The Mysterious Affair at Styles, Agatha Christie [best pdf ebook reader for android txt] 📗

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 cocoa 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 cocoa, 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.

“Ohó!” said Poirot. “Ohó!” 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