The Mysterious Affair at Styles
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 than
once. I had often before noticed that, if anything excited him, his
eyes turned green like a cat’s. They were shining like emeralds now.
“My friend,” he broke out at last, “I have a little idea, a very
strange, and probably utterly impossible idea. And yet—it fits in.”
I shrugged my shoulders. I privately thought that Poirot was rather too
much given to these fantastic ideas. In this case, surely, the truth
was only 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 it
myself.”
Poirot did not appear to be listening to me.
“They have made one more discovery, _là-bas_,” he observed, jerking his
thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Styles. “Mr. Wells told me
as 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 Alfred
Inglethorp. 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 was
written on one of those printed will forms, and witnessed by two of the
servants—not Dorcas.”
“Did Mr. Inglethorp know of it?”
“He says not.”
“One might take that with a grain of salt,” I remarked sceptically.
“All these wills are very confusing. Tell me, how did those scribbled
words on the envelope help you to discover that a will was made
yesterday afternoon?”
Poirot smiled.
“_Mon ami_, have you ever, when writing a letter, been arrested by the
fact that you did not know how to spell a certain word?”
“Yes, often. I suppose everyone has.”
“Exactly. And have you not, in such a case, tried the word once or
twice on the edge of the blotting-paper, or a spare scrap of paper, to
see if it looked right? Well, that is what Mrs. Inglethorp did. You
will notice that the word ‘possessed’ is spelt first with one ‘s’ and
subsequently with two—correctly. To make sure, she had further tried it
in a sentence, thus: ‘I am possessed.’ Now, what did that tell me? It
told me that Mrs. Inglethorp had been writing the word ‘possessed’ that
afternoon, and, having the fragment of paper found in the grate fresh
in my mind, the possibility of a will—(a document almost certain to
contain that word)—occurred to me at once. This possibility was
confirmed by a further circumstance. In the general confusion, the
boudoir had not been swept that morning, and near the desk were several
traces of brown mould and earth. The weather had been perfectly fine
for some 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 had
been newly planted. The mould in the beds was exactly similar to that
on the floor of the boudoir, and also I learnt from you that they _had_
been planted yesterday afternoon. I was now sure that one, or possibly
both of the gardeners—for there were two sets of footprints in the
bed—had entered the boudoir, for if Mrs. Inglethorp had merely wished
to speak to them she would in all probability have stood at the window,
and they would not have come into the room at all. I was now quite
convinced that she had made a fresh will, and had called the two
gardeners in to witness her signature. Events proved that I was right
in my supposition.”
“That was very ingenious,” I could not help admitting. “I must confess
that the conclusions I drew from those few scribbled words were quite
erroneous.”
He smiled.
“You gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a good
servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most
likely.”
“Another point—how did you know that the key of the despatch-case had
been lost?”
“I did not know it. It was a guess that turned out to be correct. You
observed that it had a piece of twisted wire through the handle. That
suggested to me at once that it had possibly been wrenched off a flimsy
key-ring. Now, if it had been lost and recovered, Mrs. Inglethorp would
at once have replaced it on her bunch; but on her bunch I found what
was obviously the duplicate key, very new and bright, which led me to
the hypothesis that somebody else had inserted the original key in the
lock of 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 more
clearly.”
“On the contrary,” said Poirot quietly, “there are several points in
his favour.”
“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 to
my mind tells against him.”
“How is that?”
“Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisoned last
night, he would certainly have arranged to be away from the house. His
excuse was an obviously trumped up one. That leaves us two
possibilities: either he knew what was going to happen or he had a
reason 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 necessity
make him a murderer.”
I shook my head, unconvinced.
“We do not agree, eh?” said Poirot. “Well, let us leave it. Time will
show 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
were bolted 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 have
told us that—yet the presence of the candle grease on the floor, and
the destruction of the will, prove that during the night someone
entered the room. You agree so far?”
“Perfectly. Put with admirable clearness. Proceed.”
“Well,” I said, encouraged, “as the person who entered did not do so by
the window, nor by miraculous means, it follows that the door must have
been opened from inside by Mrs. Inglethorp herself. That strengthens
the conviction that the person in question was her husband. She would
naturally open the door to her own husband.”
Poirot shook his head.
“Why should she? She had bolted the door leading into his room—a most
unusual proceeding on her part—she had had a most violent quarrel with
him 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 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