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

“One thing more. What did Mrs. Inglethorp mean by her dying words?”

“They were, of course, an accusation against her husband.”

“Dear me, Poirot,” I said with a sigh, “I think you have explained everything. I am glad it has all ended so happily. Even John and his wife are reconciled.”

“Thanks to me.”

“How do you mean—thanks to you?”

“My dear friend, do you not realize that it was simply and solely the trial which has brought them together again? That John Cavendish still loved his wife, I was convinced. Also, that she was equally in love with him. But they had drifted very far apart. It all arose from a misunderstanding. She married him without love. He knew it. He is a sensitive man in his way, he would not force himself upon her if she did not want him. And, as he withdrew, her love awoke. But they are both unusually proud, and their pride held them inexorably apart. He drifted into an entanglement with Mrs. Raikes, and she deliberately cultivated the friendship of Dr. Bauerstein. Do you remember the day of John Cavendish’s arrest, when you found me deliberating over a big decision?”

“Yes, I quite understood your distress.”

“Pardon me, mon ami, but you did not understand it in the least. I was trying to decide whether or not I would clear John Cavendish at once. I could have cleared him—though it might have meant a failure to convict the real criminals. They were entirely in the dark as to my real attitude up to the very last moment—which partly accounts for my success.”

“Do you mean that you could have saved John Cavendish from being brought to trial?”

“Yes, my friend. But I eventually decided in favour of ‘a woman’s happiness’. Nothing but the great danger through which they have passed could have brought these two proud souls together again.”

I looked at Poirot in silent amazement. The colossal cheek of the little man! Who on earth but Poirot would have thought of a trial for murder as a restorer of conjugal happiness!

“I perceive your thoughts, mon ami,” said Poirot, smiling at me. “No one but Hercule Poirot would have attempted such a thing! And you are wrong in condemning it. The happiness of one man and one woman is the greatest thing in all the world.”

His words took me back to earlier events. I remembered Mary as she lay white and exhausted on the sofa, listening, listening. There had come the sound of the bell below. She had started up. Poirot had opened the door, and meeting her agonized eyes had nodded gently. “Yes, madame,” he said. “I have brought him back to you.” He had stood aside, and as I went out I had seen the look in Mary’s eyes, as John Cavendish had caught his wife in his arms.

“Perhaps you are right, Poirot,” I said gently. “Yes, it is the greatest thing in the world.”

Suddenly, there was a tap at the door, and Cynthia peeped in.

“I—I only–-”

“Come in,” I said, springing up.

She came in, but did not sit down.

“I—only wanted to tell you something–-”

“Yes?”

Cynthia fidgeted with a little tassel for some moments, then, suddenly exclaiming: “You dears!” kissed first me and then Poirot, and rushed out of the room again.

“What on earth does this mean?” I asked, surprised.

It was very nice to be kissed by Cynthia, but the publicity of the salute rather impaired the pleasure.

“It means that she has discovered Monsieur Lawrence does not dislike her as much as she thought,” replied Poirot philosophically.

“But–-”

“Here he is.”

Lawrence at that moment passed the door.

“Eh! Monsieur Lawrence,” called Poirot. “We must congratulate you, is it not so?”

Lawrence blushed, and then smiled awkwardly. A man in love is a sorry spectacle. Now Cynthia had looked charming.

I sighed.

“What is it, mon ami?”

“Nothing,” I said sadly. “They are two delightful women!”

“And neither of them is for you?” finished Poirot. “Never mind. Console yourself, my friend. We may hunt together again, who knows? And then–-”