The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie (story books to read TXT) đ
- Author: Agatha Christie
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âWell?â
âWell, he did, sir.â
âAnd what happened next?â
âWe went on with the begonias, sir.â
âDid not Mrs. Inglethorp call you again?â
âYes, sir, both me and Willum, she called.â
âAnd then?â
âShe made us come right in, and sign our names at the bottom of a long paperâunder where sheâd signed.â
âDid you see anything of what was written above her signature?â asked Poirot sharply.
âNo, sir, there was a bit of blotting paper over that part.â
âAnd you signed where she told you?â
âYes, sir, first me and then Willum.â
âWhat did she do with it afterwards?â
âWell, sir, she slipped it into a long envelope, and put it inside a sort of purple box that was standing on the desk.â
âWhat time was it when she first called you?â
âAbout four, I should say, sir.â
âNot earlier? Couldnât it have been about half-past three?â
âNo, I shouldnât say so, sir. It would be more likely to be a bit after fourânot before it.â
âThank you, Manning, that will do,â said Poirot pleasantly.
The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manning lifted a finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backed cautiously out of the window.
We all looked at each other.
âGood heavens!â murmured John. âWhat an extraordinary coincidence.â
âHowâa coincidence?â
âThat my mother should have made a will on the very day of her death!â
Mr. Wells cleared his throat and remarked drily:
âAre you so sure it is a coincidence, Cavendish?â
âWhat do you mean?â
âYour mother, you tell me, had a violent quarrel withâsome one yesterday afternoonâ-â
âWhat do you mean?â cried John again. There was a tremor in his voice, and he had gone very pale.
âIn consequence of that quarrel, your mother very suddenly and hurriedly makes a new will. The contents of that will we shall never know. She told no one of its provisions. This morning, no doubt, she would have consulted me on the subjectâbut she had no chance. The will disappears, and she takes its secret with her to her grave. Cavendish, I much fear there is no coincidence there. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that the facts are very suggestive.â
âSuggestive, or not,â interrupted John, âwe are most grateful to Monsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we should never have known of this will. I suppose, I may not ask you, monsieur, what first led you to suspect the fact?â
Poirot smiled and answered:
âA scribbled over old envelope, and a freshly planted bed of begonias.â
John, I think, would have pressed his questions further, but at that moment the loud purr of a motor was audible, and we all turned to the window as it swept past.
âEvie!â cried John. âExcuse me, Wells.â He went hurriedly out into the hall.
Poirot looked inquiringly at me.
âMiss Howard,â I explained.
âAh, I am glad she has come. There is a woman with a head and a heart too, Hastings. Though the good God gave her no beauty!â
I followed Johnâs example, and went out into the hall, where Miss Howard was endeavouring to extricate herself from the voluminous mass of veils that enveloped her head. As her eyes fell on me, a sudden pang of guilt shot through me. This was the woman who had warned me so earnestly, and to whose warning I had, alas, paid no heed! How soon, and how contemptuously, I had dismissed it from my mind. Now that she had been proved justified in so tragic a manner, I felt ashamed. She had known Alfred Inglethorp only too well. I wondered whether, if she had remained at Styles, the tragedy would have taken place, or would the man have feared her watchful eyes?
I was relieved when she shook me by the hand, with her well remembered painful grip. The eyes that met mine were sad, but not reproachful; that she had been crying bitterly, I could tell by the redness of her eyelids, but her manner was unchanged from its old gruffness.
âStarted the moment I got the wire. Just come off night duty. Hired car. Quickest way to get here.â
âHave you had anything to eat this morning, Evie?â asked John.
âNo.â
âI thought not. Come along, breakfastâs not cleared away yet, and theyâll make you some fresh tea.â He turned to me. âLook after her, Hastings, will you? Wells is waiting for me. Oh, hereâs Monsieur Poirot. Heâs helping us, you know, Evie.â
Miss Howard shook hands with Poirot, but glanced suspiciously over her shoulder at John.
âWhat do you meanâhelping us?â
âHelping us to investigate.â
âNothing to investigate. Have they taken him to prison yet?â
âTaken who to prison?â
âWho? Alfred Inglethorp, of course!â
âMy dear Evie, do be careful. Lawrence is of the opinion that my mother died from heart seizure.â
âMore fool, Lawrence!â retorted Miss Howard. âOf course Alfred Inglethorp murdered poor Emilyâas I always told you he would.â
âMy dear Evie, donât shout so. Whatever we may think or suspect, it is better to say as little as possible for the present. The inquest isnât until Friday.â
âNot until fiddlesticks!â The snort Miss Howard gave was truly magnificent. âYouâre all off your heads. The man will be out of the country by then. If heâs any sense, he wonât stay here tamely and wait to be hanged.â
John Cavendish looked at her helplessly.
âI know what it is,â she accused him, âyouâve been listening to the doctors. Never should. What do they know? Nothing at allâor just enough to make them dangerous. I ought to knowâmy own father was a doctor. That little Wilkins is about the greatest fool that even I have ever seen. Heart seizure! Sort of thing he would say. Anyone with any sense could see at once that her husband had poisoned her. I always said heâd murder her in her bed, poor soul. Now heâs done it. And all you can do is to murmur silly things about âheart seizureâ and âinquest on Friday.â You ought to be ashamed of yourself, John Cavendish.â
âWhat do you want me to do?â asked John, unable to help a faint smile. âDash it all, Evie, I canât haul him down to the local police station by the scruff of his neck.â
âWell, you might do something. Find out how he did it. Heâs a crafty beggar. Dare say he soaked fly papers. Ask Cook if sheâs missed any.â
It occurred to me very forcibly at that moment that to harbour Miss Howard and Alfred Inglethorp under the same roof, and keep the peace between them, was likely to prove a Herculean task, and I did not envy John. I could see by the expression of his face that he fully appreciated the difficulty of the position. For the moment, he sought refuge in retreat, and left the room precipitately.
Dorcas brought in fresh tea. As she left the room, Poirot came over from the window where he had been standing, and sat down facing Miss Howard.
âMademoiselle,â he said gravely, âI want to ask you something.â
âAsk away,â said the lady, eyeing him with some disfavour.
âI want to be able to count upon your help.â
âIâll help you to hang Alfred with pleasure,â she replied gruffly. âHangingâs too good for him. Ought to be drawn and quartered, like in good old times.â
âWe are at one then,â said Poirot, âfor I, too, want to hang the criminal.â
âAlfred Inglethorp?â
âHim, or another.â
âNo question of another. Poor Emily was never murdered until he came along. I donât say she wasnât surrounded by sharksâshe was. But it was only her purse they were after. Her life was safe enough. But along comes Mr. Alfred Inglethorpâand within two monthsâhey presto!â
âBelieve me, Miss Howard,â said Poirot very earnestly, âif Mr. Inglethorp is the man, he shall not escape me. On my honour, I will hang him as high as Haman!â
âThatâs better,â said Miss Howard more enthusiastically.
âBut I must ask you to trust me. Now your help may be very valuable to me. I will tell you why. Because, in all this house of mourning, yours are the only eyes that have wept.â
Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into the gruffness of her voice.
âIf you mean that I was fond of herâyes, I was. You know, Emily was a selfish old woman in her way. She was very generous, but she always wanted a return. She never let people forget what she had done for themâand, that way she missed love. Donât think she ever realized it, though, or felt the lack of it. Hope not, anyway. I was on a different footing. I took my stand from the first. âSo many pounds a year Iâm worth to you. Well and good. But not a penny piece besidesânot a pair of gloves, nor a theatre ticket.â She didnât understandâwas very offended sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasnât thatâbut I couldnât explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, out of the whole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to be fond of her. I watched over her. I guarded her from the lot of them, and then a glib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh! all my years of devotion go for nothing.â
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
âI understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It is most natural. You think that we are lukewarmâthat we lack fire and energyâbut trust me, it is not so.â
John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both to come up to Mrs. Inglethorpâs room, as he and Mr. Wells had finished looking through the desk in the boudoir.
As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining-room door, and lowered his voice confidentially:
âLook here, whatâs going to happen when these two meet?â
I shook my head helplessly.
âIâve told Mary to keep them apart if she can.â
âWill she be able to do so?â
âThe Lord only knows. Thereâs one thing, Inglethorp himself wonât be too keen on meeting her.â
âYouâve got the keys still, havenât you, Poirot?â I asked, as we reached the door of the locked room.
Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it, and we all passed in. The lawyer went straight to the desk, and John followed him.
âMy mother kept most of her important papers in this despatch-case, I believe,â he said.
Poirot drew out the small bunch of keys.
âPermit me. I locked it, out of precaution, this morning.â
âBut itâs not locked now.â
âImpossible!â
âSee.â And John lifted the lid as he spoke.
âMilles tonnerres!â cried Poirot, dumfounded. âAnd Iâwho have both the keys in my pocket!â He flung himself upon the case. Suddenly he stiffened. âEn voila une affaire! This lock has been forced.â
âWhat?â
Poirot laid down the case again.
âBut who forced it? Why should they? When? But the door was locked?â These exclamations burst from us disjointedly.
Poirot answered them categoricallyâalmost mechanically.
âWho? That is the question. Why? Ah, if I only knew. When? Since I was here an hour ago. As to the door being locked, it is a very ordinary lock. Probably any other of the doorkeys in this passage would fit it.â
We stared at one another blankly. Poirot had walked over to the mantelpiece. He was outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands, which from long force of habit were mechanically straightening the spill vases on the mantelpiece, were shaking violently.
âSee here, it was like this,â he said at last. âThere was something in that caseâsome piece of evidence, slight in itself perhaps, but still enough of a clue to connect the murderer with the crime. It was vital to him that it should be
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