The Mysterious Affair at Styles Read online

  CHAPTER VII. POIROT PAYS HIS DEBTS

  As we came out of the Stylites Arms, Poirot drew me aside by a gentlepressure of the arm. I understood his object. He was waiting for theScotland Yard men.

  In a few moments, they emerged, and Poirot at once stepped forward, andaccosted the shorter of the two.

  "I fear you do not remember me, Inspector Japp."

  "Why, if it isn't Mr. Poirot!" cried the Inspector. He turned to theother man. "You've heard me speak of Mr. Poirot? It was in 1904 he and Iworked together--the Abercrombie forgery case--you remember, he wasrun down in Brussels. Ah, those were great days, moosier. Then, do youremember 'Baron' Altara? There was a pretty rogue for you! He eludedthe clutches of half the police in Europe. But we nailed him inAntwerp--thanks to Mr. Poirot here."

  As these friendly reminiscences were being indulged in, I drew nearer,and was introduced to Detective-Inspector Japp, who, in his turn,introduced us both to his companion, Superintendent Summerhaye.

  "I need hardly ask what you are doing here, gentlemen," remarked Poirot.

  Japp closed one eye knowingly.

  "No, indeed. Pretty clear case I should say."

  But Poirot answered gravely:

  "There I differ from you."

  "Oh, come!" said Summerhaye, opening his lips for the first time."Surely the whole thing is clear as daylight. The man's caughtred-handed. How he could be such a fool beats me!"

  But Japp was looking attentively at Poirot.

  "Hold your fire, Summerhaye," he remarked jocularly. "Me and Moosierhere have met before--and there's no man's judgment I'd sooner takethan his. If I'm not greatly mistaken, he's got something up his sleeve.Isn't that so, moosier?"

  Poirot smiled.

  "I have drawn certain conclusions--yes."

  Summerhaye was still looking rather sceptical, but Japp continued hisscrutiny of Poirot.

  "It's this way," he said, "so far, we've only seen the case from theoutside. That's where the Yard's at a disadvantage in a case of thiskind, where the murder's only out, so to speak, after the inquest. A lotdepends on being on the spot first thing, and that's where Mr. Poirot'shad the start of us. We shouldn't have been here as soon as this even,if it hadn't been for the fact that there was a smart doctor on thespot, who gave us the tip through the Coroner. But you've been on thespot from the first, and you may have picked up some little hints. Fromthe evidence at the inquest, Mr. Inglethorp murdered his wife as sure asI stand here, and if anyone but you hinted the contrary I'd laugh inhis face. I must say I was surprised the jury didn't bring it in WilfulMurder against him right off. I think they would have, if it hadn't beenfor the Coroner--he seemed to be holding them back."

  "Perhaps, though, you have a warrant for his arrest in your pocket now,"suggested Poirot.

  A kind of wooden shutter of officialdom came down from Japp's expressivecountenance.

  "Perhaps I have, and perhaps I haven't," he remarked dryly.

  Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.

  "I am very anxious, Messieurs, that he should not be arrested."

  "I dare say," observed Summerhaye sarcastically.

  Japp was regarding Poirot with comical perplexity.

  "Can't you go a little further, Mr. Poirot? A wink's as good as anod--from you. You've been on the spot--and the Yard doesn't want tomake any mistakes, you know."

  Poirot nodded gravely.

  "That is exactly what I thought. Well, I will tell you this. Use yourwarrant: Arrest Mr. Inglethorp. But it will bring you no kudos--the caseagainst him will be dismissed at once! _Comme ça!_" And he snapped hisfingers expressively.

  Japp's face grew grave, though Summerhaye gave an incredulous snort.

  As for me, I was literally dumb with astonishment. I could only concludethat Poirot was mad.

  Japp had taken out a handkerchief, and was gently dabbing his brow.

  "I daren't do it, Mr. Poirot. I'd take your word, but there's othersover me who'll be asking what the devil I mean by it. Can't you give mea little more to go on?"

  Poirot reflected a moment.

  "It can be done," he said at last. "I admit I do not wish it. Itforces my hand. I would have preferred to work in the dark just for thepresent, but what you say is very just--the word of a Belgian policeman,whose day is past, is not enough! And Alfred Inglethorp must not bearrested. That I have sworn, as my friend Hastings here knows. See,then, my good Japp, you go at once to Styles?"

  "Well, in about half an hour. We're seeing the Coroner and the doctorfirst."

  "Good. Call for me in passing--the last house in the village. I will gowith you. At Styles, Mr. Inglethorp will give you, or if he refuses--asis probable--I will give you such proofs that shall satisfy you that thecase against him could not possibly be sustained. Is that a bargain?"

  "That's a bargain," said Japp heartily. "And, on behalf of the Yard, I'mmuch obliged to you, though I'm bound to confess I can't at present seethe faintest possible loop-hole in the evidence, but you always were amarvel! So long, then, moosier."

  The two detectives strode away, Summerhaye with an incredulous grin onhis face.

  "Well, my friend," cried Poirot, before I could get in a word, "what doyou think? _Mon Dieu!_ I had some warm moments in that court; I did notfigure to myself that the man would be so pig-headed as to refuse to sayanything at all. Decidedly, it was the policy of an imbecile."

  "H'm! There are other explanations besides that of imbecility," Iremarked. "For, if the case against him is true, how could he defendhimself except by silence?"

  "Why, in a thousand ingenious ways," cried Poirot. "See; say that it isI who have committed this murder, I can think of seven most plausiblestories! Far more convincing than Mr. Inglethorp's stony denials!"

  I could not help laughing.

  "My dear Poirot, I am sure you are capable of thinking of seventy!But, seriously, in spite of what I heard you say to the detectives, yousurely cannot still believe in the possibility of Alfred Inglethorp'sinnocence?"

  "Why not now as much as before? Nothing has changed."

  "But the evidence is so conclusive."

  "Yes, too conclusive."

  We turned in at the gate of Leastways Cottage, and proceeded up the nowfamiliar stairs.

  "Yes, yes, too conclusive," continued Poirot, almost to himself."Real evidence is usually vague and unsatisfactory. It has to beexamined--sifted. But here the whole thing is cut and dried. No, myfriend, this evidence has been very cleverly manufactured--so cleverlythat it has defeated its own ends."

  "How do you make that out?"

  "Because, so long as the evidence against him was vague and intangible,it was very hard to disprove. But, in his anxiety, the criminal hasdrawn the net so closely that one cut will set Inglethorp free."

  I was silent. And in a minute or two, Poirot continued:

  "Let us look at the matter like this. Here is a man, let us say, whosets out to poison his wife. He has lived by his wits as the sayinggoes. Presumably, therefore, he has some wits. He is not altogethera fool. Well, how does he set about it? He goes boldly to the villagechemist's and purchases strychnine under his own name, with a trumped upstory about a dog which is bound to be proved absurd. He does not employthe poison that night. No, he waits until he has had a violent quarrelwith her, of which the whole household is cognisant, and which naturallydirects their suspicions upon him. He prepares no defence--no shadowof an alibi, yet he knows the chemist's assistant must necessarily comeforward with the facts. Bah! Do not ask me to believe that any man couldbe so idiotic! Only a lunatic, who wished to commit suicide by causinghimself to be hanged, would act so!"

  "Still--I do not see--" I began.

  "Neither do I see. I tell you, _mon ami_, it puzzles me. _Me_--HerculePoirot!"

  "But if you believe him innocent, how do you explain his buying thestrychnine?"

  "Very simply. He did _not_ buy it."

  "But Mace recognized him!"

  "I beg your pardon, he saw a man with a black beard
like Mr.Inglethorp's, and wearing glasses like Mr. Inglethorp, and dressed inMr. Inglethorp's rather noticeable clothes. He could not recognize a manwhom he had probably only seen in the distance, since, you remember, hehimself had only been in the village a fortnight, and Mrs. Inglethorpdealt principally with Coot's in Tadminster."

  "Then you think----"

  "_Mon ami_, do you remember the two points I laid stress upon? Leave thefirst one for the moment, what was the second?"

  "The important fact that Alfred Inglethorp wears peculiar clothes, has ablack beard, and uses glasses," I quoted.

  "Exactly. Now suppose anyone wished to pass himself off as John orLawrence Cavendish. Would it be easy?"

  "No," I said thoughtfully. "Of course an actor----"

  But Poirot cut me short ruthlessly.

  "And why would it not be easy? I will tell you, my friend: Because theyare both clean-shaven men. To make up successfully as one of thesetwo in broad daylight, it would need an actor of genius, and a certaininitial facial resemblance. But in the case of Alfred Inglethorp, allthat is changed. His clothes, his beard, the glasses which hide hiseyes--those are the salient points about his personal appearance. Now,what is the first instinct of the criminal? To divert suspicion fromhimself, is it not so? And how can he best do that? By throwing iton someone else. In this instance, there was a man ready to his hand.Everybody was predisposed to believe in Mr. Inglethorp's guilt. It wasa foregone conclusion that he would be suspected; but, to make it a surething there must be tangible proof--such as the actual buying ofthe poison, and that, with a man of the peculiar appearance of Mr.Inglethorp, was not difficult. Remember, this young Mace had neveractually spoken to Mr. Inglethorp. How should he doubt that the man inhis clothes, with his beard and his glasses, was not Alfred Inglethorp?"

  "It may be so," I said, fascinated by Poirot's eloquence. "But, if thatwas the case, why does he not say where he was at six o'clock on Mondayevening?"

  "Ah, why indeed?" said Poirot, calming down. "If he were arrested, heprobably would speak, but I do not want it to come to that. I must makehim see the gravity of his position. There is, of course, somethingdiscreditable behind his silence. If he did not murder his wife, heis, nevertheless, a scoundrel, and has something of his own to conceal,quite apart from the murder."

  "What can it be?" I mused, won over to Poirot's views for the moment,although still retaining a faint conviction that the obvious deductionwas the correct one.

  "Can you not guess?" asked Poirot, smiling.

  "No, can you?"

  "Oh, yes, I had a little idea sometime ago--and it has turned out to becorrect."

  "You never told me," I said reproachfully.

  Poirot spread out his hands apologetically.

  "Pardon me, _mon ami_, you were not precisely _sympathique_." He turnedto me earnestly. "Tell me--you see now that he must not be arrested?"

  "Perhaps," I said doubtfully, for I was really quite indifferent to thefate of Alfred Inglethorp, and thought that a good fright would do himno harm.

  Poirot, who was watching me intently, gave a sigh.

  "Come, my friend," he said, changing the subject, "apart from Mr.Inglethorp, how did the evidence at the inquest strike you?"

  "Oh, pretty much what I expected."

  "Did nothing strike you as peculiar about it?"

  My thoughts flew to Mary Cavendish, and I hedged:

  "In what way?"

  "Well, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's evidence for instance?"

  I was relieved.

  "Oh, Lawrence! No, I don't think so. He's always a nervous chap."

  "His suggestion that his mother might have been poisoned accidentally bymeans of the tonic she was taking, that did not strike you as strange--_hein?_"

  "No, I can't say it did. The doctors ridiculed it of course. But it wasquite a natural suggestion for a layman to make."

  "But Monsieur Lawrence is not a layman. You told me yourself that he hadstarted by studying medicine, and that he had taken his degree."

  "Yes, that's true. I never thought of that." I was rather startled. "It_is_ odd."

  Poirot nodded.

  "From the first, his behaviour has been peculiar. Of all the household,he alone would be likely to recognize the symptoms of strychninepoisoning, and yet we find him the only member of the family to upholdstrenuously the theory of death from natural causes. If it hadbeen Monsieur John, I could have understood it. He has no technicalknowledge, and is by nature unimaginative. But Monsieur Lawrence--no!And now, to-day, he puts forward a suggestion that he himself must haveknown was ridiculous. There is food for thought in this, _mon ami!_"

  "It's very confusing," I agreed.

  "Then there is Mrs. Cavendish," continued Poirot. "That's another who isnot telling all she knows! What do you make of her attitude?"

  "I don't know what to make of it. It seems inconceivable that she shouldbe shielding Alfred Inglethorp. Yet that is what it looks like."

  Poirot nodded reflectively.

  "Yes, it is queer. One thing is certain, she overheard a good deal moreof that 'private conversation' than she was willing to admit."

  "And yet she is the last person one would accuse of stooping toeavesdrop!"

  "Exactly. One thing her evidence _has_ shown me. I made a mistake.Dorcas was quite right. The quarrel did take place earlier in theafternoon, about four o'clock, as she said."

  I looked at him curiously. I had never understood his insistence on thatpoint.

  "Yes, a good deal that was peculiar came out to-day," continued Poirot."Dr. Bauerstein, now, what was _he_ doing up and dressed at that hour inthe morning? It is astonishing to me that no one commented on the fact."

  "He has insomnia, I believe," I said doubtfully.

  "Which is a very good, or a very bad explanation," remarked Poirot."It covers everything, and explains nothing. I shall keep my eye on ourclever Dr. Bauerstein."

  "Any more faults to find with the evidence?" I inquired satirically.

  "_Mon ami_," replied Poirot gravely, "when you find that people are nottelling you the truth--look out! Now, unless I am much mistaken, at theinquest to-day only one--at most, two persons were speaking the truthwithout reservation or subterfuge."

  "Oh, come now, Poirot! I won't cite Lawrence, or Mrs. Cavendish. Butthere's John--and Miss Howard, surely they were speaking the truth?"

  "Both of them, my friend? One, I grant you, but both----!"

  His words gave me an unpleasant shock. Miss Howard's evidence,unimportant as it was, had been given in such a downrightstraightforward manner that it had never occurred to me to doubt hersincerity. Still, I had a great respect for Poirot's sagacity--excepton the occasions when he was what I described to myself as "foolishlypig-headed."

  "Do you really think so?" I asked. "Miss Howard had always seemed to meso essentially honest--almost uncomfortably so."

  Poirot gave me a curious look, which I could not quite fathom. He seemedto speak, and then checked himself.

  "Miss Murdoch too," I continued, "there's nothing untruthful about_her_."

  "No. But it was strange that she never heard a sound, sleeping nextdoor; whereas Mrs. Cavendish, in the other wing of the building,distinctly heard the table fall."

  "Well, she's young. And she sleeps soundly."

  "Ah, yes, indeed! She must be a famous sleeper, that one!"

  I did not quite like the tone of his voice, but at that moment a smartknock reached our ears, and looking out of the window we perceived thetwo detectives waiting for us below.

  Poirot seized his hat, gave a ferocious twist to his moustache, and,carefully brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve, motionedme to precede him down the stairs; there we joined the detectives andset out for Styles.

  I think the appearance of the two Scotland Yard men was rather ashock--especially to John, though of course after the verdict, he hadrealized that it was only a matter of time. Still, the presence of thedetectives brought the truth home to him more than anything else cou
ldhave done.

  Poirot had conferred with Japp in a low tone on the way up, and itwas the latter functionary who requested that the household, withthe exception of the servants, should be assembled together in thedrawing-room. I realized the significance of this. It was up to Poirotto make his boast good.

  Personally, I was not sanguine. Poirot might have excellent reasonsfor his belief in Inglethorp's innocence, but a man of the type ofSummerhaye would require tangible proofs, and these I doubted if Poirotcould supply.

  Before very long we had all trooped into the drawing-room, the doorof which Japp closed. Poirot politely set chairs for every one. TheScotland Yard men were the cynosure of all eyes. I think that forthe first time we realized that the thing was not a bad dream, but atangible reality. We had read of such things--now we ourselves wereactors in the drama. To-morrow the daily papers, all over England, wouldblazon out the news in staring headlines:

  "MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY IN ESSEX"

  "WEALTHY LADY POISONED"

  There would be pictures of Styles, snap-shots of "The family leavingthe Inquest"--the village photographer had not been idle! All the thingsthat one had read a hundred times--things that happen to other people,not to oneself. And now, in this house, a murder had been committed. Infront of us were "the detectives in charge of the case." The well-knownglib phraseology passed rapidly through my mind in the interval beforePoirot opened the proceedings.

  I think every one was a little surprised that it should be he and notone of the official detectives who took the initiative.

  "_Mesdames_ and _messieurs_," said Poirot, bowing as though he were acelebrity about to deliver a lecture, "I have asked you to come hereall together, for a certain object. That object, it concerns Mr. AlfredInglethorp."

  Inglethorp was sitting a little by himself--I think, unconsciously,every one had drawn his chair slightly away from him--and he gave afaint start as Poirot pronounced his name.

  "Mr. Inglethorp," said Poirot, addressing him directly, "a very darkshadow is resting on this house--the shadow of murder."

  Inglethorp shook his head sadly.

  "My poor wife," he murmured. "Poor Emily! It is terrible."

  "I do not think, monsieur," said Poirot pointedly, "that you quiterealize how terrible it may be--for you." And as Inglethorp did notappear to understand, he added: "Mr. Inglethorp, you are standing invery grave danger."

  The two detectives fidgeted. I saw the official caution "Anythingyou say will be used in evidence against you," actually hovering onSummerhaye's lips. Poirot went on.

  "Do you understand now, monsieur?"

  "No; What do you mean?"

  "I mean," said Poirot deliberately, "that you are suspected of poisoningyour wife."

  A little gasp ran round the circle at this plain speaking.

  "Good heavens!" cried Inglethorp, starting up. "What a monstrous idea!_I_--poison my dearest Emily!"

  "I do not think"--Poirot watched him narrowly--"that you quite realizethe unfavourable nature of your evidence at the inquest. Mr. Inglethorp,knowing what I have now told you, do you still refuse to say where youwere at six o'clock on Monday afternoon?"

  With a groan, Alfred Inglethorp sank down again and buried his face inhis hands. Poirot approached and stood over him.

  "Speak!" he cried menacingly.

  With an effort, Inglethorp raised his face from his hands. Then, slowlyand deliberately, he shook his head.

  "You will not speak?"

  "No. I do not believe that anyone could be so monstrous as to accuse meof what you say."

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully, like a man whose mind is made up.

  "_Soit!_" he said. "Then I must speak for you."

  Alfred Inglethorp sprang up again.

  "You? How can you speak? You do not know----" he broke off abruptly.

  Poirot turned to face us. "_Mesdames_ and _messieurs_! I speak! Listen!I, Hercule Poirot, affirm that the man who entered the chemist's shop,and purchased strychnine at six o'clock on Monday last was not Mr.Inglethorp, for at six o'clock on that day Mr. Inglethorp was escortingMrs. Raikes back to her home from a neighbouring farm. I can produce noless than five witnesses to swear to having seen them together, eitherat six or just after and, as you may know, the Abbey Farm, Mrs. Raikes'shome, is at least two and a half miles distant from the village. Thereis absolutely no question as to the alibi!"