The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie (red white and royal blue hardcover txt) 📕

there’s one in this house that none of us could ever abide! And an ill day it was when first he darkened the threshold.”

Poirot waited for her indignation to subside, and then, resuming his businesslike tone, he asked:

“Now, as to this quarrel? What is the first you heard of it?”

“Well, sir, I happened to be going along the hall outside yesterday⁠—”

“What time was that?”

“I couldn’t say exactly, sir, but it wasn’t teatime by a long way. Perhaps four o’clock⁠—or it may have been a bit later. Well, sir, as I said, I happened to be passing along, when I heard voices very loud and angry in here. I didn’t exactly mean to listen, but⁠—well, there it is. I stopped. The door was shut, but the mistress was speaking very sharp and clear, and I heard what she said quite plainly. ‘You have lied to me, and deceived me,’ she said. I didn’t hear what Mr. Inglethorp replied. He spoke a good bit lower than she did⁠—but she answered: ‘How dare you? I have kept you and clothed you and fed you! You owe everything to me! And this is how you repay me! By bringing disgrace upon our name!’ Again I didn’t hear what he said, but she went on: ‘Nothing that you can say will make any difference. I see my duty clearly. My mind is made up. You need not think that any fear of publicity, or scandal between husband and wife will deter me.’ Then I thought I heard them coming out, so I went off quickly.”

“You are sure it was Mr. Inglethorp’s voice you heard?”

“Oh, yes, sir, whose else’s could it be?”

“Well, what happened next?”

“Later, I came back to the hall; but it was all quiet. At five o’clock, Mrs. Inglethorp rang the bell and told me to bring her a cup of tea⁠—nothing to eat⁠—to the boudoir. She was looking dreadful⁠—so white and upset. ‘Dorcas,’ she says, ‘I’ve had a great shock.’ ‘I’m sorry for that, m’m,’ I says. ‘You’ll feel better after a nice hot cup of tea, m’m.’ She had something in her hand. I don’t know if it was a letter, or just a piece of paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring at it, almost as if she couldn’t believe what was written there. She whispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there: ‘These few words⁠—and everything’s changed.’ And then she says to me: ‘Never trust a man, Dorcas, they’re not worth it!’ I hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she’d feel better when she’d drunk it. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she says. ‘Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I’d rather hush it up if I could.’ Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn’t say any more.”

“She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?”

“Well, I don’t know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers.”

“Is that where she usually kept important papers?”

“Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night.”

“When did she lose the key of it?”

“She missed it yesterday at lunchtime, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it.”

“But she had a duplicate key?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled.

“Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?” He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs.

Dorcas’s eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head.

“That’s it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it.”

“Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was today. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?”

Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question.

“No, sir.”

“Are you quite sure?”

“Oh, yes, sir.”

“Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?”

Dorcas reflected.

“Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress.”

“Light or dark green?”

“A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it.”

“Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?”

“No, sir⁠—not that I know of.”

Poirot’s face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked:

“Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?”

“Not last night, sir, I know she didn’t.”

“Why do you know so positively?”

“Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn’t have any more made up.”

“You are quite sure of that?”

“Positive, sir.”

“Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn’t ask you to sign any paper yesterday?”

“To sign a paper? No, sir.”

“When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she’s a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That’s what happens when I’m not here to look after things.”

Poirot lifted his hand.

“Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them.”

“Very well, sir.”

“What time did you go out last evening?”

“About six o’clock, sir.”

“Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you.” He rose and strolled to the window. “I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?”

“Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman’s place should