However, all readers - sooner or later - find for themselves a literary genre that is fundamentally different from all others. The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie (story books to read TXT) 📖
- Author: Agatha Christie
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Book online «The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie (story books to read TXT) 📖». Author Agatha Christie
“Oh, I see. How about John?”
“No, I think not.”
“The dear fellow isn’t perhaps very bright,” I said thoughtfully.
“Here comes Miss Howard,” said Poirot suddenly. “She is the very person. But I am in her black books, since I cleared Mr. Inglethorp. Still, we can but try.”
With a nod that was barely civil, Miss Howard assented to Poirot’s request for a few minutes’ conversation.
We went into the little morning-room, and Poirot closed the door.
“Well, Monsieur Poirot,” said Miss Howard impatiently, “what is it? Out with it. I’m busy.”
“Do you remember, mademoiselle, that I once asked you to help me?”
“Yes, I do.” The lady nodded. “And I told you I’d help you with pleasure—to hang Alfred Inglethorp.”
“Ah!” Poirot studied her seriously. “Miss Howard, I will ask you one question. I beg of you to reply to it truthfully.”
“Never tell lies,” replied Miss Howard.
“It is this. Do you still believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?”
“What do you mean?” she asked sharply. “You needn’t think your pretty explanations influence me in the slightest. I’ll admit that it wasn’t he who bought strychnine at the chemist’s shop. What of that? I dare say he soaked fly paper, as I told you at the beginning.”
“That is arsenic—not strychnine,” said Poirot mildly.
“What does that matter? Arsenic would put poor Emily out of the way just as well as strychnine. If I’m convinced he did it, it doesn’t matter a jot to me how he did it.”
“Exactly. If you are convinced he did it,” said Poirot quietly. “I will put my question in another form. Did you ever in your heart of hearts believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?”
“Good heavens!” cried Miss Howard. “Haven’t I always told you the man is a villain? Haven’t I always told you he would murder her in her bed? Haven’t I always hated him like poison?”
“Exactly,” said Poirot. “That bears out my little idea entirely.”
“What little idea?”
“Miss Howard, do you remember a conversation that took place on the day of my friend’s arrival here? He repeated it to me, and there is a sentence of yours that has impressed me very much. Do you remember affirming that if a crime had been committed, and anyone you loved had been murdered, you felt certain that you would know by instinct who the criminal was, even if you were quite unable to prove it?”
“Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I suppose you think it nonsense?”
“Not at all.”
“And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp.”
“No,” said Poirot curtly. “Because your instinct is not against Mr. Inglethorp.”
“What?”
“No. You wish to believe he committed the crime. You believe him capable of committing it. But your instinct tells you he did not commit it. It tells you more—shall I go on?”
She was staring at him, fascinated, and made a slight affirmative movement of the hand.
“Shall I tell you why you have been so vehement against Mr. Inglethorp? It is because you have been trying to believe what you wish to believe. It is because you are trying to drown and stifle your instinct, which tells you another name–-”
“No, no, no!” cried Miss Howard wildly, flinging up her hands. “Don’t say it! Oh, don’t say it! It isn’t true! It can’t be true. I don’t know what put such a wild—such a dreadful—idea into my head!”
“I am right, am I not?” asked Poirot.
“Yes, yes; you must be a wizard to have guessed. But it can’t be so—it’s too monstrous, too impossible. It must be Alfred Inglethorp.”
Poirot shook his head gravely.
“Don’t ask me about it,” continued Miss Howard, “because I shan’t tell you. I won’t admit it, even to myself. I must be mad to think of such a thing.”
Poirot nodded, as if satisfied.
“I will ask you nothing. It is enough for me that it is as I thought. And I—I, too, have an instinct. We are working together towards a common end.”
“Don’t ask me to help you, because I won’t. I wouldn’t lift a finger to—to–-” She faltered.
“You will help me in spite of yourself. I ask you nothing—but you will be my ally. You will not be able to help yourself. You will do the only thing that I want of you.”
“And that is?”
“You will watch!”
Evelyn Howard bowed her head.
“Yes, I can’t help doing that. I am always watching—always hoping I shall be proved wrong.”
“If we are wrong, well and good,” said Poirot. “No one will be more pleased than I shall. But, if we are right? If we are right, Miss Howard, on whose side are you then?”
“I don’t know, I don’t know–-”
“Come now.”
“It could be hushed up.”
“There must be no hushing up.”
“But Emily herself–-” She broke off.
“Miss Howard,” said Poirot gravely, “this is unworthy of you.”
Suddenly she took her face from her hands.
“Yes,” she said quietly, “that was not Evelyn Howard who spoke!” She flung her head up proudly. “This is Evelyn Howard! And she is on the side of Justice! Let the cost be what it may.” And with these words, she walked firmly out of the room.
“There,” said Poirot, looking after her, “goes a very valuable ally. That woman, Hastings, has got brains as well as a heart.”
I did not reply.
“Instinct is a marvellous thing,” mused Poirot. “It can neither be explained nor ignored.”
“You and Miss Howard seem to know what you are talking about,” I observed coldly. “Perhaps you don’t realize that I am still in the dark.”
“Really? Is that so, mon ami?”
“Yes. Enlighten me, will you?”
Poirot studied me attentively for a moment or two. Then, to my intense surprise, he shook his head decidedly.
“No, my friend.”
“Oh, look here, why not?”
“Two is enough for a secret.”
“Well, I think it is very unfair to keep back facts from me.”
“I am not keeping back facts. Every fact that I know is in your possession. You can draw your own deductions from them. This time it is a question of ideas.”
“Still, it would be interesting to know.”
Poirot looked at me very earnestly, and again shook his head.
“You see,” he said sadly, “you have no instincts.”
“It was intelligence you were requiring just now,” I pointed out.
“The two often go together,” said Poirot enigmatically.
The remark seemed so utterly irrelevant that I did not even take the trouble to answer it. But I decided that if I made any interesting and important discoveries—as no doubt I should—I would keep them to myself, and surprise Poirot with the ultimate result.
There are times when it is one’s duty to assert oneself.
DR. BAUERSTEIN
I HAD had no opportunity as yet of passing on Poirot’s message to Lawrence. But now, as I strolled out on the lawn, still nursing a grudge against my friend’s high-handedness, I saw Lawrence on the croquet lawn, aimlessly knocking a couple of very ancient balls about, with a still more ancient mallet.
It struck me that it would be a good opportunity to deliver my message. Otherwise, Poirot himself might relieve me of it. It was true that I did not quite gather its purport, but I flattered myself that by Lawrence’s reply, and perhaps a little skillful cross-examination on my part, I should soon perceive its significance. Accordingly I accosted him.
“I’ve been looking for you,” I remarked untruthfully.
“Have you?”
“Yes. The truth is, I’ve got a message for you—from Poirot.”
“Yes?”
“He told me to wait until I was alone with you,” I said, dropping my voice significantly, and watching him intently out of the corner of my eye. I have always been rather good at what is called, I believe, creating an atmosphere.
“Well?”
There was no change of expression in the dark melancholic face. Had he any idea of what I was about to say?
“This is the message.” I dropped my voice still lower. ” ‘Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.’ “
“What on earth does he mean?” Lawrence stared at me in quite unaffected astonishment.
“Don’t you know?”
“Not in the least. Do you?”
I was compelled to shake my head.
“What extra coffee-cup?”
“I don’t know.”
“He’d better ask Dorcas, or one of the maids, if he wants to know about coffee-cups. It’s their business, not mine. I don’t know anything about the coffee-cups, except that we’ve got some that are never used, which are a perfect dream! Old Worcester. You’re not a connoisseur, are you, Hastings?”
I shook my head.
“You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china—it’s pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it.”
“Well, what am I to tell Poirot?”
“Tell him I don’t know what he’s talking about. It’s double Dutch to me.”
“All right.”
I was moving off towards the house again when he suddenly called me back.
“I say, what was the end of that message? Say it over again, will you?”
” ‘Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.’ Are you sure you don’t know what it means?” I asked him earnestly.
He shook his head.
“No,” he said musingly, “I don’t. I—I wish I did.”
The boom of the gong sounded from the house, and we went in together. Poirot had been asked by John to remain to lunch, and was already seated at the table.
By tacit consent, all mention of the tragedy was barred. We conversed on the war, and other outside topics. But after the cheese and biscuits had been handed round, and Dorcas had left the room, Poirot suddenly leant forward to Mrs. Cavendish.
“Pardon me, madame, for recalling unpleasant memories, but I have a little idea”—Poirot’s “little ideas” were becoming a perfect byword—“and would like to ask one or two questions.”
“Of me? Certainly.”
“You are too amiable, madame. What I want to ask is this: the door leading into Mrs. 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
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