The Mysterious Affair at Styles
and quickly drops the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle
Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by
Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too
many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is
mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her
doing.
“We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning
being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with
strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours.”
Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her
face.
“All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most
awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful.
I understand now——”
“What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa
Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me.”
“I see everything now,” said Lawrence. “The drugged cocoa, taken on top
of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay.”
“Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a
little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it.”
“What?” The cry of surprise was universal.
“No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs.
Inglethorp’s room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It
was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in
the nap of the carpet I found some little splinters of china. What had
happened was plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed my
little case on the table near the window, and the table, tilting up,
had deposited it upon the floor on precisely the identical spot. In
exactly the same way, Mrs. Inglethorp had laid down her cup of coffee
on reaching her room the night before, and the treacherous table had
played her the same trick.
“What happened next is mere guess work on my part, but I should say
that Mrs. Inglethorp picked up the broken cup and placed it on the
table by the bed. Feeling in need of a stimulant of some kind, she
heated up her cocoa, and drank it off then and there. Now we are faced
with a new problem. We know the cocoa contained no strychnine. The
coffee was never drunk. Yet the strychnine must have been administered
between seven and nine o’clock that evening. What third medium was
there—a medium so suitable for disguising the taste of strychnine that
it is extraordinary no one has thought of it?” Poirot looked round the
room, and then answered himself impressively. “Her medicine!”
“Do you mean that the murderer introduced the strychnine into her
tonic?” I cried.
“There was no need to introduce it. It was already there—in the
mixture. The strychnine that killed Mrs. Inglethorp was the identical
strychnine prescribed by Dr. Wilkins. To make that clear to you, I will
read you an extract from a book on dispensing which I found in the
Dispensary of the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster:
“‘The following prescription has become famous in text books:
Strychninae Sulph. . . . . . 1 gr.
Potass Bromide . . . . . . . 3vi
Aqua ad. . . . . . . . . . . . . 3viii
Fiat Mistura
_This solution deposits in a few hours the greater part of the
strychnine salt as an insoluble bromide in transparent crystals. A lady
in England lost her life by taking a similar mixture: the precipitated
strychnine collected at the bottom, and in taking the last dose she
swallowed nearly all of it!_
“Now there was, of course, no bromide in Dr. Wilkins’ prescription, but
you will remember that I mentioned an empty box of bromide powders. One
or two of those powders introduced into the full bottle of medicine
would effectually precipitate the strychnine, as the book describes,
and cause it to be taken in the last dose. You will learn later that
the person who usually poured out Mrs. Inglethorp’s medicine was always
extremely careful not to shake the bottle, but to leave the sediment at
the bottom of it undisturbed.
“Throughout the case, there have been evidences that the tragedy was
intended to take place on Monday evening. On that day, Mrs.
Inglethorp’s bell wire was neatly cut, and on Monday evening
Mademoiselle Cynthia was spending the night with friends, so that Mrs.
Inglethorp would have been quite alone in the right wing, completely
shut off from help of any kind, and would have died, in all
probability, before medical aid could have been summoned. But in her
hurry to be in time for the village entertainment Mrs. Inglethorp
forgot to take her medicine, and the next day she lunched away from
home, so that the last—and fatal—dose was actually taken twenty-four
hours later than had been anticipated by the murderer; and it is owing
to that delay that the final proof—the last link of the chain—is now in
my hands.”
Amid breathless excitement, he held out three thin strips of paper.
“A letter in the murderer’s own hand-writing, _mes amis!_ Had it been a
little clearer in its terms, it is possible that Mrs. Inglethorp,
warned in time, would have escaped. As it was, she realized her danger,
but not the manner of it.”
In the deathly silence, Poirot pieced together the slips of paper and,
clearing his throat, read:
‘Dearest Evelyn:
‘You will be anxious at hearing nothing. It is all right—only it
will be to-night instead of last night. You understand. There’s a
good time coming once the old woman is dead and out of the way. No
one can possibly bring home the crime to me. That idea of yours
about the bromides was a stroke of genius! But we must be very
circumspect. A false step——’
“Here, my friends, the letter breaks off. Doubtless the writer was
interrupted; but there can be no question as to his identity. We all
know this hand-writing and——”
A howl that was almost a scream broke the silence.
“You devil! How did you get it?”
A chair was overturned. Poirot skipped nimbly aside. A quick movement
on his part, and his assailant fell with a crash.
“_Messieurs, mesdames_,” said Poirot, with a flourish, “let me
introduce you to the murderer, Mr. Alfred Inglethorp!”
CHAPTER XIII.
POIROT EXPLAINS
“Poirot, you old villain,” I said, “I’ve half a mind to strangle you!
What do you mean by deceiving me as you have done?”
We were sitting in the library. Several hectic days lay behind us. In
the room below, John and Mary were together once more, while Alfred
Inglethorp and Miss Howard were in custody. Now at last, I had Poirot
to myself, and could relieve my still burning curiosity.
Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at last he said:
“I did not deceive you, _mon ami_. At most, I permitted you to deceive
yourself.”
“Yes, but why?”
“Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my friend, you have a
nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that—_enfin_, to
conceal your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the
very first time you saw Mr. Alfred Inglethorp that astute gentleman
would have—in your so expressive idiom—‘smelt a rat’! And then,
_bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!”
“I think that I have more diplomacy than you give me credit for.”
“My friend,” besought Poirot, “I implore you, do not enrage yourself!
Your help has been of the most invaluable. It is but the extremely
beautiful nature that you have, which made me pause.”
“Well,” I grumbled, a little mollified. “I still think you might have
given me a hint.”
“But I did, my friend. Several hints. You would not take them. Think
now, did I ever say to you that I believed John Cavendish guilty? Did I
not, on the contrary, tell you that he would almost certainly be
acquitted?”
“Yes, but——”
“And did I not immediately afterwards speak of the difficulty of
bringing the murderer to justice? Was it not plain to you that I was
speaking of two entirely different persons?”
“No,” I said, “it was not plain to me!”
“Then again,” continued Poirot, “at the beginning, did I not repeat to
you several times that I didn’t want Mr. Inglethorp arrested _now_?
That should have conveyed something to you.”
“Do you mean to say you suspected him as long ago as that?”
“Yes. To begin with, whoever else might benefit by Mrs. Inglethorp’s
death, her husband would benefit the most. There was no getting away
from that. When I went up to Styles with you that first day, I had no
idea as to how the crime had been committed, but from what I knew of
Mr. Inglethorp I fancied that it would be very hard to find anything to
connect him with it. When I arrived at the château, I realized at once
that it was Mrs. Inglethorp who had burnt the will; and there, by the
way, you cannot complain, my friend, for I tried my best to force on
you the significance of that bedroom fire in midsummer.”
“Yes, yes,” I said impatiently. “Go on.”
“Well, my friend, as I say, my views as to Mr. Inglethorp’s guilt were
very much shaken. There was, in fact, so much evidence against him that
I was inclined to believe that he had not done it.”
“When did you change your mind?”
“When I found that the more efforts I made to clear him, the more
efforts he made to get himself arrested. Then, when I discovered that
Inglethorp had nothing to do with Mrs. Raikes and that in fact it was
John Cavendish who was interested in that quarter, I was quite sure.”
“But why?”
“Simply this. If it had been Inglethorp who was carrying on an intrigue
with Mrs. Raikes, his silence was perfectly comprehensible. But, when I
discovered that it was known all over the village that it was John who
was attracted by the farmer’s pretty wife, his silence bore quite a
different interpretation. It was nonsense to pretend that he was afraid
of the scandal, as no possible scandal could attach to him. This
attitude of his gave me furiously to think, and I was slowly forced to
the conclusion that Alfred Inglethorp wanted to be arrested. _Eh bien!_
from that moment, I was equally determined that he should not be
arrested.”
“Wait a minute. I don’t see why he wished to be arrested?”
“Because, _mon ami_, it is the law of your country that a man once
acquitted can never be tried again for the same offence. Aha! but it
was clever—his idea! Assuredly, he is a man of method. See here, he
knew that in his position he was bound to be suspected, so he conceived
the exceedingly clever idea of preparing a lot of manufactured evidence
against himself. He wished to be arrested. He would then produce his
irreproachable alibi—and, hey presto, he was safe for life!”
“But I still don’t see how he managed to prove his alibi, and yet go to
the chemist’s shop?”
Poirot stared at me in surprise.
“Is it possible? My poor friend! You have not yet realized that it was
Miss Howard who went to the chemist’s shop?”
“Miss Howard?”
“But, certainly. Who else? It was most easy for her. She is of a good
height, her voice is deep and manly; moreover, remember, she and
Inglethorp are cousins, and there is a distinct resemblance between
them, especially in their gait and bearing. It was simplicity itself.
They are a clever pair!”
“I am still a little fogged as to how exactly the bromide business was
done,” I remarked.
“_Bon!_ I will reconstruct for you as far as possible. I am inclined to
think that Miss Howard was the master mind in that affair. You remember
her once mentioning that her father was a doctor? Possibly she
dispensed his medicines for him, or she may have taken the idea from
one of the many books lying about when Mademoiselle Cynthia was
studying for her exam. Anyway, she was familiar with the fact that the
addition of a bromide to a mixture containing strychnine would cause
the precipitation of the latter. Probably the idea came to her quite