Chapter V. "It isn't Strychnine, is it?"

by Agatha Christie

　　"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 ofdemoniacal possession? And, if that were so, was it not alsopossible that she might have taken her own life?I was about to expound these theories to Poirot, when his ownwords distracted me."Come," he said, "now to examine the coffee-cups!""My dear Poirot! What on earth is the good of that, now that weknow about the coco?""Oh, la la! That miserable coco!" cried Poirot flippantly.He laughed with apparent enjoyment, raising his arms to heaven inmock despair, in what I could not but consider the worst possibletaste."And, anyway," I said, with increasing coldness, "as Mrs.Inglethorp took her coffee upstairs with her, I do not see whatyou expect to find, unless you consider it likely that we shalldiscover 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 mycoffee-cups, and I will respect your coco. There! Is it abargain?"He was so quaintly humorous that I was forced to laugh; and wewent together to the drawing-room, where the coffee-cups and trayremained undisturbed as we had left them.Poirot made me recapitulate the scene of the night before,listening very carefully, and verifying the position of thevarious cups."So Mrs. Cavendish stood by the tray--and poured out. Yes. Thenshe came across to the window where you sat with MademoiselleCynthia. Yes. Here are the three cups. And the cup on themantel-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 cupof 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 ineach cup, sealing them up in separate test tubes, tasting each inturn as he did so. His physiognomy underwent a curious change.An expression gathered there that I can only describe as halfpuzzled, and half relieved."Bien!" he said at last. "It is evident! I had an idea--butclearly I was mistaken. Yes, altogether I was mistaken. Yet itis strange. But no matter!"And, with a characteristic shrug, he dismissed whatever it wasthat was worrying him from his mind. I could have told him fromthe beginning that this obsession of his over the coffee wasbound to end in a blind alley, but I restrained my tongue. Afterall, though he was old, Poirot had been a great man in his day."Breakfast is ready," said John Cavendish, coming in from thehall. "You will breakfast with us, Monsieur Poirot?"Poirot acquiesced. I observed John. Already he was almostrestored to his normal self. The shock of the events of the lastnight had upset him temporarily, but his equable poise soon swungback to the normal. He was a man of very little imagination, insharp contrast with his brother, who had, perhaps, too much.Ever since the early hours of the morning, John had been hard atwork, sending telegrams--one of the first had gone to EvelynHoward--writing notices for the papers, and generally occupyinghimself with the melancholy duties that a death entails."May I ask how things are proceeding?" he said. "Do yourinvestigations 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 dowell not to buoy yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tellme the views of the other members of the family?""My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss overnothing. He says that everything points to its being a simplecase 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 subjectare."The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train. Johnbroke 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 totreat him as usual--but, hang it all, one's gorge does rise atsitting 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 wasforgotten--that he did not take it after all?""I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep itin 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 thatyou would find it. If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has hadample time to replace it by now.""But do you think----""I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morningbefore his return, and seen it there, it would have been avaluable point in his favour. That is all."John looked perplexed."Do not worry," said Poirot smoothly. "I assure you that youneed not let it trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us goand have some breakfast."Every one was assembled in the dining-room. Under thecircumstances, we were naturally not a cheerful party. Thereaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were allsuffering from it. Decorum and good breeding naturally enjoinedthat our demeanour should be much as usual, yet I could not helpwondering if this self-control were really a matter of greatdifficulty. There were no red eyes, no signs of secretlyindulged grief. I felt that I was right in my opinion thatDorcas was the person most affected by the personal side of thetragedy.I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower ina manner that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did heknow that we suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not beunaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel somesecret stirring of fear, or was he confident that his crime wouldgo unpunished? Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warnhim that he was already a marked man.But did every one suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? Iwatched her as she sat at the head of the table, graceful,composed, enigmatic. In her soft grey frock, with white rufflesat the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked verybeautiful. When she chose, however, her face could besphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent, hardlyopening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the greatstrength of her personality was dominating us all.And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired andill, I thought. The heaviness and languor of her manner werevery marked. I asked her if she were feeling ill, and sheanswered frankly:"Yes, I've got the most beastly headache.""Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?" said Poirotsolicitously. "It will revive you. It is unparalleled for themal de tete." He jumped up and took her cup."No sugar," said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up thesugar-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 thereplenished cup.Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man Isaw that his face was working with suppressed excitement, and hiseyes were as green as a cat's. He had heard or seen somethingthat had affected him strongly--but what was it? I do not usuallylabel myself as dense, but I must confess that nothing out of theordinary 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'slawyer," he explained. And in a lower voice: "He is alsoCoroner--you understand. Perhaps you would like to come withme?"We acquiesced and followed him out of the room. John strode onahead and I took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot:"There will be an inquest then?"Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so muchso 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 donot understand. My instinct was right.""What instinct?""The instinct that led me to insist on examining thosecoffee-cups. Chut! no more now!"We followed John into his study, and he closed the door behindus.Mr. Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with keen eyes, andthe typical lawyer's mouth. John introduced us both, andexplained the reason of our presence."You will understand, Wells," he added, "that this is allstrictly private. We are still hoping that there will turn outto be no need for investigation of any kind.""Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Wells soothingly. "I wish wecould have spared you the pain and publicity of an inquest, butof course it's quite unavoidable in the absence of a doctor'scertificate.""Yes, I suppose so.""Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, Ibelieve.""Indeed," said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Thenhe added rather hesitatingly: "Shall we have to appear aswitnesses--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 soothingmanner:"Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter ofform.""I see."A faint expression of relief swept over John's face. It puzzledme, for I saw no occasion for it."If you know of nothing to the contrary," pursued Mr. Wells, "Ihad thought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for thedoctor's report. The post-mortem is to take place to-night, Ibelieve?""Yes.""Then that arrangement will suit you?""Perfectly.""I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am atthis most tragic affair.""Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?" interposedPoirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered theroom."I?""Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. Youshould have received the letter this morning.""I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a noteasking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my adviceon 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 fewminutes. 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 ofMrs. 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 variousunimportant legacies to servants, etc., she gave her entirefortune to her stepson, Mr. John Cavendish.""Was not that--pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish--rather unfairto her other stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?""No, I do not think so. You see, under the terms of theirfather's will, while John inherited the property, Lawrence, athis stepmother's death, would come into a considerable sum ofmoney. Mrs. Inglethorp left her money to her elder stepson,knowing that he would have to keep up Styles. It was, to mymind, a very fair and equitable distribution."Poirot nodded thoughtfully."I see. But I am right in saying, am I not, that by your Englishlaw that will was automatically revoked when Mrs. Inglethorpremarried?"Mr. Wells bowed his head."As I was about to proceed, Monsieur Poirot, that document is nownull 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 thematter of wills being revoked by marriage only yesterday.""Ah! One more question, Mr. Wells. You say 'her last will.' HadMrs. Inglethorp, then, made several former wills?""On an average, she made a new will at least once a year," saidMr. Wells imperturbably. "She was given to changing her mind asto her testamentary dispositions, now benefiting one, now anothermember of her family.""Suppose," suggested Poirot, "that, unknown to you, she had madea new will in favour of some one who was not, in any sense of theword, a member of the family--we will say Miss Howard, forinstance--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 thequestion of going through Mrs. Inglethorp's papers."Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp made a will leaving all her moneyto 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 mymother's papers. Mr. Inglethorp is quite willing to leave itentirely to Mr. Wells and myself.""Which simplifies matters very much," murmured the lawyer. "Astechnically, of course, he was entitled----" He did not finishthe sentence."We will look through the desk in the boudoir first," explainedJohn, "and go up to her bedroom afterwards. She kept her mostimportant papers in a purple despatch-case, which we must lookthrough carefully.""Yes," said the lawyer, "it is quite possible that there may be alater 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 foundin the grate in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, and handed it to thelawyer with a brief explanation of when and where he had foundit."But possibly this is an old will?""I do not think so. In fact I am almost certain that it was madeno 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 itto 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 youplease.""Very well." He rang the bell.Dorcas answered it in due course."Dorcas, will you tell Manning to come round and speak to mehere.""Yes, sir."Dorcas withdrew.We waited in a tense silence. Poirot alone seemed perfectly athis ease, and dusted a forgotten corner of the bookcase.The clumping of hobnailed boots on the gravel outside proclaimedthe 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 muchbent, though he was probably not as old as he looked, but hiseyes were sharp and intelligent, and belied his slow and rathercautious speech."Manning," said John, "this gentleman will put some questions toyou which I want you to answer.""Yessir," mumbled Manning.Poirot stepped forward briskly. Manning's eye swept over himwith a faint contempt."You were planting a bed of begonias round by the south side ofthe house yesterday afternoon, were you not, Manning?""Yes, sir, me and Willum.""And Mrs. Inglethorp came to the window and called you, did shenot?""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 hisbicycle down to the village, and bring back a form of will, orsuch-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 along 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 itinside 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 abit after four--not before it.""Thank you, Manning, that will do," said Poirot pleasantly.The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manninglifted a finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backedcautiously out of the window.We all looked at each other."Good heavens!" murmured John. "What an extraordinarycoincidence.""How--a coincidence?""That my mother should have made a will on the very day of herdeath!"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 oneyesterday afternoon----""What do you mean?" cried John again. There was a tremor in hisvoice, and he had gone very pale."In consequence of that quarrel, your mother very suddenly andhurriedly makes a new will. The contents of that will we shallnever know. She told no one of its provisions. This morning, nodoubt, she would have consulted me on the subject--but she had nochance. The will disappears, and she takes its secret with herto her grave. Cavendish, I much fear there is no coincidencethere. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that thefacts are very suggestive.""Suggestive, or not," interrupted John, "we are most grateful toMonsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, weshould never have known of this will. I suppose, I may not askyou, monsieur, what first led you to suspect the fact?"Poirot smiled and answered:"A scribbled over old envelope, and a freshly planted bed ofbegonias."John, I think, would have pressed his questions further, but atthat moment the loud purr of a motor was audible, and we allturned to the window as it swept past."Evie!" cried John. "Excuse me, Wells." He went hurriedly outinto 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 aheart too, Hastings. Though the good God gave her no beauty!"I followed John's example, and went out into the hall, where MissHoward was endeavouring to extricate herself from the voluminousmass of veils that enveloped her head. As her eyes fell on me, asudden pang of guilt shot through me. This was the woman who hadwarned me so earnestly, and to whose warning I had, alas, paid noheed! How soon, and how contemptuously, I had dismissed it frommy mind. Now that she had been proved justified in so tragic amanner, I felt ashamed. She had known Alfred Inglethorp only toowell. I wondered whether, if she had remained at Styles, thetragedy would have taken place, or would the man have feared herwatchful eyes?I was relieved when she shook me by the hand, with her wellremembered painful grip. The eyes that met mine were sad, butnot reproachful; that she had been crying bitterly, I could tellby the redness of her eyelids, but her manner was unchanged fromits 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. "Lookafter 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 suspiciouslyover 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 mymother died from heart seizure.""More fool, Lawrence!" retorted Miss Howard. "Of course AlfredInglethorp 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. Theinquest isn't until Friday.""Not until fiddlesticks!" The snort Miss Howard gave was trulymagnificent. "You're all off your heads. The man will be out ofthe country by then. If he's any sense, he won't stay heretamely and wait to be hanged."John Cavendish looked at her helplessly."I know what it is," she accused him, "you've been listening tothe doctors. Never should. What do they know? Nothing atall--or just enough to make them dangerous. I ought to know--myown father was a doctor. That little Wilkins is about thegreatest fool that even I have ever seen. Heart seizure! Sort ofthing he would say. Anyone with any sense could see at once thather husband had poisoned her. I always said he'd murder her inher bed, poor soul. Now he's done it. And all you can do is tomurmur silly things about 'heart seizure' and 'inquest onFriday.' You ought to be ashamed of yourself, John Cavendish.""What do you want me to do?" asked John, unable to help a faintsmile. "Dash it all, Evie, I can't haul him down to the localpolice station by the scruff of his neck.""Well, you might do something. Find out how he did it. He's acrafty beggar. Dare say he soaked fly papers. Ask Cook if she'smissed any."It occurred to me very forcibly at that moment that to harbourMiss Howard and Alfred Inglethorp under the same roof, and keepthe peace between them, was likely to prove a Herculean task, andI did not envy John. I could see by the expression of his facethat he fully appreciated the difficulty of the position. Forthe moment, he sought refuge in retreat, and left the roomprecipitately.Dorcas brought in fresh tea. As she left the room, Poirot cameover from the window where he had been standing, and sat downfacing 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 repliedgruffly. "Hanging's too good for him. Ought to be drawn andquartered, like in good old times.""We are at one then," said Poirot, "for I, too, want to hang thecriminal.""Alfred Inglethorp?""Him, or another.""No question of another. Poor Emily was never murdered until hecame along. I don't say she wasn't surrounded by sharks--shewas. But it was only her purse they were after. Her life wassafe enough. But along comes Mr. Alfred Inglethorp--and withintwo 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, Iwill 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 veryvaluable to me. I will tell you why. Because, in all this houseof mourning, yours are the only eyes that have wept."Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into the gruffness ofher voice."If you mean that I was fond of her--yes, I was. You know, Emilywas a selfish old woman in her way. She was very generous, butshe always wanted a return. She never let people forget what shehad done for them--and, that way she missed love. Don't thinkshe ever realized it, though, or felt the lack of it. Hope not,anyway. I was on a different footing. I took my stand from thefirst. '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 atheatre ticket.' She didn't understand--was very offendedsometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasn't that--but Icouldn't explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, outof the whole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself tobe fond of her. I watched over her. I guarded her from the lotof 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 ismost natural. You think that we are lukewarm--that we lack fireand energy--but trust me, it is not so."John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both tocome up to Mrs. Inglethorp's room, as he and Mr. Wells hadfinished looking through the desk in the boudoir.As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining-roomdoor, 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 himselfwon't be too keen on meeting her.""You've got the keys still, haven't you, Poirot?" I asked, as wereached the door of the locked room.Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it, and we all passedin. The lawyer went straight to the desk, and John followed him."My mother kept most of her important papers in thisdespatch-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 haveboth the keys in my pocket!" He flung himself upon the case.Suddenly he stiffened. "En voila une affaire! This lock has beenforced.""What?"Poirot laid down the case again."But who forced it? Why should they? When? But the door waslocked?" 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 isa very ordinary lock. Probably any other of the doorkeys in thispassage would fit it."We stared at one another blankly. Poirot had walked over to themantel-piece. He was outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands,which from long force of habit were mechanically straighteningthe spill vases on the mantel-piece, were shaking violently."See here, it was like this," he said at last. "There wassomething in that case--some piece of evidence, slight in itselfperhaps, but still enough of a clue to connect the murderer withthe crime. It was vital to him that it should be destroyedbefore 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, thusbetraying his presence. For him to take that risk, it must havebeen something of great importance.""But what was it?""Ah!" cried Poirot, with a gesture of anger. "That, I do notknow! A document of some kind, without doubt, possibly the scrapof paper Dorcas saw in her hand yesterday afternoon. And I--"his anger burst forth freely--"miserable animal that I am! Iguessed nothing! I have behaved like an imbecile! I should neverhave 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 itdestroyed? Is there not yet a chance--we must leave no stoneunturned--"He rushed like a madman from the room, and I followed him as soonas I had sufficiently recovered my wits. But, by the time I hadreached the top of the stairs, he was out of sight.Mary Cavendish was standing where the staircase branched, staringdown 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 reallydid not know how much Poirot would wish me to disclose. As I sawa faint smile gather on Mrs. Cavendish's expressive mouth, Iendeavoured to try and turn the conversation by saying: "Theyhaven'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 agood flare up. It would clear the air. At present we are allthinking so much, and saying so little.""John doesn't think so," I remarked. "He's anxious to keep themapart.""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, tomy 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, andforget all about them the next."I don't know what impelled me, but I was nettled, and I saidfoolishly 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 theimpression of a steel curtain coming down and blotting out thereal woman. Without a word, she turned and went swiftly up thestairs, whilst I stood like an idiot gaping after her.I was recalled to other matters by a frightful row going onbelow. I could hear Poirot shouting and expounding. I was vexedto think that my diplomacy had been in vain. The little manappeared to be taking the whole house into his confidence, aproceeding of which I, for one, doubted the wisdom. Once again Icould not help regretting that my friend was so prone to lose hishead in moments of excitement. I stepped briskly down thestairs. The sight of me calmed Poirot almost immediately. Idrew him aside."My dear fellow," I said, "is this wise? Surely you don't wantthe whole house to know of this occurrence? You are actuallyplaying 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 thevillage?""Willingly."He picked up his little suit-case, and we went out through theopen window in the drawing-room. Cynthia Murdoch was just comingin, 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 ratherconstrainedly:"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 morethan once. I had often before noticed that, if anything excitedhim, his eyes turned green like a cat's. They were shining likeemeralds now."My friend," he broke out at last, "I have a little idea, a verystrange, and probably utterly impossible idea. And yet-- it fitsin."I shrugged my shoulders. I privately thought that Poirot wasrather 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," Iremarked. "Very simple, as you said. I really wonder that I didnot think of it myself."Poirot did not appear to be listening to me."They have made one more discovery, la-bas," he observed, jerkinghis 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 toAlfred Inglethorp. It must have been made just at the time theywere engaged. It came quite as a surprise to Wells-- and to JohnCavendish also. It was written on one of those printed willforms, 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 remarkedsceptically. "All these wills are very confusing. Tell me, howdid those scribbled words on the envelope help you to discoverthat a will was made yesterday afternoon?"Poirot smiled."Mon ami, have you ever, when writing a letter, been arrested bythe 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 onceor twice on the edge of the blotting-paper, or a spare scrap ofpaper, to see if it looked right? Well, that is what Mrs.Inglethorp did. You will notice that the word 'possessed' isspelt first with one's' end subsequently with two--correctly. Tomake sure, she had further tried it in a sentence, thus: 'I ampossessed.' 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 mymind, the possibility of a will--(a document almost certain tocontain that word)--occurred to me at once. This possibility wasconfirmed by a further circumstance. In the general confusion,the boudoir had not been swept that morning, and near the deskwere several traces of brown mould and earth. The weather hadbeen perfectly fine for some days, and no ordinary boots wouldhave left such a heavy deposit."I strolled to the window, and saw at once that the begonia bedshad been newly planted. The mould in the beds was exactlysimilar to that on the floor of the boudoir, and also I learntfrom you that they had been planted yesterday afternoon. I wasnow sure that one, or possibly both of the gardeners-- for therewere two sets of footprints in the bed--had entered the boudoir,for if Mrs. Inglethorp had merely wished to speak to them shewould in all probability have stood at the window, and they wouldnot have come into the room at all. I was now quite convincedthat she had made a fresh will, and had called the two gardenersin to witness her signature. Events proved that I was right inmy supposition.""That was very ingenious," I could not help admitting. "I mustconfess that the conclusions I drew from those few scribbledwords were quite erroneous."He smiled."You gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is agood servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation isalways the most likely.""Another point--how did you know that the key of thedespatch-case had been lost?""I did not know it. It was a guess that turned out to becorrect. You observed that it had a piece of twisted wirethrough the handle. That suggested to me at once that it hadpossibly been wrenched off a flimsy key-ring. Now, if it hadbeen lost and recovered, Mrs. Inglethorp would at once havereplaced it on her bunch; but on her bunch I found what wasobviously the duplicate key, very new and bright, which led me tothe hypothesis that somebody else had inserted the original keyin 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 itmore clearly.""On the contrary," said Poirot quietly, "there are several pointsin 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 pointthat to my mind tells against him.""How is that?""Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisonedlast night, he would certainly have arranged to be away from thehouse. His excuse was an obviously trumped up one. That leavesus two possibilities: either he knew what was going to happen orhe 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 thatdoes 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 otheraspects of the case. What do you make of the fact that all thedoors 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 eyeshave told us that--yet the presence of the candle grease on thefloor, and the destruction of the will, prove that during thenight 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 doso by the window, nor by miraculous means, it follows that thedoor must have been opened from inside by Mrs. Inglethorpherself. That strengthens the conviction that the person inquestion was her husband. She would naturally open the door toher own husband."Poirot shook his head."Why should she? She had bolted the door leading into his room--amost unusual proceeding on her part--she had had a most violentquarrel with him that very afternoon. No, he was the last personshe would admit.""But you agree with me that the door must have been opened byMrs. Inglethorp herself?""There is another possibility. She may have forgotten to boltthe door into the passage when she went to bed, and have got uplater, 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 toanother feature, what do you make of the scrap of conversationyou overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law?""I had forgotten that," I said thoughtfully. "That is asenigmatical as ever. It seems incredible that a woman like Mrs.Cavendish, proud and reticent to the last degree, shouldinterfere so violently in what was certainly not her affair.""Precisely. It was an astonishing thing for a woman of herbreeding 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 intoaccount. If the fact will not fit the theory--let the theorygo.""Well, we shall see," I said, nettled."Yes, we shall see."We had reached Leastways Cottage, and Poirot ushered me upstairsto his own room. He offered me one of the tiny Russiancigarettes he himself occasionally smoked. I was amused tonotice that he stowed away the used matches most carefully in alittle china pot. My momentary annoyance vanished.Poirot had placed our two chairs in front of the open windowwhich commanded a view of the village street. The fresh air blewin warm and pleasant. It was going to be a hot day.Suddenly my attention was arrested by a weedy looking young manrushing down the street at a great pace. It was the expressionon his face that was extraordinary--a curious mingling of terrorand agitation."Look, Poirot!" I said.He leant forward."Tiens!" he said. "It is Mr. Mace, from the chemist's shop. Heis coming here."The young man came to a halt before Leastways Cottage, and, afterhesitating 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 andopened the door. Mr. Mace began at once."Oh, Mr. Poirot, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I heardthat you'd just come back from the Hall?""Yes, we have."The young man moistened his dry lips. His face was workingcuriously."It's all over the village about old Mrs. Inglethorp dying sosuddenly. They do say--" he lowered his voice cautiously-- "thatit'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 thenhis agitation was too much for him. He clutched Poirot by thearm, 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 anon-committal nature. The young man departed, and as he closedthe door Poirot's eyes met mine."Yes," he said, nodding gravely. "He will have evidence to giveat the inquest."We went slowly upstairs again. I was opening my lips, whenPoirot stopped me with a gesture of his hand."Not now, not now, mon ami. I have need of reflection. My mindis 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 allthe time his eyes grew steadily greener. At last he heaved adeep sigh."It is well. The bad moment has passed. Now all is arranged andclassified. One must never permit confusion. The case is notclear yet--no. For it is of the most complicated! It puzzlesme. Me, Hercule Poirot! There are two facts of significance.""And what are they?""The first is the state of the weather yesterday. That is veryimportant.""But it was a glorious day!" I interrupted. "Poirot, you'repulling 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 wholeriddle!""And the second point?" I asked."The important fact that Monsieur Inglethorp wears very peculiarclothes, 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 WilfulMurder against Alfred Inglethorp. What becomes of your theories,then?""They would not be shaken because twelve stupid men had happenedto make a mistake! But that will not occur. For one thing, acountry jury is not anxious to take responsibility upon itself,and Mr. Inglethorp stands practically in the position of localsquire. Also," he added placidly, "I should not allow it!""You would not allow it?""No."I looked at the extraordinary little man, divided betweenannoyance 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 hishand on my shoulder. His physiognomy underwent a completechange. Tears came into his eyes. "In all this, you see, Ithink of that poor Mrs. Inglethorp who is dead. She was notextravagantly loved--no. But she was very good to us Belgians--Iowe her a debt."I endeavoured to interrupt, but Poirot swept on."Let me tell you this, Hastings. She would never forgive me if Ilet Alfred Inglethorp, her husband, be arrested now--when a wordfrom me could save him!"