The Mysterious Affair at Styles
“You are joking, Poirot!”
“No. Shall I tell you what made Monsieur Lawrence turn so pale when he
first entered his mother’s room on the fatal night? It was because,
whilst his mother lay there, obviously poisoned, he saw, over your
shoulder, that the door into Mademoiselle Cynthia’s room was unbolted.”
“But he declared that he saw it bolted!” I cried.
“Exactly,” said Poirot dryly. “And that was just what confirmed my
suspicion that it was not. He was shielding Mademoiselle Cynthia.”
“But why should he shield her?”
“Because he is in love with her.”
I laughed.
“There, Poirot, you are quite wrong! I happen to know for a fact that,
far from being in love with her, he positively dislikes her.”
“Who told you that, _mon ami?_”
“Cynthia herself.”
“_La pauvre petite!_ And she was concerned?”
“She said that she did not mind at all.”
“Then she certainly did mind very much,” remarked Poirot. “They are
like that—_les femmes!_”
“What you say about Lawrence is a great surprise to me,” I said.
“But why? It was most obvious. Did not Monsieur Lawrence make the sour
face every time Mademoiselle Cynthia spoke and laughed with his
brother? He had taken it into his long head that Mademoiselle Cynthia
was in love with Monsieur John. When he entered his mother’s room, and
saw her obviously poisoned, he jumped to the conclusion that
Mademoiselle Cynthia knew something about the matter. He was nearly
driven desperate. First he crushed the coffee-cup to powder under his
feet, remembering that _she_ had gone up with his mother the night
before, and he determined that there should be no chance of testing its
contents. Thenceforward, he strenuously, and quite uselessly, upheld
the theory of ‘Death from natural causes’.”
“And what about the ‘extra coffee-cup’?”
“I was fairly certain that it was Mrs. Cavendish who had hidden it, but
I had to make sure. Monsieur Lawrence did not know at all what I meant;
but, on reflection, he came to the conclusion that if he could find an
extra coffee-cup anywhere his lady love would be cleared of suspicion.
And he was perfectly right.”
“One thing more. What did Mrs. Inglethorp mean by her dying words?”
“They were, of course, an accusation against her husband.”
“Dear me, Poirot,” I said with a sigh, “I think you have explained
everything. I am glad it has all ended so happily. Even John and his
wife are reconciled.”
“Thanks to me.”
“How do you mean—thanks to you?”
“My dear friend, do you not realize that it was simply and solely the
trial which has brought them together again? That John Cavendish still
loved his wife, I was convinced. Also, that she was equally in love
with him. But they had drifted very far apart. It all arose from a
misunderstanding. She married him without love. He knew it. He is a
sensitive man in his way, he would not force himself upon her if she
did not want him. And, as he withdrew, her love awoke. But they are
both unusually proud, and their pride held them inexorably apart. He
drifted into an entanglement with Mrs. Raikes, and she deliberately
cultivated the friendship of Dr. Bauerstein. Do you remember the day of
John Cavendish’s arrest, when you found me deliberating over a big
decision?”
“Yes, I quite understood your distress.”
“Pardon me, _mon ami_, but you did not understand it in the least. I
was trying to decide whether or not I would clear John Cavendish at
once. I could have cleared him—though it might have meant a failure to
convict the real criminals. They were entirely in the dark as to my
real attitude up to the very last moment—which partly accounts for my
success.”
“Do you mean that you could have saved John Cavendish from being
brought to trial?”
“Yes, my friend. But I eventually decided in favour of ‘a woman’s
happiness’. Nothing but the great danger through which they have passed
could have brought these two proud souls together again.”
I looked at Poirot in silent amazement. The colossal cheek of the
little man! Who on earth but Poirot would have thought of a trial for
murder as a restorer of conjugal happiness!
“I perceive your thoughts, _mon ami_,” said Poirot, smiling at me. “No
one but Hercule Poirot would have attempted such a thing! And you are
wrong in condemning it. The happiness of one man and one woman is the
greatest thing in all the world.”
His words took me back to earlier events. I remembered Mary as she lay
white and exhausted on the sofa, listening, listening. There had come
the sound of the bell below. She had started up. Poirot had opened the
door, and meeting her agonized eyes had nodded gently. “Yes, madame,”
he said. “I have brought him back to you.” He had stood aside, and as I
went out I had seen the look in Mary’s eyes, as John Cavendish had
caught his wife in his arms.
“Perhaps you are right, Poirot,” I said gently. “Yes, it is the
greatest thing in the world.”
Suddenly, there was a tap at the door, and Cynthia peeped in.
“I—I only——”
“Come in,” I said, springing up.
She came in, but did not sit down.
“I—only wanted to tell you something——”
“Yes?”
Cynthia fidgeted with a little tassel for some moments, then, suddenly
exclaiming: “You dears!” kissed first me and then Poirot, and rushed
out of the room again.
“What on earth does this mean?” I asked, surprised.
It was very nice to be kissed by Cynthia, but the publicity of the
salute rather impaired the pleasure.
“It means that she has discovered Monsieur Lawrence does not dislike
her as much as she thought,” replied Poirot philosophically.
“But——”
“Here he is.”
Lawrence at that moment passed the door.
“Eh! Monsieur Lawrence,” called Poirot. “We must congratulate you, is
it not so?”
Lawrence blushed, and then smiled awkwardly. A man in love is a sorry
spectacle. Now Cynthia had looked charming.
I sighed.
“What is it, _mon ami?_”
“Nothing,” I said sadly. “They are two delightful women!”
“And neither of them is for you?” finished Poirot. “Never mind. Console
yourself, my friend. We may hunt together again, who knows? And then——”
THE END