The Mysterious Affair at Styles
chemist’s poison register. They all declared unanimously that it was
certainly not his hand-writing, and gave it as their view that it might
be that of the prisoner disguised. Cross-examined, they admitted that
it might be the prisoner’s hand-writing cleverly counterfeited.
Sir Ernest Heavywether’s speech in opening the case for the defence was
not a long one, but it was backed by the full force of his emphatic
manner. Never, he said, in the course of his long experience, had he
known a charge of murder rest on slighter evidence. Not only was it
entirely circumstantial, but the greater part of it was practically
unproved. Let them take the testimony they had heard and sift it
impartially. The strychnine had been found in a drawer in the
prisoner’s room. That drawer was an unlocked one, as he had pointed
out, and he submitted that there was no evidence to prove that it was
the prisoner who had concealed the poison there. It was, in fact, a
wicked and malicious attempt on the part of some third person to fix
the crime on the prisoner. The prosecution had been unable to produce a
shred of evidence in support of their contention that it was the
prisoner who ordered the black beard from Parkson’s. The quarrel which
had taken place between prisoner and his stepmother was freely
admitted, but both it and his financial embarrassments had been grossly
exaggerated.
His learned friend—Sir Ernest nodded carelessly at Mr. Philips—had
stated that if the prisoner were an innocent man, he would have come
forward at the inquest to explain that it was he, and not Mr.
Inglethorp, who had been the participator in the quarrel. He thought
the facts had been misrepresented. What had actually occurred was this.
The prisoner, returning to the house on Tuesday evening, had been
authoritatively told that there had been a violent quarrel between Mr.
and Mrs. Inglethorp. No suspicion had entered the prisoner’s head that
anyone could possibly have mistaken his voice for that of Mr.
Inglethorp. He naturally concluded that his stepmother had had two
quarrels.
The prosecution averred that on Monday, July 16th, the prisoner had
entered the chemist’s shop in the village, disguised as Mr. Inglethorp.
The prisoner, on the contrary, was at that time at a lonely spot called
Marston’s Spinney, where he had been summoned by an anonymous note,
couched in blackmailing terms, and threatening to reveal certain
matters to his wife unless he complied with its demands. The prisoner
had, accordingly, gone to the appointed spot, and after waiting there
vainly for half an hour had returned home. Unfortunately, he had met
with no one on the way there or back who could vouch for the truth of
his story, but luckily he had kept the note, and it would be produced
as evidence.
As for the statement relating to the destruction of the will, the
prisoner had formerly practised at the Bar, and was perfectly well
aware that the will made in his favour a year before was automatically
revoked by his stepmother’s remarriage. He would call evidence to show
who did destroy the will, and it was possible that that might open up
quite a new view of the case.
Finally, he would point out to the jury that there was evidence against
other people besides John Cavendish. He would direct their attention to
the fact that the evidence against Mr. Lawrence Cavendish was quite as
strong, if not stronger than that against his brother.
He would now call the prisoner.
John acquitted himself well in the witness-box. Under Sir Ernest’s
skilful handling, he told his tale credibly and well. The anonymous
note received by him was produced, and handed to the jury to examine.
The readiness with which he admitted his financial difficulties, and
the disagreement with his stepmother, lent value to his denials.
At the close of his examination, he paused, and said:
“I should like to make one thing clear. I utterly reject and disapprove
of Sir Ernest Heavywether’s insinuations against my brother. My
brother, I am convinced, had no more to do with the crime than I have.”
Sir Ernest merely smiled, and noted with a sharp eye that John’s
protest had produced a very favourable impression on the jury.
Then the cross-examination began.
“I understand you to say that it never entered your head that the
witnesses at the inquest could possibly have mistaken your voice for
that of Mr. Inglethorp. Is not that very surprising?”
“No, I don’t think so. I was told there had been a quarrel between my
mother and Mr. Inglethorp, and it never occurred to me that such was
not really the case.”
“Not when the servant Dorcas repeated certain fragments of the
conversation—fragments which you must have recognized?”
“I did not recognize them.”
“Your memory must be unusually short!”
“No, but we were both angry, and, I think, said more than we meant. I
paid very little attention to my mother’s actual words.”
Mr. Philips’ incredulous sniff was a triumph of forensic skill. He
passed on to the subject of the note.
“You have produced this note very opportunely. Tell me, is there
nothing familiar about the hand-writing of it?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Do you not think that it bears a marked resemblance to your own
hand-writing—carelessly disguised?”
“No, I do not think so.”
“I put it to you that it is your own hand-writing!”
“No.”
“I put it to you that, anxious to prove an alibi, you conceived the
idea of a fictitious and rather incredible appointment, and wrote this
note yourself in order to bear out your statement!”
“No.”
“Is it not a fact that, at the time you claim to have been waiting
about at a solitary and unfrequented spot, you were really in the
chemist’s shop in Styles St. Mary, where you purchased strychnine in
the name of Alfred Inglethorp?”
“No, that is a lie.”
“I put it to you that, wearing a suit of Mr. Inglethorp’s clothes, with
a black beard trimmed to resemble his, you were there—and signed the
register in his name!”
“That is absolutely untrue.”
“Then I will leave the remarkable similarity of hand-writing between
the note, the register, and your own, to the consideration of the
jury,” said Mr. Philips, and sat down with the air of a man who has
done his duty, but who was nevertheless horrified by such deliberate
perjury.
After this, as it was growing late, the case was adjourned till Monday.
Poirot, I noticed, was looking profoundly discouraged. He had that
little frown between the eyes that I knew so well.
“What is it, Poirot?” I inquired.
“Ah, _mon ami_, things are going badly, badly.”
In spite of myself, my heart gave a leap of relief. Evidently there was
a likelihood of John Cavendish being acquitted.
When we reached the house, my little friend waved aside Mary’s offer of
tea.
“No, I thank you, madame. I will mount to my room.”
I followed him. Still frowning, he went across to the desk and took out
a small pack of patience cards. Then he drew up a chair to the table,
and, to my utter amazement, began solemnly to build card houses!
My jaw dropped involuntarily, and he said at once:
“No, _mon ami_, I am not in my second childhood! I steady my nerves,
that is all. This employment requires precision of the fingers. With
precision of the fingers goes precision of the brain. And never have I
needed that more than now!”
“What is the trouble?” I asked.
With a great thump on the table, Poirot demolished his carefully built
up edifice.
“It is this, _mon ami!_ That I can build card houses seven stories
high, but I cannot”—thump—“find”—thump—“ that last link of which I
spoke to you.”
I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my peace, and he began
slowly building up the cards again, speaking in jerks as he did so.
“It is done—so! By placing—one card—on another—with
mathematical—precision!”
I watched the card house rising under his hands, story by story. He
never hesitated or faltered. It was really almost like a conjuring
trick.
“What a steady hand you’ve got,” I remarked. “I believe I’ve only seen
your hand shake once.”
“On an occasion when I was enraged, without doubt,” observed Poirot,
with great placidity.
“Yes indeed! You were in a towering rage. Do you remember? It was when
you discovered that the lock of the despatch-case in Mrs. Inglethorp’s
bedroom had been forced. You stood by the mantelpiece, twiddling the
things on it in your usual fashion, and your hand shook like a leaf! I
must say——”
But I stopped suddenly. For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate
cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards, and putting his hands
over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the
keenest agony.
“Good heavens, Poirot!” I cried. “What is the matter? Are you taken
ill?”
“No, no,” he gasped. “It is—it is—that I have an idea!”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, much relieved. “One of your ‘little ideas’?”
“Ah, _ma foi_, no!” replied Poirot frankly. “This time it is an idea
gigantic! Stupendous! And you—_you_, my friend, have given it to me!”
Suddenly clasping me in his arms, he kissed me warmly on both cheeks,
and before I had recovered from my surprise ran headlong from the room.
Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.
“What _is_ the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying
out: ‘A garage! For the love of Heaven, direct me to a garage, madame!’
And, before I could answer, he had dashed out into the street.”
I hurried to the window. True enough, there he was, tearing down the
street, hatless, and gesticulating as he went. I turned to Mary with a
gesture of despair.
“He’ll be stopped by a policeman in another minute. There he goes,
round the corner!”
Our eyes met, and we stared helplessly at one another.
“What can be the matter?”
I shook my head.
“I don’t know. He was building card houses, when suddenly he said he
had an idea, and rushed off as you saw.”
“Well,” said Mary, “I expect he will be back before dinner.”
But night fell, and Poirot had not returned.
CHAPTER XII.
THE LAST LINK
Poirot’s abrupt departure had intrigued us all greatly. Sunday morning
wore away, and still he did not reappear. But about three o’clock a
ferocious and prolonged hooting outside drove us to the window, to see
Poirot alighting from a car, accompanied by Japp and Summerhaye. The
little man was transformed. He radiated an absurd complacency. He bowed
with exaggerated respect to Mary Cavendish.
“Madame, I have your permission to hold a little _réunion_ in the
_salon_? It is necessary for everyone to attend.”
Mary smiled sadly.
“You know, Monsieur Poirot, that you have _carte blanche_ in every
way.”
“You are too amiable, madame.”
Still beaming, Poirot marshalled us all into the drawing-room, bringing
forward chairs as he did so.
“Miss Howard—here. Mademoiselle Cynthia. Monsieur Lawrence. The good
Dorcas. And Annie. _Bien!_ We must delay our proceedings a few minutes
until Mr. Inglethorp arrives. I have sent him a note.”
Miss Howard rose immediately from her seat.
“If that man comes into the house, I leave it!”
“No, no!” Poirot went up to her and pleaded in a low voice.
Finally Miss Howard consented to return to her chair. A few minutes
later Alfred Inglethorp entered the room.
The company once assembled, Poirot rose from his seat with the air of a
popular lecturer, and bowed politely to his audience.
“_Messieurs, mesdames_, as you all know, I was called in by Monsieur
John Cavendish to investigate this case. I at once examined the bedroom
of the deceased which, by the advice of the doctors, had been kept
locked, and was consequently exactly as it had been when the tragedy
occurred. I found: first, a fragment of green material; second, a stain
on the carpet near the window, still damp; thirdly, an empty box of
bromide powders.