The Mysterious Affair at Styles
“Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here
on Tuesday night—the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see?
That alters everything—everything!”
I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he
mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to
himself: “Yes, that alters everything—everything.”
Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision.
“_Allons!_” he said. “We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?”
John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him.
“Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in Tadminster. A new
clue. May I take your motor?”
“Why, of course. Do you mean at once?”
“If you please.”
John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In another ten minutes,
we were racing down the park and along the high road to Tadminster.
“Now, Poirot,” I remarked resignedly, “perhaps you will tell me what
all this is about?”
“Well, _mon ami_, a good deal you can guess for yourself. Of course you
realize that, now Mr. Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is
greatly changed. We are face to face with an entirely new problem. We
know now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have
cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have
ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs.
Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr.
Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement
that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of
that at the inquest—but now it has a very different significance. We
must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually,
or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your
account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not
go near the coffee—Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia.”
“Yes, that is so.” I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart.
Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion.
“In clearing Alfred Inglethorp,” continued Poirot, “I have been obliged
to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought
to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will
be doubly careful. Yes—doubly careful.” He turned to me abruptly. “Tell
me, Hastings, you yourself—have you no suspicions of anybody?”
I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in
itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had
rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.
“You couldn’t call it a suspicion,” I murmured. “It’s so utterly
foolish.”
“Come now,” urged Poirot encouragingly. “Do not fear. Speak your mind.
You should always pay attention to your instincts.”
“Well then,” I blurted out, “it’s absurd—but I suspect Miss Howard of
not telling all she knows!”
“Miss Howard?”
“Yes—you’ll laugh at me——”
“Not at all. Why should I?”
“I can’t help feeling,” I continued blunderingly; “that we’ve rather
left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her
having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen
miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively
that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?”
“Yes, my friend,” said Poirot unexpectedly, “we can. One of my first
actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working.”
“Well?”
“Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday,
and that—a convoy coming in unexpectedly—she had kindly offered to
remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That
disposes of that.”
“Oh!” I said, rather nonplussed. “Really,” I continued, “it’s her
extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off
suspecting her. I can’t help feeling she’d do anything against him. And
I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the
will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier
one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him.”
“You consider her vehemence unnatural?”
“Y—es. She is so very violent. I wondered really whether she is quite
sane on that point.”
Poirot shook his head energetically.
“No, no, you are on a wrong tack there. There is nothing weak-minded or
degenerate about Miss Howard. She is an excellent specimen of
well-balanced English beef and brawn. She is sanity itself.”
“Yet her hatred of Inglethorp seems almost a mania. My idea was—a very
ridiculous one, no doubt—that she had intended to poison him—and that,
in some way, Mrs. Inglethorp got hold of it by mistake. But I don’t at
all see how it could have been done. The whole thing is absurd and
ridiculous to the last degree.”
“Still you are right in one thing. It is always wise to suspect
everybody until you can prove logically, and to your own satisfaction,
that they are innocent. Now, what reasons are there against Miss
Howard’s having deliberately poisoned Mrs. Inglethorp?”
“Why, she was devoted to her!” I exclaimed.
“Tcha! Tcha!” cried Poirot irritably. “You argue like a child. If Miss
Howard were capable of poisoning the old lady, she would be quite
equally capable of simulating devotion. No, we must look elsewhere. You
are perfectly correct in your assumption that her vehemence against
Alfred Inglethorp is too violent to be natural; but you are quite wrong
in the deduction you draw from it. I have drawn my own deductions,
which I believe to be correct, but I will not speak of them at
present.” He paused a minute, then went on. “Now, to my way of
thinking, there is one insuperable objection to Miss Howard’s being the
murderess.”
“And that is?”
“That in no possible way could Mrs. Inglethorp’s death benefit Miss
Howard. Now there is no murder without a motive.”
I reflected.
“Could not Mrs. Inglethorp have made a will in her favour?”
Poirot shook his head.
“But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?”
Poirot smiled.
“That was for a reason. I did not want to mention the name of the
person who was actually in my mind. Miss Howard occupied very much the
same position, so I used her name instead.”
“Still, Mrs. Inglethorp might have done so. Why, that will, made on the
afternoon of her death may——”
But Poirot’s shake of the head was so energetic that I stopped.
“No, my friend. I have certain little ideas of my own about that will.
But I can tell you this much—it was not in Miss Howard’s favour.”
I accepted his assurance, though I did not really see how he could be
so positive about the matter.
“Well,” I said, with a sigh, “we will acquit Miss Howard, then. It is
partly your fault that I ever came to suspect her. It was what you said
about her evidence at the inquest that set me off.”
Poirot looked puzzled.
“What did I say about her evidence at the inquest?”
“Don’t you remember? When I cited her and John Cavendish as being above
suspicion?”
“Oh—ah—yes.” He seemed a little confused, but recovered himself. “By
the way, Hastings, there is something I want you to do for me.”
“Certainly. What is it?”
“Next time you happen to be alone with Lawrence Cavendish, I want you
to say this to him. ‘I have a message for you, from Poirot. He says:
“Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace!”’ Nothing more.
Nothing less.”
“‘Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.’ Is that
right?” I asked, much mystified.
“Excellent.”
“But what does it mean?”
“Ah, that I will leave you to find out. You have access to the facts.
Just say that to him, and see what he says.”
“Very well—but it’s all extremely mysterious.”
We were running into Tadminster now, and Poirot directed the car to the
“Analytical Chemist.”
Poirot hopped down briskly, and went inside. In a few minutes he was
back again.
“There,” he said. “That is all my business.”
“What were you doing there?” I asked, in lively curiosity.
“I left something to be analysed.”
“Yes, but what?”
“The sample of cocoa I took from the saucepan in the bedroom.”
“But that has already been tested!” I cried, stupefied. “Dr. Bauerstein
had it tested, and you yourself laughed at the possibility of there
being strychnine in it.”
“I know Dr. Bauerstein had it tested,” replied Poirot quietly.
“Well, then?”
“Well, I have a fancy for having it analysed again, that is all.”
And not another word on the subject could I drag out of him.
This proceeding of Poirot’s, in respect of the cocoa, puzzled me
intensely. I could see neither rhyme nor reason in it. However, my
confidence in him, which at one time had rather waned, was fully
restored since his belief in Alfred Inglethorp’s innocence had been so
triumphantly vindicated.
The funeral of Mrs. Inglethorp took place the following day, and on
Monday, as I came down to a late breakfast, John drew me aside, and
informed me that Mr. Inglethorp was leaving that morning, to take up
his quarters at the Stylites Arms until he should have completed his
plans.
“And really it’s a great relief to think he’s going, Hastings,”
continued my honest friend. “It was bad enough before, when we thought
he’d done it, but I’m hanged if it isn’t worse now, when we all feel
guilty for having been so down on the fellow. The fact is, we’ve
treated him abominably. Of course, things did look black against him. I
don’t see how anyone could blame us for jumping to the conclusions we
did. Still, there it is, we were in the wrong, and now there’s a
beastly feeling that one ought to make amends; which is difficult, when
one doesn’t like the fellow a bit better than one did before. The whole
thing’s damned awkward! And I’m thankful he’s had the tact to take
himself off. It’s a good thing Styles wasn’t the mater’s to leave to
him. Couldn’t bear to think of the fellow lording it here. He’s welcome
to her money.”
“You’ll be able to keep up the place all right?” I asked.
“Oh, yes. There are the death duties, of course, but half my father’s
money goes with the place, and Lawrence will stay with us for the
present, so there is his share as well. We shall be pinched at first,
of course, because, as I once told you, I am in a bit of a hole
financially myself. Still, the Johnnies will wait now.”
In the general relief at Inglethorp’s approaching departure, we had the
most genial breakfast we had experienced since the tragedy. Cynthia,
whose young spirits were naturally buoyant, was looking quite her
pretty self again, and we all, with the exception of Lawrence, who
seemed unalterably gloomy and nervous, were quietly cheerful, at the
opening of a new and hopeful future.
The papers, of course, had been full of the tragedy. Glaring headlines,
sandwiched biographies of every member of the household, subtle
innuendoes, the usual familiar tag about the police having a clue.
Nothing was spared us. It was a slack time. The war was momentarily
inactive, and the newspapers seized with avidity on this crime in
fashionable life: “The Mysterious Affair at Styles” was the topic of
the moment.
Naturally it was very annoying for the Cavendishes. The house was
constantly besieged by reporters, who were consistently denied
admission, but who continued to haunt the village and the grounds,
where they lay in wait with cameras, for any unwary members of the
household. We all lived in a blast of publicity. The Scotland Yard men
came and went, examining, questioning, lynx-eyed and reserved of
tongue. Towards what end they were working, we did not know. Had they
any clue, or would the whole thing remain in the category of
undiscovered crimes?
After breakfast, Dorcas came up to me rather mysteriously, and asked if
she might have a few words with me.
“Certainly. What is it, Dorcas?”
“Well, it’s just this, sir. You’ll be seeing the Belgian gentleman