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

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 règle,” 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 coldblooded 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