THE MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR AT STYLES 
AGATHA CHRISTIE




CONTENTS

I.     I GO TO STYLES
II.    THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY
III.   THE NIGHT OF THE TRAGEDY
IV.    POIROT INVESTIGATES
V.     "IT ISN'T STRYCHNINE, IS IT?"
VI.    THE INQUEST
VII.   POIROT PAYS HIS DEBTS
VIII.  FRESH SUSPICIONS
IX.    DR. BAUERSTEIN
X.     THE ARREST
XI.    THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION
XII.   THE LAST LINK
XIII.  POIROT EXPLAINS



CHAPTER I.  I GO TO STYLES


The intense interest aroused in the public by what was known at
the time as "The Styles Case" has now somewhat subsided. 
Nevertheless, in view of the world-wide notoriety which attended
it, I have been asked, both by my friend Poirot and the family
themselves, to write an account of the whole story.  This, we
trust, will effectually silence the sensational rumours which
still persist.

I will therefore briefly set down the circumstances which led to
my being connected with the affair.

I had been invalided home from the Front; and, after spending
some months in a rather depressing Convalescent Home, was given a
month's sick leave.  Having no near relations or friends, I was
trying to make up my mind what to do, when I ran across John
Cavendish.  I had seen very little of him for some years. 
Indeed, I had never known him particularly well.  He was a good
fifteen years my senior, for one thing, though he hardly looked
his forty-five years.  As a boy, though, I had often stayed at
Styles, his mother's place in Essex.

We had a good yarn about old times, and it ended in his inviting
me down to Styles to spend my leave there.

"The mater will be delighted to see you again--after all those
years," he added.

"Your mother keeps well?" I asked.

"Oh, yes.  I suppose you know that she has married again?"

I am afraid I showed my surprise rather plainly.  Mrs. Cavendish,
who had married John's father when he was a widower with two
sons, had been a handsome woman of middle-age as I remembered
her.  She certainly could not be a day less than seventy now.  I
recalled her as an energetic, autocratic personality, somewhat
inclined to charitable and social notoriety, with a fondness for
opening bazaars and playing the Lady Bountiful.  She was a most
generous woman, and possessed a considerable fortune of her own.

Their country-place, Styles Court, had been purchased by Mr.
Cavendish early in their married life.  He had been completely
under his wife's ascendancy, so much so that, on dying, he left
the place to her for her lifetime, as well as the larger part of
his income; an arrangement that was distinctly unfair to his two
sons.  Their step-mother, however, had always been most generous
to them; indeed, they were so young at the time of their father's
remarriage that they always thought of her as their own mother.

Lawrence, the younger, had been a delicate youth.  He had
qualified as a doctor but early relinquished the profession of
medicine, and lived at home while pursuing literary ambitions;
though his verses never had any marked success.

John practiced for some time as a barrister, but had finally
settled down to the more congenial life of a country squire.  He
had married two years ago, and had taken his wife to live at
Styles, though I entertained a shrewd suspicion that he would
have preferred his mother to increase his allowance, which would
have enabled him to have a home of his own.  Mrs. Cavendish,
however, was a lady who liked to make her own plans, and expected
other people to fall in with them, and in this case she certainly
had the whip hand, namely: the purse strings.

John noticed my surprise at the news of his mother's remarriage
and smiled rather ruefully.

"Rotten little bounder too!" he said savagely.  "I can tell you,
Hastings, it's making life jolly difficult for us.  As for
Evie--you remember Evie?"

"No."

"Oh, I suppose she was after your time.  She's the mater's
factotum, companion, Jack of all trades! A great sport--old Evie!
Not precisely young and beautiful, but as game as they make
them."

"You were going to say----?"

"Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of
being a second cousin or something of Evie's, though she didn't
seem particularly keen to acknowledge the relationship.  The
fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see that.  He's got a
great black beard, and wears patent leather boots in all
weathers! But the mater cottoned to him at once, took him on as
secretary--you know how she's always running a hundred
societies?"

I nodded.

"Well, of course the war has turned the hundreds into thousands. 
No doubt the fellow was very useful to her.  But you could have
knocked us all down with a feather when, three months ago, she
suddenly announced that she and Alfred were engaged! The fellow
must be at least twenty years younger than she is! It's simply
bare-faced fortune hunting; but there you are--she is her own
mistress, and she's married him."

"It must be a difficult situation for you all."

"Difficult! It's damnable!"

Thus it came about that, three days later, I descended from the
train at Styles St. Mary, an absurd little station, with no
apparent reason for existence, perched up in the midst of green
fields and country lanes.  John Cavendish was waiting on the
platform, and piloted me out to the car.

"Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see," he remarked. 
"Mainly owing to the mater's activities."

The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about two miles from
the little station, and Styles Court lay a mile the other side of
it.  It was a still, warm day in early July.  As one looked out
over the flat Essex country, lying so green and peaceful under
the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible to believe that,
not so very far away, a great war was running its appointed
course.  I felt I had suddenly strayed into another world.  As we
turned in at the lodge gates, John said:

"I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet down here, Hastings."

"My dear fellow, that's just what I want."

"Oh, it's pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life.  I
drill with the volunteers twice a week, and lend a hand at the
farms.  My wife works regularly 'on the land'.  She is up at five
every morning to milk, and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime. 
It's a jolly good life taking it all round--if it weren't for
that fellow Alfred Inglethorp!" He checked the car suddenly, and
glanced at his watch.  "I wonder if we've time to pick up
Cynthia.  No, she'll have started from the hospital by now."

"Cynthia! That's not your wife?"

"No, Cynthia is a protegee of my mother's, the daughter of an old
schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor.  He came
a cropper, and the girl was left an orphan and penniless.  My
mother came to the rescue, and Cynthia has been with us nearly
two years now.  She works in the Red Cross Hospital at
Tadminster, seven miles away."

As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old
house.  A lady in a stout tweed skirt, who was bending over a
flower bed, straightened herself at our approach.

"Hullo, Evie, here's our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings--Miss
Howard."

Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip.  I
had an impression of very blue eyes in a sunburnt face.  She was
a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, with a deep voice,
almost manly in its stentorian tones, and had a large sensible
square body, with feet to match--these last encased in good thick
boots.  Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the
telegraphic style.

"Weeds grow like house afire.  Can't keep even with 'em.  Shall
press you in.  Better be careful."

"I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful," I
responded.

"Don't say it.  Never does.  Wish you hadn't later."

"You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing.  "Where's tea
to-day--inside or out?"

"Out.  Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house."

"Come on then, you've done enough gardening for to-day.  'The
labourer is worthy of his hire', you know.  Come and be
refreshed."

"Well," said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, "I'm
inclined to agree with you."

She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the
shade of a large sycamore.

A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps
to meet us.

"My wife, Hastings," said John.

I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish.  Her tall,
slender form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense
of slumbering fire that seemed to find expression only in those
wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any
other woman's that I have ever known; the intense power of
stillness she possessed, which nevertheless conveyed the
impression of a wild untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilised
body--all these things are burnt into my memory.  I shall never
forget them.

She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low
clear voice, and I sank into a basket chair feeling distinctly
glad that I had accepted John's invitation.  Mrs. Cavendish gave
me some tea, and her few quiet remarks heightened my first
impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman.  An
appreciative listener is always stimulating, and I described, in
a humorous manner, certain incidents of my Convalescent Home, in
a way which, I flatter myself, greatly amused my hostess.  John,
of course, good fellow though he is, could hardly be called a
brilliant conversationalist.

At that moment a well remembered voice floated through the open
French window near at hand:

"Then you'll write to the Princess after tea, Alfred? I'll write
to Lady Tadminster for the second day, myself.  Or shall we wait
until we hear from the Princess? In case of a refusal, Lady
Tadminster might open it the first day, and Mrs. Crosbie the
second.  Then there's the Duchess--about the school fete."

There was the murmur of a man's voice, and then Mrs. Inglethorp's
rose in reply:

"Yes, certainly.  After tea will do quite well.  You are so
thoughtful, Alfred dear."

The French window swung open a little wider, and a handsome
white-haired old lady, with a somewhat masterful cast of
features, stepped out of it on to the lawn.  A man followed her,
a suggestion of deference in his manner.

Mrs. Inglethorp greeted me with effusion.

"Why, if it isn't too delightful to see you again, Mr. Hastings,
after all these years.  Alfred, darling, Mr. Hastings--my
husband."

I looked with some curiosity at "Alfred darling".  He certainly
struck a rather alien note.  I did not wonder at John objecting
to his beard.  It was one of the longest and blackest I have ever
seen.  He wore gold-rimmed pince-nez, and had a curious
impassivity of feature.  It struck me that he might look natural
on a stage, but was strangely out of place in real life.  His
voice was rather deep and unctuous.  He placed a wooden hand in
mine and said:

"This is a pleasure, Mr. Hastings." Then, turning to his wife:
"Emily dearest, I think that cushion is a little damp."

She beamed fondly on him, as he substituted another with every
demonstration of the tenderest care.  Strange infatuation of an
otherwise sensible woman!

With the presence of Mr. Inglethorp, a sense of constraint and
veiled hostility seemed to settle down upon the company.  Miss
Howard, in particular, took no pains to conceal her feelings. 
Mrs. Inglethorp, however, seemed to notice nothing unusual.  Her
volubility, which I remembered of old, had lost nothing in the
intervening years, and she poured out a steady flood of
conversation, mainly on the subject of the forthcoming bazaar
which she was organizing and which was to take place shortly. 
Occasionally she referred to her husband over a question of days
or dates.  His watchful and attentive manner never varied.  From
the very first I took a firm and rooted dislike to him, and I
flatter myself that my first judgments are usually fairly shrewd.

Presently Mrs. Inglethorp turned to give some instructions about
letters to Evelyn Howard, and her husband addressed me in his
painstaking voice:

"Is soldiering your regular profession, Mr. Hastings?"

"No, before the war I was in Lloyd's."

"And you will return there after it is over?"

"Perhaps.  Either that or a fresh start altogether."

Mary Cavendish leant forward.

"What would you really choose as a profession, if you could just
consult your inclination?"

"Well, that depends."

"No secret hobby?" she asked.  "Tell me--you're drawn to
something? Every one is--usually something absurd."

"You'll laugh at me."

She smiled.

"Perhaps."

"Well, I've always had a secret hankering to be a detective!"

"The real thing--Scotland Yard? Or Sherlock Holmes?"

"Oh, Sherlock Holmes by all means.  But really, seriously, I am
awfully drawn to it.  I came across a man in Belgium once, a very
famous detective, and he quite inflamed me.  He was a marvellous
little fellow.  He used to say that all good detective work was a
mere matter of method.  My system is based on his--though of
course I have progressed rather further.  He was a funny little
man, a great dandy, but wonderfully clever."

"Like a good detective story myself," remarked Miss Howard. 
"Lots of nonsense written, though.  Criminal discovered in last
chapter.  Every one dumbfounded.  Real crime--you'd know at
once."

"There have been a great number of undiscovered crimes," I
argued.

"Don't mean the police, but the people that are right in it.  The
family.  You couldn't really hoodwink them.  They'd know."

"Then," I said, much amused, "you think that if you were mixed up
in a crime, say a murder, you'd be able to spot the murderer
right off?"

"Of course I should.  Mightn't be able to prove it to a pack of
lawyers.  But I'm certain I'd know.  I'd feel it in my fingertips
if he came near me."

"It might be a 'she,' " I suggested.

"Might.  But murder's a violent crime.  Associate it more with a
man."

"Not in a case of poisoning." Mrs. Cavendish's clear voice
startled me.  "Dr. Bauerstein was saying yesterday that, owing to
the general ignorance of the more uncommon poisons among the
medical profession, there were probably countless cases of
poisoning quite unsuspected."

"Why, Mary, what a gruesome conversation!" cried Mrs. Inglethorp. 
"It makes me feel as if a goose were walking over my grave.  Oh,
there's Cynthia!"

A young girl in V.  A.  D.  uniform ran lightly across the lawn.

"Why, Cynthia, you are late to-day.  This is Mr. Hastings-- Miss
Murdoch."

Cynthia Murdoch was a fresh-looking young creature, full of life
and vigour.  She tossed off her little V.  A.  D.  cap, and I
admired the great loose waves of her auburn hair, and the
smallness and whiteness of the hand she held out to claim her
tea.  With dark eyes and eyelashes she would have been a beauty.

She flung herself down on the ground beside John, and as I handed
her a plate of sandwiches she smiled up at me.

"Sit down here on the grass, do.  It's ever so much nicer."

I dropped down obediently.

"You work at Tadminster, don't you, Miss Murdoch?"

She nodded.

"For my sins."

"Do they bully you, then?" I asked, smiling.

"I should like to see them!" cried Cynthia with dignity.

"I have got a cousin who is nursing," I remarked.  "And she is
terrified of 'Sisters'."

"I don't wonder.  Sisters *ARE, you know, Mr. Hastings.  They
simp-ly *ARE! You've no idea! But I'm not a nurse, thank heaven,
I work in the dispensary."

"How many people do you poison?" I asked, smiling.

Cynthia smiled too.

"Oh, hundreds!" she said.

"Cynthia," called Mrs. Inglethorp, "do you think you could write
a few notes for me?"

"Certainly, Aunt Emily."

She jumped up promptly, and something in her manner reminded me
that her position was a dependent one, and that Mrs. Inglethorp,
kind as she might be in the main, did not allow her to forget it.

My hostess turned to me.

"John will show you your room.  Supper is at half-past seven.  We
have given up late dinner for some time now.  Lady Tadminster,
our Member's wife--she was the late Lord Abbotsbury's
daughter--does the same.  She agrees with me that one must set an
example of economy.  We are quite a war household; nothing is
wasted here--every scrap of waste paper, even, is saved and sent
away in sacks."

I expressed my appreciation, and John took me into the house and
up the broad staircase, which forked right and left half-way to
different wings of the building.  My room was in the left wing,
and looked out over the park.

John left me, and a few minutes later I saw him from my window
walking slowly across the grass arm in arm with Cynthia Murdoch. 
I heard Mrs. Inglethorp call "Cynthia" impatiently, and the girl
started and ran back to the house.  At the same moment, a man
stepped out from the shadow of a tree and walked slowly in the
same direction.  He looked about forty, very dark with a
melancholy clean-shaven face.  Some violent emotion seemed to be
mastering him.  He looked up at my window as he passed, and I
recognized him, though he had changed much in the fifteen years
that had elapsed since we last met.  It was John's younger
brother, Lawrence Cavendish.  I wondered what it was that had
brought that singular expression to his face.

Then I dismissed him from my mind, and returned to the
contemplation of my own affairs.

The evening passed pleasantly enough; and I dreamed that night of
that enigmatical woman, Mary Cavendish.

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and I was full of the
anticipation of a delightful visit.

I did not see Mrs. Cavendish until lunch-time, when she
volunteered to take me for a walk, and we spent a charming
afternoon roaming in the woods, returning to the house about
five.

As we entered the large hall, John beckoned us both into the
smoking-room.  I saw at once by his face that something
disturbing had occurred.  We followed him in, and he shut the
door after us.

"Look here, Mary, there's the deuce of a mess.  Evie's had a row
with Alfred Inglethorp, and she's off."

"Evie? Off?"

John nodded gloomily.

"Yes; you see she went to the mater, and--Oh, here's Evie
herself."

Miss Howard entered.  Her lips were set grimly together, and she
carried a small suit-case.  She looked excited and determined,
and slightly on the defensive.

"At any rate," she burst out, "I've spoken my mind!"

"My dear Evelyn," cried Mrs. Cavendish, "this can't be true!"

Miss Howard nodded grimly.

"True enough! Afraid I said some things to Emily she won't forget
or forgive in a hurry.  Don't mind if they've only sunk in a bit. 
Probably water off a duck's back, though.  I said right out:
'You're an old woman, Emily, and there's no fool like an old
fool.  The man's twenty years younger than you, and don't you
fool yourself as to what he married you for.  Money! Well, don't
let him have too much of it.  Farmer Raikes has got a very pretty
young wife.  Just ask your Alfred how much time he spends over
there.' She was very angry.  Natural! I went on, 'I'm going to
warn you, whether you like it or not.  That man would as soon
murder you in your bed as look at you.  He's a bad lot.  You can
say what you like to me, but remember what I've told you.  He's a
bad lot!' "

"What did she say?"

Miss Howard made an extremely expressive grimace.

" 'Darling Alfred'--'dearest Alfred'--'wicked calumnies'
--'wicked lies'--'wicked woman'--to accuse her 'dear husband'!
The sooner I left her house the better.  So I'm off."

"But not now?"

"This minute!"

For a moment we sat and stared at her.  Finally John Cavendish,
finding his persuasions of no avail, went off to look up the
trains.  His wife followed him, murmuring something about
persuading Mrs. Inglethorp to think better of it.

As she left the room, Miss Howard's face changed.  She leant
towards me eagerly.

"Mr. Hastings, you're honest.  I can trust you?"

I was a little startled.  She laid her hand on my arm, and sank
her voice to a whisper.

"Look after her, Mr. Hastings.  My poor Emily.  They're a lot of
sharks--all of them.  Oh, I know what I'm talking about.  There
isn't one of them that's not hard up and trying to get money out
of her.  I've protected her as much as I could.  Now I'm out of
the way, they'll impose upon her."

"Of course, Miss Howard," I said, "I'll do everything I can, but
I'm sure you're excited and overwrought."

She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger.

"Young man, trust me.  I've lived in the world rather longer than
you have.  All I ask you is to keep your eyes open.  You'll see
what I mean."

The throb of the motor came through the open window, and Miss
Howard rose and moved to the door.  John's voice sounded outside. 
With her hand on the handle, she turned her head over her
shoulder, and beckoned to me.

"Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil--her husband!"

There was no time for more.  Miss Howard was swallowed up in an
eager chorus of protests and good-byes.  The Inglethorps did not
appear.

As the motor drove away, Mrs. Cavendish suddenly detached herself
from the group, and moved across the drive to the lawn to meet a
tall bearded man who had been evidently making for the house. 
The colour rose in her cheeks as she held out her hand to him.

"Who is that?" I asked sharply, for instinctively I distrusted
the man.

"That's Dr. Bauerstein," said John shortly.

"And who is Dr. Bauerstein?"

"He's staying in the village doing a rest cure, after a bad
nervous breakdown.  He's a London specialist; a very clever
man--one of the greatest living experts on poisons, I believe."

"And he's a great friend of Mary's," put in Cynthia, the
irrepressible.

John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject.

"Come for a stroll, Hastings.  This has been a most rotten
business.  She always had a rough tongue, but there is no
stauncher friend in England than Evelyn Howard."

He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to
the village through the woods which bordered one side of the
estate.

As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again, a
pretty young woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction
bowed and smiled.

"That's a pretty girl," I remarked appreciatively.

John's face hardened.

"That is Mrs. Raikes."

"The one that Miss Howard----"

"Exactly," said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness.

I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that
vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a
vague chill of foreboding crept over me.  I brushed it aside.

"Styles is really a glorious old place," I said to John.

He nodded rather gloomily.

"Yes, it's a fine property.  It'll be mine some day--should be
mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. 
And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."

"Hard up, are you?"

"My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm at my wit's
end for money."

"Couldn't your brother help you?"

"Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever had, publishing
rotten verses in fancy bindings.  No, we're an impecunious lot. 
My mother's always been awfully good to us, I must say.  That is,
up to now.  Since her marriage, of course----" he broke off,
frowning.

For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, something
indefinable had gone from the atmosphere.  Her presence had spelt
security.  Now that security was removed--and the air seemed rife
with suspicion.  The sinister face of Dr. Bauerstein recurred to
me unpleasantly.  A vague suspicion of every one and everything
filled my mind.  Just for a moment I had a premonition of
approaching evil.



CHAPTER II.  THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY


I had arrived at Styles on the 5th of July.  I come now to the
events of the 16th and 17th of that month.  For the convenience
of the reader I will recapitulate the incidents of those days in
as exact a manner as possible.  They were elicited subsequently
at the trial by a process of long and tedious cross-examinations.

I received a letter from Evelyn Howard a couple of days after her
departure, telling me she was working as a nurse at the big
hospital in Middlingham, a manufacturing town some fifteen miles
away, and begging me to let her know if Mrs. Inglethorp should
show any wish to be reconciled.

The only fly in the ointment of my peaceful days was Mrs.
Cavendish's extraordinary, and, for my part, unaccountable
preference for the society of Dr. Bauerstein.  What she saw in
the man I cannot imagine, but she was always asking him up to the
house, and often went off for long expeditions with him.  I must
confess that I was quite unable to see his attraction.

The 16th of July fell on a Monday.  It was a day of turmoil.  The
famous bazaar had taken place on Saturday, and an entertainment,
in connection with the same charity, at which Mrs. Inglethorp was
to recite a War poem, was to be held that night.  We were all
busy during the morning arranging and decorating the Hall in the
village where it was to take place.  We had a late luncheon and
spent the afternoon resting in the garden.  I noticed that John's
manner was somewhat unusual.  He seemed very excited and
restless.

After tea, Mrs. Inglethorp went to lie down to rest before her
efforts in the evening and I challenged Mary Cavendish to a
single at tennis.

About a quarter to seven, Mrs. Inglethorp called us that we
should be late as supper was early that night.  We had rather a
scramble to get ready in time; and before the meal was over the
motor was waiting at the door.

The entertainment was a great success, Mrs. Inglethorp's
recitation receiving tremendous applause.  There were also some
tableaux in which Cynthia took part.  She did not return with us,
having been asked to a supper party, and to remain the night with
some friends who had been acting with her in the tableaux.

The following morning, Mrs. Inglethorp stayed in bed to
breakfast, as she was rather overtired; but she appeared in her
briskest mood about 12.30, and swept Lawrence and myself off to a
luncheon party.

"Such a charming invitation from Mrs. Rolleston.  Lady
Tadminster's sister, you know.  The Rollestons came over with the
Conqueror--one of our oldest families."

Mary had excused herself on the plea of an engagement with Dr.
Bauerstein.

We had a pleasant luncheon, and as we drove away Lawrence
suggested that we should return by Tadminster, which was barely a
mile out of our way, and pay a visit to Cynthia in her
dispensary.  Mrs. Inglethorp replied that this was an excellent
idea, but as she had several letters to write she would drop us
there, and we could come back with Cynthia in the pony-trap.

We were detained under suspicion by the hospital porter, until
Cynthia appeared to vouch for us, looking very cool and sweet in
her long white overall.  She took us up to her sanctum, and
introduced us to her fellow dispenser, a rather awe-inspiring
individual, whom Cynthia cheerily addressed as "Nibs."

"What a lot of bottles!" I exclaimed, as my eye travelled round
the small room.  "Do you really know what's in them all?"

"Say something original," groaned Cynthia.  "Every single person
who comes up here says that.  We are really thinking of bestowing
a prize on the first individual who does *NOT say: 'What a lot of
bottles!' And I know the next thing you're going to say is: 'How
many people have you poisoned?' "

I pleaded guilty with a laugh.

"If you people only knew how fatally easy it is to poison some
one by mistake, you wouldn't joke about it.  Come on, let's have
tea.  We've got all sorts of secret stories in that cupboard. 
No, Lawrence--that's the poison cupboard.  The big
cupboard--that's right."

We had a very cheery tea, and assisted Cynthia to wash up
afterwards.  We had just put away the last tea-spoon when a knock
came at the door.  The countenances of Cynthia and Nibs were
suddenly petrified into a stern and forbidding expression.

"Come in," said Cynthia, in a sharp professional tone.

A young and rather scared looking nurse appeared with a bottle
which she proffered to Nibs, who waved her towards Cynthia with
the somewhat enigmatical remark:

"_I_'m not really here to-day."

Cynthia took the bottle and examined it with the severity of a
judge.

"This should have been sent up this morning."

"Sister is very sorry.  She forgot."

"Sister should read the rules outside the door."

I gathered from the little nurse's expression that there was not
the least likelihood of her having the hardihood to retail this
message to the dreaded "Sister".

"So now it can't be done until to-morrow," finished Cynthia.

"Don't you think you could possibly let us have it to-night?"

"Well," said Cynthia graciously, "we are very busy, but if we
have time it shall be done."

The little nurse withdrew, and Cynthia promptly took a jar from
the shelf, refilled the bottle, and placed it on the table
outside the door.

I laughed.

"Discipline must be maintained?"

"Exactly.  Come out on our little balcony.  You can see all the
outside wards there."

I followed Cynthia and her friend and they pointed out the
different wards to me.  Lawrence remained behind, but after a few
moments Cynthia called to him over her shoulder to come and join
us.  Then she looked at her watch.

"Nothing more to do, Nibs?"

"No."

"All right.  Then we can lock up and go."

I had seen Lawrence in quite a different light that afternoon. 
Compared to John, he was an astoundingly difficult person to get
to know.  He was the opposite of his brother in almost every
respect, being unusually shy and reserved.  Yet he had a certain
charm of manner, and I fancied that, if one really knew him well,
one could have a deep affection for him.  I had always fancied
that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that she
on her side was inclined to be shy of him.  But they were both
gay enough this afternoon, and chatted together like a couple of
children.

As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some
stamps, so accordingly we pulled up at the post office.

As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just
entering.  I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a
loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly.

"Mon ami Hastings!" he cried.  "It is indeed mon ami Hastings!"

"Poirot!" I exclaimed.

I turned to the pony-trap.

"This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia.  This is
my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years."

"Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily.  "But I had no
idea he was a friend of yours."

"Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously.  "I know Mademoiselle
Cynthia.  It is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that
I am here." Then, as I looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my
friend, she had kindly extended hospitality to seven of my
countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their native land.  We
Belgians will always remember her with gratitude."

Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man.  He was hardly
more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great
dignity.  His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always
perched it a little on one side.  His moustache was very stiff
and military.  The neatness of his attire was almost incredible. 
I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a
bullet wound.  Yet this quaint dandyfied little man who, I was
sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in his time one of the
most celebrated members of the Belgian police.  As a detective,
his flair had been extraordinary, and he had achieved triumphs by
unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day.

He pointed out to me the little house inhabited by him and his
fellow Belgians, and I promised to go and see him at an early
date.  Then he raised his hat with a flourish to Cynthia, and we
drove away.

"He's a dear little man," said Cynthia.  "I'd no idea you knew
him."

"You've been entertaining a celebrity unawares," I replied.

And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various
exploits and triumphs of Hercule Poirot.

We arrived back in a very cheerful mood.  As we entered the hall,
Mrs. Inglethorp came out of her boudoir.  She looked flushed and
upset.

"Oh, it's you," she said.

"Is there anything the matter, Aunt Emily?" asked Cynthia.

"Certainly not," said Mrs. Inglethorp sharply.  "What should
there be?" Then catching sight of Dorcas, the parlourmaid, going
into the dining-room, she called to her to bring some stamps into
the boudoir.

"Yes, m'm." The old servant hesitated, then added diffidently:
"Don't you think, m'm, you'd better get to bed? You're looking
very tired."

"Perhaps you're right, Dorcas--yes--no--not now.  I've some
letters I must finish by post-time.  Have you lighted the fire in
my room as I told you?"

"Yes, m'm."

"Then I'll go to bed directly after supper."

She went into the boudoir again, and Cynthia stared after her.

"Goodness gracious! I wonder what's up?" she said to Lawrence.

He did not seem to have heard her, for without a word he turned
on his heel and went out of the house.

I suggested a quick game of tennis before supper and, Cynthia
agreeing, I ran upstairs to fetch my racquet.

Mrs. Cavendish was coming down the stairs.  It may have been my
fancy, but she, too, was looking odd and disturbed.

"Had a good walk with Dr. Bauerstein?" I asked, trying to appear
as indifferent as I could.

"I didn't go," she replied abruptly.  "Where is Mrs. Inglethorp?"

"In the boudoir."

Her hand clenched itself on the banisters, then she seemed to
nerve herself for some encounter, and went rapidly past me down
the stairs across the hall to the boudoir, the door of which she
shut behind her.

As I ran out to the tennis court a few moments later, I had to
pass the open boudoir window, and was unable to help overhearing
the following scrap of dialogue.  Mary Cavendish was saying in
the voice of a woman desperately controlling herself:

"Then you won't show it to me?"

To which Mrs. Inglethorp replied:

"My dear Mary, it has nothing to do with that matter."

"Then show it to me."

"I tell you it is not what you imagine.  It does not concern you
in the least."

To which Mary Cavendish replied, with a rising bitterness:

"Of course, I might have known you would shield him."

Cynthia was waiting for me, and greeted me eagerly with:

"I say! There's been the most awful row! I've got it all out of
Dorcas."

"What kind of a row?"

"Between Aunt Emily and *HIM.  I do hope she's found him out at
last!"

"Was Dorcas there, then?"

"Of course not.  She 'happened to be near the door'.  It was a
real old bust-up.  I do wish I knew what it was all about."

I thought of Mrs. Raikes's gipsy face, and Evelyn Howard's
warnings, but wisely decided to hold my peace, whilst Cynthia
exhausted every possible hypothesis, and cheerfully hoped, "Aunt
Emily will send him away, and will never speak to him again."

I was anxious to get hold of John, but he was nowhere to be seen. 
Evidently something very momentous had occurred that afternoon. 
I tried to forget the few words I had overheard; but, do what I
would, I could not dismiss them altogether from my mind.  What
was Mary Cavendish's concern in the matter?

Mr. Inglethorp was in the drawing-room when I came down to
supper.  His face was impassive as ever, and the strange
unreality of the man struck me afresh.

Mrs. Inglethorp came down last.  She still looked agitated, and
during the meal there was a somewhat constrained silence. 
Inglethorp was unusually quiet.  As a rule, he surrounded his
wife with little attentions, placing a cushion at her back, and
altogether playing the part of the devoted husband.  Immediately
after supper, Mrs. Inglethorp retired to her boudoir again.

"Send my coffee in here, Mary," she called.  "I've just five
minutes to catch the post."

Cynthia and I went and sat by the open window in the
drawing-room.  Mary Cavendish brought our coffee to us.  She
seemed excited.

"Do you young people want lights, or do you enjoy the twilight?"
she asked.  "Will you take Mrs. Inglethorp her coffee, Cynthia? I
will pour it out."

"Do not trouble, Mary," said Inglethorp.  "I will take it to
Emily." He poured it out, and went out of the room carrying it
carefully.

Lawrence followed him, and Mrs. Cavendish sat down by us.

We three sat for some time in silence.  It was a glorious night,
hot and still.  Mrs. Cavendish fanned herself gently with a palm
leaf.

"It's almost too hot," she murmured.  "We shall have a
thunderstorm."

Alas, that these harmonious moments can never endure! My paradise
was rudely shattered by the sound of a well known, and heartily
disliked, voice in the hall.

"Dr. Bauerstein!" exclaimed Cynthia.  "What a funny time to
come."

I glanced jealously at Mary Cavendish, but she seemed quite
undisturbed, the delicate pallor of her cheeks did not vary.

In a few moments, Alfred Inglethorp had ushered the doctor in,
the latter laughing, and protesting that he was in no fit state
for a drawing-room.  In truth, he presented a sorry spectacle,
being literally plastered with mud.

"What have you been doing, doctor?" cried Mrs. Cavendish.

"I must make my apologies," said the doctor.  "I did not really
mean to come in, but Mr. Inglethorp insisted."

"Well, Bauerstein, you are in a plight," said John, strolling in
from the hall.  "Have some coffee, and tell us what you have been
up to."

"Thank you, I will." He laughed rather ruefully, as he described
how he had discovered a very rare species of fern in an
inaccessible place, and in his efforts to obtain it had lost his
footing, and slipped ignominiously into a neighbouring pond.

"The sun soon dried me off," he added, "but I'm afraid my
appearance is very disreputable."

At this juncture, Mrs. Inglethorp called to Cynthia from the
hall, and the girl ran out.

"Just carry up my despatch-case, will you, dear? I'm going to
bed."

The door into the hall was a wide one.  I had risen when Cynthia
did, John was close by me.  There were therefore three witnesses
who could swear that Mrs. Inglethorp was carrying her coffee, as
yet untasted, in her hand.

My evening was utterly and entirely spoilt by the presence of Dr.
Bauerstein.  It seemed to me the man would never go.  He rose at
last, however, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

"I'll walk down to the village with you," said Mr. Inglethorp. 
"I must see our agent over those estate accounts." He turned to
John.  "No one need sit up.  I will take the latch-key."



CHAPTER III.  THE NIGHT OF THE TRAGEDY


To make this part of my story clear, I append the following plan
of the first floor of Styles.  The servants' rooms are reached
through the door B.  They have no communication with the right
wing, where the Inglethorps' rooms were situated.

It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by
Lawrence Cavendish.  He had a candle in his hand, and the
agitation of his face told me at once that something was
seriously wrong.

"What's the matter?" I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to
collect my scattered thoughts.

"We are afraid my mother is very ill.  She seems to be having
some kind of fit.  Unfortunately she has locked herself in."

"I'll come at once."

I sprang out of bed; and, pulling on a dressing-gown, followed
Lawrence along the passage and the gallery to the right wing of
the house.

John Cavendish joined us, and one or two of the servants were
standing round in a state of awe-stricken excitement.  Lawrence
turned to his brother.

"What do you think we had better do?"

Never, I thought, had his indecision of character been more
apparent.

John rattled the handle of Mrs. Inglethorp's door violently, but
with no effect.  It was obviously locked or bolted on the inside. 
The whole household was aroused by now.  The most alarming sounds
were audible from the interior of the room.  Clearly something
must be done.

"Try going through Mr. Inglethorp's room, sir," cried Dorcas. 
"Oh, the poor mistress!"

Suddenly I realized that Alfred Inglethorp was not with us--that
he alone had given no sign of his presence.  John opened the door
of his room.  It was pitch dark, but Lawrence was following with
the candle, and by its feeble light we saw that the bed had not
been slept in, and that there was no sign of the room having been
occupied.

We went straight to the connecting door.  That, too, was locked
or bolted on the inside.  What was to be done?

"Oh, dear, sir," cried Dorcas, wringing her hands, "what ever
shall we do?"

"We must try and break the door in, I suppose.  It'll be a tough
job, though.  Here, let one of the maids go down and wake Baily
and tell him to go for Dr. Wilkins at once.  Now then, we'll have
a try at the door.  Half a moment, though, isn't there a door
into Miss Cynthia's rooms?"

"Yes, sir, but that's always bolted.  It's never been undone."

"Well, we might just see."

He ran rapidly down the corridor to Cynthia's room.  Mary
Cavendish was there, shaking the girl--who must have been an
unusually sound sleeper--and trying to wake her.

In a moment or two he was back.

"No good.  That's bolted too.  We must break in the door.  I
think this one is a shade less solid than the one in the
passage."

We strained and heaved together.  The framework of the door was
solid, and for a long time it resisted our efforts, but at last
we felt it give beneath our weight, and finally, with a
resounding crash, it was burst open.

We stumbled in together, Lawrence still holding his candle.  Mrs.
Inglethorp was lying on the bed, her whole form agitated by
violent convulsions, in one of which she must have overturned the
table beside her.  As we entered, however, her limbs relaxed, and
she fell back upon the pillows.

John strode across the room, and lit the gas.  Turning to Annie,
one of the housemaids, he sent her downstairs to the dining-room
for brandy.  Then he went across to his mother whilst I unbolted
the door that gave on the corridor.

I turned to Lawrence, to suggest that I had better leave them now
that there was no further need of my services, but the words were
frozen on my lips.  Never have I seen such a ghastly look on any
man's face.  He was white as chalk, the candle he held in his
shaking hand was sputtering onto the carpet, and his eyes,
petrified with terror, or some such kindred emotion, stared
fixedly over my head at a point on the further wall.  It was as
though he had seen something that turned him to stone.  I
instinctively followed the direction of his eyes, but I could see
nothing unusual.  The still feebly flickering ashes in the grate,
and the row of prim ornaments on the mantelpiece, were surely
harmless enough.

The violence of Mrs. Inglethorp's attack seemed to be passing. 
She was able to speak in short gasps.

"Better now--very sudden--stupid of me--to lock myself in."

A shadow fell on the bed and, looking up, I saw Mary Cavendish
standing near the door with her arm around Cynthia.  She seemed
to be supporting the girl, who looked utterly dazed and unlike
herself.  Her face was heavily flushed, and she yawned
repeatedly.

"Poor Cynthia is quite frightened," said Mrs. Cavendish in a low
clear voice.  She herself, I noticed, was dressed in her white
land smock.  Then it must be later than I thought.  I saw that a
faint streak of daylight was showing through the curtains of the
windows, and that the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to close
upon five o'clock.

A strangled cry from the bed startled me.  A fresh access of pain
seized the unfortunate old lady.  The convulsions were of a
violence terrible to behold.  Everything was confusion.  We
thronged round her, powerless to help or alleviate.  A final
convulsion lifted her from the bed, until she appeared to rest
upon her head and her heels, with her body arched in an
extraordinary manner.  In vain Mary and John tried to administer
more brandy.  The moments flew.  Again the body arched itself in
that peculiar fashion.

At that moment, Dr. Bauerstein pushed his way authoritatively
into the room.  For one instant he stopped dead, staring at the
figure on the bed, and, at the same instant, Mrs. Inglethorp
cried out in a strangled voice, her eyes fixed on the doctor:

"Alfred--Alfred----" Then she fell back motionless on the
pillows.

With a stride, the doctor reached the bed, and seizing her arms
worked them energetically, applying what I knew to be artificial
respiration.  He issued a few short sharp orders to the servants. 
An imperious wave of his hand drove us all to the door.  We
watched him, fascinated, though I think we all knew in our hearts
that it was too late, and that nothing could be done now.  I
could see by the expression on his face that he himself had
little hope.

Finally he abandoned his task, shaking his head gravely.  At that
moment, we heard footsteps outside, and Dr. Wilkins, Mrs.
Inglethorp's own doctor, a portly, fussy little man, came
bustling in.

In a few words Dr. Bauerstein explained how he had happened to be
passing the lodge gates as the car came out, and had run up to
the house as fast as he could, whilst the car went on to fetch
Dr. Wilkins.  With a faint gesture of the hand, he indicated the
figure on the bed.

"Ve--ry sad.  Ve--ry sad," murmured Dr. Wilkins.  "Poor dear
lady.  Always did far too much--far too much--against my advice. 
I warned her.  Her heart was far from strong.  'Take it easy,' I
said to her, 'Take--it--easy'.  But no--her zeal for good works
was too great.  Nature rebelled.  Na--ture-- re--belled."

Dr. Bauerstein, I noticed, was watching the local doctor
narrowly.  He still kept his eyes fixed on him as he spoke.

"The convulsions were of a peculiar violence, Dr. Wilkins.  I am
sorry you were not here in time to witness them.  They were
quite--tetanic in character."

"Ah!" said Dr. Wilkins wisely.

"I should like to speak to you in private," said Dr. Bauerstein. 
He turned to John.  "You do not object?"

"Certainly not."

We all trooped out into the corridor, leaving the two doctors
alone, and I heard the key turned in the lock behind us.

We went slowly down the stairs.  I was violently excited.  I have
a certain talent for deduction, and Dr. Bauerstein's manner had
started a flock of wild surmises in my mind.  Mary Cavendish laid
her hand upon my arm.

"What is it? Why did Dr. Bauerstein seem so--peculiar?"

I looked at her.

"Do you know what I think?"

"What?"

"Listen!" I looked round, the others were out of earshot.  I
lowered my voice to a whisper.  "I believe she has been poisoned!
I'm certain Dr. Bauerstein suspects it."

"*WHAT?" She shrank against the wall, the pupils of her eyes
dilating wildly.  Then, with a sudden cry that startled me, she
cried out: "No, no--not that--not that!" And breaking from me,
fled up the stairs.  I followed her, afraid that she was going to
faint.  I found her leaning against the bannisters, deadly pale. 
She waved me away impatiently.

"No, no--leave me.  I'd rather be alone.  Let me just be quiet
for a minute or two.  Go down to the others."

I obeyed her reluctantly.  John and Lawrence were in the
dining-room.  I joined them.  We were all silent, but I suppose I
voiced the thoughts of us all when I at last broke it by saying:

"Where is Mr. Inglethorp?"

John shook his head.

"He's not in the house."

Our eyes met.  Where *WAS Alfred Inglethorp? His absence was
strange and inexplicable.  I remembered Mrs. Inglethorp's dying
words.  What lay beneath them? What more could she have told us,
if she had had time?

At last we heard the doctors descending the stairs.  Dr. Wilkins
was looking important and excited, and trying to conceal an
inward exultation under a manner of decorous calm.  Dr.
Bauerstein remained in the background, his grave bearded face
unchanged.  Dr. Wilkins was the spokesman for the two.  He
addressed himself to John:

"Mr. Cavendish, I should like your consent to a postmortem."

"Is that necessary?" asked John gravely.  A spasm of pain crossed
his face.

"Absolutely," said Dr. Bauerstein.

"You mean by that----?"

"That neither Dr. Wilkins nor myself could give a death
certificate under the circumstances."

John bent his head.

"In that case, I have no alternative but to agree."

"Thank you," said Dr. Wilkins briskly.  "We propose that it
should take place to-morrow night--or rather to-night." And he
glanced at the daylight.  "Under the circumstances, I am afraid
an inquest can hardly be avoided--these formalities are
necessary, but I beg that you won't distress yourselves."

There was a pause, and then Dr. Bauerstein drew two keys from his
pocket, and handed them to John.

"These are the keys of the two rooms.  I have locked them and, in
my opinion, they would be better kept locked for the present."

The doctors then departed.

I had been turning over an idea in my head, and I felt that the
moment had now come to broach it.  Yet I was a little chary of
doing so.  John, I knew, had a horror of any kind of publicity,
and was an easygoing optimist, who preferred never to meet
trouble half-way.  It might be difficult to convince him of the
soundness of my plan.  Lawrence, on the other hand, being less
conventional, and having more imagination, I felt I might count
upon as an ally.  There was no doubt that the moment had come for
me to take the lead.

"John," I said, "I am going to ask you something."

"Well?"

"You remember my speaking of my friend Poirot? The Belgian who is
here? He has been a most famous detective."

"Yes."

"I want you to let me call him in--to investigate this matter."

"What--now? Before the post-mortem?"

"Yes, time is an advantage if--if--there has been foul play."

"Rubbish!" cried Lawrence angrily.  "In my opinion the whole
thing is a mare's nest of Bauerstein's! Wilkins hadn't an idea of
such a thing, until Bauerstein put it into his head.  But, like
all specialists, Bauerstein's got a bee in his bonnet.  Poisons
are his hobby, so of course he sees them everywhere."

I confess that I was surprised by Lawrence's attitude.  He was so
seldom vehement about anything.

John hesitated.

"I can't feel as you do, Lawrence," he said at last.  "I'm
inclined to give Hastings a free hand, though I should prefer to
wait a bit.  We don't want any unnecessary scandal."

"No, no," I cried eagerly, "you need have no fear of that. 
Poirot is discretion itself."

"Very well, then, have it your own way.  I leave it in your
hands.  Though, if it is as we suspect, it seems a clear enough
case.  God forgive me if I am wronging him!"

I looked at my watch.  It was six o'clock.  I determined to lose
no time.

Five minutes' delay, however, I allowed myself.  I spent it in
ransacking the library until I discovered a medical book which
gave a description of strychnine poisoning.



CHAPTER IV.  POIROT INVESTIGATES


The house which the Belgians occupied in the village was quite
close to the park gates.  One could save time by taking a narrow
path through the long grass, which cut off the detours of the
winding drive.  So I, accordingly, went that way.  I had nearly
reached the lodge, when my attention was arrested by the running
figure of a man approaching me.  It was Mr. Inglethorp.  Where
had he been? How did he intend to explain his absence?

He accosted me eagerly.

"My God! This is terrible! My poor wife! I have only just heard."

"Where have you been?" I asked.

"Denby kept me late last night.  It was one o'clock before we'd
finished.  Then I found that I'd forgotten the latch-key after
all.  I didn't want to arouse the household, so Denby gave me a
bed."

"How did you hear the news?" I asked.

"Wilkins knocked Denby up to tell him.  My poor Emily! She was so
self-sacrificing--such a noble character.  She over-taxed her
strength."

A wave of revulsion swept over me.  What a consummate hypocrite
the man was!

"I must hurry on," I said, thankful that he did not ask me
whither I was bound.

In a few minutes I was knocking at the door of Leastways Cottage.

Getting no answer, I repeated my summons impatiently.  A window
above me was cautiously opened, and Poirot himself looked out.

He gave an exclamation of surprise at seeing me.  In a few brief
words, I explained the tragedy that had occurred, and that I
wanted his help.

"Wait, my friend, I will let you in, and you shall recount to me
the affair whilst I dress."

In a few moments he had unbarred the door, and I followed him up
to his room.  There he installed me in a chair, and I related the
whole story, keeping back nothing, and omitting no circumstance,
however insignificant, whilst he himself made a careful and
deliberate toilet.

I told him of my awakening, of Mrs. Inglethorp's dying words, of
her husband's absence, of the quarrel the day before, of the
scrap of conversation between Mary and her mother-in-law that I
had overheard, of the former quarrel between Mrs. Inglethorp and
Evelyn Howard, and of the latter's innuendoes.

I was hardly as clear as I could wish.  I repeated myself several
times, and occasionally had to go back to some detail that I had
forgotten.  Poirot smiled kindly on me.

"The mind is confused? Is it not so? Take time, mon ami.  You are
agitated; you are excited--it is but natural.  Presently, when we
are calmer, we will arrange the facts, neatly, each in his proper
place.  We will examine--and reject.  Those of importance we will
put on one side; those of no importance, pouf!"--he screwed up
his cherub-like face, and puffed comically enough--"blow them
away!"

"That's all very well," I objected, "but how are you going to
decide what is important, and what isn't? That always seems the
difficulty to me."

Poirot shook his head energetically.  He was now arranging his
moustache with exquisite care.

"Not so.  Voyons! One fact leads to another--so we continue. 
Does the next fit in with that? A merveille! Good! We can
proceed.  This next little fact--no! Ah, that is curious! There
is something missing--a link in the chain that is not there.  We
examine.  We search.  And that little curious fact, that possibly
paltry little detail that will not tally, we put it here!" He
made an extravagant gesture with his hand.  "It is significant!
It is tremendous!"

"Y--es--"

"Ah!" Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely at me that I
quailed before it.  "Beware! Peril to the detective who says: 'It
is so small--it does not matter.  It will not agree.  I will
forget it.' That way lies confusion! Everything matters."

"I know.  You always told me that.  That's why I have gone into
all the details of this thing whether they seemed to me relevant
or not."

"And I am pleased with you.  You have a good memory, and you have
given me the facts faithfully.  Of the order in which you present
them, I say nothing--truly, it is deplorable! But I make
allowances--you are upset.  To that I attribute the circumstance
that you have omitted one fact of paramount importance."

"What is that?" I asked.

"You have not told me if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night."

I stared at him.  Surely the war had affected the little man's
brain.  He was carefully engaged in brushing his coat before
putting it on, and seemed wholly engrossed in the task.

"I don't remember," I said.  "And, anyway, I don't see----"

"You do not see? But it is of the first importance."

"I can't see why," I said, rather nettled.  "As far as I can
remember, she didn't eat much.  She was obviously upset, and it
had taken her appetite away.  That was only natural."

"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "it was only natural."

He opened a drawer, and took out a small despatch-case, then
turned to me.

"Now I am ready.  We will proceed to the chateau, and study
matters on the spot.  Excuse me, mon ami, you dressed in haste,
and your tie is on one side.  Permit me." With a deft gesture, he
rearranged it.

"Ca y est! Now, shall we start?"

We hurried up the village, and turned in at the lodge gates. 
Poirot stopped for a moment, and gazed sorrowfully over the
beautiful expanse of park, still glittering with morning dew.

"So beautiful, so beautiful, and yet, the poor family, plunged in
sorrow, prostrated with grief."

He looked at me keenly as he spoke, and I was aware that I
reddened under his prolonged gaze.

Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs.
Inglethorp's death so great? I realized that there was an
emotional lack in the atmosphere.  The dead woman had not the
gift of commanding love.  Her death was a shock and a distress,
but she would not be passionately regretted.

Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts.  He nodded his head gravely.

"No, you are right," he said, "it is not as though there was a
blood tie.  She has been kind and generous to these Cavendishes,
but she was not their own mother.  Blood tells--always remember
that--blood tells."

"Poirot," I said, "I wish you would tell me why you wanted to
know if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turning
it over in my mind, but I can't see how it has anything to do
with the matter?"

He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finally
he said:

"I do not mind telling you--though, as you know, it is not my
habit to explain until the end is reached.  The present
contention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning,
presumably administered in her coffee."

"Yes?"

"Well, what time was the coffee served?"

"About eight o'clock."

"Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight--
certainly not much later.  Well, strychnine is a fairly rapid
poison.  Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in about
an hour.  Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp's case, the symptoms do not
manifest themselves until five o'clock the next morning: nine
hours! But a heavy meal, taken at about the same time as the
poison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent. 
Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account.  But,
according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet the
symptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that is
a curious circumstance, my friend.  Something may arise at the
autopsy to explain it.  In the meantime, remember it."

As we neared the house, John came out and met us.  His face
looked weary and haggard.

"This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. 
"Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no
publicity?"

"I comprehend perfectly."

"You see, it is only suspicion so far.  We have nothing to go
upon."

"Precisely.  It is a matter of precaution only."

John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a
cigarette as he did so.

"You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?"

"Yes.  I met him."

John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding
which was too much for Poirot's feelings.  He retrieved it, and
buried it neatly.

"It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him."

"That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly.

John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this
cryptic saying.  He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had
given him to me.

"Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see."

"The rooms are locked?" asked Poirot.

"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable."

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

"Then he is very sure.  Well, that simplifies matters for us."

We went up together to the room of the tragedy.  For convenience
I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of
furniture in it.

Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute
inspection of the room.  He darted from one object to the other
with the agility of a grasshopper.  I remained by the door,
fearing to obliterate any clues.  Poirot, however, did not seem
grateful to me for my forbearance.

"What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you remain there
like--how do you say it?--ah, yes, the stuck pig?"

I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks.

"Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practically
an army in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No,
come here and aid me in my search.  I will put down my little
case until I need it."

He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an
ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted
up, and precipitated the despatch-case on the floor.

"Eh viola une table!" cried Poirot.  "An, my friend, one may live
in a big house and yet have no comfort."

After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search.

A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the
writing-table, engaged his attention for some time.  He took out
the key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect.  I saw
nothing peculiar, however.  It was an ordinary key of the Yale
type, with a bit of twisted wire through the handle.

Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in,
assuring himself that the bolt had really been shot.  Then he
went to the door opposite leading into Cynthia's room.  That door
was also bolted, as I had stated.  However, he went to the length
of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it several times; this
he did with the utmost precaution against making any noise. 
Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his
attention.  He examined it carefully, and then, nimbly whipping
out a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out some
minute particle which he carefully sealed up in a tiny envelope.

On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a spirit lamp and a
small saucepan on it.  A small quantity of a dark fluid remained
in the saucepan, and an empty cup and saucer that had been drunk
out of stood near it.

I wondered how I could have been so unobservant as to overlook
this.  Here was a clue worth having.  Poirot delicately dipped
his finger into liquid, and tasted it gingerly.  He made a
grimace.

"Coco--with--I think--rum in it."

He passed on to the debris on the floor, where the table by the
bed had been overturned.  A reading-lamp, some books, matches, a
bunch of keys, and the crushed fragments of a coffee-cup lay
scattered about.

"Ah, this is curious," said Poirot.

"I must confess that I see nothing particularly curious about
it."

"You do not? Observe the lamp--the chimney is broken in two
places; they lie there as they fell.  But see, the coffee-cup is
absolutely smashed to powder."

"Well," I said wearily, "I suppose some one must have stepped on
it."

"Exactly," said Poirot, in an odd voice.  "Some one stepped on
it."

He rose from his knees, and walked slowly across to the
mantelpiece, where he stood abstractedly fingering the ornaments,
and straightening them--a trick of his when he was agitated.

"Mon ami," he said, turning to me, "somebody stepped on that cup,
grinding it to powder, and the reason they did so was either
because it contained strychnine or--which is far more
serious--because it did not contain strychnine!"

I made no reply.  I was bewildered, but I knew that it was no
good asking him to explain.  In a moment or two he roused
himself, and went on with his investigations.  He picked up the
bunch of keys from the floor, and twirling them round in his
fingers finally selected one, very bright and shining, which he
tried in the lock of the purple despatch-case.  It fitted, and he
opened the box, but after a moment's hesitation, closed and
relocked it, and slipped the bunch of keys, as well as the key
that had originally stood in the lock, into his own pocket.

"I have no authority to go through these papers.  But it should
be done--at once!"

He then made a very careful examination of the drawers of the
wash-stand.  Crossing the room to the left-hand window, a round
stain, hardly visible on the dark brown carpet, seemed to
interest him particularly.  He went down on his knees, examining
it minutely--even going so far as to smell it.

Finally, he poured a few drops of the coco into a test tube,
sealing it up carefully.  His next proceeding was to take out a
little notebook.

"We have found in this room," he said, writing busily, "six
points of interest.  Shall I enumerate them, or will you?"

"Oh, you," I replied hastily.

"Very well, then.  One, a coffee-cup that has been ground into
powder; two, a despatch-case with a key in the lock; three, a
stain on the floor."

"That may have been done some time ago," I interrupted.

"No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. 
Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric--only a thread or two,
but recognizable."

"Ah!" I cried.  "That was what you sealed up in the envelope."

"Yes.  It may turn out to be a piece of one of Mrs. Inglethorp's
own dresses, and quite unimportant.  We shall see.  Five, *THIS!"
With a dramatic gesture, he pointed to a large splash of candle
grease on the floor by the writing-table.  "It must have been
done since yesterday, otherwise a good housemaid would have at
once removed it with blotting-paper and a hot iron.  One of my
best hats once--but that is not to the point."

"It was very likely done last night.  We were very agitated.  Or
perhaps Mrs. Inglethorp herself dropped her candle."

"You brought only one candle into the room?"

"Yes.  Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it.  But he was very
upset.  He seemed to see something over here"--I indicated the
mantelpiece--"that absolutely paralysed him."

"That is interesting," said Poirot quickly.  "Yes, it is
suggestive"--his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall-- "but
it was not his candle that made this great patch, for you
perceive that this is white grease; whereas Monsieur Lawrence's
candle, which is still on the dressing-table, is pink.  On the
other hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had no candlestick in the room, only
a reading-lamp."

"Then," I said, "what do you deduce?"

To which my friend only made a rather irritating reply, urging me
to use my own natural faculties.

"And the sixth point?" I asked.  "I suppose it is the sample of
coco."

"No," said Poirot thoughtfully.  "I might have included that in
the six, but I did not.  No, the sixth point I will keep to
myself for the present."

He looked quickly round the room.  "There is nothing more to be
done here, I think, unless"--he stared earnestly and long at the
dead ashes in the grate.  "The fire burns--and it destroys.  But
by chance--there might be--let us see!"

Deftly, on hands and knees, he began to sort the ashes from the
grate into the fender, handling them with the greatest caution. 
Suddenly, he gave a faint exclamation.

"The forceps, Hastings!"

I quickly handed them to him, and with skill he extracted a small
piece of half charred paper.

"There, mon ami!" he cried.  "What do you think of that?"

I scrutinized the fragment.  This is an exact reproduction of
it:--

I was puzzled.  It was unusually thick, quite unlike ordinary
notepaper.  Suddenly an idea struck me.

"Poirot!" I cried.  "This is a fragment of a will!"

"Exactly."

I looked up at him sharply.

"You are not surprised?"

"No," he said gravely, "I expected it."

I relinquished the piece of paper, and watched him put it away in
his case, with the same methodical care that he bestowed on
everything.  My brain was in a whirl.  What was this complication
of a will? Who had destroyed it? The person who had left the
candle grease on the floor? Obviously.  But how had anyone gained
admission? All the doors had been bolted on the inside.

"Now, my friend," said Poirot briskly, "we will go.  I should
like to ask a few questions of the parlourmaid--Dorcas, her name
is, is it not?"

We passed through Alfred Inglethorp's room, and Poirot delayed
long enough to make a brief but fairly comprehensive examination
of it.  We went out through that door, locking both it and that
of Mrs. Inglethorp's room as before.

I took him down to the boudoir which he had expressed a wish to
see, and went myself in search of Dorcas.

When I returned with her, however, the boudoir was empty.

"Poirot," I cried, "where are you?"

"I am here, my friend."

He had stepped outside the French window, and was standing,
apparently lost in admiration, before the various shaped flower
beds.

"Admirable!" he murmured.  "Admirable! What symmetry! Observe
that crescent; and those diamonds--their neatness rejoices the
eye.  The spacing of the plants, also, is perfect.  It has been
recently done; is it not so?"

"Yes, I believe they were at it yesterday afternoon.  But come
in--Dorcas is here."

"Eh bien, eh bien! Do not grudge me a moment's satisfaction of
the eye."

"Yes, but this affair is more important."

"And how do you know that these fine begonias are not of equal
importance?"

I shrugged my shoulders.  There was really no arguing with him if
he chose to take that line.

"You do not agree? But such things have been.  Well, we will come
in and interview the brave Dorcas."

Dorcas was standing in the boudoir, her hands folded in front of
her, and her grey hair rose in stiff waves under her white cap. 
She was the very model and picture of a good old-fashioned
servant.

In her attitude towards Poirot, she was inclined to be
suspicious, but he soon broke down her defences.  He drew forward
a chair.

"Pray be seated, mademoiselle."

"Thank you, sir."

"You have been with your mistress many years, is it not so?"

"Ten years, sir."

"That is a long time, and very faithful service.  You were much
attached to her, were you not?"

"She was a very good mistress to me, sir."

"Then you will not object to answering a few questions.  I put
them to you with Mr. Cavendish's full approval."

"Oh, certainly, sir."

"Then I will begin by asking you about the events of yesterday
afternoon.  Your mistress had a quarrel?" 43>

"Yes, sir.  But I don't know that I ought----" Dorcas hesitated. 
Poirot looked at her keenly.

"My good Dorcas, it is necessary that I should know every detail
of that quarrel as fully as possible.  Do not think that you are
betraying your mistress's secrets.  Your mistress lies dead, and
it is necessary that we should know all--if we are to avenge her. 
Nothing can bring her back to life, but we do hope, if there has
been foul play, to bring the murderer to justice."

"Amen to that," said Dorcas fiercely.  "And, naming no names,
there's *ONE in this house that none of us could ever abide! And
an ill day it was when first *HE darkened the threshold."

Poirot waited for her indignation to subside, and then, resuming
his business-like tone, he asked:

"Now, as to this quarrel? What is the first you heard of it?"

"Well, sir, I happened to be going along the hall outside
yesterday----"

"What time was that?"

"I couldn't say exactly, sir, but it wasn't tea-time by a long
way.  Perhaps four o'clock--or it may have been a bit later. 
Well, sir, as I said, I happened to be passing along, when I
heard voices very loud and angry in here.  I didn't exactly mean
to listen, but--well, there it is.  I stopped.  The door was
shut, but the mistress was speaking very sharp and clear, and I
heard what she said quite plainly.  'You have lied to me, and
deceived me,' she said.  I didn't hear what Mr. Inglethorp
replied.  He spoke a good bit lower than she did--but she
answered: 'How dare you? I have kept you and clothed you and fed
you! You owe everything to me! And this is how you repay me! By
bringing disgrace upon our name!' Again I didn't hear what he
said, but she went on: 'Nothing that you can say will make any
difference.  I see my duty clearly.  My mind is made up.  You
need not think that any fear of publicity, or scandal between
husband and wife will deter me.' Then I thought I heard them
coming out, so I went off quickly."

"You are sure it was Mr. Inglethorp's voice you heard?"

"Oh, yes, sir, whose else's could it be?"

"Well, what happened next?"

"Later, I came back to the hall; but it was all quiet.  At five
o'clock, Mrs. Inglethorp rang the bell and told me to bring her a
cup of tea--nothing to eat--to the boudoir.  She was looking
dreadful--so white and upset.  'Dorcas,' she says, 'I've had a
great shock.' 'I'm sorry for that, m'm,' I says.  'You'll feel
better after a nice hot cup of tea, m'm.' She had something in
her hand.  I don't know if it was a letter, or just a piece of
paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring at it,
almost as if she couldn't believe what was written there.  She
whispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there:
'These few words--and everything's changed.' And then she says to
me: 'Never trust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' I hurried
off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me,
and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it.  'I don't know
what to do,' she says.  'Scandal between husband and wife is a
dreadful thing, Dorcas.  I'd rather hush it up if I could.' Mrs.
Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more."

"She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?"
"Yes, sir."

"What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?"

"Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that
purple case of hers."

"Is that where she usually kept important papers?"

"Yes, sir.  She brought it down with her every morning, and took
it up every night."

"When did she lose the key of it?"

"She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look
carefully for it.  She was very much put out about it."

"But she had a duplicate key?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth,
so was I.  What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled.

"Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things.  Is this
the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he
had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs.

Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head.

"That's it, sir, right enough.  But where did you find it? I
looked everywhere for it."

"Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was
to-day.  Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a
dark green dress in her wardrobe?"

Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question.

"No, sir."

"Are you quite sure?"

"Oh, yes, sir."

"Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?"

Dorcas reflected.

"Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress."

"Light or dark green?"

"A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it."

"Ah, that is not what I want.  And nobody else has anything
green?"

"No, sir--not that I know of."

Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was
disappointed or otherwise.  He merely remarked:

"Good, we will leave that and pass on.  Have you any reason to
believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder
last night?"

"Not *LAST night, sir, I know she didn't."

"Why do you know so positively?"

"Because the box was empty.  She took the last one two days ago,
and she didn't have any more made up."

"You are quite sure of that?"

"Positive, sir."

"Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask
you to sign any paper yesterday?"

"To sign a paper? No, sir."

"When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening,
they found your mistress busy writing letters.  I suppose you can
give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?"

"I'm afraid I couldn't, sir.  I was out in the evening.  Perhaps
Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl.  Never
cleared the coffee-cups away last night.  That's what happens
when I'm not here to look after things."

Poirot lifted his hand.

"Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I
pray you.  I should like to examine them."

"Very well, sir."

"What time did you go out last evening?"

"About six o'clock, sir."

"Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and
strolled to the window.  "I have been admiring these flower beds. 
How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?"

"Only three now, sir.  Five, we had, before the war, when it was
kept as a gentleman's place should be.  I wish you could have
seen it then, sir.  A fair sight it was.  But now there's only
old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman
gardener in breeches and such-like.  Ah, these are dreadful
times!"

"The good times will come again, Dorcas.  At least, we hope so. 
Now, will you send Annie to me here?"

"Yes, sir.  Thank you, sir."

"How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I
asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room.  "And about
the lost key and the duplicate?"

"One thing at a time.  As to the sleeping powders, I knew by
this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as
chemists use for powders.

"Where did you find it?"

"In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom.  It was
Number Six of my catalogue."

"But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is
not of much importance?"

"Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as
peculiar about this box?"

I examined it closely.

"No, I can't say that I do."

"Look at the label."

I read the label carefully: " 'One powder to be taken at bedtime,
if required.  Mrs. Inglethorp.' No, I see nothing unusual."

"Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?"

"Ah!" I exclaimed.  "To be sure, that is odd!"

"Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that,
without his printed name?"

"No, I can't say that I have."

I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour by
remarking:

"Yet the explanation is quite simple.  So do not intrigue
yourself, my friend."

An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no
time to reply.

Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring
under intense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish
enjoyment of the tragedy.

Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness.

"I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able to
tell me something about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last
night.  How many were there? And can you tell me any of the names
and addresses?"

Annie considered.

"There were four letters, sir.  One was to Miss Howard, and one
was to Mr. Wells, the lawyer, and the other two I don't think I
remember, sir--oh, yes, one was to Ross's, the caterers in
Tadminster.  The other one, I don't remember."

"Think," urged Poirot.

Annie racked her brains in vain.

"I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone.  I don't think I can have
noticed it."

"It does not matter," said Poirot, not betraying any sign of
disappointment.  "Now I want to ask you about something else. 
There is a saucepan in Mrs. Inglethorp's room with some coco in
it.  Did she have that every night?"

"Yes, sir, it was put in her room every evening, and she warmed
it up in the night--whenever she fancied it."

"What was it? Plain coco?"

"Yes, sir, made with milk, with a teaspoonful of sugar, and two
teaspoonfuls of rum in it."

"Who took it to her room?"

"I did, sir."

"Always?"

"Yes, sir."

"At what time?"

"When I went to draw the curtains, as a rule, sir."

"Did you bring it straight up from the kitchen then?"

"No, sir, you see there's not much room on the gas stove, so Cook
used to make it early, before putting the vegetables on for
supper.  Then I used to bring it up, and put it on the table by
the swing door, and take it into her room later."

"The swing door is in the left wing, is it not?"

"Yes, sir."

"And the table, is it on this side of the door, or on the
farther--servants' side?"

"It's this side, sir."

"What time did you bring it up last night?"

"About quarter-past seven, I should say, sir."

"And when did you take it into Mrs. Inglethorp's room?"

"When I went to shut up, sir.  About eight o'clock.  Mrs.
Inglethorp came up to bed before I'd finished."

"Then, between 7.15 and 8 o'clock, the coco was standing on the
table in the left wing?"

"Yes, sir." Annie had been growing redder and redder in the face,
and now she blurted out unexpectedly:

"And if there *WAS salt in it, sir, it wasn't me.  I never took
the salt near it."

"What makes you think there was salt in it?" asked Poirot.

"Seeing it on the tray, sir."

"You saw some salt on the tray?"

"Yes.  Coarse kitchen salt, it looked.  I never noticed it when I
took the tray up, but when I came to take it into the mistress's
room I saw it at once, and I suppose I ought to have taken it
down again, and asked Cook to make some fresh.  But I was in a
hurry, because Dorcas was out, and I thought maybe the coco
itself was all right, and the salt had only gone on the tray.  So
I dusted it off with my apron, and took it in."

I had the utmost difficulty in controlling my excitement. 
Unknown to herself, Annie had provided us with an important piece
of evidence.  How she would have gaped if she had realized that
her "coarse kitchen salt" was strychnine, one of the most deadly
poisons known to mankind.  I marvelled at Poirot's calm.  His
self-control was astonishing.  I awaited his next question with
impatience, but it disappointed me.

"When you went into Mrs. Inglethorp's room, was the door leading
into Miss Cynthia's room bolted?"

"Oh! Yes, sir; it always was.  It had never been opened."

"And the door into Mr. Inglethorp's room? Did you notice if that
was bolted too?"

Annie hesitated.

"I couldn't rightly say, sir; it was shut but I couldn't say
whether it was bolted or not."

"When you finally left the room, did Mrs. Inglethorp bolt the
door after you?"

"No, sir, not then, but I expect she did later.  She usually did
lock it at night.  The door into the passage, that is."

"Did you notice any candle grease on the floor when you did the
room yesterday?"

"Candle grease? Oh, no, sir.  Mrs. Inglethorp didn't have a
candle, only a reading-lamp."

"Then, if there had been a large patch of candle grease on the
floor, you think you would have been sure to have seen it?"

"Yes, sir, and I would have taken it out with a piece of
blotting-paper and a hot iron."

Then Poirot repeated the question he had put to Dorcas:

"Did your mistress ever have a green dress?"

"No, sir."

"Nor a mantle, nor a cape, nor a--how do you call it?--a sports
coat?"

"Not green, sir."

"Nor anyone else in the house?"

Annie reflected.

"No, sir."

"You are sure of that?"

"Quite sure."

"Bien! That is all I want to know.  Thank you very much."

With a nervous giggle, Annie took herself creakingly out of the
room.  My pent-up excitement burst forth.

"Poirot," I cried, "I congratulate you! This is a great
discovery."

"What is a great discovery?"

"Why, that it was the coco and not the coffee that was poisoned. 
That explains everything! Of course it did not take effect until
the early morning, since the coco was only drunk in the middle of
the night."

"So you think that the coco--mark well what I say, Hastings, the
coco--contained strychnine?"

"Of course! That salt on the tray, what else could it have been?"

"It might have been salt," replied Poirot placidly.

I shrugged my shoulders.  If he was going to take the matter that
way, it was no good arguing with him.  The idea crossed my mind,
not for the first time, that poor old Poirot was growing old. 
Privately I thought it lucky that he had associated with him some
one of a more receptive type of mind.

Poirot was surveying me with quietly twinkling eyes.

"You are not pleased with me, mon ami?"

"My dear Poirot," I said coldly, "it is not for me to dictate to
you.  You have a right to your own opinion, just as I have to
mine."

"A most admirable sentiment," remarked Poirot, rising briskly to
his feet.  "Now I have finished with this room.  By the way,
whose is the smaller desk in the corner?"

"Mr. Inglethorp's."

"Ah!" He tried the roll top tentatively.  "Locked.  But perhaps
one of Mrs. Inglethorp's keys would open it." He tried several,
twisting and turning them with a practiced hand, and finally
uttering an ejaculation of satisfaction.  "Viola! It is not the
key, but it will open it at a pinch." He slid back the roll top,
and ran a rapid eye over the neatly filed papers.  To my
surprise, he did not examine them, merely remarking approvingly
as he relocked the desk: "Decidedly, he is a man of method, this
Mr. Inglethorp!"

A "man of method" was, in Poirot's estimation, the highest praise
that could be bestowed on any individual.

I felt that my friend was not what he had been as he rambled on
disconnectedly:

"There were no stamps in his desk, but there might have been, eh,
mon ami? There might have been? Yes"--his eyes wandered round the
room--"this boudoir has nothing more to tell us.  It did not
yield much.  Only this."

He pulled a crumpled envelope out of his pocket, and tossed it
over to me.  It was rather a curious document.  A plain, dirty
looking old envelope with a few words scrawled across it,
apparently at random.  The following is a facsimile of it.



CHAPTER V.  "IT ISN'T STRYCHNINE, IS IT?"


"Where did you find this?" I asked Poirot, in lively curiosity.

"In the waste-paper basket.  You recognise the handwriting?"

"Yes, it is Mrs. Inglethorp's.  But what does it mean?"

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"I cannot say--but it is suggestive."

A wild idea flashed across me.  Was it possible that Mrs.
Inglethorp's mind was deranged? Had she some fantastic idea of
demoniacal possession? And, if that were so, was it not also
possible that she might have taken her own life?

I was about to expound these theories to Poirot, when his own
words distracted me.

"Come," he said, "now to examine the coffee-cups!"

"My dear Poirot! What on earth is the good of that, now that we
know about the coco?"

"Oh, la la! That miserable coco!" cried Poirot flippantly.

He laughed with apparent enjoyment, raising his arms to heaven in
mock despair, in what I could not but consider the worst possible
taste.

"And, anyway," I said, with increasing coldness, "as Mrs.
Inglethorp took her coffee upstairs with her, I do not see what
you expect to find, unless you consider it likely that we shall
discover a packet of strychnine on the coffee tray!"

Poirot was sobered at once.

"Come, come, my friend," he said, slipping his arms through mine. 
"Ne vous fachez pas! Allow me to interest myself in my
coffee-cups, and I will respect your coco.  There! Is it a
bargain?"

He was so quaintly humorous that I was forced to laugh; and we
went together to the drawing-room, where the coffee-cups and tray
remained undisturbed as we had left them.

Poirot made me recapitulate the scene of the night before,
listening very carefully, and verifying the position of the
various cups.

"So Mrs. Cavendish stood by the tray--and poured out.  Yes.  Then
she came across to the window where you sat with Mademoiselle
Cynthia.  Yes.  Here are the three cups.  And the cup on the
mantel-piece, half drunk, that would be Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's. 
And the one on the tray?"

"John Cavendish's.  I saw him put it down there."

"Good.  One, two, three, four, five--but where, then, is the cup
of Mr. Inglethorp?"

"He does not take coffee."

"Then all are accounted for.  One moment, my friend."

With infinite care, he took a drop or two from the grounds in
each cup, sealing them up in separate test tubes, tasting each in
turn as he did so.  His physiognomy underwent a curious change. 
An expression gathered there that I can only describe as half
puzzled, and half relieved.

"Bien!" he said at last.  "It is evident! I had an idea--but
clearly I was mistaken.  Yes, altogether I was mistaken.  Yet it
is strange.  But no matter!"

And, with a characteristic shrug, he dismissed whatever it was
that was worrying him from his mind.  I could have told him from
the beginning that this obsession of his over the coffee was
bound to end in a blind alley, but I restrained my tongue.  After
all, though he was old, Poirot had been a great man in his day.

"Breakfast is ready," said John Cavendish, coming in from the
hall.  "You will breakfast with us, Monsieur Poirot?"

Poirot acquiesced.  I observed John.  Already he was almost
restored to his normal self.  The shock of the events of the last
night had upset him temporarily, but his equable poise soon swung
back to the normal.  He was a man of very little imagination, in
sharp contrast with his brother, who had, perhaps, too much.

Ever since the early hours of the morning, John had been hard at
work, sending telegrams--one of the first had gone to Evelyn
Howard--writing notices for the papers, and generally occupying
himself with the melancholy duties that a death entails.

"May I ask how things are proceeding?" he said.  "Do your
investigations point to my mother having died a natural death--
or--or must we prepare ourselves for the worst?"

"I think, Mr. Cavendish," said Poirot gravely, "that you would do
well not to buoy yourself up with any false hopes.  Can you tell
me the views of the other members of the family?"

"My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss over
nothing.  He says that everything points to its being a simple
case of heart failure."

"He does, does he? That is very interesting--very interesting,"
murmured Poirot softly.  "And Mrs. Cavendish?"

A faint cloud passed over John's face.

"I have not the least idea what my wife's views on the subject
are."

The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train.  John
broke the rather awkward silence by saying with a slight effort:

"I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has returned?"

Poirot bent his head.

"It's an awkward position for all of us.  Of course one has to
treat him as usual--but, hang it all, one's gorge does rise at
sitting down to eat with a possible murderer!"

Poirot nodded sympathetically.

"I quite understand.  It is a very difficult situation for you,
Mr. Cavendish.  I would like to ask you one question.  Mr.
Inglethorp's reason for not returning last night was, I believe,
that he had forgotten the latch-key.  Is not that so?"

"Yes."

"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key *WAS
forgotten--that he did not take it after all?"

"I have no idea.  I never thought of looking.  We always keep it
in the hall drawer.  I'll go and see if it's there now."

Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile.

"No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now.  I am certain that
you would find it.  If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had
ample time to replace it by now."

"But do you think----"

"I think nothing.  If anyone had chanced to look this morning
before his return, and seen it there, it would have been a
valuable point in his favour.  That is all."

John looked perplexed.

"Do not worry," said Poirot smoothly.  "I assure you that you
need not let it trouble you.  Since you are so kind, let us go
and have some breakfast."

Every one was assembled in the dining-room.  Under the
circumstances, we were naturally not a cheerful party.  The
reaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were all
suffering from it.  Decorum and good breeding naturally enjoined
that our demeanour should be much as usual, yet I could not help
wondering if this self-control were really a matter of great
difficulty.  There were no red eyes, no signs of secretly
indulged grief.  I felt that I was right in my opinion that
Dorcas was the person most affected by the personal side of the
tragedy.

I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in
a manner that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy.  Did he
know that we suspected him, I wondered.  Surely he could not be
unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would.  Did he feel some
secret stirring of fear, or was he confident that his crime would
go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn
him that he was already a marked man.

But did every one suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I
watched her as she sat at the head of the table, graceful,
composed, enigmatic.  In her soft grey frock, with white ruffles
at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked very
beautiful.  When she chose, however, her face could be
sphinx-like in its inscrutability.  She was very silent, hardly
opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great
strength of her personality was dominating us all.

And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and
ill, I thought.  The heaviness and languor of her manner were
very marked.  I asked her if she were feeling ill, and she
answered frankly:

"Yes, I've got the most beastly headache."

"Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?" said Poirot
solicitously.  "It will revive you.  It is unparalleled for the
mal de tete." He jumped up and took her cup.

"No sugar," said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the
sugar-tongs.

"No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, eh?"

"No, I never take it in coffee."

"Sacre!" murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back the
replenished cup.

Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I
saw that his face was working with suppressed excitement, and his
eyes were as green as a cat's.  He had heard or seen something
that had affected him strongly--but what was it? I do not usually
label myself as dense, but I must confess that nothing out of the
ordinary had attracted *MY attention.

In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared.

"Mr. Wells to see you, sir," she said to John.

I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer to whom Mrs.
Inglethorp had written the night before.

John rose immediately.

"Show him into my study." Then he turned to us.  "My mother's
lawyer," he explained.  And in a lower voice: "He is also
Coroner--you understand.  Perhaps you would like to come with
me?"

We acquiesced and followed him out of the room.  John strode on
ahead and I took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot:

"There will be an inquest then?"

Poirot nodded absently.  He seemed absorbed in thought; so much
so that my curiosity was aroused.

"What is it? You are not attending to what I say."

"It is true, my friend.  I am much worried."

"Why?"

"Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee."

"What? You cannot be serious?"

"But I am most serious.  Ah, there is something there that I do
not understand.  My instinct was right."

"What instinct?"

"The instinct that led me to insist on examining those
coffee-cups.  Chut! no more now!"

We followed John into his study, and he closed the door behind
us.

Mr. Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with keen eyes, and
the typical lawyer's mouth.  John introduced us both, and
explained the reason of our presence.

"You will understand, Wells," he added, "that this is all
strictly private.  We are still hoping that there will turn out
to be no need for investigation of any kind."

"Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Wells soothingly.  "I wish we
could have spared you the pain and publicity of an inquest, but
of course it's quite unavoidable in the absence of a doctor's
certificate."

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Clever man, Bauerstein.  Great authority on toxicology, I
believe."

"Indeed," said John with a certain stiffness in his manner.  Then
he added rather hesitatingly: "Shall we have to appear as
witnesses--all of us, I mean?"

"You, of course--and ah--er--Mr.--er--Inglethorp."

A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing
manner:

"Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of
form."

"I see."

A faint expression of relief swept over John's face.  It puzzled
me, for I saw no occasion for it.

"If you know of nothing to the contrary," pursued Mr. Wells, "I
had thought of Friday.  That will give us plenty of time for the
doctor's report.  The post-mortem is to take place to-night, I
believe?"

"Yes."

"Then that arrangement will suit you?"

"Perfectly."

"I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at
this most tragic affair."

"Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?" interposed
Poirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered the
room.

"I?"

"Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night.  You
should have received the letter this morning."

"I did, but it contains no information.  It is merely a note
asking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice
on a matter of great importance."

"She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?"

"Unfortunately, no."

"That is a pity," said John.

"A great pity," agreed Poirot gravely.

There was silence.  Poirot remained lost in thought for a few
minutes.  Finally he turned to the lawyer again.

"Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you--that is,
if it is not against professional etiquette.  In the event of
Mrs. Inglethorp's death, who would inherit her money?"

The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied:

"The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr.
Cavendish does not object----"

"Not at all," interpolated John.

"I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. 
By her last will, dated August of last year, after various
unimportant legacies to servants, etc., she gave her entire
fortune to her stepson, Mr. John Cavendish."

"Was not that--pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish--rather unfair
to her other stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?"

"No, I do not think so.  You see, under the terms of their
father's will, while John inherited the property, Lawrence, at
his stepmother's death, would come into a considerable sum of
money.  Mrs. Inglethorp left her money to her elder stepson,
knowing that he would have to keep up Styles.  It was, to my
mind, a very fair and equitable distribution."

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

"I see.  But I am right in saying, am I not, that by your English
law that will was automatically revoked when Mrs. Inglethorp
remarried?"

Mr. Wells bowed his head.

"As I was about to proceed, Monsieur Poirot, that document is now
null and void."

"Hein!" said Poirot.  He reflected for a moment, and then asked:
"Was Mrs. Inglethorp herself aware of that fact?"

"I do not know.  She may have been."

"She was," said John unexpectedly.  "We were discussing the
matter of wills being revoked by marriage only yesterday."

"Ah! One more question, Mr. Wells.  You say 'her last will.' Had
Mrs. Inglethorp, then, made several former wills?"

"On an average, she made a new will at least once a year," said
Mr. Wells imperturbably.  "She was given to changing her mind as
to her testamentary dispositions, now benefiting one, now another
member of her family."

"Suppose," suggested Poirot, "that, unknown to you, she had made
a new will in favour of some one who was not, in any sense of the
word, a member of the family--we will say Miss Howard, for
instance--would you be surprised?"

"Not in the least."

"Ah!" Poirot seemed to have exhausted his questions.

I drew close to him, while John and the lawyer were debating the
question of going through Mrs. Inglethorp's papers.

"Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp made a will leaving all her money
to Miss Howard?" I asked in a low voice, with some curiosity.

Poirot smiled.

"No."

"Then why did you ask?"

"Hush!"

John Cavendish had turned to Poirot.

"Will you come with us, Monsieur Poirot? We are going through my
mother's papers.  Mr. Inglethorp is quite willing to leave it
entirely to Mr. Wells and myself."

"Which simplifies matters very much," murmured the lawyer.  "As
technically, of course, he was entitled----" He did not finish
the sentence.

"We will look through the desk in the boudoir first," explained
John, "and go up to her bedroom afterwards.  She kept her most
important papers in a purple despatch-case, which we must look
through carefully."

"Yes," said the lawyer, "it is quite possible that there may be a
later will than the one in my possession."

"There *IS a later will." It was Poirot who spoke.

"What?" John and the lawyer looked at him startled.

"Or, rather," pursued my friend imperturbably, "there *WAS one."

"What do you mean--there was one? Where is it now?"

"Burnt!"

"Burnt?"

"Yes.  See here." He took out the charred fragment we had found
in the grate in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, and handed it to the
lawyer with a brief explanation of when and where he had found
it.

"But possibly this is an old will?"

"I do not think so.  In fact I am almost certain that it was made
no earlier than yesterday afternoon."

"What?" "Impossible!" broke simultaneously from both men.

Poirot turned to John.

"If you will allow me to send for your gardener, I will prove it
to you."

"Oh, of course--but I don't see----"

Poirot raised his hand.

"Do as I ask you.  Afterwards you shall question as much as you
please."

"Very well." He rang the bell.

Dorcas answered it in due course.

"Dorcas, will you tell Manning to come round and speak to me
here."

"Yes, sir."

Dorcas withdrew.

We waited in a tense silence.  Poirot alone seemed perfectly at
his ease, and dusted a forgotten corner of the bookcase.

The clumping of hobnailed boots on the gravel outside proclaimed
the approach of Manning.  John looked questioningly at Poirot. 
The latter nodded.

"Come inside, Manning," said John, "I want to speak to you."

Manning came slowly and hesitatingly through the French window,
and stood as near it as he could.  He held his cap in his hands,
twisting it very carefully round and round.  His back was much
bent, though he was probably not as old as he looked, but his
eyes were sharp and intelligent, and belied his slow and rather
cautious speech.

"Manning," said John, "this gentleman will put some questions to
you which I want you to answer."

"Yessir," mumbled Manning.

Poirot stepped forward briskly.  Manning's eye swept over him
with a faint contempt.

"You were planting a bed of begonias round by the south side of
the house yesterday afternoon, were you not, Manning?"

"Yes, sir, me and Willum."

"And Mrs. Inglethorp came to the window and called you, did she
not?"

"Yes, sir, she did."

"Tell me in your own words exactly what happened after that."

"Well, sir, nothing much.  She just told Willum to go on his
bicycle down to the village, and bring back a form of will, or
such-like--I don't know what exactly--she wrote it down for him."

"Well?"

"Well, he did, sir."

"And what happened next?"

"We went on with the begonias, sir."

"Did not Mrs. Inglethorp call you again?"

"Yes, sir, both me and Willum, she called."

"And then?"

"She made us come right in, and sign our names at the bottom of a
long paper--under where she'd signed."

"Did you see anything of what was written above her signature?"
asked Poirot sharply.

"No, sir, there was a bit of blotting paper over that part."

"And you signed where she told you?"

"Yes, sir, first me and then Willum."

"What did she do with it afterwards?"

"Well, sir, she slipped it into a long envelope, and put it
inside a sort of purple box that was standing on the desk."

"What time was it when she first called you?"

"About four, I should say, sir."

"Not earlier? Couldn't it have been about half-past three?"

"No, I shouldn't say so, sir.  It would be more likely to be a
bit after four--not before it."

"Thank you, Manning, that will do," said Poirot pleasantly.

The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manning
lifted a finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backed
cautiously out of the window.

We all looked at each other.

"Good heavens!" murmured John.  "What an extraordinary
coincidence."

"How--a coincidence?"

"That my mother should have made a will on the very day of her
death!"

Mr. Wells cleared his throat and remarked drily:

"Are you so sure it is a coincidence, Cavendish?"

"What do you mean?"

"Your mother, you tell me, had a violent quarrel with-- some one
yesterday afternoon----"

"What do you mean?" cried John again.  There was a tremor in his
voice, and he had gone very pale.

"In consequence of that quarrel, your mother very suddenly and
hurriedly makes a new will.  The contents of that will we shall
never know.  She told no one of its provisions.  This morning, no
doubt, she would have consulted me on the subject--but she had no
chance.  The will disappears, and she takes its secret with her
to her grave.  Cavendish, I much fear there is no coincidence
there.  Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that the
facts are very suggestive."

"Suggestive, or not," interrupted John, "we are most grateful to
Monsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter.  But for him, we
should never have known of this will.  I suppose, I may not ask
you, monsieur, what first led you to suspect the fact?"

Poirot smiled and answered:

"A scribbled over old envelope, and a freshly planted bed of
begonias."

John, I think, would have pressed his questions further, but at
that moment the loud purr of a motor was audible, and we all
turned to the window as it swept past.

"Evie!" cried John.  "Excuse me, Wells." He went hurriedly out
into the hall.

Poirot looked inquiringly at me.

"Miss Howard," I explained.

"Ah, I am glad she has come.  There is a woman with a head and a
heart too, Hastings.  Though the good God gave her no beauty!"

I followed John's example, and went out into the hall, where Miss
Howard was endeavouring to extricate herself from the voluminous
mass of veils that enveloped her head.  As her eyes fell on me, a
sudden pang of guilt shot through me.  This was the woman who had
warned me so earnestly, and to whose warning I had, alas, paid no
heed! How soon, and how contemptuously, I had dismissed it from
my mind.  Now that she had been proved justified in so tragic a
manner, I felt ashamed.  She had known Alfred Inglethorp only too
well.  I wondered whether, if she had remained at Styles, the
tragedy would have taken place, or would the man have feared her
watchful eyes?

I was relieved when she shook me by the hand, with her well
remembered painful grip.  The eyes that met mine were sad, but
not reproachful; that she had been crying bitterly, I could tell
by the redness of her eyelids, but her manner was unchanged from
its old gruffness.

"Started the moment I got the wire.  Just come off night duty. 
Hired car.  Quickest way to get here."

"Have you had anything to eat this morning, Evie?" asked John.

"No."

"I thought not.  Come along, breakfast's not cleared away yet,
and they'll make you some fresh tea." He turned to me.  "Look
after her, Hastings, will you? Wells is waiting for me.  Oh,
here's Monsieur Poirot.  He's helping us, you know, Evie."

Miss Howard shook hands with Poirot, but glanced suspiciously
over her shoulder at John.

"What do you mean--helping us?"

"Helping us to investigate."

"Nothing to investigate.  Have they taken him to prison yet?"

"Taken who to prison?"

"Who? Alfred Inglethorp, of course!"

"My dear Evie, do be careful.  Lawrence is of the opinion that my
mother died from heart seizure."

"More fool, Lawrence!" retorted Miss Howard.  "Of course Alfred
Inglethorp murdered poor Emily--as I always told you he would."

"My dear Evie, don't shout so.  Whatever we may think or suspect,
it is better to say as little as possible for the present.  The
inquest isn't until Friday."

"Not until fiddlesticks!" The snort Miss Howard gave was truly
magnificent.  "You're all off your heads.  The man will be out of
the country by then.  If he's any sense, he won't stay here
tamely and wait to be hanged."

John Cavendish looked at her helplessly.

"I know what it is," she accused him, "you've been listening to
the doctors.  Never should.  What do they know? Nothing at
all--or just enough to make them dangerous.  I ought to know--my
own father was a doctor.  That little Wilkins is about the
greatest fool that even I have ever seen.  Heart seizure! Sort of
thing he would say.  Anyone with any sense could see at once that
her husband had poisoned her.  I always said he'd murder her in
her bed, poor soul.  Now he's done it.  And all you can do is to
murmur silly things about 'heart seizure' and 'inquest on
Friday.' You ought to be ashamed of yourself, John Cavendish."

"What do you want me to do?" asked John, unable to help a faint
smile.  "Dash it all, Evie, I can't haul him down to the local
police station by the scruff of his neck."

"Well, you might do something.  Find out how he did it.  He's a
crafty beggar.  Dare say he soaked fly papers.  Ask Cook if she's
missed any."

It occurred to me very forcibly at that moment that to harbour
Miss Howard and Alfred Inglethorp under the same roof, and keep
the peace between them, was likely to prove a Herculean task, and
I did not envy John.  I could see by the expression of his face
that he fully appreciated the difficulty of the position.  For
the moment, he sought refuge in retreat, and left the room
precipitately.

Dorcas brought in fresh tea.  As she left the room, Poirot came
over from the window where he had been standing, and sat down
facing Miss Howard.

"Mademoiselle," he said gravely, "I want to ask you something."

"Ask away," said the lady, eyeing him with some disfavour.

"I want to be able to count upon your help."

"I'll help you to hang Alfred with pleasure," she replied
gruffly.  "Hanging's too good for him.  Ought to be drawn and
quartered, like in good old times."

"We are at one then," said Poirot, "for I, too, want to hang the
criminal."

"Alfred Inglethorp?"

"Him, or another."

"No question of another.  Poor Emily was never murdered until *HE
came along.  I don't say she wasn't surrounded by sharks--she
was.  But it was only her purse they were after.  Her life was
safe enough.  But along comes Mr. Alfred Inglethorp--and within
two months--hey presto!"

"Believe me, Miss Howard," said Poirot very earnestly, "if Mr.
Inglethorp is the man, he shall not escape me.  On my honour, I
will hang him as high as Haman!"

"That's better," said Miss Howard more enthusiastically.

"But I must ask you to trust me.  Now your help may be very
valuable to me.  I will tell you why.  Because, in all this house
of mourning, yours are the only eyes that have wept."

Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into the gruffness of
her voice.

"If you mean that I was fond of her--yes, I was.  You know, Emily
was a selfish old woman in her way.  She was very generous, but
she always wanted a return.  She never let people forget what she
had done for them--and, that way she missed love.  Don't think
she ever realized it, though, or felt the lack of it.  Hope not,
anyway.  I was on a different footing.  I took my stand from the
first.  'So many pounds a year I'm worth to you.  Well and good. 
But not a penny piece besides-- not a pair of gloves, nor a
theatre ticket.' She didn't understand--was very offended
sometimes.  Said I was foolishly proud.  It wasn't that--but I
couldn't explain.  Anyway, I kept my self-respect.  And so, out
of the whole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to
be fond of her.  I watched over her.  I guarded her from the lot
of them, and then a glib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh!
all my years of devotion go for nothing."

Poirot nodded sympathetically.

"I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel.  It is
most natural.  You think that we are lukewarm--that we lack fire
and energy--but trust me, it is not so."

John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both to
come up to Mrs. Inglethorp's room, as he and Mr. Wells had
finished looking through the desk in the boudoir.

As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining-room
door, and lowered his voice confidentially:

"Look here, what's going to happen when these two meet?"

I shook my head helplessly.

"I've told Mary to keep them apart if she can."

"Will she be able to do so?"

"The Lord only knows.  There's one thing, Inglethorp himself
won't be too keen on meeting her."

"You've got the keys still, haven't you, Poirot?" I asked, as we
reached the door of the locked room.

Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it, and we all passed
in.  The lawyer went straight to the desk, and John followed him.

"My mother kept most of her important papers in this
despatch-case, I believe," he said.

Poirot drew out the small bunch of keys.

"Permit me.  I locked it, out of precaution, this morning."

"But it's not locked now."

"Impossible!"

"See." And John lifted the lid as he spoke.

"Milles tonnerres!" cried Poirot, dumfounded.  "And I--who have
both the keys in my pocket!" He flung himself upon the case. 
Suddenly he stiffened.  "En voila une affaire! This lock has been
forced."

"What?"

Poirot laid down the case again.

"But who forced it? Why should they? When? But the door was
locked?" These exclamations burst from us disjointedly.

Poirot answered them categorically--almost mechanically.

"Who? That is the question.  Why? Ah, if I only knew.  When?
Since I was here an hour ago.  As to the door being locked, it is
a very ordinary lock.  Probably any other of the doorkeys in this
passage would fit it."

We stared at one another blankly.  Poirot had walked over to the
mantel-piece.  He was outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands,
which from long force of habit were mechanically straightening
the spill vases on the mantel-piece, were shaking violently.

"See here, it was like this," he said at last.  "There was
something in that case--some piece of evidence, slight in itself
perhaps, but still enough of a clue to connect the murderer with
the crime.  It was vital to him that it should be destroyed
before it was discovered and its significance appreciated. 
Therefore, he took the risk, the great risk, of coming in here. 
Finding the case locked, he was obliged to force it, thus
betraying his presence.  For him to take that risk, it must have
been something of great importance."

"But what was it?"

"Ah!" cried Poirot, with a gesture of anger.  "That, I do not
know! A document of some kind, without doubt, possibly the scrap
of paper Dorcas saw in her hand yesterday afternoon.  And I--"
his anger burst forth freely--"miserable animal that I am! I
guessed nothing! I have behaved like an imbecile! I should never
have left that case here.  I should have carried it away with me. 
Ah, triple pig! And now it is gone.  It is destroyed--but is it
destroyed? Is there not yet a chance--we must leave no stone
unturned--"

He rushed like a madman from the room, and I followed him as soon
as I had sufficiently recovered my wits.  But, by the time I had
reached the top of the stairs, he was out of sight.

Mary Cavendish was standing where the staircase branched, staring
down into the hall in the direction in which he had disappeared.

"What has happened to your extraordinary little friend, Mr.
Hastings? He has just rushed past me like a mad bull."

"He's rather upset about something," I remarked feebly.  I really
did not know how much Poirot would wish me to disclose.  As I saw
a faint smile gather on Mrs. Cavendish's expressive mouth, I
endeavoured to try and turn the conversation by saying: "They
haven't met yet, have they?"

"Who?"

"Mr. Inglethorp and Miss Howard."

She looked at me in rather a disconcerting manner.

"Do you think it would be such a disaster if they did meet?"

"Well, don't you?" I said, rather taken aback.

"No." She was smiling in her quiet way.  "I should like to see a
good flare up.  It would clear the air.  At present we are all
thinking so much, and saying so little."

"John doesn't think so," I remarked.  "He's anxious to keep them
apart."

"Oh, John!"

Something in her tone fired me, and I blurted out:

"Old John's an awfully good sort."

She studied me curiously for a minute or two, and then said, to
my great surprise:

"You are loyal to your friend.  I like you for that."

"Aren't you my friend too?"

"I am a very bad friend."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because it is true.  I am charming to my friends one day, and
forget all about them the next."

I don't know what impelled me, but I was nettled, and I said
foolishly and not in the best of taste:

"Yet you seem to be invariably charming to Dr. Bauerstein!"

Instantly I regretted my words.  Her face stiffened.  I had the
impression of a steel curtain coming down and blotting out the
real woman.  Without a word, she turned and went swiftly up the
stairs, whilst I stood like an idiot gaping after her.

I was recalled to other matters by a frightful row going on
below.  I could hear Poirot shouting and expounding.  I was vexed
to think that my diplomacy had been in vain.  The little man
appeared to be taking the whole house into his confidence, a
proceeding of which I, for one, doubted the wisdom.  Once again I
could not help regretting that my friend was so prone to lose his
head in moments of excitement.  I stepped briskly down the
stairs.  The sight of me calmed Poirot almost immediately.  I
drew him aside.

"My dear fellow," I said, "is this wise? Surely you don't want
the whole house to know of this occurrence? You are actually
playing into the criminal's hands."

"You think so, Hastings?"

"I am sure of it."

"Well, well, my friend, I will be guided by you."

"Good.  Although, unfortunately, it is a little too late now."

"Sure."

He looked so crestfallen and abashed that I felt quite sorry,
though I still thought my rebuke a just and wise one.

"Well," he said at last, "let us go, mon ami."

"You have finished here?"

"For the moment, yes.  You will walk back with me to the
village?"

"Willingly."

He picked up his little suit-case, and we went out through the
open window in the drawing-room.  Cynthia Murdoch was just coming
in, and Poirot stood aside to let her pass.

"Excuse me, mademoiselle, one minute."

"Yes?" she turned inquiringly.

"Did you ever make up Mrs. Inglethorp's medicines?"

A slight flush rose in her face, as she answered rather
constrainedly:

"No."

"Only her powders?"

The flush deepened as Cynthia replied:

"Oh, yes, I did make up some sleeping powders for her once."

"These?"

Poirot produced the empty box which had contained powders.

She nodded.

"Can you tell me what they were? Sulphonal? Veronal?"

"No, they were bromide powders."

"Ah! Thank you, mademoiselle; good morning."

As we walked briskly away from the house, I glanced at him more
than once.  I had often before noticed that, if anything excited
him, his eyes turned green like a cat's.  They were shining like
emeralds now.

"My friend," he broke out at last, "I have a little idea, a very
strange, and probably utterly impossible idea.  And yet-- it fits
in."

I shrugged my shoulders.  I privately thought that Poirot was
rather too much given to these fantastic ideas.  In this case,
surely, the truth was only too plain and apparent.

"So that is the explanation of the blank label on the box," I
remarked.  "Very simple, as you said.  I really wonder that I did
not think of it myself."

Poirot did not appear to be listening to me.

"They have made one more discovery, la-bas," he observed, jerking
his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Styles.  "Mr.
Wells told me as we were going upstairs."

"What was it?"

"Locked up in the desk in the boudoir, they found a will of Mrs.
Inglethorp's, dated before her marriage, leaving her fortune to
Alfred Inglethorp.  It must have been made just at the time they
were engaged.  It came quite as a surprise to Wells-- and to John
Cavendish also.  It was written on one of those printed will
forms, and witnessed by two of the servants--not Dorcas."

"Did Mr. Inglethorp know of it?"

"He says not."

"One might take that with a grain of salt," I remarked
sceptically.  "All these wills are very confusing.  Tell me, how
did those scribbled words on the envelope help you to discover
that a will was made yesterday afternoon?"

Poirot smiled.

"Mon ami, have you ever, when writing a letter, been arrested by
the fact that you did not know how to spell a certain word?"

"Yes, often.  I suppose every one has."

"Exactly.  And have you not, in such a case, tried the word once
or twice on the edge of the blotting-paper, or a spare scrap of
paper, to see if it looked right? Well, that is what Mrs.
Inglethorp did.  You will notice that the word 'possessed' is
spelt first with one's' end subsequently with two--correctly.  To
make sure, she had further tried it in a sentence, thus: 'I am
possessed.' Now, what did that tell me? It told me that Mrs.
Inglethorp had been writing the word 'possessed' that afternoon,
and, having the fragment of paper found in the grate fresh in my
mind, the possibility of a will--(a document almost certain to
contain that word)--occurred to me at once.  This possibility was
confirmed by a further circumstance.  In the general confusion,
the boudoir had not been swept that morning, and near the desk
were several traces of brown mould and earth.  The weather had
been perfectly fine for some days, and no ordinary boots would
have left such a heavy deposit.

"I strolled to the window, and saw at once that the begonia beds
had been newly planted.  The mould in the beds was exactly
similar to that on the floor of the boudoir, and also I learnt
from you that they had been planted yesterday afternoon.  I was
now sure that one, or possibly both of the gardeners-- for there
were two sets of footprints in the bed--had entered the boudoir,
for if Mrs. Inglethorp had merely wished to speak to them she
would in all probability have stood at the window, and they would
not have come into the room at all.  I was now quite convinced
that she had made a fresh will, and had called the two gardeners
in to witness her signature.  Events proved that I was right in
my supposition."

"That was very ingenious," I could not help admitting.  "I must
confess that the conclusions I drew from those few scribbled
words were quite erroneous."

He smiled.

"You gave too much rein to your imagination.  Imagination is a
good servant, and a bad master.  The simplest explanation is
always the most likely."

"Another point--how did you know that the key of the
despatch-case had been lost?"

"I did not know it.  It was a guess that turned out to be
correct.  You observed that it had a piece of twisted wire
through the handle.  That suggested to me at once that it had
possibly been wrenched off a flimsy key-ring.  Now, if it had
been lost and recovered, Mrs. Inglethorp would at once have
replaced it on her bunch; but on her bunch I found what was
obviously the duplicate key, very new and bright, which led me to
the hypothesis that somebody else had inserted the original key
in the lock of the despatch-case."

"Yes," I said, "Alfred Inglethorp, without doubt."

Poirot looked at me curiously.

"You are very sure of his guilt?"

"Well, naturally.  Every fresh circumstance seems to establish it
more clearly."

"On the contrary," said Poirot quietly, "there are several points
in his favour."

"Oh, come now!"

"Yes."

"I see only one."

"And that?"

"That he was not in the house last night."

" 'Bad shot!' as you English say! You have chosen the one point
that to my mind tells against him."

"How is that?"

"Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisoned
last night, he would certainly have arranged to be away from the
house.  His excuse was an obviously trumped up one.  That leaves
us two possibilities: either he knew what was going to happen or
he had a reason of his own for his absence."

"And that reason?" I asked sceptically.

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

"How should I know? Discreditable, without doubt.  This Mr.
Inglethorp, I should say, is somewhat of a scoundrel--but that
does not of necessity make him a murderer."

I shook my head, unconvinced.

"We do not agree, eh?" said Poirot.  "Well, let us leave it. 
Time will show which of us is right.  Now let us turn to other
aspects of the case.  What do you make of the fact that all the
doors of the bedroom were bolted on the inside?"

"Well----" I considered.  "One must look at it logically."

"True."

"I should put it this way.  The doors *WERE bolted--our own eyes
have told us that--yet the presence of the candle grease on the
floor, and the destruction of the will, prove that during the
night some one entered the room.  You agree so far?"

"Perfectly.  Put with admirable clearness.  Proceed."

"Well," I said, encouraged, "as the person who entered did not do
so by the window, nor by miraculous means, it follows that the
door must have been opened from inside by Mrs. Inglethorp
herself.  That strengthens the conviction that the person in
question was her husband.  She would naturally open the door to
her own husband."

Poirot shook his head.

"Why should she? She had bolted the door leading into his room--a
most unusual proceeding on her part--she had had a most violent
quarrel with him that very afternoon.  No, he was the last person
she would admit."

"But you agree with me that the door must have been opened by
Mrs. Inglethorp herself?"

"There is another possibility.  She may have forgotten to bolt
the door into the passage when she went to bed, and have got up
later, towards morning, and bolted it then."

"Poirot, is that seriously your opinion?"

"No, I do not say it is so, but it might be.  Now, to turn to
another feature, what do you make of the scrap of conversation
you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law?"

"I had forgotten that," I said thoughtfully.  "That is as
enigmatical as ever.  It seems incredible that a woman like Mrs.
Cavendish, proud and reticent to the last degree, should
interfere so violently in what was certainly not her affair."

"Precisely.  It was an astonishing thing for a woman of her
breeding to do."

"It is certainly curious," I agreed.  "Still, it is unimportant,
and need not be taken into account."

A groan burst from Poirot.

"What have I always told you? Everything must be taken into
account.  If the fact will not fit the theory--let the theory
go."

"Well, we shall see," I said, nettled.

"Yes, we shall see."

We had reached Leastways Cottage, and Poirot ushered me upstairs
to his own room.  He offered me one of the tiny Russian
cigarettes he himself occasionally smoked.  I was amused to
notice that he stowed away the used matches most carefully in a
little china pot.  My momentary annoyance vanished.

Poirot had placed our two chairs in front of the open window
which commanded a view of the village street.  The fresh air blew
in warm and pleasant.  It was going to be a hot day.

Suddenly my attention was arrested by a weedy looking young man
rushing down the street at a great pace.  It was the expression
on his face that was extraordinary--a curious mingling of terror
and agitation.

"Look, Poirot!" I said.

He leant forward.

"Tiens!" he said.  "It is Mr. Mace, from the chemist's shop.  He
is coming here."

The young man came to a halt before Leastways Cottage, and, after
hesitating a moment, pounded vigorously at the door.

"A little minute," cried Poirot from the window.  "I come."

Motioning to me to follow him, he ran swiftly down the stairs and
opened the door.  Mr. Mace began at once.

"Oh, Mr. Poirot, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I heard
that you'd just come back from the Hall?"

"Yes, we have."

The young man moistened his dry lips.  His face was working
curiously.

"It's all over the village about old Mrs. Inglethorp dying so
suddenly.  They do say--" he lowered his voice cautiously-- "that
it's poison?"

Poirot's face remained quite impassive.

"Only the doctors can tell us that, Mr. Mace."

"Yes, exactly--of course----" The young man hesitated, and then
his agitation was too much for him.  He clutched Poirot by the
arm, and sank his voice to a whisper: "Just tell me this, Mr.
Poirot, it isn't--it isn't strychnine, is it?"

I hardly heard what Poirot replied.  Something evidently of a
non-committal nature.  The young man departed, and as he closed
the door Poirot's eyes met mine.

"Yes," he said, nodding gravely.  "He will have evidence to give
at the inquest."

We went slowly upstairs again.  I was opening my lips, when
Poirot stopped me with a gesture of his hand.

"Not now, not now, mon ami.  I have need of reflection.  My mind
is in some disorder--which is not well."

For about ten minutes he sat in dead silence, perfectly still,
except for several expressive motions of his eyebrows, and all
the time his eyes grew steadily greener.  At last he heaved a
deep sigh.

"It is well.  The bad moment has passed.  Now all is arranged and
classified.  One must never permit confusion.  The case is not
clear yet--no.  For it is of the most complicated! It puzzles
*ME.  *ME, Hercule Poirot! There are two facts of significance."

"And what are they?"

"The first is the state of the weather yesterday.  That is very
important."

"But it was a glorious day!" I interrupted.  "Poirot, you're
pulling my leg!"

"Not at all.  The thermometer registered 80 degrees in the shade. 
Do not forget that, my friend.  It is the key to the whole
riddle!"

"And the second point?" I asked.

"The important fact that Monsieur Inglethorp wears very peculiar
clothes, has a black beard, and uses glasses."

"Poirot, I cannot believe you are serious."

"I am absolutely serious, my friend."

"But this is childish!"

"No, it is very momentous."

"And supposing the Coroner's jury returns a verdict of Wilful
Murder against Alfred Inglethorp.  What becomes of your theories,
then?"

"They would not be shaken because twelve stupid men had happened
to make a mistake! But that will not occur.  For one thing, a
country jury is not anxious to take responsibility upon itself,
and Mr. Inglethorp stands practically in the position of local
squire.  Also," he added placidly, "I should not allow it!"

"*YOU would not allow it?"

"No."

I looked at the extraordinary little man, divided between
annoyance and amusement.  He was so tremendously sure of himself. 
As though he read my thoughts, he nodded gently.

"Oh, yes, mon ami, I would do what I say." He got up and laid his
hand on my shoulder.  His physiognomy underwent a complete
change.  Tears came into his eyes.  "In all this, you see, I
think of that poor Mrs. Inglethorp who is dead.  She was not
extravagantly loved--no.  But she was very good to us Belgians--I
owe her a debt."

I endeavoured to interrupt, but Poirot swept on.

"Let me tell you this, Hastings.  She would never forgive me if I
let Alfred Inglethorp, her husband, be arrested now--when a word
from me could save him!"
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