CHAPTER V. "IT ISN'T STRYCHNINE, IS IT?"
"Where did you find this?" I asked Poirot, in lively curiosity.
"In the waste-paper basket. You recognise the handwriting?"
"Yes, it is Mrs. Inglethorp's. But what does it mean?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"I cannot say--but it is suggestive."
A wild idea flashed across me. Was it possible that Mrs. Inglethorp'smind was deranged? Had she some fantastic idea of demoniacal possession?And, if that were so, was it not also possible that she might have takenher own life?
I was about to expound these theories to Poirot, when his own wordsdistracted me.
"Come," he said, "now to examine the coffee-cups!"
"My dear Poirot! What on earth is the good of that, now that we knowabout the cocoa?"
"Oh, _là là!_ That miserable cocoa!" cried Poirot flippantly.
He laughed with apparent enjoyment, raising his arms to heaven in mockdespair, in what I could not but consider the worst possible taste.
"And, anyway," I said, with increasing coldness, "as Mrs. Inglethorptook her coffee upstairs with her, I do not see what you expect tofind, unless you consider it likely that we shall discover a packet ofstrychnine on the coffee tray!"
Poirot was sobered at once.
"Come, come, my friend," he said, slipping his arms through mine. "_Nevous fâchez pas!_ Allow me to interest myself in my coffee-cups, and Iwill respect your cocoa. There! Is it a bargain?"
He was so quaintly humorous that I was forced to laugh; and we wenttogether to the drawing-room, where the coffee-cups and tray remainedundisturbed as we had left them.
Poirot made me recapitulate the scene of the night before, listeningvery carefully, and verifying the position of the various cups.
"So Mrs. Cavendish stood by the tray--and poured out. Yes. Then she cameacross to the window where you sat with Mademoiselle Cynthia. Yes. Hereare the three cups. And the cup on the mantel-piece, half drunk, thatwould be Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's. And the one on the tray?"
"John Cavendish's. I saw him put it down there."
"Good. One, two, three, four, five--but where, then, is the cup of Mr.Inglethorp?"
"He does not take coffee."
"Then all are accounted for. One moment, my friend."
With infinite care, he took a drop or two from the grounds in each cup,sealing them up in separate test tubes, tasting each in turn as he didso. His physiognomy underwent a curious change. An expression gatheredthere that I can only describe as half puzzled, and half relieved.
"_Bien!_" he said at last. "It is evident! I had an idea--but clearly Iwas mistaken. Yes, altogether I was mistaken. Yet it is strange. But nomatter!"
And, with a characteristic shrug, he dismissed whatever it was that wasworrying him from his mind. I could have told him from the beginningthat this obsession of his over the coffee was bound to end in a blindalley, but I restrained my tongue. After all, though he was old, Poirothad been a great man in his day.
"Breakfast is ready," said John Cavendish, coming in from the hall. "Youwill breakfast with us, Monsieur Poirot?"
Poirot acquiesced. I observed John. Already he was almost restored tohis normal self. The shock of the events of the last night had upset himtemporarily, but his equable poise soon swung back to the normal. He wasa man of very little imagination, in sharp contrast with his brother,who had, perhaps, too much.
Ever since the early hours of the morning, John had been hard at work,sending telegrams--one of the first had gone to Evelyn Howard--writingnotices for the papers, and generally occupying himself with themelancholy duties that a death entails.
"May I ask how things are proceeding?" he said. "Do your investigationspoint to my mother having died a natural death--or--or must we prepareourselves for the worst?"
"I think, Mr. Cavendish," said Poirot gravely, "that you would do wellnot to buoy yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell me the viewsof the other members of the family?"
"My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss overnothing. He says that everything points to its being a simple case ofheart failure."
"He does, does he? That is very interesting--very interesting," murmuredPoirot softly. "And Mrs. Cavendish?"
A faint cloud passed over John's face.
"I have not the least idea what my wife's views on the subject are."
The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train. John broke therather awkward silence by saying with a slight effort:
"I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has returned?"
Poirot bent his head.
"It's an awkward position for all of us. Of course one has to treat himas usual--but, hang it all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eatwith a possible murderer!"
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
"I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for you, Mr.Cavendish. I would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reasonfor not returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten thelatch-key. Is not that so?"
"Yes."
"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten--thathe did not take it after all?"
"I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in thehall drawer. I'll go and see if it's there now."
Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile.
"No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I am certain that you wouldfind it. If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to replaceit by now."
"But do you think----"
"I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before hisreturn, and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in hisfavour. That is all."
John looked perplexed.
"Do not worry," said Poirot smoothly. "I assure you that you need notlet it trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us go and have somebreakfast."
Every one was assembled in the dining-room. Under the circumstances,we were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock isalways trying, and I think we were all suffering from it. Decorum andgood breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should be much asusual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really amatter of great difficulty. There were no red eyes, no signs of secretlyindulged grief. I felt that I was right in my opinion that Dorcas wasthe person most affected by the personal side of the tragedy.
I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in amanner that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know thatwe suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not be unaware of thefact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring of fear,or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely thesuspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a markedman.
But did every one suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I watched heras she sat at the head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. Inher soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over herslender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she chose, however, herface could be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent,hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the greatstrength of her personality was dominating us all.
And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, Ithought. The heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. Iasked her if she were feeling ill, and she answered frankly:
"Yes, I've got the most beastly headache."
"Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?" said Poirot solicitously."It will revive you. It is unparalleled for the _mal de tête_." Hejumped up and took her cup.
"No sugar," said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the sugar-tongs.
"No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, eh?"
"No, I never take it in coffee."
"_Sacré!_" murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back thereplenished cup.
Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I
saw thathis face was working with suppressed excitement, and his eyes were asgreen as a cat's. He had heard or seen something that had affected himstrongly--but what was it? I do not usually label myself as dense, butI must confess that nothing out of the ordinary had attracted _my_attention.
In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared.
"Mr. Wells to see you, sir," she said to John.
I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer to whom Mrs.Inglethorp had written the night before.
John rose immediately.
"Show him into my study." Then he turned to us. "My mother's lawyer,"he explained. And in a lower voice: "He is also Coroner--you understand.Perhaps you would like to come with me?"
We acquiesced and followed him out of the room. John strode on ahead andI took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot:
"There will be an inquest then?"
Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so thatmy curiosity was aroused.
"What is it? You are not attending to what I say."
"It is true, my friend. I am much worried."
"Why?"
"Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee."
"What? You cannot be serious?"
"But I am most serious. Ah, there is something there that I do notunderstand. My instinct was right."
"What instinct?"
"The instinct that led me to insist on examining those coffee-cups._Chut_! no more now!"
We followed John into his study, and he closed the door behind us.
Mr. Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with keen eyes, and thetypical lawyer's mouth. John introduced us both, and explained thereason of our presence.
"You will understand, Wells," he added, "that this is all strictlyprivate. We are still hoping that there will turn out to be no need forinvestigation of any kind."
"Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Wells soothingly. "I wish we could havespared you the pain and publicity of an inquest, but of course it'squite unavoidable in the absence of a doctor's certificate."
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe."
"Indeed," said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Then headded rather hesitatingly: "Shall we have to appear as witnesses--all ofus, I mean?"
"You, of course--and ah--er--Mr.--er--Inglethorp."
A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner:
"Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form."
"I see."
A faint expression of relief swept over John's face. It puzzled me, forI saw no occasion for it.
"If you know of nothing to the contrary," pursued Mr. Wells, "I hadthought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor'sreport. The post-mortem is to take place to-night, I believe?"
"Yes."
"Then that arrangement will suit you?"
"Perfectly."
"I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at thismost tragic affair."
"Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?" interposed Poirot,speaking for the first time since we had entered the room.
"I?"
"Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You shouldhave received the letter this morning."
"I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me tocall upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of greatimportance."
"She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?"
"Unfortunately, no."
"That is a pity," said John.
"A great pity," agreed Poirot gravely.
There was silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes.Finally he turned to the lawyer again.
"Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you--that is, if itis not against professional etiquette. In the event of Mrs. Inglethorp'sdeath, who would inherit her money?"
The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied:
"The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr. Cavendishdoes not object----"
"Not at all," interpolated John.
"I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. By herlast will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legaciesto servants, etc., she gave her entire fortune to her stepson, Mr. JohnCavendish."
"Was not that--pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish--rather unfair to herother stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?"
"No, I do not think so. You see, under the terms of their father's will,while John inherited the property, Lawrence, at his stepmother's death,would come into a considerable sum of money. Mrs. Inglethorp lefther money to her elder stepson, knowing that he would have to keep upStyles. It was, to my mind, a very fair and equitable distribution."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
"I see. But I am right in saying, am I not, that by your English lawthat will was automatically revoked when Mrs. Inglethorp remarried?"
Mr. Wells bowed his head.
"As I was about to proceed, Monsieur Poirot, that document is now nulland void."
"_Hein!_" said Poirot. He reflected for a moment, and then asked: "WasMrs. Inglethorp herself aware of that fact?"
"I do not know. She may have been."
"She was," said John unexpectedly. "We were discussing the matter ofwills being revoked by marriage only yesterday."
"Ah! One more question, Mr. Wells. You say 'her last will.' Had Mrs.Inglethorp, then, made several former wills?"
"On an average, she made a new will at least once a year," said Mr.Wells imperturbably. "She was given to changing her mind as to hertestamentary dispositions, now benefiting one, now another member of herfamily."
"Suppose," suggested Poirot, "that, unknown to you, she had made anew will in favour of someone who was not, in any sense of the word, amember of the family--we will say Miss Howard, for instance--would yoube surprised?"
"Not in the least."
"Ah!" Poirot seemed to have exhausted his questions.
I drew close to him, while John and the lawyer were debating thequestion of going through Mrs. Inglethorp's papers.
"Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp made a will leaving all her money to MissHoward?" I asked in a low voice, with some curiosity.
Poirot smiled.
"No."
"Then why did you ask?"
"Hush!"
John Cavendish had turned to Poirot.
"Will you come with us, Monsieur Poirot? We are going through mymother's papers. Mr. Inglethorp is quite willing to leave it entirely toMr. Wells and myself."
"Which simplifies matters very much," murmured the lawyer. "Astechnically, of course, he was entitled----" He did not finish thesentence.
"We will look through the desk in the boudoir first," explained John,"and go up to her bedroom afterwards. She kept her most important papersin a purple despatch-case, which we must look through carefully."
"Yes," said the lawyer, "it is quite possible that there may be a laterwill than the one in my possession."
"There _is_ a later will." It was Poirot who spoke.
"What?" John and the lawyer looked at him startled.
"Or, rather," pursued my friend imperturbably, "there _was_ one."
"What do you mean--there was one? Where is it now?"
"Burnt!"
"Burnt?"
"Yes. See here." He took out the charred fragment we had found in thegrate in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, and handed it to the lawyer with abrief explanation of when and where he had found it.
"But possibly this is an old will?"
"I do not think so. In fact I am almost certain that it was made noearlier than yesterday afternoon."
"What?" "Impossible!" broke simultaneously from both men.
Poirot turned to John.
"If you will allow me to send for your gardener, I will prove it toyou."
"Oh, of course--but I don't see--
--"
Poirot raised his hand.
"Do as I ask you. Afterwards you shall question as much as you please."
"Very well." He rang the bell.
Dorcas answered it in due course.
"Dorcas, will you tell Manning to come round and speak to me here."
"Yes, sir."
Dorcas withdrew.
We waited in a tense silence. Poirot alone seemed perfectly at his ease,and dusted a forgotten corner of the bookcase.
The clumping of hobnailed boots on the gravel outside proclaimed theapproach of Manning. John looked questioningly at Poirot. The latternodded.
"Come inside, Manning," said John, "I want to speak to you."
Manning came slowly and hesitatingly through the French window, andstood as near it as he could. He held his cap in his hands, twisting itvery carefully round and round. His back was much bent, though hewas probably not as old as he looked, but his eyes were sharp andintelligent, and belied his slow and rather cautious speech.
"Manning," said John, "this gentleman will put some questions to youwhich I want you to answer."
"Yes sir," mumbled Manning.
Poirot stepped forward briskly. Manning's eye swept over him with afaint contempt.
"You were planting a bed of begonias round by the south side of thehouse yesterday afternoon, were you not, Manning?"
"Yes, sir, me and Willum."
"And Mrs. Inglethorp came to the window and called you, did she not?"
"Yes, sir, she did."
"Tell me in your own words exactly what happened after that."
"Well, sir, nothing much. She just told Willum to go on his bicycle downto the village, and bring back a form of will, or such-like--I don'tknow what exactly--she wrote it down for him."
"Well?"
"Well, he did, sir."
"And what happened next?"
"We went on with the begonias, sir."
"Did not Mrs. Inglethorp call you again?"
"Yes, sir, both me and Willum, she called."
"And then?"
"She made us come right in, and sign our names at the bottom of a longpaper--under where she'd signed."
"Did you see anything of what was written above her signature?" askedPoirot sharply.
"No, sir, there was a bit of blotting paper over that part."
"And you signed where she told you?"
"Yes, sir, first me and then Willum."
"What did she do with it afterwards?"
"Well, sir, she slipped it into a long envelope, and put it inside asort of purple box that was standing on the desk."
"What time was it when she first called you?"
"About four, I should say, sir."
"Not earlier? Couldn't it have been about half-past three?"
"No, I shouldn't say so, sir. It would be more likely to be a bit afterfour--not before it."
"Thank you, Manning, that will do," said Poirot pleasantly.
The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manning lifteda finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backed cautiously out ofthe window.
We all looked at each other.
"Good heavens!" murmured John. "What an extraordinary coincidence."
"How--a coincidence?"
"That my mother should have made a will on the very day of her death!"
Mr. Wells cleared his throat and remarked drily:
"Are you so sure it is a coincidence, Cavendish?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your mother, you tell me, had a violent quarrel with--someone yesterdayafternoon----"
"What do you mean?" cried John again. There was a tremor in his voice,and he had gone very pale.
"In consequence of that quarrel, your mother very suddenly and hurriedlymakes a new will. The contents of that will we shall never know. Shetold no one of its provisions. This morning, no doubt, she would haveconsulted me on the subject--but she had no chance. The will disappears,and she takes its secret with her to her grave. Cavendish, I much fearthere is no coincidence there. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree withme that the facts are very suggestive."
"Suggestive, or not," interrupted John, "we are most grateful toMonsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we should neverhave known of this will. I suppose, I may not ask you, monsieur, whatfirst led you to suspect the fact?"
Poirot smiled and answered:
"A scribbled over old envelope, and a freshly planted bed of begonias."
John, I think, would have pressed his questions further, but at thatmoment the loud purr of a motor was audible, and we all turned to thewindow as it swept past.
"Evie!" cried John. "Excuse me, Wells." He went hurriedly out into thehall.
Poirot looked inquiringly at me.
"Miss Howard," I explained.
"Ah, I am glad she has come. There is a woman with a head and a hearttoo, Hastings. Though the good God gave her no beauty!"
I followed John's example, and went out into the hall, where Miss Howardwas endeavouring to extricate herself from the voluminous mass of veilsthat enveloped her head. As her eyes fell on me, a sudden pang of guiltshot through me. This was the woman who had warned me so earnestly,and to whose warning I had, alas, paid no heed! How soon, and howcontemptuously, I had dismissed it from my mind. Now that she had beenproved justified in so tragic a manner, I felt ashamed. She had knownAlfred Inglethorp only too well. I wondered whether, if she had remainedat Styles, the tragedy would have taken place, or would the man havefeared her watchful eyes?
I was relieved when she shook me by the hand, with her well rememberedpainful grip. The eyes that met mine were sad, but not reproachful;that she had been crying bitterly, I could tell by the redness of hereyelids, but her manner was unchanged from its old gruffness.
"Started the moment I got the wire. Just come off night duty. Hired car.Quickest way to get here."
"Have you had anything to eat this morning, Evie?" asked John.