The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie (e reading malayalam books .txt) 📗

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 door into the passage when she went to bed, and have got up later, towards morning, 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 another feature, what do you make of the scrap of conversation you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law?”

“I had forgotten that,” I said thoughtfully. “That is as enigmatical as ever. It seems incredible that a woman like Mrs. Cavendish, proud and reticent to the last degree, should interfere so violently in what was certainly not her affair.”

“Precisely. It was an astonishing thing for a woman of her breeding to do.”

“It is certainly curious,” I agreed. “Still, it is unimportant, and need not be taken into account.”

A groan burst from Poirot.

“What have I always told you? Everything must be taken into account. If the 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 his own room. He offered me one of the tiny Russian cigarettes he himself occasionally smoked. I was amused to notice that he stowed away the used matches most carefully in a little china pot. My momentary annoyance vanished.

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

Suddenly my attention was arrested by a weedy looking young man rushing down the street at a great pace. It was the expression on his face that was 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 is coming here.”

The young man came to a halt before Leastways Cottage, and, after hesitating 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 opened the door. Mr. Mace began at once.

“Oh, Mr. Poirot, I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I heard that you’d just 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 his agitation was too much for him. He clutched Poirot by the arm, and sank his voice to a whisper: “Just tell me this, Mr. Poirot, it isn’t—it isn’t strychnine, is it?”

I hardly heard what Poirot replied. Something evidently of a non-committal nature. The young man departed, and as he closed the door Poirot’s eyes met mine.

“Yes,” he said, nodding gravely. “He will have evidence to give at the inquest.”

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

“Not now, not now, mon ami. I have need of reflection. My mind is in some disorder—which is not well.”

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

“It is well. The bad moment has passed. Now all is arranged and classified. One must never permit confusion. The case is not clear yet—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 very important.”

“But it was a glorious day!” I interrupted. “Poirot, you’re pulling my leg!”

“Not at all. The thermometer registered 80 degrees in the shade. Do not forget 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 peculiar clothes, 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 Murder against Alfred Inglethorp. What becomes of your theories, then?”

“They would not be shaken because twelve stupid men had happened to make a mistake! But that will not occur. For one thing, a country jury is not anxious to take responsibility upon itself, and Mr. Inglethorp stands practically 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 and amusement. He was so tremendously sure of himself. As though he read my thoughts, he nodded gently.

“Oh, yes, mon ami, I would do what I say.” He got up and laid his hand on my shoulder. His physiognomy underwent a complete change. Tears came 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 was very 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 let Alfred Inglethorp, her husband, be arrested now—when a word from me could save him!”

 

CHAPTER VI.

THE INQUEST

In the interval before the inquest, Poirot was unfailing in his activity. Twice he was closeted with Mr. Wells. He also took long walks into the country. I rather resented his not taking me into his confidence, the more so as I could not in the least guess what he was driving at.

It occurred to me that he might have been making inquiries at Raikes’s farm; so, finding him out when I called at Leastways Cottage on Wednesday evening, I walked over there by the fields, hoping to meet him. But there was no sign of him, and I hesitated to go right up to the farm itself. As I walked away, I met an aged rustic, who leered at me cunningly.

“You’m from the Hall, bain’t you?” he asked.

“Yes. I’m looking for a friend of mine whom I thought might have walked this way.”

“A little chap? As waves his hands when he talks? One of them Belgies from the village?”

“Yes,” I said eagerly. “He has been here, then?”

“Oh, ay, he’s been here, right enough. More’n once too. Friend of yours, is he? Ah, you gentlemen from the Hall—you’n a pretty lot!” And he leered more jocosely than ever.

“Why, do the gentlemen from the Hall come here often?” I asked, as carelessly as I could.

He winked at me knowingly.

“One does, mister. Naming no names, mind. And a very liberal gentleman too! Oh, thank you, sir, I’m sure.”

I walked on sharply. Evelyn Howard had been right then, and I experienced a sharp twinge of disgust, as I thought of Alfred Inglethorp’s liberality with another woman’s money. Had that piquant gipsy face been at the bottom of the crime, or was it the baser mainspring of money? Probably a judicious mixture of both.

On one point, Poirot seemed to have a curious obsession. He once or twice observed to me that he thought Dorcas must have made an error in fixing the time of the quarrel. He suggested to her repeatedly that it was 4.30, and not 4 o’clock when she had heard the voices.

But Dorcas was unshaken. Quite an hour, or even more, had elapsed between the time when she had heard the voices and 5 o’clock, when she had taken tea to her mistress.

The inquest was held on Friday at the Stylites Arms in the village. Poirot and I sat together, not being required to give evidence.

The preliminaries were gone through. The jury viewed the body, and John Cavendish gave evidence of identification.

Further questioned, he described his awakening in the early hours of the morning, and the circumstances of his mother’s death.

The medical evidence was next taken. There was a breathless hush, and every eye was fixed on the famous London specialist, who was known to be one of the greatest authorities of the day on the subject of toxicology.

In a few brief words, he summed up the result of the postmortem. Shorn of its medical phraseology and technicalities, it amounted to the fact that Mrs. Inglethorp had met her death as the result of strychnine poisoning. Judging from the quantity recovered, she must have taken not less than three-quarters of a grain of strychnine, but probably one grain or slightly over.

“Is it possible that she could have swallowed the poison by accident?” asked the Coroner.

“I should consider it very unlikely. Strychnine is not used for domestic purposes, as some poisons are, and there are restrictions placed on its sale.”

“Does anything in your examination lead you to determine how the poison was administered?”

“No.”

“You arrived at Styles before Dr. Wilkins, I believe?”

“That is so. The motor met me just outside the lodge gates, and I hurried there as fast as I could.”

“Will you relate to us exactly what happened next?”

“I entered Mrs. Inglethorp’s room. She was at that moment in a typical tetanic convulsion. She turned towards me, and gasped out: ‘Alfred—Alfred–-‘ “

“Could the strychnine have been administered in Mrs. Inglethorp’s after-dinner coffee which was taken to her by her husband?”

“Possibly, but strychnine is a fairly rapid drug in its action. The symptoms appear from one to two hours after it has been swallowed. It is retarded under certain conditions, none of which, however, appear to have been present in this case. I presume Mrs. Inglethorp took the coffee after dinner about eight o’clock, whereas the symptoms did not manifest themselves until the early hours of the morning, which, on the face of it, points to the drug having been taken much later in the evening.”

“Mrs. Inglethorp was in the habit of drinking a cup of coco in the middle of the night. Could the strychnine have been administered in that?”

“No, I myself took a sample of the coco remaining in the saucepan and had it analysed. There was no strychnine present.”

I heard Poirot chuckle softly beside me.

“How did you know?” I whispered.

“Listen.”

“I should say”—the doctor was continuing—“that I would have been considerably surprised at any other result.”

“Why?”

“Simply because strychnine has an unusually bitter taste. It can be detected in a solution of 1 in 70,000, and can only be disguised by some strongly flavoured substance. Coco would be quite powerless to mask it.”

One of the jury wanted to know if the same objection applied to coffee.

“No. Coffee has a bitter taste of its own which would probably cover the taste of strychnine.”

“Then you consider it more likely that the drug was administered in the coffee, but that for some unknown reason its action was delayed.”

“Yes, but, the cup being completely smashed, there is no possibility of analyzing its contents.”

This concluded Dr. Bauerstein’s evidence. Dr. Wilkins corroborated it on all points. Sounded as to the possibility of suicide, he repudiated it utterly. The deceased, he said, suffered from a weak heart, but otherwise enjoyed perfect health, and was of a cheerful and well-balanced disposition. She would be one of the last people to take her own life.

Lawrence Cavendish