"But why?"
She paused a long time, and said at last:
"Perhaps--because I want to be--free!"
And, as she spoke, I had a sudden vision of broad spaces, virgin tractsof forests, untrodden lands--and a realization of what freedom wouldmean to such a nature as Mary Cavendish. I seemed to see her for amoment as she was, a proud wild creature, as untamed by civilization assome shy bird of the hills. A little cry broke from her lips:
"You don't know, you don't know, how this hateful place has been prisonto me!"
"I understand," I said, "but--but don't do anything rash."
"Oh, rash!" Her voice mocked at my prudence.
Then suddenly I said a thing I could have bitten out my tongue for:
"You know that Dr. Bauerstein has been arrested?"
An instant coldness passed like a mask over her face, blotting out allexpression.
"John was so kind as to break that to me this morning."
"Well, what do you think?" I asked feebly.
"Of what?"
"Of the arrest?"
"What should I think? Apparently he is a German spy; so the gardener hadtold John."
Her face and voice were absolutely cold and expressionless. Did shecare, or did she not?
She moved away a step or two, and fingered one of the flower vases.
"These are quite dead. I must do them again. Would you mindmoving--thank you, Mr. Hastings." And she walked quietly past me out ofthe window, with a cool little nod of dismissal.
No, su
rely she could not care for Bauerstein. No woman could act herpart with that icy unconcern.
Poirot did not make his appearance the following morning, and there wasno sign of the Scotland Yard men.
But, at lunch-time, there arrived a new piece of evidence--or ratherlack of evidence. We had vainly tried to trace the fourth letter, whichMrs. Inglethorp had written on the evening preceding her death. Ourefforts having been in vain, we had abandoned the matter, hoping thatit 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 afirm of French music publishers, acknowledging Mrs. Inglethorp's cheque,and regretting they had been unable to trace a certain series of Russianfolksongs. 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 newdisappointment, 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 ayoung lady's dispensary,' he said."
"Silly ass!" I ejaculated. "I told him Wednesday was the one day shewasn't there! Well, tell him to look us up to-morrow morning, will you?"
"Certainly, monsieur."
But, on the following day, no sign of Poirot. I was getting angry. Hewas really treating us in the most cavalier fashion.
After lunch, Lawrence drew me aside, and asked if I was going down tosee 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 andexcited 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 extracoffee-cup!"
I had almost forgotten that enigmatical message of Poirot's, but now mycuriosity was aroused afresh.
Lawrence would say no more, so I decided that I would descend from myhigh horse, and once more seek out Poirot at Leastways Cottage.
This time I was received with a smile. Monsieur Poirot was within. WouldI mount? I mounted accordingly.
Poirot was sitting by the table, his head buried in his hands. He sprangup 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 isthe 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 inthe 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 whatto 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 thebreast.
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 MonsieurLawrence of yours!"
I did not myself think very highly of Lawrence's intelligence; butI forebore to contradict Poirot, and gently took him to task forforgetting my instructions as to which were Cynthia's days off.
"It is true. I have the head of a sieve. However, the other younglady was most kind. She was sorry for my disappointment, and showed meeverything in the kindest way."
"Oh, well, that's all right, then, and you must go to tea with Cynthiaanother day."
I told him about the letter.
"I am sorry for that," he said. "I always had hopes of that letter. Butno, 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'--asyou say over here." Then, suddenly, he asked: "Are you a judge offinger-marks, my friend?"
"No," I said, rather surprised, "I know that there are no twofinger-marks alike, but that's as far as my science goes."
"Exactly."
He unlocked a little drawer, and took out some photographs which he laidon the table.
"I have numbered them, 1, 2, 3. Will you describe them to me?"
I studied the proofs attentively.
"All greatly magnified, I see. No. 1, I should say, are a man'sfinger-prints; thumb and first finger. No. 2 are a lady's; they are muchsmaller, and quite different in every way. No. 3"--I paused for sometime--"there seem to be a lot of confused finger-marks, but here, verydistinctly, are No. 1'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 upagain.
"I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not going to explain?"
"On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of Monsieur Lawrence. No.2 were those of Mademoiselle Cynthia. They are not important. I merelyobtained them for comparison. No. 3 is a little more complicated."
"Yes?"
"It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may have noticed a sort ofblur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to youthe special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is awell-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain aphotograph of the finger-prints of any object in a very short space oftime. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks--it remains totell you the particular object on which they had been left."
"Go on--I am really excited."
"_Eh bien!_ Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of atiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the RedCross Hospital at Tadminster--which sounds like the house that Jackbuilt!"
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish'sfinger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the daywe 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 all together. Therewas a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would nothave been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you onthe balcony."
"I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment."
"Long enough."
"Long enough for what?"
Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical.
"Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify avery natural interest and curiosity."
Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed alittle tune. I watched him suspiciously.
"Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?"
Poirot looked out of the window.
"Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuingto hum.
"Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I hadexpected that answer.
"They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little--onlyoccasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. StrychnineHydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-markshave remained undisturbed since then."
"How did you manage to take this photograph?"
"I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitorswere not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my manyapologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch itfor me."
"Then you knew what you were going to find?"
"
No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from yourstory, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. Thepossibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated."
"Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a veryimportant discovery."
"I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt ithas struck you too."
"What is that?"
"Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. Thisis the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs.Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter atStyles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by oneof the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not likeconfusion."
Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door andstuck his head in.
"There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings."
"A lady?"
I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendishwas standing in the doorway.
"I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "andas Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would callfor you."
"Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with avisit!"
"I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling.
"That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame"--shestarted ever so slightly--"remember, Papa Poirot is always at yourservice."
She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read somedeeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away.
"Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?"
"Enchanted, madame."
All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck methat in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes.
The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in itsshrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sportscoat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like somegreat giant sighing.
We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge cameto us that something was wrong.
Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing herhands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background,all eyes and ears.
"Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you--"
"What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once."
"It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him--they've arrestedMr. Cavendish!"
"Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped.
I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes.
"No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence--Mr. John."
Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, andas I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes.