The Mysterious Affair at Styles
by Agatha Christie
THE NIGHT OF THE TRAGEDY
CHAPTER III
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.
01
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 post-mortem.”
“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.
*****
