The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie (my miracle luna book free read .txt) 📕

Poirot grinned.

“I know you did.”

“But John! My old friend John!”

“Every murderer is probably somebody’s old friend,” observed Poirot philosophically. “You cannot mix up sentiment and reason.”

“I must say I think you might have given me a hint.”

“Perhaps, mon ami, I did not do so, just because he was your old friend.”

I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot’s views concerning Bauerstein. He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him. Nevertheless, although he had been too clever for them this time, and the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings were pretty well clipped for the future.

I asked Poirot whether he thought John would be condemned. To my intense surprise, he replied that, on the contrary, he was extremely likely to be acquitted.

“But, Poirot—” I protested.

“Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along that I have no proofs. It is one thing to know that a man is guilty, it is quite another matter to prove him so. And, in this case, there is terribly little evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, Hercule Poirot, know, but I lack the last link in my chain. And unless I can find that missing link—” He shook his head gravely.

“When did you first suspect John Cavendish?” I asked, after a minute or two.

“Did you not suspect him at all?”

“No, indeed.”

“Not after that fragment of conversation you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law, and her subsequent lack of frankness at the inquest?”

“No.”

“Did you not put two and two together, and reflect that if it was not Alfred Inglethorp who was quarrelling with his wife—and you remember, he strenuously denied it at the inquest—it must be either Lawrence or John. Now, if it was Lawrence, Mary Cavendish’s conduct was just as inexplicable. But if, on the other hand, it was John, the whole thing was explained quite naturally.”

“So,” I cried, a light breaking in upon me, “it was John who quarrelled with his mother that afternoon?”

“Exactly.”

“And you have known this all along?”

“Certainly. Mrs. Cavendish’s behaviour could only be explained that way.”

“And yet you say he may be acquitted?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“Certainly I do. At the police court proceedings, we shall hear the case for the prosecution, but in all probability his solicitors will advise him to reserve his defence. That will be sprung upon us at the trial. And—ah, by the way, I have a word of caution to give you, my friend. I must not appear in the case.”

“What?”

“No. Officially, I have nothing to do with it. Until I have found that last link in my chain, I must remain behind the scenes. Mrs. Cavendish must think I am working for her husband, not against him.”

“I say, that’s playing it a bit low down,” I protested.

“Not at all. We have to deal with a most clever and unscrupulous man, and we must use any means in our power—otherwise he will slip through our fingers. That is why I have been careful to remain in the background. All the discoveries have been made by Japp, and Japp will take all the credit. If I am called upon to give evidence at all”—he smiled broadly—“it will probably be as a witness for the defence.”

I could hardly believe my ears.

“It is quite en regle,” continued Poirot. “Strangely enough, I can give evidence that will demolish one contention of the prosecution.”

“Which one?”

“The one that relates to the destruction of the will. John Cavendish did not destroy that will.”

Poirot was a true prophet. I will not go into the details of the police court proceedings, as it involves many tiresome repetitions. I will merely state baldly that John Cavendish reserved his defence, and was duly committed for trial.

September found us all in London. Mary took a house in Kensington, Poirot being included in the family party.

I myself had been given a job at the War Office, so was able to see them continually.

As the weeks went by, the state of Poirot’s nerves grew worse and worse. That “last link” he talked about was still lacking. Privately, I hoped it might remain so, for what happiness could there be for Mary, if John were not acquitted?

On September 15th John Cavendish appeared in the dock at the Old Bailey, charged with “The Wilful Murder of Emily Agnes Inglethorp,” and pleaded “Not Guilty.”

Sir Ernest Heavywether, the famous K. C., had been engaged to defend him.

Mr. Philips, K. C., opened the case for the Crown.

The murder, he said, was a most premeditated and cold-blooded one. It was neither more nor less than the deliberate poisoning of a fond and trusting woman by the stepson to whom she had been more than a mother. Ever since his boyhood, she had supported him. He and his wife had lived at Styles Court in every luxury, surrounded by her care and attention. She had been their kind and generous benefactress.

He proposed to call witnesses to show how the prisoner, a profligate and spendthrift, had been at the end of his financial tether, and had also been carrying on an intrigue with a certain Mrs. Raikes, a neighbouring farmer’s wife. This having come to his stepmother’s ears, she taxed him with it on the afternoon before her death, and a quarrel ensued, part of which was overheard. On the previous day, the prisoner had purchased strychnine at the village chemist’s shop, wearing a disguise by means of which he hoped to throw the onus of the crime upon another man—to wit, Mrs. Inglethorp’s husband, of whom he had been bitterly jealous. Luckily for Mr. Inglethorp, he had been able to produce an unimpeachable alibi.

On the afternoon of July 17th, continued Counsel, immediately after the quarrel with her son, Mrs. Inglethorp made a new will. This will was found destroyed in the grate of her bedroom the following morning, but evidence had come to light which showed that it had been drawn up in favour of her husband. Deceased had already made a will in his favour before her marriage, but—and Mr. Philips wagged an expressive forefinger—the prisoner was not aware of that. What had induced the deceased to make a fresh will, with the old one still extant, he could not say. She was an old lady, and might possibly have forgotten the former one; or—this seemed to him more likely—she may have had an idea that it was revoked by her marriage, as there had been some conversation on the subject. Ladies were not always very well versed in legal knowledge. She had, about a year before, executed a will in favour of the prisoner. He would call evidence to show that it was the prisoner who ultimately handed his stepmother her coffee on the fatal night. Later in the evening, he had sought admission to her room, on which occasion, no doubt, he found an opportunity of destroying the will which, as far as he knew, would render the one in his favour valid.

The prisoner had been arrested in consequence of the discovery, in his room, by Detective Inspector Japp—a most brilliant officer—of the identical phial of strychnine which had been sold at the village chemist’s to the supposed Mr. Inglethorp on the day before the murder. It would be for the jury to decide whether or not these damning facts constituted an overwhelming proof of the prisoner’s guilt.

And, subtly implying that a jury which did not so decide, was quite unthinkable, Mr. Philips sat down and wiped his forehead.

The first witnesses for the prosecution were mostly those who had been called at the inquest, the medical evidence being again taken first.

Sir Ernest Heavywether, who was famous all over England for the unscrupulous manner in which he bullied witnesses, only asked two questions.

“I take it, Dr. Bauerstein, that strychnine, as a drug, acts quickly?”

“Yes.”

“And that you are unable to account for the delay in this case?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you.”

Mr. Mace identified the phial handed him by Counsel as that sold by him to “Mr. Inglethorp.” Pressed, he admitted that he only knew Mr. Inglethorp by sight. He had never spoken to him. The witness was not cross-examined.

Alfred Inglethorp was called, and denied having purchased the poison. He also denied having quarrelled with his wife. Various witnesses testified to the accuracy of these statements.

The gardeners’ evidence, as to the witnessing of the will was taken, and then Dorcas was called.

Dorcas, faithful to her “young gentlemen,” denied strenuously that it could have been John’s voice she heard, and resolutely declared, in the teeth of everything, that it was Mr. Inglethorp who had been in the boudoir with her mistress. A rather wistful smile passed across the face of the prisoner in the dock. He knew only too well how useless her gallant defiance was, since it was not the object of the defence to deny this point. Mrs. Cavendish, of course, could not be called upon to give evidence against her husband.

After various questions on other matters, Mr. Philips asked:

“In the month of June last, do you remember a parcel arriving for Mr. Lawrence Cavendish from Parkson’s?”

Dorcas shook her head.

“I don’t remember, sir. It may have done, but Mr. Lawrence was away from home part of June.”

“In the event of a parcel arriving for him whilst he was away, what would be done with it?”

“It would either be put in his room or sent on after him.”

“By you?”

“No, sir, I should leave it on the hall table. It would be Miss Howard who would attend to anything like that.”

Evelyn Howard was called and, after being examined on other points, was questioned as to the parcel.

“Don’t remember. Lots of parcels come. Can’t remember one special one.”

“You do not know if it was sent after Mr. Lawrence Cavendish to Wales, or whether it was put in his room?”

“Don’t think it was sent after him. Should have remembered it if it was.”

“Supposing a parcel arrived addressed to Mr. Lawrence Cavendish, and afterwards it disappeared, should you remark its absence?”

“No, don’t think so. I should think some one had taken charge of it.”

“I believe, Miss Howard, that it was you who found this sheet of brown paper?” He held up the same dusty piece which Poirot and I had examined in the morning-room at Styles.

“Yes, I did.”

“How did you come to look for it?”

“The Belgian detective who was employed on the case asked me to search for it.”

“Where did you eventually discover it?”

“On the top of—of—a wardrobe.”

“On top of the prisoner’s wardrobe?”

“I—I believe so.”

“Did you not find it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must know where you found it?”

“Yes, it was on the prisoner’s wardrobe.”

“That is better.”

An assistant from Parkson’s, Theatrical Costumiers, testified that on June 29th, they had supplied a black beard to Mr. L. Cavendish, as requested. It was ordered by letter, and a postal order was enclosed. No, they had not kept the letter. All transactions were entered in their books. They had sent the beard, as directed, to “L. Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court.”

Sir Ernest Heavywether rose ponderously.

“Where was the letter written from?”

“From Styles Court.”

“The same address to which you sent the parcel?”

“Yes.”

“And the letter came from there?”

“Yes.”

Like a beast of prey, Heavywether fell upon him:

“How do you know?”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“How do you know that letter came from Styles? Did you notice the postmark?”

“No—but—”

“Ah, you did