The Mysterious Affair at Styles Agatha Christie (romance novel chinese novels txt) 📖

of whispering to Poirot:

“There will be an inquest then?”

Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so that my curiosity was aroused.

“What is it? You are not attending to what I say.”

“It is true, my friend. I am much worried.”

“Why?”

“Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee.”

“What? You cannot be serious?”

“But I am most serious. Ah, there is something there that I do not understand. My instinct was right.”

“What instinct?”

“The instinct that led me to insist on examining those coffee-cups. Chut! no more now!”

We followed John into his study, and he closed the door behind us.

Mr. Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with keen eyes, and the typical lawyer’s mouth. John introduced us both, and explained the reason of our presence.

“You will understand, Wells,” he added, “that this is all strictly private. We are still hoping that there will turn out to be no need for investigation of any kind.”

“Quite so, quite so,” said Mr. Wells soothingly. “I wish we could have spared you the pain and publicity of an inquest, but of course it’s quite unavoidable in the absence of a doctor’s certificate.”

“Yes, I suppose so.”

“Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe.”

“Indeed,” said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Then he added rather hesitatingly: “Shall we have to appear as witnesses⁠—all of us, I mean?”

“You, of course⁠—and ah⁠—er⁠—Mr.⁠—er⁠—Inglethorp.”

A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner:

“Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form.”

“I see.”

A faint expression of relief swept over John’s face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it.

“If you know of nothing to the contrary,” pursued Mr. Wells, “I had thought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor’s report. The postmortem is to take place tonight, I believe?”

“Yes.”

“Then that arrangement will suit you?”

“Perfectly.”

“I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most tragic affair.”

“Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?” interposed Poirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered the room.

“I?”

“Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning.”

“I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great importance.”

“She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?”

“Unfortunately, no.”

“That is a pity,” said John.

“A great pity,” agreed Poirot gravely.

There was silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes. Finally he turned to the lawyer again.

“Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you⁠—that is, if it is not against professional etiquette. In the event of Mrs. Inglethorp’s death, who would inherit her money?”

The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied:

“The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr. Cavendish does not object⁠—”

“Not at all,” interpolated John.

“I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. By her last will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legacies to servants, etc., she gave her entire fortune to her stepson, Mr. John Cavendish.”

“Was not that⁠—pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish⁠—rather unfair to her other stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?”

“No, I do not think so. You see, under the terms of their father’s will, while John inherited the property, Lawrence, at his stepmother’s death, would come into a considerable sum of money. Mrs. Inglethorp left her money to her elder stepson, knowing that he would have to keep up Styles. It was, to my mind, a very fair and equitable distribution.”

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

“I see. But I am right in saying, am I not, that by your English law that will was automatically revoked when Mrs. Inglethorp remarried?”

Mr. Wells bowed his head.

“As I was about to proceed, Monsieur Poirot, that document is now null and void.”

“Hein!” said Poirot. He reflected for a moment, and then asked: “Was Mrs. Inglethorp herself aware of that fact?”

“I do not know. She may have been.”

“She was,” said John unexpectedly. “We were discussing the matter of wills being revoked by marriage only yesterday.”

“Ah! One more question, Mr. Wells. You say ‘her last will.’ Had Mrs. Inglethorp, then, made several former wills?”

“On an average, she made a new will at least once a year,” said Mr. Wells imperturbably. “She was given to changing her mind as to her testamentary dispositions, now benefiting one, now another member of her family.”

“Suppose,” suggested Poirot, “that, unknown to you, she had made a new will in favour of someone who was not, in any sense of the word, a member of the family⁠—we will say Miss Howard, for instance⁠—would you be surprised?”

“Not in the least.”

“Ah!” Poirot seemed to have exhausted his questions.

I drew close to him, while John and the lawyer were debating the question of going through Mrs. Inglethorp’s papers.

“Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp made a will leaving all her money to Miss Howard?” I asked in a low voice, with some curiosity.

Poirot smiled.

“No.”

“Then why did you ask?”

“Hush!”

John Cavendish had turned to Poirot.

“Will you come with us, Monsieur Poirot? We are going through my mother’s papers. Mr. Inglethorp is quite willing to leave it entirely to Mr. Wells and myself.”

“Which simplifies matters very much,” murmured the lawyer. “As technically, of course, he was entitled⁠—” He did not finish the sentence.

“We will look through the desk in the boudoir first,” explained John, “and go up to her bedroom afterwards. She kept her most important papers in a purple despatch-case, which we must look through carefully.”

“Yes,” said the lawyer, “it is quite possible that there may be a later will than the one in my possession.”

“There is a later will.” It was Poirot who spoke.

“What?” John and the lawyer looked at him startled.

“Or, rather,” pursued my friend imperturbably, “there was one.”

“What do you mean⁠—there was one? Where is it now?”

“Burnt!”

“Burnt?”

“Yes. See here.” He took out the charred fragment we had found in the grate in Mrs. Inglethorp’s room, and handed it to the lawyer with a brief explanation of when and where he had found