The Mysterious Affair at Styles Read online

  CHAPTER IX. DR. BAUERSTEIN

  I HAD had no opportunity as yet of passing on Poirot's message toLawrence. But now, as I strolled out on the lawn, still nursing a grudgeagainst my friend's high-handedness, I saw Lawrence on the croquet lawn,aimlessly knocking a couple of very ancient balls about, with a stillmore ancient mallet.

  It struck me that it would be a good opportunity to deliver my message.Otherwise, Poirot himself might relieve me of it. It was true that I didnot quite gather its purport, but I flattered myself that by Lawrence'sreply, and perhaps a little skillful cross-examination on my part, Ishould soon perceive its significance. Accordingly I accosted him.

  "I've been looking for you," I remarked untruthfully.

  "Have you?"

  "Yes. The truth is, I've got a message for you--from Poirot."

  "Yes?"

  "He told me to wait until I was alone with you," I said, dropping myvoice significantly, and watching him intently out of the corner ofmy eye. I have always been rather good at what is called, I believe,creating an atmosphere.

  "Well?"

  There was no change of expression in the dark melancholic face. Had heany idea of what I was about to say?

  "This is the message." I dropped my voice still lower. "'Find the extracoffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.'"

  "What on earth does he mean?" Lawrence stared at me in quite unaffectedastonishment.

  "Don't you know?"

  "Not in the least. Do you?"

  I was compelled to shake my head.

  "What extra coffee-cup?"

  "I don't know."

  "He'd better ask Dorcas, or one of the maids, if he wants to know aboutcoffee-cups. It's their business, not mine. I don't know anything aboutthe coffee-cups, except that we've got some that are never used, whichare a perfect dream! Old Worcester. You're not a connoisseur, are you,Hastings?"

  I shook my head.

  "You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china--it's pure delight tohandle it, or even to look at it."

  "Well, what am I to tell Poirot?"

  "Tell him I don't know what he's talking about. It's double Dutch tome."

  "All right."

  I was moving off towards the house again when he suddenly called meback.

  "I say, what was the end of that message? Say it over again, will you?"

  "'Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.' Are you sureyou don't know what it means?" I asked him earnestly.

  He shook his head.

  "No," he said musingly, "I don't. I--I wish I did."

  The boom of the gong sounded from the house, and we went in together.Poirot had been asked by John to remain to lunch, and was already seatedat the table.

  By tacit consent, all mention of the tragedy was barred. We conversed onthe war, and other outside topics. But after the cheese and biscuits hadbeen handed round, and Dorcas had left the room, Poirot suddenly leantforward to Mrs. Cavendish.

  "Pardon me, madame, for recalling unpleasant memories, but I havea little idea"--Poirot's "little ideas" were becoming a perfectbyword--"and would like to ask one or two questions."

  "Of me? Certainly."

  "You are too amiable, madame. What I want to ask is this: the doorleading into Mrs. Inglethorp's room from that of Mademoiselle Cynthia,it was bolted, you say?"

  "Certainly it was bolted," replied Mary Cavendish, rather surprised. "Isaid so at the inquest."

  "Bolted?"

  "Yes." She looked perplexed.

  "I mean," explained Poirot, "you are sure it was bolted, and not merelylocked?"

  "Oh, I see what you mean. No, I don't know. I said bolted, meaning thatit was fastened, and I could not open it, but I believe all the doorswere found bolted on the inside."

  "Still, as far as you are concerned, the door might equally well havebeen locked?"

  "Oh, yes."

  "You yourself did not happen to notice, madame, when you entered Mrs.Inglethorp's room, whether that door was bolted or not?"

  "I--I believe it was."

  "But you did not see it?"

  "No. I--never looked."

  "But I did," interrupted Lawrence suddenly. "I happened to notice thatit _was_ bolted."

  "Ah, that settles it." And Poirot looked crestfallen.

  I could not help rejoicing that, for once, one of his "little ideas" hadcome to naught.

  After lunch Poirot begged me to accompany him home. I consented ratherstiffly.

  "You are annoyed, is it not so?" he asked anxiously, as we walkedthrough the park.

  "Not at all," I said coldly.

  "That is well. That lifts a great load from my mind."

  This was not quite what I had intended. I had hoped that he would haveobserved the stiffness of my manner. Still, the fervour of his wordswent towards the appeasing of my just displeasure. I thawed.

  "I gave Lawrence your message," I said.

  "And what did he say? He was entirely puzzled?"

  "Yes. I am quite sure he had no idea of what you meant."

  I had expected Poirot to be disappointed; but, to my surprise, hereplied that that was as he had thought, and that he was very glad. Mypride forbade me to ask any questions.

  Poirot switched off on another tack.

  "Mademoiselle Cynthia was not at lunch to-day? How was that?"

  "She is at the hospital again. She resumed work to-day."

  "Ah, she is an industrious little demoiselle. And pretty too. She islike pictures I have seen in Italy. I would rather like to see thatdispensary of hers. Do you think she would show it to me?"

  "I am sure she would be delighted. It's an interesting little place."

  "Does she go there every day?"

  "She has all Wednesdays off, and comes back to lunch on Saturdays. Thoseare her only times off."

  "I will remember. Women are doing great work nowadays, and MademoiselleCynthia is clever--oh, yes, she has brains, that little one."

  "Yes. I believe she has passed quite a stiff exam."

  "Without doubt. After all, it is very responsible work. I suppose theyhave very strong poisons there?"

  "Yes, she showed them to us. They are kept locked up in a littlecupboard. I believe they have to be very careful. They always take outthe key before leaving the room."

  "Indeed. It is near the window, this cupboard?"

  "No, right the other side of the room. Why?"

  Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

  "I wondered. That is all. Will you come in?"

  We had reached the cottage.

  "No. I think I'll be getting back. I shall go round the long way throughthe woods."

  The woods round Styles were very beautiful. After the walk across theopen park, it was pleasant to saunter lazily through the cool glades.There was hardly a breath of wind, the very chirp of the birds was faintand subdued. I strolled on a little way, and finally flung myself downat the foot of a grand old beech-tree. My thoughts of mankind werekindly and charitable. I even forgave Poirot for his absurd secrecy. Infact, I was at peace with the world. Then I yawned.

  I thought about the crime, and it struck me as being very unreal and faroff.

  I yawned again.

  Probably, I thought, it really never happened. Of course, it was alla bad dream. The truth of the matter was that it was Lawrence who hadmurdered Alfred Inglethorp with a croquet mallet. But it was absurd ofJohn to make such a fuss about it, and to go shouting out: "I tell you Iwon't have it!"

  I woke up with a start.

  At once I realized that I was in a very awkward predicament. For, abouttwelve feet away from me, John and Mary Cavendish were standingfacing each other, and they were evidently quarrelling. And, quite asevidently, they were unaware of my vicinity, for before I could move orspeak John repeated the words which had aroused me from my dream.

  "I tell you, Mary, I won't have it."

  Mary's voice came, cool and liquid:

  "Have _you_ any right to criticize my actions?"

  "It will be the
talk of the village! My mother was only buried onSaturday, and here you are gadding about with the fellow."

  "Oh," she shrugged her shoulders, "if it is only village gossip that youmind!"

  "But it isn't. I've had enough of the fellow hanging about. He's aPolish Jew, anyway."

  "A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavens the"--she lookedat him--"stolid stupidity of the ordinary Englishman."

  Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that the blood roseto John's face in a crimson tide.

  "Mary!"

  "Well?" Her tone did not change.

  The pleading died out of his voice.

  "Am I to understand that you will continue to see Bauerstein against myexpress wishes?"

  "If I choose."

  "You defy me?"

  "No, but I deny your right to criticize my actions. Have _you_ nofriends of whom I should disapprove?"

  John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face.

  "What do you mean?" he said, in an unsteady voice.

  "You see!" said Mary quietly. "You _do_ see, don't you, that _you_ haveno right to dictate to _me_ as to the choice of my friends?"

  John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face.

  "No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretchedout his hands. "Mary----"

  For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over herface, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.

  "None!"

  She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by thearm.

  "Mary"--his voice was very quiet now--"are you in love with this fellowBauerstein?"

  She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strangeexpression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young aboutit. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled.

  She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder.

  "Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade,leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone.

  Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some dead brancheswith my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for grantedthat I had only just come upon the scene.

  "Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to hiscottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?"

  "He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day."

  "Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rottenworld it is, though!"

  "You find it so?" I asked.

  "Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. ScotlandYard men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box! Never knowwhere they won't turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper inthe country--damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was awhole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of MadameTussaud's chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing.Pretty thick, isn't it?"

  "Cheer up, John!" I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever."

  "Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able tohold up our heads again."

  "No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject."

  "Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists andstared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there'sworse than that."

  "What?"

  John lowered his voice:

  "Have you ever thought, Hastings--it's a nightmare to me--who did it?I can't help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident.Because--because--who could have done it? Now Inglethorp's out of theway, there's no one else; no one, I mean, except--one of us."

  Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes,surely it must be so, unless-----

  A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. Thelight increased. Poirot's mysterious doings, his hints--they all fittedin. Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, andwhat a relief for us all.

  "No, John," I said, "it isn't one of us. How could it be?"

  "I know, but, still, who else is there?"

  "Can't you guess?"

  "No."

  I looked cautiously round, and lowered my voice.

  "Dr. Bauerstein!" I whispered.

  "Impossible!"

  "Not at all."

  "But what earthly interest could he have in my mother's death?"

  "That I don't see," I confessed, "but I'll tell you this: Poirot thinksso."

  "Poirot? Does he? How do you know?"

  I told him of Poirot's intense excitement on hearing that Dr. Bauersteinhad been at Styles on the fatal night, and added:

  "He said twice: 'That alters everything.' And I've been thinking. Youknow Inglethorp said he had put down the coffee in the hall? Well,it was just then that Bauerstein arrived. Isn't it possible that, asInglethorp brought him through the hall, the doctor dropped somethinginto the coffee in passing?"

  "H'm," said John. "It would have been very risky."

  "Yes, but it was possible."

  "And then, how could he know it was her coffee? No, old fellow, I don'tthink that will wash."

  But I had remembered something else.

  "You're quite right. That wasn't how it was done. Listen." And I thentold him of the cocoa sample which Poirot had taken to be analysed.

  John interrupted just as I had done.

  "But, look here, Bauerstein had had it analysed already?"

  "Yes, yes, that's the point. I didn't see it either until now. Don't youunderstand? Bauerstein had it analysed--that's just it! If Bauerstein'sthe murderer, nothing could be simpler than for him to substitute someordinary cocoa for his sample, and send that to be tested. And of coursethey would find no strychnine! But no one would dream of suspectingBauerstein, or think of taking another sample--except Poirot," I added,with belated recognition.

  "Yes, but what about the bitter taste that cocoa won't disguise?"

  "Well, we've only his word for that. And there are other possibilities.He's admittedly one of the world's greatest toxicologists----"

  "One of the world's greatest what? Say it again."

  "He knows more about poisons than almost anybody," I explained. "Well,my idea is, that perhaps he's found some way of making strychninetasteless. Or it may not have been strychnine at all, but some obscuredrug no one has ever heard of, which produces much the same symptoms."

  "H'm, yes, that might be," said John. "But look here, how could he havegot at the cocoa? That wasn't downstairs?"

  "No, it wasn't," I admitted reluctantly.

  And then, suddenly, a dreadful possibility flashed through my mind. Ihoped and prayed it would not occur to John also. I glanced sideways athim. He was frowning perplexedly, and I drew a deep breath of relief,for the terrible thought that had flashed across my mind was this: thatDr. Bauerstein might have had an accomplice.

  Yet surely it could not be! Surely no woman as beautiful as MaryCavendish could be a murderess. Yet beautiful women had been known topoison.

  And suddenly I remembered that first conversation at tea on the day ofmy arrival, and the gleam in her eyes as she had said that poison was awoman's weapon. How agitated she had been on that fatal Tuesday evening!Had Mrs. Inglethorp discovered something between her and Bauerstein, andthreatened to tell her husband? Was it to stop that denunciation thatthe crime had been committed?

  Then I remembered that enigmatical conversation between Poirot andEvelyn Howard. Was this what they had meant? Was this the monstrouspossibility that Evelyn had tried not to believe?

  Yes, it all fitted in.

  No wonder Miss Howard had suggested "hushing it up." Now I understoodthat unfinished sentence of hers: "Emily herself----" And in my heartI agreed with her. Would not Mrs. Inglethorp have preferred to gounavenged rather than have such terrible dishonour fall upon the name ofCavendish.

  "There's another thing," said John suddenly, and the unexpected soundof his voice ma
de me start guiltily. "Something which makes me doubt ifwhat you say can be true."

  "What's that?" I asked, thankful that he had gone away from the subjectof how the poison could have been introduced into the cocoa.

  "Why, the fact that Bauerstein demanded a post-mortem. He needn't havedone so. Little Wilkins would have been quite content to let it go atheart disease."

  "Yes," I said doubtfully. "But we don't know. Perhaps he thought itsafer in the long run. Someone might have talked afterwards. Then theHome Office might have ordered exhumation. The whole thing would havecome out, then, and he would have been in an awkward position, for noone would have believed that a man of his reputation could have beendeceived into calling it heart disease."

  "Yes, that's possible," admitted John. "Still," he added, "I'm blest ifI can see what his motive could have been."

  I trembled.

  "Look here," I said, "I may be altogether wrong. And, remember, all thisis in confidence."

  "Oh, of course--that goes without saying."

  We had walked, as we talked, and now we passed through the little gateinto the garden. Voices rose near at hand, for tea was spread out underthe 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 Poirot's wish to visit the dispensary.

  "Of course! I'd love him to see it. He'd better come to tea there oneday. I must fix it up with him. He's such a dear little man! But he _is_funny. He made me take the brooch out of my tie the other day, and putit in again, because he said it wasn't straight."

  I laughed.

  "It's quite a mania with him."

  "Yes, isn't it?"

  We were silent for a minute or two, and then, glancing in the directionof Mary Cavendish, and dropping her voice, Cynthia said:

  "Mr. Hastings."

  "Yes?"

  "After tea, I want to talk to you."

  Her glance at Mary had set me thinking. I fancied that between these twothere existed very little sympathy. For the first time, it occurredto me to wonder about the girl's future. Mrs. Inglethorp had made noprovisions of any kind for her, but I imagined that John and Mary wouldprobably insist on her making her home with them--at any rate until theend of the war. John, I knew, was very fond of her, and would be sorryto let her go.

  John, who had gone into the house, now reappeared. His good-natured facewore an unaccustomed frown of anger.

  "Confound those detectives! I can't think what they're after! They'vebeen in every room in the house--turning things inside out, and upsidedown. It really is too bad! I suppose they took advantage of our allbeing out. I shall go for that fellow Japp, when I next see him!"

  "Lot of Paul Prys," 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 offinto the woods together.

  "Well?" I inquired, as soon as we were protected from prying eyes by theleafy screen.

  With a sigh, Cynthia flung herself down, and tossed off her hat. Thesunlight, piercing through the branches, turned the auburn of her hairto quivering gold.

  "Mr. Hastings--you are always so kind, and you know such a lot."

  It struck me at this moment that Cynthia was really a very charminggirl! Much more charming than Mary, who never said things of that kind.

  "Well?" I asked benignantly, as she hesitated.

  "I want to ask your advice. What shall I do?"

  "Do?"

  "Yes. You see, Aunt Emily always told me I should be provided for. Isuppose she forgot, or didn't think she was likely to die--anyway, I am_not_ provided for! And I don't know what to do. Do you think I ought togo away from here at once?"

  "Good heavens, no! They don't want to part with you, I'm sure."

  Cynthia hesitated a moment, plucking up the grass with her tiny hands.Then she said: "Mrs. Cavendish does. She hates me."

  "Hates you?" I cried, astonished.

  Cynthia nodded.

  "Yes. I don't know why, but she can't bear me; and _he_ can't, either."

  "There I know you're wrong," I said warmly. "On the contrary, John isvery fond of you."

  "Oh, yes--_John_. I meant Lawrence. Not, of course, that I care whetherLawrence hates me or not. Still, it's rather horrid when no one lovesyou, isn't it?"

  "But they do, Cynthia dear," I said earnestly. "I'm sure you aremistaken. Look, there is John--and Miss Howard--"

  Cynthia nodded rather gloomily. "Yes, John likes me, I think, and ofcourse Evie, for all her gruff ways, wouldn't be unkind to a fly. ButLawrence never speaks to me if he can help it, and Mary can hardly bringherself to be civil to me. She wants Evie to stay on, is begging her to,but she doesn't want me, and--and--I don't know what to do." Suddenlythe poor child burst out crying.

  I don't know what possessed me. Her beauty, perhaps, as she sat there,with the sunlight glinting down on her head; perhaps the sense of reliefat encountering someone who so obviously could have no connection withthe tragedy; perhaps honest pity for her youth and loneliness. Anyway, Ileant forward, and taking her little hand, I said awkwardly:

  "Marry me, Cynthia."

  Unwittingly, I had hit upon a sovereign remedy for her tears. She sat upat once, drew her hand away, and said, with some asperity:

  "Don't be silly!"

  I was a little annoyed.

  "I'm not being silly. I am asking you to do me the honour of becoming mywife."

  To my intense surprise, Cynthia burst out laughing, and called me a"funny dear."

  "It's perfectly sweet of you," she said, "but you know you don't wantto!"

  "Yes, I do. I've got--"

  "Never mind what you've got. You don't really want to--and I don'teither."

  "Well, of course, that settles it," I said stiffly. "But I don't seeanything to laugh at. There's nothing funny about a proposal."

  "No, indeed," said Cynthia. "Somebody might accept you next time.Good-bye, you've cheered me up very much."

  And, with a final uncontrollable burst of merriment, she vanishedthrough the trees.

  Thinking over the interview, it struck me as being profoundlyunsatisfactory.

  It occurred to me suddenly that I would go down to the village, and lookup Bauerstein. Somebody ought to be keeping an eye on the fellow. At thesame time, it would be wise to allay any suspicions he might have as tohis being suspected. I remembered how Poirot had relied on my diplomacy.Accordingly, I went to the little house with the "Apartments" cardinserted in the window, where I knew he lodged, and tapped on the door.

  An old woman came and opened it.

  "Good afternoon," I said pleasantly. "Is Dr. Bauerstein in?"

  She stared at me.

  "Haven't you heard?"

  "Heard what?"

  "About him."

  "What about him?"

  "He's took."

  "Took? Dead?"

  "No, took by the perlice."

  "By the police!" I gasped. "Do you mean they've arrested him?"

  "Yes, that's it, and--"

  I waited to hear no more, but tore up the village to find Poirot.