The Mysterious Affair at Styles, Agatha Christie [ebook reader android .txt] 📗

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 handwriting.

“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 handwriting⁠—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 wastepaper-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 mantlepiece.”

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