The Mysterious Affair at Styles

  CHAPTER V. "IT ISN'T STRYCHNINE, IS IT?"

  "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'smind was deranged? Had she some fantastic idea of demoniacal possession?And, if that were so, was it not also possible that she might have takenher own life?

  I was about to expound these theories to Poirot, when his own wordsdistracted me.

  "Come," he said, "now to examine the coffee-cups!"

  "My dear Poirot! What on earth is the good of that, now that we knowabout the cocoa?"

  "Oh, _là là!_ That miserable cocoa!" cried Poirot flippantly.

  He laughed with apparent enjoyment, raising his arms to heaven in mockdespair, in what I could not but consider the worst possible taste.

  "And, anyway," I said, with increasing coldness, "as Mrs. Inglethorptook her coffee upstairs with her, I do not see what you expect tofind, unless you consider it likely that we shall discover a packet ofstrychnine on the coffee tray!"

  Poirot was sobered at once.

  "Come, come, my friend," he said, slipping his arms through mine. "_Nevous fâchez pas!_ Allow me to interest myself in my coffee-cups, and Iwill respect your cocoa. There! Is it a bargain?"

  He was so quaintly humorous that I was forced to laugh; and we wenttogether to the drawing-room, where the coffee-cups and tray remainedundisturbed as we had left them.

  Poirot made me recapitulate the scene of the night before, listeningvery carefully, and verifying the position of the various cups.

  "So Mrs. Cavendish stood by the tray--and poured out. Yes. Then she cameacross to the window where you sat with Mademoiselle Cynthia. Yes. Hereare the three cups. And the cup on the mantel-piece, half drunk, thatwould 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 didso. His physiognomy underwent a curious change. An expression gatheredthere 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 Iwas mistaken. Yes, altogether I was mistaken. Yet it is strange. But nomatter!"

  And, with a characteristic shrug, he dismissed whatever it was that wasworrying him from his mind. I could have told him from the beginningthat this obsession of his over the coffee was bound to end in a blindalley, but I restrained my tongue. After all, though he was old, Poirothad been a great man in his day.

  "Breakfast is ready," said John Cavendish, coming in from the hall. "Youwill breakfast with us, Monsieur Poirot?"

  Poirot acquiesced. I observed John. Already he was almost restored tohis normal self. The shock of the events of the last night had upset himtemporarily, but his equable poise soon swung back to the normal. He wasa 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--writingnotices for the papers, and generally occupying himself with themelancholy duties that a death entails.

  "May I ask how things are proceeding?" he said. "Do your investigationspoint to my mother having died a natural death--or--or must we prepareourselves for the worst?"

  "I think, Mr. Cavendish," said Poirot gravely, "that you would do wellnot to buoy yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell me the viewsof the other members of the family?"

  "My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss overnothing. He says that everything points to its being a simple case ofheart failure."

  "He does, does he? That is very interesting--very interesting," murmuredPoirot 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 therather 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 himas usual--but, hang it all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eatwith 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 reasonfor not returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten thelatch-key. Is not that so?"

  "Yes."

  "I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten--thathe did not take it after all?"

  "I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in thehall 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 wouldfind it. If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to replaceit by now."

  "But do you think----"

  "I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before hisreturn, and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in hisfavour. That is all."

  John looked perplexed.

  "Do not worry," said Poirot smoothly. "I assure you that you need notlet it trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us go and have somebreakfast."

  Every one was assembled in the dining-room. Under the circumstances,we were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock isalways trying, and I think we were all suffering from it. Decorum andgood breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should be much asusual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really amatter of great difficulty. There were no red eyes, no signs of secretlyindulged grief. I felt that I was right in my opinion that Dorcas wasthe person most affected by the personal side of the tragedy.

  I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in amanner that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know thatwe suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not be unaware of thefact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring of fear,or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely thesuspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a markedman.

  But did every one suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I watched heras she sat at the head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. Inher soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over herslender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she chose, however, herface 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 greatstrength of her personality was dominating us all.

  And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, Ithought. The heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. Iasked 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_." Hejumped 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 thereplenished cup.

  Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I
saw thathis face was working with suppressed excitement, and his eyes were asgreen as a cat's. He had heard or seen something that had affected himstrongly--but what was it? I do not usually label myself as dense, butI 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 andI took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot:

  "There will be an inquest then?"

  Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so thatmy 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 notunderstand. 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 thetypical lawyer's mouth. John introduced us both, and explained thereason of our presence.

  "You will understand, Wells," he added, "that this is all strictlyprivate. We are still hoping that there will turn out to be no need forinvestigation of any kind."

  "Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Wells soothingly. "I wish we could havespared you the pain and publicity of an inquest, but of course it'squite 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 headded rather hesitatingly: "Shall we have to appear as witnesses--all ofus, 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, forI saw no occasion for it.

  "If you know of nothing to the contrary," pursued Mr. Wells, "I hadthought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor'sreport. 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 thismost 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 shouldhave received the letter this morning."

  "I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me tocall upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of greatimportance."

  "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 itis not against professional etiquette. In the event of Mrs. Inglethorp'sdeath, who would inherit her money?"

  The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied:

  "The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr. Cavendishdoes not object----"

  "Not at all," interpolated John.

  "I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. By herlast will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legaciesto servants, etc., she gave her entire fortune to her stepson, Mr. JohnCavendish."

  "Was not that--pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish--rather unfair to herother 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 lefther money to her elder stepson, knowing that he would have to keep upStyles. 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 lawthat 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 nulland void."

  "_Hein!_" said Poirot. He reflected for a moment, and then asked: "WasMrs. Inglethorp herself aware of that fact?"

  "I do not know. She may have been."

  "She was," said John unexpectedly. "We were discussing the matter ofwills 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 hertestamentary dispositions, now benefiting one, now another member of herfamily."

  "Suppose," suggested Poirot, "that, unknown to you, she had made anew will in favour of someone who was not, in any sense of the word, amember of the family--we will say Miss Howard, for instance--would yoube 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 thequestion of going through Mrs. Inglethorp's papers.

  "Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp made a will leaving all her money to MissHoward?" 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 mymother's papers. Mr. Inglethorp is quite willing to leave it entirely toMr. Wells and myself."

  "Which simplifies matters very much," murmured the lawyer. "Astechnically, of course, he was entitled----" He did not finish thesentence.

  "We will look through the desk in the boudoir first," explained John,"and go up to her bedroom afterwards. She kept her most important papersin a purple despatch-case, which we must look through carefully."

  "Yes," said the lawyer, "it is quite possible that there may be a laterwill 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 thegrate in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, and handed it to the lawyer with abrief 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 noearlier 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 toyou."

  "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 theapproach of Manning. John looked questioningly at Poirot. The latternodded.

  "Come inside, Manning," said John, "I want to speak to you."

  Manning came slowly and hesitatingly through the French window, andstood as near it as he could. He held his cap in his hands, twisting itvery carefully round and round. His back was much bent, though hewas probably not as old as he looked, but his eyes were sharp andintelligent, and belied his slow and rather cautious speech.

  "Manning," said John, "this gentleman will put some questions to youwhich I want you to answer."

  "Yes sir," mumbled Manning.

  Poirot stepped forward briskly. Manning's eye swept over him with afaint contempt.

  "You were planting a bed of begonias round by the south side of thehouse 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 downto the village, and bring back a form of will, or such-like--I don'tknow 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 longpaper--under where she'd signed."

  "Did you see anything of what was written above her signature?" askedPoirot 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 asort 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 afterfour--not before it."

  "Thank you, Manning, that will do," said Poirot pleasantly.

  The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manning lifteda finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backed cautiously out ofthe 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 yesterdayafternoon----"

  "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 hurriedlymakes a new will. The contents of that will we shall never know. Shetold no one of its provisions. This morning, no doubt, she would haveconsulted 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 fearthere is no coincidence there. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree withme that the facts are very suggestive."

  "Suggestive, or not," interrupted John, "we are most grateful toMonsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we should neverhave known of this will. I suppose, I may not ask you, monsieur, whatfirst 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 thatmoment the loud purr of a motor was audible, and we all turned to thewindow as it swept past.

  "Evie!" cried John. "Excuse me, Wells." He went hurriedly out into thehall.

  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 hearttoo, Hastings. Though the good God gave her no beauty!"

  I followed John's example, and went out into the hall, where Miss Howardwas endeavouring to extricate herself from the voluminous mass of veilsthat enveloped her head. As her eyes fell on me, a sudden pang of guiltshot 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 howcontemptuously, I had dismissed it from my mind. Now that she had beenproved justified in so tragic a manner, I felt ashamed. She had knownAlfred Inglethorp only too well. I wondered whether, if she had remainedat Styles, the tragedy would have taken place, or would the man havefeared her watchful eyes?

  I was relieved when she shook me by the hand, with her well rememberedpainful grip. The eyes that met mine were sad, but not reproachful;that she had been crying bitterly, I could tell by the redness of hereyelids, 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, andthey'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 hershoulder 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 motherdied from heart seizure."

  "More fool, Lawrence!" retorted Miss Howard. "Of course AlfredInglethorp murdered poor Emily--as I always told you he would."

  "My dear Evie, don't shout so. Whatever we may think or suspect, it isbetter to say as little as possible for the present. The inquest isn'tuntil Friday."

  "Not until fiddlesticks!" The snort Miss Howard gave was trulymagnificent. "You're all off your heads. The man will be out of thecountry by then. If he's any sense, he won't stay here tamely and waitto be hanged."

  John Cavendish looked at her helplessly.

  "I know what it is," she accused him, "you've been listening to thedoctors. Never should. What do they know? Nothing at all--or just enoughto 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 everseen. Heart seizure! Sort of thing he would say. Anyone with any sensecould see at once that her husband had poisoned her. I always said he'dmurder her in her bed, poor soul. Now he's done it. And all you can dois 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 bythe scruff of his neck."

  "Well, you might do something. Find out how he did it. He's a
craftybeggar. 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 MissHoward and Alfred Inglethorp under the same roof, and keep the peacebetween them, was likely to prove a Herculean task, and I did notenvy John. I could see by the expression of his face that he fullyappreciated the difficulty of the position. For the moment, he soughtrefuge in retreat, and left the room precipitately.

  Dorcas brought in fresh tea. As she left the room, Poirot came over fromthe 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 ingood old times."

  "We are at one then," said Poirot, "for I, too, want to hang thecriminal."

  "Alfred Inglethorp?"

  "Him, or another."

  "No question of another. Poor Emily was never murdered until _he_ camealong. I don't say she wasn't surrounded by sharks--she was. But itwas only her purse they were after. Her life was safe enough. But alongcomes 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 hanghim 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 tome. I will tell you why. Because, in all this house of mourning, yoursare the only eyes that have wept."

  Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into the gruffness of hervoice.

  "If you mean that I was fond of her--yes, I was. You know, Emily wasa selfish old woman in her way. She was very generous, but she alwayswanted a return. She never let people forget what she had done forthem--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 differentfooting. I took my stand from the first. 'So many pounds a year I'mworth to you. Well and good. But not a penny piece besides--not apair of gloves, nor a theatre ticket.' She didn't understand--was veryoffended sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasn't that--but Icouldn't explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, out of thewhole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to be fond ofher. I watched over her. I guarded her from the lot of them, and then aglib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh! all my years of devotiongo for nothing."

  Poirot nodded sympathetically.

  "I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It is mostnatural. You think that we are lukewarm--that we lack fire andenergy--but trust me, it is not so."

  John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both to comeup to Mrs. Inglethorp's room, as he and Mr. Wells had finished lookingthrough the desk in the boudoir.

  As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining-room door, andlowered 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 tookeen on meeting her."

  "You've got the keys still, haven't you, Poirot?" I asked, as we reachedthe door of the locked room.

  Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it, and we all passed in. Thelawyer went straight to the desk, and John followed him.

  "My mother kept most of her important papers in this despatch-case, Ibelieve," 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, dumfounded. "And I--who have boththe keys in my pocket!" He flung himself upon the case. Suddenly hestiffened. "_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 washere an hour ago. As to the door being locked, it is a very ordinarylock. Probably any other of the doorkeys in this passage would fit it."

  We stared at one another blankly. Poirot had walked over to themantel-piece. He was outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands, which fromlong force of habit were mechanically straightening the spill vases onthe mantel-piece, were shaking violently.

  "See here, it was like this," he said at last. "There was something inthat case--some piece of evidence, slight in itself perhaps, but stillenough of a clue to connect the murderer with the crime. It was vitalto him that it should be destroyed before it was discovered and itssignificance 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 havebeen something of great importance."

  "But what was it?"

  "Ah!" cried Poirot, with a gesture of anger. "That, I do not know! Adocument of some kind, without doubt, possibly the scrap of paper Dorcassaw in her hand yesterday afternoon. And I--" his anger burst forthfreely--"miserable animal that I am! I guessed nothing! I have behavedlike an imbecile! I should never have left that case here. I shouldhave carried it away with me. Ah, triple pig! And now it is gone. It isdestroyed--but is it destroyed? Is there not yet a chance--we must leaveno stone unturned--"

  He rushed like a madman from the room, and I followed him as soon as Ihad sufficiently recovered my wits. But, by the time I had reached thetop of the stairs, he was out of sight.

  Mary Cavendish was standing where the staircase branched, staring downinto the hall in the direction in which he had disappeared.

  "What has happened to your extraordinary little friend, Mr. Hastings? Hehas just rushed past me like a mad bull."

  "He's rather upset about something," I remarked feebly. I really did notknow how much Poirot would wish me to disclose. As I saw a faint smilegather on Mrs. Cavendish's expressive mouth, I endeavoured to try andturn 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 goodflare up. It would clear the air. At present we are all thinking somuch, 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 greatsurprise:

  "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 allabout them the next."

  I don't know what impelled me, but I was nettled, and I said foolishlyand 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 impressionof a steel curtain coming down and blotting out the real woman. Withouta word, she turned and went swiftly up the stairs, whilst I stood likean idiot gap
ing after her.

  I was recalled to other matters by a frightful row going on below. Icould hear Poirot shouting and expounding. I was vexed to think thatmy diplomacy had been in vain. The little man appeared to be takingthe whole house into his confidence, a proceeding of which I, for one,doubted the wisdom. Once again I could not help regretting that myfriend was so prone to lose his head in moments of excitement. Istepped briskly down the stairs. The sight of me calmed Poirot almostimmediately. I drew him aside.

  "My dear fellow," I said, "is this wise? Surely you don't want the wholehouse to know of this occurrence? You are actually playing into thecriminal'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 Istill 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 openwindow in the drawing-room. Cynthia Murdoch was just coming in, andPoirot 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 thanonce. I had often before noticed that, if anything excited him, his eyesturned green like a cat's. They were shining like emeralds now.

  "My friend," he broke out at last, "I have a little idea, a verystrange, and probably utterly impossible idea. And yet--it fits in."

  I shrugged my shoulders. I privately thought that Poirot was rather toomuch given to these fantastic ideas. In this case, surely, the truth wasonly 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 itmyself."

  Poirot did not appear to be listening to me.

  "They have made one more discovery, la-bas," he observed, jerking histhumb over his shoulder in the direction of Styles. "Mr. Wells told meas 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 AlfredInglethorp. 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 waswritten on one of those printed will forms, and witnessed by two of theservants--not Dorcas."

  "Did Mr. Inglethorp know of it?"

  "He says not."

  "One might take that with a grain of salt," I remarked sceptically. "Allthese wills are very confusing. Tell me, how did those scribbled wordson the envelope help you to discover that a will was made yesterdayafternoon?"

  Poirot smiled.

  "_Mon ami_, have you ever, when writing a letter, been arrested by thefact that you did not know how to spell a certain word?"

  "Yes, often. I suppose every one has."

  "Exactly. And have you not, in such a case, tried the word once or twiceon the edge of the blotting-paper, or a spare scrap of paper, to see ifit looked right? Well, that is what Mrs. Inglethorp did. You will noticethat the word 'possessed' is spelt first with one 's' and subsequentlywith two--correctly. To make sure, she had further tried it in asentence, thus: 'I am possessed.' Now, what did that tell me? It toldme that Mrs. Inglethorp had been writing the word 'possessed' thatafternoon, and, having the fragment of paper found in the grate freshin my mind, the possibility of a will--(a document almost certainto contain that word)--occurred to me at once. This possibility wasconfirmed by a further circumstance. In the general confusion, theboudoir had not been swept that morning, and near the desk were severaltraces of brown mould and earth. The weather had been perfectly fine forsome 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 hadbeen newly planted. The mould in the beds was exactly similar to that onthe floor of the boudoir, and also I learnt from you that they had beenplanted yesterday afternoon. I was now sure that one, or possibly bothof the gardeners--for there were two sets of footprints in the bed--hadentered the boudoir, for if Mrs. Inglethorp had merely wished to speakto them she would in all probability have stood at the window, and theywould not have come into the room at all. I was now quite convincedthat she had made a fresh will, and had called the two gardeners into witness her signature. Events proved that I was right in mysupposition."

  "That was very ingenious," I could not help admitting. "I must confessthat the conclusions I drew from those few scribbled words were quiteerroneous."

  He smiled.

  "You gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a goodservant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the mostlikely."

  "Another point--how did you know that the key of the despatch-case hadbeen lost?"

  "I did not know it. It was a guess that turned out to be correct. Youobserved that it had a piece of twisted wire through the handle. Thatsuggested to me at once that it had possibly been wrenched off a flimsykey-ring. Now, if it had been lost and recovered, Mrs. Inglethorp wouldat once have replaced it on her bunch; but on her bunch I found what wasobviously the duplicate key, very new and bright, which led me to thehypothesis that somebody else had inserted the original key in the lockof 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 moreclearly."

  "On the contrary," said Poirot quietly, "there are several points in hisfavour."

  "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 tomy mind tells against him."

  "How is that?"

  "Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisoned lastnight, he would certainly have arranged to be away from the house.His excuse was an obviously trumped up one. That leaves us twopossibilities: either he knew what was going to happen or he had areason 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 necessitymake him a murderer."

  I shook my head, unconvinced.

  "We do not agree, eh?" said Poirot. "Well, let us leave it. Time willshow 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 werebolted 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 havetold us that--yet the presence of the candle grease on the floor, andthe destruction of the will, prove that during the night someone enteredthe room. You agree so far?"

&nbsp
; "Perfectly. Put with admirable clearness. Proceed."

  "Well," I said, encouraged, "as the person who entered did not do so bythe window, nor by miraculous means, it follows that the door must havebeen opened from inside by Mrs. Inglethorp herself. That strengthensthe conviction that the person in question was her husband. She wouldnaturally open the door to her own husband."

  Poirot shook his head.

  "Why should she? She had bolted the door leading into his room--a mostunusual proceeding on her part--she had had a most violent quarrel withhim 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 doorinto the passage when she went to bed, and have got up later, towardsmorning, 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 anotherfeature, what do you make of the scrap of conversation you overheardbetween Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law?"

  "I had forgotten that," I said thoughtfully. "That is as enigmatical asever. It seems incredible that a woman like Mrs. Cavendish, proud andreticent to the last degree, should interfere so violently in what wascertainly not her affair."

  "Precisely. It was an astonishing thing for a woman of her breeding todo."

  "It is certainly curious," I agreed. "Still, it is unimportant, and neednot be taken into account."

  A groan burst from Poirot.

  "What have I always told you? Everything must be taken into account. Ifthe 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 hisown room. He offered me one of the tiny Russian cigarettes he himselfoccasionally smoked. I was amused to notice that he stowed away the usedmatches most carefully in a little china pot. My momentary annoyancevanished.

  Poirot had placed our two chairs in front of the open window whichcommanded a view of the village street. The fresh air blew in warm andpleasant. It was going to be a hot day.

  Suddenly my attention was arrested by a weedy looking young man rushingdown the street at a great pace. It was the expression on his face thatwas 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 iscoming here."

  The young man came to a halt before Leastways Cottage, and, afterhesitating 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 openedthe door. Mr. Mace began at once.

  "Oh, Mr. Poirot, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I heard that you'djust 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 hisagitation was too much for him. He clutched Poirot by the arm, and sankhis voice to a whisper: "Just tell me this, Mr. Poirot, it isn't--itisn't strychnine, is it?"

  I hardly heard what Poirot replied. Something evidently of anon-committal nature. The young man departed, and as he closed the doorPoirot's eyes met mine.

  "Yes," he said, nodding gravely. "He will have evidence to give at theinquest."

  We went slowly upstairs again. I was opening my lips, when Poirotstopped me with a gesture of his hand.

  "Not now, not now, _mon ami_. I have need of reflection. My mind is insome disorder--which is not well."

  For about ten minutes he sat in dead silence, perfectly still, exceptfor several expressive motions of his eyebrows, and all the time hiseyes grew steadily greener. At last he heaved a deep sigh.

  "It is well. The bad moment has passed. Now all is arranged andclassified. One must never permit confusion. The case is not clearyet--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 veryimportant."

  "But it was a glorious day!" I interrupted. "Poirot, you're pulling myleg!"

  "Not at all. The thermometer registered 80 degrees in the shade. Do notforget 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 peculiarclothes, 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 Murderagainst Alfred Inglethorp. What becomes of your theories, then?"

  "They would not be shaken because twelve stupid men had happened to makea mistake! But that will not occur. For one thing, a country jury is notanxious to take responsibility upon itself, and Mr. Inglethorp standspractically 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 andamusement. He was so tremendously sure of himself. As though he read mythoughts, he nodded gently.

  "Oh, yes, _mon ami_, I would do what I say." He got up and laid his handon my shoulder. His physiognomy underwent a complete change. Tearscame 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 wasvery 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 letAlfred Inglethorp, her husband, be arrested _now_--when a word from mecould save him!"