Chapter X. The Arrest

by Agatha Christie

　　To my extreme annoyance, Poirot was not in, and the old Belgianwho answered my knock informed me that he believed he had gone toLondon.I was dumbfounded. What on earth could Poirot be doing inLondon! Was it a sudden decision on his part, or had he alreadymade up his mind when he parted from me a few hours earlier?I retraced my steps to Styles in some annoyance. With Poirotaway, I was uncertain how to act. Had he foreseen this arrest?Had he not, in all probability, been the cause of it? Thosequestions I could not resolve. But in the meantime what was I todo? Should I announce the arrest openly at Styles, or not? ThoughI did not acknowledge it to myself, the thought of Mary Cavendishwas weighing on me. Would it not be a terrible shock to her? Forthe moment, I set aside utterly any suspicions of her. She couldnot be implicated--otherwise I should have heard some hint of it.Of course, there was no possibility of being able permanently toconceal Dr. Bauerstein's arrest from her. It would be announcedin every newspaper on the morrow. Still, I shrank from blurtingit out. If only Poirot had been accessible, I could have askedhis advice. What possessed him to go posting off to London inthis unaccountable way?In spite of myself, my opinion of his sagacity was immeasurablyheightened. I would never have dreamt of suspecting the doctor,had not Poirot put it into my head. Yes, decidedly, the littleman was clever.After some reflecting, I decided to take John into my confidence,and leave him to make the matter public or not, as he thoughtfit.He gave vent to a prodigious whistle, as I imparted the news."Great Scot! You were right, then. I couldn't believe it at thetime.""No, it is astonishing until you get used to the idea, and seehow it makes everything fit in. Now, what are we to do? Ofcourse, it will be generally known to-morrow."John reflected."Never mind," he said at last, "we won't say anything at present.There is no need. As you say, it will be known soon enough."But to my intense surprise, on getting down early the nextmorning, and eagerly opening the newspapers, there was not a wordabout the arrest! There was a column of mere padding about "TheStyles Poisoning Case," but nothing further. It was ratherinexplicable, but I supposed that, for some reason or other, Jappwished to keep it out of the papers. It worried me just alittle, for it suggested the possibility that there might befurther arrests to come.After breakfast, I decided to go down to the village, and see ifPoirot had returned yet; but, before I could start, a well-knownface blocked one of the windows, and the well-known voice said:"Bon jour, mon ami!""Poirot," I exclaimed, with relief, and seizing him by bothhands, I dragged him into the room. "I was never so glad to seeanyone. Listen, I have said nothing to anybody but John. Isthat right?""My friend," replied Poirot, "I do not know what you are talkingabout.""Dr. Bauerstein's arrest, of course," I answered impatiently."Is Bauerstein arrested, then?""Did you not know it?""Not the least in the world." But, pausing a moment, he added:"Still, it does not surprise me. After all, we are only fourmiles from the coast.""The coast?" I asked, puzzled. "What has that got to do withit?"Poirot shrugged his shoulders."Surely, it is obvious!""Not to me. No doubt I am very dense, but I cannot see what theproximity of the coast has got to do with the murder of Mrs.Inglethorp.""Nothing at all, of course," replied Poirot, smiling. "But wewere speaking of the arrest of Dr. Bauerstein.""Well, he is arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp----""What?" cried Poirot, in apparently lively astonishment. "Dr.Bauerstein arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp?""Yes.""Impossible! That would be too good a farce! Who told you that,my friend?""Well, no one exactly told me," I confessed. "But he isarrested.""Oh, yes, very likely. But for espionage, mon ami.""Espionage?" I gasped."Precisely.""Not for poisoning Mrs. Inglethorp?""Not unless our friend Japp has taken leave of his senses,"replied Poirot placidly."But--but I thought you thought so too?"Poirot gave me one look, which conveyed a wondering pity, and hisfull sense of the utter absurdity of such an idea."Do you mean to say," I asked, slowly adapting myself to the newidea, "that Dr. Bauerstein is a spy?"Poirot nodded."Have you never suspected it?""It never entered my head.""It did not strike you as peculiar that a famous London doctorshould bury himself in a little village like this, and should bein the habit of walking about at all hours of the night, fullydressed?""No," I confessed, "I never thought of such a thing.""He is, of course, a German by birth," said Poirot thoughtfully,"though he has practiced so long in this country that nobodythinks of him as anything but an Englishman. He was naturalizedabout fifteen years ago. A very clever man--a Jew, of course.""The blackguard!" I cried indignantly."Not at all. He is, on the contrary, a patriot. Think what hestands to lose. I admire the man myself."But I could not look at it in Poirot's philosophical way."And this is the man with whom Mrs. Cavendish has been wanderingabout all over the country!" I cried indignantly."Yes. I should fancy he had found her very useful," remarkedPoirot. "So long as gossip busied itself in coupling their namestogether, any other vagaries of the doctor's passed unobserved.""Then you think he never really cared for her?" I askedeagerly--rather too eagerly, perhaps, under the circumstances."That, of course, I cannot say, but--shall I tell you my ownprivate opinion, Hastings?""Yes.""Well, it is this: that Mrs. Cavendish does not care, and neverhas cared one little jot about Dr. Bauerstein!""Do you really think so?" I could not disguise my pleasure."I am quite sure of it. And I will tell you why.""Yes?""Because she cares for some one else, mon ami.""Oh!" What did he mean? In spite of myself, an agreeable warmthspread over me. I am not a vain man where women are concerned,but I remembered certain evidences, too lightly thought of at thetime, perhaps, but which certainly seemed to indicate----My pleasing thoughts were interrupted by the sudden entrance ofMiss Howard. She glanced round hastily to make sure there was noone else in the room, and quickly produced an old sheet of brownpaper. This she handed to Poirot, murmuring as she did so thecryptic words:"On top of the wardrobe." Then she hurriedly left the room.Poirot unfolded the sheet of paper eagerly, and uttered anexclamation of satisfaction. He spread it out on the table."Come here, Hastings. Now tell me, what is that initial--J. orL.?"It was a medium sized sheet of paper, rather dusty, as though ithad lain by for some time. But it was the label that wasattracting Poirot's attention. At the top, it bore the printedstamp of Messrs. Parkson's, the well-known theatricalcostumiers, and it was addressed to "--(the debatable initial)Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court, Styles St. Mary, Essex.""It might be T., or it might be L.," I said, after studying thething for a minute or two. "It certainly isn't a J.""Good," replied Poirot, folding up the paper again. "I, also, amof your way of thinking. It is an L., depend upon it!""Where did it come from?" I asked curiously. "Is it important?""Moderately so. It confirms a surmise of mine. Having deducedits existence, I set Miss Howard to search for it, and, as yousee, she has been successful.""What did she mean by 'On the top of the wardrobe'?""She meant," replied Poirot promptly, "that she found it on topof a wardrobe.""A funny place for a piece of brown paper," I mused."Not at all. The top of a wardrobe is an excellent place forbrown paper and cardboard boxes. I have kept them there myself.Neatly arranged, there is nothing to offend the eye.""Poirot," I asked earnestly, "have you made up your mind aboutthis crime?""Yes--that is to say, I believe I know how it was committed.""Ah!""Unfortunately, I have no proof beyond my surmise, unless----"With sudden energy, he caught me by the arm, and whirled me downthe hall, calling out in French in his excitement: "MademoiselleDorcas, Mademoiselle Dorcas, un moment, s'il vous plait!"Dorcas, quite flurried by the noise, came hurrying out of thepantry."My good Dorcas, I have an idea--a little idea--if it shouldprove justified, what magnificent chance! Tell me, on Monday, notTuesday, Dorcas, but Monday, the day before the tragedy, didanything go wrong with Mrs. Inglethorp's bell?"Dorcas looked very surprised."Yes, sir, now you mention it, it did; though I don't know howyou came to hear of it. A mouse, or some such, must have nibbledthe wire through. The man came and put it right on Tuesdaymorning."With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot led the way backto the morning-room."See you, one should not ask for outside proof--no, reason shouldbe enough. But the flesh is weak, it is consolation to find thatone is on the right track. Ah, my friend, I am like a giantrefreshed. I run! I leap!"And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly downthe stretch of lawn outside the long window."What is your remarkable little friend doing?" asked a voicebehind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. Shesmiled, and so did I. "What is it all about?""Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about abell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he iscapering about as you see!"Mary laughed."How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he comingback to-day?""I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll donext.""Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?""I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as ahatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there ismethod in his madness.""I see."In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning.She seemed grave, almost sad.It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackleher on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, Ithought, but I had not gone far before she stopped meauthoritatively."You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt, Mr. Hastings,but in this case your talents are quite thrown away. Cynthiawill run no risk of encountering any unkindness from me."I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn't thought-- Butagain she stopped me, and her words were so unexpected that theyquite drove Cynthia, and her troubles, out of my mind."Mr. Hastings," she said, "do you think I and my husband arehappy together?"I was considerably taken aback, and murmured something about it'snot being my business to think anything of the sort."Well," she said quietly, "whether it is your business or not, Iwill tell you that we are not happy."I said nothing, for I saw that she had not finished.She began slowly, walking up and down the room, her head a littlebent, and that slim, supple figure of hers swaying gently as shewalked. She stopped suddenly, and looked up at me."You don't know anything about me, do you?" she asked. "Where Icome from, who I was before I married John-- anything, in fact?Well, I will tell you. I will make a father confessor of you.You are kind, I think--yes, I am sure you are kind."Somehow, I was not quite as elated as I might have been. Iremembered that Cynthia had begun her confidences in much thesame way. Besides, a father confessor should be elderly, it isnot at all the role for a young man."My father was English," said Mrs. Cavendish, "but my mother wasa Russian.""Ah," I said, "now I understand--""Understand what?""A hint of something foreign--different--that there has alwaysbeen about you.""My mother was very beautiful, I believe. I don't know, becauseI never saw her. She died when I was quite a little child. Ibelieve there was some tragedy connected with her death--she tookan overdose of some sleeping draught by mistake. However thatmay be, my father was broken-hearted. Shortly afterwards, hewent into the Consular Service. Everywhere he went, I went withhim. When I was twenty-three, I had been nearly all over theworld. It was a splendid life--I loved it."There was a smile on her face, and her head was thrown back. Sheseemed living in the memory of those old glad days."Then my father died. He left me very badly off. I had to goand live with some old aunts in Yorkshire." She shuddered. "Youwill understand me when I say that it was a deadly life for agirl brought up as I had been. The narrowness, the deadlymonotony of it, almost drove me mad." She paused a minute, andadded in a different tone: "And then I met John Cavendish.""Yes?""You can imagine that, from my aunts' point of view, it was avery good match for me. But I can honestly say it was not thisfact which weighed with me. No, he was simply a way of escapefrom the insufferable monotony of my life."I said nothing, and after a moment, she went on:"Don't misunderstand me. I was quite honest with him. I toldhim, what was true, that I liked him very much, that I hoped tocome to like him more, but that I was not in any way what theworld calls 'in love' with him. He declared that that satisfiedhim, and so--we were married."She waited a long time, a little frown had gathered on herforehead. She seemed to be looking back earnestly into thosepast days."I think--I am sure--he cared for me at first. But I suppose wewere not well matched. Almost at once, we drifted apart. He--itis not a pleasing thing for my pride, but it is the truth--tiredof me very soon." I must have made some murmur of dissent, forshe went on quickly: "Oh, yes, he did! Not that it mattersnow--now that we've come to the parting of the ways.""What do you mean?"She answered quietly:"I mean that I am not going to remain at Styles.""You and John are not going to live here?""John may live here, but I shall not.""You are going to leave him?""Yes.""But why?"She paused a long time, and said at last:"Perhaps--because I want to be--free!"And, as she spoke, I had a sudden vision of broad spaces, virgintracts of forests, untrodden lands--and a realization of whatfreedom would mean to such a nature as Mary Cavendish. I seemedto see her for a moment as she was, a proud wild creature, asuntamed by civilization as some shy bird of the hills. A littlecry broke from her lips:"You don't know, you don't know, how this hateful place has beenprison to me!""I understand," I said, "but--but don't do anything rash.""Oh, rash!" Her voice mocked at my prudence.Then suddenly I said a thing I could have bitten out my tonguefor:"You know that Dr. Bauerstein has been arrested?"An instant coldness passed like a mask over her face, blottingout all expression."John was so kind as to break that to me this morning.""Well, what do you think?" I asked feebly."Of what?""Of the arrest?""What should I think? Apparently he is a German spy; so thegardener had told John."Her face and voice were absolutely cold and expressionless. Didshe care, or did she not?She moved away a step or two, and fingered one of the flowervases."These are quite dead. I must do them again. Would you mindmoving--thank you, Mr. Hastings." And she walked quietly past meout of the window, with a cool little nod of dismissal.No, surely she could not care for Bauerstein. No woman could acther part with that icy unconcern.Poirot did not make his appearance the following morning, andthere was no sign of the Scotland Yard men.But, at lunch-time, there arrived a new piece of evidence-- orrather lack of evidence. We had vainly tried to trace the fourthletter, which Mrs. Inglethorp had written on the eveningpreceding her death. Our efforts having been in vain, we hadabandoned the matter, hoping that it might turn up of itself oneday. And this is just what did happen, in the shape of acommunication, which arrived by the second post from a firm ofFrench music publishers, acknowledging Mrs. Inglethorp's cheque,and regretting they had been unable to trace a certain series ofRussian folksongs. So the last hope of solving the mystery, bymeans of Mrs. Inglethorp's correspondence on the fatal evening,had to be abandoned.Just before tea, I strolled down to tell Poirot of the newdisappointment, but found, to my annoyance, that he was once moreout."Gone to London again?""Oh, no, monsieur, he has but taken the train to Tadminster. 'Tosee a young lady's dispensary,' he said.""Silly ass!" I ejaculated. "I told him Wednesday was the one dayshe wasn't there! Well, tell him to look us up to-morrow morning,will you?""Certainly, monsieur."But, on the following day, no sign of Poirot. I was gettingangry. He was really treating us in the most cavalier fashion.After lunch, Lawrence drew me aside, and asked if I was goingdown to see him."No, I don't think I shall. He can come up here if he wants tosee us.""Oh!" Lawrence looked indeterminate. Something unusually nervousand excited in his manner roused my curiosity."What is it?" I asked. "I could go if there's anything special.""It's nothing much, but--well, if you are going, will you tellhim--" he dropped his voice to a whisper--"I think I've found theextra coffee-cup!"I had almost forgotten that enigmatical message of Poirot's, butnow my curiosity was aroused afresh.Lawrence would say no more, so I decided that I would descendfrom my high horse, and once more seek out Poirot at LeastwaysCottage.This time I was received with a smile. Monsieur Poirot waswithin. Would I mount? I mounted accordingly.Poirot was sitting by the table, his head buried in his hands.He sprang up at my entrance."What is it?" I asked solicitously. "You are not ill, I trust?""No, no, not ill. But I decide an affair of great moment.""Whether to catch the criminal or not?" I asked facetiously.But, to my great surprise, Poirot nodded gravely." 'To speak or not to speak,' as your so great Shakespeare says,'that is the question.' "I did not trouble to correct the quotation."You are not serious, Poirot?""I am of the most serious. For the most serious of all thingshangs in the balance.""And that is?""A woman's happiness, mon ami," he said gravely.I did not quite know what to say."The moment has come," said Poirot thoughtfully, "and I do notknow what to do. For, see you, it is a big stake for which Iplay. No one but I, Hercule Poirot, would attempt it!" And hetapped himself proudly on the breast.After pausing a few minutes respectfully, so as not to spoil hiseffect, I gave him Lawrence's message."Aha!" he cried. "So he has found the extra coffee-cup. That isgood. He has more intelligence than would appear, thislong-faced Monsieur Lawrence of yours!"I did not myself think very highly of Lawrence's intelligence;but I forebore to contradict Poirot, and gently took him to taskfor forgetting my instructions as to which were Cynthia's daysoff."It is true. I have the head of a sieve. However, the otheryoung lady was most kind. She was sorry for my disappointment,and showed me everything in the kindest way.""Oh, well, that's all right, then, and you must go to tea withCynthia another day."I told him about the letter."I am sorry for that," he said. "I always had hopes of thatletter. But no, it was not to be. This affair must all beunravelled from within." He tapped his forehead. "These littlegrey cells. It is 'up to them'--as you say over here." Then,suddenly, he asked: "Are you a judge of finger-marks, my friend?""No," I said, rather surprised, "I know that there are no twofinger-marks alike, but that's as far as my science goes.""Exactly."He unlocked a little drawer, and took out some photographs whichhe laid on the table."I have numbered them, 1, 2, 3. Will you describe them to me?"I studied the proofs attentively."All greatly magnified, I see. No. 1, I should say, are a man'sfinger-prints; thumb and first finger. No. 2 are a lady's; theyare much smaller, and quite different in every way. No. 3"--Ipaused for some time--"there seem to be a lot of confusedfinger-marks, but here, very distinctly, are No. 1's.""Overlapping the others?""Yes.""You recognize them beyond fail?""Oh, yes; they are identical."Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs from me lockedthem up again."I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not going toexplain?""On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of MonsieurLawrence. No. 2 were those of Mademoiselle Cynthia. They arenot important. I merely obtained them for comparison. No. 3 isa little more complicated.""Yes?""It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may have noticed asort of blur extending all across the picture. I will notdescribe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc.,which I used. It is a well-known process to the police, and bymeans of it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints ofany object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, youhave seen the finger-marks--it remains to tell you the particularobject on which they had been left.""Go on--I am really excited.""Eh bien! Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface ofa tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in theRed Cross Hospital at Tadminster--which sounds like the housethat Jack built!""Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish'sfinger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboardthe day we were there!""Oh, yes, he did!""Impossible! We were all together the whole time."Poirot shook his head."No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not alltogether. There was a moment when you could not have been alltogether, or it would not have been necessary to call to MonsieurLawrence to come and join you on the balcony.""I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for amoment.""Long enough.""Long enough for what?"Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical."Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine togratify a very natural interest and curiosity."Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up andhummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously."Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?"Poirot looked out of the window."Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder,continuing to hum."Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. Ihad expected that answer."They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little--only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq.Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That iswhy the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then.""How did you manage to take this photograph?""I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply."Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite ofmy many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to godown and fetch it for me.""Then you knew what you were going to find?""No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, fromyour story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard.The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated.""Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is avery important discovery.""I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. Nodoubt it has struck you too.""What is that?""Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about thiscase. This is the third time we run up against it. There wasstrychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychninesold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we havemore strychnine, handled by one of the household. It isconfusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion."Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the doorand stuck his head in."There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings.""A lady?"I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. MaryCavendish was standing in the doorway."I have been visiting an old woman in the village," sheexplained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur PoirotI thought I would call for you.""Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour mewith a visit!""I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling."That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame"--she started ever so slightly--"remember, Papa Poirot is alwaysat your service."She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to readsome deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptlyaway."Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?""Enchanted, madame."All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. Itstruck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes.The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal inits shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her blacksports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournfulnoise, like some great giant sighing.We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once theknowledge came to us that something was wrong.Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringingher hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in thebackground, all eyes and ears."Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you--""What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once.""It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him--they'vearrested Mr. Cavendish!""Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped.I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes."No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence--Mr. John."Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily againstme, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph inPoirot's eyes.