The Mysterious Affair at Styles
light increased. Poirot’s mysterious doings, his hints—they all fitted
in. Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, and
what a relief for us all.
“No, John,” I said, “it isn’t one of us. How could it be?”
“I know, but, still, who else is there?”
“Can’t you guess?”
“No.”
I looked cautiously round, and lowered my voice.
“Dr. Bauerstein!” I whispered.
“Impossible!”
“Not at all.”
“But what earthly interest could he have in my mother’s death?”
“That I don’t see,” I confessed, “but I’ll tell you this: Poirot thinks
so.”
“Poirot? Does he? How do you know?”
I told him of Poirot’s intense excitement on hearing that Dr.
Bauerstein had been at Styles on the fatal night, and added:
“He said twice: ‘That alters everything.’ And I’ve been thinking. You
know Inglethorp said he had put down the coffee in the hall? Well, it
was just then that Bauerstein arrived. Isn’t it possible that, as
Inglethorp brought him through the hall, the doctor dropped something
into the coffee in passing?”
“H’m,” said John. “It would have been very risky.”
“Yes, but it was possible.”
“And then, how could he know it was her coffee? No, old fellow, I don’t
think that will wash.”
But I had remembered something else.
“You’re quite right. That wasn’t how it was done. Listen.” And I then
told him of the cocoa sample which Poirot had taken to be analysed.
John interrupted just as I had done.
“But, look here, Bauerstein had had it analysed already?”
“Yes, yes, that’s the point. I didn’t see it either until now. Don’t
you understand? Bauerstein had it analysed—that’s just it! If
Bauerstein’s the murderer, nothing could be simpler than for him to
substitute some ordinary cocoa for his sample, and send that to be
tested. And of course they would find no strychnine! But no one would
dream of suspecting Bauerstein, or think of taking another
sample—except Poirot,” I added, with belated recognition.
“Yes, but what about the bitter taste that cocoa won’t disguise?”
“Well, we’ve only his word for that. And there are other possibilities.
He’s admittedly one of the world’s greatest toxicologists——”
“One of the world’s greatest what? Say it again.”
“He knows more about poisons than almost anybody,” I explained. “Well,
my idea is, that perhaps he’s found some way of making strychnine
tasteless. Or it may not have been strychnine at all, but some obscure
drug no one has ever heard of, which produces much the same symptoms.”
“H’m, yes, that might be,” said John. “But look here, how could he have
got at the cocoa? That wasn’t downstairs?”
“No, it wasn’t,” I admitted reluctantly.
And then, suddenly, a dreadful possibility flashed through my mind. I
hoped and prayed it would not occur to John also. I glanced sideways at
him. He was frowning perplexedly, and I drew a deep breath of relief,
for the terrible thought that had flashed across my mind was this: that
Dr. Bauerstein might have had an accomplice.
Yet surely it could not be! Surely no woman as beautiful as Mary
Cavendish could be a murderess. Yet beautiful women had been known to
poison.
And suddenly I remembered that first conversation at tea on the day of
my arrival, and the gleam in her eyes as she had said that poison was a
woman’s weapon. How agitated she had been on that fatal Tuesday
evening! Had Mrs. Inglethorp discovered something between her and
Bauerstein, and threatened to tell her husband? Was it to stop that
denunciation that the crime had been committed?
Then I remembered that enigmatical conversation between Poirot and
Evelyn Howard. Was this what they had meant? Was this the monstrous
possibility that Evelyn had tried not to believe?
Yes, it all fitted in.
No wonder Miss Howard had suggested “hushing it up.” Now I understood
that unfinished sentence of hers: “Emily herself——” And in my heart I
agreed with her. Would not Mrs. Inglethorp have preferred to go
unavenged rather than have such terrible dishonour fall upon the name
of Cavendish.
“There’s another thing,” said John suddenly, and the unexpected sound
of his voice made me start guiltily. “Something which makes me doubt if
what you say can be true.”
“What’s that?” I asked, thankful that he had gone away from the subject
of how the poison could have been introduced into the cocoa.
“Why, the fact that Bauerstein demanded a post-mortem. He needn’t have
done so. Little Wilkins would have been quite content to let it go at
heart disease.”
“Yes,” I said doubtfully. “But we don’t know. Perhaps he thought it
safer in the long run. Someone might have talked afterwards. Then the
Home Office might have ordered exhumation. The whole thing would have
come out, then, and he would have been in an awkward position, for no
one would have believed that a man of his reputation could have been
deceived into calling it heart disease.”
“Yes, that’s possible,” admitted John. “Still,” he added, “I’m blest if
I can see what his motive could have been.”
I trembled.
“Look here,” I said, “I may be altogether wrong. And, remember, all
this is in confidence.”
“Oh, of course—that goes without saying.”
We had walked, as we talked, and now we passed through the little gate
into the garden. Voices rose near at hand, for tea was spread out under
the sycamore-tree, as it had been on the day of my arrival.
Cynthia was back from the hospital, and I placed my chair beside her,
and told her of Poirot’s wish to visit the dispensary.
“Of course! I’d love him to see it. He’d better come to tea there one
day. I must fix it up with him. He’s such a dear little man! But he
_is_ funny. He made me take the brooch out of my tie the other day, and
put it in again, because he said it wasn’t straight.”
I laughed.
“It’s quite a mania with him.”
“Yes, isn’t it?”
We were silent for a minute or two, and then, glancing in the direction
of Mary Cavendish, and dropping her voice, Cynthia said:
“Mr. Hastings.”
“Yes?”
“After tea, I want to talk to you.”
Her glance at Mary had set me thinking. I fancied that between these
two there existed very little sympathy. For the first time, it occurred
to me to wonder about the girl’s future. Mrs. Inglethorp had made no
provisions of any kind for her, but I imagined that John and Mary would
probably insist on her making her home with them—at any rate until the
end of the war. John, I knew, was very fond of her, and would be sorry
to let her go.
John, who had gone into the house, now reappeared. His good-natured
face wore an unaccustomed frown of anger.
“Confound those detectives! I can’t think what they’re after! They’ve
been in every room in the house—turning things inside out, and upside
down. It really is too bad! I suppose they took advantage of our all
being out. I shall go for that fellow Japp, when I next see him!”
“Lot of Paul Prys,” grunted Miss Howard.
Lawrence opined that they had to make a show of doing something.
Mary Cavendish said nothing.
After tea, I invited Cynthia to come for a walk, and we sauntered off
into the woods together.
“Well?” I inquired, as soon as we were protected from prying eyes by
the leafy screen.
With a sigh, Cynthia flung herself down, and tossed off her hat. The
sunlight, piercing through the branches, turned the auburn of her hair
to quivering gold.
“Mr. Hastings—you are always so kind, and you know such a lot.”
It struck me at this moment that Cynthia was really a very charming
girl! Much more charming than Mary, who never said things of that kind.
“Well?” I asked benignantly, as she hesitated.
“I want to ask your advice. What shall I do?”
“Do?”
“Yes. You see, Aunt Emily always told me I should be provided for. I
suppose she forgot, or didn’t think she was likely to die—anyway, I am
_not_ provided for! And I don’t know what to do. Do you think I ought
to go away from here at once?”
“Good heavens, no! They don’t want to part with you, I’m sure.”
Cynthia hesitated a moment, plucking up the grass with her tiny hands.
Then she said: “Mrs. Cavendish does. She hates me.”
“Hates you?” I cried, astonished.
Cynthia nodded.
“Yes. I don’t know why, but she can’t bear me; and _he_ can’t, either.”
“There I know you’re wrong,” I said warmly. “On the contrary, John is
very fond of you.”
“Oh, yes—_John_. I meant Lawrence. Not, of course, that I care whether
Lawrence hates me or not. Still, it’s rather horrid when no one loves
you, isn’t it?”
“But they do, Cynthia dear,” I said earnestly. “I’m sure you are
mistaken. Look, there is John—and Miss Howard——”
Cynthia nodded rather gloomily. “Yes, John likes me, I think, and of
course Evie, for all her gruff ways, wouldn’t be unkind to a fly. But
Lawrence never speaks to me if he can help it, and Mary can hardly
bring herself to be civil to me. She wants Evie to stay on, is begging
her to, but she doesn’t want me, and—and—I don’t know what to do.”
Suddenly the poor child burst out crying.
I don’t know what possessed me. Her beauty, perhaps, as she sat there,
with the sunlight glinting down on her head; perhaps the sense of
relief at encountering someone who so obviously could have no
connection with the tragedy; perhaps honest pity for her youth and
loneliness. Anyway, I leant forward, and taking her little hand, I said
awkwardly:
“Marry me, Cynthia.”
Unwittingly, I had hit upon a sovereign remedy for her tears. She sat
up at once, drew her hand away, and said, with some asperity:
“Don’t be silly!”
I was a little annoyed.
“I’m not being silly. I am asking you to do me the honour of becoming
my wife.”
To my intense surprise, Cynthia burst out laughing, and called me a
“funny dear.”
“It’s perfectly sweet of you,” she said, “but you know you don’t want
to!”
“Yes, I do. I’ve got——”
“Never mind what you’ve got. You don’t really want to—and I don’t
either.”
“Well, of course, that settles it,” I said stiffly. “But I don’t see
anything to laugh at. There’s nothing funny about a proposal.”
“No, indeed,” said Cynthia. “Somebody might accept you next time.
Good-bye, you’ve cheered me up _very_ much.”
And, with a final uncontrollable burst of merriment, she vanished
through the trees.
Thinking over the interview, it struck me as being profoundly
unsatisfactory.
It occurred to me suddenly that I would go down to the village, and
look up Bauerstein. Somebody ought to be keeping an eye on the fellow.
At the same time, it would be wise to allay any suspicions he might
have as to his being suspected. I remembered how Poirot had relied on
my diplomacy. Accordingly, I went to the little house with the
“Apartments” card inserted in the window, where I knew he lodged, and
tapped on the door.
An old woman came and opened it.
“Good afternoon,” I said pleasantly. “Is Dr. Bauerstein in?”
She stared at me.
“Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“About him.”
“What about him?”
“He’s took.”
“Took? Dead?”
“No, took by the perlice.”
“By the police!” I gasped. “Do you mean they’ve arrested him?”
“Yes, that’s it, and——”
I waited to hear no more, but tore up the village to find Poirot.
CHAPTER X.
THE ARREST
To my extreme annoyance, Poirot was not in, and the old Belgian who
answered my knock informed me that he believed he had gone to London.
I was dumbfounded. What on earth could Poirot be doing in London! Was
it a sudden decision on his part, or had he already made up his mind
when he parted from me a few hours earlier?
I retraced my steps to Styles in some annoyance. With Poirot away, I
was uncertain how to act. Had he foreseen this arrest? Had he not, in
all probability, been the cause of it? Those questions I could not
resolve. But in the meantime what was I to do? Should I announce the