The Mysterious Affair at Styles hp-1 Read online

  There was little more evidence. The hand-writing experts were called upon for their opinion of the signature of "Alfred Inglethorp" in the chemist's poison register. They all declared unanimously that it was certainly not his hand-writing, and gave it as their view that it might be that of the prisoner disguised. Cross-examined, they admitted that it might be the prisoner's hand-writing cleverly counterfeited.

  Sir Ernest Heavywether's speech in opening the case for the defence was not a long one, but it was backed by the full force of his emphatic manner. Never, he said, in the course of his long experience, had he known a charge of murder rest on slighter evidence. Not only was it entirely circumstantial, but the greater part of it was practically unproved. Let them take the testimony they had heard and sift it impartially. The strychnine had been found in a drawer in the prisoner's room. That drawer was an unlocked one, as he had pointed out, and he submitted that there was no evidence to prove that it was the prisoner who had concealed the poison there. It was, in fact, a wicked and malicious attempt on the part of some third person to fix the crime on the prisoner. The prosecution had been unable to produce a shred of evidence in support of their contention that it was the prisoner who ordered the black beard from Parkson's. The quarrel which had taken place between prisoner and his stepmother was freely admitted, but both it and his financial embarrassments had been grossly exaggerated.

  His learned friend-Sir Ernest nodded carelessly at Mr. Philips-had stated that if the prisoner were an innocent man, he would have come forward at the inquest to explain that it was he, and not Mr. Inglethorp, who had been the participator in the quarrel. He thought the facts had been misrepresented. What had actually occurred was this. The prisoner, returning to the house on Tuesday evening, had been authoritatively told that there had been a violent quarrel between Mr. and Mrs. Inglethorp. No suspicion had entered the prisoner's head that anyone could possibly have mistaken his voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. He naturally concluded that his stepmother had had two quarrels.

  The prosecution averred that on Monday, July 16th, the prisoner had entered the chemist's shop in the village, disguised as Mr. Inglethorp. The prisoner, on the contrary, was at that time at a lonely spot called Marston's Spinney, where he had been summoned by an anonymous note, couched in blackmailing terms, and threatening to reveal certain matters to his wife unless he complied with its demands. The prisoner had, accordingly, gone to the appointed spot, and after waiting there vainly for half an hour had returned home. Unfortunately, he had met with no one on the way there or back who could vouch for the truth of his story, but luckily he had kept the note, and it would be produced as evidence.

  As for the statement relating to the destruction of the will, the prisoner had formerly practiced at the Bar, and was perfectly well aware that the will made in his favour a year before was automatically revoked by his stepmother's remarriage. He would call evidence to show who did destroy the will, and it was possible that that might open up quite a new view of the case.

  Finally, he would point out to the jury that there was evidence against other people besides John Cavendish. He would direct their attention to the fact that the evidence against Mr. Lawrence Cavendish was quite as strong, if not stronger than that against his brother.

  He would now call the prisoner.

  John acquitted himself well in the witness-box. Under Sir Ernest's skilful handling, he told his tale credibly and well. The anonymous note received by him was produced, and handed to the jury to examine. The readiness with which he admitted his financial difficulties, and the disagreement with his stepmother, lent value to his denials.

  At the close of his examination, he paused, and said:

  "I should like to make one thing clear. I utterly reject and disapprove of Sir Ernest Heavywether's insinuations against my brother. My brother, I am convinced, had no more to do with the crime than I have."

  Sir Ernest merely smiled, and noted with a sharp eye that John's protest had produced a very favourable impression on the jury.

  Then the cross-examination began.

  "I understand you to say that it never entered your head that the witnesses at the inquest could possibly have mistaken your voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. Is not that very surprising?"

  "No, I don't think so. I was told there had been a quarrel between my mother and Mr. Inglethorp, and it never occurred to me that such was not really the case."

  "Not when the servant Dorcas repeated certain fragments of the conversation-fragments which you must have recognized?"

  "I did not recognize them."

  "Your memory must be unusually short!"

  "No, but we were both angry, and, I think, said more than we meant. I paid very little attention to my mother's actual words."

  Mr. Philips' incredulous sniff was a triumph of forensic skill. He passed on to the subject of the note.

  "You have produced this note very opportunely. Tell me, is there nothing familiar about the hand-writing of it?"

  "Not that I know of."

  "Do you not think that it bears a marked resemblance to your own hand-writing-carelessly disguised?"

  "No, I do not think so."

  "I put it to you that it is your own hand-writing!"

  "No."

  "I put it to you that, anxious to prove an alibi, you conceived the idea of a fictitious and rather incredible appointment, and wrote this note yourself in order to bear out your statement!"

  "No."

  "Is it not a fact that, at the time you claim to have been waiting about at a solitary and unfrequented spot, you were really in the chemist's shop in Styles St. Mary, where you purchased strychnine in the name of Alfred Inglethorp?"

  "No, that is a lie."

  "I put it to you that, wearing a suit of Mr. Inglethorp's clothes, with a black beard trimmed to resemble his, you were there-and signed the register in his name!"

  "That is absolutely untrue."

  "Then I will leave the remarkable similarity of hand-writing between the note, the register, and your own, to the consideration of the jury," said Mr. Philips, and sat down with the air of a man who has done his duty, but who was nevertheless horrified by such deliberate perjury.

  After this, as it was growing late, the case was adjourned till Monday.

  Poirot, I noticed, was looking profoundly discouraged. He had that little frown between the eyes that I knew so well.

  "What is it, Poirot?" I inquired.

  "Ah, mon ami, things are going badly, badly."

  In spite of myself, my heart gave a leap of relief. Evidently there was a likelihood of John Cavendish being acquitted.

  When we reached the house, my little friend waved aside Mary's offer of tea.

  "No, I thank you, madame. I will mount to my room."

  I followed him. Still frowning, he went across to the desk and took out a small pack of patience cards. Then he drew up a chair to the table, and, to my utter amazement, began solemnly to build card houses!

  My jaw dropped involuntarily, and he said at once:

  "No, mon ami, I am not in my second childhood! I steady my nerves, that is all. This employment requires precision of the fingers. With precision of the fingers goes precision of the brain. And never have I needed that more than now!"

  "What is the trouble?" I asked.

  With a great thump on the table, Poirot demolished his carefully built up edifice.

  "It is this, mon ami! That I can build card houses seven stories high, but I cannot"-thump-"find"-thump-"that last link of which I spoke to you."

  I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my peace, and he began slowly building up the cards again, speaking in jerks as he did so.

  "It is done-so! By placing-one card-on another-with mathematical-precision!"

  I watched the card house rising under his hands, story by story. He never hesitated or faltered. It was really almost like a conjuring trick.

  "What a steady hand you've got," I remarked. "I believe I've only seen your
hand shake once."

  "On an occasion when I was enraged, without doubt," observed Poirot, with great placidity.

  "Yes indeed! You were in a towering rage. Do you remember? It was when you discovered that the lock of the despatch-case in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom had been forced. You stood by the mantel-piece, twiddling the things on it in your usual fashion, and your hand shook like a leaf! I must say--"

  But I stopped suddenly. For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards, and putting his hands over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the keenest agony.

  "Good heavens, Poirot!" I cried. "What is the matter? Are you taken ill?"

  "No, no," he gasped. "It is-it is-that I have an idea!"

  "Oh!" I exclaimed, much relieved. "One of your 'little ideas'?"

  "Ah, ma foi, no!" replied Poirot frankly. "This time it is an idea gigantic! Stupendous! And you-*YOU, my friend, have given it to me!"

  Suddenly clasping me in his arms, he kissed me warmly on both cheeks, and before I had recovered from my surprise ran headlong from the room.

  Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.

  "What is the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out: 'A garage! For the love of Heaven, direct me to a garage, madame!' And, before I could answer, he had dashed out into the street."

  I hurried to the window. True enough, there he was, tearing down the street, hatless, and gesticulating as he went. I turned to Mary with a gesture of despair.

  "He'll be stopped by a policeman in another minute. There he goes, round the corner!"

  Our eyes met, and we stared helplessly at one another.

  "What can be the matter?"

  I shook my head.

  "I don't know. He was building card houses, when suddenly he said he had an idea, and rushed off as you saw."

  "Well," said Mary, "I expect he will be back before dinner."

  But night fell, and Poirot had not returned.

  Chapter XII. The Last Link

  POIROT'S abrupt departure had intrigued us all greatly. Sunday morning wore away, and still he did not reappear. But about three o'clock a ferocious and prolonged hooting outside drove us to the window, to see Poirot alighting from a car, accompanied by Japp and Summerhaye. The little man was transformed. He radiated an absurd complacency. He bowed with exaggerated respect to Mary Cavendish.

  "Madame, I have your permission to hold a little reunion in the salon? It is necessary for every one to attend."

  Mary smiled sadly.

  "You know, Monsieur Poirot, that you have carte blanche in every way."

  "You are too amiable, madame."

  Still beaming, Poirot marshalled us all into the drawing- room, bringing forward chairs as he did so.

  "Miss Howard-here. Mademoiselle Cynthia. Monsieur Lawrence. The good Dorcas. And Annie. Bien! We must delay our proceedings a few minutes until Mr. Inglethorp arrives. I have sent him a note."

  Miss Howard rose immediately from her seat.

  "If that man comes into the house, I leave it!"

  "No, no!" Poirot went up to her and pleaded in a low voice.

  Finally Miss Howard consented to return to her chair. A few minutes later Alfred Inglethorp entered the room.

  The company once assembled, Poirot rose from his seat with the air of a popular lecturer, and bowed politely to his audience.

  "Messieurs, mesdames, as you all know, I was called in by Monsieur John Cavendish to investigate this case. I at once examined the bedroom of the deceased which, by the advice of the doctors, had been kept locked, and was consequently exactly as it had been when the tragedy occurred. I found: first, a fragment of green material; second, a stain on the carpet near the window, still damp; thirdly, an empty box of bromide powders.

  "To take the fragment of green material first, I found it caught in the bolt of the communicating door between that room and the adjoining one occupied by Mademoiselle Cynthia. I handed the fragment over to the police who did not consider it of much importance. Nor did they recognize it for what it was-a piece torn from a green land armlet."

  There was a little stir of excitement.

  "Now there was only one person at Styles who worked on the land-Mrs. Cavendish. Therefore it must have been Mrs. Cavendish who entered the deceased's room through the door communicating with Mademoiselle Cynthia's room."

  "But that door was bolted on the inside!" I cried.

  "When I examined the room, yes. But in the first place we have only her word for it, since it was she who tried that particular door and reported it fastened. In the ensuing confusion she would have had ample opportunity to shoot the bolt across. I took an early opportunity of verifying my conjectures. To begin with, the fragment corresponds exactly with a tear in Mrs. Cavendish's armlet. Also, at the inquest, Mrs. Cavendish declared that she had heard, from her own room, the fall of the table by the bed. I took an early opportunity of testing that statement by stationing my friend Monsieur Hastings in the left wing of the building, just outside Mrs. Cavendish's door. I myself, in company with the police, went to the deceased's room, and whilst there I, apparently accidentally, knocked over the table in question, but found that, as I had expected, Monsieur Hastings had heard no sound at all. This confirmed my belief that Mrs. Cavendish was not speaking the truth when she declared that she had been dressing in her room at the time of the tragedy. In fact, I was convinced that, far from having been in her own room, Mrs. Cavendish was actually in the deceased's room when the alarm was given."

  I shot a quick glance at Mary. She was very pale, but smiling.

  "I proceeded to reason on that assumption. Mrs. Cavendish is in her mother-in-law's room. We will say that she is seeking for something and has not yet found it. Suddenly Mrs. Inglethorp awakens and is seized with an alarming paroxysm. She flings out her arm, overturning the bed table, and then pulls desperately at the bell. Mrs. Cavendish, startled, drops her candle, scattering the grease on the carpet. She picks it up, and retreats quickly to Mademoiselle Cynthia's room, closing the door behind her. She hurries out into the passage, for the servants must not find her where she is. But it is too late! Already footsteps are echoing along the gallery which connects the two wings. What can she do? Quick as thought, she hurries back to the young girl's room, and starts shaking her awake. The hastily aroused household come trooping down the passage. They are all busily battering at Mrs. Inglethorp's door. It occurs to nobody that Mrs. Cavendish has not arrived with the rest, but-and this is significant-I can find no one who saw her come from the other wing." He looked at Mary Cavendish. "Am I right, madame?"

  She bowed her head.

  "Quite right, monsieur. You understand that, if I had thought I would do my husband any good by revealing these facts, I would have done so. But it did not seem to me to bear upon the question of his guilt or innocence."

  "In a sense, that is correct, madame. But it cleared my mind of many misconceptions, and left me free to see other facts in their true significance."

  "The will!" cried Lawrence. "Then it was you, Mary, who destroyed the will?"

  She shook her head, and Poirot shook his also.

  "No," he said quietly. "There is only one person who could possibly have destroyed that will-Mrs. Inglethorp herself!"

  "Impossible!" I exclaimed. "She had only made it out that very afternoon!"

  "Nevertheless, mon ami, it was Mrs. Inglethorp. Because, in no other way can you account for the fact that, on one of the hottest days of the year, Mrs. Inglethorp ordered a fire to be lighted in her room."

  I gave a gasp. What idiots we had been never to think of that fire as being incongruous! Poirot was continuing:

  "The temperature on that day, messieurs, was 80 degrees in the shade. Yet Mrs. Inglethorp ordered a fire! Why? Because she wished to destroy something, and could think of no other way. You will remember that, in consequence of the War economics practiced at Styles, no waste paper was thrown away. There was therefor
e no means of destroying a thick document such as a will. The moment I heard of a fire being lighted in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, I leaped to the conclusion that it was to destroy some important document-possibly a will. So the discovery of the charred fragment in the grate was no surprise to me. I did not, of course, know at the time that the will in question had only been made this afternoon, and I will admit that, when I learnt that fact, I fell into a grievous error. I came to the conclusion that Mrs. Inglethorp's determination to destroy her will arose as a direct consequence of the quarrel she had that afternoon, and that therefore the quarrel took place after, and not before the making of the will.

  "Here, as we know, I was wrong, and I was forced to abandon that idea. I faced the problem from a new standpoint. Now, at 4 o'clock, Dorcas overheard her mistress saying angrily: 'You need not think that any fear of publicity, or scandal between husband and wife will deter me." I conjectured, and conjectured rightly, that these words were addressed, not to her husband, but to Mr. John Cavendish. At 5 o'clock, an hour later, she uses almost the same words, but the standpoint is different. She admits to Dorcas, 'I don't know what to do; scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing.' At 4 o'clock she has been angry, but completely mistress of herself. At 5 o'clock she is in violent distress, and speaks of having had a great shock.

  "Looking at the matter psychologically, I drew one deduction which I was convinced was correct. The second 'scandal' she spoke of was not the same as the first-and it concerned herself!

  "Let us reconstruct. At 4 o'clock, Mrs. Inglethorp quarrels with her son, and threatens to denounce him to his wife- who, by the way, overheard the greater part of the conversation. At 4.30, Mrs. Inglethorp, in consequence of a conversation on the validity of wills, makes a will in favour of her husband, which the two gardeners witness. At 5 o'clock, Dorcas finds her mistress in a state of considerable agitation, with a slip of paper-'a letter,' Dorcas thinks-in her hand, and it is then that she orders the fire in her room to be lighted. Presumably, then, between 4.30 and 5 o'clock, something has occurred to occasion a complete revolution of feeling, since she is now as anxious to destroy the will, as she was before to make it. What was that something?