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

Our efforts having been in vain, we had abandoned the matter, hoping that it might turn up of itself one day. And this is just what did happen, in the shape of a communication, which arrived by the second post from a firm of French music publishers, acknowledging Mrs. Inglethorp’s cheque, and regretting they had been unable to trace a certain series of Russian folksongs. So the last hope of solving the mystery, by means of Mrs. Inglethorp’s correspondence on the fatal evening, had to be abandoned.

Just before tea, I strolled down to tell Poirot of the new disappointment, but found, to my annoyance, that he was once more out.

“Gone to London again?”

“Oh, no, monsieur, he has but taken the train to Tadminster. ‘To see a young lady’s dispensary,’ he said.”

“Silly ass!” I ejaculated. “I told him Wednesday was the one day she wasn’t there! Well, tell him to look us up tomorrow morning, will you?”

“Certainly, monsieur.”

But, on the following day, no sign of Poirot. I was getting angry. He was really treating us in the most cavalier fashion.

After lunch, Lawrence drew me aside, and asked if I was going down to see him.

“No, I don’t think I shall. He can come up here if he wants to see us.”

“Oh!” Lawrence looked indeterminate. Something unusually nervous and excited in his manner roused my curiosity.

“What is it?” I asked. “I could go if there’s anything special.”

“It’s nothing much, but⁠—well, if you are going, will you tell him⁠—” he dropped his voice to a whisper⁠—“I think I’ve found the extra coffee-cup!”

I had almost forgotten that enigmatical message of Poirot’s, but now my curiosity was aroused afresh.

Lawrence would say no more, so I decided that I would descend from my high horse, and once more seek out Poirot at Leastways Cottage.

This time I was received with a smile. Monsieur Poirot was within. Would I mount? I mounted accordingly.

Poirot was sitting by the table, his head buried in his hands. He sprang up at my entrance.

“What is it?” I asked solicitously. “You are not ill, I trust?”

“No, no, not ill. But I decide an affair of great moment.”

“Whether to catch the criminal or not?” I asked facetiously.

But, to my great surprise, Poirot nodded gravely.

“ ‘To speak or not to speak,’ as your so great Shakespeare says, ‘that is the question.’ ”

I did not trouble to correct the quotation.

“You are not serious, Poirot?”

“I am of the most serious. For the most serious of all things hangs in the balance.”

“And that is?”

“A woman’s happiness, mon ami,” he said gravely.

I did not quite know what to say.

“The moment has come,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “and I do not know what to do. For, see you, it is a big stake for which I play. No one but I, Hercule Poirot, would attempt it!” And he tapped himself proudly on the breast.

After pausing a few minutes respectfully, so as not to spoil his effect, I gave him Lawrence’s message.

“Aha!” he cried. “So he has found the extra coffee-cup. That is good. He has more intelligence than would appear, this long-faced Monsieur Lawrence of yours!”

I did not myself think very highly of Lawrence’s intelligence; but I forebore to contradict Poirot, and gently took him to task for forgetting my instructions as to which were Cynthia’s days off.

“It is true. I have the head of a sieve. However, the other young lady was most kind. She was sorry for my disappointment, and showed me everything in the kindest way.”

“Oh, well, that’s all right, then, and you must go to tea with Cynthia another day.”

I told him about the letter.

“I am sorry for that,” he said. “I always had hopes of that letter. But no, it was not to be. This affair must all be unravelled from within.” He tapped his forehead. “These little grey cells. It is ‘up to them’⁠—as you say over here.” Then, suddenly, he asked: “Are you a judge of fingermarks, my friend?”

“No,” I said, rather surprised, “I know that there are no two fingermarks alike, but that’s as far as my science goes.”

“Exactly.”

He unlocked a little drawer, and took out some photographs which he laid on the table.

“I have numbered them, one, two, three. Will you describe them to me?”

I studied the proofs attentively.

“All greatly magnified, I see. Number one, I should say, are a man’s fingerprints; thumb and first finger. Number two are a lady’s; they are much smaller, and quite different in every way. Number three”⁠—I paused for some time⁠—“there seem to be a lot of confused fingermarks, but here, very distinctly, are number one’s.”

“Overlapping the others?”

“Yes.”

“You recognize them beyond fail?”

“Oh, yes; they are identical.”

Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs from me locked them up again.

“I suppose,” I said, “that as usual, you are not going to explain?”

“On the contrary. Number one were the fingerprints of Monsieur Lawrence. Number two were those of Mademoiselle Cynthia. They are not important. I merely obtained them for comparison. Number three is a little more complicated.”

“Yes?”

“It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may have noticed a sort of blur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is a well-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain a photograph of the fingerprints of any object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, you have seen the fingermarks⁠—it remains to tell you the particular object on which they had been left.”

“Go on⁠—I am really excited.”

“Eh bien! Photo number three represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster⁠—which sounds like the house that Jack built!”

“Good heavens!” I exclaimed. “But what were Lawrence Cavendish’s fingermarks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!”

“Oh, yes, he did!”

“Impossible! We were all together the whole time.”

Poirot shook his head.

“No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not