The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie (best classic literature TXT) 📖

Inglethorp’s room from that of Mademoiselle Cynthia, it was bolted, you say?”

“Certainly it was bolted,” replied Mary Cavendish, rather surprised. “I said so at the inquest.”

“Bolted?”

“Yes.” She looked perplexed.

“I mean,” explained Poirot, “you are sure it was bolted, and not merely locked?”

“Oh, I see what you mean. No, I don’t know. I said bolted, meaning that it was fastened, and I could not open it, but I believe all the doors were found bolted on the inside.”

“Still, as far as you are concerned, the door might equally well have been locked?”

“Oh, yes.”

“You yourself did not happen to notice, madame, when you entered Mrs. Inglethorp’s room, whether that door was bolted or not?”

“I—I believe it was.”

“But you did not see it?”

“No. I—never looked.”

“But I did,” interrupted Lawrence suddenly. “I happened to notice that it was bolted.”

“Ah, that settles it.” And Poirot looked crestfallen.

I could not help rejoicing that, for once, one of his “little ideas” had come to naught.

After lunch Poirot begged me to accompany him home. I consented rather stiffly.

“You are annoyed, is it not so?” he asked anxiously, as we walked through the park.

“Not at all,” I said coldly.

“That is well. That lifts a great load from my mind.”

This was not quite what I had intended. I had hoped that he would have observed the stiffness of my manner. Still, the fervour of his words went towards the appeasing of my just displeasure. I thawed.

“I gave Lawrence your message,” I said.

“And what did he say? He was entirely puzzled?”

“Yes. I am quite sure he had no idea of what you meant.”

I had expected Poirot to be disappointed; but, to my surprise, he replied that that was as he had thought, and that he was very glad. My pride forbade me to ask any questions.

Poirot switched off on another tack.

“Mademoiselle Cynthia was not at lunch to-day? How was that?”

“She is at the hospital again. She resumed work to-day.”

“Ah, she is an industrious little demoiselle. And pretty too. She is like pictures I have seen in Italy. I would rather like to see that dispensary of hers. Do you think she would show it to me?”

“I am sure she would be delighted. It’s an interesting little place.”

“Does she go there every day?”

“She has all Wednesdays off, and comes back to lunch on Saturdays. Those are her only times off.”

“I will remember. Women are doing great work nowadays, and Mademoiselle Cynthia is clever—oh, yes, she has brains, that little one.”

“Yes. I believe she has passed quite a stiff exam.”

“Without doubt. After all, it is very responsible work. I suppose they have very strong poisons there?”

“Yes, she showed them to us. They are kept locked up in a little cupboard. I believe they have to be very careful. They always take out the key before leaving the room.”

“Indeed. It is near the window, this cupboard?”

“No, right the other side of the room. Why?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“I wondered. That is all. Will you come in?”

We had reached the cottage.

“No. I think I’ll be getting back. I shall go round the long way through the woods.”

The woods round Styles were very beautiful. After the walk across the open park, it was pleasant to saunter lazily through the cool glades. There was hardly a breath of wind, the very chirp of the birds was faint and subdued. I strolled on a little way, and finally flung myself down at the foot of a grand old beech-tree. My thoughts of mankind were kindly and charitable. I even forgave Poirot for his absurd secrecy. In fact, I was at peace with the world. Then I yawned.

I thought about the crime, and it struck me as being very unreal and far off.

I yawned again.

Probably, I thought, it really never happened. Of course, it was all a bad dream. The truth of the matter was that it was Lawrence who had murdered Alfred Inglethorp with a croquet mallet. But it was absurd of John to make such a fuss about it, and to go shouting out: “I tell you I won’t have it!”

I woke up with a start.

At once I realized that I was in a very awkward predicament. For, about twelve feet away from me, John and Mary Cavendish were standing facing each other, and they were evidently quarrelling. And, quite as evidently, they were unaware of my vicinity, for before I could move or speak John repeated the words which had aroused me from my dream.

“I tell you, Mary, I won’t have it.”

Mary’s voice came, cool and liquid:

“Have you any right to criticize my actions?”

“It will be the talk of the village! My mother was only buried on Saturday, and here you are gadding about with the fellow.”

“Oh,” she shrugged her shoulders, “if it is only village gossip that you mind!”

“But it isn’t. I’ve had enough of the fellow hanging about. He’s a Polish Jew, anyway.”

“A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavens the”—she looked at him—“stolid stupidity of the ordinary Englishman.”

Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that the blood rose to John’s face in a crimson tide.

“Mary!”

“Well?” Her tone did not change.

The pleading died out of his voice.

“Am I to understand that you will continue to see Bauerstein against my express wishes?”

“If I choose.”

“You defy me?”

“No, but I deny your right to criticize my actions. Have you no friends of whom I should disapprove?”

John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face.

“What do you mean?” he said, in an unsteady voice.

“You see!” said Mary quietly. “You do see, don’t you, that you have no right to dictate to me as to the choice of my friends?”

John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face.

“No right? Have I no right, Mary?” he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. “Mary——”

For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.

“None!”

She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm.

“Mary”—his voice was very quiet now—“are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?”

She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young about it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled.

She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder.

“Perhaps,” she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone.

Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some dead branches with my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for granted that I had only just come upon the scene.

“Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?”

“He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day.”

“Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!”

“You find it so?” I asked.

“Good Lord, yes! There’s this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box! Never know where they won’t turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the country—damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud’s chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn’t it?”

“Cheer up, John!” I said soothingly. “It can’t last for ever.”

“Can’t it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up our heads again.”

“No, no, you’re getting morbid on the subject.”

“Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there’s worse than that.”

“What?”

John lowered his voice:

“Have you ever thought, Hastings—it’s a nightmare to me—who did it? I can’t help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because—because—who could have done it? Now Inglethorp’s out of the way, there’s no one else; no one, I mean, except—one of us.”

Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be so, unless——-

A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. The light increased. Poirot’s mysterious doings, his hints—they all fitted in. Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, and what a relief for us all.

“No, John,” I said, “it isn’t one of us. How could it be?”

“I know, but, still, who else is there?”

“Can’t you guess?”

“No.”

I looked cautiously round, and lowered my voice.

“Dr. Bauerstein!” I whispered.

“Impossible!”

“Not at all.”

“But what earthly interest could he have in my mother’s death?”

“That I don’t see,” I confessed, “but I’ll tell you this: Poirot thinks so.”

“Poirot? Does he? How do you know?”

I told him of Poirot’s intense excitement on hearing that Dr. Bauerstein had been at Styles on the fatal night, and added:

“He said twice: ‘That alters everything.’ And I’ve been thinking. You know Inglethorp said he had put down the coffee in the hall? Well, it was just then that Bauerstein arrived. Isn’t it possible that, as Inglethorp brought him through the hall, the doctor dropped something into the coffee in passing?”

“H’m,” said John. “It would have been very risky.”

“Yes, but it was possible.”

“And then, how could he know it was her coffee? No, old fellow, I don’t think that will wash.”

But I had remembered something else.

“You’re quite right. That wasn’t how it was done. Listen.” And I then told him of the cocoa sample which Poirot had taken to be analysed.

John interrupted just as I had done.

“But, look here, Bauerstein had had it analysed already?”

“Yes, yes, that’s the point. I didn’t see it either until now. Don’t you understand? Bauerstein had it analysed—that’s just it! If Bauerstein’s the murderer, nothing could be simpler than for him to substitute some ordinary cocoa for his sample, and send that to be tested. And of course they would find no strychnine! But no one would dream of suspecting Bauerstein, or think of taking another sample—except Poirot,” I added, with belated recognition.

“Yes, but what about the bitter taste that cocoa won’t disguise?”

“Well, we’ve only his word for that. And there are other possibilities. He’s admittedly one of the world’s greatest toxicologists——”

“One of the world’s greatest what? Say it again.”

“He knows more about poisons than almost anybody,” I explained. “Well, my idea is, that perhaps he’s found some way of making strychnine tasteless. Or it may not have been strychnine at all, but some obscure drug no one has ever heard of, which produces much the same symptoms.”

“H’m, yes, that might be,” said John. “But look here, how could he have got at the cocoa? That wasn’t downstairs?”

“No, it wasn’t,” I admitted reluctantly.

And then, suddenly, a dreadful possibility flashed through my mind. I hoped and prayed it would not occur to John also. I glanced sideways at him. He was frowning perplexedly, and I drew a deep breath of relief, for the terrible thought that had flashed across my mind was this: that Dr. Bauerstein might have had an accomplice.

Yet surely it could not be! Surely no woman as beautiful as Mary Cavendish could be a murderess. Yet beautiful women had been known to poison.

And suddenly I remembered that first conversation at tea on the day of my arrival, and the gleam in her eyes as she had said that poison was a woman’s weapon. How agitated she had been on that fatal Tuesday evening! Had Mrs. Inglethorp discovered something between her and Bauerstein, and threatened to tell her husband? Was it to stop that denunciation that the crime had been committed?

Then I remembered that enigmatical conversation between Poirot and Evelyn Howard. Was this what they had meant? Was this the monstrous possibility that Evelyn had tried not to believe?

Yes, it all fitted in.

No wonder Miss Howard had suggested “hushing it up.” Now I understood that unfinished sentence of hers: “Emily herself——” And in my heart I agreed with her. Would not Mrs. Inglethorp have preferred to go unavenged rather than have such terrible dishonour fall upon the name of Cavendish.

“There’s another thing,” said John suddenly, and the unexpected sound of his voice made me start guiltily. “Something which makes me doubt if what you say can be true.”

“What’s that?” I asked, thankful that he had gone away from the subject of how the poison could have been introduced into the cocoa.

“Why, the fact that Bauerstein demanded a post-mortem. He needn’t have done so. Little Wilkins would have been quite content to let it go at heart disease.”

“Yes,” I said doubtfully. “But we don’t know. Perhaps he thought it safer in the long run. Someone might have talked afterwards. Then the Home Office might