The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie (world best books to read .txt) đź“•
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- Author: Agatha Christie
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“Yes, that’s possible,” admitted John. “Still,” he added, “I’m blest if I can see what his motive could have been.”
I trembled.
“Look here,” I said, “I may be altogether wrong. And, remember, all this is in confidence.”
“Oh, of course—that goes without saying.”
We had walked, as we talked, and now we passed through the little gate into the garden. Voices rose near at hand, for tea was spread out under the sycamore-tree, as it had been on the day of my arrival.
Cynthia was back from the hospital, and I placed my chair beside her, and told her of Poirot’s wish to visit the dispensary.
“Of course! I’d love him to see it. He’d better come to tea there one day. I must fix it up with him. He’s such a dear little man! But he is funny. He made me take the brooch out of my tie the other day, and put it in again, because he said it wasn’t straight.”
I laughed.
“It’s quite a mania with him.”
“Yes, isn’t it?”
We were silent for a minute or two, and then, glancing in the direction of Mary Cavendish, and dropping her voice, Cynthia said:
“Mr. Hastings.”
“Yes?”
“After tea, I want to talk to you.”
Her glance at Mary had set me thinking. I fancied that between these two there existed very little sympathy. For the first time, it occurred to me to wonder about the girl’s future. Mrs. Inglethorp had made no provisions of any kind for her, but I imagined that John and Mary would probably insist on her making her home with them—at any rate until the end of the war. John, I knew, was very fond of her, and would be sorry to let her go.
John, who had gone into the house, now reappeared. His good-natured face wore an unaccustomed frown of anger.
“Confound those detectives! I can’t think what they’re after! They’ve been in every room in the house—turning things inside out, and upside down. It really is too bad! I suppose they took advantage of our all being out. I shall go for that fellow Japp, when I next see him!”
“Lot of Paul Prys,” grunted Miss Howard.
Lawrence opined that they had to make a show of doing something.
Mary Cavendish said nothing.
After tea, I invited Cynthia to come for a walk, and we sauntered off into the woods together.
“Well?” I inquired, as soon as we were protected from prying eyes by the leafy screen.
With a sigh, Cynthia flung herself down, and tossed off her hat. The sunlight, piercing through the branches, turned the auburn of her hair to quivering gold.
“Mr. Hastings—you are always so kind, and you know such a lot.”
It struck me at this moment that Cynthia was really a very charming girl! Much more charming than Mary, who never said things of that kind.
“Well?” I asked benignantly, as she hesitated.
“I want to ask your advice. What shall I do?”
“Do?”
“Yes. You see, Aunt Emily always told me I should be provided for. I suppose she forgot, or didn’t think she was likely to die—anyway, I am not provided for! And I don’t know what to do. Do you think I ought to go away from here at once?”
“Good heavens, no! They don’t want to part with you, I’m sure.”
Cynthia hesitated a moment, plucking up the grass with her tiny hands. Then she said: “Mrs. Cavendish does. She hates me.”
“Hates you?” I cried, astonished.
Cynthia nodded.
“Yes. I don’t know why, but she can’t bear me; and he can’t, either.”
“There I know you’re wrong,” I said warmly. “On the contrary, John is very fond of you.”
“Oh, yes—John. I meant Lawrence. Not, of course, that I care whether Lawrence hates me or not. Still, it’s rather horrid when no one loves you, isn’t it?”
“But they do, Cynthia dear,” I said earnestly. “I’m sure you are mistaken. Look, there is John—and Miss Howard——”
Cynthia nodded rather gloomily. “Yes, John likes me, I think, and of course Evie, for all her gruff ways, wouldn’t be unkind to a fly. But Lawrence never speaks to me if he can help it, and Mary can hardly bring herself to be civil to me. She wants Evie to stay on, is begging her to, but she doesn’t want me, and—and—I don’t know what to do.” Suddenly the poor child burst out crying.
I don’t know what possessed me. Her beauty, perhaps, as she sat there, with the sunlight glinting down on her head; perhaps the sense of relief at encountering someone who so obviously could have no connection with the tragedy; perhaps honest pity for her youth and loneliness. Anyway, I leant forward, and taking her little hand, I said awkwardly:
“Marry me, Cynthia.”
Unwittingly, I had hit upon a sovereign remedy for her tears. She sat up at once, drew her hand away, and said, with some asperity:
“Don’t be silly!”
I was a little annoyed.
“I’m not being silly. I am asking you to do me the honour of becoming my wife.”
To my intense surprise, Cynthia burst out laughing, and called me a “funny dear.”
“It’s perfectly sweet of you,” she said, “but you know you don’t want to!”
“Yes, I do. I’ve got——”
“Never mind what you’ve got. You don’t really want to—and I don’t either.”
“Well, of course, that settles it,” I said stiffly. “But I don’t see anything to laugh at. There’s nothing funny about a proposal.”
“No, indeed,” said Cynthia. “Somebody might accept you next time. Good-bye, you’ve cheered me up very much.”
And, with a final uncontrollable burst of merriment, she vanished through the trees.
Thinking over the interview, it struck me as being profoundly unsatisfactory.
It occurred to me suddenly that I would go down to the village, and look up Bauerstein. Somebody ought to be keeping an eye on the fellow. At the same time, it would be wise to allay any suspicions he might have as to his being suspected. I remembered how Poirot had relied on my diplomacy. Accordingly, I went to the little house with the “Apartments” card inserted in the window, where I knew he lodged, and tapped on the door.
An old woman came and opened it.
“Good afternoon,” I said pleasantly. “Is Dr. Bauerstein in?”
She stared at me.
“Haven’t you heard?”
“Heard what?”
“About him.”
“What about him?”
“He’s took.”
“Took? Dead?”
“No, took by the perlice.”
“By the police!” I gasped. “Do you mean they’ve arrested him?”
“Yes, that’s it, and——”
I waited to hear no more, but tore up the village to find Poirot.
THE ARREST
To my extreme annoyance, Poirot was not in, and the old Belgian who answered my knock informed me that he believed he had gone to London.
I was dumbfounded. What on earth could Poirot be doing in London! Was it a sudden decision on his part, or had he already made up his mind when he parted from me a few hours earlier?
I retraced my steps to Styles in some annoyance. With Poirot away, I was uncertain how to act. Had he foreseen this arrest? Had he not, in all probability, been the cause of it? Those questions I could not resolve. But in the meantime what was I to do? Should I announce the arrest openly at Styles, or not? Though I did not acknowledge it to myself, the thought of Mary Cavendish was weighing on me. Would it not be a terrible shock to her? For the moment, I set aside utterly any suspicions of her. She could not be implicated—otherwise I should have heard some hint of it.
Of course, there was no possibility of being able permanently to conceal Dr. Bauerstein’s arrest from her. It would be announced in every newspaper on the morrow. Still, I shrank from blurting it out. If only Poirot had been accessible, I could have asked his advice. What possessed him to go posting off to London in this unaccountable way?
In spite of myself, my opinion of his sagacity was immeasurably heightened. I would never have dreamt of suspecting the doctor, had not Poirot put it into my head. Yes, decidedly, the little man 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 thought fit.
He gave vent to a prodigious whistle, as I imparted the news.
“Great Scott! You were right, then. I couldn’t believe it at the time.”
“No, it is astonishing until you get used to the idea, and see how it makes everything fit in. Now, what are we to do? Of course, 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 next morning, and eagerly opening the newspapers, there was not a word about the arrest! There was a column of mere padding about “The Styles Poisoning Case,” but nothing further. It was rather inexplicable, but I supposed that, for some reason or other, Japp wished to keep it out of the papers. It worried me just a little, for it suggested the possibility that there might be further arrests to come.
After breakfast, I decided to go down to the village, and see if Poirot had returned yet; but, before I could start, a well-known face blocked one of the windows, and the well-known voice said:
“Bonjour, mon ami!”
“Poirot,” I exclaimed, with relief, and seizing him by both hands, I dragged him into the room. “I was never so glad to see anyone. Listen, I have said nothing to anybody but John. Is that right?”
“My friend,” replied Poirot, “I do not know what you are talking about.”
“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 four miles from the coast.”
“The coast?” I asked, puzzled. “What has that got to do with it?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Surely, it is obvious!”
“Not to me. No doubt I am very dense, but I cannot see what the proximity of the coast has got to do with the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp.”
“Nothing at all, of course,” replied Poirot, smiling. “But we were 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 is arrested.”
“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 his full sense of the utter absurdity of such an idea.
“Do you mean to say,” I asked, slowly adapting myself to the new idea, “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 doctor should bury himself in a little village like this, and should be in the habit of walking about at all hours of the night, fully dressed?”
“No,” I confessed, “I never thought of such a thing.”
“He is, of course, a German by birth,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “though he has practised so long in this country that nobody thinks of him as anything but an Englishman. He was naturalized about 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 he stands 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 wandering about all over the country!” I cried indignantly.
“Yes. I should fancy he had found her very useful,” remarked Poirot. “So long as gossip busied itself in coupling their names together, any other vagaries of the doctor’s passed unobserved.”
“Then you think he never really cared for her?” I asked eagerly—rather too eagerly, perhaps, under the circumstances.
“That, of course, I cannot say, but—shall I tell you my own private opinion, Hastings?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it is this: that Mrs. Cavendish does not care, and never has 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 someone else, mon ami.”
“Oh!” What did he mean? In spite of myself, an
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