Locked.
But perhaps one of Mrs. Inglethorp's keys would open
it." He tried several, twisting and turning them
with a practiced hand, and finally uttering an
ejaculation of satisfaction. "Voila! It is not the
key, but it will open it at a pinch." He slid back
the roll top, and ran a rapid eye over the neatly
filed papers. To my surprise, he did not examine
them, merely remarking approvingly as he relocked
the desk: "Decidedly, he is a man of method, this
Mr. Inglethorp!"
A "man of method" was, in Poirot's estimation,
the highest praise that could be bestowed on any
individual.
I felt that my friend was not what he had been as
he rambled on disconnectedly:
"There were no stamps in his desk, but there
might have been, eh, mon ami? There might have been?
Yes"—his eyes wandered round the room—"this boudoir
has nothing more to tell us. It did not yield much.
Only this."
He pulled a crumpled envelope out of his pocket,
and tossed it over to me. It was rather a curious
document. A plain, dirty looking old envelope with a
few words scrawled across it, apparently at random.
The following is a facsimile of it.
CHAPTER V. "IT ISN'T STRYCHNINE, IS IT?"
"Where did you find this?" I asked Poirot, in
lively curiosity.
"In the waste-paper basket. You recognise the
handwriting?"
"Yes, it is Mrs. Inglethorp's. But what does it
mean?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"I cannot say—but it is suggestive."
A wild idea flashed across me. Was it possible
that Mrs. Inglethorp's mind was deranged? Had she
some fantastic idea of demoniacal possession? And,
if that were so, was it not also possible that she
might have taken her own life?
I was about to expound these theories to Poirot,
when his own words distracted me.
"Come," he said, "now to examine the
coffee-cups!"
"My dear Poirot! What on earth is the good of
that, now that we know about the coco?"
"Oh, la la! That miserable coco!" cried Poirot
flippantly.
He laughed with apparent enjoyment, raising his
arms to heaven in mock despair, in what I could not
but consider the worst possible taste.
"And, anyway," I said, with increasing coldness,
"as Mrs. Inglethorp took her coffee upstairs with
her, I do not see what you expect to find, unless
you consider it likely that we shall discover a
packet of strychnine on the coffee tray!"
Poirot was sobered at once.
"Come, come, my friend," he said, slipping his
arms through mine. "Ne vous fachez pas! Allow me to
interest myself in my coffee-cups, and I will
respect your coco. There! Is it a bargain?"
He was so quaintly humorous that I was forced to
laugh; and we went together to the drawing-room,
where the coffee-cups and tray remained undisturbed
as we had left them.
Poirot made me recapitulate the scene of the
night before, listening very carefully, and
verifying the position of the various cups.
"So Mrs. Cavendish stood by the tray—and poured
out. Yes. Then she came across to the window where
you sat with Mademoiselle Cynthia. Yes. Here are the
three cups. And the cup on the mantel-piece, half
drunk, that would be Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's. And
the one on the tray?"
"John Cavendish's. I saw him put it down there."
"Good. One, two, three, four, five—but where,
then, is the cup of Mr. Inglethorp?"
"He does not take coffee."
"Then all are accounted for. One moment, my
friend."
With infinite care, he took a drop or two from
the grounds in each cup, sealing them up in separate
test tubes, tasting each in turn as he did so. His
physiognomy underwent a curious change. An
expression gathered there that I can only describe
as half puzzled, and half relieved.
"Bien!" he said at last. "It is evident! I had an
idea—but clearly I was mistaken. Yes, altogether I
was mistaken. Yet it is strange. But no matter!"
And, with a characteristic shrug, he dismissed
whatever it was that was worrying him from his mind.
I could have told him from the beginning that this
obsession of his over the coffee was bound to end in
a blind alley, but I restrained my tongue. After
all, though he was old, Poirot had been a great man
in his day.
"Breakfast is ready," said John Cavendish, coming
in from the hall. "You will breakfast with us,
Monsieur Poirot?"
Poirot acquiesced. I observed John. Already he
was almost restored to his normal self. The shock of
the events of the last night had upset him
temporarily, but his equable poise soon swung back
to the normal. He was a man of very little
imagination, in sharp contrast with his brother, who
had, perhaps, too much.
Ever since the early hours of the morning, John
had been hard at work, sending telegrams—one of the
first had gone to Evelyn Howard—writing notices for
the papers, and generally occupying himself with the
melancholy duties that a death entails.
"May I ask how things are proceeding?" he said.
"Do your investigations point to my mother having
died a natural death—or—or must we prepare ourselves
for the worst?"
"I think, Mr. Cavendish," said Poirot gravely,
"that you would do well not to buoy yourself up with
any false hopes. Can you tell me the views of the
other members of the family?"
"My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are
making a fuss over nothing. He says that everything
points to its being a simple case of heart failure."
"He does, does he? That is very interesting—very
interesting," murmured Poirot softly. "And Mrs.
Cavendish?"
A faint cloud passed over John's face.
"I have not the least idea what my wife's views
on the subject are."
The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its
train. John broke the rather awkward silence by
saying with a slight effort:
"I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has
returned?"
Poirot bent his head.
"It's an awkward position for all of us. Of
course one has to treat him as usual—but, hang it
all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eat
with a possible murderer!"
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
"I quite understand. It is a very difficult
situation for you, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to
ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for
not returning last night was, I believe, that he had
forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?"
"Yes."
"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key
was forgotten—that he did not take it after
all?"
"I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We
always keep it in the hall drawer. I'll go and see
if it's there now."
Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile.
"No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I am
certain that you would find it. If Mr. Inglethorp
did take it, he has had ample time to replace it by
now."
"But do you think——"
"I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look
this morning before his return, and seen it there,
it would have been a valuable point in his favour.
That is all."
John looked perplexed.
"Do not worry," said Poirot smoothly. "I assure
you that you need not let it trouble you. Since you
are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast."
Every one was assembled in the dining-room. Under
the circumstances, we were naturally not a cheerful
party. The reaction after a shock is always trying,
and I think we were all suffering from it. Decorum
and good breeding naturally enjoined that our
demeanour should be much as usual, yet I could not
help wondering if this self-control were really a
matter of great difficulty. There were no red eyes,
no signs of secretly indulged grief. I felt that I
was right in my opinion that Dorcas was the person
most affected by the personal side of the tragedy.
I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the
bereaved widower in a manner that I felt to be
disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know that we
suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not be
unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he
feel some secret stirring of fear, or was he
confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely
the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that
he was already a marked man.
But did every one suspect him? What about Mrs.
Cavendish? I watched her as she sat at the head of
the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. In her
soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists
falling over her slender hands, she looked very
beautiful. When she chose, however, her face could
be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very
silent, hardly opening her lips, and yet in some
queer way I felt that the great strength of her
personality was dominating us all.
And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked
very tired and ill, I thought. The heaviness and
languor of her manner were very marked. I asked her
if she were feeling ill, and she answered frankly:
"Yes, I've got the most beastly headache."
"Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?" said
Poirot solicitously. "It will revive you. It is
unparalleled for the mal de tete." He jumped up and
took her cup.
"No sugar," said Cynthia, watching him, as he
picked up the sugar-tongs.
"No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, eh?"
"No, I never take it in coffee."
"Sacre!" murmured Poirot to himself, as he
brought back the replenished cup.
Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at
the little man I saw that his face was working with
suppressed excitement, and his eyes were as green as
a cat's. He had heard or seen something that had
affected him strongly—but what was it? I do not
usually label myself as dense, but I must confess
that nothing out of the ordinary had attracted my
attention.
In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas
appeared.
"Mr. Wells to see you, sir," she said to John.
I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer
to whom Mrs. Inglethorp had written the night
before.
John rose immediately.
"Show him into my study." Then he turned to us.
"My mother's lawyer," he explained. And in a lower
voice: "He is also Coroner—you understand. Perhaps
you would like to come with me?"
We acquiesced and followed him out of the room.
John strode on ahead and I took the opportunity of
whispering to Poirot:
"There will be an inquest then?"
Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in
thought; so much so that my curiosity was aroused.
"What is it? You are not attending to what I
say."
"It is true, my friend. I am much worried."
"Why?"
"Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar
in her coffee."
"What? You cannot be serious?"
"But I am most serious. Ah, there is something
there that I do not understand. My instinct was
right."
"What instinct?"
"The instinct that led me to insist on examining
those coffee-cups. Chut! no more now!"
We followed John into his study, and he closed
the door behind us.
Mr. Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with
keen eyes, and the typical lawyer's mouth. John
introduced us both, and explained the reason of our
presence.
"You will understand, Wells," he added, "that
this is all strictly private. We are still hoping
that there will turn out to be no need for
investigation of any kind."
"Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Wells soothingly.
"I wish we could have spared you the pain and
publicity of an inquest, but of course it's quite
unavoidable in the absence of a doctor's
certificate."
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on
toxicology, I believe."
"Indeed," said John with a certain stiffness in
his manner. Then he added rather hesitatingly:
"Shall we have to appear as witnesses—all of us, I
mean?"
"You, of course—and ah—er—Mr.—er—Inglethorp."
A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on
in his soothing manner:
"Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory,
a mere matter of form."
"I see."
A faint expression of relief swept over John's
face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it.
"If you know of nothing to the contrary," pursued
Mr. Wells, "I had thought of Friday. That will give
us plenty of time for the doctor's report. The
post-mortem is to take place to-night, I believe?"
"Yes."
"Then that arrangement will suit you?"
"Perfectly."
"I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how
distressed I am at this most tragic affair."
"Can you give us no help in solving it,
monsieur?" interposed Poirot, speaking for the first
time since we had entered the room.
"I?"
"Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you
last night. You should have received the letter this
morning."
"I did, but it contains no information. It is
merely a note asking me to call upon her this
morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of
great importance."
"She gave you no hint as to what that matter
might be?"
"Unfortunately, no."
"That is a pity," said John.
"A great pity," agreed Poirot gravely.
There was silence. Poirot remained lost in
thought for a few minutes. Finally he turned to the
lawyer again.
"Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to
ask you—that is, if it is not against professional
etiquette. In the event of Mrs. Inglethorp's death,
who would inherit her money?"
The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied:
"The knowledge will be public property very soon,
so if Mr. Cavendish does not object——"
"Not at all," interpolated John.
"I do not see any reason why I should not answer
your question. By her last will, dated August of
last year, after various unimportant legacies to
servants, etc., she gave her entire fortune to her
stepson, Mr. John Cavendish."
"Was not that—pardon the question, Mr.
Cavendish—rather unfair to her other stepson, Mr.
Lawrence Cavendish?"
"No, I do not think so. You see, under the terms
of their father's will, while John inherited the
property, Lawrence, at his stepmother's death, would
come into a considerable sum of money. Mrs.
Inglethorp left her money to her elder stepson,
knowing that he would have to keep up Styles. It
was, to my mind, a very fair and equitable
distribution."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
"I see. But I am right in saying, am I not, that
by your English law that will was automatically
revoked when Mrs. Inglethorp remarried?"
Mr. Wells bowed his head.
"As I was about to proceed, Monsieur Poirot, that
document is now null and void."
"Hein!" said Poirot. He reflected for a moment,
and then asked: "Was Mrs. Inglethorp herself aware
of that fact?"
"I do not know. She may have been."
"She was," said John unexpectedly. "We were
discussing the matter of wills being revoked by
marriage only yesterday."
"Ah! One more question, Mr. Wells. You say 'her
last will.' Had Mrs. Inglethorp, then, made several
former wills?"
"On an average, she made a new will at least once
a year," said Mr. Wells imperturbably. "She was
given to changing her mind as to her testamentary
dispositions, now benefiting one, now another member
of her family."
"Suppose," suggested Poirot, "that, unknown to
you, she had made a new will in favour of some one
who was not, in any sense of the word, a member of
the family—we will say Miss Howard, for
instance—would you be surprised?"
"Not in the least."
"Ah!" Poirot seemed to have exhausted his
questions.
I drew close to him, while John and the lawyer
were debating the question of going through Mrs.
Inglethorp's papers.
"Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp made a will leaving
all her money to Miss Howard?" I asked in a low
voice, with some curiosity.
Poirot smiled.
"No."
"Then why did you ask?"
"Hush!"
John Cavendish had turned to Poirot.
"Will you come with us, Monsieur Poirot? We are
going through my mother's papers. Mr. Inglethorp is
quite willing to leave it entirely to Mr. Wells and
myself."
"Which simplifies matters very much," murmured
the lawyer. "As technically, of course, he was
entitled——" He did not finish the sentence.
"We will look through the desk in the boudoir
first," explained John, "and go up to her bedroom
afterwards. She kept her most important papers in a
purple despatch-case, which we must look through
carefully."
"Yes," said the lawyer, "it is quite possible
that there may be a later will than the one in my
possession."
"There is a later will." It was Poirot who
spoke.
"What?" John and the lawyer looked at him
startled.
"Or, rather," pursued my friend imperturbably,
"there was one."
"What do you mean—there was one? Where is it
now?"
"Burnt!"
"Burnt?"
"Yes. See here." He took out the charred fragment
we had found in the grate in Mrs. Inglethorp's room,
and handed it to the lawyer with a brief explanation
of when and where he had found it.
"But possibly this is an old will?"
"I do not think so. In fact I am almost certain
that it was made no earlier than yesterday
afternoon."
"What?" "Impossible!" broke simultaneously from
both men.
Poirot turned to John.
"If you will allow me to send for your gardener,
I will prove it to you."
"Oh, of course—but I don't see——"
Poirot raised his hand.
"Do as I ask you. Afterwards you shall question
as much as you please."
"Very well." He rang the bell.
Dorcas answered it in due course.
"Dorcas, will you tell Manning to come round and
speak to me here."
"Yes, sir."
Dorcas withdrew.
We waited in a tense silence. Poirot alone seemed
perfectly at his ease, and dusted a forgotten corner
of the bookcase.
The clumping of hobnailed boots on the gravel
outside proclaimed the approach of Manning. John
looked questioningly at Poirot. The latter nodded.
"Come inside, Manning," said John, "I want to
speak to you."
Manning came slowly and hesitatingly through the
French window, and stood as near it as he could. He
held his cap in his hands, twisting it very
carefully round and round. His back was much bent,
though he was probably not as old as he looked, but
his eyes were sharp and intelligent, and belied his
slow and rather cautious speech.
"Manning," said John, "this gentleman will put
some questions to you which I want you to answer."
"Yes sir," mumbled Manning.
Poirot stepped forward briskly. Manning's eye
swept over him with a faint contempt.
"You were planting a bed of begonias round by the
south side of the house yesterday afternoon, were
you not, Manning?"
"Yes, sir, me and Willum."
"And Mrs. Inglethorp came to the window and
called you, did she not?"
"Yes, sir, she did."
"Tell me in your own words exactly what happened
after that."
"Well, sir, nothing much. She just told Willum to
go on his bicycle down to the village, and bring
back a form of will, or such-like—I don't know what
exactly—she wrote it down for him."
"Well?"
"Well, he did, sir."
"And what happened next?"
"We went on with the begonias, sir."
"Did not Mrs. Inglethorp call you again?"
"Yes, sir, both me and Willum, she called."
"And then?"
"She made us come right in, and sign our names at
the bottom of a long paper—under where she'd
signed."
"Did you see anything of what was written above
her signature?" asked Poirot sharply.
"No, sir, there was a bit of blotting paper over
that part."
"And you signed where she told you?"
"Yes, sir, first me and then Willum."
"What did she do with it afterwards?"
"Well, sir, she slipped it into a long envelope,
and put it inside a sort of purple box that was
standing on the desk."
"What time was it when she first called you?"
"About four, I should say, sir."
"Not earlier? Couldn't it have been about
half-past three?"
"No, I shouldn't say so, sir. It would be more
likely to be a bit after four—not before it."
"Thank you, Manning, that will do," said Poirot
pleasantly.
The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded,
whereupon Manning lifted a finger to his forehead
with a low mumble, and backed cautiously out of the
window.
We all looked at each other.
"Good heavens!" murmured John. "What an
extraordinary coincidence."
"How—a coincidence?"
"That my mother should have made a will on the
very day of her death!"
Mr. Wells cleared his throat and remarked drily:
"Are you so sure it is a coincidence, Cavendish?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your mother, you tell me, had a violent quarrel
with—some one yesterday afternoon——"
"What do you mean?" cried John again. There was a
tremor in his voice, and he had gone very pale.
"In consequence of that quarrel, your mother very
suddenly and hurriedly makes a new will. The
contents of that will we shall never know. She told
no one of its provisions. This morning, no doubt,
she would have consulted me on the subject—but she
had no chance. The will disappears, and she takes
its secret with her to her grave. Cavendish, I much
fear there is no coincidence there. Monsieur Poirot,
I am sure you agree with me that the facts are very
suggestive."
"Suggestive, or not," interrupted John, "we are
most grateful to Monsieur Poirot for elucidating the
matter. But for him, we should never have known of
this will. I suppose, I may not ask you, monsieur,
what first led you to suspect the fact?"
Poirot smiled and answered:
"A scribbled over old envelope, and a freshly
planted bed of begonias."
John, I think, would have pressed his questions
further, but at that moment the loud purr of a motor
was audible, and we all turned to the window as it
swept past.
"Evie!" cried John. "Excuse me, Wells." He went
hurriedly out into the hall.
Poirot looked inquiringly at me.
"Miss Howard," I explained.
"Ah, I am glad she has come. There is a woman
with a head and a heart too, Hastings. Though the
good God gave her no beauty!"
I followed John's example, and went out into the
hall, where Miss Howard was endeavouring to
extricate herself from the voluminous mass of veils
that enveloped her head. As her eyes fell on me, a
sudden pang of guilt shot through me. This was the
woman who had warned me so earnestly, and to whose
warning I had, alas, paid no heed! How soon, and how
contemptuously, I had dismissed it from my mind. Now
that she had been proved justified in so tragic a
manner, I felt ashamed. She had known Alfred
Inglethorp only too well. I wondered whether, if she
had remained at Styles, the tragedy would have taken
place, or would the man have feared her watchful
eyes?
I was relieved when she shook me by the hand,
with her well remembered painful grip. The eyes that
met mine were sad, but not reproachful; that she had
been crying bitterly, I could tell by the redness of
her eyelids, but her manner was unchanged from its
old gruffness.
"Started the moment I got the wire. Just come off
night duty. Hired car. Quickest way to get here."
"Have you had anything to eat this morning,
Evie?" asked John.
"No."
"I thought not. Come along, breakfast's not
cleared away yet, and they'll make you some fresh
tea." He turned to me. "Look after her, Hastings,
will you? Wells is waiting for me. Oh, here's
Monsieur Poirot. He's helping us, you know, Evie."
Miss Howard shook hands with Poirot, but glanced
suspiciously over her shoulder at John.
"What do you mean—helping us?"
"Helping us to investigate."
"Nothing to investigate. Have they taken him to
prison yet?"
"Taken who to prison?"
"Who? Alfred Inglethorp, of course!"
"My dear Evie, do be careful. Lawrence is of the
opinion that my mother died from heart seizure."
"More fool, Lawrence!" retorted Miss Howard. "Of
course Alfred Inglethorp murdered poor Emily—as I
always told you he would."
"My dear Evie, don't shout so. Whatever we may
think or suspect, it is better to say as little as
possible for the present. The inquest isn't until
Friday."
"Not until fiddlesticks!" The snort Miss Howard
gave was truly magnificent. "You're all off your
heads. The man will be out of the country by then.
If he's any sense, he won't stay here tamely and
wait to be hanged."
John Cavendish looked at her helplessly.
"I know what it is," she accused him, "you've
been listening to the doctors. Never should. What do
they know? Nothing at all—or just enough to make
them dangerous. I ought to know—my own father was a
doctor. That little Wilkins is about the greatest
fool that even I have ever seen. Heart seizure! Sort
of thing he would say. Anyone with any sense could
see at once that her husband had poisoned her. I
always said he'd murder her in her bed, poor soul.
Now he's done it. And all you can do is to murmur
silly things about 'heart seizure' and 'inquest on
Friday.' You ought to be ashamed of yourself, John
Cavendish."
"What do you want me to do?" asked John, unable
to help a faint smile. "Dash it all, Evie, I can't
haul him down to the local police station by the
scruff of his neck."
"Well, you might do something. Find out how he
did it. He's a crafty beggar. Dare say he soaked fly
papers. Ask Cook if she's missed any."
It occurred to me very forcibly at that moment
that to harbour Miss Howard and Alfred Inglethorp
under the same roof, and keep the peace between
them, was likely to prove a Herculean task, and I
did not envy John. I could see by the expression of
his face that he fully appreciated the difficulty of
the position. For the moment, he sought refuge in
retreat, and left the room precipitately.
Dorcas brought in fresh tea. As she left the
room, Poirot came over from the window where he had
been standing, and sat down facing Miss Howard.
"Mademoiselle," he said gravely, "I want to ask
you something."
"Ask away," said the lady, eyeing him with some
disfavour.
"I want to be able to count upon your help."
"I'll help you to hang Alfred with pleasure," she
replied gruffly. "Hanging's too good for him. Ought
to be drawn and quartered, like in good old times."
"We are at one then," said Poirot, "for I, too,
want to hang the criminal."
"Alfred Inglethorp?"
"Him, or another."
"No question of another. Poor Emily was never
murdered until he came along. I don't say she
wasn't surrounded by sharks—she was. But it was only
her purse they were after. Her life was safe enough.
But along comes Mr. Alfred Inglethorp—and within two
months—hey presto!"
"Believe me, Miss Howard," said Poirot very
earnestly, "if Mr. Inglethorp is the man, he shall
not escape me. On my honour, I will hang him as high
as Haman!"
"That's better," said Miss Howard more
enthusiastically.
"But I must ask you to trust me. Now your help
may be very valuable to me. I will tell you why.
Because, in all this house of mourning, yours are
the only eyes that have wept."
Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into
the gruffness of her voice.
"If you mean that I was fond of her—yes, I was.
You know, Emily was a selfish old woman in her way.
She was very generous, but she always wanted a
return. She never let people forget what she had
done for them—and, that way she missed love. Don't
think she ever realized it, though, or felt the lack
of it. Hope not, anyway. I was on a different
footing. I took my stand from the first. 'So many
pounds a year I'm worth to you. Well and good. But
not a penny piece besides—not a pair of gloves, nor
a theatre ticket.' She didn't understand—was very
offended sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It
wasn't that—but I couldn't explain. Anyway, I kept
my self-respect. And so, out of the whole bunch, I
was the only one who could allow myself to be fond
of her. I watched over her. I guarded her from the
lot of them, and then a glib-tongued scoundrel comes
along, and pooh! all my years of devotion go for
nothing."
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
"I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you
feel. It is most natural. You think that we are
lukewarm—that we lack fire and energy—but trust me,
it is not so."
John stuck his head in at this juncture, and
invited us both to come up to Mrs. Inglethorp's
room, as he and Mr. Wells had finished looking
through the desk in the boudoir.
As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the
dining-room door, and lowered his voice
confidentially:
"Look here, what's going to happen when these two
meet?"
I shook my head helplessly.
"I've told Mary to keep them apart if she can."
"Will she be able to do so?"
"The Lord only knows. There's one thing,
Inglethorp himself won't be too keen on meeting
her."
"You've got the keys still, haven't you, Poirot?"
I asked, as we reached the door of the locked room.
Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it,
and we all passed in. The lawyer went straight to
the desk, and John followed him.
"My mother kept most of her important papers in
this despatch-case, I believe," he said.
Poirot drew out the small bunch of keys.
"Permit me. I locked it, out of precaution, this
morning."
"But it's not locked now."
"Impossible!"
"See." And John lifted the lid as he spoke.
"Milles tonnerres!" cried Poirot, dumfounded.
"And I—who have both the keys in my pocket!" He
flung himself upon the case. Suddenly he stiffened.
"En voila une affaire! This lock has been forced."
"What?"
Poirot laid down the case again.
"But who forced it? Why should they? When? But
the door was locked?" These exclamations burst from
us disjointedly.
Poirot answered them categorically—almost
mechanically.
"Who? That is the question. Why? Ah, if I only
knew. When? Since I was here an hour ago. As to the
door being locked, it is a very ordinary lock.
Probably any other of the doorkeys in this passage
would fit it."
We stared at one another blankly. Poirot had
walked over to the mantel-piece. He was outwardly
calm, but I noticed his hands, which from long force
of habit were mechanically straightening the spill
vases on the mantel-piece, were shaking violently.
"See here, it was like this," he said at last.
"There was something in that case—some piece of
evidence, slight in itself perhaps, but still enough
of a clue to connect the murderer with the crime. It
was vital to him that it should be destroyed before
it was discovered and its significance appreciated.
Therefore, he took the risk, the great risk, of
coming in here. Finding the case locked, he was
obliged to force it, thus betraying his presence.
For him to take that risk, it must have been
something of great importance."
"But what was it?"
"Ah!" cried Poirot, with a gesture of anger.
"That, I do not know! A document of some kind,
without doubt, possibly the scrap of paper Dorcas
saw in her hand yesterday afternoon. And I—" his
anger burst forth freely—"miserable animal that I
am! I guessed nothing! I have behaved like an
imbecile! I should never have left that case here. I
should have carried it away with me. Ah, triple pig!
And now it is gone. It is destroyed—but is it
destroyed? Is there not yet a chance—we must leave
no stone unturned—"
He rushed like a madman from the room, and I
followed him as soon as I had sufficiently recovered
my wits. But, by the time I had reached the top of
the stairs, he was out of sight.
Mary Cavendish was standing where the staircase
branched, staring down into the hall in the
direction in which he had disappeared.
"What has happened to your extraordinary little
friend, Mr. Hastings? He has just rushed past me
like a mad bull."
"He's rather upset about something," I remarked
feebly. I really did not know how much Poirot would
wish me to disclose. As I saw a faint smile gather
on Mrs. Cavendish's expressive mouth, I endeavoured
to try and turn the conversation by saying: "They
haven't met yet, have they?"
"Who?"
"Mr. Inglethorp and Miss Howard."
She looked at me in rather a disconcerting
manner.
"Do you think it would be such a disaster if they
did meet?"
"Well, don't you?" I said, rather taken aback.
"No." She was smiling in her quiet way. "I should
like to see a good flare up. It would clear the air.
At present we are all thinking so much, and saying
so little."
"John doesn't think so," I remarked. "He's
anxious to keep them apart."
"Oh, John!"
Something in her tone fired me, and I blurted
out:
"Old John's an awfully good sort."
She studied me curiously for a minute or two, and
then said, to my great surprise:
"You are loyal to your friend. I like you for
that."
"Aren't you my friend too?"
"I am a very bad friend."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because it is true. I am charming to my friends
one day, and forget all about them the next."
I don't know what impelled me, but I was nettled,
and I said foolishly and not in the best of taste:
"Yet you seem to be invariably charming to Dr.
Bauerstein!"
Instantly I regretted my words. Her face
stiffened. I had the impression of a steel curtain
coming down and blotting out the real woman. Without
a word, she turned and went swiftly up the stairs,
whilst I stood like an idiot gaping after her.
I was recalled to other matters by a frightful
row going on below. I could hear Poirot shouting and
expounding. I was vexed to think that my diplomacy
had been in vain. The little man appeared to be
taking the whole house into his confidence, a
proceeding of which I, for one, doubted the wisdom.
Once again I could not help regretting that my
friend was so prone to lose his head in moments of
excitement. I stepped briskly down the stairs. The
sight of me calmed Poirot almost immediately. I drew
him aside.
"My dear fellow," I said, "is this wise? Surely
you don't want the whole house to know of this
occurrence? You are actually playing into the
criminal's hands."
"You think so, Hastings?"
"I am sure of it."
"Well, well, my friend, I will be guided by you."
"Good. Although, unfortunately, it is a little
too late now."
"Sure."
He looked so crestfallen and abashed that I felt
quite sorry, though I still thought my rebuke a just
and wise one.
"Well," he said at last, "let us go, mon ami."
"You have finished here?"
"For the moment, yes. You will walk back with me
to the village?"
"Willingly."
He picked up his little suit-case, and we went
out through the open window in the drawing-room.
Cynthia Murdoch was just coming in, and Poirot stood
aside to let her pass.
"Excuse me, mademoiselle, one minute."
"Yes?" she turned inquiringly.
"Did you ever make up Mrs. Inglethorp's
medicines?"
A slight flush rose in her face, as she answered
rather constrainedly:
"No."
"Only her powders?"
The flush deepened as Cynthia replied:
"Oh, yes, I did make up some sleeping powders for
her once."
"These?"
Poirot produced the empty box which had contained
powders.
She nodded.
"Can you tell me what they were? Sulphonal?
Veronal?"
"No, they were bromide powders."
"Ah! Thank you, mademoiselle; good morning."
As we walked briskly away from the house, I
glanced at him more than once. I had often before
noticed that, if anything excited him, his eyes
turned green like a cat's. They were shining like
emeralds now.
"My friend," he broke out at last, "I have a
little idea, a very strange, and probably utterly
impossible idea. And yet—it fits in."
I shrugged my shoulders. I privately thought that
Poirot was rather too much given to these fantastic
ideas. In this case, surely, the truth was only too
plain and apparent.
"So that is the explanation of the blank label on
the box," I remarked. "Very simple, as you said. I
really wonder that I did not think of it myself."
Poirot did not appear to be listening to me.
"They have made one more discovery, la-bas," he
observed, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the
direction of Styles. "Mr. Wells told me as we were
going upstairs."
"What was it?"
"Locked up in the desk in the boudoir, they found
a will of Mrs. Inglethorp's, dated before her
marriage, leaving her fortune to Alfred Inglethorp.
It must have been made just at the time they were
engaged. It came quite as a surprise to Wells—and to
John Cavendish also. It was written on one of those
printed will forms, and witnessed by two of the
servants—not Dorcas."
"Did Mr. Inglethorp know of it?"
"He says not."
"One might take that with a grain of salt," I
remarked sceptically. "All these wills are very
confusing. Tell me, how did those scribbled words on
the envelope help you to discover that a will was
made yesterday afternoon?"
Poirot smiled.
"Mon ami, have you ever, when writing a letter,
been arrested by the fact that you did not know how
to spell a certain word?"
"Yes, often. I suppose every one has."
"Exactly. And have you not, in such a case, tried
the word once or twice on the edge of the
blotting-paper, or a spare scrap of paper, to see if
it looked right? Well, that is what Mrs. Inglethorp
did. You will notice that the word 'possessed' is
spelt first with one 's' and subsequently with
two—correctly. To make sure, she had further tried
it in a sentence, thus: 'I am possessed.' Now, what
did that tell me? It told me that Mrs. Inglethorp
had been writing the word 'possessed' that
afternoon, and, having the fragment of paper found
in the grate fresh in my mind, the possibility of a
will—(a document almost certain to contain that
word)—occurred to me at once. This possibility was
confirmed by a further circumstance. In the general
confusion, the boudoir had not been swept that
morning, and near the desk were several traces of
brown mould and earth. The weather had been
perfectly fine for some days, and no ordinary boots
would have left such a heavy deposit.
"I strolled to the window, and saw at once that
the begonia beds had been newly planted. The mould
in the beds was exactly similar to that on the floor
of the boudoir, and also I learnt from you that they
had been planted yesterday afternoon. I was now sure
that one, or possibly both of the gardeners—for
there were two sets of footprints in the bed—had
entered the boudoir, for if Mrs. Inglethorp had
merely wished to speak to them she would in all
probability have stood at the window, and they would
not have come into the room at all. I was now quite
convinced that she had made a fresh will, and had
called the two gardeners in to witness her
signature. Events proved that I was right in my
supposition."
"That was very ingenious," I could not help
admitting. "I must confess that the conclusions I
drew from those few scribbled words were quite
erroneous."
He smiled.
"You gave too much rein to your imagination.
Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The
simplest explanation is always the most likely."
"Another point—how did you know that the key of
the despatch-case had been lost?"
"I did not know it. It was a guess that turned
out to be correct. You observed that it had a piece
of twisted wire through the handle. That suggested
to me at once that it had possibly been wrenched off
a flimsy key-ring. Now, if it had been lost and
recovered, Mrs. Inglethorp would at once have
replaced it on her bunch; but on her bunch I found
what was obviously the duplicate key, very new and
bright, which led me to the hypothesis that somebody
else had inserted the original key in the lock of
the despatch-case."
"Yes," I said, "Alfred Inglethorp, without
doubt."
Poirot looked at me curiously.
"You are very sure of his guilt?"
"Well, naturally. Every fresh circumstance seems
to establish it more clearly."
"On the contrary," said Poirot quietly, "there
are several points in his favour."
"Oh, come now!"
"Yes."
"I see only one."
"And that?"
"That he was not in the house last night."
"'Bad shot!' as you English say! You have chosen
the one point that to my mind tells against him."
"How is that?"
"Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife
would be poisoned last night, he would certainly
have arranged to be away from the house. His excuse
was an obviously trumped up one. That leaves us two
possibilities: either he knew what was going to
happen or he had a reason of his own for his
absence."
"And that reason?" I asked sceptically.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"How should I know? Discreditable, without doubt.
This Mr. Inglethorp, I should say, is somewhat of a
scoundrel—but that does not of necessity make him a
murderer."
I shook my head, unconvinced.
"We do not agree, eh?" said Poirot. "Well, let us
leave it. Time will show which of us is right. Now
let us turn to other aspects of the case. What do
you make of the fact that all the doors of the
bedroom were bolted on the inside?"
"Well——" I considered. "One must look at it
logically."
"True."
"I should put it this way. The doors were
bolted—our own eyes have told us that—yet the
presence of the candle grease on the floor, and the
destruction of the will, prove that during the night
some one entered the room. You agree so far?"
"Perfectly. Put with admirable clearness.
Proceed."
"Well," I said, encouraged, "as the person who
entered did not do so by the window, nor by
miraculous means, it follows that the door must have
been opened from inside by Mrs. Inglethorp herself.
That strengthens the conviction that the person in
question was her husband. She would naturally open
the door to her own husband."
Poirot shook his head.
"Why should she? She had bolted the door leading
into his room—a most unusual proceeding on her
part—she had had a most violent quarrel with him
that very afternoon. No, he was the last person she
would admit."
"But you agree with me that the door must have
been opened by Mrs. Inglethorp herself?"
"There is another possibility. She may have
forgotten to bolt the door into the passage when she
went to bed, and have got up later, towards morning,
and bolted it then."
"Poirot, is that seriously your opinion?"
"No, I do not say it is so, but it might be. Now,
to turn to another feature, what do you make of the
scrap of conversation you overheard between Mrs.
Cavendish and her mother-in-law?"
"I had forgotten that," I said thoughtfully.
"That is as enigmatical as ever. It seems incredible
that a woman like Mrs. Cavendish, proud and reticent
to the last degree, should interfere so violently in
what was certainly not her affair."
"Precisely. It was an astonishing thing for a
woman of her breeding to do."
"It is certainly curious," I agreed. "Still, it
is unimportant, and need not be taken into account."
A groan burst from Poirot.
"What have I always told you? Everything must be
taken into account. If the fact will not fit the
theory—let the theory go."
"Well, we shall see," I said, nettled.
"Yes, we shall see."
We had reached Leastways Cottage, and Poirot
ushered me upstairs to his own room. He offered me
one of the tiny Russian cigarettes he himself
occasionally smoked. I was amused to notice that he
stowed away the used matches most carefully in a
little china pot. My momentary annoyance vanished.
Poirot had placed our two chairs in front of the
open window which commanded a view of the village
street. The fresh air blew in warm and pleasant. It
was going to be a hot day.
Suddenly my attention was arrested by a weedy
looking young man rushing down the street at a great
pace. It was the expression on his face that was
extraordinary—a curious mingling of terror and
agitation.
"Look, Poirot!" I said.
He leant forward.
"Tiens!" he said. "It is Mr. Mace, from the
chemist's shop. He is coming here."
The young man came to a halt before Leastways
Cottage, and, after hesitating a moment, pounded
vigorously at the door.
"A little minute," cried Poirot from the window.
"I come."
Motioning to me to follow him, he ran swiftly
down the stairs and opened the door. Mr. Mace began
at once.
"Oh, Mr. Poirot, I'm sorry for the inconvenience,
but I heard that you'd just come back from the
Hall?"
"Yes, we have."
The young man moistened his dry lips. His face
was working curiously.
"It's all over the village about old Mrs.
Inglethorp dying so suddenly. They do say—" he
lowered his voice cautiously—"that it's poison?"
Poirot's face remained quite impassive.
"Only the doctors can tell us that, Mr. Mace."
"Yes, exactly—of course——" The young man
hesitated, and then his agitation was too much for
him. He clutched Poirot by the arm, and sank his
voice to a whisper: "Just tell me this, Mr. Poirot,
it isn't—it isn't strychnine, is it?"
I hardly heard what Poirot replied. Something
evidently of a non-committal nature. The young man
departed, and as he closed the door Poirot's eyes
met mine.
"Yes," he said, nodding gravely. "He will have
evidence to give at the inquest."
We went slowly upstairs again. I was opening my
lips, when Poirot stopped me with a gesture of his
hand.
"Not now, not now, mon ami. I have need of
reflection. My mind is in some disorder—which is not
well."
For about ten minutes he sat in dead silence,
perfectly still, except for several expressive
motions of his eyebrows, and all the time his eyes
grew steadily greener. At last he heaved a deep
sigh.
"It is well. The bad moment has passed. Now all
is arranged and classified. One must never permit
confusion. The case is not clear yet—no. For it is
of the most complicated! It puzzles me. Me,
Hercule Poirot! There are two facts of
significance."
"And what are they?"
"The first is the state of the weather yesterday.
That is very important."
"But it was a glorious day!" I interrupted.
"Poirot, you're pulling my leg!"
"Not at all. The thermometer registered 80
degrees in the shade. Do not forget that, my friend.
It is the key to the whole riddle!"
"And the second point?" I asked.
"The important fact that Monsieur Inglethorp
wears very peculiar clothes, has a black beard, and
uses glasses."
"Poirot, I cannot believe you are serious."
"I am absolutely serious, my friend."
"But this is childish!"
"No, it is very momentous."
"And supposing the Coroner's jury returns a
verdict of Wilful Murder against Alfred Inglethorp.
What becomes of your theories, then?"
"They would not be shaken because twelve stupid
men had happened to make a mistake! But that will
not occur. For one thing, a country jury is not
anxious to take responsibility upon itself, and Mr.
Inglethorp stands practically in the position of
local squire. Also," he added placidly, "I should
not allow it!"
"You would not allow it?"
"No."
I looked at the extraordinary little man, divided
between annoyance and amusement. He was so
tremendously sure of himself. As though he read my
thoughts, he nodded gently.
"Oh, yes, mon ami, I would do what I say." He got
up and laid his hand on my shoulder. His physiognomy
underwent a complete change. Tears came into his
eyes. "In all this, you see, I think of that poor
Mrs. Inglethorp who is dead. She was not
extravagantly loved—no. But she was very good to us
Belgians—I owe her a debt."
I endeavoured to interrupt, but Poirot swept on.
"Let me tell you this, Hastings. She would never
forgive me if I let Alfred Inglethorp, her husband,
be arrested now—when a word from me could save him!"
CHAPTER VI. THE INQUEST
In the interval before the inquest, Poirot was
unfailing in his activity. Twice he was closeted
with Mr. Wells. He also took long walks into the
country. I rather resented his not taking me into
his confidence, the more so as I could not in the
least guess what he was driving at.
It occurred to me that he might have been making
inquiries at Raikes's farm; so, finding him out when
I called at Leastways Cottage on Wednesday evening,
I walked over there by the fields, hoping to meet
him. But there was no sign of him, and I hesitated
to go right up to the farm itself. As I walked away,
I met an aged rustic, who leered at me cunningly.
"You'm from the Hall, bain't you?" he asked.
"Yes. I'm looking for a friend of mine whom I
thought might have walked this way."
"A little chap? As waves his hands when he talks?
One of them Belgies from the village?"
"Yes," I said eagerly. "He has been here, then?"
"Oh, ay, he's been here, right enough. More'n
once too. Friend of yours, is he? Ah, you gentlemen
from the Hall—you'n a pretty lot!" And he leered
more jocosely than ever.
"Why, do the gentlemen from the Hall come here
often?" I asked, as carelessly as I could.
He winked at me knowingly.
"One does, mister. Naming no names, mind.
And a very liberal gentleman too! Oh, thank you,
sir, I'm sure."
I walked on sharply. Evelyn Howard had been right
then, and I experienced a sharp twinge of disgust,
as I thought of Alfred Inglethorp's liberality with
another woman's money. Had that piquant gipsy face
been at the bottom of the crime, or was it the baser
mainspring of money? Probably a judicious mixture of
both.
On one point, Poirot seemed to have a curious
obsession. He once or twice observed to me that he
thought Dorcas must have made an error in fixing the
time of the quarrel. He suggested to her repeatedly
that it was 4.30, and not 4 o'clock when she had
heard the voices.
But Dorcas was unshaken. Quite an hour, or even
more, had elapsed between the time when she had
heard the voices and 5 o'clock, when she had taken
tea to her mistress.
The inquest was held on Friday at the Stylites
Arms in the village. Poirot and I sat together, not
being required to give evidence.
The preliminaries were gone through. The jury
viewed the body, and John Cavendish gave evidence of
identification.
Further questioned, he described his awakening in
the early hours of the morning, and the
circumstances of his mother's death.
The medical evidence was next taken. There was a
breathless hush, and every eye was fixed on the
famous London specialist, who was known to be one of
the greatest authorities of the day on the subject
of toxicology.
In a few brief words, he summed up the result of
the post-mortem. Shorn of its medical phraseology
and technicalities, it amounted to the fact that
Mrs. Inglethorp had met her death as the result of
strychnine poisoning. Judging from the quantity
recovered, she must have taken not less than
three-quarters of a grain of strychnine, but
probably one grain or slightly over.
"Is it possible that she could have swallowed the
poison by accident?" asked the Coroner.
"I should consider it very unlikely. Strychnine
is not used for domestic purposes, as some poisons
are, and there are restrictions placed on its sale."
"Does anything in your examination lead you to
determine how the poison was administered?"
"No."
"You arrived at Styles before Dr. Wilkins, I
believe?"
"That is so. The motor met me just outside the
lodge gates, and I hurried there as fast as I
could."
"Will you relate to us exactly what happened
next?"
"I entered Mrs. Inglethorp's room. She was at
that moment in a typical tetanic convulsion. She
turned towards me, and gasped out:
'Alfred—Alfred——'"
"Could the strychnine have been administered in
Mrs. Inglethorp's after-dinner coffee which was
taken to her by her husband?"
"Possibly, but strychnine is a fairly rapid drug
in its action. The symptoms appear from one to two
hours after it has been swallowed. It is retarded
under certain conditions, none of which, however,
appear to have been present in this case. I presume
Mrs. Inglethorp took the coffee after dinner about
eight o'clock, whereas the symptoms did not manifest
themselves until the early hours of the morning,
which, on the face of it, points to the drug having
been taken much later in the evening."
"Mrs. Inglethorp was in the habit of drinking a
cup of coco in the middle of the night. Could the
strychnine have been administered in that?"
"No, I myself took a sample of the coco remaining
in the saucepan and had it analysed. There was no
strychnine present."
I heard Poirot chuckle softly beside me.
"How did you know?" I whispered.
"Listen."
"I should say"—the doctor was continuing—"that I
would have been considerably surprised at any other
result."
"Why?"
"Simply because strychnine has an unusually
bitter taste. It can be detected in a solution of 1
in 70,000, and can only be disguised by some
strongly flavoured substance. Coco would be quite
powerless to mask it."
One of the jury wanted to know if the same
objection applied to coffee.
"No. Coffee has a bitter taste of its own which
would probably cover the taste of strychnine."
"Then you consider it more likely that the drug
was administered in the coffee, but that for some
unknown reason its action was delayed."
"Yes, but, the cup being completely smashed,
there is no possibility of analyzing its contents."
This concluded Dr. Bauerstein's evidence. Dr.
Wilkins corroborated it on all points. Sounded as to
the possibility of suicide, he repudiated it
utterly. The deceased, he said, suffered from a weak
heart, but otherwise enjoyed perfect health, and was
of a cheerful and well-balanced disposition. She
would be one of the last people to take her own
life.
Lawrence Cavendish was next called. His evidence
was quite unimportant, being a mere repetition of
that of his brother. Just as he was about to step
down, he paused, and said rather hesitatingly:
"I should like to make a suggestion if I may?"
He glanced deprecatingly at the Coroner, who
replied briskly:
"Certainly, Mr. Cavendish, we are here to arrive
at the truth of this matter, and welcome anything
that may lead to further elucidation."
"It is just an idea of mine," explained Lawrence.
"Of course I may be quite wrong, but it still seems
to me that my mother's death might be accounted for
by natural means."
"How do you make that out, Mr. Cavendish?"
"My mother, at the time of her death, and for
some time before it, was taking a tonic containing
strychnine."
"Ah!" said the Coroner.
The jury looked up, interested.
"I believe," continued Lawrence, "that there have
been cases where the cumulative effect of a drug,
administered for some time, has ended by causing
death. Also, is it not possible that she may have
taken an overdose of her medicine by accident?"
"This is the first we have heard of the deceased
taking strychnine at the time of her death. We are
much obliged to you, Mr. Cavendish."
Dr. Wilkins was recalled and ridiculed the idea.
"What Mr. Cavendish suggests is quite impossible.
Any doctor would tell you the same. Strychnine is,
in a certain sense, a cumulative poison, but it
would be quite impossible for it to result in sudden
death in this way. There would have to be a long
period of chronic symptoms which would at once have
attracted my attention. The whole thing is absurd."
"And the second suggestion? That Mrs. Inglethorp
may have inadvertently taken an overdose?"
"Three, or even four doses, would not have
resulted in death. Mrs. Inglethorp always had an
extra large amount of medicine made up at a time, as
she dealt with Coot's, the Cash Chemists in
Tadminster. She would have had to take very nearly
the whole bottle to account for the amount of
strychnine found at the post-mortem."
"Then you consider that we may dismiss the tonic
as not being in any way instrumental in causing her
death?"
"Certainly. The supposition is ridiculous."
The same juryman who had interrupted before here
suggested that the chemist who made up the medicine
might have committed an error.
"That, of course, is always possible," replied
the doctor.
But Dorcas, who was the next witness called,
dispelled even that possibility. The medicine had
not been newly made up. On the contrary, Mrs.
Inglethorp had taken the last dose on the day of her
death.
So the question of the tonic was finally
abandoned, and the Coroner proceeded with his task.
Having elicited from Dorcas how she had been
awakened by the violent ringing of her mistress's
bell, and had subsequently roused the household, he
passed to the subject of the quarrel on the
preceding afternoon.
Dorcas's evidence on this point was substantially
what Poirot and I had already heard, so I will not
repeat it here.
The next witness was Mary Cavendish. She stood
very upright, and spoke in a low, clear, and
perfectly composed voice. In answer to the Coroner's
question, she told how, her alarm clock having
aroused her at 4.30 as usual, she was dressing, when
she was startled by the sound of something heavy
falling.
"That would have been the table by the bed?"
commented the Coroner.
"I opened my door," continued Mary, "and
listened. In a few minutes a bell rang violently.
Dorcas came running down and woke my husband, and we
all went to my mother-in-law's room, but it was
locked——"
The Coroner interrupted her.
"I really do not think we need trouble you
further on that point. We know all that can be known
of the subsequent happenings. But I should be
obliged if you would tell us all you overheard of
the quarrel the day before."
"I?"
There was a faint insolence in her voice. She
raised her hand and adjusted the ruffle of lace at
her neck, turning her head a little as she did so.
And quite spontaneously the thought flashed across
my mind: "She is gaining time!"
"Yes. I understand," continued the Coroner
deliberately, "that you were sitting reading on the
bench just outside the long window of the boudoir.
That is so, is it not?"
This was news to me and glancing sideways at
Poirot, I fancied that it was news to him as well.
There was the faintest pause, the mere hesitation
of a moment, before she answered:
"Yes, that is so."
"And the boudoir window was open, was it not?"
Surely her face grew a little paler as she
answered:
"Yes."
"Then you cannot have failed to hear the voices
inside, especially as they were raised in anger. In
fact, they would be more audible where you were than
in the hall."
"Possibly."
"Will you repeat to us what you overheard of the
quarrel?"
"I really do not remember hearing anything."
"Do you mean to say you did not hear voices?"
"Oh, yes, I heard the voices, but I did not hear
what they said." A faint spot of colour came into
her cheek. "I am not in the habit of listening to
private conversations."
The Coroner persisted.
"And you remember nothing at all? Nothing,
Mrs. Cavendish? Not one stray word or phrase to make
you realize that it was a private
conversation?"
She paused, and seemed to reflect, still
outwardly as calm as ever.
"Yes; I remember. Mrs. Inglethorp said
something—I do not remember exactly what—about
causing scandal between husband and wife."
"Ah!" the Coroner leant back satisfied. "That
corresponds with what Dorcas heard. But excuse me,
Mrs. Cavendish, although you realized it was a
private conversation, you did not move away? You
remained where you were?"
I caught the momentary gleam of her tawny eyes as
she raised them. I felt certain that at that moment
she would willingly have torn the little lawyer,
with his insinuations, into pieces, but she replied
quietly enough:
"No. I was very comfortable where I was. I fixed
my mind on my book."
"And that is all you can tell us?"
"That is all."
The examination was over, though I doubted if the
Coroner was entirely satisfied with it. I think he
suspected that Mary Cavendish could tell more if she
chose.
Amy Hill, shop assistant, was next called, and
deposed to having sold a will form on the afternoon
of the 17th to William Earl, under-gardener at
Styles.
William Earl and Manning succeeded her, and
testified to witnessing a document. Manning fixed
the time at about 4.30, William was of the opinion
that it was rather earlier.
Cynthia Murdoch came next. She had, however,
little to tell. She had known nothing of the
tragedy, until awakened by Mrs. Cavendish.
"You did not hear the table fall?"
"No. I was fast asleep."
The Coroner smiled.
"A good conscience makes a sound sleeper," he
observed. "Thank you, Miss Murdoch, that is all."
"Miss Howard."
Miss Howard produced the letter written to her by
Mrs. Inglethorp on the evening of the 17th. Poirot
and I had, of course already seen it. It added
nothing to our knowledge of the tragedy. The
following is a facsimile:
STYLES COURT
ESSEX hand written note: July 17th My
dear Evelyn
Can we not bury the hachet? I have found it hard to forgive the
things you said
against my dear husband but I am an old woman & very fond of you
Yours affectionately,
Emily Inglethorpe
It was handed to the jury who scrutinized it
attentively.
"I fear it does not help us much," said the
Coroner, with a sigh. "There is no mention of any of
the events of that afternoon."
"Plain as a pikestaff to me," said Miss Howard
shortly. "It shows clearly enough that my poor old
friend had just found out she'd been made a fool
of!"
"It says nothing of the kind in the letter," the
Coroner pointed out.
"No, because Emily never could bear to put
herself in the wrong. But I know her. She wanted me
back. But she wasn't going to own that I'd been
right. She went round about. Most people do. Don't
believe in it myself."
Mr. Wells smiled faintly. So, I noticed, did
several of the jury. Miss Howard was obviously quite
a public character.
"Anyway, all this tomfoolery is a great waste of
time," continued the lady, glancing up and down the
jury disparagingly. "Talk—talk—talk! When all the
time we know perfectly well——"
The Coroner interrupted her in an agony of
apprehension:
"Thank you, Miss Howard, that is all."
I fancy he breathed a sigh of relief when she
complied.
Then came the sensation of the day. The Coroner
called Albert Mace, chemist's assistant.
It was our agitated young man of the pale face.
In answer to the Coroner's questions, he explained
that he was a qualified pharmacist, but had only
recently come to this particular shop, as the
assistant formerly there had just been called up for
the army.
These preliminaries completed, the Coroner
proceeded to business.
"Mr. Mace, have you lately sold strychnine to any
unauthorized person?"
"Yes, sir."
"When was this?"
"Last Monday night."
"Monday? Not Tuesday?"
"No, sir, Monday, the 16th."
"Will you tell us to whom you sold it?"
You could have heard a pin drop.
"Yes, sir. It was to Mr. Inglethorp."
Every eye turned simultaneously to where Alfred
Inglethorp was sitting, impassive and wooden. He
started slightly, as the damning words fell from the
young man's lips. I half thought he was going to
rise from his chair, but he remained seated,
although a remarkably well acted expression of
astonishment rose on his face.
"You are sure of what you say?" asked the Coroner
sternly.
"Quite sure, sir."
"Are you in the habit of selling strychnine
indiscriminately over the counter?"
The wretched young man wilted visibly under the
Coroner's frown.
"Oh, no, sir—of course not. But, seeing it was
Mr. Inglethorp of the Hall, I thought there was no
harm in it. He said it was to poison a dog."
Inwardly I sympathized. It was only human nature
to endeavour to please "The Hall"—especially when it
might result in custom being transferred from Coot's
to the local establishment.
"Is it not customary for anyone purchasing poison
to sign a book?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Inglethorp did so."
"Have you got the book here?"
"Yes, sir."
It was produced; and, with a few words of stern
censure, the Coroner dismissed the wretched Mr.
Mace.
Then, amidst a breathless silence, Alfred
Inglethorp was called. Did he realize, I wondered,
how closely the halter was being drawn around his
neck?
The Coroner went straight to the point.
"On Monday evening last, did you purchase
strychnine for the purpose of poisoning a dog?"
Inglethorp replied with perfect calmness:
"No, I did not. There is no dog at Styles, except
an outdoor sheepdog, which is in perfect health."
"You deny absolutely having purchased strychnine
from Albert Mace on Monday last?"
"I do."
"Do you also deny this?"
The Coroner handed him the register in which his
signature was inscribed.
"Certainly I do. The hand-writing is quite
different from mine. I will show you."
He took an old envelope out of his pocket, and
wrote his name on it, handing it to the jury. It was
certainly utterly dissimilar.
"Then what is your explanation of Mr. Mace's
statement?"
Alfred Inglethorp replied imperturbably:
"Mr. Mace must have been mistaken."
The Coroner hesitated for a moment, and then
said:
"Mr. Inglethorp, as a mere matter of form, would
you mind telling us where you were on the evening of
Monday, July 16th?"
"Really—I can't remember."
"That is absurd, Mr. Inglethorp," said the
Coroner sharply. "Think again."
Inglethorp shook his head.
"I cannot tell you. I have an idea that I was out
walking."
"In what direction?"
"I really can't remember."
The Coroner's face grew graver.
"Were you in company with anyone?"
"No."
"Did you meet anyone on your walk?"
"No."
"That is a pity," said the Coroner dryly. "I am
to take it then that you decline to say where you
were at the time that Mr. Mace positively recognized
you as entering the shop to purchase strychnine?"
"If you like to take it that way, yes."
"Be careful, Mr. Inglethorp."
Poirot was fidgeting nervously.
"Sacre!" he murmured. "Does this imbecile of a
man want to be arrested?"
Inglethorp was indeed creating a bad impression.
His futile denials would not have convinced a child.
The Coroner, however, passed briskly to the next
point, and Poirot drew a deep breath of relief.
"You had a discussion with your wife on Tuesday
afternoon?"
"Pardon me," interrupted Alfred Inglethorp, "you
have been misinformed. I had no quarrel with my dear
wife. The whole story is absolutely untrue. I was
absent from the house the entire afternoon."
"Have you anyone who can testify to that?"
"You have my word," said Inglethorp haughtily.
The Coroner did not trouble to reply.
"There are two witnesses who will swear to having
heard your disagreement with Mrs. Inglethorp."
"Those witnesses were mistaken."
I was puzzled. The man spoke with such quiet
assurance that I was staggered. I looked at Poirot.
There was an expression of exultation on his face
which I could not understand. Was he at last
convinced of Alfred Inglethorp's guilt?
"Mr. Inglethorp," said the Coroner, "you have
heard your wife's dying words repeated here. Can you
explain them in any way?"
"Certainly I can."
"You can?"
"It seems to me very simple. The room was dimly
lighted. Dr. Bauerstein is much of my height and
build, and, like me, wears a beard. In the dim
light, and suffering as she was, my poor wife
mistook him for me."
"Ah!" murmured Poirot to himself. "But it is an
idea, that!"
"You think it is true?" I whispered.
"I do not say that. But it is truly an ingenious
supposition."
"You read my wife's last words as an
accusation"—Inglethorp was continuing—"they were, on
the contrary, an appeal to me."
The Coroner reflected a moment, then he said:
"I believe, Mr. Inglethorp, that you yourself
poured out the coffee, and took it to your wife that
evening?"
"I poured it out, yes. But I did not take it to
her. I meant to do so, but I was told that a friend
was at the hall door, so I laid down the coffee on
the hall table. When I came through the hall again a
few minutes later, it was gone."
This statement might, or might not, be true, but
it did not seem to me to improve matters much for
Inglethorp. In any case, he had had ample time to
introduce the poison.
At that point, Poirot nudged me gently,
indicating two men who were sitting together near
the door. One was a little, sharp, dark,
ferret-faced man, the other was tall and fair.
I questioned Poirot mutely. He put his lips to my
ear.
"Do you know who that little man is?"
I shook my head.
"That is Detective Inspector James Japp of
Scotland Yard—Jimmy Japp. The other man is from
Scotland Yard too. Things are moving quickly, my
friend."
I stared at the two men intently. There was
certainly nothing of the policeman about them. I
should never have suspected them of being official
personages.
I was still staring, when I was startled and
recalled by the verdict being given:
"Wilful Murder against some person or persons
unknown."
CHAPTER VII. POIROT PAYS HIS DEBTS
As we came out of the Stylites Arms, Poirot drew
me aside by a gentle pressure of the arm. I
understood his object. He was waiting for the
Scotland Yard men.
In a few moments, they emerged, and Poirot at
once stepped forward, and accosted the shorter of
the two.
"I fear you do not remember me, Inspector Japp."
"Why, if it isn't Mr. Poirot!" cried the
Inspector. He turned to the other man. "You've heard
me speak of Mr. Poirot? It was in 1904 he and I
worked together—the Abercrombie forgery case—you
remember, he was run down in Brussels. Ah, those
were great days, moosier. Then, do you remember
'Baron' Altara? There was a pretty rogue for you! He
eluded the clutches of half the police in Europe.
But we nailed him in Antwerp—thanks to Mr. Poirot
here."
As these friendly reminiscences were being
indulged in, I drew nearer, and was introduced to
Detective-Inspector Japp, who, in his turn,
introduced us both to his companion, Superintendent
Summerhaye.
"I need hardly ask what you are doing here,
gentlemen," remarked Poirot.
Japp closed one eye knowingly.
"No, indeed. Pretty clear case I should say."
But Poirot answered gravely:
"There I differ from you."
"Oh, come!" said Summerhaye, opening his lips for
the first time. "Surely the whole thing is clear as
daylight. The man's caught red-handed. How he could
be such a fool beats me!"
But Japp was looking attentively at Poirot.
"Hold your fire, Summerhaye," he remarked
jocularly. "Me and Moosier here have met before—and
there's no man's judgment I'd sooner take than his.
If I'm not greatly mistaken, he's got something up
his sleeve. Isn't that so, moosier?"
Poirot smiled.
"I have drawn certain conclusions—yes."
Summerhaye was still looking rather sceptical,
but Japp continued his scrutiny of Poirot.
"It's this way," he said, "so far, we've only
seen the case from the outside. That's where the
Yard's at a disadvantage in a case of this kind,
where the murder's only out, so to speak, after the
inquest. A lot depends on being on the spot first
thing, and that's where Mr. Poirot's had the start
of us. We shouldn't have been here as soon as this
even, if it hadn't been for the fact that there was
a smart doctor on the spot, who gave us the tip
through the Coroner. But you've been on the spot
from the first, and you may have picked up some
little hints. From the evidence at the inquest, Mr.
Inglethorp murdered his wife as sure as I stand
here, and if anyone but you hinted the contrary I'd
laugh in his face. I must say I was surprised the
jury didn't bring it in Wilful Murder against him
right off. I think they would have, if it hadn't
been for the Coroner—he seemed to be holding them
back."
"Perhaps, though, you have a warrant for his
arrest in your pocket now," suggested Poirot.
A kind of wooden shutter of officialdom came down
from Japp's expressive countenance.
"Perhaps I have, and perhaps I haven't," he
remarked dryly.
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.
"I am very anxious, Messieurs, that he should not
be arrested."
"I dare say," observed Summerhaye sarcastically.
Japp was regarding Poirot with comical
perplexity.
"Can't you go a little further, Mr. Poirot? A
wink's as good as a nod—from you. You've been on the
spot—and the Yard doesn't want to make any mistakes,
you know."
Poirot nodded gravely.
"That is exactly what I thought. Well, I will
tell you this. Use your warrant: Arrest Mr.
Inglethorp. But it will bring you no kudos—the case
against him will be dismissed at once! Comme ca!"
And he snapped his fingers expressively.
Japp's face grew grave, though Summerhaye gave an
incredulous snort.
As for me, I was literally dumb with
astonishment. I could only conclude that Poirot was
mad.
Japp had taken out a handkerchief, and was gently
dabbing his brow.
"I daren't do it, Mr. Poirot. I'd take your word,
but there's others over me who'll be asking what the
devil I mean by it. Can't you give me a little more
to go on?"
Poirot reflected a moment.
"It can be done," he said at last. "I admit I do
not wish it. It forces my hand. I would have
preferred to work in the dark just for the present,
but what you say is very just—the word of a Belgian
policeman, whose day is past, is not enough! And
Alfred Inglethorp must not be arrested. That I have
sworn, as my friend Hastings here knows. See, then,
my good Japp, you go at once to Styles?"
"Well, in about half an hour. We're seeing the
Coroner and the doctor first."
"Good. Call for me in passing—the last house in
the village. I will go with you. At Styles, Mr.
Inglethorp will give you, or if he refuses—as is
probable—I will give you such proofs that shall
satisfy you that the case against him could not
possibly be sustained. Is that a bargain?"
"That's a bargain," said Japp heartily. "And, on
behalf of the Yard, I'm much obliged to you, though
I'm bound to confess I can't at present see the
faintest possible loop-hole in the evidence, but you
always were a marvel! So long, then, moosier."
The two detectives strode away, Summerhaye with
an incredulous grin on his face.
"Well, my friend," cried Poirot, before I could
get in a word, "what do you think? Mon Dieu! I had
some warm moments in that court; I did not figure to
myself that the man would be so pig-headed as to
refuse to say anything at all. Decidedly, it was the
policy of an imbecile."
"H'm! There are other explanations besides that
of imbecility," I remarked. "For, if the case
against him is true, how could he defend himself
except by silence?"
"Why, in a thousand ingenious ways," cried
Poirot. "See; say that it is I who have committed
this murder, I can think of seven most plausible
stories! Far more convincing than Mr. Inglethorp's
stony denials!"
I could not help laughing.
"My dear Poirot, I am sure you are capable of
thinking of seventy! But, seriously, in spite of
what I heard you say to the detectives, you surely
cannot still believe in the possibility of Alfred
Inglethorp's innocence?"
"Why not now as much as before? Nothing has
changed."
"But the evidence is so conclusive."
"Yes, too conclusive."
We turned in at the gate of Leastways Cottage,
and proceeded up the now familiar stairs.
"Yes, yes, too conclusive," continued Poirot,
almost to himself. "Real evidence is usually vague
and unsatisfactory. It has to be examined—sifted.
But here the whole thing is cut and dried. No, my
friend, this evidence has been very cleverly
manufactured—so cleverly that it has defeated its
own ends."
"How do you make that out?"
"Because, so long as the evidence against him was
vague and intangible, it was very hard to disprove.
But, in his anxiety, the criminal has drawn the net
so closely that one cut will set Inglethorp free."
I was silent. And in a minute or two, Poirot
continued:
"Let us look at the matter like this. Here is a
man, let us say, who sets out to poison his wife. He
has lived by his wits as the saying goes.
Presumably, therefore, he has some wits. He is not
altogether a fool. Well, how does he set about it?
He goes boldly to the village chemist's and
purchases strychnine under his own name, with a
trumped up story about a dog which is bound to be
proved absurd. He does not employ the poison that
night. No, he waits until he has had a violent
quarrel with her, of which the whole household is
cognisant, and which naturally directs their
suspicions upon him. He prepares no defence—no
shadow of an alibi, yet he knows the chemist's
assistant must necessarily come forward with the
facts. Bah! do not ask me to believe that any man
could be so idiotic! Only a lunatic, who wished to
commit suicide by causing himself to be hanged,
would act so!"
"Still—I do not see—" I began.
"Neither do I see. I tell you, mon ami, it
puzzles me. Me—Hercule Poirot!"
"But if you believe him innocent, how do you
explain his buying the strychnine?"
"Very simply. He did not buy it."
"But Mace recognized him!"
"I beg your pardon, he saw a man with a black
beard like Mr. Inglethorp's, and wearing glasses
like Mr. Inglethorp, and dressed in Mr. Inglethorp's
rather noticeable clothes. He could not recognize a
man whom he had probably only seen in the distance,
since, you remember, he himself had only been in the
village a fortnight, and Mrs. Inglethorp dealt
principally with Coot's in Tadminster."
"Then you think——"
"Mon ami, do you remember the two points I laid
stress upon? Leave the first one for the moment,
what was the second?"
"The important fact that Alfred Inglethorp wears
peculiar clothes, has a black beard, and uses
glasses," I quoted.
"Exactly. Now suppose anyone wished to pass
himself off as John or Lawrence Cavendish. Would it
be easy?"
"No," I said thoughtfully. "Of course an actor——"
But Poirot cut me short ruthlessly.
"And why would it not be easy? I will tell you,
my friend: Because they are both clean-shaven men.
To make up successfully as one of these two in broad
daylight, it would need an actor of genius, and a
certain initial facial resemblance. But in the case
of Alfred Inglethorp, all that is changed. His
clothes, his beard, the glasses which hide his
eyes—those are the salient points about his personal
appearance. Now, what is the first instinct of the
criminal? To divert suspicion from himself, is it
not so? And how can he best do that? By throwing it
on some one else. In this instance, there was a man
ready to his hand. Everybody was predisposed to
believe in Mr. Inglethorp's guilt. It was a foregone
conclusion that he would be suspected; but, to make
it a sure thing there must be tangible proof—such as
the actual buying of the poison, and that, with a
man of the peculiar appearance of Mr. Inglethorp,
was not difficult. Remember, this young Mace had
never actually spoken to Mr. Inglethorp. How should
he doubt that the man in his clothes, with his beard
and his glasses, was not Alfred Inglethorp?"
"It may be so," I said, fascinated by Poirot's
eloquence. "But, if that was the case, why does he
not say where he was at six o'clock on Monday
evening?"
"Ah, why indeed?" said Poirot, calming down. "If
he were arrested, he probably would speak, but I do
not want it to come to that. I must make him see the
gravity of his position. There is, of course,
something discreditable behind his silence. If he
did not murder his wife, he is, nevertheless, a
scoundrel, and has something of his own to conceal,
quite apart from the murder."
"What can it be?" I mused, won over to Poirot's
views for the moment, although still retaining a
faint conviction that the obvious deduction was the
correct one.
"Can you not guess?" asked Poirot, smiling.
"No, can you?"
"Oh, yes, I had a little idea sometime ago—and it
has turned out to be correct."
"You never told me," I said reproachfully.
Poirot spread out his hands apologetically.
"Pardon me, mon ami, you were not precisely
sympathique." He turned to me earnestly. "Tell
me—you see now that he must not be arrested?"
"Perhaps," I said doubtfully, for I was really
quite indifferent to the fate of Alfred Inglethorp,
and thought that a good fright would do him no harm.
Poirot, who was watching me intently, gave a
sigh.
"Come, my friend," he said, changing the subject,
"apart from Mr. Inglethorp, how did the evidence at
the inquest strike you?"
"Oh, pretty much what I expected."
"Did nothing strike you as peculiar about it?"
My thoughts flew to Mary Cavendish, and I hedged:
"In what way?"
"Well, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's evidence for
instance?"
I was relieved.
"Oh, Lawrence! No, I don't think so. He's always
a nervous chap."
"His suggestion that his mother might have been
poisoned accidentally by means of the tonic she was
taking, that did not strike you as strange—hein?"
"No, I can't say it did. The doctors ridiculed it
of course. But it was quite a natural suggestion for
a layman to make."
"But Monsieur Lawrence is not a layman. You told
me yourself that he had started by studying
medicine, and that he had taken his degree."
"Yes, that's true. I never thought of that." I
was rather startled. "It is odd."
Poirot nodded.
"From the first, his behaviour has been peculiar.
Of all the household, he alone would be likely to
recognize the symptoms of strychnine poisoning, and
yet we find him the only member of the family to
uphold strenuously the theory of death from natural
causes. If it had been Monsieur John, I could have
understood it. He has no technical knowledge, and is
by nature unimaginative. But Monsieur Lawrence—no!
And now, to-day, he puts forward a suggestion that
he himself must have known was ridiculous. There is
food for thought in this, mon ami!"
"It's very confusing," I agreed.
"Then there is Mrs. Cavendish," continued Poirot.
"That's another who is not telling all she knows!
What do you make of her attitude?"
"I don't know what to make of it. It seems
inconceivable that she should be shielding Alfred
Inglethorp. Yet that is what it looks like."
Poirot nodded reflectively.
"Yes, it is queer. One thing is certain, she
overheard a good deal more of that 'private
conversation' than she was willing to admit."
"And yet she is the last person one would accuse
of stooping to eavesdrop!"
"Exactly. One thing her evidence has shown
me. I made a mistake. Dorcas was quite right. The
quarrel did take place earlier in the afternoon,
about four o'clock, as she said."
I looked at him curiously. I had never understood
his insistence on that point.
"Yes, a good deal that was peculiar came out
to-day," continued Poirot. "Dr. Bauerstein, now,
what was he doing up and dressed at that hour
in the morning? It is astonishing to me that no one
commented on the fact."
"He has insomnia, I believe," I said doubtfully.
"Which is a very good, or a very bad
explanation," remarked Poirot. "It covers
everything, and explains nothing. I shall keep my
eye on our clever Dr. Bauerstein."
"Any more faults to find with the evidence?" I
inquired satirically.
"Mon ami," replied Poirot gravely, "when you find
that people are not telling you the truth—look out!
Now, unless I am much mistaken, at the inquest
to-day only one—at most, two persons were speaking
the truth without reservation or subterfuge."
"Oh, come now, Poirot! I won't cite Lawrence, or
Mrs. Cavendish. But there's John—and Miss Howard,
surely they were speaking the truth?"
"Both of them, my friend? One, I grant you, but
both——!"
His words gave me an unpleasant shock. Miss
Howard's evidence, unimportant as it was, had been
given in such a downright straightforward manner
that it had never occurred to me to doubt her
sincerity. Still, I had a great respect for Poirot's
sagacity—except on the occasions when he was what I
described to myself as "foolishly pig-headed."
"Do you really think so?" I asked. "Miss Howard
had always seemed to me so essentially honest—almost
uncomfortably so."
Poirot gave me a curious look, which I could not
quite fathom. He seemed to speak, and then checked
himself.
"Miss Murdoch too," I continued, "there's nothing
untruthful about her."
"No. But it was strange that she never heard a
sound, sleeping next door; whereas Mrs. Cavendish,
in the other wing of the building, distinctly heard
the table fall."
"Well, she's young. And she sleeps soundly."
"Ah, yes, indeed! She must be a famous sleeper,
that one!"
I did not quite like the tone of his voice, but
at that moment a smart knock reached our ears, and
looking out of the window we perceived the two
detectives waiting for us below.
Poirot seized his hat, gave a ferocious twist to
his moustache, and, carefully brushing an imaginary
speck of dust from his sleeve, motioned me to
precede him down the stairs; there we joined the
detectives and set out for Styles.
I think the appearance of the two Scotland Yard
men was rather a shock—especially to John, though of
course after the verdict, he had realized that it
was only a matter of time. Still, the presence of
the detectives brought the truth home to him more
than anything else could have done.
Poirot had conferred with Japp in a low tone on
the way up, and it was the latter functionary who
requested that the household, with the exception of
the servants, should be assembled together in the
drawing-room. I realized the significance of this.
It was up to Poirot to make his boast good.
Personally, I was not sanguine. Poirot might have
excellent reasons for his belief in Inglethorp's
innocence, but a man of the type of Summerhaye would
require tangible proofs, and these I doubted if
Poirot could supply.
Before very long we had all trooped into the
drawing-room, the door of which Japp closed. Poirot
politely set chairs for every one. The Scotland Yard
men were the cynosure of all eyes. I think that for
the first time we realized that the thing was not a
bad dream, but a tangible reality. We had read of
such things—now we ourselves were actors in the
drama. To-morrow the daily papers, all over England,
would blazon out the news in staring headlines:
"MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY IN ESSEX"
"WEALTHY LADY POISONED"
There would be pictures of Styles, snap-shots of
"The family leaving the Inquest"—the village
photographer had not been idle! All the things that
one had read a hundred times—things that happen to
other people, not to oneself. And now, in this
house, a murder had been committed. In front of us
were "the detectives in charge of the case." The
well-known glib phraseology passed rapidly through
my mind in the interval before Poirot opened the
proceedings.
I think every one was a little surprised that it
should be he and not one of the official detectives
who took the initiative.
"Mesdames and messieurs," said Poirot, bowing as
though he were a celebrity about to deliver a
lecture, "I have asked you to come here all
together, for a certain object. That object, it
concerns Mr. Alfred Inglethorp."
Inglethorp was sitting a little by himself—I
think, unconsciously, every one had drawn his chair
slightly away from him—and he gave a faint start as
Poirot pronounced his name.
"Mr. Inglethorp," said Poirot, addressing him
directly, "a very dark shadow is resting on this
house—the shadow of murder."
Inglethorp shook his head sadly.
"My poor wife," he murmured. "Poor Emily! It is
terrible."
"I do not think, monsieur," said Poirot
pointedly, "that you quite realize how terrible it
may be—for you." And as Inglethorp did not appear to
understand, he added: "Mr. Inglethorp, you are
standing in very grave danger."
The two detectives fidgeted. I saw the official
caution "Anything you say will be used in evidence
against you," actually hovering on Summerhaye's
lips. Poirot went on.
"Do you understand now, monsieur?"
"No; What do you mean?"
"I mean," said Poirot deliberately, "that you are
suspected of poisoning your wife."
A little gasp ran round the circle at this plain
speaking.
"Good heavens!" cried Inglethorp, starting up.
"What a monstrous idea! I—poison my dearest
Emily!"
"I do not think"—Poirot watched him
narrowly—"that you quite realize the unfavourable
nature of your evidence at the inquest. Mr.
Inglethorp, knowing what I have now told you, do you
still refuse to say where you were at six o'clock on
Monday afternoon?"
With a groan, Alfred Inglethorp sank down again
and buried his face in his hands. Poirot approached
and stood over him.
"Speak!" he cried menacingly.
With an effort, Inglethorp raised his face from
his hands. Then, slowly and deliberately, he shook
his head.
"You will not speak?"
"No. I do not believe that anyone could be so
monstrous as to accuse me of what you say."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully, like a man whose mind
is made up.
"Soit!" he said. "Then I must speak for you."
Alfred Inglethorp sprang up again.
"You? How can you speak? You do not know——" he
broke off abruptly.
Poirot turned to face us. "Mesdames and
messieurs! I speak! Listen! I, Hercule Poirot,
affirm that the man who entered the chemist's shop,
and purchased strychnine at six o'clock on Monday
last was not Mr. Inglethorp, for at six o'clock on
that day Mr. Inglethorp was escorting Mrs. Raikes
back to her home from a neighbouring farm. I can
produce no less than five witnesses to swear to
having seen them together, either at six or just
after and, as you may know, the Abbey Farm, Mrs.
Raikes's home, is at least two and a half miles
distant from the village. There is absolutely no
question as to the alibi!"
CHAPTER VIII. FRESH SUSPICIONS
There was a moment's stupefied silence. Japp, who
was the least surprised of any of us, was the first
to speak.
"My word," he cried, "you're the goods! And no
mistake, Mr. Poirot! These witnesses of yours are
all right, I suppose?"
"Voila! I have prepared a list of them—names and
addresses. You must see them, of course. But you
will find it all right."
"I'm sure of that." Japp lowered his voice. "I'm
much obliged to you. A pretty mare's nest arresting
him would have been." He turned to Inglethorp. "But,
if you'll excuse me, sir, why couldn't you say all
this at the inquest?"
"I will tell you why," interrupted Poirot. "There
was a certain rumour——"
"A most malicious and utterly untrue one,"
interrupted Alfred Inglethorp in an agitated voice.
"And Mr. Inglethorp was anxious to have no
scandal revived just at present. Am I right?"
"Quite right." Inglethorp nodded. "With my poor
Emily not yet buried, can you wonder I was anxious
that no more lying rumours should be started."
"Between you and me, sir," remarked Japp, "I'd
sooner have any amount of rumours than be arrested
for murder. And I venture to think your poor lady
would have felt the same. And, if it hadn't been for
Mr. Poirot here, arrested you would have been, as
sure as eggs is eggs!"
"I was foolish, no doubt," murmured Inglethorp.
"But you do not know, inspector, how I have been
persecuted and maligned." And he shot a baleful
glance at Evelyn Howard.
"Now, sir," said Japp, turning briskly to John,
"I should like to see the lady's bedroom, please,
and after that I'll have a little chat with the
servants. Don't you bother about anything. Mr.
Poirot, here, will show me the way."
As they all went out of the room, Poirot turned
and made me a sign to follow him upstairs. There he
caught me by the arm, and drew me aside.
"Quick, go to the other wing. Stand there—just
this side of the baize door. Do not move till I
come." Then, turning rapidly, he rejoined the two
detectives.
I followed his instructions, taking up my
position by the baize door, and wondering what on
earth lay behind the request. Why was I to stand in
this particular spot on guard? I looked thoughtfully
down the corridor in front of me. An idea struck me.
With the exception of Cynthia Murdoch's, every one's
room was in this left wing. Had that anything to do
with it? Was I to report who came or went? I stood
faithfully at my post. The minutes passed. Nobody
came. Nothing happened.
It must have been quite twenty minutes before
Poirot rejoined me.
"You have not stirred?"
"No, I've stuck here like a rock. Nothing's
happened."
"Ah!" Was he pleased, or disappointed? "You've
seen nothing at all?"
"No."
"But you have probably heard something? A big
bump—eh, mon ami?"
"No."
"Is it possible? Ah, but I am vexed with myself!
I am not usually clumsy. I made but a slight
gesture"—I know Poirot's gestures—"with the left
hand, and over went the table by the bed!"
He looked so childishly vexed and crest-fallen
that I hastened to console him.
"Never mind, old chap. What does it matter? Your
triumph downstairs excited you. I can tell you, that
was a surprise to us all. There must be more in this
affair of Inglethorp's with Mrs. Raikes than we
thought, to make him hold his tongue so
persistently. What are you going to do now? Where
are the Scotland Yard fellows?"
"Gone down to interview the servants. I showed
them all our exhibits. I am disappointed in Japp. He
has no method!"
"Hullo!" I said, looking out of the window.
"Here's Dr. Bauerstein. I believe you're right about
that man, Poirot. I don't like him."
"He is clever," observed Poirot meditatively.
"Oh, clever as the devil! I must say I was
overjoyed to see him in the plight he was in on
Tuesday. You never saw such a spectacle!" And I
described the doctor's adventure. "He looked a
regular scarecrow! Plastered with mud from head to
foot."
"You saw him, then?"
"Yes. Of course, he didn't want to come in—it was
just after dinner—but Mr. Inglethorp insisted."
"What?" Poirot caught me violently by the
shoulders. "Was Dr. Bauerstein here on Tuesday
evening? Here? And you never told me? Why did you
not tell me? Why? Why?"
He appeared to be in an absolute frenzy.
"My dear Poirot," I expostulated, "I never
thought it would interest you. I didn't know it was
of any importance."
"Importance? It is of the first importance! So
Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night—the night
of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters
everything—everything!"
I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold
of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of
candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that
alters everything—everything."
Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision.
"Allons!" he said. "We must act at once. Where is
Mr. Cavendish?"
John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went
straight to him.
"Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in
Tadminster. A new clue. May I take your motor?"
"Why, of course. Do you mean at once?"
"If you please."
John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In
another ten minutes, we were racing down the park
and along the high road to Tadminster.
"Now, Poirot," I remarked resignedly, "perhaps
you will tell me what all this is about?"
"Well, mon ami, a good deal you can guess for
yourself. Of course you realize that, now Mr.
Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is
greatly changed. We are face to face with an
entirely new problem. We know now that there is one
person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared
away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones.
I have ascertained that anyone in the household,
with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was
playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr.
Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we
have his statement that he put the coffee down in
the hall. No one took much notice of that at the
inquest—but now it has a very different
significance. We must find out who did take that
coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed
through the hall whilst it was standing there. From
your account, there are only two people whom we can
positively say did not go near the coffee—Mrs.
Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia."
"Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible
lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could
certainly not rest under suspicion.
"In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued
Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner
than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be
pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard.
Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes—doubly careful."
He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you
yourself—have you no suspicions of anybody?"
I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and
extravagant in itself, had once or twice that
morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it
as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.
"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured.
"It's so utterly foolish."
"Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not
fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay
attention to your instincts."
"Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd—but I
suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!"
"Miss Howard?"
"Yes—you'll laugh at me——"
"Not at all. Why should I?"
"I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly;
"that we've rather left her out of the possible
suspects, simply on the strength of her having been
away from the place. But, after all, she was only
fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an
hour. Can we say positively that she was away from
Styles on the night of the murder?"
"Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we
can. One of my first actions was to ring up the
hospital where she was working."
"Well?"
"Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on
afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that—a convoy coming
in unexpectedly—she had kindly offered to remain on
night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted.
That disposes of that."
"Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I
continued, "it's her extraordinary vehemence against
Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I
can't help feeling she'd do anything against him.
And I had an idea she might know something about the
destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new
one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour.
She is so terribly bitter against him."
"You consider her vehemence unnatural?"
"Y—es. She is so very violent. I wondered really
whether she is quite sane on that point."
Poirot shook his head energetically.
"No, no, you are on a wrong tack there. There is
nothing weak-minded or degenerate about Miss Howard.
She is an excellent specimen of well-balanced
English beef and brawn. She is sanity itself."
"Yet her hatred of Inglethorp seems almost a
mania. My idea was—a very ridiculous one, no
doubt—that she had intended to poison him—and that,
in some way, Mrs. Inglethorp got hold of it by
mistake. But I don't at all see how it could have
been done. The whole thing is absurd and ridiculous
to the last degree."
"Still you are right in one thing. It is always
wise to suspect everybody until you can prove
logically, and to your own satisfaction, that they
are innocent. Now, what reasons are there against
Miss Howard's having deliberately poisoned Mrs.
Inglethorp?"
"Why, she was devoted to her!" I exclaimed.
"Tcha! Tcha!" cried Poirot irritably. "You argue
like a child. If Miss Howard were capable of
poisoning the old lady, she would be quite equally
capable of simulating devotion. No, we must look
elsewhere. You are perfectly correct in your
assumption that her vehemence against Alfred
Inglethorp is too violent to be natural; but you are
quite wrong in the deduction you draw from it. I
have drawn my own deductions, which I believe to be
correct, but I will not speak of them at present."
He paused a minute, then went on. "Now, to my way of
thinking, there is one insuperable objection to Miss
Howard's being the murderess."
"And that is?"
"That in no possible way could Mrs. Inglethorp's
death benefit Miss Howard. Now there is no murder
without a motive."
I reflected.
"Could not Mrs. Inglethorp have made a will in
her favour?" Poirot shook his head.
"But you yourself suggested that possibility to
Mr. Wells?"
Poirot smiled.
"That was for a reason. I did not want to mention
the name of the person who was actually in my mind.
Miss Howard occupied very much the same position, so
I used her name instead."
"Still, Mrs. Inglethorp might have done so. Why,
that will, made on the afternoon of her death may——"
But Poirot's shake of the head was so energetic
that I stopped.
"No, my friend. I have certain little ideas of my
own about that will. But I can tell you this much—it
was not in Miss Howard's favour."
I accepted his assurance, though I did not really
see how he could be so positive about the matter.
"Well," I said, with a sigh, "we will acquit Miss
Howard, then. It is partly your fault that I ever
came to suspect her. It was what you said about her
evidence at the inquest that set me off."
Poirot looked puzzled.
"What did I say about her evidence at the
inquest?"
"Don't you remember? When I cited her and John
Cavendish as being above suspicion?"
"Oh—ah—yes." He seemed a little confused, but
recovered himself. "By the way, Hastings, there is
something I want you to do for me."
"Certainly. What is it?"
"Next time you happen to be alone with Lawrence
Cavendish, I want you to say this to him. 'I have a
message for you, from Poirot. He says: "Find the
extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace!"'
Nothing more. Nothing less."
"'Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in
peace.' Is that right?" I asked, much mystified.
"Excellent."
"But what does it mean?"
"Ah, that I will leave you to find out. You have
access to the facts. Just say that to him, and see
what he says."
"Very well—but it's all extremely mysterious."
We were running into Tadminster now, and Poirot
directed the car to the "Analytical Chemist."
Poirot hopped down briskly, and went inside. In a
few minutes he was back again.
"There," he said. "That is all my business."
"What were you doing there?" I asked, in lively
curiosity.
"I left something to be analysed."
"Yes, but what?"
"The sample of coco I took from the saucepan in
the bedroom."
"But that has already been tested!" I cried,
stupefied. "Dr. Bauerstein had it tested, and you
yourself laughed at the possibility of there being
strychnine in it."
"I know Dr. Bauerstein had it tested," replied
Poirot quietly.
"Well, then?"
"Well, I have a fancy for having it analysed
again, that is all."
And not another word on the subject could I drag
out of him.
This proceeding of Poirot's, in respect of the
coco, puzzled me intensely. I could see neither
rhyme nor reason in it. However, my confidence in
him, which at one time had rather waned, was fully
restored since his belief in Alfred Inglethorp's
innocence had been so triumphantly vindicated.
The funeral of Mrs. Inglethorp took place the
following day, and on Monday, as I came down to a
late breakfast, John drew me aside, and informed me
that Mr. Inglethorp was leaving that morning, to
take up his quarters at the Stylites Arms until he
should have completed his plans.
"And really it's a great relief to think he's
going, Hastings," continued my honest friend. "It
was bad enough before, when we thought he'd done it,
but I'm hanged if it isn't worse now, when we all
feel guilty for having been so down on the fellow.
The fact is, we've treated him abominably. Of
course, things did look black against him. I don't
see how anyone could blame us for jumping to the
conclusions we did. Still, there it is, we were in
the wrong, and now there's a beastly feeling that
one ought to make amends; which is difficult, when
one doesn't like the fellow a bit better than one
did before. The whole thing's damned awkward! And
I'm thankful he's had the tact to take himself off.
It's a good thing Styles wasn't the mater's to leave
to him. Couldn't bear to think of the fellow lording
it here. He's welcome to her money."
"You'll be able to keep up the place all right?"
I asked.
"Oh, yes. There are the death duties, of course,
but half my father's money goes with the place, and
Lawrence will stay with us for the present, so there
is his share as well. We shall be pinched at first,
of course, because, as I once told you, I am in a
bit of a hole financially myself. Still, the
Johnnies will wait now."
In the general relief at Inglethorp's approaching
departure, we had the most genial breakfast we had
experienced since the tragedy. Cynthia, whose young
spirits were naturally buoyant, was looking quite
her pretty self again, and we all, with the
exception of Lawrence, who seemed unalterably gloomy
and nervous, were quietly cheerful, at the opening
of a new and hopeful future.
The papers, of course, had been full of the
tragedy. Glaring headlines, sandwiched biographies
of every member of the household, subtle innuendoes,
the usual familiar tag about the police having a
clue. Nothing was spared us. It was a slack time.
The war was momentarily inactive, and the newspapers
seized with avidity on this crime in fashionable
life: "The Mysterious Affair at Styles" was the
topic of the moment.
Naturally it was very annoying for the
Cavendishes. The house was constantly besieged by
reporters, who were consistently denied admission,
but who continued to haunt the village and the
grounds, where they lay in wait with cameras, for
any unwary members of the household. We all lived in
a blast of publicity. The Scotland Yard men came and
went, examining, questioning, lynx-eyed and reserved
of tongue. Towards what end they were working, we
did not know. Had they any clue, or would the whole
thing remain in the category of undiscovered crimes?
After breakfast, Dorcas came up to me rather
mysteriously, and asked if she might have a few
words with me.
"Certainly. What is it, Dorcas?"
"Well, it's just this, sir. You'll be seeing the
Belgian gentleman to-day perhaps?" I nodded. "Well,
sir, you know how he asked me so particular if the
mistress, or anyone else, had a green dress?"
"Yes, yes. You have found one?" My interest was
aroused.
"No, not that, sir. But since then I've
remembered what the young gentlemen"—John and
Lawrence were still the "young gentlemen" to
Dorcas—"call the 'dressing-up box.' It's up in the
front attic, sir. A great chest, full of old clothes
and fancy dresses, and what not. And it came to me
sudden like that there might be a green dress
amongst them. So, if you'd tell the Belgian
gentleman——"
"I will tell him, Dorcas," I promised.
"Thank you very much, sir. A very nice gentleman
he is, sir. And quite a different class from them
two detectives from London, what goes prying about,
and asking questions. I don't hold with foreigners
as a rule, but from what the newspapers say I make
out as how these brave Belges isn't the ordinary run
of foreigners, and certainly he's a most polite
spoken gentleman."
Dear old Dorcas! As she stood there, with her
honest face upturned to mine, I thought what a fine
specimen she was of the old-fashioned servant that
is so fast dying out.
I thought I might as well go down to the village
at once, and look up Poirot; but I met him half-way,
coming up to the house, and at once gave him
Dorcas's message.
"Ah, the brave Dorcas! We will look at the chest,
although—but no matter—we will examine it all the
same."
We entered the house by one of the windows. There
was no one in the hall, and we went straight up to
the attic.
Sure enough, there was the chest, a fine old
piece, all studded with brass nails, and full to
overflowing with every imaginable type of garment.
Poirot bundled everything out on the floor with
scant ceremony. There were one or two green fabrics
of varying shades; but Poirot shook his head over
them all. He seemed somewhat apathetic in the
search, as though he expected no great results from
it. Suddenly he gave an exclamation.
"What is it?"
"Look!"
The chest was nearly empty, and there, reposing
right at the bottom, was a magnificent black beard.
"Oho!" said Poirot. "Oho!" He turned it over in
his hands, examining it closely. "New," he remarked.
"Yes, quite new."
After a moment's hesitation, he replaced it in
the chest, heaped all the other things on top of it
as before, and made his way briskly downstairs. He
went straight to the pantry, where we found Dorcas
busily polishing her silver.
Poirot wished her good morning with Gallic
politeness, and went on:
"We have been looking through that chest, Dorcas.
I am much obliged to you for mentioning it. There
is, indeed, a fine collection there. Are they often
used, may I ask?"
"Well, sir, not very often nowadays, though from
time to time we do have what the young gentlemen
call 'a dress-up night.' And very funny it is
sometimes, sir. Mr. Lawrence, he's wonderful. Most
comic! I shall never forget the night he came down
as the Char of Persia, I think he called it—a sort
of Eastern King it was. He had the big paper knife
in his hand, and 'Mind, Dorcas,' he says, 'you'll
have to be very respectful. This is my specially
sharpened scimitar, and it's off with your head if
I'm at all displeased with you!' Miss Cynthia, she
was what they call an Apache, or some such name—a
Frenchified sort of cut-throat, I take it to be. A
real sight she looked. You'd never have believed a
pretty young lady like that could have made herself
into such a ruffian. Nobody would have known her."
"These evenings must have been great fun," said
Poirot genially. "I suppose Mr. Lawrence wore that
fine black beard in the chest upstairs, when he was
Shah of Persia?"
"He did have a beard, sir," replied Dorcas,
smiling. "And well I know it, for he borrowed two
skeins of my black wool to make it with! And I'm
sure it looked wonderfully natural at a distance. I
didn't know as there was a beard up there at all. It
must have been got quite lately, I think. There was
a red wig, I know, but nothing else in the way of
hair. Burnt corks they use mostly—though 'tis messy
getting it off again. Miss Cynthia was a nigger
once, and, oh, the trouble she had."
"So Dorcas knows nothing about that black beard,"
said Poirot thoughtfully, as we walked out into the
hall again.
"Do you think it is the one?" I whispered
eagerly.
Poirot nodded.
"I do. You notice it had been trimmed?"
"No."
"Yes. It was cut exactly the shape of Mr.
Inglethorp's, and I found one or two snipped hairs.
Hastings, this affair is very deep."
"Who put it in the chest, I wonder?"
"Some one with a good deal of intelligence,"
remarked Poirot dryly. "You realize that he chose
the one place in the house to hide it where its
presence would not be remarked? Yes, he is
intelligent. But we must be more intelligent. We
must be so intelligent that he does not suspect us
of being intelligent at all."
I acquiesced.
"There, mon ami, you will be of great assistance
to me."
I was pleased with the compliment. There had been
times when I hardly thought that Poirot appreciated
me at my true worth.
"Yes," he continued, staring at me thoughtfully,
"you will be invaluable."
This was naturally gratifying, but Poirot's next
words were not so welcome.
"I must have an ally in the house," he observed
reflectively.
"You have me," I protested.
"True, but you are not sufficient."
I was hurt, and showed it. Poirot hurried to
explain himself.
"You do not quite take my meaning. You are known
to be working with me. I want somebody who is not
associated with us in any way."
"Oh, I see. How about John?"
"No, I think not."
"The dear fellow isn't perhaps very bright," I
said thoughtfully.
"Here comes Miss Howard," said Poirot suddenly.
"She is the very person. But I am in her black
books, since I cleared Mr. Inglethorp. Still, we can
but try."
With a nod that was barely civil, Miss Howard
assented to Poirot's request for a few minutes'
conversation.
We went into the little morning-room, and Poirot
closed the door.
"Well, Monsieur Poirot," said Miss Howard
impatiently, "what is it? Out with it. I'm busy."
"Do you remember, mademoiselle, that I once asked
you to help me?"
"Yes, I do." The lady nodded. "And I told you I'd
help you with pleasure—to hang Alfred Inglethorp."
"Ah!" Poirot studied her seriously. "Miss Howard,
I will ask you one question. I beg of you to reply
to it truthfully."
"Never tell lies," replied Miss Howard.
"It is this. Do you still believe that Mrs.
Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?"
"What do you mean?" she asked sharply. "You
needn't think your pretty explanations influence me
in the slightest. I'll admit that it wasn't he who
bought strychnine at the chemist's shop. What of
that? I dare say he soaked fly paper, as I told you
at the beginning."
"That is arsenic—not strychnine," said Poirot
mildly.
"What does that matter? Arsenic would put poor
Emily out of the way just as well as strychnine. If
I'm convinced he did it, it doesn't matter a jot to
me how he did it."
"Exactly. If you are convinced he did it,"
said Poirot quietly. "I will put my question in
another form. Did you ever in your heart of hearts
believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her
husband?"
"Good heavens!" cried Miss Howard. "Haven't I
always told you the man is a villain? Haven't I
always told you he would murder her in her bed?
Haven't I always hated him like poison?"
"Exactly," said Poirot. "That bears out my little
idea entirely."
"What little idea?"
"Miss Howard, do you remember a conversation that
took place on the day of my friend's arrival here?
He repeated it to me, and there is a sentence of
yours that has impressed me very much. Do you
remember affirming that if a crime had been
committed, and anyone you loved had been murdered,
you felt certain that you would know by instinct who
the criminal was, even if you were quite unable to
prove it?"
"Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I
suppose you think it nonsense?"
"Not at all."
"And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct
against Alfred Inglethorp."
"No," said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct
is not against Mr. Inglethorp."
"What?"
"No. You wish to believe he committed the crime.
You believe him capable of committing it. But your
instinct tells you he did not commit it. It tells
you more—shall I go on?"
She was staring at him, fascinated, and made a
slight affirmative movement of the hand.
"Shall I tell you why you have been so vehement
against Mr. Inglethorp? It is because you have been
trying to believe what you wish to believe. It is
because you are trying to drown and stifle your
instinct, which tells you another name——"
"No, no, no!" cried Miss Howard wildly, flinging
up her hands. "Don't say it! Oh, don't say it! It
isn't true! It can't be true. I don't know what put
such a wild—such a dreadful—idea into my head!"
"I am right, am I not?" asked Poirot.
"Yes, yes; you must be a wizard to have guessed.
But it can't be so—it's too monstrous, too
impossible. It must be Alfred Inglethorp."
Poirot shook his head gravely.
"Don't ask me about it," continued Miss Howard,
"because I shan't tell you. I won't admit it, even
to myself. I must be mad to think of such a thing."
Poirot nodded, as if satisfied.
"I will ask you nothing. It is enough for me that
it is as I thought. And I—I, too, have an instinct.
We are working together towards a common end."
"Don't ask me to help you, because I won't. I
wouldn't lift a finger to—to——" She faltered.
"You will help me in spite of yourself. I ask you
nothing—but you will be my ally. You will not be
able to help yourself. You will do the only thing
that I want of you."
"And that is?"
"You will watch!"
Evelyn Howard bowed her head.
"Yes, I can't help doing that. I am always
watching—always hoping I shall be proved wrong."
"If we are wrong, well and good," said Poirot.
"No one will be more pleased than I shall. But, if
we are right? If we are right, Miss Howard, on whose
side are you then?"
"I don't know, I don't know——"
"Come now."
"It could be hushed up."
"There must be no hushing up."
"But Emily herself——" She broke off.
"Miss Howard," said Poirot gravely, "this is
unworthy of you."
Suddenly she took her face from her hands.
"Yes," she said quietly, "that was not Evelyn
Howard who spoke!" She flung her head up proudly. "This
is Evelyn Howard! And she is on the side of Justice!
Let the cost be what it may." And with these words,
she walked firmly out of the room.
"There," said Poirot, looking after her, "goes a
very valuable ally. That woman, Hastings, has got
brains as well as a heart."
I did not reply.
"Instinct is a marvellous thing," mused Poirot.
"It can neither be explained nor ignored."
"You and Miss Howard seem to know what you are
talking about," I observed coldly. "Perhaps you
don't realize that I am still in the dark."
"Really? Is that so, mon ami?"
"Yes. Enlighten me, will you?"
Poirot studied me attentively for a moment or
two. Then, to my intense surprise, he shook his head
decidedly.
"No, my friend."
"Oh, look here, why not?"
"Two is enough for a secret."
"Well, I think it is very unfair to keep back
facts from me."
"I am not keeping back facts. Every fact that I
know is in your possession. You can draw your own
deductions from them. This time it is a question of
ideas."
"Still, it would be interesting to know."
Poirot looked at me very earnestly, and again
shook his head.
"You see," he said sadly, "you have no
instincts."
"It was intelligence you were requiring just
now," I pointed out.
"The two often go together," said Poirot
enigmatically.
The remark seemed so utterly irrelevant that I
did not even take the trouble to answer it. But I
decided that if I made any interesting and important
discoveries—as no doubt I should—I would keep them
to myself, and surprise Poirot with the ultimate
result.
There are times when it is one's duty to assert
oneself.
CHAPTER IX. DR. BAUERSTEIN
I HAD had no opportunity as yet of passing on
Poirot's message to Lawrence. But now, as I strolled
out on the lawn, still nursing a grudge against my
friend's high-handedness, I saw Lawrence on the
croquet lawn, aimlessly knocking a couple of very
ancient balls about, with a still more ancient
mallet.
It struck me that it would be a good opportunity
to deliver my message. Otherwise, Poirot himself
might relieve me of it. It was true that I did not
quite gather its purport, but I flattered myself
that by Lawrence's reply, and perhaps a little
skillful cross-examination on my part, I should soon
perceive its significance. Accordingly I accosted
him.
"I've been looking for you," I remarked
untruthfully.
"Have you?"
"Yes. The truth is, I've got a message for
you—from Poirot."
"Yes?"
"He told me to wait until I was alone with you,"
I said, dropping my voice significantly, and
watching him intently out of the corner of my eye. I
have always been rather good at what is called, I
believe, creating an atmosphere.
"Well?"
There was no change of expression in the dark
melancholic face. Had he any idea of what I was
about to say?
"This is the message." I dropped my voice still
lower. "'Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest
in peace.'"
"What on earth does he mean?" Lawrence stared at
me in quite unaffected astonishment.
"Don't you know?"
"Not in the least. Do you?"
I was compelled to shake my head.
"What extra coffee-cup?"
"I don't know."
"He'd better ask Dorcas, or one of the maids, if
he wants to know about coffee-cups. It's their
business, not mine. I don't know anything about the
coffee-cups, except that we've got some that are
never used, which are a perfect dream! Old
Worcester. You're not a connoisseur, are you,
Hastings?"
I shook my head.
"You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old
china—it's pure delight to handle it, or even to
look at it."
"Well, what am I to tell Poirot?"
"Tell him I don't know what he's talking about.
It's double Dutch to me."
"All right."
I was moving off towards the house again when he
suddenly called me back.
"I say, what was the end of that message? Say it
over again, will you?"
"'Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in
peace.' Are you sure you don't know what it means?"
I asked him earnestly.
He shook his head.
"No," he said musingly, "I don't. I—I wish I
did."
The boom of the gong sounded from the house, and
we went in together. Poirot had been asked by John
to remain to lunch, and was already seated at the
table.
By tacit consent, all mention of the tragedy was
barred. We conversed on the war, and other outside
topics. But after the cheese and biscuits had been
handed round, and Dorcas had left the room, Poirot
suddenly leant forward to Mrs. Cavendish.
"Pardon me, madame, for recalling unpleasant
memories, but I have a little idea"—Poirot's "little
ideas" were becoming a perfect byword—"and would
like to ask one or two questions."
"Of me? Certainly."
"You are too amiable, madame. What I want to ask
is this: the door leading into Mrs. Inglethorp's
room from that of Mademoiselle Cynthia, it was
bolted, you say?"
"Certainly it was bolted," replied Mary
Cavendish, rather surprised. "I said so at the
inquest."
"Bolted?"
"Yes." She looked perplexed.
"I mean," explained Poirot, "you are sure it was
bolted, and not merely locked?"
"Oh, I see what you mean. No, I don't know. I
said bolted, meaning that it was fastened, and I
could not open it, but I believe all the doors were
found bolted on the inside."
"Still, as far as you are concerned, the door
might equally well have been locked?"
"Oh, yes."
"You yourself did not happen to notice, madame,
when you entered Mrs. Inglethorp's room, whether
that door was bolted or not?"
"I—I believe it was."
"But you did not see it?"
"No. I—never looked."
"But I did," interrupted Lawrence suddenly. "I
happened to notice that it was bolted."
"Ah, that settles it." And Poirot looked
crestfallen.
I could not help rejoicing that, for once, one of
his "little ideas" had come to naught.
After lunch Poirot begged me to accompany him
home. I consented rather stiffly.
"You are annoyed, is it not so?" he asked
anxiously, as we walked through the park.
"Not at all," I said coldly.
"That is well. That lifts a great load from my
mind."
This was not quite what I had intended. I had
hoped that he would have observed the stiffness of
my manner. Still, the fervour of his words went
towards the appeasing of my just displeasure. I
thawed.
"I gave Lawrence your message," I said.
"And what did he say? He was entirely puzzled?"
"Yes. I am quite sure he had no idea of what you
meant."
I had expected Poirot to be disappointed; but, to
my surprise, he replied that that was as he had
thought, and that he was very glad. My pride forbade
me to ask any questions.
Poirot switched off on another tack.
"Mademoiselle Cynthia was not at lunch to-day?
How was that?"
"She is at the hospital again. She resumed work
to-day."
"Ah, she is an industrious little demoiselle. And
pretty too. She is like pictures I have seen in
Italy. I would rather like to see that dispensary of
hers. Do you think she would show it to me?"
"I am sure she would be delighted. It's an
interesting little place."
"Does she go there every day?"
"She has all Wednesdays off, and comes back to
lunch on Saturdays. Those are her only times off."
"I will remember. Women are doing great work
nowadays, and Mademoiselle Cynthia is clever—oh,
yes, she has brains, that little one."
"Yes. I believe she has passed quite a stiff
exam."
"Without doubt. After all, it is very responsible
work. I suppose they have very strong poisons
there?"
"Yes, she showed them to us. They are kept locked
up in a little cupboard. I believe they have to be
very careful. They always take out the key before
leaving the room."
"Indeed. It is near the window, this cupboard?"
"No, right the other side of the room. Why?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"I wondered. That is all. Will you come in?"
We had reached the cottage.
"No. I think I'll be getting back. I shall go
round the long way through the woods."
The woods round Styles were very beautiful. After
the walk across the open park, it was pleasant to
saunter lazily through the cool glades. There was
hardly a breath of wind, the very chirp of the birds
was faint and subdued. I strolled on a little way,
and finally flung myself down at the foot of a grand
old beech-tree. My thoughts of mankind were kindly
and charitable. I even forgave Poirot for his absurd
secrecy. In fact, I was at peace with the world.
Then I yawned.
I thought about the crime, and it struck me as
being very unreal and far off.
I yawned again.
Probably, I thought, it really never happened. Of
course, it was all a bad dream. The truth of the
matter was that it was Lawrence who had murdered
Alfred Inglethorp with a croquet mallet. But it was
absurd of John to make such a fuss about it, and to
go shouting out: "I tell you I won't have it!"
I woke up with a start.
At once I realized that I was in a very awkward
predicament. For, about twelve feet away from me,
John and Mary Cavendish were standing facing each
other, and they were evidently quarrelling. And,
quite as evidently, they were unaware of my
vicinity, for before I could move or speak John
repeated the words which had aroused me from my
dream.
"I tell you, Mary, I won't have it."
Mary's voice came, cool and liquid:
"Have you any right to criticize my
actions?"
"It will be the talk of the village! My mother
was only buried on Saturday, and here you are
gadding about with the fellow."
"Oh," she shrugged her shoulders, "if it is only
village gossip that you mind!"
"But it isn't. I've had enough of the fellow
hanging about. He's a Polish Jew, anyway."
"A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It
leavens the"—she looked at him—"stolid stupidity of
the ordinary Englishman."
Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not
wonder that the blood rose to John's face in a
crimson tide.
"Mary!"
"Well?" Her tone did not change.
The pleading died out of his voice.
"Am I to understand that you will continue to see
Bauerstein against my express wishes?"
"If I choose."
"You defy me?"
"No, but I deny your right to criticize my
actions. Have you no friends of whom I should
disapprove?"
John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly
from his face.
"What do you mean?" he said, in an unsteady
voice.
"You see!" said Mary quietly. "You do see,
don't you, that you have no right to dictate
to me as to the choice of my friends?"
John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look
on his face.
"No right? Have I no right, Mary?" he said
unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary——"
For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer
expression came over her face, then suddenly she
turned almost fiercely away.
"None!"
She was walking away when John sprang after her,
and caught her by the arm.
"Mary"—his voice was very quiet now—"are you in
love with this fellow Bauerstein?"
She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across
her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet
with something eternally young about it. So might
some Egyptian sphinx have smiled.
She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke
over her shoulder.
"Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out
of the little glade, leaving John standing there as
though he had been turned to stone.
Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward,
crackling some dead branches with my feet as I did
so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for granted
that I had only just come upon the scene.
"Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow
safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is
he any good, though, really?"
"He was considered one of the finest detectives
of his day."
"Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in
it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!"
"You find it so?" I asked.
"Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business
to start with. Scotland Yard men in and out of the
house like a jack-in-the-box! Never know where they
won't turn up next. Screaming headlines in every
paper in the country—damn all journalists, I say! Do
you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the
lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's
chamber of horrors business that can be seen for
nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?"
"Cheer up, John!" I said soothingly. "It can't
last for ever."
"Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us
never to be able to hold up our heads again."
"No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject."
"Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by
beastly journalists and stared at by gaping
moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there's
worse than that."
"What?"
John lowered his voice:
"Have you ever thought, Hastings—it's a nightmare
to me—who did it? I can't help feeling sometimes it
must have been an accident. Because—because—who
could have done it? Now Inglethorp's out of the way,
there's no one else; no one, I mean, except—one of
us."
Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any
man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be so, unless——-
A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly,
I considered it. The light increased. Poirot's
mysterious doings, his hints—they all fitted in.
Fool that I was not to have thought of this
possibility before, and what a relief for us all.
"No, John," I said, "it isn't one of us. How
could it be?"
"I know, but, still, who else is there?"
"Can't you guess?"
"No."
I looked cautiously round, and lowered my voice.
"Dr. Bauerstein!" I whispered.
"Impossible!"
"Not at all."
"But what earthly interest could he have in my
mother's death?"
"That I don't see," I confessed, "but I'll tell
you this: Poirot thinks so."
"Poirot? Does he? How do you know?"
I told him of Poirot's intense excitement on
hearing that Dr. Bauerstein had been at Styles on
the fatal night, and added:
"He said twice: 'That alters everything.' And
I've been thinking. You know Inglethorp said he had
put down the coffee in the hall? Well, it was just
then that Bauerstein arrived. Isn't it possible
that, as Inglethorp brought him through the hall,
the doctor dropped something into the coffee in
passing?"
"H'm," said John. "It would have been very
risky."
"Yes, but it was possible."
"And then, how could he know it was her coffee?
No, old fellow, I don't think that will wash."
But I had remembered something else.
"You're quite right. That wasn't how it was done.
Listen." And I then told him of the coco sample
which Poirot had taken to be analysed.
John interrupted just as I had done.
"But, look here, Bauerstein had had it analysed
already?"
"Yes, yes, that's the point. I didn't see it
either until now. Don't you understand? Bauerstein
had it analysed—that's just it! If Bauerstein's the
murderer, nothing could be simpler than for him to
substitute some ordinary coco for his sample, and
send that to be tested. And of course they would
find no strychnine! But no one would dream of
suspecting Bauerstein, or think of taking another
sample—except Poirot," I added, with belated
recognition.
"Yes, but what about the bitter taste that coco
won't disguise?"
"Well, we've only his word for that. And there
are other possibilities. He's admittedly one of the
world's greatest toxicologists——"
"One of the world's greatest what? Say it again."
"He knows more about poisons than almost
anybody," I explained. "Well, my idea is, that
perhaps he's found some way of making strychnine
tasteless. Or it may not have been strychnine at
all, but some obscure drug no one has ever heard of,
which produces much the same symptoms."
"H'm, yes, that might be," said John. "But look
here, how could he have got at the coco? That wasn't
downstairs?"
"No, it wasn't," I admitted reluctantly.
And then, suddenly, a dreadful possibility
flashed through my mind. I hoped and prayed it would
not occur to John also. I glanced sideways at him.
He was frowning perplexedly, and I drew a deep
breath of relief, for the terrible thought that had
flashed across my mind was this: that Dr. Bauerstein
might have had an accomplice.
Yet surely it could not be! Surely no woman as
beautiful as Mary Cavendish could be a murderess.
Yet beautiful women had been known to poison.
And suddenly I remembered that first conversation
at tea on the day of my arrival, and the gleam in
her eyes as she had said that poison was a woman's
weapon. How agitated she had been on that fatal
Tuesday evening! Had Mrs. Inglethorp discovered
something between her and Bauerstein, and threatened
to tell her husband? Was it to stop that
denunciation that the crime had been committed?
Then I remembered that enigmatical conversation
between Poirot and Evelyn Howard. Was this what they
had meant? Was this the monstrous possibility that
Evelyn had tried not to believe?
Yes, it all fitted in.
No wonder Miss Howard had suggested "hushing it
up." Now I understood that unfinished sentence of
hers: "Emily herself——" And in my heart I agreed
with her. Would not Mrs. Inglethorp have preferred
to go unavenged rather than have such terrible
dishonour fall upon the name of Cavendish.
"There's another thing," said John suddenly, and
the unexpected sound of his voice made me start
guiltily. "Something which makes me doubt if what
you say can be true."
"What's that?" I asked, thankful that he had gone
away from the subject of how the poison could have
been introduced into the coco.
"Why, the fact that Bauerstein demanded a
post-mortem. He needn't have done so. Little Wilkins
would have been quite content to let it go at heart
disease."
"Yes," I said doubtfully. "But we don't know.
Perhaps he thought it safer in the long run. Some
one might have talked afterwards. Then the Home
Office might have ordered exhumation. The whole
thing would have come out, then, and he would have
been in an awkward position, for no one would have
believed that a man of his reputation could have
been deceived into calling it heart disease."
"Yes, that's possible," admitted John. "Still,"
he added, "I'm blest if I can see what his motive
could have been."
I trembled.
"Look here," I said, "I may be altogether wrong.
And, remember, all this is in confidence."
"Oh, of course—that goes without saying."
We had walked, as we talked, and now we passed
through the little gate into the garden. Voices rose
near at hand, for tea was spread out under the
sycamore-tree, as it had been on the day of my
arrival.
Cynthia was back from the hospital, and I placed
my chair beside her, and told her of Poirot's wish
to visit the dispensary.
"Of course! I'd love him to see it. He'd better
come to tea there one day. I must fix it up with
him. He's such a dear little man! But he is
funny. He made me take the brooch out of my tie the
other day, and put it in again, because he said it
wasn't straight."
I laughed.
"It's quite a mania with him."
"Yes, isn't it?"
We were silent for a minute or two, and then,
glancing in the direction of Mary Cavendish, and
dropping her voice, Cynthia said:
"Mr. Hastings."
"Yes?"
"After tea, I want to talk to you."
Her glance at Mary had set me thinking. I fancied
that between these two there existed very little
sympathy. For the first time, it occurred to me to
wonder about the girl's future. Mrs. Inglethorp had
made no provisions of any kind for her, but I
imagined that John and Mary would probably insist on
her making her home with them—at any rate until the
end of the war. John, I knew, was very fond of her,
and would be sorry to let her go.
John, who had gone into the house, now
reappeared. His good-natured face wore an
unaccustomed frown of anger.
"Confound those detectives! I can't think what
they're after! They've been in every room in the
house—turning things inside out, and upside down. It
really is too bad! I suppose they took advantage of
our all being out. I shall go for that fellow Japp,
when I next see him!"
"Lot of Paul Prys," grunted Miss Howard.
Lawrence opined that they had to make a show of
doing something.
Mary Cavendish said nothing.
After tea, I invited Cynthia to come for a walk,
and we sauntered off into the woods together.
"Well?" I inquired, as soon as we were protected
from prying eyes by the leafy screen.
With a sigh, Cynthia flung herself down, and
tossed off her hat. The sunlight, piercing through
the branches, turned the auburn of her hair to
quivering gold.
"Mr. Hastings—you are always so kind, and you
know such a lot."
It struck me at this moment that Cynthia was
really a very charming girl! Much more charming than
Mary, who never said things of that kind.
"Well?" I asked benignantly, as she hesitated.
"I want to ask your advice. What shall I do?"
"Do?"
"Yes. You see, Aunt Emily always told me I should
be provided for. I suppose she forgot, or didn't
think she was likely to die—anyway, I am not
provided for! And I don't know what to do. Do you
think I ought to go away from here at once?"
"Good heavens, no! They don't want to part with
you, I'm sure."
Cynthia hesitated a moment, plucking up the grass
with her tiny hands. Then she said: "Mrs. Cavendish
does. She hates me."
"Hates you?" I cried, astonished.
Cynthia nodded.
"Yes. I don't know why, but she can't bear me;
and he can't, either."
"There I know you're wrong," I said warmly. "On
the contrary, John is very fond of you."
"Oh, yes—John. I meant Lawrence. Not, of
course, that I care whether Lawrence hates me or
not. Still, it's rather horrid when no one loves
you, isn't it?"
"But they do, Cynthia dear," I said earnestly.
"I'm sure you are mistaken. Look, there is John—and
Miss Howard—"
Cynthia nodded rather gloomily. "Yes, John likes
me, I think, and of course Evie, for all her gruff
ways, wouldn't be unkind to a fly. But Lawrence
never speaks to me if he can help it, and Mary can
hardly bring herself to be civil to me. She wants
Evie to stay on, is begging her to, but she doesn't
want me, and—and—I don't know what to do." Suddenly
the poor child burst out crying.
I don't know what possessed me. Her beauty,
perhaps, as she sat there, with the sunlight
glinting down on her head; perhaps the sense of
relief at encountering someone who so obviously
could have no connection with the tragedy; perhaps
honest pity for her youth and loneliness. Anyway, I
leant forward, and taking her little hand, I said
awkwardly:
"Marry me, Cynthia."
Unwittingly, I had hit upon a sovereign remedy
for her tears. She sat up at once, drew her hand
away, and said, with some asperity:
"Don't be silly!"
I was a little annoyed.
"I'm not being silly. I am asking you to do me
the honour of becoming my wife."
To my intense surprise, Cynthia burst out
laughing, and called me a "funny dear."
"It's perfectly sweet of you," she said, "but you
know you don't want to!"
"Yes, I do. I've got—"
"Never mind what you've got. You don't really
want to—and I don't either."
"Well, of course, that settles it," I said
stiffly. "But I don't see anything to laugh at.
There's nothing funny about a proposal."
"No, indeed," said Cynthia. "Somebody might
accept you next time. Good-bye, you've cheered me up
very much."
And, with a final uncontrollable burst of
merriment, she vanished through the trees.
Thinking over the interview, it struck me as
being profoundly unsatisfactory.
It occurred to me suddenly that I would go down
to the village, and look up Bauerstein. Somebody
ought to be keeping an eye on the fellow. At the
same time, it would be wise to allay any suspicions
he might have as to his being suspected. I
remembered how Poirot had relied on my diplomacy.
Accordingly, I went to the little house with the
"Apartments" card inserted in the window, where I
knew he lodged, and tapped on the door.
An old woman came and opened it.
"Good afternoon," I said pleasantly. "Is Dr.
Bauerstein in?"
She stared at me.
"Haven't you heard?"
"Heard what?"
"About him."
"What about him?"
"He's took."
"Took? Dead?"
"No, took by the perlice."
"By the police!" I gasped. "Do you mean they've
arrested him?"
"Yes, that's it, and—"
I waited to hear no more, but tore up the village
to find Poirot.
CHAPTER X. THE ARREST
To my extreme annoyance, Poirot was not in, and
the old Belgian who answered my knock informed me
that he believed he had gone to London.
I was dumbfounded. What on earth could Poirot be
doing in London! Was it a sudden decision on his
part, or had he already made up his mind when he
parted from me a few hours earlier?
I retraced my steps to Styles in some annoyance.
With Poirot away, I was uncertain how to act. Had he
foreseen this arrest? Had he not, in all
probability, been the cause of it? Those questions I
could not resolve. But in the meantime what was I to
do? Should I announce the arrest openly at Styles,
or not? Though I did not acknowledge it to myself,
the thought of Mary Cavendish was weighing on me.
Would it not be a terrible shock to her? For the
moment, I set aside utterly any suspicions of her.
She could not be implicated—otherwise I should have
heard some hint of it.
Of course, there was no possibility of being able
permanently to conceal Dr. Bauerstein's arrest from
her. It would be announced in every newspaper on the
morrow. Still, I shrank from blurting it out. If
only Poirot had been accessible, I could have asked
his advice. What possessed him to go posting off to
London in this unaccountable way?
In spite of myself, my opinion of his sagacity
was immeasurably heightened. I would never have
dreamt of suspecting the doctor, had not Poirot put
it into my head. Yes, decidedly, the little man was
clever.
After some reflecting, I decided to take John
into my confidence, and leave him to make the matter
public or not, as he thought fit.
He gave vent to a prodigious whistle, as I
imparted the news.
"Great Scot! You were right, then. I
couldn't believe it at the time."
"No, it is astonishing until you get used to the
idea, and see how it makes everything fit in. Now,
what are we to do? Of course, it will be generally
known to-morrow."
John reflected.
"Never mind," he said at last, "we won't say
anything at present. There is no need. As you say,
it will be known soon enough."
But to my intense surprise, on getting down early
the next morning, and eagerly opening the
newspapers, there was not a word about the arrest!
There was a column of mere padding about "The Styles
Poisoning Case," but nothing further. It was rather
inexplicable, but I supposed that, for some reason
or other, Japp wished to keep it out of the papers.
It worried me just a little, for it suggested the
possibility that there might be further arrests to
come.
After breakfast, I decided to go down to the
village, and see if Poirot had returned yet; but,
before I could start, a well-known face blocked one
of the windows, and the well-known voice said:
"Bon jour, mon ami!"
"Poirot," I exclaimed, with relief, and seizing
him by both hands, I dragged him into the room. "I
was never so glad to see anyone. Listen, I have said
nothing to anybody but John. Is that right?"
"My friend," replied Poirot, "I do not know what
you are talking about."
"Dr. Bauerstein's arrest, of course," I answered
impatiently.
"Is Bauerstein arrested, then?"
"Did you not know it?"
"Not the least in the world." But, pausing a
moment, he added: "Still, it does not surprise me.
After all, we are only four miles from the coast."
"The coast?" I asked, puzzled. "What has that got
to do with it?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"Surely, it is obvious!"
"Not to me. No doubt I am very dense, but I
cannot see what the proximity of the coast has got
to do with the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp."
"Nothing at all, of course," replied Poirot,
smiling. "But we were speaking of the arrest of Dr.
Bauerstein."
"Well, he is arrested for the murder of Mrs.
Inglethorp——"
"What?" cried Poirot, in apparently lively
astonishment. "Dr. Bauerstein arrested for the
murder of Mrs. Inglethorp?"
"Yes."
"Impossible! That would be too good a farce! Who
told you that, my friend?"
"Well, no one exactly told me," I confessed. "But
he is arrested."
"Oh, yes, very likely. But for espionage, mon
ami."
"Espionage?" I gasped.
"Precisely."
"Not for poisoning Mrs. Inglethorp?"
"Not unless our friend Japp has taken leave of
his senses," replied Poirot placidly.
"But—but I thought you thought so too?"
Poirot gave me one look, which conveyed a
wondering pity, and his full sense of the utter
absurdity of such an idea.
"Do you mean to say," I asked, slowly adapting
myself to the new idea, "that Dr. Bauerstein is a
spy?"
Poirot nodded.
"Have you never suspected it?"
"It never entered my head."
"It did not strike you as peculiar that a famous
London doctor should bury himself in a little
village like this, and should be in the habit of
walking about at all hours of the night, fully
dressed?"
"No," I confessed, "I never thought of such a
thing."
"He is, of course, a German by birth," said
Poirot thoughtfully, "though he has practiced so
long in this country that nobody thinks of him as
anything but an Englishman. He was naturalized about
fifteen years ago. A very clever man—a Jew, of
course."
"The blackguard!" I cried indignantly.
"Not at all. He is, on the contrary, a patriot.
Think what he stands to lose. I admire the man
myself."
But I could not look at it in Poirot's
philosophical way.
"And this is the man with whom Mrs. Cavendish has
been wandering about all over the country!" I cried
indignantly.
"Yes. I should fancy he had found her very
useful," remarked Poirot. "So long as gossip busied
itself in coupling their names together, any other
vagaries of the doctor's passed unobserved."
"Then you think he never really cared for her?" I
asked eagerly—rather too eagerly, perhaps, under the
circumstances.
"That, of course, I cannot say, but—shall I tell
you my own private opinion, Hastings?"
"Yes."
"Well, it is this: that Mrs. Cavendish does not
care, and never has cared one little jot about Dr.
Bauerstein!"
"Do you really think so?" I could not disguise my
pleasure.
"I am quite sure of it. And I will tell you why."
"Yes?"
"Because she cares for some one else, mon ami."
"Oh!" What did he mean? In spite of myself, an
agreeable warmth spread over me. I am not a vain man
where women are concerned, but I remembered certain
evidences, too lightly thought of at the time,
perhaps, but which certainly seemed to indicate——
My pleasing thoughts were interrupted by the
sudden entrance of Miss Howard. She glanced round
hastily to make sure there was no one else in the
room, and quickly produced an old sheet of brown
paper. This she handed to Poirot, murmuring as she
did so the cryptic words:
"On top of the wardrobe." Then she hurriedly left
the room.
Poirot unfolded the sheet of paper eagerly, and
uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. He spread it
out on the table.
"Come here, Hastings. Now tell me, what is that
initial—J. or L.?"
It was a medium sized sheet of paper, rather
dusty, as though it had lain by for some time. But
it was the label that was attracting Poirot's
attention. At the top, it bore the printed stamp of
Messrs. Parkson's, the well-known theatrical
costumiers, and it was addressed to "—(the debatable
initial) Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court, Styles St.
Mary, Essex."
"It might be T., or it might be L.," I said,
after studying the thing for a minute or two. "It
certainly isn't a J."
"Good," replied Poirot, folding up the paper
again. "I, also, am of your way of thinking. It is
an L., depend upon it!"
"Where did it come from?" I asked curiously. "Is
it important?"
"Moderately so. It confirms a surmise of mine.
Having deduced its existence, I set Miss Howard to
search for it, and, as you see, she has been
successful."
"What did she mean by 'On the top of the
wardrobe'?"
"She meant," replied Poirot promptly, "that she
found it on top of a wardrobe."
"A funny place for a piece of brown paper," I
mused.
"Not at all. The top of a wardrobe is an
excellent place for brown paper and cardboard boxes.
I have kept them there myself. Neatly arranged,
there is nothing to offend the eye."
"Poirot," I asked earnestly, "have you made up
your mind about this crime?"
"Yes—that is to say, I believe I know how it was
committed."
"Ah!"
"Unfortunately, I have no proof beyond my
surmise, unless——" With sudden energy, he caught me
by the arm, and whirled me down the hall, calling
out in French in his excitement: "Mademoiselle
Dorcas, Mademoiselle Dorcas, un moment, s'il vous
plait!"
Dorcas, quite flurried by the noise, came
hurrying out of the pantry.
"My good Dorcas, I have an idea—a little idea—if
it should prove justified, what magnificent chance!
Tell me, on Monday, not Tuesday, Dorcas, but Monday,
the day before the tragedy, did anything go wrong
with Mrs. Inglethorp's bell?"
Dorcas looked very surprised.
"Yes, sir, now you mention it, it did; though I
don't know how you came to hear of it. A mouse, or
some such, must have nibbled the wire through. The
man came and put it right on Tuesday morning."
With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot
led the way back to the morning-room.
"See you, one should not ask for outside
proof—no, reason should be enough. But the flesh is
weak, it is consolation to find that one is on the
right track. Ah, my friend, I am like a giant
refreshed. I run! I leap!"
And, in very truth, run and leap he did,
gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside
the long window.
"What is your remarkable little friend doing?"
asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary
Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I.
"What is it all about?"
"Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some
question about a bell, and appeared so delighted
with her answer that he is capering about as you
see!"
Mary laughed.
"How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate.
Isn't he coming back to-day?"
"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what
he'll do next."
"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?"
"I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he
is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at
his maddest, I find there is method in his madness."
"I see."
In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking
thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost
sad.
It occurred to me that it would be a good
opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia.
I began rather tactfully, I thought, but I had not
gone far before she stopped me authoritatively.
"You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt,
Mr. Hastings, but in this case your talents are
quite thrown away. Cynthia will run no risk of
encountering any unkindness from me."
I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn't
thought—But again she stopped me, and her words were
so unexpected that they quite drove Cynthia, and her
troubles, out of my mind.
"Mr. Hastings," she said, "do you think I and my
husband are happy together?"
I was considerably taken aback, and murmured
something about it's not being my business to think
anything of the sort.
"Well," she said quietly, "whether it is your
business or not, I will tell you that we are not
happy."
I said nothing, for I saw that she had not
finished.
She began slowly, walking up and down the room,
her head a little bent, and that slim, supple figure
of hers swaying gently as she walked. She stopped
suddenly, and looked up at me.
"You don't know anything about me, do you?" she
asked. "Where I come from, who I was before I
married John—anything, in fact? Well, I will tell
you. I will make a father confessor of you. You are
kind, I think—yes, I am sure you are kind."
Somehow, I was not quite as elated as I might
have been. I remembered that Cynthia had begun her
confidences in much the same way. Besides, a father
confessor should be elderly, it is not at all the
role for a young man.
"My father was English," said Mrs. Cavendish,
"but my mother was a Russian."
"Ah," I said, "now I understand—"
"Understand what?"
"A hint of something foreign—different—that there
has always been about you."
"My mother was very beautiful, I believe. I don't
know, because I never saw her. She died when I was
quite a little child. I believe there was some
tragedy connected with her death—she took an
overdose of some sleeping draught by mistake.
However that may be, my father was broken-hearted.
Shortly afterwards, he went into the Consular
Service. Everywhere he went, I went with him. When I
was twenty-three, I had been nearly all over the
world. It was a splendid life—I loved it."
There was a smile on her face, and her head was
thrown back. She seemed living in the memory of
those old glad days.
"Then my father died. He left me very badly off.
I had to go and live with some old aunts in
Yorkshire." She shuddered. "You will understand me
when I say that it was a deadly life for a girl
brought up as I had been. The narrowness, the deadly
monotony of it, almost drove me mad." She paused a
minute, and added in a different tone: "And then I
met John Cavendish."
"Yes?"
"You can imagine that, from my aunts' point of
view, it was a very good match for me. But I can
honestly say it was not this fact which weighed with
me. No, he was simply a way of escape from the
insufferable monotony of my life."
I said nothing, and after a moment, she went on:
"Don't misunderstand me. I was quite honest with
him. I told him, what was true, that I liked him
very much, that I hoped to come to like him more,
but that I was not in any way what the world calls
'in love' with him. He declared that that satisfied
him, and so—we were married."
She waited a long time, a little frown had
gathered on her forehead. She seemed to be looking
back earnestly into those past days.
"I think—I am sure—he cared for me at first. But
I suppose we were not well matched. Almost at once,
we drifted apart. He—it is not a pleasing thing for
my pride, but it is the truth—tired of me very
soon." I must have made some murmur of dissent, for
she went on quickly: "Oh, yes, he did! Not that it
matters now—now that we've come to the parting of
the ways."
"What do you mean?"
She answered quietly:
"I mean that I am not going to remain at Styles."
"You and John are not going to live here?"
"John may live here, but I shall not."
"You are going to leave him?"
"Yes."
"But why?"
She paused a long time, and said at last:
"Perhaps—because I want to be—free!"
And, as she spoke, I had a sudden vision of broad
spaces, virgin tracts of forests, untrodden
lands—and a realization of what freedom would mean
to such a nature as Mary Cavendish. I seemed to see
her for a moment as she was, a proud wild creature,
as untamed by civilization as some shy bird of the
hills. A little cry broke from her lips:
"You don't know, you don't know, how this hateful
place has been prison to me!"
"I understand," I said, "but—but don't do
anything rash."
"Oh, rash!" Her voice mocked at my prudence.
Then suddenly I said a thing I could have bitten
out my tongue for:
"You know that Dr. Bauerstein has been arrested?"
An instant coldness passed like a mask over her
face, blotting out all expression.
"John was so kind as to break that to me this
morning."
"Well, what do you think?" I asked feebly.
"Of what?"
"Of the arrest?"
"What should I think? Apparently he is a German
spy; so the gardener had told John."
Her face and voice were absolutely cold and
expressionless. Did she care, or did she not?
She moved away a step or two, and fingered one of
the flower vases.
"These are quite dead. I must do them again.
Would you mind moving—thank you, Mr. Hastings." And
she walked quietly past me out of the window, with a
cool little nod of dismissal.
No, surely she could not care for Bauerstein. No
woman could act her part with that icy unconcern.
Poirot did not make his appearance the following
morning, and there was no sign of the Scotland Yard
men.
But, at lunch-time, there arrived a new piece of
evidence—or rather lack of evidence. We had vainly
tried to trace the fourth letter, which Mrs.
Inglethorp had written on the evening preceding her
death. Our efforts having been in vain, we had
abandoned the matter, hoping that it might turn up
of itself one day. And this is just what did happen,
in the shape of a communication, which arrived by
the second post from a firm of French music
publishers, acknowledging Mrs. Inglethorp's cheque,
and regretting they had been unable to trace a
certain series of Russian folksongs. So the last
hope of solving the mystery, by means of Mrs.
Inglethorp's correspondence on the fatal evening,
had to be abandoned.
Just before tea, I strolled down to tell Poirot
of the new disappointment, but found, to my
annoyance, that he was once more out.
"Gone to London again?"
"Oh, no, monsieur, he has but taken the train to
Tadminster. 'To see a young lady's dispensary,' he
said."
"Silly ass!" I ejaculated. "I told him Wednesday
was the one day she wasn't there! Well, tell him to
look us up to-morrow morning, will you?"
"Certainly, monsieur."
But, on the following day, no sign of Poirot. I
was getting angry. He was really treating us in the
most cavalier fashion.
After lunch, Lawrence drew me aside, and asked if
I was going down to see him.
"No, I don't think I shall. He can come up here
if he wants to see us."
"Oh!" Lawrence looked indeterminate. Something
unusually nervous and excited in his manner roused
my curiosity.
"What is it?" I asked. "I could go if there's
anything special."
"It's nothing much, but—well, if you are going,
will you tell him—" he dropped his voice to a
whisper—"I think I've found the extra coffee-cup!"
I had almost forgotten that enigmatical message
of Poirot's, but now my curiosity was aroused
afresh.
Lawrence would say no more, so I decided that I
would descend from my high horse, and once more seek
out Poirot at Leastways Cottage.
This time I was received with a smile. Monsieur
Poirot was within. Would I mount? I mounted
accordingly.
Poirot was sitting by the table, his head buried
in his hands. He sprang up at my entrance.
"What is it?" I asked solicitously. "You are not
ill, I trust?"
"No, no, not ill. But I decide an affair of great
moment."
"Whether to catch the criminal or not?" I asked
facetiously.
But, to my great surprise, Poirot nodded gravely.
"'To speak or not to speak,' as your so great
Shakespeare says, 'that is the question.'"
I did not trouble to correct the quotation.
"You are not serious, Poirot?"
"I am of the most serious. For the most serious
of all things hangs in the balance."
"And that is?"
"A woman's happiness, mon ami," he said gravely.
I did not quite know what to say.
"The moment has come," said Poirot thoughtfully,
"and I do not know what to do. For, see you, it is a
big stake for which I play. No one but I, Hercule
Poirot, would attempt it!" And he tapped himself
proudly on the breast.
After pausing a few minutes respectfully, so as
not to spoil his effect, I gave him Lawrence's
message.
"Aha!" he cried. "So he has found the extra
coffee-cup. That is good. He has more intelligence
than would appear, this long-faced Monsieur Lawrence
of yours!"
I did not myself think very highly of Lawrence's
intelligence; but I forebore to contradict Poirot,
and gently took him to task for forgetting my
instructions as to which were Cynthia's days off.
"It is true. I have the head of a sieve. However,
the other young lady was most kind. She was sorry
for my disappointment, and showed me everything in
the kindest way."
"Oh, well, that's all right, then, and you must
go to tea with Cynthia another day."
I told him about the letter.
"I am sorry for that," he said. "I always had
hopes of that letter. But no, it was not to be. This
affair must all be unravelled from within." He
tapped his forehead. "These little grey cells. It is
'up to them'—as you say over here." Then, suddenly,
he asked: "Are you a judge of finger-marks, my
friend?"
"No," I said, rather surprised, "I know that
there are no two finger-marks alike, but that's as
far as my science goes."
"Exactly."
He unlocked a little drawer, and took out some
photographs which he laid on the table.
"I have numbered them, 1, 2, 3. Will you describe
them to me?"
I studied the proofs attentively.
"All greatly magnified, I see. No. 1, I should
say, are a man's finger-prints; thumb and first
finger. No. 2 are a lady's; they are much smaller,
and quite different in every way. No. 3"—I paused
for some time—"there seem to be a lot of confused
finger-marks, but here, very distinctly, are No.
1's."
"Overlapping the others?"
"Yes."
"You recognize them beyond fail?"
"Oh, yes; they are identical."
Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs
from me locked them up again.
"I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not
going to explain?"
"On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of
Monsieur Lawrence. No. 2 were those of Mademoiselle
Cynthia. They are not important. I merely obtained
them for comparison. No. 3 is a little more
complicated."
"Yes?"
"It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may
have noticed a sort of blur extending all across the
picture. I will not describe to you the special
apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is
a well-known process to the police, and by means of
it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints
of any object in a very short space of time. Well,
my friend, you have seen the finger-marks—it remains
to tell you the particular object on which they had
been left."
"Go on—I am really excited."
"Eh bien! Photo No. 3 represents the highly
magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison
cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital
at Tadminster—which sounds like the house that Jack
built!"
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were
Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He
never went near the poison cupboard the day we were
there!"
"Oh, yes, he did!"
"Impossible! We were all together the whole
time."
Poirot shook his head.
"No, my friend, there was a moment when you were
not all together. There was a moment when you could
not have been all together, or it would not have
been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come
and join you on the balcony."
"I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was
only for a moment."
"Long enough."
"Long enough for what?"
Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical.
"Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied
medicine to gratify a very natural interest and
curiosity."
Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He
got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him
suspiciously.
"Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular
little bottle?"
Poirot looked out of the window.
"Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his
shoulder, continuing to hum.
"Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was
not surprised. I had expected that answer.
"They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine
very little—only occasionally for pills. It is the
official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that
is used in most medicines. That is why the
finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then."
"How did you manage to take this photograph?"
"I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained
Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at
that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies,
Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and
fetch it for me."
"Then you knew what you were going to find?"
"No, not at all. I merely realized that it was
possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to
go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be
confirmed, or eliminated."
"Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive
me. This is a very important discovery."
"I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does
strike me. No doubt it has struck you too."
"What is that?"
"Why, that there is altogether too much
strychnine about this case. This is the third time
we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs.
Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold
across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now
we have more strychnine, handled by one of the
household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do
not like confusion."
Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians
opened the door and stuck his head in.
"There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings."
"A lady?"
I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow
stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway.
"I have been visiting an old woman in the
village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me
you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call
for you."
"Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had
come to honour me with a visit!"
"I will some day, if you ask me," she promised
him, smiling.
"That is well. If you should need a father
confessor, madame" —she started ever so
slightly—"remember, Papa Poirot is always at your
service."
She stared at him for a few minutes, as though
seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words.
Then she turned abruptly away.
"Come, will you not walk back with us too,
Monsieur Poirot?"
"Enchanted, madame."
All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and
feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was
nervous of Poirot's eyes.
The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was
almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a
little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer.
The wind through the trees made a mournful noise,
like some great giant sighing.
We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at
once the knowledge came to us that something was
wrong.
Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was
crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other
servants huddled together in the background, all
eyes and ears.
"Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell
you—"
"What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell
us at once."
"It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested
him—they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!"
"Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped.
I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes.
"No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence—Mr. John."
Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell
heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I
met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes.
CHAPTER XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION
The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his
stepmother took place two months later.
Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but
my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to
Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on
her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his
guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail.
I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he
nodded thoughtfully.
"Yes, she is of those women who show at their
best in adversity. It brings out all that is
sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her
jealousy have—"
"Jealousy?" I queried.
"Yes. Have you not realized that she is an
unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride
and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of
nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that
is hanging over him."
He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him
earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he
had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With
his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt
glad that the decision had been taken out of his
hands.
"Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You
see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was
Lawrence!"
Poirot grinned.
"I know you did."
"But John! My old friend John!"
"Every murderer is probably somebody's old
friend," observed Poirot philosophically. "You
cannot mix up sentiment and reason."
"I must say I think you might have given me a
hint."
"Perhaps, mon ami, I did not do so, just because
he was your old friend."
I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering
how I had busily passed on to John what I believed
to be Poirot's views concerning Bauerstein. He, by
the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought
against him. Nevertheless, although he had been too
clever for them this time, and the charge of
espionage could not be brought home to him, his
wings were pretty well clipped for the future.
I asked Poirot whether he thought John would be
condemned. To my intense surprise, he replied that,
on the contrary, he was extremely likely to be
acquitted.
"But, Poirot—" I protested.
"Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along
that I have no proofs. It is one thing to know that
a man is guilty, it is quite another matter to prove
him so. And, in this case, there is terribly little
evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, Hercule
Poirot, know, but I lack the last link in my chain.
And unless I can find that missing link—" He shook
his head gravely.
"When did you first suspect John Cavendish?" I
asked, after a minute or two.
"Did you not suspect him at all?"
"No, indeed."
"Not after that fragment of conversation you
overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her
mother-in-law, and her subsequent lack of frankness
at the inquest?"
"No."
"Did you not put two and two together, and
reflect that if it was not Alfred Inglethorp who was
quarrelling with his wife—and you remember, he
strenuously denied it at the inquest—it must be
either Lawrence or John. Now, if it was Lawrence,
Mary Cavendish's conduct was just as inexplicable.
But if, on the other hand, it was John, the whole
thing was explained quite naturally."
"So," I cried, a light breaking in upon me, "it
was John who quarrelled with his mother that
afternoon?"
"Exactly."
"And you have known this all along?"
"Certainly. Mrs. Cavendish's behaviour could only
be explained that way."
"And yet you say he may be acquitted?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"Certainly I do. At the police court proceedings,
we shall hear the case for the prosecution, but in
all probability his solicitors will advise him to
reserve his defence. That will be sprung upon us at
the trial. And—ah, by the way, I have a word of
caution to give you, my friend. I must not appear in
the case."
"What?"
"No. Officially, I have nothing to do with it.
Until I have found that last link in my chain, I
must remain behind the scenes. Mrs. Cavendish must
think I am working for her husband, not against
him."
"I say, that's playing it a bit low down," I
protested.
"Not at all. We have to deal with a most clever
and unscrupulous man, and we must use any means in
our power—otherwise he will slip through our
fingers. That is why I have been careful to remain
in the background. All the discoveries have been
made by Japp, and Japp will take all the credit. If
I am called upon to give evidence at all"—he smiled
broadly—"it will probably be as a witness for the
defence."
I could hardly believe my ears.
"It is quite en regle," continued Poirot.
"Strangely enough, I can give evidence that will
demolish one contention of the prosecution."
"Which one?"
"The one that relates to the destruction of the
will. John Cavendish did not destroy that will."
Poirot was a true prophet. I will not go into the
details of the police court proceedings, as it
involves many tiresome repetitions. I will merely
state baldly that John Cavendish reserved his
defence, and was duly committed for trial.
September found us all in London. Mary took a
house in Kensington, Poirot being included in the
family party.
I myself had been given a job at the War Office,
so was able to see them continually.
As the weeks went by, the state of Poirot's
nerves grew worse and worse. That "last link" he
talked about was still lacking. Privately, I hoped
it might remain so, for what happiness could there
be for Mary, if John were not acquitted?
On September 15th John Cavendish appeared in the
dock at the Old Bailey, charged with "The Wilful
Murder of Emily Agnes Inglethorp," and pleaded "Not
Guilty."
Sir Ernest Heavywether, the famous K. C., had
been engaged to defend him.
Mr. Philips, K. C., opened the case for the
Crown.
The murder, he said, was a most premeditated and
cold-blooded one. It was neither more nor less than
the deliberate poisoning of a fond and trusting
woman by the stepson to whom she had been more than
a mother. Ever since his boyhood, she had supported
him. He and his wife had lived at Styles Court in
every luxury, surrounded by her care and attention.
She had been their kind and generous benefactress.
He proposed to call witnesses to show how the
prisoner, a profligate and spendthrift, had been at
the end of his financial tether, and had also been
carrying on an intrigue with a certain Mrs. Raikes,
a neighbouring farmer's wife. This having come to
his stepmother's ears, she taxed him with it on the
afternoon before her death, and a quarrel ensued,
part of which was overheard. On the previous day,
the prisoner had purchased strychnine at the village
chemist's shop, wearing a disguise by means of which
he hoped to throw the onus of the crime upon another
man—to wit, Mrs. Inglethorp's husband, of whom he
had been bitterly jealous. Luckily for Mr.
Inglethorp, he had been able to produce an
unimpeachable alibi.
On the afternoon of July 17th, continued Counsel,
immediately after the quarrel with her son, Mrs.
Inglethorp made a new will. This will was found
destroyed in the grate of her bedroom the following
morning, but evidence had come to light which showed
that it had been drawn up in favour of her husband.
Deceased had already made a will in his favour
before her marriage, but—and Mr. Philips wagged an
expressive forefinger—the prisoner was not aware of
that. What had induced the deceased to make a fresh
will, with the old one still extant, he could not
say. She was an old lady, and might possibly have
forgotten the former one; or—this seemed to him more
likely—she may have had an idea that it was revoked
by her marriage, as there had been some conversation
on the subject. Ladies were not always very well
versed in legal knowledge. She had, about a year
before, executed a will in favour of the prisoner.
He would call evidence to show that it was the
prisoner who ultimately handed his stepmother her
coffee on the fatal night. Later in the evening, he
had sought admission to her room, on which occasion,
no doubt, he found an opportunity of destroying the
will which, as far as he knew, would render the one
in his favour valid.
The prisoner had been arrested in consequence of
the discovery, in his room, by Detective Inspector
Japp—a most brilliant officer—of the identical phial
of strychnine which had been sold at the village
chemist's to the supposed Mr. Inglethorp on the day
before the murder. It would be for the jury to
decide whether or not these damning facts
constituted an overwhelming proof of the prisoner's
guilt.
And, subtly implying that a jury which did not so
decide, was quite unthinkable, Mr. Philips sat down
and wiped his forehead.
The first witnesses for the prosecution were
mostly those who had been called at the inquest, the
medical evidence being again taken first.
Sir Ernest Heavywether, who was famous all over
England for the unscrupulous manner in which he
bullied witnesses, only asked two questions.
"I take it, Dr. Bauerstein, that strychnine, as a
drug, acts quickly?"
"Yes."
"And that you are unable to account for the delay
in this case?"
"Yes."
"Thank you."
Mr. Mace identified the phial handed him by
Counsel as that sold by him to "Mr. Inglethorp."
Pressed, he admitted that he only knew Mr.
Inglethorp by sight. He had never spoken to him. The
witness was not cross-examined.
Alfred Inglethorp was called, and denied having
purchased the poison. He also denied having
quarrelled with his wife. Various witnesses
testified to the accuracy of these statements.
The gardeners' evidence, as to the witnessing of
the will was taken, and then Dorcas was called.
Dorcas, faithful to her "young gentlemen," denied
strenuously that it could have been John's voice she
heard, and resolutely declared, in the teeth of
everything, that it was Mr. Inglethorp who had been
in the boudoir with her mistress. A rather wistful
smile passed across the face of the prisoner in the
dock. He knew only too well how useless her gallant
defiance was, since it was not the object of the
defence to deny this point. Mrs. Cavendish, of
course, could not be called upon to give evidence
against her husband.
After various questions on other matters, Mr.
Philips asked:
"In the month of June last, do you remember a
parcel arriving for Mr. Lawrence Cavendish from
Parkson's?"
Dorcas shook her head.
"I don't remember, sir. It may have done, but Mr.
Lawrence was away from home part of June."
"In the event of a parcel arriving for him whilst
he was away, what would be done with it?"
"It would either be put in his room or sent on
after him."
"By you?"
"No, sir, I should leave it on the hall table. It
would be Miss Howard who would attend to anything
like that."
Evelyn Howard was called and, after being
examined on other points, was questioned as to the
parcel.
"Don't remember. Lots of parcels come. Can't
remember one special one."
"You do not know if it was sent after Mr.
Lawrence Cavendish to Wales, or whether it was put
in his room?"
"Don't think it was sent after him. Should have
remembered it if it was."
"Supposing a parcel arrived addressed to Mr.
Lawrence Cavendish, and afterwards it disappeared,
should you remark its absence?"
"No, don't think so. I should think some one had
taken charge of it."
"I believe, Miss Howard, that it was you who
found this sheet of brown paper?" He held up the
same dusty piece which Poirot and I had examined in
the morning-room at Styles.
"Yes, I did."
"How did you come to look for it?"
"The Belgian detective who was employed on the
case asked me to search for it."
"Where did you eventually discover it?"
"On the top of—of—a wardrobe."
"On top of the prisoner's wardrobe?"
"I—I believe so."
"Did you not find it yourself?"
"Yes."
"Then you must know where you found it?"
"Yes, it was on the prisoner's wardrobe."
"That is better."
An assistant from Parkson's, Theatrical
Costumiers, testified that on June 29th, they had
supplied a black beard to Mr. L. Cavendish, as
requested. It was ordered by letter, and a postal
order was enclosed. No, they had not kept the
letter. All transactions were entered in their
books. They had sent the beard, as directed, to "L.
Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court."
Sir Ernest Heavywether rose ponderously.
"Where was the letter written from?"
"From Styles Court."
"The same address to which you sent the parcel?"
"Yes."
"And the letter came from there?"
"Yes."
Like a beast of prey, Heavywether fell upon him:
"How do you know?"
"I—I don't understand."
"How do you know that letter came from Styles?
Did you notice the postmark?"
"No—but—"
"Ah, you did not notice the postmark! And
yet you affirm so confidently that it came from
Styles. It might, in fact, have been any postmark?"
"Y—es."
"In fact, the letter, though written on stamped
notepaper, might have been posted from anywhere?
From Wales, for instance?"
The witness admitted that such might be the case,
and Sir Ernest signified that he was satisfied.
Elizabeth Wells, second housemaid at Styles,
stated that after she had gone to bed she remembered
that she had bolted the front door, instead of
leaving it on the latch as Mr. Inglethorp had
requested. She had accordingly gone downstairs again
to rectify her error. Hearing a slight noise in the
West wing, she had peeped along the passage, and had
seen Mr. John Cavendish knocking at Mrs.
Inglethorp's door.
Sir Ernest Heavywether made short work of her,
and under his unmerciful bullying she contradicted
herself hopelessly, and Sir Ernest sat down again
with a satisfied smile on his face.
With the evidence of Annie, as to the candle
grease on the floor, and as to seeing the prisoner
take the coffee into the boudoir, the proceedings
were adjourned until the following day.
As we went home, Mary Cavendish spoke bitterly
against the prosecuting counsel.
"That hateful man! What a net he has drawn around
my poor John! How he twisted every little fact until
he made it seem what it wasn't!"
"Well," I said consolingly, "it will be the other
way about to-morrow."
"Yes," she said meditatively; then suddenly
dropped her voice. "Mr. Hastings, you do not
think—surely it could not have been Lawrence—Oh, no,
that could not be!"
But I myself was puzzled, and as soon as I was
alone with Poirot I asked him what he thought Sir
Ernest was driving at.
"Ah!" said Poirot appreciatively. "He is a clever
man, that Sir Ernest."
"Do you think he believes Lawrence guilty?"
"I do not think he believes or cares anything!
No, what he is trying for is to create such
confusion in the minds of the jury that they are
divided in their opinion as to which brother did it.
He is endeavouring to make out that there is quite
as much evidence against Lawrence as against
John—and I am not at all sure that he will not
succeed."
Detective-inspector Japp was the first witness
called when the trial was reopened, and gave his
evidence succinctly and briefly. After relating the
earlier events, he proceeded:
"Acting on information received, Superintendent
Summerhaye and myself searched the prisoner's room,
during his temporary absence from the house. In his
chest of drawers, hidden beneath some underclothing,
we found: first, a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez
similar to those worn by Mr. Inglethorp"—these were
exhibited—"secondly, this phial."
The phial was that already recognized by the
chemist's assistant, a tiny bottle of blue glass,
containing a few grains of a white crystalline
powder, and labelled: "Strychnine Hydrochloride.
POISON."
A fresh piece of evidence discovered by the
detectives since the police court proceedings was a
long, almost new piece of blotting-paper. It had
been found in Mrs. Inglethorp's cheque book, and on
being reversed at a mirror, showed clearly the
words: ". . . erything of which I die possessed I
leave to my beloved husband Alfred Ing..." This
placed beyond question the fact that the destroyed
will had been in favour of the deceased lady's
husband. Japp then produced the charred fragment of
paper recovered from the grate, and this, with the
discovery of the beard in the attic, completed his
evidence.
But Sir Ernest's cross-examination was yet to
come.
"What day was it when you searched the prisoner's
room?"
"Tuesday, the 24th of July."
"Exactly a week after the tragedy?"
"Yes."
"You found these two objects, you say, in the
chest of drawers. Was the drawer unlocked?"
"Yes."
"Does it not strike you as unlikely that a man
who had committed a crime should keep the evidence
of it in an unlocked drawer for anyone to find?"
"He might have stowed them there in a hurry."
"But you have just said it was a whole week since
the crime. He would have had ample time to remove
them and destroy them."
"Perhaps."
"There is no perhaps about it. Would he, or would
he not have had plenty of time to remove and destroy
them?"
"Yes."
"Was the pile of underclothes under which the
things were hidden heavy or light?"
"Heavyish."
"In other words, it was winter underclothing.
Obviously, the prisoner would not be likely to go to
that drawer?"
"Perhaps not."
"Kindly answer my question. Would the prisoner,
in the hottest week of a hot summer, be likely to go
to a drawer containing winter underclothing. Yes, or
no?"
"No."
"In that case, is it not possible that the
articles in question might have been put there by a
third person, and that the prisoner was quite
unaware of their presence?"
"I should not think it likely."
"But it is possible?"
"Yes."
"That is all."
More evidence followed. Evidence as to the
financial difficulties in which the prisoner had
found himself at the end of July. Evidence as to his
intrigue with Mrs. Raikes—poor Mary, that must have
been bitter hearing for a woman of her pride. Evelyn
Howard had been right in her facts, though her
animosity against Alfred Inglethorp had caused her
to jump to the conclusion that he was the person
concerned.
Lawrence Cavendish was then put into the box. In
a low voice, in answer to Mr. Philips' questions, he
denied having ordered anything from Parkson's in
June. In fact, on June 29th, he had been staying
away, in Wales.
Instantly, Sir Ernest's chin was shooting
pugnaciously forward.
"You deny having ordered a black beard from
Parkson's on June 29th?"
"I do."
"Ah! In the event of anything happening to your
brother, who will inherit Styles Court?"
The brutality of the question called a flush to
Lawrence's pale face. The judge gave vent to a faint
murmur of disapprobation, and the prisoner in the
dock leant forward angrily.
Heavywether cared nothing for his client's anger.
"Answer my question, if you please."
"I suppose," said Lawrence quietly, "that I
should."
"What do you mean by you 'suppose'? Your brother
has no children. You would inherit it,
wouldn't you?"
"Yes."
"Ah, that's better," said Heavywether, with
ferocious geniality. "And you'd inherit a good slice
of money too, wouldn't you?"
"Really, Sir Ernest," protested the judge, "these
questions are not relevant."
Sir Ernest bowed, and having shot his arrow
proceeded.
"On Tuesday, the 17th July, you went, I believe,
with another guest, to visit the dispensary at the
Red Cross Hospital in Tadminster?"
"Yes."
"Did you—while you happened to be alone for a few
seconds—unlock the poison cupboard, and examine some
of the bottles?"
"I—I—may have done so."
"I put it to you that you did do so?"
"Yes."
Sir Ernest fairly shot the next question at him.
"Did you examine one bottle in particular?"
"No, I do not think so."
"Be careful, Mr. Cavendish. I am referring to a
little bottle of Hydro-chloride of Strychnine."
Lawrence was turning a sickly greenish colour.
"N—o—I am sure I didn't."
"Then how do you account for the fact that you
left the unmistakable impress of your finger-prints
on it?"
The bullying manner was highly efficacious with a
nervous disposition.
"I—I suppose I must have taken up the bottle."
"I suppose so too! Did you abstract any of the
contents of the bottle?"
"Certainly not."
"Then why did you take it up?"
"I once studied to be a doctor. Such things
naturally interest me."
"Ah! So poisons 'naturally interest' you, do
they? Still, you waited to be alone before
gratifying that 'interest' of yours?"
"That was pure chance. If the others had been
there, I should have done just the same."
"Still, as it happens, the others were not
there?"
"No, but——"
"In fact, during the whole afternoon, you were
only alone for a couple of minutes, and it
happened—I say, it happened—to be during those two
minutes that you displayed your 'natural interest'
in Hydro-chloride of Strychnine?"
Lawrence stammered pitiably.
"I—I——"
With a satisfied and expressive countenance, Sir
Ernest observed:
"I have nothing more to ask you, Mr. Cavendish."
This bit of cross-examination had caused great
excitement in court. The heads of the many
fashionably attired women present were busily laid
together, and their whispers became so loud that the
judge angrily threatened to have the court cleared
if there was not immediate silence.
There was little more evidence. The hand-writing
experts were called upon for their opinion of the
signature of "Alfred Inglethorp" in the chemist's
poison register. They all declared unanimously that
it was certainly not his hand-writing, and gave it
as their view that it might be that of the prisoner
disguised. Cross-examined, they admitted that it
might be the prisoner's hand-writing cleverly
counterfeited.
Sir Ernest Heavywether's speech in opening the
case for the defence was not a long one, but it was
backed by the full force of his emphatic manner.
Never, he said, in the course of his long
experience, had he known a charge of murder rest on
slighter evidence. Not only was it entirely
circumstantial, but the greater part of it was
practically unproved. Let them take the testimony
they had heard and sift it impartially. The
strychnine had been found in a drawer in the
prisoner's room. That drawer was an unlocked one, as
he had pointed out, and he submitted that there was
no evidence to prove that it was the prisoner who
had concealed the poison there. It was, in fact, a
wicked and malicious attempt on the part of some
third person to fix the crime on the prisoner. The
prosecution had been unable to produce a shred of
evidence in support of their contention that it was
the prisoner who ordered the black beard from
Parkson's. The quarrel which had taken place between
prisoner and his stepmother was freely admitted, but
both it and his financial embarrassments had been
grossly exaggerated.
His learned friend—Sir Ernest nodded carelessly
at Mr. Philips—had stated that if the prisoner were
an innocent man, he would have come forward at the
inquest to explain that it was he, and not Mr.
Inglethorp, who had been the participator in the
quarrel. He thought the facts had been
misrepresented. What had actually occurred was this.
The prisoner, returning to the house on Tuesday
evening, had been authoritatively told that there
had been a violent quarrel between Mr. and Mrs.
Inglethorp. No suspicion had entered the prisoner's
head that anyone could possibly have mistaken his
voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. He naturally
concluded that his stepmother had had two quarrels.
The prosecution averred that on Monday, July
16th, the prisoner had entered the chemist's shop in
the village, disguised as Mr. Inglethorp. The
prisoner, on the contrary, was at that time at a
lonely spot called Marston's Spinney, where he had
been summoned by an anonymous note, couched in
blackmailing terms, and threatening to reveal
certain matters to his wife unless he complied with
its demands. The prisoner had, accordingly, gone to
the appointed spot, and after waiting there vainly
for half an hour had returned home. Unfortunately,
he had met with no one on the way there or back who
could vouch for the truth of his story, but luckily
he had kept the note, and it would be produced as
evidence.
As for the statement relating to the destruction
of the will, the prisoner had formerly practiced at
the Bar, and was perfectly well aware that the will
made in his favour a year before was automatically
revoked by his stepmother's remarriage. He would
call evidence to show who did destroy the will, and
it was possible that that might open up quite a new
view of the case.
Finally, he would point out to the jury that
there was evidence against other people besides John
Cavendish. He would direct their attention to the
fact that the evidence against Mr. Lawrence
Cavendish was quite as strong, if not stronger than
that against his brother.
He would now call the prisoner.
John acquitted himself well in the witness-box.
Under Sir Ernest's skilful handling, he told his
tale credibly and well. The anonymous note received
by him was produced, and handed to the jury to
examine. The readiness with which he admitted his
financial difficulties, and the disagreement with
his stepmother, lent value to his denials.
At the close of his examination, he paused, and
said:
"I should like to make one thing clear. I utterly
reject and disapprove of Sir Ernest Heavywether's
insinuations against my brother. My brother, I am
convinced, had no more to do with the crime than I
have."
Sir Ernest merely smiled, and noted with a sharp
eye that John's protest had produced a very
favourable impression on the jury.
Then the cross-examination began.
"I understand you to say that it never entered
your head that the witnesses at the inquest could
possibly have mistaken your voice for that of Mr.
Inglethorp. Is not that very surprising?"
"No, I don't think so. I was told there had been
a quarrel between my mother and Mr. Inglethorp, and
it never occurred to me that such was not really the
case."
"Not when the servant Dorcas repeated certain
fragments of the conversation—fragments which you
must have recognized?"
"I did not recognize them."
"Your memory must be unusually short!"
"No, but we were both angry, and, I think, said
more than we meant. I paid very little attention to
my mother's actual words."
Mr. Philips' incredulous sniff was a triumph of
forensic skill. He passed on to the subject of the
note.
"You have produced this note very opportunely.
Tell me, is there nothing familiar about the
hand-writing of it?"
"Not that I know of."
"Do you not think that it bears a marked
resemblance to your own hand-writing—carelessly
disguised?"
"No, I do not think so."
"I put it to you that it is your own
hand-writing!"
"No."
"I put it to you that, anxious to prove an alibi,
you conceived the idea of a fictitious and rather
incredible appointment, and wrote this note yourself
in order to bear out your statement!"
"No."
"Is it not a fact that, at the time you claim to
have been waiting about at a solitary and
unfrequented spot, you were really in the chemist's
shop in Styles St. Mary, where you purchased
strychnine in the name of Alfred Inglethorp?"
"No, that is a lie."
"I put it to you that, wearing a suit of Mr.
Inglethorp's clothes, with a black beard trimmed to
resemble his, you were there—and signed the register
in his name!"
"That is absolutely untrue."
"Then I will leave the remarkable similarity of
hand-writing between the note, the register, and
your own, to the consideration of the jury," said
Mr. Philips, and sat down with the air of a man who
has done his duty, but who was nevertheless
horrified by such deliberate perjury.
After this, as it was growing late, the case was
adjourned till Monday.
Poirot, I noticed, was looking profoundly
discouraged. He had that little frown between the
eyes that I knew so well.
"What is it, Poirot?" I inquired.
"Ah, mon ami, things are going badly, badly."
In spite of myself, my heart gave a leap of
relief. Evidently there was a likelihood of John
Cavendish being acquitted.
When we reached the house, my little friend waved
aside Mary's offer of tea.
"No, I thank you, madame. I will mount to my
room."
I followed him. Still frowning, he went across to
the desk and took out a small pack of patience
cards. Then he drew up a chair to the table, and, to
my utter amazement, began solemnly to build card
houses!
My jaw dropped involuntarily, and he said at
once:
"No, mon ami, I am not in my second childhood! I
steady my nerves, that is all. This employment
requires precision of the fingers. With precision of
the fingers goes precision of the brain. And never
have I needed that more than now!"
"What is the trouble?" I asked.
With a great thump on the table, Poirot
demolished his carefully built up edifice.
"It is this, mon ami! That I can build card
houses seven stories high, but I
cannot"—thump—"find"—thump—"that last link of which
I spoke to you."
I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my
peace, and he began slowly building up the cards
again, speaking in jerks as he did so.
"It is done—so! By placing—one card—on
another—with mathematical—precision!"
I watched the card house rising under his hands,
story by story. He never hesitated or faltered. It
was really almost like a conjuring trick.
"What a steady hand you've got," I remarked. "I
believe I've only seen your hand shake once."
"On an occasion when I was enraged, without
doubt," observed Poirot, with great placidity.
"Yes indeed! You were in a towering rage. Do you
remember? It was when you discovered that the lock
of the despatch-case in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom
had been forced. You stood by the mantel-piece,
twiddling the things on it in your usual fashion,
and your hand shook like a leaf! I must say——"
But I stopped suddenly. For Poirot, uttering a
hoarse and inarticulate cry, again annihilated his
masterpiece of cards, and putting his hands over his
eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently
suffering the keenest agony.
"Good heavens, Poirot!" I cried. "What is the
matter? Are you taken ill?"
"No, no," he gasped. "It is—it is—that I have an
idea!"
"Oh!" I exclaimed, much relieved. "One of your
'little ideas'?"
"Ah, ma foi, no!" replied Poirot frankly. "This
time it is an idea gigantic! Stupendous! And you—you,
my friend, have given it to me!"
Suddenly clasping me in his arms, he kissed me
warmly on both cheeks, and before I had recovered
from my surprise ran headlong from the room.
Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.
"What is the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He
rushed past me crying out: 'A garage! For the love
of Heaven, direct me to a garage, madame!' And,
before I could answer, he had dashed out into the
street."
I hurried to the window. True enough, there he
was, tearing down the street, hatless, and
gesticulating as he went. I turned to Mary with a
gesture of despair.
"He'll be stopped by a policeman in another
minute. There he goes, round the corner!"
Our eyes met, and we stared helplessly at one
another.
"What can be the matter?"
I shook my head.
"I don't know. He was building card houses, when
suddenly he said he had an idea, and rushed off as
you saw."
"Well," said Mary, "I expect he will be back
before dinner."
But night fell, and Poirot had not returned.
CHAPTER XII. THE LAST LINK
POIROT'S abrupt departure had intrigued us all
greatly. Sunday morning wore away, and still he did
not reappear. But about three o'clock a ferocious
and prolonged hooting outside drove us to the
window, to see Poirot alighting from a car,
accompanied by Japp and Summerhaye. The little man
was transformed. He radiated an absurd complacency.
He bowed with exaggerated respect to Mary Cavendish.
"Madame, I have your permission to hold a little
reunion in the salon? It is necessary for every one
to attend."
Mary smiled sadly.
"You know, Monsieur Poirot, that you have carte
blanche in every way."
"You are too amiable, madame."
Still beaming, Poirot marshalled us all into the
drawing-room, bringing forward chairs as he did so.
"Miss Howard—here. Mademoiselle Cynthia. Monsieur
Lawrence. The good Dorcas. And Annie. Bien! We must
delay our proceedings a few minutes until Mr.
Inglethorp arrives. I have sent him a note."
Miss Howard rose immediately from her seat.
"If that man comes into the house, I leave it!"
"No, no!" Poirot went up to her and pleaded in a
low voice.
Finally Miss Howard consented to return to her
chair. A few minutes later Alfred Inglethorp entered
the room.
The company once assembled, Poirot rose from his
seat with the air of a popular lecturer, and bowed
politely to his audience.
"Messieurs, mesdames, as you all know, I was
called in by Monsieur John Cavendish to investigate
this case. I at once examined the bedroom of the
deceased which, by the advice of the doctors, had
been kept locked, and was consequently exactly as it
had been when the tragedy occurred. I found: first,
a fragment of green material; second, a stain on the
carpet near the window, still damp; thirdly, an
empty box of bromide powders.
"To take the fragment of green material first, I
found it caught in the bolt of the communicating
door between that room and the adjoining one
occupied by Mademoiselle Cynthia. I handed the
fragment over to the police who did not consider it
of much importance. Nor did they recognize it for
what it was—a piece torn from a green land armlet."
There was a little stir of excitement.
"Now there was only one person at Styles who
worked on the land—Mrs. Cavendish. Therefore it must
have been Mrs. Cavendish who entered the deceased's
room through the door communicating with
Mademoiselle Cynthia's room."
"But that door was bolted on the inside!" I
cried.
"When I examined the room, yes. But in the first
place we have only her word for it, since it was she
who tried that particular door and reported it
fastened. In the ensuing confusion she would have
had ample opportunity to shoot the bolt across. I
took an early opportunity of verifying my
conjectures. To begin with, the fragment corresponds
exactly with a tear in Mrs. Cavendish's armlet.
Also, at the inquest, Mrs. Cavendish declared that
she had heard, from her own room, the fall of the
table by the bed. I took an early opportunity of
testing that statement by stationing my friend
Monsieur Hastings in the left wing of the building,
just outside Mrs. Cavendish's door. I myself, in
company with the police, went to the deceased's
room, and whilst there I, apparently accidentally,
knocked over the table in question, but found that,
as I had expected, Monsieur Hastings had heard no
sound at all. This confirmed my belief that Mrs.
Cavendish was not speaking the truth when she
declared that she had been dressing in her room at
the time of the tragedy. In fact, I was convinced
that, far from having been in her own room, Mrs.
Cavendish was actually in the deceased's room when
the alarm was given."
I shot a quick glance at Mary. She was very pale,
but smiling.
"I proceeded to reason on that assumption. Mrs.
Cavendish is in her mother-in-law's room. We will
say that she is seeking for something and has not
yet found it. Suddenly Mrs. Inglethorp awakens and
is seized with an alarming paroxysm. She flings out
her arm, overturning the bed table, and then pulls
desperately at the bell. Mrs. Cavendish, startled,
drops her candle, scattering the grease on the
carpet. She picks it up, and retreats quickly to
Mademoiselle Cynthia's room, closing the door behind
her. She hurries out into the passage, for the
servants must not find her where she is. But it is
too late! Already footsteps are echoing along the
gallery which connects the two wings. What can she
do? Quick as thought, she hurries back to the young
girl's room, and starts shaking her awake. The
hastily aroused household come trooping down the
passage. They are all busily battering at Mrs.
Inglethorp's door. It occurs to nobody that Mrs.
Cavendish has not arrived with the rest, but—and
this is significant—I can find no one who saw her
come from the other wing." He looked at Mary
Cavendish. "Am I right, madame?"
She bowed her head.
"Quite right, monsieur. You understand that, if I
had thought I would do my husband any good by
revealing these facts, I would have done so. But it
did not seem to me to bear upon the question of his
guilt or innocence."
"In a sense, that is correct, madame. But it
cleared my mind of many misconceptions, and left me
free to see other facts in their true significance."
"The will!" cried Lawrence. "Then it was you,
Mary, who destroyed the will?"
She shook her head, and Poirot shook his also.
"No," he said quietly. "There is only one person
who could possibly have destroyed that will—Mrs.
Inglethorp herself!"
"Impossible!" I exclaimed. "She had only made it
out that very afternoon!"
"Nevertheless, mon ami, it was Mrs. Inglethorp.
Because, in no other way can you account for the
fact that, on one of the hottest days of the year,
Mrs. Inglethorp ordered a fire to be lighted in her
room."
I gave a gasp. What idiots we had been never to
think of that fire as being incongruous! Poirot was
continuing:
"The temperature on that day, messieurs, was 80
degrees in the shade. Yet Mrs. Inglethorp ordered a
fire! Why? Because she wished to destroy something,
and could think of no other way. You will remember
that, in consequence of the War economics practiced
at Styles, no waste paper was thrown away. There was
therefore no means of destroying a thick document
such as a will. The moment I heard of a fire being
lighted in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, I leaped to the
conclusion that it was to destroy some important
document—possibly a will. So the discovery of the
charred fragment in the grate was no surprise to me.
I did not, of course, know at the time that the will
in question had only been made this afternoon, and I
will admit that, when I learnt that fact, I fell
into a grievous error. I came to the conclusion that
Mrs. Inglethorp's determination to destroy her will
arose as a direct consequence of the quarrel she had
that afternoon, and that therefore the quarrel took
place after, and not before the making of the will.
"Here, as we know, I was wrong, and I was forced
to abandon that idea. I faced the problem from a new
standpoint. Now, at 4 o'clock, Dorcas overheard her
mistress saying angrily: 'You need not think that
any fear of publicity, or scandal between husband
and wife will deter me." I conjectured, and
conjectured rightly, that these words were
addressed, not to her husband, but to Mr. John
Cavendish. At 5 o'clock, an hour later, she uses
almost the same words, but the standpoint is
different. She admits to Dorcas, 'I don't know what
to do; scandal between husband and wife is a
dreadful thing.' At 4 o'clock she has been angry,
but completely mistress of herself. At 5 o'clock she
is in violent distress, and speaks of having had a
great shock.
"Looking at the matter psychologically, I drew
one deduction which I was convinced was correct. The
second 'scandal' she spoke of was not the same as
the first—and it concerned herself!
"Let us reconstruct. At 4 o'clock, Mrs.
Inglethorp quarrels with her son, and threatens to
denounce him to his wife—who, by the way, overheard
the greater part of the conversation. At 4.30, Mrs.
Inglethorp, in consequence of a conversation on the
validity of wills, makes a will in favour of her
husband, which the two gardeners witness. At 5
o'clock, Dorcas finds her mistress in a state of
considerable agitation, with a slip of paper—'a
letter,' Dorcas thinks—in her hand, and it is then
that she orders the fire in her room to be lighted.
Presumably, then, between 4.30 and 5 o'clock,
something has occurred to occasion a complete
revolution of feeling, since she is now as anxious
to destroy the will, as she was before to make it.
What was that something?
"As far as we know, she was quite alone during
that half-hour. Nobody entered or left that boudoir.
What then occasioned this sudden change of
sentiment?
"One can only guess, but I believe my guess to be
correct. Mrs. Inglethorp had no stamps in her desk.
We know this, because later she asked Dorcas to
bring her some. Now in the opposite corner of the
room stood her husband's desk—locked. She was
anxious to find some stamps, and, according to my
theory, she tried her own keys in the desk. That one
of them fitted I know. She therefore opened the
desk, and in searching for the stamps she came
across something else—that slip of paper which
Dorcas saw in her hand, and which assuredly was
never meant for Mrs. Inglethorp's eyes. On the other
hand, Mrs. Cavendish believed that the slip of paper
to which her mother-in-law clung so tenaciously was
a written proof of her own husband's infidelity. She
demanded it from Mrs. Inglethorp who assured her,
quite truly, that it had nothing to do with that
matter. Mrs. Cavendish did not believe her. She
thought that Mrs. Inglethorp was shielding her
stepson. Now Mrs. Cavendish is a very resolute
woman, and, behind her mask of reserve, she was
madly jealous of her husband. She determined to get
hold of that paper at all costs, and in this
resolution chance came to her aid. She happened to
pick up the key of Mrs. Inglethorp's despatch-case,
which had been lost that morning. She knew that her
mother-in-law invariably kept all important papers
in this particular case.
"Mrs. Cavendish, therefore, made her plans as
only a woman driven desperate through jealousy could
have done. Some time in the evening she unbolted the
door leading into Mademoiselle Cynthia's room.
Possibly she applied oil to the hinges, for I found
that it opened quite noiselessly when I tried it.
She put off her project until the early hours of the
morning as being safer, since the servants were
accustomed to hearing her move about her room at
that time. She dressed completely in her land kit,
and made her way quietly through Mademoiselle
Cynthia's room into that of Mrs. Inglethorp."
He paused a moment, and Cynthia interrupted:
"But I should have woken up if anyone had come
through my room?"
"Not if you were drugged, mademoiselle."
"Drugged?"
"Mais, oui!"
"You remember"—he addressed us collectively
again—"that through all the tumult and noise next
door Mademoiselle Cynthia slept. That admitted of
two possibilities. Either her sleep was
feigned—which I did not believe—or her
unconsciousness was indeed by artificial means.
"With this latter idea in my mind, I examined all
the coffee-cups most carefully, remembering that it
was Mrs. Cavendish who had brought Mademoiselle
Cynthia her coffee the night before. I took a sample
from each cup, and had them analysed—with no result.
I had counted the cups carefully, in the event of
one having been removed. Six persons had taken
coffee, and six cups were duly found. I had to
confess myself mistaken.
"Then I discovered that I had been guilty of a
very grave oversight. Coffee had been brought in for
seven persons, not six, for Dr. Bauerstein had been
there that evening. This changed the face of the
whole affair, for there was now one cup missing. The
servants noticed nothing, since Annie, the
housemaid, who took in the coffee, brought in seven
cups, not knowing that Mr. Inglethorp never drank
it, whereas Dorcas, who cleared them away the
following morning, found six as usual—or strictly
speaking she found five, the sixth being the one
found broken in Mrs. Inglethorp's room.
"I was confident that the missing cup was that of
Mademoiselle Cynthia. I had an additional reason for
that belief in the fact that all the cups found
contained sugar, which Mademoiselle Cynthia never
took in her coffee. My attention was attracted by
the story of Annie about some 'salt' on the tray of
coco which she took every night to Mrs. Inglethorp's
room. I accordingly secured a sample of that coco,
and sent it to be analysed."
"But that had already been done by Dr.
Bauerstein," said Lawrence quickly.
"Not exactly. The analyst was asked by him to
report whether strychnine was, or was not, present.
He did not have it tested, as I did, for a
narcotic."
"For a narcotic?"
"Yes. Here is the analyst's report. Mrs.
Cavendish administered a safe, but effectual,
narcotic to both Mrs. Inglethorp and Mademoiselle
Cynthia. And it is possible that she had a mauvais
quart d'heure in consequence! Imagine her feelings
when her mother-in-law is suddenly taken ill and
dies, and immediately after she hears the word
'Poison'! She has believed that the sleeping draught
she administered was perfectly harmless, but there
is no doubt that for one terrible moment she must
have feared that Mrs. Inglethorp's death lay at her
door. She is seized with panic, and under its
influence she hurries downstairs, and quickly drops
the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle
Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is
discovered later by Monsieur Lawrence. The remains
of the coco she dare not touch. Too many eyes are
upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is
mentioned, and she discovers that after all the
tragedy is not her doing.
"We are now able to account for the symptoms of
strychnine poisoning being so long in making their
appearance. A narcotic taken with strychnine will
delay the action of the poison for some hours."
Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour
slowly rising in her face.
"All you have said is quite true, Monsieur
Poirot. It was the most awful hour of my life. I
shall never forget it. But you are wonderful. I
understand now——"
"What I meant when I told you that you could
safely confess to Papa Poirot, eh? But you would not
trust me."
"I see everything now," said Lawrence. "The
drugged coco, taken on top of the poisoned coffee,
amply accounts for the delay."
"Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it
not? We come to a little difficulty here, since Mrs.
Inglethorp never drank it."
"What?" The cry of surprise was universal.
"No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on
the carpet in Mrs. Inglethorp's room? There were
some peculiar points about that stain. It was still
damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and
imbedded in the nap of the carpet I found some
little splinters of china. What had happened was
plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed
my little case on the table near the window, and the
table, tilting up, had deposited it upon the floor
on precisely the identical spot. In exactly the same
way, Mrs. Inglethorp had laid down her cup of coffee
on reaching her room the night before, and the
treacherous table had played her the same trick.
"What happened next is mere guess work on my
part, but I should say that Mrs. Inglethorp picked
up the broken cup and placed it on the table by the
bed. Feeling in need of a stimulant of some kind,
she heated up her coco, and drank it off then and
there. Now we are faced with a new problem. We know
the coco contained no strychnine. The coffee was
never drunk. Yet the strychnine must have been
administered between seven and nine o'clock that
evening. What third medium was there—a medium so
suitable for disguising the taste of strychnine that
it is extraordinary no one has thought of it?"
Poirot looked round the room, and then answered
himself impressively. "Her medicine!"
"Do you mean that the murderer introduced the
strychnine into her tonic?" I cried.
"There was no need to introduce it. It was
already there—in the mixture. The strychnine that
killed Mrs. Inglethorp was the identical strychnine
prescribed by Dr. Wilkins. To make that clear to
you, I will read you an extract from a book on
dispensing which I found in the Dispensary of the
Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster:
"'The following prescription has become famous in text books:
Strychninae Sulph. . . . . . gr.I
Potass Bromide . . . . . . . 3vi Aqua
ad. . . . . . . . . . . 3viii Fiat
Mistura
This solution deposits in a few hours the greater
part of the strychnine salt as an insoluble bromide
in transparent crystals. A lady in England lost her
life by taking a similar mixture: the precipitated
strychnine collected at the bottom, and in taking
the last dose she swallowed nearly all of it!"
"Now there was, of course, no bromide in Dr.
Wilkins' prescription, but you will remember that I
mentioned an empty box of bromide powders. One or
two of those powders introduced into the full bottle
of medicine would effectually precipitate the
strychnine, as the book describes, and cause it to
be taken in the last dose. You will learn later that
the person who usually poured out Mrs. Inglethorp's
medicine was always extremely careful not to shake
the bottle, but to leave the sediment at the bottom
of it undisturbed.
"Throughout the case, there have been evidences
that the tragedy was intended to take place on
Monday evening. On that day, Mrs. Inglethorp's bell
wire was neatly cut, and on Monday evening
Mademoiselle Cynthia was spending the night with
friends, so that Mrs. Inglethorp would have been
quite alone in the right wing, completely shut off
from help of any kind, and would have died, in all
probability, before medical aid could have been
summoned. But in her hurry to be in time for the
village entertainment Mrs. Inglethorp forgot to take
her medicine, and the next day she lunched away from
home, so that the last—and fatal—dose was actually
taken twenty-four hours later than had been
anticipated by the murderer; and it is owing to that
delay that the final proof—the last link of the
chain—is now in my hands."
Amid breathless excitement, he held out three
thin strips of paper.
"A letter in the murderer's own hand-writing, mes
amis! Had it been a little clearer in its terms, it
is possible that Mrs. Inglethorp, warned in time,
would have escaped. As it was, she realized her
danger, but not the manner of it."
In the deathly silence, Poirot pieced together
the slips of paper and, clearing his throat, read:
"'Dearest Evelyn:
'You will be anxious at hearing nothing. It is
all right—only it will be to-night instead of last
night. You understand. There's a good time coming
once the old woman is dead and out of the way. No
one can possibly bring home the crime to me. That
idea of yours about the bromides was a stroke of
genius! But we must be very circumspect. A false
step——'
"Here, my friends, the letter breaks off.
Doubtless the writer was interrupted; but there can
be no question as to his identity. We all know this
hand-writing and——"
A howl that was almost a scream broke the
silence.
"You devil! How did you get it?"
A chair was overturned. Poirot skipped nimbly
aside. A quick movement on his part, and his
assailant fell with a crash.
"Messieurs, mesdames," said Poirot, with a
flourish, "let me introduce you to the murderer, Mr.
Alfred Inglethorp!"
CHAPTER XIII. POIROT EXPLAINS
"Poirot, you old villain," I said, "I've half a
mind to strangle you! What do you mean by deceiving
me as you have done?"
We were sitting in the library. Several hectic
days lay behind us. In the room below, John and Mary
were together once more, while Alfred Inglethorp and
Miss Howard were in custody. Now at last, I had
Poirot to myself, and could relieve my still burning
curiosity.
Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at
last he said:
"I did not deceive you, mon ami. At most, I
permitted you to deceive yourself."
"Yes, but why?"
"Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my
friend, you have a nature so honest, and a
countenance so transparent, that—enfin, to conceal
your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my
ideas, the very first time you saw Mr. Alfred
Inglethorp that astute gentleman would have—in your
so expressive idiom—'smelt a rat'! And then, bon
jour to our chances of catching him!"
"I think that I have more diplomacy than you give
me credit for."
"My friend," besought Poirot, "I implore you, do
not enrage yourself! Your help has been of the most
invaluable. It is but the extremely beautiful nature
that you have, which made me pause."
"Well," I grumbled, a little mollified. "I still
think you might have given me a hint."
"But I did, my friend. Several hints. You would
not take them. Think now, did I ever say to you that
I believed John Cavendish guilty? Did I not, on the
contrary, tell you that he would almost certainly be
acquitted?"
"Yes, but——"
"And did I not immediately afterwards speak of
the difficulty of bringing the murderer to justice?
Was it not plain to you that I was speaking of two
entirely different persons?"
"No," I said, "it was not plain to me!"
"Then again," continued Poirot, "at the
beginning, did I not repeat to you several times
that I didn't want Mr. Inglethorp arrested now?
That should have conveyed something to you."
"Do you mean to say you suspected him as long ago
as that?"
"Yes. To begin with, whoever else might benefit
by Mrs. Inglethorp's death, her husband would
benefit the most. There was no getting away from
that. When I went up to Styles with you that first
day, I had no idea as to how the crime had been
committed, but from what I knew of Mr. Inglethorp I
fancied that it would be very hard to find anything
to connect him with it. When I arrived at the
chateau, I realized at once that it was Mrs.
Inglethorp who had burnt the will; and there, by the
way, you cannot complain, my friend, for I tried my
best to force on you the significance of that
bedroom fire in midsummer."
"Yes, yes," I said impatiently. "Go on."
"Well, my friend, as I say, my views as to Mr.
Inglethorp's guilt were very much shaken. There was,
in fact, so much evidence against him that I was
inclined to believe that he had not done it."
"When did you change your mind?"
"When I found that the more efforts I made to
clear him, the more efforts he made to get himself
arrested. Then, when I discovered that Inglethorp
had nothing to do with Mrs. Raikes and that in fact
it was John Cavendish who was interested in that
quarter, I was quite sure."
"But why?"
"Simply this. If it had been Inglethorp who was
carrying on an intrigue with Mrs. Raikes, his
silence was perfectly comprehensible. But, when I
discovered that it was known all over the village
that it was John who was attracted by the farmer's
pretty wife, his silence bore quite a different
interpretation. It was nonsense to pretend that he
was afraid of the scandal, as no possible scandal
could attach to him. This attitude of his gave me
furiously to think, and I was slowly forced to the
conclusion that Alfred Inglethorp wanted to be
arrested. Eh bien! from that moment, I was equally
determined that he should not be arrested."
"Wait a minute. I don't see why he wished to be
arrested?"
"Because, mon ami, it is the law of your country
that a man once acquitted can never be tried again
for the same offence. Aha! but it was clever—his
idea! Assuredly, he is a man of method. See here, he
knew that in his position he was bound to be
suspected, so he conceived the exceedingly clever
idea of preparing a lot of manufactured evidence
against himself. He wished to be arrested. He would
then produce his irreproachable alibi—and, hey
presto, he was safe for life!"
"But I still don't see how he managed to prove
his alibi, and yet go to the chemist's shop?"
Poirot stared at me in surprise.
"Is it possible? My poor friend! You have not yet
realized that it was Miss Howard who went to the
chemist's shop?"
"Miss Howard?"
"But, certainly. Who else? It was most easy for
her. She is of a good height, her voice is deep and
manly; moreover, remember, she and Inglethorp are
cousins, and there is a distinct resemblance between
them, especially in their gait and bearing. It was
simplicity itself. They are a clever pair!"
"I am still a little fogged as to how exactly the
bromide business was done," I remarked.
"Bon! I will reconstruct for you as far as
possible. I am inclined to think that Miss Howard
was the master mind in that affair. You remember her
once mentioning that her father was a doctor?
Possibly she dispensed his medicines for him, or she
may have taken the idea from one of the many books
lying about when Mademoiselle Cynthia was studying
for her exam. Anyway, she was familiar with the fact
that the addition of a bromide to a mixture
containing strychnine would cause the precipitation
of the latter. Probably the idea came to her quite
suddenly. Mrs. Inglethorp had a box of bromide
powders, which she occasionally took at night. What
could be easier than quietly to dissolve one or more
of those powders in Mrs. Inglethorp's large sized
bottle of medicine when it came from Coot's? The
risk is practically nil. The tragedy will not take
place until nearly a fortnight later. If anyone has
seen either of them touching the medicine, they will
have forgotten it by that time. Miss Howard will
have engineered her quarrel, and departed from the
house. The lapse of time, and her absence, will
defeat all suspicion. Yes, it was a clever idea! If
they had left it alone, it is possible the crime
might never have been brought home to them. But they
were not satisfied. They tried to be too clever—and
that was their undoing."
Poirot puffed at his tiny cigarette, his eyes
fixed on the ceiling.
"They arranged a plan to throw suspicion on John
Cavendish, by buying strychnine at the village
chemist's, and signing the register in his
hand-writing.
"On Monday Mrs. Inglethorp will take the last
dose of her medicine. On Monday, therefore, at six
o'clock, Alfred Inglethorp arranges to be seen by a
number of people at a spot far removed from the
village. Miss Howard has previously made up a cock
and bull story about him and Mrs. Raikes to account
for his holding his tongue afterwards. At six
o'clock, Miss Howard, disguised as Alfred
Inglethorp, enters the chemist's shop, with her
story about a dog, obtains the strychnine, and
writes the name of Alfred Inglethorp in John's
handwriting, which she had previously studied
carefully.
"But, as it will never do if John, too, can prove
an alibi, she writes him an anonymous note—still
copying his hand-writing—which takes him to a remote
spot where it is exceedingly unlikely that anyone
will see him.
"So far, all goes well. Miss Howard goes back to
Middlingham. Alfred Inglethorp returns to Styles.
There is nothing that can compromise him in any way,
since it is Miss Howard who has the strychnine,
which, after all, is only wanted as a blind to throw
suspicion on John Cavendish.
"But now a hitch occurs. Mrs. Inglethorp does not
take her medicine that night. The broken bell,
Cynthia's absence—arranged by Inglethorp through his
wife—all these are wasted. And then—he makes his
slip.
"Mrs. Inglethorp is out, and he sits down to
write to his accomplice, who, he fears, may be in a
panic at the nonsuccess of their plan. It is
probable that Mrs. Inglethorp returned earlier than
he expected. Caught in the act, and somewhat
flurried he hastily shuts and locks his desk. He
fears that if he remains in the room he may have to
open it again, and that Mrs. Inglethorp might catch
sight of the letter before he could snatch it up. So
he goes out and walks in the woods, little dreaming
that Mrs. Inglethorp will open his desk, and
discover the incriminating document.
"But this, as we know, is what happened. Mrs.
Inglethorp reads it, and becomes aware of the
perfidy of her husband and Evelyn Howard, though,
unfortunately, the sentence about the bromides
conveys no warning to her mind. She knows that she
is in danger—but is ignorant of where the danger
lies. She decides to say nothing to her husband, but
sits down and writes to her solicitor, asking him to
come on the morrow, and she also determines to
destroy immediately the will which she has just
made. She keeps the fatal letter."
"It was to discover that letter, then, that her
husband forced the lock of the despatch-case?"
"Yes, and from the enormous risk he ran we can
see how fully he realized its importance. That
letter excepted, there was absolutely nothing to
connect him with the crime."
"There's only one thing I can't make out, why
didn't he destroy it at once when he got hold of
it?"
"Because he did not dare take the biggest risk of
all—that of keeping it on his own person."
"I don't understand."
"Look at it from his point of view. I have
discovered that there were only five short minutes
in which he could have taken it—the five minutes
immediately before our own arrival on the scene, for
before that time Annie was brushing the stairs, and
would have seen anyone who passed going to the right
wing. Figure to yourself the scene! He enters the
room, unlocking the door by means of one of the
other doorkeys—they were all much alike. He hurries
to the despatch-case—it is locked, and the keys are
nowhere to be seen. That is a terrible blow to him,
for it means that his presence in the room cannot be
concealed as he had hoped. But he sees clearly that
everything must be risked for the sake of that
damning piece of evidence. Quickly, he forces the
lock with a penknife, and turns over the papers
until he finds what he is looking for.
"But now a fresh dilemma arises: he dare not keep
that piece of paper on him. He may be seen leaving
the room—he may be searched. If the paper is found
on him, it is certain doom. Probably, at this
minute, too, he hears the sounds below of Mr. Wells
and John leaving the boudoir. He must act quickly.
Where can he hide this terrible slip of paper? The
contents of the waste-paper-basket are kept and in
any case, are sure to be examined. There are no
means of destroying it; and he dare not keep it. He
looks round, and he sees—what do you think, mon
ami?"
I shook my head.
"In a moment, he has torn the letter into long
thin strips, and rolling them up into spills he
thrusts them hurriedly in amongst the other spills
in the vase on the mantle-piece."
I uttered an exclamation.
"No one would think of looking there," Poirot
continued. "And he will be able, at his leisure, to
come back and destroy this solitary piece of
evidence against him."
"Then, all the time, it was in the spill vase in
Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom, under our very noses?" I
cried.
Poirot nodded.
"Yes, my friend. That is where I discovered my
'last link,' and I owe that very fortunate discovery
to you."
"To me?"
"Yes. Do you remember telling me that my hand
shook as I was straightening the ornaments on the
mantel-piece?"
"Yes, but I don't see——"
"No, but I saw. Do you know, my friend, I
remembered that earlier in the morning, when we had
been there together, I had straightened all the
objects on the mantel-piece. And, if they were
already straightened, there would be no need to
straighten them again, unless, in the meantime, some
one else had touched them."
"Dear me," I murmured, "so that is the
explanation of your extraordinary behaviour. You
rushed down to Styles, and found it still there?"
"Yes, and it was a race for time."
"But I still can't understand why Inglethorp was
such a fool as to leave it there when he had plenty
of opportunity to destroy it."
"Ah, but he had no opportunity. I saw to that."
"You?"
"Yes. Do you remember reproving me for taking the
household into my confidence on the subject?"
"Yes."
"Well, my friend, I saw there was just one
chance. I was not sure then if Inglethorp was the
criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he
would not have the paper on him, but would have
hidden it somewhere, and by enlisting the sympathy
of the household I could effectually prevent his
destroying it. He was already under suspicion, and
by making the matter public I secured the services
of about ten amateur detectives, who would be
watching him unceasingly, and being himself aware of
their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to
destroy the document. He was therefore forced to
depart from the house, leaving it in the spill
vase."
"But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities
of aiding him."
"Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper's
existence. In accordance with their prearranged
plan, she never spoke to Alfred Inglethorp. They
were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John
Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them
dared risk a meeting. Of course I had a watch kept
on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that sooner or later he
would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too
clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where
it was; since no one had thought of looking there in
the first week, it was not likely they would do so
afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might
never have been able to bring him to justice."
"I understand that now; but when did you first
begin to suspect Miss Howard?"
"When I discovered that she had told a lie at the
inquest about the letter she had received from Mrs.
Inglethorp."
"Why, what was there to lie about?"
"You saw that letter? Do you recall its general
appearance?"
"Yes—more or less."
"You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp
wrote a very distinctive hand, and left large clear
spaces between her words. But if you look at the
date at the top of the letter you will notice that
'July 17th' is quite different in this respect. Do
you see what I mean?"
"No," I confessed, "I don't."
"You do not see that that letter was not written
on the 17th, but on the 7th—the day after Miss
Howard's departure? The '1' was written in before
the '7' to turn it into the '17th'."
"But why?"
"That is exactly what I asked myself. Why does
Miss Howard suppress the letter written on the 17th,
and produce this faked one instead? Because she did
not wish to show the letter of the 17th. Why, again?
And at once a suspicion dawned in my mind. You will
remember my saying that it was wise to beware of
people who were not telling you the truth."
"And yet," I cried indignantly, "after that, you
gave me two reasons why Miss Howard could not have
committed the crime!"
"And very good reasons too," replied Poirot. "For
a long time they were a stumbling-block to me until
I remembered a very significant fact: that she and
Alfred Inglethorp were cousins. She could not have
committed the crime single-handed, but the reasons
against that did not debar her from being an
accomplice. And, then, there was that rather
over-vehement hatred of hers! It concealed a very
opposite emotion. There was, undoubtedly, a tie of
passion between them long before he came to Styles.
They had already arranged their infamous plot—that
he should marry this rich, but rather foolish old
lady, induce her to make a will leaving her money to
him, and then gain their ends by a very cleverly
conceived crime. If all had gone as they planned,
they would probably have left England, and lived
together on their poor victim's money.
"They are a very astute and unscrupulous pair.
While suspicion was to be directed against him, she
would be making quiet preparations for a very
different denouement. She arrives from Middlingham
with all the compromising items in her possession.
No suspicion attaches to her. No notice is paid to
her coming and going in the house. She hides the
strychnine and glasses in John's room. She puts the
beard in the attic. She will see to it that sooner
or later they are duly discovered."
"I don't quite see why they tried to fix the
blame on John," I remarked. "It would have been much
easier for them to bring the crime home to
Lawrence."
"Yes, but that was mere chance. All the evidence
against him arose out of pure accident. It must, in
fact, have been distinctly annoying to the pair of
schemers."
"His manner was unfortunate," I observed
thoughtfully.
"Yes. You realize, of course, what was at the
back of that?"
"No."
"You did not understand that he believed
Mademoiselle Cynthia guilty of the crime?"
"No," I exclaimed, astonished. "Impossible!"
"Not at all. I myself nearly had the same idea.
It was in my mind when I asked Mr. Wells that first
question about the will. Then there were the bromide
powders which she had made up, and her clever male
impersonations, as Dorcas recounted them to us.
There was really more evidence against her than
anyone else."
"You are joking, Poirot!"
"No. Shall I tell you what made Monsieur Lawrence
turn so pale when he first entered his mother's room
on the fatal night? It was because, whilst his
mother lay there, obviously poisoned, he saw, over
your shoulder, that the door into Mademoiselle
Cynthia's room was unbolted."
"But he declared that he saw it bolted!" I cried.
"Exactly," said Poirot dryly. "And that was just
what confirmed my suspicion that it was not. He was
shielding Mademoiselle Cynthia."
"But why should he shield her?"
"Because he is in love with her."
I laughed.
"There, Poirot, you are quite wrong! I happen to
know for a fact that, far from being in love with
her, he positively dislikes her."
"Who told you that, mon ami?"
"Cynthia herself."
"La pauvre petite! And she was concerned?"
"She said that she did not mind at all."
"Then she certainly did mind very much," remarked
Poirot. "They are like that—les femmes!"
"What you say about Lawrence is a great surprise
to me," I said.
"But why? It was most obvious. Did not Monsieur
Lawrence make the sour face every time Mademoiselle
Cynthia spoke and laughed with his brother? He had
taken it into his long head that Mademoiselle
Cynthia was in love with Monsieur John. When he
entered his mother's room, and saw her obviously
poisoned, he jumped to the conclusion that
Mademoiselle Cynthia knew something about the
matter. He was nearly driven desperate. First he
crushed the coffee-cup to powder under his feet,
remembering that she had gone up with his
mother the night before, and he determined that
there should be no chance of testing its contents.
Thenceforward, he strenuously, and quite uselessly,
upheld the theory of 'Death from natural causes'."
"And what about the 'extra coffee-cup'?"
"I was fairly certain that it was Mrs. Cavendish
who had hidden it, but I had to make sure. Monsieur
Lawrence did not know at all what I meant; but, on
reflection, he came to the conclusion that if he
could find an extra coffee-cup anywhere his lady
love would be cleared of suspicion. And he was
perfectly right."
"One thing more. What did Mrs. Inglethorp mean by
her dying words?"
"They were, of course, an accusation against her
husband."
"Dear me, Poirot," I said with a sigh, "I think
you have explained everything. I am glad it has all
ended so happily. Even John and his wife are
reconciled."
"Thanks to me."
"How do you mean—thanks to you?"
"My dear friend, do you not realize that it was
simply and solely the trial which has brought them
together again? That John Cavendish still loved his
wife, I was convinced. Also, that she was equally in
love with him. But they had drifted very far apart.
It all arose from a misunderstanding. She married
him without love. He knew it. He is a sensitive man
in his way, he would not force himself upon her if
she did not want him. And, as he withdrew, her love
awoke. But they are both unusually proud, and their
pride held them inexorably apart. He drifted into an
entanglement with Mrs. Raikes, and she deliberately
cultivated the friendship of Dr. Bauerstein. Do you
remember the day of John Cavendish's arrest, when
you found me deliberating over a big decision?"
"Yes, I quite understood your distress."
"Pardon me, mon ami, but you did not understand
it in the least. I was trying to decide whether or
not I would clear John Cavendish at once. I could
have cleared him—though it might have meant a
failure to convict the real criminals. They were
entirely in the dark as to my real attitude up to
the very last moment—which partly accounts for my
success."
"Do you mean that you could have saved John
Cavendish from being brought to trial?"
"Yes, my friend. But I eventually decided in
favour of 'a woman's happiness'. Nothing but the
great danger through which they have passed could
have brought these two proud souls together again."
I looked at Poirot in silent amazement. The
colossal cheek of the little man! Who on earth but
Poirot would have thought of a trial for murder as a
restorer of conjugal happiness!
"I perceive your thoughts, mon ami," said Poirot,
smiling at me. "No one but Hercule Poirot would have
attempted such a thing! And you are wrong in
condemning it. The happiness of one man and one
woman is the greatest thing in all the world."
His words took me back to earlier events. I
remembered Mary as she lay white and exhausted on
the sofa, listening, listening. There had come the
sound of the bell below. She had started up. Poirot
had opened the door, and meeting her agonized eyes
had nodded gently. "Yes, madame," he said. "I have
brought him back to you." He had stood aside, and as
I went out I had seen the look in Mary's eyes, as
John Cavendish had caught his wife in his arms.
"Perhaps you are right, Poirot," I said gently.
"Yes, it is the greatest thing in the world."
Suddenly, there was a tap at the door, and
Cynthia peeped in.
"I—I only——"
"Come in," I said, springing up.
She came in, but did not sit down.
"I—only wanted to tell you something——"
"Yes?"
Cynthia fidgeted with a little tassel for some
moments, then, suddenly exclaiming: "You dears!"
kissed first me and then Poirot, and rushed out of
the room again.
"What on earth does this mean?" I asked,
surprised.
It was very nice to be kissed by Cynthia, but the
publicity of the salute rather impaired the
pleasure.
"It means that she has discovered Monsieur
Lawrence does not dislike her as much as she
thought," replied Poirot philosophically.
"But——"
"Here he is."
Lawrence at that moment passed the door.
"Eh! Monsieur Lawrence," called Poirot. "We must
congratulate you, is it not so?"
Lawrence blushed, and then smiled awkwardly. A
man in love is a sorry spectacle. Now Cynthia had
looked charming.
I sighed.
"What is it, mon ami?"
"Nothing," I said sadly. "They are two delightful
women!"
"And neither of them is for you?" finished
Poirot. "Never mind. Console yourself, my friend. We
may hunt together again, who knows? And then——"
THE END
