The Mysterious Affair at Styles
eyelids, 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, and
they’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 her
shoulder 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 mother
died from heart seizure.”
“More fool, Lawrence!” retorted Miss Howard. “Of course Alfred
Inglethorp murdered poor Emily—as I always told you he would.”
“My dear Evie, don’t shout so. Whatever we may think or suspect, it is
better to say as little as possible for the present. The inquest isn’t
until Friday.”
“Not until fiddlesticks!” The snort Miss Howard gave was truly
magnificent. “You’re all off your heads. The man will be out of the
country by then. If he’s any sense, he won’t stay here tamely and wait
to be hanged.”
John Cavendish looked at her helplessly.
“I know what it is,” she accused him, “you’ve been listening to the
doctors. Never should. What do they know? Nothing at all—or just enough
to 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 ever
seen. Heart seizure! Sort of thing he would say. Anyone with any sense
could see at once that her husband had poisoned her. I always said he’d
murder her in her bed, poor soul. Now he’s done it. And all you can do
is 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
by the scruff of his neck.”
“Well, you might do something. Find out how he did it. He’s a crafty
beggar. 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 Miss
Howard and Alfred Inglethorp under the same roof, and keep the peace
between them, was likely to prove a Herculean task, and I did not envy
John. I could see by the expression of his face that he fully
appreciated the difficulty of the position. For the moment, he sought
refuge in retreat, and left the room precipitately.
Dorcas brought in fresh tea. As she left the room, Poirot came over
from the 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 in
good old times.”
“We are at one then,” said Poirot, “for I, too, want to hang the
criminal.”
“Alfred Inglethorp?”
“Him, or another.”
“No question of another. Poor Emily was never murdered until _he_ came
along. I don’t say she wasn’t surrounded by sharks—she was. But it was
only her purse they were after. Her life was safe enough. But along
comes 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
hang him 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 to
me. I will tell you why. Because, in all this house of mourning, yours
are the only eyes that have wept.”
Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into the gruffness of her
voice.
“If you mean that I was fond of her—yes, I was. You know, Emily was a
selfish old woman in her way. She was very generous, but she always
wanted a return. She never let people forget what she had done for
them—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 different
footing. I took my stand from the first. ‘So many pounds a year I’m
worth to you. Well and good. But not a penny piece besides—not a pair
of gloves, nor a theatre ticket.’ She didn’t understand—was very
offended sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasn’t that—but I
couldn’t explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, out of the
whole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to be fond of
her. I watched over her. I guarded her from the lot of them, and then a
glib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh! all my years of devotion
go for nothing.”
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
“I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It is most
natural. You think that we are lukewarm—that we lack fire and
energy—but trust me, it is not so.”
John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both to come up
to Mrs. Inglethorp’s room, as he and Mr. Wells had finished looking
through the desk in the boudoir.
As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining-room door, and
lowered 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
too keen on meeting her.”
“You’ve got the keys still, haven’t you, Poirot?” I asked, as we
reached the door of the locked room.
Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it, and we all passed in.
The lawyer went straight to the desk, and John followed him.
“My mother kept most of her important papers in this despatch-case, I
believe,” 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, dumbfounded. “And I—who have both
the keys in my pocket!” He flung himself upon the case. Suddenly he
stiffened. “_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 was
here an hour ago. As to the door being locked, it is a very ordinary
lock. Probably any other of the doorkeys in this passage would fit it.”
We stared at one another blankly. Poirot had walked over to the
mantelpiece. He was outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands, which from
long force of habit were mechanically straightening the spill vases on
the mantelpiece, were shaking violently.
“See here, it was like this,” he said at last. “There was something in
that case—some piece of evidence, slight in itself perhaps, but still
enough of a clue to connect the murderer with the crime. It was vital
to him that it should be destroyed before it was discovered and its
significance 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 have
been something of great importance.”
“But what was it?”
“Ah!” cried Poirot, with a gesture of anger. “That, I do not know! A
document of some kind, without doubt, possibly the scrap of paper
Dorcas saw in her hand yesterday afternoon. And I—” his anger burst
forth freely—“miserable animal that I am! I guessed nothing! I have
behaved like an imbecile! I should never have left that case here. I
should have carried it away with me. Ah, triple pig! And now it is
gone. It is destroyed—but is it destroyed? Is there not yet a chance—we
must leave no stone unturned—”
He rushed like a madman from the room, and I followed him as soon as I
had sufficiently recovered my wits. But, by the time I had reached the
top of the stairs, he was out of sight.
Mary Cavendish was standing where the staircase branched, staring down
into the hall in the direction in which he had disappeared.
“What has happened to your extraordinary little friend, Mr. Hastings?
He has just rushed past me like a mad bull.”
“He’s rather upset about something,” I remarked feebly. I really did
not know how much Poirot would wish me to disclose. As I saw a faint
smile gather on Mrs. Cavendish’s expressive mouth, I endeavoured to try
and turn 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 good
flare up. It would clear the air. At present we are all thinking so
much, 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
great surprise:
“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
all about them the next.”
I don’t know what impelled me, but I was nettled, and I said foolishly
and 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
impression of a steel curtain coming down and blotting out the real
woman. Without a word, she turned and went swiftly up the stairs,
whilst I stood like an idiot gaping after her.
I was recalled to other matters by a frightful row going on below. I
could hear Poirot shouting and expounding. I was vexed to think that my
diplomacy had been in vain. The little man appeared to be taking the
whole house into his confidence, a proceeding of which I, for one,
doubted the wisdom. Once again I could not help regretting that my
friend was so prone to lose his head in moments of excitement. I
stepped briskly down the stairs. The sight of me calmed Poirot almost
immediately. I drew him aside.
“My dear fellow,” I said, “is this wise? Surely you don’t want the
whole house to know of this occurrence? You are actually playing into
the criminal’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 I
still 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 open
window in the drawing-room. Cynthia Murdoch was just coming in, and
Poirot 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?”