The Mysterious Affair at Styles
and then Dorcas was called.
Dorcas, faithful to her “young gentlemen,” denied strenuously that it
could have been John’s voice she heard, and resolutely declared, in the
teeth of everything, that it was Mr. Inglethorp who had been in the
boudoir with her mistress. A rather wistful smile passed across the
face of the prisoner in the dock. He knew only too well how useless her
gallant defiance was, since it was not the object of the defence to
deny this point. Mrs. Cavendish, of course, could not be called upon to
give evidence against her husband.
After various questions on other matters, Mr. Philips asked:
“In the month of June last, do you remember a parcel arriving for Mr.
Lawrence Cavendish from Parkson’s?”
Dorcas shook her head.
“I don’t remember, sir. It may have done, but Mr. Lawrence was away
from home part of June.”
“In the event of a parcel arriving for him whilst he was away, what
would be done with it?”
“It would either be put in his room or sent on after him.”
“By you?”
“No, sir, I should leave it on the hall table. It would be Miss Howard
who would attend to anything like that.”
Evelyn Howard was called and, after being examined on other points, was
questioned as to the parcel.
“Don’t remember. Lots of parcels come. Can’t remember one special one.”
“You do not know if it was sent after Mr. Lawrence Cavendish to Wales,
or whether it was put in his room?”
“Don’t think it was sent after him. Should have remembered it if it
was.”
“Supposing a parcel arrived addressed to Mr. Lawrence Cavendish, and
afterwards it disappeared, should you remark its absence?”
“No, don’t think so. I should think someone had taken charge of it.”
“I believe, Miss Howard, that it was you who found this sheet of brown
paper?” He held up the same dusty piece which Poirot and I had examined
in the morning-room at Styles.
“Yes, I did.”
“How did you come to look for it?”
“The Belgian detective who was employed on the case asked me to search
for it.”
“Where did you eventually discover it?”
“On the top of—of—a wardrobe.”
“On top of the prisoner’s wardrobe?”
“I—I believe so.”
“Did you not find it yourself?”
“Yes.”
“Then you must know where you found it?”
“Yes, it was on the prisoner’s wardrobe.”
“That is better.”
An assistant from Parkson’s, Theatrical Costumiers, testified that on
June 29th, they had supplied a black beard to Mr. L. Cavendish, as
requested. It was ordered by letter, and a postal order was enclosed.
No, they had not kept the letter. All transactions were entered in
their books. They had sent the beard, as directed, to “L. Cavendish,
Esq., Styles Court.”
Sir Ernest Heavywether rose ponderously.
“Where was the letter written from?”
“From Styles Court.”
“The same address to which you sent the parcel?”
“Yes.”
“And the letter came from there?”
“Yes.”
Like a beast of prey, Heavywether fell upon him:
“How do you know?”
“I—I don’t understand.”
“How do you know that letter came from Styles? Did you notice the
postmark?”
“No—but——”
“Ah, you did _not_ notice the postmark! And yet you affirm so
confidently that it came from Styles. It might, in fact, have been any
postmark?”
“Y—es.”
“In fact, the letter, though written on stamped notepaper, might have
been posted from anywhere? From Wales, for instance?”
The witness admitted that such might be the case, and Sir Ernest
signified that he was satisfied.
Elizabeth Wells, second housemaid at Styles, stated that after she had
gone to bed she remembered that she had bolted the front door, instead
of leaving it on the latch as Mr. Inglethorp had requested. She had
accordingly gone downstairs again to rectify her error. Hearing a
slight noise in the West wing, she had peeped along the passage, and
had seen Mr. John Cavendish knocking at Mrs. Inglethorp’s door.
Sir Ernest Heavywether made short work of her, and under his unmerciful
bullying she contradicted herself hopelessly, and Sir Ernest sat down
again with a satisfied smile on his face.
With the evidence of Annie, as to the candle grease on the floor, and
as to seeing the prisoner take the coffee into the boudoir, the
proceedings were adjourned until the following day.
As we went home, Mary Cavendish spoke bitterly against the prosecuting
counsel.
“That hateful man! What a net he has drawn around my poor John! How he
twisted every little fact until he made it seem what it wasn’t!”
“Well,” I said consolingly, “it will be the other way about to-morrow.”
“Yes,” she said meditatively; then suddenly dropped her voice. “Mr.
Hastings, you do not think—surely it could not have been Lawrence—Oh,
no, that could not be!”
But I myself was puzzled, and as soon as I was alone with Poirot I
asked him what he thought Sir Ernest was driving at.
“Ah!” said Poirot appreciatively. “He is a clever man, that Sir
Ernest.”
“Do you think he believes Lawrence guilty?”
“I do not think he believes or cares anything! No, what he is trying
for is to create such confusion in the minds of the jury that they are
divided in their opinion as to which brother did it. He is endeavouring
to make out that there is quite as much evidence against Lawrence as
against John—and I am not at all sure that he will not succeed.”
Detective-inspector Japp was the first witness called when the trial
was reopened, and gave his evidence succinctly and briefly. After
relating the earlier events, he proceeded:
“Acting on information received, Superintendent Summerhaye and myself
searched the prisoner’s room, during his temporary absence from the
house. In his chest of drawers, hidden beneath some underclothing, we
found: first, a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez similar to those worn by
Mr. Inglethorp”—these were exhibited—“secondly, this phial.”
The phial was that already recognized by the chemist’s assistant, a
tiny bottle of blue glass, containing a few grains of a white
crystalline powder, and labelled: “Strychnine Hydro-chloride. POISON.”
A fresh piece of evidence discovered by the detectives since the police
court proceedings was a long, almost new piece of blotting-paper. It
had been found in Mrs. Inglethorp’s cheque book, and on being reversed
at a mirror, showed clearly the words: “. . . erything of which I die
possessed I leave to my beloved husband Alfred Ing...” This placed
beyond question the fact that the destroyed will had been in favour of
the deceased lady’s husband. Japp then produced the charred fragment of
paper recovered from the grate, and this, with the discovery of the
beard in the attic, completed his evidence.
But Sir Ernest’s cross-examination was yet to come.
“What day was it when you searched the prisoner’s room?”
“Tuesday, the 24th of July.”
“Exactly a week after the tragedy?”
“Yes.”
“You found these two objects, you say, in the chest of drawers. Was the
drawer unlocked?”
“Yes.”
“Does it not strike you as unlikely that a man who had committed a
crime should keep the evidence of it in an unlocked drawer for anyone
to find?”
“He might have stowed them there in a hurry.”
“But you have just said it was a whole week since the crime. He would
have had ample time to remove them and destroy them.”
“Perhaps.”
“There is no perhaps about it. Would he, or would he not have had
plenty of time to remove and destroy them?”
“Yes.”
“Was the pile of underclothes under which the things were hidden heavy
or light?”
“Heavyish.”
“In other words, it was winter underclothing. Obviously, the prisoner
would not be likely to go to that drawer?”
“Perhaps not.”
“Kindly answer my question. Would the prisoner, in the hottest week of
a hot summer, be likely to go to a drawer containing winter
underclothing. Yes, or no?”
“No.”
“In that case, is it not possible that the articles in question might
have been put there by a third person, and that the prisoner was quite
unaware of their presence?”
“I should not think it likely.”
“But it is possible?”
“Yes.”
“That is all.”
More evidence followed. Evidence as to the financial difficulties in
which the prisoner had found himself at the end of July. Evidence as to
his intrigue with Mrs. Raikes—poor Mary, that must have been bitter
hearing for a woman of her pride. Evelyn Howard had been right in her
facts, though her animosity against Alfred Inglethorp had caused her to
jump to the conclusion that he was the person concerned.
Lawrence Cavendish was then put into the box. In a low voice, in answer
to Mr. Philips’ questions, he denied having ordered anything from
Parkson’s in June. In fact, on June 29th, he had been staying away, in
Wales.
Instantly, Sir Ernest’s chin was shooting pugnaciously forward.
“You deny having ordered a black beard from Parkson’s on June 29th?”
“I do.”
“Ah! In the event of anything happening to your brother, who will
inherit Styles Court?”
The brutality of the question called a flush to Lawrence’s pale face.
The judge gave vent to a faint murmur of disapprobation, and the
prisoner in the dock leant forward angrily.
Heavywether cared nothing for his client’s anger.
“Answer my question, if you please.”
“I suppose,” said Lawrence quietly, “that I should.”
“What do you mean by you ‘suppose’? Your brother has no children. You
_would_ inherit it, wouldn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Ah, that’s better,” said Heavywether, with ferocious geniality. “And
you’d inherit a good slice of money too, wouldn’t you?”
“Really, Sir Ernest,” protested the judge, “these questions are not
relevant.”
Sir Ernest bowed, and having shot his arrow proceeded.
“On Tuesday, the 17th July, you went, I believe, with another guest, to
visit the dispensary at the Red Cross Hospital in Tadminster?”
“Yes.”
“Did you—while you happened to be alone for a few seconds—unlock the
poison cupboard, and examine some of the bottles?”
“I—I—may have done so.”
“I put it to you that you did do so?”
“Yes.”
Sir Ernest fairly shot the next question at him.
“Did you examine one bottle in particular?”
“No, I do not think so.”
“Be careful, Mr. Cavendish. I am referring to a little bottle of
Hydro-chloride of Strychnine.”
Lawrence was turning a sickly greenish colour.
“N—o—I am sure I didn’t.”
“Then how do you account for the fact that you left the unmistakable
impress of your finger-prints on it?”
The bullying manner was highly efficacious with a nervous disposition.
“I—I suppose I must have taken up the bottle.”
“I suppose so too! Did you abstract any of the contents of the bottle?”
“Certainly not.”
“Then why did you take it up?”
“I once studied to be a doctor. Such things naturally interest me.”
“Ah! So poisons ‘naturally interest’ you, do they? Still, you waited to
be alone before gratifying that ‘interest’ of yours?”
“That was pure chance. If the others had been there, I should have done
just the same.”
“Still, as it happens, the others were not there?”
“No, but——”
“In fact, during the whole afternoon, you were only alone for a couple
of minutes, and it happened—I say, it happened—to be during those two
minutes that you displayed your ‘natural interest’ in Hydro-chloride of
Strychnine?”
Lawrence stammered pitiably.
“I—I——”
With a satisfied and expressive countenance, Sir Ernest observed:
“I have nothing more to ask you, Mr. Cavendish.”
This bit of cross-examination had caused great excitement in court. The
heads of the many fashionably attired women present were busily laid
together, and their whispers became so loud that the judge angrily
threatened to have the court cleared if there was not immediate
silence.
There was little more evidence. The hand-writing experts were called
upon for their opinion of the signature of “Alfred Inglethorp” in the