The Mysterious Affair at Styles Agatha Christie (romance novel chinese novels txt) đ
- Author: Agatha Christie
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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 ââ 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 cocoa.
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. Someone 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 have believed that a man of his reputation could have been deceived into calling it heart disease.â
âYes, thatâs possible,â admitted John. âStill,â he added, âIâm blest if I can see what his motive could have been.â
I trembled.
âLook here,â I said, âI may be altogether wrong. And, remember, all this is in confidence.â
âOh, of courseâ âthat goes without saying.â
We had walked, as we talked, and now we passed through the little gate into the garden. Voices rose near at hand, for tea was spread out under the sycamore-tree, as it had been on the day of my arrival.
Cynthia was back from the hospital, and I placed my chair beside her, and told her of Poirotâs wish to visit the dispensary.
âOf course! Iâd love him to see it. Heâd better come to tea there one day. I must fix it up with him. Heâs such a dear little man! But he is funny. He made me take the brooch out of my tie the other day, and put it in again, because he said it wasnât straight.â
I laughed.
âItâs quite a mania with him.â
âYes, isnât it?â
We were silent for a minute or two, and then, glancing in the direction of Mary Cavendish, and dropping her voice, Cynthia said:
âMr. Hastings.â
âYes?â
âAfter tea, I want to talk to you.â
Her glance at Mary had set me thinking. I fancied that between these two there existed very little sympathy. For the first time, it occurred to me to wonder about the girlâs future. Mrs. Inglethorp had made no provisions of any kind for her, but I imagined that John and Mary would probably insist on her making her home with themâ âat any rate until the end of the war. John, I knew, was very fond of her, and would be sorry to let her go.
John, who had gone into the house, now reappeared. His good-natured face wore an unaccustomed frown of anger.
âConfound those detectives! I canât think what theyâre after! Theyâve been in every room in the houseâ âturning things inside out, and upside down. It really is too bad! I suppose they took advantage of our all being out. I shall go for that fellow Japp, when I next see him!â
âLot of Paul Prys,â grunted Miss Howard.
Lawrence opined that they had to make a show of doing something.
Mary Cavendish said nothing.
After tea, I invited Cynthia to come for a walk, and we sauntered off into the woods together.
âWell?â I inquired, as soon as we were protected from prying eyes by the leafy screen.
With a sigh, Cynthia flung herself down, and tossed off her hat. The sunlight, piercing through the branches, turned the auburn of her hair to quivering gold.
âMr. Hastingsâ âyou are always so kind, and you know such a lot.â
It struck me at this moment that Cynthia was really a very charming girl! Much more charming than Mary, who never said things of that kind.
âWell?â I asked benignantly, as she hesitated.
âI want to ask your advice. What shall I do?â
âDo?â
âYes. You see, Aunt Emily always told me I should be provided for. I suppose she forgot, or didnât think she was likely to dieâ âanyway, I am not provided for! And I donât know what to do. Do you think I ought to go away from here at once?â
âGood heavens, no! They donât want to part with you, Iâm sure.â
Cynthia hesitated a moment, plucking up the grass with her tiny hands. Then she said: âMrs. Cavendish does. She hates me.â
âHates you?â I cried, astonished.
Cynthia nodded.
âYes. I donât know why, but she canât bear me; and he canât, either.â
âThere I know youâre wrong,â I said warmly. âOn the contrary, John is very fond of you.â
âOh, yesâ âJohn. I meant Lawrence. Not, of course, that I care whether Lawrence hates me or not. Still, itâs rather horrid when no one loves you, isnât it?â
âBut they do, Cynthia dear,â I said earnestly. âIâm sure you are mistaken. Look, there is Johnâ âand Miss Howardâ ââ
Cynthia nodded rather gloomily. âYes, John likes me, I think, and of course Evie, for all her gruff ways, wouldnât be unkind to a fly. But Lawrence never speaks to me if he can help it, and Mary can hardly bring herself to be civil to me. She wants Evie to stay on, is begging her to, but she doesnât want me, andâ âandâ âI donât know what to do.â Suddenly the poor child burst out crying.
I donât know what possessed me. Her beauty, perhaps, as she sat there, with the sunlight glinting down on her head; perhaps the sense of relief at encountering someone who so obviously could have no connection with the tragedy; perhaps honest pity for her youth and loneliness. Anyway, I leant forward, and taking her little hand, I said awkwardly:
âMarry me, Cynthia.â
Unwittingly, I had hit upon a sovereign remedy for her tears. She sat up at once, drew her hand away, and said, with some asperity:
âDonât
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