THE MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR AT STYLES
AGATHA CHRISTIE
CONTENTS
I. I GO TO STYLES
II. THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY
III. THE NIGHT OF THE TRAGEDY
IV. POIROT INVESTIGATES
V. "IT ISN'T STRYCHNINE, IS IT?"
VI. THE INQUEST
VII. POIROT PAYS HIS DEBTS
VIII. FRESH SUSPICIONS
IX. DR. BAUERSTEIN
X. THE ARREST
XI. THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION
XII. THE LAST LINK
XIII. POIROT EXPLAINS
CHAPTER I.
I GO TO STYLES
The intense interest aroused in the public by what was known at
the time as "The Styles Case" has now somewhat subsided.
Nevertheless, in view of the world-wide notoriety which attended
it, I have been asked, both by my friend Poirot and the family
themselves, to write an account of the whole story. This, we
trust, will effectually silence the sensational rumours which
still persist.
I will therefore briefly set down the circumstances which led to
my being connected with the affair.
I had been invalided home from the Front; and, after spending
some months in a rather depressing Convalescent Home, was given a
month's sick leave. Having no near relations or friends, I was
trying to make up my mind what to do, when I ran across John
Cavendish. I had seen very little of him for some years.
Indeed, I had never known him particularly well. He was a good
fifteen years my senior, for one thing, though he hardly looked
his forty-five years. As a boy, though, I had often stayed at
Styles, his mother's place in Essex.
We had a good yarn about old times, and it ended in his inviting
me down to Styles to spend my leave there.
"The mater will be delighted to see you again - after all those
years," he added.
"Your mother keeps well?" I asked.
"Oh, yes. I suppose you know that she has married again?"
I am afraid I showed my surprise rather plainly. Mrs. Cavendish,
who had married John's father when he was a widower with two
sons, had been a handsome woman of middle-age as I remembered
her. She certainly could not be a day less than seventy now. I
recalled her as an energetic, autocratic personality, somewhat
inclined to charitable and social notoriety, with a fondness for
opening bazaars and playing the Lady Bountiful. She was a most
generous woman, and possessed a considerable fortune of her own.
Their country-place, Styles Court, had been purchased by Mr.
Cavendish early in their married life. He had been completely
under his wife's ascendancy, so much so that, on dying, he left
the place to her for her lifetime, as well as the larger part of
his income; an arrangement that was distinctly unfair to his two
sons. Their step-mother, however, had always been most generous
to them; indeed, they were so young at the time of their father's
remarriage that they always thought of her as their own mother.
Lawrence, the younger, had been a delicate youth. He had
qualified as a doctor but early relinquished the profession of
medicine, and lived at home while pursuing literary ambitions;
though his verses never had any marked success.
John practiced for some time as a barrister, but had finally
settled down to the more congenial life of a country squire. He
had married two years ago, and had taken his wife to live at
Styles, though I entertained a shrewd suspicion that he would
have preferred his mother to increase his allowance, which would
have enabled him to have a home of his own. Mrs. Cavendish,
however, was a lady who liked to make her own plans, and expected
other people to fall in with them, and in this case she certainly
had the whip hand, namely: the purse strings.
John noticed my surprise at the news of his mother's remarriage
and smiled rather ruefully.
"Rotten little bounder too!" he said savagely. "I can tell you,
Hastings, it's making life jolly difficult for us. As for
Evie - you remember Evie?"
"No."
"Oh, I suppose she was after your time. She's the mater's
factotum, companion, Jack of all trades! A great sport - old Evie!
Not precisely young and beautiful, but as game as they make
them."
"You were going to say - - ?"
"Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of
being a second cousin or something of Evie's, though she didn't
seem particularly keen to acknowledge the relationship. The
fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see that. He's got a
great black beard, and wears patent leather boots in all
weathers! But the mater cottoned to him at once, took him on as
secretary - you know how she's always running a hundred
societies?"
I nodded.
"Well, of course the war has turned the hundreds into thousands.
No doubt the fellow was very useful to her. But you could have
knocked us all down with a feather when, three months ago, she
suddenly announced that she and Alfred were engaged! The fellow
must be at least twenty years younger than she is! It's simply
bare-faced fortune hunting; but there you are - she is her own
mistress, and she's married him."
"It must be a difficult situation for you all."
"Difficult! It's damnable!"
Thus it came about that, three days later, I descended from the
train at Styles St. Mary, an absurd little station, with no
apparent reason for existence, perched up in the midst of green
fields and country lanes. John Cavendish was waiting on the
platform, and piloted me out to the car.
"Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see," he remarked.
"Mainly owing to the mater's activities."
The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about two miles from
the little station, and Styles Court lay a mile the other side of
it. It was a still, warm day in early July. As one looked out
over the flat Essex country, lying so green and peaceful under
the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible to believe that,
not so very far away, a great war was running its appointed
course. I felt I had suddenly strayed into another world. As we
turned in at the lodge gates, John said:
"I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet down here, Hastings."
"My dear fellow, that's just what I want."
"Oh, it's pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life. I
drill with the volunteers twice a week, and lend a hand at the
farms. My wife works regularly 'on the land'. She is up at five
every morning to milk, and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime.
It's a jolly good life taking it all round - if it weren't for
that fellow Alfred Inglethorp!" He checked the car suddenly, and
glanced at his watch. "I wonder if we've time to pick up
Cynthia. No, she'll have started from the hospital by now."
"Cynthia! That's not your wife?"
"No, Cynthia is a protegee of my mother's, the daughter of an old
schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor. He came
a cropper, and the girl was left an orphan and penniless. My
mother came to the rescue, and Cynthia has been with us nearly
two years now. She works in the Red Cross Hospital at
Tadminster, seven miles away."
As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old
house. A lady in a stout tweed skirt, who was bending over a
flower bed, straightened herself at our approach.
"Hullo, Evie, here's our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings - Miss
Howard."
Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip. I
had an impression of very blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was
a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, with a deep voice,
almost manly in its stentorian tones, and had a large sensible
square body, with feet to match - these last encased in good thick
boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the
telegraphic style.
"Weeds grow like house afire. Can't keep even with 'em. Shall
press you in. Better be careful."
"I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful," I
responded.
"Don't say it. Never does. Wish you hadn't later."
"You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing. "Where's tea
to-day - inside or out?"
"Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house."
"Come on then, you've done enough gardening for to-day. 'The
labourer is worthy of his hire', you know. Come and be
refreshed."
"Well," said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, "I'm
inclined to agree with you."
She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the
shade of a large sycamore.
A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps
to meet us.
"My wife, Hastings," said John.
I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall,
slender form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense
of slumbering fire that seemed to find expression only in those
wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any
other woman's that I have ever known; the intense power of
stillness she possessed, which nevertheless conveyed the
impression of a wild untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilised
body - all these things are burnt into my memory. I shall never
forget them.
She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low
clear voice, and I sank into a basket chair feeling distinctly
glad that I had accepted John's invitation. Mrs. Cavendish gave
me some tea, and her few quiet remarks heightened my first
impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman. An
appreciative listener is always stimulating, and I described, in
a humorous manner, certain incidents of my Convalescent Home, in
a way which, I flatter myself, greatly amused my hostess. John,
of course, good fellow though he is, could hardly be called a
brilliant conversationalist.
At that moment a well remembered voice floated through the open
French window near at hand:
"Then you'll write to the Princess after tea, Alfred? I'll write
to Lady Tadminster for the second day, myself. Or shall we wait
until we hear from the Princess? In case of a refusal, Lady
Tadminster might open it the first day, and Mrs. Crosbie the
second. Then there's the Duchess - about the school fete."
There was the murmur of a man's voice, and then Mrs. Inglethorp's
rose in reply:
"Yes, certainly. After tea will do quite well. You are so
thoughtful, Alfred dear."
The French window swung open a little wider, and a handsome
white-haired old lady, with a somewhat masterful cast of
features, stepped out of it on to the lawn. A man followed her,
a suggestion of deference in his manner.
Mrs. Inglethorp greeted me with effusion.
"Why, if it isn't too delightful to see you again, Mr. Hastings,
after all these years. Alfred, darling, Mr. Hastings - my
husband."
I looked with some curiosity at "Alfred darling". He certainly
struck a rather alien note. I did not wonder at John objecting
to his beard. It was one of the longest and blackest I have ever
seen. He wore gold-rimmed pince-nez, and had a curious
impassivity of feature. It struck me that he might look natural
on a stage, but was strangely out of place in real life. His
voice was rather deep and unctuous. He placed a wooden hand in
mine and said:
"This is a pleasure, Mr. Hastings." Then, turning to his wife:
"Emily dearest, I think that cushion is a little damp."
She beamed fondly on him, as he substituted another with every
demonstration of the tenderest care. Strange infatuation of an
otherwise sensible woman!
With the presence of Mr. Inglethorp, a sense of constraint and
veiled hostility seemed to settle down upon the company. Miss
Howard, in particular, took no pains to conceal her feelings.
Mrs. Inglethorp, however, seemed to notice nothing unusual. Her
volubility, which I remembered of old, had lost nothing in the
intervening years, and she poured out a steady flood of
conversation, mainly on the subject of the forthcoming bazaar
which she was organizing and which was to take place shortly.
Occasionally she referred to her husband over a question of days
or dates. His watchful and attentive manner never varied. From
the very first I took a firm and rooted dislike to him, and I
flatter myself that my first judgments are usually fairly shrewd.
Presently Mrs. Inglethorp turned to give some instructions about
letters to Evelyn Howard, and her husband addressed me in his
painstaking voice:
"Is soldiering your regular profession, Mr. Hastings?"
"No, before the war I was in Lloyd's."
"And you will return there after it is over?"
"Perhaps. Either that or a fresh start altogether."
Mary Cavendish leant forward.
"What would you really choose as a profession, if you could just
consult your inclination?"
"Well, that depends."
"No secret hobby?" she asked. "Tell me - you're drawn to
something? Every one is - usually something absurd."
"You'll laugh at me."
She smiled.
"Perhaps."
"Well, I've always had a secret hankering to be a detective!"
"The real thing - Scotland Yard? Or Sherlock Holmes?"
"Oh, Sherlock Holmes by all means. But really, seriously, I am
awfully drawn to it. I came across a man in Belgium once, a very
famous detective, and he quite inflamed me. He was a marvellous
little fellow. He used to say that all good detective work was a
mere matter of method. My system is based on his - though of
course I have progressed rather further. He was a funny little
man, a great dandy, but wonderfully clever."
"Like a good detective story myself," remarked Miss Howard.
"Lots of nonsense written, though. Criminal discovered in last
chapter. Every one dumbfounded. Real crime - you'd know at
once."
"There have been a great number of undiscovered crimes," I
argued.
"Don't mean the police, but the people that are right in it. The
family. You couldn't really hoodwink them. They'd know."
"Then," I said, much amused, "you think that if you were mixed up
in a crime, say a murder, you'd be able to spot the murderer
right off?"
"Of course I should. Mightn't be able to prove it to a pack of
lawyers. But I'm certain I'd know. I'd feel it in my fingertips
if he came near me."
"It might be a 'she,' " I suggested.
"Might. But murder's a violent crime. Associate it more with a
man."
"Not in a case of poisoning." Mrs. Cavendish's clear voice
startled me. "Dr. Bauerstein was saying yesterday that, owing to
the general ignorance of the more uncommon poisons among the
medical profession, there were probably countless cases of
poisoning quite unsuspected."
"Why, Mary, what a gruesome conversation!" cried Mrs. Inglethorp.
"It makes me feel as if a goose were walking over my grave. Oh,
there's Cynthia!"
A young girl in V. A. D. uniform ran lightly across the lawn.
"Why, Cynthia, you are late to-day. This is Mr. Hastings - Miss
Murdoch."
Cynthia Murdoch was a fresh-looking young creature, full of life
and vigour. She tossed off her little V. A. D. cap, and I
admired the great loose waves of her auburn hair, and the
smallness and whiteness of the hand she held out to claim her
tea. With dark eyes and eyelashes she would have been a beauty.
She flung herself down on the ground beside John, and as I handed
her a plate of sandwiches she smiled up at me.
"Sit down here on the grass, do. It's ever so much nicer."
I dropped down obediently.
"You work at Tadminster, don't you, Miss Murdoch?"
She nodded.
"For my sins."
"Do they bully you, then?" I asked, smiling.
"I should like to see them!" cried Cynthia with dignity.
"I have got a cousin who is nursing," I remarked. "And she is
terrified of 'Sisters'."
"I don't wonder. Sisters _are_, you know, Mr. Hastings. They
simp - ly _are_! You've no idea! But I'm not a nurse, thank heaven,
I work in the dispensary."
"How many people do you poison?" I asked, smiling.
Cynthia smiled too.
"Oh, hundreds!" she said.
"Cynthia," called Mrs. Inglethorp, "do you think you could write
a few notes for me?"
"Certainly, Aunt Emily."
She jumped up promptly, and something in her manner reminded me
that her position was a dependent one, and that Mrs. Inglethorp,
kind as she might be in the main, did not allow her to forget it.
My hostess turned to me.
"John will show you your room. Supper is at half-past seven. We
have given up late dinner for some time now. Lady Tadminster,
our Member's wife - she was the late Lord Abbotsbury's
daughter - does the same. She agrees with me that one must set an
example of economy. We are quite a war household; nothing is
wasted here - every scrap of waste paper, even, is saved and sent
away in sacks."
I expressed my appreciation, and John took me into the house and
up the broad staircase, which forked right and left half-way to
different wings of the building. My room was in the left wing,
and looked out over the park.
John left me, and a few minutes later I saw him from my window
walking slowly across the grass arm in arm with Cynthia Murdoch.
I heard Mrs. Inglethorp call "Cynthia" impatiently, and the girl
started and ran back to the house. At the same moment, a man
stepped out from the shadow of a tree and walked slowly in the
same direction. He looked about forty, very dark with a
melancholy clean-shaven face. Some violent emotion seemed to be
mastering him. He looked up at my window as he passed, and I
recognized him, though he had changed much in the fifteen years
that had elapsed since we last met. It was John's younger
brother, Lawrence Cavendish. I wondered what it was that had
brought that singular expression to his face.
Then I dismissed him from my mind, and returned to the
contemplation of my own affairs.
The evening passed pleasantly enough; and I dreamed that night of
that enigmatical woman, Mary Cavendish.
The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and I was full of the
anticipation of a delightful visit.
I did not see Mrs. Cavendish until lunch-time, when she
volunteered to take me for a walk, and we spent a charming
afternoon roaming in the woods, returning to the house about
five.
As we entered the large hall, John beckoned us both into the
smoking-room. I saw at once by his face that something
disturbing had occurred. We followed him in, and he shut the
door after us.
"Look here, Mary, there's the deuce of a mess. Evie's had a row
with Alfred Inglethorp, and she's off."
"Evie? Off?"
John nodded gloomily.
"Yes; you see she went to the mater, and - Oh, here's Evie
herself."
Miss Howard entered. Her lips were set grimly together, and she
carried a small suit-case. She looked excited and determined,
and slightly on the defensive.
"At any rate," she burst out, "I've spoken my mind!"
"My dear Evelyn," cried Mrs. Cavendish, "this can't be true!"
Miss Howard nodded grimly.
"True enough! Afraid I said some things to Emily she won't forget
or forgive in a hurry. Don't mind if they've only sunk in a bit.
Probably water off a duck's back, though. I said right out:
'You're an old woman, Emily, and there's no fool like an old
fool. The man's twenty years younger than you, and don't you
fool yourself as to what he married you for. Money! Well, don't
let him have too much of it. Farmer Raikes has got a very pretty
young wife. Just ask your Alfred how much time he spends over
there.' She was very angry. Natural! I went on, 'I'm going to
warn you, whether you like it or not. That man would as soon
murder you in your bed as look at you. He's a bad lot. You can
say what you like to me, but remember what I've told you. He's a
bad lot!' "
"What did she say?"
Miss Howard made an extremely expressive grimace.
" 'Darling Alfred' - 'dearest Alfred' - 'wicked calumnies'
- 'wicked lies' - 'wicked woman' - to accuse her 'dear husband'!
The sooner I left her house the better. So I'm off."
"But not now?"
"This minute!"
For a moment we sat and stared at her. Finally John Cavendish,
finding his persuasions of no avail, went off to look up the
trains. His wife followed him, murmuring something about
persuading Mrs. Inglethorp to think better of it.
As she left the room, Miss Howard's face changed. She leant
towards me eagerly.
"Mr. Hastings, you're honest. I can trust you?"
I was a little startled. She laid her hand on my arm, and sank
her voice to a whisper.
"Look after her, Mr. Hastings. My poor Emily. They're a lot of
sharks - all of them. Oh, I know what I'm talking about. There
isn't one of them that's not hard up and trying to get money out
of her. I've protected her as much as I could. Now I'm out of
the way, they'll impose upon her."
"Of course, Miss Howard," I said, "I'll do everything I can, but
I'm sure you're excited and overwrought."
She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger.
"Young man, trust me. I've lived in the world rather longer than
you have. All I ask you is to keep your eyes open. You'll see
what I mean."
The throb of the motor came through the open window, and Miss
Howard rose and moved to the door. John's voice sounded outside.
With her hand on the handle, she turned her head over her
shoulder, and beckoned to me.
"Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil - her husband!"
There was no time for more. Miss Howard was swallowed up in an
eager chorus of protests and good-byes. The Inglethorps did not
appear.
As the motor drove away, Mrs. Cavendish suddenly detached herself
from the group, and moved across the drive to the lawn to meet a
tall bearded man who had been evidently making for the house.
The colour rose in her cheeks as she held out her hand to him.
"Who is that?" I asked sharply, for instinctively I distrusted
the man.
"That's Dr. Bauerstein," said John shortly.
"And who is Dr. Bauerstein?"
"He's staying in the village doing a rest cure, after a bad
nervous breakdown. He's a London specialist; a very clever
man - one of the greatest living experts on poisons, I believe."
"And he's a great friend of Mary's," put in Cynthia, the
irrepressible.
John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject.
"Come for a stroll, Hastings. This has been a most rotten
business. She always had a rough tongue, but there is no
stauncher friend in England than Evelyn Howard."
He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to
the village through the woods which bordered one side of the
estate.
As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again, a
pretty young woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction
bowed and smiled.
"That's a pretty girl," I remarked appreciatively.
John's face hardened.
"That is Mrs. Raikes."
"The one that Miss Howard - - "
"Exactly," said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness.
I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that
vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a
vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside.
"Styles is really a glorious old place," I said to John.
He nodded rather gloomily.
"Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day - should be
mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will.
And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."
"Hard up, are you?"
"My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm at my wit's
end for money."
"Couldn't your brother help you?"
"Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever had, publishing
rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, we're an impecunious lot.
My mother's always been awfully good to us, I must say. That is,
up to now. Since her marriage, of course - - " he broke off,
frowning.
For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, something
indefinable had gone from the atmosphere. Her presence had spelt
security. Now that security was removed - and the air seemed rife
with suspicion. The sinister face of Dr. Bauerstein recurred to
me unpleasantly. A vague suspicion of every one and everything
filled my mind. Just for a moment I had a premonition of
approaching evil.
CHAPTER II.
THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY
I had arrived at Styles on the 5th of July. I come now to the
events of the 16th and 17th of that month. For the convenience
of the reader I will recapitulate the incidents of those days in
as exact a manner as possible. They were elicited subsequently
at the trial by a process of long and tedious cross-examinations.
I received a letter from Evelyn Howard a couple of days after her
departure, telling me she was working as a nurse at the big
hospital in Middlingham, a manufacturing town some fifteen miles
away, and begging me to let her know if Mrs. Inglethorp should
show any wish to be reconciled.
The only fly in the ointment of my peaceful days was Mrs.
Cavendish's extraordinary, and, for my part, unaccountable
preference for the society of Dr. Bauerstein. What she saw in
the man I cannot imagine, but she was always asking him up to the
house, and often went off for long expeditions with him. I must
confess that I was quite unable to see his attraction.
The 16th of July fell on a Monday. It was a day of turmoil. The
famous bazaar had taken place on Saturday, and an entertainment,
in connection with the same charity, at which Mrs. Inglethorp was
to recite a War poem, was to be held that night. We were all
busy during the morning arranging and decorating the Hall in the
village where it was to take place. We had a late luncheon and
spent the afternoon resting in the garden. I noticed that John's
manner was somewhat unusual. He seemed very excited and
restless.
After tea, Mrs. Inglethorp went to lie down to rest before her
efforts in the evening and I challenged Mary Cavendish to a
single at tennis.
About a quarter to seven, Mrs. Inglethorp called us that we
should be late as supper was early that night. We had rather a
scramble to get ready in time; and before the meal was over the
motor was waiting at the door.
The entertainment was a great success, Mrs. Inglethorp's
recitation receiving tremendous applause. There were also some
tableaux in which Cynthia took part. She did not return with us,
having been asked to a supper party, and to remain the night with
some friends who had been acting with her in the tableaux.
The following morning, Mrs. Inglethorp stayed in bed to
breakfast, as she was rather overtired; but she appeared in her
briskest mood about 12.30, and swept Lawrence and myself off to a
luncheon party.
"Such a charming invitation from Mrs. Rolleston. Lady
Tadminster's sister, you know. The Rollestons came over with the
Conqueror - one of our oldest families."
Mary had excused herself on the plea of an engagement with Dr.
Bauerstein.
We had a pleasant luncheon, and as we drove away Lawrence
suggested that we should return by Tadminster, which was barely a
mile out of our way, and pay a visit to Cynthia in her
dispensary. Mrs. Inglethorp replied that this was an excellent
idea, but as she had several letters to write she would drop us
there, and we could come back with Cynthia in the pony-trap.
We were detained under suspicion by the hospital porter, until
Cynthia appeared to vouch for us, looking very cool and sweet in
her long white overall. She took us up to her sanctum, and
introduced us to her fellow dispenser, a rather awe-inspiring
individual, whom Cynthia cheerily addressed as "Nibs."
"What a lot of bottles!" I exclaimed, as my eye travelled round
the small room. "Do you really know what's in them all?"
"Say something original," groaned Cynthia. "Every single person
who comes up here says that. We are really thinking of bestowing
a prize on the first individual who does _not_ say: 'What a lot of
bottles!' And I know the next thing you're going to say is: 'How
many people have you poisoned?' "
I pleaded guilty with a laugh.
"If you people only knew how fatally easy it is to poison some
one by mistake, you wouldn't joke about it. Come on, let's have
tea. We've got all sorts of secret stories in that cupboard.
No, Lawrence - that's the poison cupboard. The big
cupboard - that's right."
We had a very cheery tea, and assisted Cynthia to wash up
afterwards. We had just put away the last tea-spoon when a knock
came at the door. The countenances of Cynthia and Nibs were
suddenly petrified into a stern and forbidding expression.
"Come in," said Cynthia, in a sharp professional tone.
A young and rather scared looking nurse appeared with a bottle
which she proffered to Nibs, who waved her towards Cynthia with
the somewhat enigmatical remark:
"_I_'m not really here to-day."
Cynthia took the bottle and examined it with the severity of a
judge.
"This should have been sent up this morning."
"Sister is very sorry. She forgot."
"Sister should read the rules outside the door."
I gathered from the little nurse's expression that there was not
the least likelihood of her having the hardihood to retail this
message to the dreaded "Sister".
"So now it can't be done until to-morrow," finished Cynthia.
"Don't you think you could possibly let us have it to-night?"
"Well," said Cynthia graciously, "we are very busy, but if we
have time it shall be done."
The little nurse withdrew, and Cynthia promptly took a jar from
the shelf, refilled the bottle, and placed it on the table
outside the door.
I laughed.
"Discipline must be maintained?"
"Exactly. Come out on our little balcony. You can see all the
outside wards there."
I followed Cynthia and her friend and they pointed out the
different wards to me. Lawrence remained behind, but after a few
moments Cynthia called to him over her shoulder to come and join
us. Then she looked at her watch.
"Nothing more to do, Nibs?"
"No."
"All right. Then we can lock up and go."
I had seen Lawrence in quite a different light that afternoon.
Compared to John, he was an astoundingly difficult person to get
to know. He was the opposite of his brother in almost every
respect, being unusually shy and reserved. Yet he had a certain
charm of manner, and I fancied that, if one really knew him well,
one could have a deep affection for him. I had always fancied
that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that she
on her side was inclined to be shy of him. But they were both
gay enough this afternoon, and chatted together like a couple of
children.
As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some
stamps, so accordingly we pulled up at the post office.
As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just
entering. I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a
loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly.
"Mon ami Hastings!" he cried. "It is indeed mon ami Hastings!"
"Poirot!" I exclaimed.
I turned to the pony-trap.
"This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is
my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years."
"Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily. "But I had no
idea he was a friend of yours."
"Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously. "I know Mademoiselle
Cynthia. It is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that
I am here." Then, as I looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my
friend, she had kindly extended hospitality to seven of my
countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their native land. We
Belgians will always remember her with gratitude."
Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man. He was hardly
more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great
dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always
perched it a little on one side. His moustache was very stiff
and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible.
I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a
bullet wound. Yet this quaint dandyfied little man who, I was
sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in his time one of the
most celebrated members of the Belgian police. As a detective,
his flair had been extraordinary, and he had achieved triumphs by
unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day.
He pointed out to me the little house inhabited by him and his
fellow Belgians, and I promised to go and see him at an early
date. Then he raised his hat with a flourish to Cynthia, and we
drove away.
"He's a dear little man," said Cynthia. "I'd no idea you knew
him."
"You've been entertaining a celebrity unawares," I replied.
And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various
exploits and triumphs of Hercule Poirot.
We arrived back in a very cheerful mood. As we entered the hall,
Mrs. Inglethorp came out of her boudoir. She looked flushed and
upset.
"Oh, it's you," she said.
"Is there anything the matter, Aunt Emily?" asked Cynthia.
"Certainly not," said Mrs. Inglethorp sharply. "What should
there be?" Then catching sight of Dorcas, the parlourmaid, going
into the dining-room, she called to her to bring some stamps into
the boudoir.
"Yes, m'm." The old servant hesitated, then added diffidently:
"Don't you think, m'm, you'd better get to bed? You're looking
very tired."
"Perhaps you're right, Dorcas - yes - no - not now. I've some
letters I must finish by post-time. Have you lighted the fire in
my room as I told you?"
"Yes, m'm."
"Then I'll go to bed directly after supper."
She went into the boudoir again, and Cynthia stared after her.
"Goodness gracious! I wonder what's up?" she said to Lawrence.
He did not seem to have heard her, for without a word he turned
on his heel and went out of the house.
I suggested a quick game of tennis before supper and, Cynthia
agreeing, I ran upstairs to fetch my racquet.
Mrs. Cavendish was coming down the stairs. It may have been my
fancy, but she, too, was looking odd and disturbed.
"Had a good walk with Dr. Bauerstein?" I asked, trying to appear
as indifferent as I could.
"I didn't go," she replied abruptly. "Where is Mrs. Inglethorp?"
"In the boudoir."
Her hand clenched itself on the banisters, then she seemed to
nerve herself for some encounter, and went rapidly past me down
the stairs across the hall to the boudoir, the door of which she
shut behind her.
As I ran out to the tennis court a few moments later, I had to
pass the open boudoir window, and was unable to help overhearing
the following scrap of dialogue. Mary Cavendish was saying in
the voice of a woman desperately controlling herself:
"Then you won't show it to me?"
To which Mrs. Inglethorp replied:
"My dear Mary, it has nothing to do with that matter."
"Then show it to me."
"I tell you it is not what you imagine. It does not concern you
in the least."
To which Mary Cavendish replied, with a rising bitterness:
"Of course, I might have known you would shield him."
Cynthia was waiting for me, and greeted me eagerly with:
"I say! There's been the most awful row! I've got it all out of
Dorcas."
"What kind of a row?"
"Between Aunt Emily and _him_. I do hope she's found him out at
last!"
"Was Dorcas there, then?"
"Of course not. She 'happened to be near the door'. It was a
real old bust-up. I do wish I knew what it was all about."
I thought of Mrs. Raikes's gipsy face, and Evelyn Howard's
warnings, but wisely decided to hold my peace, whilst Cynthia
exhausted every possible hypothesis, and cheerfully hoped, "Aunt
Emily will send him away, and will never speak to him again."
I was anxious to get hold of John, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Evidently something very momentous had occurred that afternoon.
I tried to forget the few words I had overheard; but, do what I
would, I could not dismiss them altogether from my mind. What
was Mary Cavendish's concern in the matter?
Mr. Inglethorp was in the drawing-room when I came down to
supper. His face was impassive as ever, and the strange
unreality of the man struck me afresh.
Mrs. Inglethorp came down last. She still looked agitated, and
during the meal there was a somewhat constrained silence.
Inglethorp was unusually quiet. As a rule, he surrounded his
wife with little attentions, placing a cushion at her back, and
altogether playing the part of the devoted husband. Immediately
after supper, Mrs. Inglethorp retired to her boudoir again.
"Send my coffee in here, Mary," she called. "I've just five
minutes to catch the post."
Cynthia and I went and sat by the open window in the
drawing-room. Mary Cavendish brought our coffee to us. She
seemed excited.
"Do you young people want lights, or do you enjoy the twilight?"
she asked. "Will you take Mrs. Inglethorp her coffee, Cynthia? I
will pour it out."
"Do not trouble, Mary," said Inglethorp. "I will take it to
Emily." He poured it out, and went out of the room carrying it
carefully.
Lawrence followed him, and Mrs. Cavendish sat down by us.
We three sat for some time in silence. It was a glorious night,
hot and still. Mrs. Cavendish fanned herself gently with a palm
leaf.
"It's almost too hot," she murmured. "We shall have a
thunderstorm."
Alas, that these harmonious moments can never endure! My paradise
was rudely shattered by the sound of a well known, and heartily
disliked, voice in the hall.
"Dr. Bauerstein!" exclaimed Cynthia. "What a funny time to
come."
I glanced jealously at Mary Cavendish, but she seemed quite
undisturbed, the delicate pallor of her cheeks did not vary.
In a few moments, Alfred Inglethorp had ushered the doctor in,
the latter laughing, and protesting that he was in no fit state
for a drawing-room. In truth, he presented a sorry spectacle,
being literally plastered with mud.
"What have you been doing, doctor?" cried Mrs. Cavendish.
"I must make my apologies," said the doctor. "I did not really
mean to come in, but Mr. Inglethorp insisted."
"Well, Bauerstein, you are in a plight," said John, strolling in
from the hall. "Have some coffee, and tell us what you have been
up to."
"Thank you, I will." He laughed rather ruefully, as he described
how he had discovered a very rare species of fern in an
inaccessible place, and in his efforts to obtain it had lost his
footing, and slipped ignominiously into a neighbouring pond.
"The sun soon dried me off," he added, "but I'm afraid my
appearance is very disreputable."
At this juncture, Mrs. Inglethorp called to Cynthia from the
hall, and the girl ran out.
"Just carry up my despatch-case, will you, dear? I'm going to
bed."
The door into the hall was a wide one. I had risen when Cynthia
did, John was close by me. There were therefore three witnesses
who could swear that Mrs. Inglethorp was carrying her coffee, as
yet untasted, in her hand.
My evening was utterly and entirely spoilt by the presence of Dr.
Bauerstein. It seemed to me the man would never go. He rose at
last, however, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
"I'll walk down to the village with you," said Mr. Inglethorp.
"I must see our agent over those estate accounts." He turned to
John. "No one need sit up. I will take the latch-key."
CHAPTER III.
THE NIGHT OF THE TRAGEDY
To make this part of my story clear, I append the following plan
of the first floor of Styles. The servants' rooms are reached
through the door B. They have no communication with the right
wing, where the Inglethorps' rooms were situated.
It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by
Lawrence Cavendish. He had a candle in his hand, and the
agitation of his face told me at once that something was
seriously wrong.
"What's the matter?" I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to