The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie (story books to read TXT) đ
- Author: Agatha Christie
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Dr. Bauerstein, I noticed, was watching the local doctor narrowly. He still kept his eyes fixed on him as he spoke.
âThe convulsions were of a peculiar violence, Dr. Wilkins. I am sorry you were not here in time to witness them. They were quiteâtetanic in character.â
âAh!â said Dr. Wilkins wisely.
âI should like to speak to you in private,â said Dr. Bauerstein. He turned to John. âYou do not object?â
âCertainly not.â
We all trooped out into the corridor, leaving the two doctors alone, and I heard the key turned in the lock behind us.
We went slowly down the stairs. I was violently excited. I have a certain talent for deduction, and Dr. Bauersteinâs manner had started a flock of wild surmises in my mind. Mary Cavendish laid her hand upon my arm.
âWhat is it? Why did Dr. Bauerstein seem soâpeculiar?â
I looked at her.
âDo you know what I think?â
âWhat?â
âListen!â I looked round, the others were out of earshot. I lowered my voice to a whisper. âI believe she has been poisoned! Iâm certain Dr. Bauerstein suspects it.â
âWhat?â She shrank against the wall, the pupils of her eyes dilating wildly. Then, with a sudden cry that startled me, she cried out: âNo, noânot thatânot that!â And breaking from me, fled up the stairs. I followed her, afraid that she was going to faint. I found her leaning against the bannisters, deadly pale. She waved me away impatiently.
âNo, noâleave me. Iâd rather be alone. Let me just be quiet for a minute or two. Go down to the others.â
I obeyed her reluctantly. John and Lawrence were in the dining-room. I joined them. We were all silent, but I suppose I voiced the thoughts of us all when I at last broke it by saying:
âWhere is Mr. Inglethorp?â
John shook his head.
âHeâs not in the house.â
Our eyes met. Where was Alfred Inglethorp? His absence was strange and inexplicable. I remembered Mrs. Inglethorpâs dying words. What lay beneath them? What more could she have told us, if she had had time?
At last we heard the doctors descending the stairs. Dr. Wilkins was looking important and excited, and trying to conceal an inward exultation under a manner of decorous calm. Dr. Bauerstein remained in the background, his grave bearded face unchanged. Dr. Wilkins was the spokesman for the two. He addressed himself to John:
âMr. Cavendish, I should like your consent to a postmortem.â
âIs that necessary?â asked John gravely. A spasm of pain crossed his face.
âAbsolutely,â said Dr. Bauerstein.
âYou mean by thatâ-?â
âThat neither Dr. Wilkins nor myself could give a death certificate under the circumstances.â
John bent his head.
âIn that case, I have no alternative but to agree.â
âThank you,â said Dr. Wilkins briskly. âWe propose that it should take place to-morrow nightâor rather to-night.â And he glanced at the daylight. âUnder the circumstances, I am afraid an inquest can hardly be avoidedâthese formalities are necessary, but I beg that you wonât distress yourselves.â
There was a pause, and then Dr. Bauerstein drew two keys from his pocket, and handed them to John.
âThese are the keys of the two rooms. I have locked them and, in my opinion, they would be better kept locked for the present.â
The doctors then departed.
I had been turning over an idea in my head, and I felt that the moment had now come to broach it. Yet I was a little chary of doing so. John, I knew, had a horror of any kind of publicity, and was an easygoing optimist, who preferred never to meet trouble half-way. It might be difficult to convince him of the soundness of my plan. Lawrence, on the other hand, being less conventional, and having more imagination, I felt I might count upon as an ally. There was no doubt that the moment had come for me to take the lead.
âJohn,â I said, âI am going to ask you something.â
âWell?â
âYou remember my speaking of my friend Poirot? The Belgian who is here? He has been a most famous detective.â
âYes.â
âI want you to let me call him inâto investigate this matter.â
âWhatânow? Before the postmortem?â
âYes, time is an advantage ifâifâthere has been foul play.â
âRubbish!â cried Lawrence angrily. âIn my opinion the whole thing is a mareâs nest of Bauersteinâs! Wilkins hadnât an idea of such a thing, until Bauerstein put it into his head. But, like all specialists, Bauersteinâs got a bee in his bonnet. Poisons are his hobby, so of course he sees them everywhere.â
I confess that I was surprised by Lawrenceâs attitude. He was so seldom vehement about anything.
John hesitated.
âI canât feel as you do, Lawrence,â he said at last. âIâm inclined to give Hastings a free hand, though I should prefer to wait a bit. We donât want any unnecessary scandal.â
âNo, no,â I cried eagerly, âyou need have no fear of that. Poirot is discretion itself.â
âVery well, then, have it your own way. I leave it in your hands. Though, if it is as we suspect, it seems a clear enough case. God forgive me if I am wronging him!â
I looked at my watch. It was six oâclock. I determined to lose no time.
Five minutesâ delay, however, I allowed myself. I spent it in ransacking the library until I discovered a medical book which gave a description of strychnine poisoning.
CHAPTER IV.
POIROT INVESTIGATESThe house which the Belgians occupied in the village was quite close to the park gates. One could save time by taking a narrow path through the long grass, which cut off the detours of the winding drive. So I, accordingly, went that way. I had nearly reached the lodge, when my attention was arrested by the running figure of a man approaching me. It was Mr. Inglethorp. Where had he been? How did he intend to explain his absence?
He accosted me eagerly.
âMy God! This is terrible! My poor wife! I have only just heard.â
âWhere have you been?â I asked.
âDenby kept me late last night. It was one oâclock before weâd finished. Then I found that Iâd forgotten the latch-key after all. I didnât want to arouse the household, so Denby gave me a bed.â
âHow did you hear the news?â I asked.
âWilkins knocked Denby up to tell him. My poor Emily! She was so self-sacrificingâsuch a noble character. She over-taxed her strength.â
A wave of revulsion swept over me. What a consummate hypocrite the man was!
âI must hurry on,â I said, thankful that he did not ask me whither I was bound.
In a few minutes I was knocking at the door of Leastways Cottage.
Getting no answer, I repeated my summons impatiently. A window above me was cautiously opened, and Poirot himself looked out.
He gave an exclamation of surprise at seeing me. In a few brief words, I explained the tragedy that had occurred, and that I wanted his help.
âWait, my friend, I will let you in, and you shall recount to me the affair whilst I dress.â
In a few moments he had unbarred the door, and I followed him up to his room. There he installed me in a chair, and I related the whole story, keeping back nothing, and omitting no circumstance, however insignificant, whilst he himself made a careful and deliberate toilet.
I told him of my awakening, of Mrs. Inglethorpâs dying words, of her husbandâs absence, of the quarrel the day before, of the scrap of conversation between Mary and her mother-in-law that I had overheard, of the former quarrel between Mrs. Inglethorp and Evelyn Howard, and of the latterâs innuendoes.
I was hardly as clear as I could wish. I repeated myself several times, and occasionally had to go back to some detail that I had forgotten. Poirot smiled kindly on me.
âThe mind is confused? Is it not so? Take time, mon ami. You are agitated; you are excitedâit is but natural. Presently, when we are calmer, we will arrange the facts, neatly, each in his proper place. We will examineâand reject. Those of importance we will put on one side; those of no importance, pouf!ââhe screwed up his cherub-like face, and puffed comically enoughââblow them away!â
âThatâs all very well,â I objected, âbut how are you going to decide what is important, and what isnât? That always seems the difficulty to me.â
Poirot shook his head energetically. He was now arranging his moustache with exquisite care.
âNot so. Voyons! One fact leads to anotherâso we continue. Does the next fit in with that? A merveille! Good! We can proceed. This next little factâno! Ah, that is curious! There is something missingâa link in the chain that is not there. We examine. We search. And that little curious fact, that possibly paltry little detail that will not tally, we put it here!â He made an extravagant gesture with his hand. âIt is significant! It is tremendous!â
âYâesââ
âAh!â Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely at me that I quailed before it. âBeware! Peril to the detective who says: âIt is so smallâit does not matter. It will not agree. I will forget it.â That way lies confusion! Everything matters.â
âI know. You always told me that. Thatâs why I have gone into all the details of this thing whether they seemed to me relevant or not.â
âAnd I am pleased with you. You have a good memory, and you have given me the facts faithfully. Of the order in which you present them, I say nothingâtruly, it is deplorable! But I make allowancesâyou are upset. To that I attribute the circumstance that you have omitted one fact of paramount importance.â
âWhat is that?â I asked.
âYou have not told me if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night.â
I stared at him. Surely the war had affected the little manâs brain. He was carefully engaged in brushing his coat before putting it on, and seemed wholly engrossed in the task.
âI donât remember,â I said. âAnd, anyway, I donât seeâ-â
âYou do not see? But it is of the first importance.â
âI canât see why,â I said, rather nettled. âAs far as I can remember, she didnât eat much. She was obviously upset, and it had taken her appetite away. That was only natural.â
âYes,â said Poirot thoughtfully, âit was only natural.â
He opened a drawer, and took out a small despatch-case, then turned to me.
âNow I am ready. We will proceed to the chateau, and study matters on the spot. Excuse me, mon ami, you dressed in haste, and your tie is on one side. Permit me.â With a deft gesture, he rearranged it.
âCa y est! Now, shall we start?â
We hurried up the village, and turned in at the lodge gates. Poirot stopped for a moment, and gazed sorrowfully over the beautiful expanse of park, still glittering with morning dew.
âSo beautiful, so beautiful, and yet, the poor family, plunged in sorrow, prostrated with grief.â
He looked at me keenly as he spoke, and I was aware that I reddened under his prolonged gaze.
Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs. Inglethorpâs death so great? I realized that there was an emotional lack in the atmosphere. The dead woman had not the gift of commanding love. Her death was a shock and a distress, but she would not be passionately regretted.
Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded his head gravely.
âNo, you are right,â he said, âit is not as though there was a blood tie. She has been kind and generous to these
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