"Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able tohold up our heads again."
"No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject."
"Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists andstared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there'sworse than that."
"What?"
John lowered his voice:
"Have you ever thought, Hastings--it's a nightmare to me--who did it?I can't help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident.Because--because--who could have done it? Now Inglethorp's out of theway, there's no one else; no one, I mean, except--one of us."
Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes,surely it must be so, unless-----
A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. Thelight increased. Poirot's mysterious doings, his hints--they all fittedin. Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, andwhat a relief for us all.
"No, John," I said, "it isn't one of us. How could it be?"
"I know, but, still, who else is there?"
"Can't you guess?"
"No."
I looked cautiously round, and lowered my voice.
"Dr. Bauerstein!" I whispered.
"Impossible!"
"Not at all."
"But what earthly interest could he have in my mother's death?"
"That I don't see," I confessed, "but I'll tell you this: Poirot thinksso."
"Poirot? Does he? How do you know?"
I told him of Poirot's intense excitement on hearing that Dr. Bauersteinhad been at Styles on the fatal night, and added:
"He said twice: 'That alters everything.' And I've been thinking. Youknow Inglethorp said he had put down the coffee in the hall? Well,it was just then that Bauerstein arrived. Isn't it possible that, asInglethorp brought him through the hall, the doctor dropped somethinginto the coffee in passing?"
"H'm," said John. "It would have been very risky."
"Yes, but it was possible."
"And then, how could he know it was her coffee? No, old fellow, I don'tthink that will wash."
But I had remembered something else.
"You're quite right. That wasn't how it was done. Listen." And I thentold him of the cocoa sample which Poirot had taken to be analysed.
John interrupted just as I had done.
"But, look here, Bauerstein had had it analysed already?"
"Yes, yes, that's the point. I didn't see it either until now. Don't youunderstand? Bauerstein had it analysed--that's just it! If Bauerstein'sthe murderer, nothing could be simpler than for him to substitute someordinary cocoa for his sample, and send that to be tested. And of coursethey would find no strychnine! But no one would dream of suspectingBauerstein, or think of taking another sample--except Poirot," I added,with belated recognition.
"Yes, but what about the bitter taste that cocoa won't disguise?"
"Well, we've only his word for that. And there are other possibilities.He's admittedly one of the world's greatest toxicologists----"
"One of the world's greatest what? Say it again."
"He knows more about poisons than almost anybody," I explained. "Well,my idea is, that perhaps he's found some way of making strychninetasteless. Or it may not have been strychnine at all, but some obscuredrug no one has ever heard of, which produces much the same symptoms."
"H'm, yes, that might be," said John. "But look here, how could he havegot at the cocoa? That wasn't downstairs?"
"No, it wasn't," I admitted reluctantly.
And then, suddenly, a dreadful possibility flashed through my mind. Ihoped and prayed it would not occur to John also. I glanced sideways athim. He was frowning perplexedly, and I drew a deep breath of relief,for the terrible thought that had flashed across my mind was this: thatDr. Bauerstein might have had an accomplice.
Yet surely it could not be! Surely no woman as beautiful as MaryCavendish could be a murderess. Yet beautiful women had been known topoison.
And suddenly I remembered that first conversation at tea on the day ofmy arrival, and the gleam in her eyes as she had said that poison was awoman's weapon. How agitated she had been on that fatal Tuesday evening!Had Mrs. Inglethorp discovered something between her and Bauerstein, andthreatened to tell her husband? Was it to stop that denunciation thatthe crime had been committed?
Then I remembered that enigmatical conversation between Poirot andEvelyn Howard. Was this what they had meant? Was this the monstrouspossibility that Evelyn had tried not to believe?
Yes, it all fitted in.
No wonder Miss Howard had suggested "hushing it up." Now I understoodthat unfinished sentence of hers: "Emily herself----" And in my heartI agreed with her. Would not Mrs. Inglethorp have preferred to gounavenged rather than have such terrible dishonour fall upon the name ofCavendish.
"There's another thing," said John suddenly, and the unexpected soundof his voice ma
de me start guiltily. "Something which makes me doubt ifwhat you say can be true."
"What's that?" I asked, thankful that he had gone away from the subjectof how the poison could have been introduced into the cocoa.
"Why, the fact that Bauerstein demanded a post-mortem. He needn't havedone so. Little Wilkins would have been quite content to let it go atheart disease."
"Yes," I said doubtfully. "But we don't know. Perhaps he thought itsafer in the long run. Someone might have talked afterwards. Then theHome Office might have ordered exhumation. The whole thing would havecome out, then, and he would have been in an awkward position, for noone would have believed that a man of his reputation could have beendeceived into calling it heart disease."
"Yes, that's possible," admitted John. "Still," he added, "I'm blest ifI can see what his motive could have been."
I trembled.
"Look here," I said, "I may be altogether wrong. And, remember, all thisis in confidence."
"Oh, of course--that goes without saying."
We had walked, as we talked, and now we passed through the little gateinto the garden. Voices rose near at hand, for tea was spread out underthe sycamore-tree, as it had been on the day of my arrival.
Cynthia was back from the hospital, and I placed my chair beside her,and told her of Poirot's wish to visit the dispensary.
"Of course! I'd love him to see it. He'd better come to tea there oneday. I must fix it up with him. He's such a dear little man! But he _is_funny. He made me take the brooch out of my tie the other day, and putit in again, because he said it wasn't straight."
I laughed.
"It's quite a mania with him."
"Yes, isn't it?"
We were silent for a minute or two, and then, glancing in the directionof Mary Cavendish, and dropping her voice, Cynthia said:
"Mr. Hastings."
"Yes?"
"After tea, I want to talk to you."
Her glance at Mary had set me thinking. I fancied that between these twothere existed very little sympathy. For the first time, it occurredto me to wonder about the girl's future. Mrs. Inglethorp had made noprovisions of any kind for her, but I imagined that John and Mary wouldprobably insist on her making her home with them--at any rate until theend of the war. John, I knew, was very fond of her, and would be sorryto let her go.
John, who had gone into the house, now reappeared. His good-natured facewore an unaccustomed frown of anger.
"Confound those detectives! I can't think what they're after! They'vebeen in every room in the house--turning things inside out, and upsidedown. It really is too bad! I suppose they took advantage of our allbeing out. I shall go for that fellow Japp, when I next see him!"
"Lot of Paul Prys," grunted Miss Howard.
Lawrence opined that they had to make a show of doing something.
Mary Cavendish said nothing.
After tea, I invited Cynthia to come for a walk, and we sauntered offinto the woods together.
"Well?" I inquired, as soon as we were protected from prying eyes by theleafy screen.
With a sigh, Cynthia flung herself down, and tossed off her hat. Thesunlight, piercing through the branches, turned the auburn of her hairto quivering gold.
"Mr. Hastings--you are always so kind, and you know such a lot."
It struck me at this moment that Cynthia was really a very charminggirl! Much more charming than Mary, who never said things of that kind.
"Well?" I asked benignantly, as she hesitated.
"I want to ask your advice. What shall I do?"
"Do?"
"Yes. You see, Aunt Emily always told me I should be provided for. Isuppose she forgot, or didn't think she was likely to die--anyway, I am_not_ provided for! And I don't know what to do. Do you think I ought togo away from here at once?"
"Good heavens, no! They don't want to part with you, I'm sure."
Cynthia hesitated a moment, plucking up the grass with her tiny hands.Then she said: "Mrs. Cavendish does. She hates me."
"Hates you?" I cried, astonished.
Cynthia nodded.
"Yes. I don't know why, but she can't bear me; and _he_ can't, either."
"There I know you're wrong," I said warmly. "On the contrary, John isvery fond of you."
"Oh, yes--_John_. I meant Lawrence. Not, of course, that I care whetherLawrence hates me or not. Still, it's rather horrid when no one lovesyou, isn't it?"
"But they do, Cynthia dear," I said earnestly. "I'm sure you aremistaken. Look, there is John--and Miss Howard--"
Cynthia nodded rather gloomily. "Yes, John likes me, I think, and ofcourse Evie, for all her gruff ways, wouldn't be unkind to a fly. ButLawrence never speaks to me if he can help it, and Mary can hardly bringherself to be civil to me. She wants Evie to stay on, is begging her to,but she doesn't want me, and--and--I don't know what to do." Suddenlythe poor child burst out crying.
I don't know what possessed me. Her beauty, perhaps, as she sat there,with the sunlight glinting down on her head; perhaps the sense of reliefat encountering someone who so obviously could have no connection withthe tragedy; perhaps honest pity for her youth and loneliness. Anyway, Ileant forward, and taking her little hand, I said awkwardly:
"Marry me, Cynthia."
Unwittingly, I had hit upon a sovereign remedy for her tears. She sat upat once, drew her hand away, and said, with some asperity:
"Don't be silly!"
I was a little annoyed.
"I'm not being silly. I am asking you to do me the honour of becoming mywife."
To my intense surprise, Cynthia burst out laughing, and called me a"funny dear."
"It's perfectly sweet of you," she said, "but you know you don't wantto!"
"Yes, I do. I've got--"
"Never mind what you've got. You don't really want to--and I don'teither."
"Well, of course, that settles it," I said stiffly. "But I don't seeanything to laugh at. There's nothing funny about a proposal."
"No, indeed," said Cynthia. "Somebody might accept you next time.Good-bye, you've cheered me up very much."
And, with a final uncontrollable burst of merriment, she vanishedthrough the trees.
Thinking over the interview, it struck me as being profoundlyunsatisfactory.
It occurred to me suddenly that I would go down to the village, and lookup Bauerstein. Somebody ought to be keeping an eye on the fellow. At thesame time, it would be wise to allay any suspicions he might have as tohis being suspected. I remembered how Poirot had relied on my diplomacy.Accordingly, I went to the little house with the "Apartments" cardinserted in the window, where I knew he lodged, and tapped on the door.
An old woman came and opened it.
"Good afternoon," I said pleasantly. "Is Dr. Bauerstein in?"
She stared at me.
"Haven't you heard?"
"Heard what?"
"About him."
"What about him?"
"He's took."
"Took? Dead?"
"No, took by the perlice."
"By the police!" I gasped. "Do you mean they've arrested him?"
"Yes, that's it, and--"
I waited to hear no more, but tore up the village to find Poirot.