The Mysterious Affair at Styles
by Agatha Christie
THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY
CHAPTER II.
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 someone 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 dandified
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.”
*****
