The Mysterious Affair at Styles
counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine,
handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I
do not like confusion.”
Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and
stuck his head in.
“There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings.”
“A lady?”
I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish
was standing in the doorway.
“I have been visiting an old woman in the village,” she explained, “and
as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would
call for you.”
“Alas, madame,” said Poirot, “I thought you had come to honour me with
a visit!”
“I will some day, if you ask me,” she promised him, smiling.
“That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame”—she
started ever so slightly—“remember, Papa Poirot is always at your
service.”
She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some
deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away.
“Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?”
“Enchanted, madame.”
All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me
that in some way she was nervous of Poirot’s eyes.
The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its
shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports
coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like
some great giant sighing.
We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge
came to us that something was wrong.
Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her
hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the
background, all eyes and ears.
“Oh, m’am! Oh, m’am! I don’t know how to tell you——”
“What is it, Dorcas?” I asked impatiently. “Tell us at once.”
“It’s those wicked detectives. They’ve arrested him—they’ve arrested
Mr. Cavendish!”
“Arrested Lawrence?” I gasped.
I saw a strange look come into Dorcas’s eyes.
“No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence—Mr. John.”
Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and
as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot’s eyes.
CHAPTER XI.
THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION
The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place
two months later.
Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and
sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself
passionately on her husband’s side, scorning the mere idea of his
guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail.
I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully.
“Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It
brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her
jealousy have——”
“Jealousy?” I queried.
“Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As
I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks
of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over
him.”
He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering
that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to
speak. With his tenderness for “a woman’s happiness,” I felt glad that
the decision had been taken out of his hands.
“Even now,” I said, “I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very
last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!”
Poirot grinned.
“I know you did.”
“But John! My old friend John!”
“Every murderer is probably somebody’s old friend,” observed Poirot
philosophically. “You cannot mix up sentiment and reason.”
“I must say I think you might have given me a hint.”
“Perhaps, _mon ami_, I did not do so, just because he _was_ your old
friend.”
I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed
on to John what I believed to be Poirot’s views concerning Bauerstein.
He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him.
Nevertheless, although he had been too clever for them this time, and
the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings
were pretty well clipped for the future.
I asked Poirot whether he thought John would be condemned. To my
intense surprise, he replied that, on the contrary, he was extremely
likely to be acquitted.
“But, Poirot——” I protested.
“Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along that I have no proofs.
It is one thing to know that a man is guilty, it is quite another
matter to prove him so. And, in this case, there is terribly little
evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, Hercule Poirot, know, but I
lack the last link in my chain. And unless I can find that missing
link——” He shook his head gravely.
“When did you first suspect John Cavendish?” I asked, after a minute or
two.
“Did you not suspect him at all?”
“No, indeed.”
“Not after that fragment of conversation you overheard between Mrs.
Cavendish and her mother-in-law, and her subsequent lack of frankness
at the inquest?”
“No.”
“Did you not put two and two together, and reflect that if it was not
Alfred Inglethorp who was quarrelling with his wife—and you remember,
he strenuously denied it at the inquest—it must be either Lawrence or
John. Now, if it was Lawrence, Mary Cavendish’s conduct was just as
inexplicable. But if, on the other hand, it was John, the whole thing
was explained quite naturally.”
“So,” I cried, a light breaking in upon me, “it was John who quarrelled
with his mother that afternoon?”
“Exactly.”
“And you have known this all along?”
“Certainly. Mrs. Cavendish’s behaviour could only be explained that
way.”
“And yet you say he may be acquitted?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Certainly I do. At the police court proceedings, we shall hear the
case for the prosecution, but in all probability his solicitors will
advise him to reserve his defence. That will be sprung upon us at the
trial. And—ah, by the way, I have a word of caution to give you, my
friend. I must not appear in the case.”
“What?”
“No. Officially, I have nothing to do with it. Until I have found that
last link in my chain, I must remain behind the scenes. Mrs. Cavendish
must think I am working for her husband, not against him.”
“I say, that’s playing it a bit low down,” I protested.
“Not at all. We have to deal with a most clever and unscrupulous man,
and we must use any means in our power—otherwise he will slip through
our fingers. That is why I have been careful to remain in the
background. All the discoveries have been made by Japp, and Japp will
take all the credit. If I am called upon to give evidence at all”—he
smiled broadly—“it will probably be as a witness for the defence.”
I could hardly believe my ears.
“It is quite _en règle_,” continued Poirot. “Strangely enough, I can
give evidence that will demolish one contention of the prosecution.”
“Which one?”
“The one that relates to the destruction of the will. John Cavendish
did not destroy that will.”
Poirot was a true prophet. I will not go into the details of the police
court proceedings, as it involves many tiresome repetitions. I will
merely state baldly that John Cavendish reserved his defence, and was
duly committed for trial.
September found us all in London. Mary took a house in Kensington,
Poirot being included in the family party.
I myself had been given a job at the War Office, so was able to see
them continually.
As the weeks went by, the state of Poirot’s nerves grew worse and
worse. That “last link” he talked about was still lacking. Privately, I
hoped it might remain so, for what happiness could there be for Mary,
if John were not acquitted?
On September 15th John Cavendish appeared in the dock at the Old
Bailey, charged with “The Wilful Murder of Emily Agnes Inglethorp,” and
pleaded “Not Guilty.”
Sir Ernest Heavywether, the famous K.C., had been engaged to defend
him.
Mr. Philips, K.C., opened the case for the Crown.
The murder, he said, was a most premeditated and cold-blooded one. It
was neither more nor less than the deliberate poisoning of a fond and
trusting woman by the stepson to whom she had been more than a mother.
Ever since his boyhood, she had supported him. He and his wife had
lived at Styles Court in every luxury, surrounded by her care and
attention. She had been their kind and generous benefactress.
He proposed to call witnesses to show how the prisoner, a profligate
and spendthrift, had been at the end of his financial tether, and had
also been carrying on an intrigue with a certain Mrs. Raikes, a
neighbouring farmer’s wife. This having come to his stepmother’s ears,
she taxed him with it on the afternoon before her death, and a quarrel
ensued, part of which was overheard. On the previous day, the prisoner
had purchased strychnine at the village chemist’s shop, wearing a
disguise by means of which he hoped to throw the onus of the crime upon
another man—to wit, Mrs. Inglethorp’s husband, of whom he had been
bitterly jealous. Luckily for Mr. Inglethorp, he had been able to
produce an unimpeachable alibi.
On the afternoon of July 17th, continued Counsel, immediately after the
quarrel with her son, Mrs. Inglethorp made a new will. This will was
found destroyed in the grate of her bedroom the following morning, but
evidence had come to light which showed that it had been drawn up in
favour of her husband. Deceased had already made a will in his favour
before her marriage, but—and Mr. Philips wagged an expressive
forefinger—the prisoner was not aware of that. What had induced the
deceased to make a fresh will, with the old one still extant, he could
not say. She was an old lady, and might possibly have forgotten the
former one; or—this seemed to him more likely—she may have had an idea
that it was revoked by her marriage, as there had been some
conversation on the subject. Ladies were not always very well versed in
legal knowledge. She had, about a year before, executed a will in
favour of the prisoner. He would call evidence to show that it was the
prisoner who ultimately handed his stepmother her coffee on the fatal
night. Later in the evening, he had sought admission to her room, on
which occasion, no doubt, he found an opportunity of destroying the
will which, as far as he knew, would render the one in his favour
valid.
The prisoner had been arrested in consequence of the discovery, in his
room, by Detective Inspector Japp—a most brilliant officer—of the
identical phial of strychnine which had been sold at the village
chemist’s to the supposed Mr. Inglethorp on the day before the murder.
It would be for the jury to decide whether or not these damning facts
constituted an overwhelming proof of the prisoner’s guilt.
And, subtly implying that a jury which did not so decide, was quite
unthinkable, Mr. Philips sat down and wiped his forehead.
The first witnesses for the prosecution were mostly those who had been
called at the inquest, the medical evidence being again taken first.
Sir Ernest Heavywether, who was famous all over England for the
unscrupulous manner in which he bullied witnesses, only asked two
questions.
“I take it, Dr. Bauerstein, that strychnine, as a drug, acts quickly?”
“Yes.”
“And that you are unable to account for the delay in this case?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you.”
Mr. Mace identified the phial handed him by Counsel as that sold by him
to “Mr. Inglethorp.” Pressed, he admitted that he only knew Mr.
Inglethorp by sight. He had never spoken to him. The witness was not
cross-examined.
Alfred Inglethorp was called, and denied having purchased the poison.
He also denied having quarrelled with his wife. Various witnesses
testified to the accuracy of these statements.
The gardeners’ evidence, as to the witnessing of the will was taken,