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

Dr. Bauerstein, I noticed, was watching the local doctor narrowly. He still kept his eyes fixed on him as he spoke.

“The convulsions were of a peculiar violence, Dr. Wilkins. I am sorry you were not here in time to witness them. They were quite—tetanic in character.”

“Ah!” said Dr. Wilkins wisely.

“I should like to speak to you in private,” said Dr. Bauerstein. He turned to John. “You do not object?”

“Certainly not.”

We all trooped out into the corridor, leaving the two doctors alone, and I heard the key turned in the lock behind us.

We went slowly down the stairs. I was violently excited. I have a certain talent for deduction, and Dr. Bauerstein’s manner had started a flock of wild surmises in my mind. Mary Cavendish laid her hand upon my arm.

“What is it? Why did Dr. Bauerstein seem so—peculiar?”

I looked at her.

“Do you know what I think?”

“What?”

“Listen!” I looked round, the others were out of earshot. I lowered my voice to a whisper. “I believe she has been poisoned! I’m certain Dr. Bauerstein suspects it.”

“What?” She shrank against the wall, the pupils of her eyes dilating wildly. Then, with a sudden cry that startled me, she cried out: “No, no—not that—not that!” And breaking from me, fled up the stairs. I followed her, afraid that she was going to faint. I found her leaning against the bannisters, deadly pale. She waved me away impatiently.

“No, no—leave me. I’d rather be alone. Let me just be quiet for a minute or two. Go down to the others.”

I obeyed her reluctantly. John and Lawrence were in the dining-room. I joined them. We were all silent, but I suppose I voiced the thoughts of us all when I at last broke it by saying:

“Where is Mr. Inglethorp?”

John shook his head.

“He’s not in the house.”

Our eyes met. Where was Alfred Inglethorp? His absence was strange and inexplicable. I remembered Mrs. Inglethorp’s dying words. What lay beneath them? What more could she have told us, if she had had time?

At last we heard the doctors descending the stairs. Dr. Wilkins was looking important and excited, and trying to conceal an inward exultation under a manner of decorous calm. Dr. Bauerstein remained in the background, his grave bearded face unchanged. Dr. Wilkins was the spokesman for the two. He addressed himself to John:

“Mr. Cavendish, I should like your consent to a postmortem.”

“Is that necessary?” asked John gravely. A spasm of pain crossed his face.

“Absolutely,” said Dr. Bauerstein.

“You mean by that–-?”

“That neither Dr. Wilkins nor myself could give a death certificate under the circumstances.”

John bent his head.

“In that case, I have no alternative but to agree.”

“Thank you,” said Dr. Wilkins briskly. “We propose that it should take place to-morrow night—or rather to-night.” And he glanced at the daylight. “Under the circumstances, I am afraid an inquest can hardly be avoided—these formalities are necessary, but I beg that you won’t distress yourselves.”

There was a pause, and then Dr. Bauerstein drew two keys from his pocket, and handed them to John.

“These are the keys of the two rooms. I have locked them and, in my opinion, they would be better kept locked for the present.”

The doctors then departed.

I had been turning over an idea in my head, and I felt that the moment had now come to broach it. Yet I was a little chary of doing so. John, I knew, had a horror of any kind of publicity, and was an easygoing optimist, who preferred never to meet trouble half-way. It might be difficult to convince him of the soundness of my plan. Lawrence, on the other hand, being less conventional, and having more imagination, I felt I might count upon as an ally. There was no doubt that the moment had come for me to take the lead.

“John,” I said, “I am going to ask you something.”

“Well?”

“You remember my speaking of my friend Poirot? The Belgian who is here? He has been a most famous detective.”

“Yes.”

“I want you to let me call him in—to investigate this matter.”

“What—now? Before the postmortem?”

“Yes, time is an advantage if—if—there has been foul play.”

“Rubbish!” cried Lawrence angrily. “In my opinion the whole thing is a mare’s nest of Bauerstein’s! Wilkins hadn’t an idea of such a thing, until Bauerstein put it into his head. But, like all specialists, Bauerstein’s got a bee in his bonnet. Poisons are his hobby, so of course he sees them everywhere.”

I confess that I was surprised by Lawrence’s attitude. He was so seldom vehement about anything.

John hesitated.

“I can’t feel as you do, Lawrence,” he said at last. “I’m inclined to give Hastings a free hand, though I should prefer to wait a bit. We don’t want any unnecessary scandal.”

“No, no,” I cried eagerly, “you need have no fear of that. Poirot is discretion itself.”

“Very well, then, have it your own way. I leave it in your hands. Though, if it is as we suspect, it seems a clear enough case. God forgive me if I am wronging him!”

I looked at my watch. It was six o’clock. I determined to lose no time.

Five minutes’ delay, however, I allowed myself. I spent it in ransacking the library until I discovered a medical book which gave a description of strychnine poisoning.

CHAPTER IV.

The house which the Belgians occupied in the village was quite close to the park gates. One could save time by taking a narrow path through the long grass, which cut off the detours of the winding drive. So I, accordingly, went that way. I had nearly reached the lodge, when my attention was arrested by the running figure of a man approaching me. It was Mr. Inglethorp. Where had he been? How did he intend to explain his absence?

He accosted me eagerly.

“My God! This is terrible! My poor wife! I have only just heard.”

“Where have you been?” I asked.

“Denby kept me late last night. It was one o’clock before we’d finished. Then I found that I’d forgotten the latch-key after all. I didn’t want to arouse the household, so Denby gave me a bed.”

“How did you hear the news?” I asked.

“Wilkins knocked Denby up to tell him. My poor Emily! She was so self-sacrificing—such a noble character. She over-taxed her strength.”

A wave of revulsion swept over me. What a consummate hypocrite the man was!

“I must hurry on,” I said, thankful that he did not ask me whither I was bound.

In a few minutes I was knocking at the door of Leastways Cottage.

Getting no answer, I repeated my summons impatiently. A window above me was cautiously opened, and Poirot himself looked out.

He gave an exclamation of surprise at seeing me. In a few brief words, I explained the tragedy that had occurred, and that I wanted his help.

“Wait, my friend, I will let you in, and you shall recount to me the affair whilst I dress.”

In a few moments he had unbarred the door, and I followed him up to his room. There he installed me in a chair, and I related the whole story, keeping back nothing, and omitting no circumstance, however insignificant, whilst he himself made a careful and deliberate toilet.

I told him of my awakening, of Mrs. Inglethorp’s dying words, of her husband’s absence, of the quarrel the day before, of the scrap of conversation between Mary and her mother-in-law that I had overheard, of the former quarrel between Mrs. Inglethorp and Evelyn Howard, and of the latter’s innuendoes.

I was hardly as clear as I could wish. I repeated myself several times, and occasionally had to go back to some detail that I had forgotten. Poirot smiled kindly on me.

“The mind is confused? Is it not so? Take time, mon ami. You are agitated; you are excited—it is but natural. Presently, when we are calmer, we will arrange the facts, neatly, each in his proper place. We will examine—and reject. Those of importance we will put on one side; those of no importance, pouf!”—he screwed up his cherub-like face, and puffed comically enough—“blow them away!”

“That’s all very well,” I objected, “but how are you going to decide what is important, and what isn’t? That always seems the difficulty to me.”

Poirot shook his head energetically. He was now arranging his moustache with exquisite care.

“Not so. Voyons! One fact leads to another—so we continue. Does the next fit in with that? A merveille! Good! We can proceed. This next little fact—no! Ah, that is curious! There is something missing—a link in the chain that is not there. We examine. We search. And that little curious fact, that possibly paltry little detail that will not tally, we put it here!” He made an extravagant gesture with his hand. “It is significant! It is tremendous!”

“Y—es—”

“Ah!” Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely at me that I quailed before it. “Beware! Peril to the detective who says: ‘It is so small—it does not matter. It will not agree. I will forget it.’ That way lies confusion! Everything matters.”

“I know. You always told me that. That’s why I have gone into all the details of this thing whether they seemed to me relevant or not.”

“And I am pleased with you. You have a good memory, and you have given me the facts faithfully. Of the order in which you present them, I say nothing—truly, it is deplorable! But I make allowances—you are upset. To that I attribute the circumstance that you have omitted one fact of paramount importance.”

“What is that?” I asked.

“You have not told me if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night.”

I stared at him. Surely the war had affected the little man’s brain. He was carefully engaged in brushing his coat before putting it on, and seemed wholly engrossed in the task.

“I don’t remember,” I said. “And, anyway, I don’t see–-”

“You do not see? But it is of the first importance.”

“I can’t see why,” I said, rather nettled. “As far as I can remember, she didn’t eat much. She was obviously upset, and it had taken her appetite away. That was only natural.”

“Yes,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “it was only natural.”

He opened a drawer, and took out a small despatch-case, then turned to me.

“Now I am ready. We will proceed to the chateau, and study matters on the spot. Excuse me, mon ami, you dressed in haste, and your tie is on one side. Permit me.” With a deft gesture, he rearranged it.

“Ca y est! Now, shall we start?”

We hurried up the village, and turned in at the lodge gates. Poirot stopped for a moment, and gazed sorrowfully over the beautiful expanse of park, still glittering with morning dew.

“So beautiful, so beautiful, and yet, the poor family, plunged in sorrow, prostrated with grief.”

He looked at me keenly as he spoke, and I was aware that I reddened under his prolonged gaze.

Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs. Inglethorp’s death so great? I realized that there was an emotional lack in the atmosphere. The dead woman had not the gift of commanding love. Her death was a shock and a distress, but she would not be passionately regretted.

Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded his head gravely.

“No, you are right,” he said, “it is not as though there was a blood tie. She has been kind and generous to these