The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie (story books to read TXT) đ
- Author: Agatha Christie
- Performer: 1579126227
Book online «The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie (story books to read TXT) đ». Author Agatha Christie
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.
âMademoiselle Cynthia was not at lunch to-day? How was that?â
âShe is at the hospital again. She resumed work to-day.â
âAh, 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?â
âI am sure she would be delighted. Itâs an interesting little place.â
âDoes she go there every day?â
âShe has all Wednesdays off, and comes back to lunch on Saturdays. Those are her only times off.â
âI will remember. Women are doing great work nowadays, and Mademoiselle Cynthia is cleverâoh, yes, she has brains, that little one.â
âYes. I believe she has passed quite a stiff exam.â
âWithout doubt. After all, it is very responsible work. I suppose they have very strong poisons there?â
âYes, 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.â
âIndeed. It is near the window, this cupboard?â
âNo, right the other side of the room. Why?â
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
âI wondered. That is all. Will you come in?â
We had reached the cottage.
âNo. I think Iâll be getting back. I shall go round the long way through the woods.â
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: âI tell you I wonât have it!â
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.
âI tell you, Mary, I wonât have it.â
Maryâs voice came, cool and liquid:
âHave you any right to criticize my actions?â
âIt will be the talk of the village! My mother was only buried on Saturday, and here you are gadding about with the fellow.â
âOh,â she shrugged her shoulders, âif it is only village gossip that you mind!â
âBut it isnât. Iâve had enough of the fellow hanging about. Heâs a Polish Jew, anyway.â
âA tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavens theââshe looked at himââstolid stupidity of the ordinary Englishman.â
Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that the blood rose to Johnâs face in a crimson tide.
âMary!â
âWell?â Her tone did not change.
The pleading died out of his voice.
âAm I to understand that you will continue to see Bauerstein against my express wishes?â
âIf I choose.â
âYou defy me?â
âNo, but I deny your right to criticize my actions. Have you no friends of whom I should disapprove?â
John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face.
âWhat do you mean?â he said, in an unsteady voice.
âYou see!â said Mary quietly. âYou do see, donât you, that you have no right to dictate to me as to the choice of my friends?â
John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face.
âNo right? Have I no right, Mary?â he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. âMaryâ-â
For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.
âNone!â
She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm.
âMaryââhis voice was very quiet nowââare you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?â
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.
âPerhaps,â 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.
âHullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?â
âHe was considered one of the finest detectives of his day.â
âOh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!â
âYou find it so?â I asked.
âGood Lord, yes! Thereâs 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 wonât turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the countryâdamn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaudâs chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isnât it?â
âCheer up, John!â I said soothingly. âIt canât last for ever.â
âCanât it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up our heads again.â
âNo, no, youâre getting morbid on the subject.â
âEnough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But thereâs worse than that.â
âWhat?â
John lowered his voice:
âHave you ever thought, Hastingsâitâs a nightmare to meâwho did it? I canât help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Becauseâbecauseâwho could have done it? Now Inglethorpâs out of the way, thereâs no one else; no one, I mean, exceptâone of us.â
Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be so, unlessââ
A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. The light increased. Poirotâs mysterious doings, his hintsâthey all fitted in. Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, and what a relief for us all.
âNo, John,â I said, âit isnât one of us. How could it be?â
âI know, but, still, who else is there?â
âCanât you guess?â
âNo.â
I looked cautiously round, and lowered my voice.
âDr. Bauerstein!â I whispered.
âImpossible!â
âNot at all.â
âBut what earthly interest could he have in my motherâs death?â
âThat I donât see,â I confessed, âbut Iâll tell you this: Poirot thinks so.â
âPoirot? Does he? How do you know?â
I told him of Poirotâs intense excitement on hearing that Dr. Bauerstein had been at Styles on the fatal night, and added:
âHe said twice: âThat alters everything.â And Iâve been thinking. You know Inglethorp said he had put down the coffee in the hall? Well, it was just then that Bauerstein arrived. Isnât it possible that, as Inglethorp brought him through the hall, the doctor dropped something into the coffee in passing?â
âHâm,â said John. âIt would have been very risky.â
âYes, but it was possible.â
âAnd then, how could he know it was her coffee? No, old fellow, I donât think that will wash.â
But I had remembered something else.
âYouâre quite right. That wasnât how it was done. Listen.â And I then told him of the coco sample which Poirot had taken to be analysed.
John interrupted just as I had done.
âBut, look here, Bauerstein had had it analysed already?â
âYes, yes, thatâs the point. I didnât see it either until now. Donât you understand? Bauerstein had it analysedâthatâs just it! If Bauersteinâs the murderer, nothing could be simpler than for him to substitute some ordinary coco 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 sampleâexcept Poirot,â I added, with belated recognition.
âYes, but what about the bitter taste that coco wonât disguise?â
âWell, weâve only his word for that. And there are other possibilities. Heâs admittedly one of the worldâs greatest toxicologistsâ-â
âOne of the worldâs greatest what? Say it again.â
âHe knows more about poisons than almost anybody,â I explained. âWell, my idea is, that perhaps heâs 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.â
âHâm, yes, that might be,â said John. âBut look here, how could he have got at the coco? That wasnât downstairs?â
âNo, it wasnât,â 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 womanâs 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 âhushing it up.â Now I understood that unfinished sentence of hers: âEmily herselfâ-â 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.
âThereâs another thing,â said John suddenly, and the unexpected sound of his voice made me start guiltily. âSomething which makes me doubt if what you say can be true.â
âWhatâs that?â I asked, thankful that he had gone away from the subject of how the poison could have been introduced into the coco.
âWhy, the fact that Bauerstein demanded a postmortem. He neednât have done so. Little Wilkins would have been quite content to let it go at heart disease.â
âYes,â I said doubtfully. âBut we donât know. Perhaps he thought it safer in the long run. Some one might have talked afterwards. Then the Home Office might have ordered exhumation. The whole thing would have come out, then, and he would have been in an awkward position, for no one would
Comments (0)