The Mysterious Affair at Styles hp-1 Read online

Then came the sensation of the day. The Coroner called Albert Mace, chemist's assistant.

  It was our agitated young man of the pale face. In answer to the Coroner's questions, he explained that he was a qualified pharmacist, but had only recently come to this particular shop, as the assistant formerly there had just been called up for the army.

  These preliminaries completed, the Coroner proceeded to business.

  "Mr. Mace, have you lately sold strychnine to any unauthorized person?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "When was this?"

  "Last Monday night."

  "Monday? Not Tuesday?"

  "No, sir, Monday, the 16th."

  "Will you tell us to whom you sold it?"

  You could have heard a pin drop.

  "Yes, sir. It was to Mr. Inglethorp."

  Every eye turned simultaneously to where Alfred Inglethorp was sitting, impassive and wooden. He started slightly, as the damning words fell from the young man's lips. I half thought he was going to rise from his chair, but he remained seated, although a remarkably well acted expression of astonishment rose on his face.

  "You are sure of what you say?" asked the Coroner sternly.

  "Quite sure, sir."

  "Are you in the habit of selling strychnine indiscriminately over the counter?"

  The wretched young man wilted visibly under the Coroner's frown.

  "Oh, no, sir-of course not. But, seeing it was Mr. Inglethorp of the Hall, I thought there was no harm in it. He said it was to poison a dog."

  Inwardly I sympathized. It was only human nature to endeavour to please "The Hall"-especially when it might result in custom being transferred from Coot's to the local establishment.

  "Is it not customary for anyone purchasing poison to sign a book?"

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Inglethorp did so."

  "Have you got the book here?"

  "Yes, sir."

  It was produced; and, with a few words of stern censure, the Coroner dismissed the wretched Mr. Mace.

  Then, amidst a breathless silence, Alfred Inglethorp was called. Did he realize, I wondered, how closely the halter was being drawn around his neck?

  The Coroner went straight to the point.

  "On Monday evening last, did you purchase strychnine for the purpose of poisoning a dog?"

  Inglethorp replied with perfect calmness:

  "No, I did not. There is no dog at Styles, except an outdoor sheepdog, which is in perfect health."

  "You deny absolutely having purchased strychnine from Albert Mace on Monday last?"

  "I do."

  "Do you also deny *THIS?"

  The Coroner handed him the register in which his signature was inscribed.

  "Certainly I do. The hand-writing is quite different from mine. I will show you."

  He took an old envelope out of his pocket, and wrote his name on it, handing it to the jury. It was certainly utterly dissimilar.

  "Then what is your explanation of Mr. Mace's statement?"

  Alfred Inglethorp replied imperturbably:

  "Mr. Mace must have been mistaken."

  The Coroner hesitated for a moment, and then said:

  "Mr. Inglethorp, as a mere matter of form, would you mind telling us where you were on the evening of Monday, July 16th?"

  "Really-I can't remember."

  "That is absurd, Mr. Inglethorp," said the Coroner sharply. "Think again."

  Inglethorp shook his head.

  "I cannot tell you. I have an idea that I was out walking."

  "In what direction?"

  "I really can't remember."

  The Coroner's face grew graver.

  "Were you in company with anyone?"

  "No."

  "Did you meet anyone on your walk?"

  "No."

  "That is a pity," said the Coroner dryly. "I am to take it then that you decline to say where you were at the time that Mr. Mace positively recognized you as entering the shop to purchase strychnine?"

  "If you like to take it that way, yes."

  "Be careful, Mr. Inglethorp."

  Poirot was fidgeting nervously.

  "Sacre!" he murmured. "Does this imbecile of a man *WANT to be arrested?"

  Inglethorp was indeed creating a bad impression. His futile denials would not have convinced a child. The Coroner, however, passed briskly to the next point, and Poirot drew a deep breath of relief.

  "You had a discussion with your wife on Tuesday afternoon?"

  "Pardon me," interrupted Alfred Inglethorp, "you have been misinformed. I had no quarrel with my dear wife. The whole story is absolutely untrue. I was absent from the house the entire afternoon."

  "Have you anyone who can testify to that?"

  "You have my word," said Inglethorp haughtily.

  The Coroner did not trouble to reply.

  "There are two witnesses who will swear to having heard your disagreement with Mrs. Inglethorp."

  "Those witnesses were mistaken."

  I was puzzled. The man spoke with such quiet assurance that I was staggered. I looked at Poirot. There was an expression of exultation on his face which I could not understand. Was he at last convinced of Alfred Inglethorp's guilt?

  "Mr. Inglethorp," said the Coroner, "you have heard your wife's dying words repeated here. Can you explain them in any way?"

  "Certainly I can."

  "You can?"

  "It seems to me very simple. The room was dimly lighted. Dr. Bauerstein is much of my height and build, and, like me, wears a beard. In the dim light, and suffering as she was, my poor wife mistook him for me."

  "Ah!" murmured Poirot to himself. "But it is an idea, that!"

  "You think it is true?" I whispered.

  "I do not say that. But it is truly an ingenious supposition."

  "You read my wife's last words as an accusation"-Inglethorp was continuing-"they were, on the contrary, an appeal to me."

  The Coroner reflected a moment, then he said:

  "I believe, Mr. Inglethorp, that you yourself poured out the coffee, and took it to your wife that evening?"

  "I poured it out, yes. But I did not take it to her. I meant to do so, but I was told that a friend was at the hall door, so I laid down the coffee on the hall table. When I came through the hall again a few minutes later, it was gone."

  This statement might, or might not, be true, but it did not seem to me to improve matters much for Inglethorp. In any case, he had had ample time to introduce the poison.

  At that point, Poirot nudged me gently, indicating two men who were sitting together near the door. One was a little, sharp, dark, ferret-faced man, the other was tall and fair.

  I questioned Poirot mutely. He put his lips to my ear.

  "Do you know who that little man is?"

  I shook my head.

  "That is Detective Inspector James Japp of Scotland Yard- Jimmy Japp. The other man is from Scotland Yard too. Things are moving quickly, my friend."

  I stared at the two men intently. There was certainly nothing of the policeman about them. I should never have suspected them of being official personages.

  I was still staring, when I was startled and recalled by the verdict being given:

  "Wilful Murder against some person or persons unknown."

  Chapter VII. Poirot Pays his Debts

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

  In a few moments, they emerged, and Poirot at once stepped forward, and accosted 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 the other man. "You've heard me speak of Mr. Poirot? It was in 1904 he and I worked together-the Abercrombie forgery case-you remember, he was run down in Brussels. Ah, those were great days, moosier. Then, do you remember 'Baron' Altara? There was a pretty rogue for you! He eluded the clutches of half the police in Europe. But we
nailed him in Antwerp-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 caught red-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 Moosier here have met before-and there's no man's judgment I'd sooner take than 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 his scrutiny of Poirot.

  "It's this way," he said, "so far, we've only seen the case from the outside. That's where the Yard's at a disadvantage in a case of this kind, where the murder's only out, so to speak, after the inquest. A lot depends on being on the spot first thing, and that's where Mr. Poirot's had 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 the spot, who gave us the tip through the Coroner. But you've been on the spot from the first, and you may have picked up some little hints. From the evidence at the inquest, Mr. Inglethorp murdered his wife as sure as I stand here, and if anyone but you hinted the contrary I'd laugh in his face. I must say I was surprised the jury didn't bring it in Wilful Murder against him right off. I think they would have, if it hadn't been for 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 expressive countenance.

  "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 a nod-from you. You've been on the spot-and the Yard doesn't want to make any mistakes, you know."

  Poirot nodded gravely.

  "That is exactly what I thought. Well, I will tell you this. Use your warrant: Arrest Mr. Inglethorp. But it will bring you no kudos-the case against him will be dismissed at once! Comme ca!" And he snapped his fingers expressively.

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

  As for me, I was literally dumb with astonishment. I could only conclude that 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 others over me who'll be asking what the devil I mean by it. Can't you give me a little more to go on?"

  Poirot reflected a moment.

  "It can be done," he said at last. "I admit I do not wish it. It forces my hand. I would have preferred to work in the dark just for the present, 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 be arrested. 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 doctor first."

  "Good. Call for me in passing-the last house in the village. I will go with you. At Styles, Mr. Inglethorp will give you, or if he refuses-as is probable-I will give you such proofs that shall satisfy you that the case 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'm much obliged to you, though I'm bound to confess I can't at present see the faintest possible loop-hole in the evidence, but you always were a marvel! So long, then, moosier."

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

  "Well, my friend," cried Poirot, before I could get in a word, "what do you think? Mon Dieu! I had some warm moments in that court; I did not figure to myself that the man would be so pig-headed as to refuse to say anything at all. Decidedly, it was the policy of an imbecile."

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

  "Why, in a thousand ingenious ways," cried Poirot. "See; say that it is I who have committed this murder, I can think of seven most plausible stories! 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, you surely cannot still believe in the possibility of Alfred Inglethorp's innocence?"

  "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 now familiar stairs.

  "Yes, yes, too conclusive," continued Poirot, almost to himself. "Real evidence is usually vague and unsatisfactory. It has to be examined-sifted. But here the whole thing is cut and dried. No, my friend, this evidence has been very cleverly manufactured-so cleverly that 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 has drawn 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, who sets out to poison his wife. He has lived by his wits as the saying goes. Presumably, therefore, he has some wits. He is not altogether a fool. Well, how does he set about it? He goes boldly to the village chemist's and purchases strychnine under his own name, with a trumped up story about a dog which is bound to be proved absurd. He does not employ the poison that night. No, he waits until he has had a violent quarrel with her, of which the whole household is cognisant, and which naturally directs their suspicions upon him. He prepares no defence-no shadow of an alibi, yet he knows the chemist's assistant must necessarily come forward with the facts. Bah! do not ask me to believe that any man could be so idiotic! Only a lunatic, who wished to commit suicide by causing himself 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 -Hercule Poirot!"

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

  "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 in Mr. Inglethorp's rather noticeable clothes. He could not recognize a man whom he had probably only seen in the distance, since, you remember, he himself had only been in the village a fortnight, and Mrs. Inglethorp dealt principally with Coot's in Tadminster."

  "Then you think--"

  "Mon ami, do you remember the two points I laid stress upon? Leave the first one for the moment, what was the second?"

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

  "Exactly. Now suppose anyone wished to pass himself off as John or Lawrence 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 they are both clean-shaven men. To make up successfully as one of these two in broad daylight, it would need an actor of genius, and a certain initial facial resemblance. But in the case of Alfred Inglethorp, all that is changed. His clothes, his beard, the glasses which hide his eyes-those are the salient points about his personal appearance. Now, what is the first instinct of the criminal? To divert suspicion from himself, is it not so? And how can he best do that? By throwing it on some one else. In this instance, there was a man ready to his hand. Everybody was predisposed to believe in Mr. Inglethorp's guilt. It was a foregone conclusion that he would be suspected; but, to make it a sure thing there must be tangible proof-such as the actual buying of the poison, and that, with a man of the peculiar appearance of Mr. Inglethorp, was not difficult. Remember, this young Mace had never actually spoken to Mr. Inglethorp. How should he doubt that the man in his clothes, with his beard and his glasses, was not Alfred Inglethorp?"

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

  "Ah, why indeed?" said Poirot, calming down. "If he were arrested, he probably would speak, but I do not want it to come to that. I must make him see the gravity of his position. There is, of course, something discreditable behind his silence. If he did not murder his wife, he is, 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 deduction was 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 be correct."

  "You never told me," I said reproachfully.

  Poirot spread out his hands apologetically.

  "Pardon me, mon ami, you were not precisely sympathique." He turned to me earnestly. "Tell me-you see now that he must not be arrested?"

  "Perhaps," I said doubtfully, for I was really quite indifferent to the fate of Alfred Inglethorp, and thought that a good fright would do him no harm.