The Mysterious Affair at Styles
by Agatha Christie
IT ISN’T STRYCHNINE, IS IT?
CHAPTER V
“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 cocoa?”
“Oh, _là là!_ That miserable cocoa!” 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 fâchez pas!_ Allow me to interest myself in my coffee-cups, and I
will respect your cocoa. 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 mantelpiece, 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.”
Everyone 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 everyone 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 tête_.” 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.”
“_Sacré!_” 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 someone 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.”
“Yessir,” 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—someone 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, dumbfounded. “And I—who have both
the keys in my pocket!” He flung himself upon the case. Suddenly he
stiffened. “_Eh voilà 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
mantelpiece. He was outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands, which from
long force of habit were mechanically straightening the spill vases on
the mantelpiece, 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, _là-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 everyone 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 someone
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!”
*****
