The Mysterious Affair at Styles

  CHAPTER X. THE ARREST

  To my extreme annoyance, Poirot was not in, and the old Belgian whoanswered my knock informed me that he believed he had gone to London.

  I was dumbfounded. What on earth could Poirot be doing in London! Was ita sudden decision on his part, or had he already made up his mind whenhe parted from me a few hours earlier?

  I retraced my steps to Styles in some annoyance. With Poirot away, I wasuncertain how to act. Had he foreseen this arrest? Had he not, in allprobability, been the cause of it? Those questions I could not resolve.But in the meantime what was I to do? Should I announce the arrestopenly at Styles, or not? Though I did not acknowledge it to myself, thethought of Mary Cavendish was weighing on me. Would it not be a terribleshock to her? For the moment, I set aside utterly any suspicions of her.She could not be implicated--otherwise I should have heard some hint ofit.

  Of course, there was no possibility of being able permanently toconceal Dr. Bauerstein's arrest from her. It would be announced in everynewspaper on the morrow. Still, I shrank from blurting it out. Ifonly Poirot had been accessible, I could have asked his advice. Whatpossessed him to go posting off to London in this unaccountable way?

  In spite of myself, my opinion of his sagacity was immeasurablyheightened. I would never have dreamt of suspecting the doctor, had notPoirot put it into my head. Yes, decidedly, the little man was clever.

  After some reflecting, I decided to take John into my confidence, andleave him to make the matter public or not, as he thought fit.

  He gave vent to a prodigious whistle, as I imparted the news.

  "Great Scot! You _were_ right, then. I couldn't believe it at the time."

  "No, it is astonishing until you get used to the idea, and see how itmakes everything fit in. Now, what are we to do? Of course, it will begenerally known to-morrow."

  John reflected.

  "Never mind," he said at last, "we won't say anything at present. Thereis no need. As you say, it will be known soon enough."

  But to my intense surprise, on getting down early the next morning, andeagerly opening the newspapers, there was not a word about the arrest!There was a column of mere padding about "The Styles Poisoning Case,"but nothing further. It was rather inexplicable, but I supposed that,for some reason or other, Japp wished to keep it out of the papers. Itworried me just a little, for it suggested the possibility that theremight be further arrests to come.

  After breakfast, I decided to go down to the village, and see if Poirothad returned yet; but, before I could start, a well-known face blockedone of the windows, and the well-known voice said:

  "_Bonjour, mon ami!_"

  "Poirot," I exclaimed, with relief, and seizing him by both hands, Idragged him into the room. "I was never so glad to see anyone. Listen, Ihave said nothing to anybody but John. Is that right?"

  "My friend," replied Poirot, "I do not know what you are talking about."

  "Dr. Bauerstein's arrest, of course," I answered impatiently.

  "Is Bauerstein arrested, then?"

  "Did you not know it?"

  "Not the least in the world." But, pausing a moment, he added: "Still,it does not surprise me. After all, we are only four miles from thecoast."

  "The coast?" I asked, puzzled. "What has that got to do with it?"

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  "Surely, it is obvious!"

  "Not to me. No doubt I am very dense, but I cannot see what theproximity of the coast has got to do with the murder of Mrs.Inglethorp."

  "Nothing at all, of course," replied Poirot, smiling. "But we werespeaking of the arrest of Dr. Bauerstein."

  "Well, he is arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp----"

  "What?" cried Poirot, in apparently lively astonishment. "Dr. Bauersteinarrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp?"

  "Yes."

  "Impossible! That would be too good a farce! Who told you that, myfriend?"

  "Well, no one exactly told me," I confessed. "But he is arrested."

  "Oh, yes, very likely. But for espionage, _mon ami_."

  "Espionage?" I gasped.

  "Precisely."

  "Not for poisoning Mrs. Inglethorp?"

  "Not unless our friend Japp has taken leave of his senses," repliedPoirot placidly.

  "But--but I thought you thought so too?"

  Poirot gave me one look, which conveyed a wondering pity, and his fullsense of the utter absurdity of such an idea.

  "Do you mean to say," I asked, slowly adapting myself to the new idea,"that Dr. Bauerstein is a spy?"

  Poirot nodded.

  "Have you never suspected it?"

  "It never entered my head."

  "It did not strike you as peculiar that a famous London doctor shouldbury himself in a little village like this, and should be in the habitof walking about at all hours of the night, fully dressed?"

  "No," I confessed, "I never thought of such a thing."

  "He is, of course, a German by birth," said Poirot thoughtfully, "thoughhe has practiced so long in this country that nobody thinks of him asanything but an Englishman. He was naturalized about fifteen years ago.A very clever man--a Jew, of course."

  "The blackguard!" I cried indignantly.

  "Not at all. He is, on the contrary, a patriot. Think what he stands tolose. I admire the man myself."

  But I could not look at it in Poirot's philosophical way.

  "And this is the man with whom Mrs. Cavendish has been wandering aboutall over the country!" I cried indignantly.

  "Yes. I should fancy he had found her very useful," remarked Poirot. "Solong as gossip busied itself in coupling their names together, any othervagaries of the doctor's passed unobserved."

  "Then you think he never really cared for her?" I asked eagerly--rathertoo eagerly, perhaps, under the circumstances.

  "That, of course, I cannot say, but--shall I tell you my own privateopinion, Hastings?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, it is this: that Mrs. Cavendish does not care, and never hascared one little jot about Dr. Bauerstein!"

  "Do you really think so?" I could not disguise my pleasure.

  "I am quite sure of it. And I will tell you why."

  "Yes?"

  "Because she cares for someone else, _mon ami_."

  "Oh!" What did he mean? In spite of myself, an agreeable warmth spreadover me. I am not a vain man where women are concerned, but I rememberedcertain evidences, too lightly thought of at the time, perhaps, butwhich certainly seemed to indicate----

  My pleasing thoughts were interrupted by the sudden entrance of MissHoward. She glanced round hastily to make sure there was no one elsein the room, and quickly produced an old sheet of brown paper. This shehanded to Poirot, murmuring as she did so the cryptic words:

  "On top of the wardrobe." Then she hurriedly left the room.

  Poirot unfolded the sheet of paper eagerly, and uttered an exclamationof satisfaction. He spread it out on the table.

  "Come here, Hastings. Now tell me, what is that initial--J. or L.?"

  It was a medium sized sheet of paper, rather dusty, as though it hadlain by for some time. But it was the label that was attracting Poirot'sattention. At the top, it bore the printed stamp of Messrs. Parkson's,the well-known theatrical costumiers, and it was addressed to "--(thedebatable initial) Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court, Styles St. Mary,Essex."

  "It might be T., or it might be L.," I said, after studying the thingfor a minute or two. "It certainly isn't a J."

  "Good," replied Poirot, folding up the paper again. "I, also, am of yourway of thinking. It is an L., depend upon it!"

  "Where did it come from?" I asked curiously. "Is it important?"

  "Moderately so. It confirms a surmise of mine. Having deduced itsexistence, I set Miss Howard to search for it, and, as you see, she hasbeen successful."

  "What did she mean by 'On the top of the wardrobe'?"

  "She meant," replied Poirot promptly, "that she found it on top of awardrobe."


  "A funny place for a piece of brown paper," I mused.

  "Not at all. The top of a wardrobe is an excellent place for brown paperand cardboard boxes. I have kept them there myself. Neatly arranged,there is nothing to offend the eye."

  "Poirot," I asked earnestly, "have you made up your mind about thiscrime?"

  "Yes--that is to say, I believe I know how it was committed."

  "Ah!"

  "Unfortunately, I have no proof beyond my surmise, unless----" Withsudden energy, he caught me by the arm, and whirled me down thehall, calling out in French in his excitement: "Mademoiselle Dorcas,Mademoiselle Dorcas, _un moment, s'il vous plaît!_"

  Dorcas, quite flurried by the noise, came hurrying out of the pantry.

  "My good Dorcas, I have an idea--a little idea--if it should provejustified, what magnificent chance! Tell me, on Monday, not Tuesday,Dorcas, but Monday, the day before the tragedy, did anything go wrongwith Mrs. Inglethorp's bell?"

  Dorcas looked very surprised.

  "Yes, sir, now you mention it, it did; though I don't know how youcame to hear of it. A mouse, or some such, must have nibbled the wirethrough. The man came and put it right on Tuesday morning."

  With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot led the way back to themorning-room.

  "See you, one should not ask for outside proof--no, reason should beenough. But the flesh is weak, it is consolation to find that one is onthe right track. Ah, my friend, I am like a giant refreshed. I run! Ileap!"

  And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down thestretch of lawn outside the long window.

  "What is your remarkable little friend doing?" asked a voice behind me,and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so didI. "What is it all about?"

  "Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell,and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about asyou see!"

  Mary laughed.

  "How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming backto-day?"

  "I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."

  "Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?"

  "I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter;and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in hismadness."

  "I see."

  In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. Sheseemed grave, almost sad.

  It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her onthe subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, I thought, but I hadnot gone far before she stopped me authoritatively.

  "You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt, Mr. Hastings, but inthis case your talents are quite thrown away. Cynthia will run no riskof encountering any unkindness from me."

  I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn't thought--But againshe stopped me, and her words were so unexpected that they quite droveCynthia, and her troubles, out of my mind.

  "Mr. Hastings," she said, "do you think I and my husband are happytogether?"

  I was considerably taken aback, and murmured something about it's notbeing my business to think anything of the sort.

  "Well," she said quietly, "whether it is your business or not, I willtell you that we are _not_ happy."

  I said nothing, for I saw that she had not finished.

  She began slowly, walking up and down the room, her head a little bent,and that slim, supple figure of hers swaying gently as she walked. Shestopped suddenly, and looked up at me.

  "You don't know anything about me, do you?" she asked. "Where I comefrom, who I was before I married John--anything, in fact? Well, Iwill tell you. I will make a father confessor of you. You are kind, Ithink--yes, I am sure you are kind."

  Somehow, I was not quite as elated as I might have been. I rememberedthat Cynthia had begun her confidences in much the same way. Besides,a father confessor should be elderly, it is not at all the role for ayoung man.

  "My father was English," said Mrs. Cavendish, "but my mother was aRussian."

  "Ah," I said, "now I understand--"

  "Understand what?"

  "A hint of something foreign--different--that there has always beenabout you."

  "My mother was very beautiful, I believe. I don't know, because I neversaw her. She died when I was quite a little child. I believe there wassome tragedy connected with her death--she took an overdose of somesleeping draught by mistake. However that may be, my father wasbroken-hearted. Shortly afterwards, he went into the Consular Service.Everywhere he went, I went with him. When I was twenty-three, I had beennearly all over the world. It was a splendid life--I loved it."

  There was a smile on her face, and her head was thrown back. She seemedliving in the memory of those old glad days.

  "Then my father died. He left me very badly off. I had to go and livewith some old aunts in Yorkshire." She shuddered. "You will understandme when I say that it was a deadly life for a girl brought up as I hadbeen. The narrowness, the deadly monotony of it, almost drove me mad."She paused a minute, and added in a different tone: "And then I met JohnCavendish."

  "Yes?"

  "You can imagine that, from my aunts' point of view, it was a very goodmatch for me. But I can honestly say it was not this fact which weighedwith me. No, he was simply a way of escape from the insufferablemonotony of my life."

  I said nothing, and after a moment, she went on:

  "Don't misunderstand me. I was quite honest with him. I told him, whatwas true, that I liked him very much, that I hoped to come to like himmore, but that I was not in any way what the world calls 'in love' withhim. He declared that that satisfied him, and so--we were married."

  She waited a long time, a little frown had gathered on her forehead. Sheseemed to be looking back earnestly into those past days.

  "I think--I am sure--he cared for me at first. But I suppose we were notwell matched. Almost at once, we drifted apart. He--it is not a pleasingthing for my pride, but it is the truth--tired of me very soon." I musthave made some murmur of dissent, for she went on quickly: "Oh, yes, hedid! Not that it matters now--now that we've come to the parting of theways."

  "What do you mean?"

  She answered quietly:

  "I mean that I am not going to remain at Styles."

  "You and John are not going to live here?"

  "John may live here, but I shall not."

  "You are going to leave him?"

  "Yes."

  "But why?"

  She paused a long time, and said at last:

  "Perhaps--because I want to be--free!"

  And, as she spoke, I had a sudden vision of broad spaces, virgin tractsof forests, untrodden lands--and a realization of what freedom wouldmean to such a nature as Mary Cavendish. I seemed to see her for amoment as she was, a proud wild creature, as untamed by civilization assome shy bird of the hills. A little cry broke from her lips:

  "You don't know, you don't know, how this hateful place has been prisonto me!"

  "I understand," I said, "but--but don't do anything rash."

  "Oh, rash!" Her voice mocked at my prudence.

  Then suddenly I said a thing I could have bitten out my tongue for:

  "You know that Dr. Bauerstein has been arrested?"

  An instant coldness passed like a mask over her face, blotting out allexpression.

  "John was so kind as to break that to me this morning."

  "Well, what do you think?" I asked feebly.

  "Of what?"

  "Of the arrest?"

  "What should I think? Apparently he is a German spy; so the gardener hadtold John."

  Her face and voice were absolutely cold and expressionless. Did shecare, or did she not?

  She moved away a step or two, and fingered one of the flower vases.

  "These are quite dead. I must do them again. Would you mindmoving--thank you, Mr. Hastings." And she walked quietly past me out ofthe window, with a cool little nod of dismissal.

  No, su
rely she could not care for Bauerstein. No woman could act herpart with that icy unconcern.

  Poirot did not make his appearance the following morning, and there wasno sign of the Scotland Yard men.

  But, at lunch-time, there arrived a new piece of evidence--or ratherlack of evidence. We had vainly tried to trace the fourth letter, whichMrs. Inglethorp had written on the evening preceding her death. Ourefforts having been in vain, we had abandoned the matter, hoping thatit might turn up of itself one day. And this is just what did happen,in the shape of a communication, which arrived by the second post from afirm of French music publishers, acknowledging Mrs. Inglethorp's cheque,and regretting they had been unable to trace a certain series of Russianfolksongs. So the last hope of solving the mystery, by means of Mrs.Inglethorp's correspondence on the fatal evening, had to be abandoned.

  Just before tea, I strolled down to tell Poirot of the newdisappointment, but found, to my annoyance, that he was once more out.

  "Gone to London again?"

  "Oh, no, monsieur, he has but taken the train to Tadminster. 'To see ayoung lady's dispensary,' he said."

  "Silly ass!" I ejaculated. "I told him Wednesday was the one day shewasn't there! Well, tell him to look us up to-morrow morning, will you?"

  "Certainly, monsieur."

  But, on the following day, no sign of Poirot. I was getting angry. Hewas really treating us in the most cavalier fashion.

  After lunch, Lawrence drew me aside, and asked if I was going down tosee him.

  "No, I don't think I shall. He can come up here if he wants to see us."

  "Oh!" Lawrence looked indeterminate. Something unusually nervous andexcited in his manner roused my curiosity.

  "What is it?" I asked. "I could go if there's anything special."

  "It's nothing much, but--well, if you are going, will you tell him--"he dropped his voice to a whisper--"I think I've found the extracoffee-cup!"

  I had almost forgotten that enigmatical message of Poirot's, but now mycuriosity was aroused afresh.

  Lawrence would say no more, so I decided that I would descend from myhigh horse, and once more seek out Poirot at Leastways Cottage.

  This time I was received with a smile. Monsieur Poirot was within. WouldI mount? I mounted accordingly.

  Poirot was sitting by the table, his head buried in his hands. He sprangup at my entrance.

  "What is it?" I asked solicitously. "You are not ill, I trust?"

  "No, no, not ill. But I decide an affair of great moment."

  "Whether to catch the criminal or not?" I asked facetiously.

  But, to my great surprise, Poirot nodded gravely.

  "'To speak or not to speak,' as your so great Shakespeare says, 'that isthe question.'"

  I did not trouble to correct the quotation.

  "You are not serious, Poirot?"

  "I am of the most serious. For the most serious of all things hangs inthe balance."

  "And that is?"

  "A woman's happiness, _mon ami_," he said gravely.

  I did not quite know what to say.

  "The moment has come," said Poirot thoughtfully, "and I do not know whatto do. For, see you, it is a big stake for which I play. No one but I,Hercule Poirot, would attempt it!" And he tapped himself proudly on thebreast.

  After pausing a few minutes respectfully, so as not to spoil his effect,I gave him Lawrence's message.

  "Aha!" he cried. "So he has found the extra coffee-cup. That is good.He has more intelligence than would appear, this long-faced MonsieurLawrence of yours!"

  I did not myself think very highly of Lawrence's intelligence; butI forebore to contradict Poirot, and gently took him to task forforgetting my instructions as to which were Cynthia's days off.

  "It is true. I have the head of a sieve. However, the other younglady was most kind. She was sorry for my disappointment, and showed meeverything in the kindest way."

  "Oh, well, that's all right, then, and you must go to tea with Cynthiaanother day."

  I told him about the letter.

  "I am sorry for that," he said. "I always had hopes of that letter. Butno, it was not to be. This affair must all be unravelled from within."He tapped his forehead. "These little grey cells. It is 'up to them'--asyou say over here." Then, suddenly, he asked: "Are you a judge offinger-marks, my friend?"

  "No," I said, rather surprised, "I know that there are no twofinger-marks alike, but that's as far as my science goes."

  "Exactly."

  He unlocked a little drawer, and took out some photographs which he laidon the table.

  "I have numbered them, 1, 2, 3. Will you describe them to me?"

  I studied the proofs attentively.

  "All greatly magnified, I see. No. 1, I should say, are a man'sfinger-prints; thumb and first finger. No. 2 are a lady's; they are muchsmaller, and quite different in every way. No. 3"--I paused for sometime--"there seem to be a lot of confused finger-marks, but here, verydistinctly, are No. 1's."

  "Overlapping the others?"

  "Yes."

  "You recognize them beyond fail?"

  "Oh, yes; they are identical."

  Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs from me locked them upagain.

  "I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not going to explain?"

  "On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of Monsieur Lawrence. No.2 were those of Mademoiselle Cynthia. They are not important. I merelyobtained them for comparison. No. 3 is a little more complicated."

  "Yes?"

  "It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may have noticed a sort ofblur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to youthe special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is awell-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain aphotograph of the finger-prints of any object in a very short space oftime. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks--it remains totell you the particular object on which they had been left."

  "Go on--I am really excited."

  "_Eh bien!_ Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of atiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the RedCross Hospital at Tadminster--which sounds like the house that Jackbuilt!"

  "Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish'sfinger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the daywe were there!"

  "Oh, yes, he did!"

  "Impossible! We were all together the whole time."

  Poirot shook his head.

  "No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. Therewas a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would nothave been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you onthe balcony."

  "I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment."

  "Long enough."

  "Long enough for what?"

  Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical.

  "Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify avery natural interest and curiosity."

  Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed alittle tune. I watched him suspiciously.

  "Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?"

  Poirot looked out of the window.

  "Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuingto hum.

  "Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I hadexpected that answer.

  "They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little--onlyoccasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. StrychnineHydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-markshave remained undisturbed since then."

  "How did you manage to take this photograph?"

  "I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitorswere not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my manyapologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch itfor me."

  "Then you knew what you were going to find?"

  "
No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from yourstory, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. Thepossibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated."

  "Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a veryimportant discovery."

  "I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt ithas struck you too."

  "What is that?"

  "Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. Thisis the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs.Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter atStyles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by oneof the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not likeconfusion."

  Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door andstuck his head in.

  "There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings."

  "A lady?"

  I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendishwas standing in the doorway.

  "I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "andas Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would callfor you."

  "Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with avisit!"

  "I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling.

  "That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame"--shestarted ever so slightly--"remember, Papa Poirot is always at yourservice."

  She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read somedeeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away.

  "Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?"

  "Enchanted, madame."

  All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck methat in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes.

  The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in itsshrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sportscoat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like somegreat giant sighing.

  We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge cameto us that something was wrong.

  Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing herhands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background,all eyes and ears.

  "Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you--"

  "What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once."

  "It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him--they've arrestedMr. Cavendish!"

  "Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped.

  I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes.

  "No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence--Mr. John."

  Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, andas I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes.