"No."
"I thought not. Come along, breakfast's not cleared away yet, andthey'll make you some fresh tea." He turned to me. "Look after her,Hastings, will you? Wells is waiting for me. Oh, here's Monsieur Poirot.He's helping us, you know, Evie."
Miss Howard shook hands with Poirot, but glanced suspiciously over hershoulder at John.
"What do you mean--helping us?"
"Helping us to investigate."
"Nothing to investigate. Have they taken him to prison yet?"
"Taken who to prison?"
"Who? Alfred Inglethorp, of course!"
"My dear Evie, do be careful. Lawrence is of the opinion that my motherdied from heart seizure."
"More fool, Lawrence!" retorted Miss Howard. "Of course AlfredInglethorp murdered poor Emily--as I always told you he would."
"My dear Evie, don't shout so. Whatever we may think or suspect, it isbetter to say as little as possible for the present. The inquest isn'tuntil Friday."
"Not until fiddlesticks!" The snort Miss Howard gave was trulymagnificent. "You're all off your heads. The man will be out of thecountry by then. If he's any sense, he won't stay here tamely and waitto be hanged."
John Cavendish looked at her helplessly.
"I know what it is," she accused him, "you've been listening to thedoctors. Never should. What do they know? Nothing at all--or just enoughto make them dangerous. I ought to know--my own father was a doctor.That little Wilkins is about the greatest fool that even I have everseen. Heart seizure! Sort of thing he would say. Anyone with any sensecould see at once that her husband had poisoned her. I always said he'dmurder her in her bed, poor soul. Now he's done it. And all you can dois to murmur silly things about 'heart seizure' and 'inquest on Friday.'You ought to be ashamed of yourself, John Cavendish."
"What do you want me to do?" asked John, unable to help a faint smile."Dash it all, Evie, I can't haul him down to the local police station bythe scruff of his neck."
"Well, you might do something. Find out how he did it. He's a
craftybeggar. Dare say he soaked fly papers. Ask Cook if she's missed any."
It occurred to me very forcibly at that moment that to harbour MissHoward and Alfred Inglethorp under the same roof, and keep the peacebetween them, was likely to prove a Herculean task, and I did notenvy John. I could see by the expression of his face that he fullyappreciated the difficulty of the position. For the moment, he soughtrefuge in retreat, and left the room precipitately.
Dorcas brought in fresh tea. As she left the room, Poirot came over fromthe window where he had been standing, and sat down facing Miss Howard.
"Mademoiselle," he said gravely, "I want to ask you something."
"Ask away," said the lady, eyeing him with some disfavour.
"I want to be able to count upon your help."
"I'll help you to hang Alfred with pleasure," she replied gruffly."Hanging's too good for him. Ought to be drawn and quartered, like ingood old times."
"We are at one then," said Poirot, "for I, too, want to hang thecriminal."
"Alfred Inglethorp?"
"Him, or another."
"No question of another. Poor Emily was never murdered until _he_ camealong. I don't say she wasn't surrounded by sharks--she was. But itwas only her purse they were after. Her life was safe enough. But alongcomes Mr. Alfred Inglethorp--and within two months--hey presto!"
"Believe me, Miss Howard," said Poirot very earnestly, "if Mr.Inglethorp is the man, he shall not escape me. On my honour, I will hanghim as high as Haman!"
"That's better," said Miss Howard more enthusiastically.
"But I must ask you to trust me. Now your help may be very valuable tome. I will tell you why. Because, in all this house of mourning, yoursare the only eyes that have wept."
Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into the gruffness of hervoice.
"If you mean that I was fond of her--yes, I was. You know, Emily wasa selfish old woman in her way. She was very generous, but she alwayswanted a return. She never let people forget what she had done forthem--and, that way she missed love. Don't think she ever realized it,though, or felt the lack of it. Hope not, anyway. I was on a differentfooting. I took my stand from the first. 'So many pounds a year I'mworth to you. Well and good. But not a penny piece besides--not apair of gloves, nor a theatre ticket.' She didn't understand--was veryoffended sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasn't that--but Icouldn't explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, out of thewhole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to be fond ofher. I watched over her. I guarded her from the lot of them, and then aglib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh! all my years of devotiongo for nothing."
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
"I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It is mostnatural. You think that we are lukewarm--that we lack fire andenergy--but trust me, it is not so."
John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both to comeup to Mrs. Inglethorp's room, as he and Mr. Wells had finished lookingthrough the desk in the boudoir.
As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining-room door, andlowered his voice confidentially:
"Look here, what's going to happen when these two meet?"
I shook my head helplessly.
"I've told Mary to keep them apart if she can."
"Will she be able to do so?"
"The Lord only knows. There's one thing, Inglethorp himself won't be tookeen on meeting her."
"You've got the keys still, haven't you, Poirot?" I asked, as we reachedthe door of the locked room.
Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it, and we all passed in. Thelawyer went straight to the desk, and John followed him.
"My mother kept most of her important papers in this despatch-case, Ibelieve," he said.
Poirot drew out the small bunch of keys.
"Permit me. I locked it, out of precaution, this morning."
"But it's not locked now."
"Impossible!"
"See." And John lifted the lid as he spoke.
"_Milles tonnerres!_" cried Poirot, dumfounded. "And I--who have boththe keys in my pocket!" He flung himself upon the case. Suddenly hestiffened. "_Eh voilà une affaire!_ This lock has been forced."
"What?"
Poirot laid down the case again.
"But who forced it? Why should they? When? But the door was locked?"These exclamations burst from us disjointedly.
Poirot answered them categorically--almost mechanically.
"Who? That is the question. Why? Ah, if I only knew. When? Since I washere an hour ago. As to the door being locked, it is a very ordinarylock. Probably any other of the doorkeys in this passage would fit it."
We stared at one another blankly. Poirot had walked over to themantel-piece. He was outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands, which fromlong force of habit were mechanically straightening the spill vases onthe mantel-piece, were shaking violently.
"See here, it was like this," he said at last. "There was something inthat case--some piece of evidence, slight in itself perhaps, but stillenough of a clue to connect the murderer with the crime. It was vitalto him that it should be destroyed before it was discovered and itssignificance appreciated. Therefore, he took the risk, the great risk,of coming in here. Finding the case locked, he was obliged to force it,thus betraying his presence. For him to take that risk, it must havebeen something of great importance."
"But what was it?"
"Ah!" cried Poirot, with a gesture of anger. "That, I do not know! Adocument of some kind, without doubt, possibly the scrap of paper Dorcassaw in her hand yesterday afternoon. And I--" his anger burst forthfreely--"miserable animal that I am! I guessed nothing! I have behavedlike an imbecile! I should never have left that case here. I shouldhave carried it away with me. Ah, triple pig! And now it is gone. It isdestroyed--but is it destroyed? Is there not yet a chance--we must leaveno stone unturned--"
He rushed like a madman from the room, and I followed him as soon as Ihad sufficiently recovered my wits. But, by the time I had reached thetop of the stairs, he was out of sight.
Mary Cavendish was standing where the staircase branched, staring downinto the hall in the direction in which he had disappeared.
"What has happened to your extraordinary little friend, Mr. Hastings? Hehas just rushed past me like a mad bull."
"He's rather upset about something," I remarked feebly. I really did notknow how much Poirot would wish me to disclose. As I saw a faint smilegather on Mrs. Cavendish's expressive mouth, I endeavoured to try andturn the conversation by saying: "They haven't met yet, have they?"
"Who?"
"Mr. Inglethorp and Miss Howard."
She looked at me in rather a disconcerting manner.
"Do you think it would be such a disaster if they did meet?"
"Well, don't you?" I said, rather taken aback.
"No." She was smiling in her quiet way. "I should like to see a goodflare up. It would clear the air. At present we are all thinking somuch, and saying so little."
"John doesn't think so," I remarked. "He's anxious to keep them apart."
"Oh, John!"
Something in her tone fired me, and I blurted out:
"Old John's an awfully good sort."
She studied me curiously for a minute or two, and then said, to my greatsurprise:
"You are loyal to your friend. I like you for that."
"Aren't you my friend too?"
"I am a very bad friend."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because it is true. I am charming to my friends one day, and forget allabout them the next."
I don't know what impelled me, but I was nettled, and I said foolishlyand not in the best of taste:
"Yet you seem to be invariably charming to Dr. Bauerstein!"
Instantly I regretted my words. Her face stiffened. I had the impressionof a steel curtain coming down and blotting out the real woman. Withouta word, she turned and went swiftly up the stairs, whilst I stood likean idiot gap
ing after her.
I was recalled to other matters by a frightful row going on below. Icould hear Poirot shouting and expounding. I was vexed to think thatmy diplomacy had been in vain. The little man appeared to be takingthe whole house into his confidence, a proceeding of which I, for one,doubted the wisdom. Once again I could not help regretting that myfriend was so prone to lose his head in moments of excitement. Istepped briskly down the stairs. The sight of me calmed Poirot almostimmediately. I drew him aside.
"My dear fellow," I said, "is this wise? Surely you don't want the wholehouse to know of this occurrence? You are actually playing into thecriminal's hands."
"You think so, Hastings?"
"I am sure of it."
"Well, well, my friend, I will be guided by you."
"Good. Although, unfortunately, it is a little too late now."
"Sure."
He looked so crestfallen and abashed that I felt quite sorry, though Istill thought my rebuke a just and wise one.
"Well," he said at last, "let us go, _mon ami_."
"You have finished here?"
"For the moment, yes. You will walk back with me to the village?"
"Willingly."
He picked up his little suit-case, and we went out through the openwindow in the drawing-room. Cynthia Murdoch was just coming in, andPoirot stood aside to let her pass.
"Excuse me, mademoiselle, one minute."
"Yes?" she turned inquiringly.
"Did you ever make up Mrs. Inglethorp's medicines?"
A slight flush rose in her face, as she answered rather constrainedly:
"No."
"Only her powders?"
The flush deepened as Cynthia replied:
"Oh, yes, I did make up some sleeping powders for her once."
"These?"
Poirot produced the empty box which had contained powders.
She nodded.
"Can you tell me what they were? Sulphonal? Veronal?"
"No, they were bromide powders."
"Ah! Thank you, mademoiselle; good morning."
As we walked briskly away from the house, I glanced at him more thanonce. I had often before noticed that, if anything excited him, his eyesturned green like a cat's. They were shining like emeralds now.
"My friend," he broke out at last, "I have a little idea, a verystrange, and probably utterly impossible idea. And yet--it fits in."
I shrugged my shoulders. I privately thought that Poirot was rather toomuch given to these fantastic ideas. In this case, surely, the truth wasonly too plain and apparent.
"So that is the explanation of the blank label on the box," I remarked."Very simple, as you said. I really wonder that I did not think of itmyself."
Poirot did not appear to be listening to me.
"They have made one more discovery, la-bas," he observed, jerking histhumb over his shoulder in the direction of Styles. "Mr. Wells told meas we were going upstairs."
"What was it?"
"Locked up in the desk in the boudoir, they found a will of Mrs.Inglethorp's, dated before her marriage, leaving her fortune to AlfredInglethorp. It must have been made just at the time they were engaged.It came quite as a surprise to Wells--and to John Cavendish also. It waswritten on one of those printed will forms, and witnessed by two of theservants--not Dorcas."
"Did Mr. Inglethorp know of it?"
"He says not."
"One might take that with a grain of salt," I remarked sceptically. "Allthese wills are very confusing. Tell me, how did those scribbled wordson the envelope help you to discover that a will was made yesterdayafternoon?"
Poirot smiled.
"_Mon ami_, have you ever, when writing a letter, been arrested by thefact that you did not know how to spell a certain word?"
"Yes, often. I suppose every one has."
"Exactly. And have you not, in such a case, tried the word once or twiceon the edge of the blotting-paper, or a spare scrap of paper, to see ifit looked right? Well, that is what Mrs. Inglethorp did. You will noticethat the word 'possessed' is spelt first with one 's' and subsequentlywith two--correctly. To make sure, she had further tried it in asentence, thus: 'I am possessed.' Now, what did that tell me? It toldme that Mrs. Inglethorp had been writing the word 'possessed' thatafternoon, and, having the fragment of paper found in the grate freshin my mind, the possibility of a will--(a document almost certainto contain that word)--occurred to me at once. This possibility wasconfirmed by a further circumstance. In the general confusion, theboudoir had not been swept that morning, and near the desk were severaltraces of brown mould and earth. The weather had been perfectly fine forsome days, and no ordinary boots would have left such a heavy deposit.
"I strolled to the window, and saw at once that the begonia beds hadbeen newly planted. The mould in the beds was exactly similar to that onthe floor of the boudoir, and also I learnt from you that they had beenplanted yesterday afternoon. I was now sure that one, or possibly bothof the gardeners--for there were two sets of footprints in the bed--hadentered the boudoir, for if Mrs. Inglethorp had merely wished to speakto them she would in all probability have stood at the window, and theywould not have come into the room at all. I was now quite convincedthat she had made a fresh will, and had called the two gardeners into witness her signature. Events proved that I was right in mysupposition."
"That was very ingenious," I could not help admitting. "I must confessthat the conclusions I drew from those few scribbled words were quiteerroneous."
He smiled.
"You gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a goodservant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the mostlikely."
"Another point--how did you know that the key of the despatch-case hadbeen lost?"
"I did not know it. It was a guess that turned out to be correct. Youobserved that it had a piece of twisted wire through the handle. Thatsuggested to me at once that it had possibly been wrenched off a flimsykey-ring. Now, if it had been lost and recovered, Mrs. Inglethorp wouldat once have replaced it on her bunch; but on her bunch I found what wasobviously the duplicate key, very new and bright, which led me to thehypothesis that somebody else had inserted the original key in the lockof the despatch-case."
"Yes," I said, "Alfred Inglethorp, without doubt."
Poirot looked at me curiously.
"You are very sure of his guilt?"
"Well, naturally. Every fresh circumstance seems to establish it moreclearly."
"On the contrary," said Poirot quietly, "there are several points in hisfavour."
"Oh, come now!"
"Yes."
"I see only one."
"And that?"
"That he was not in the house last night."
"'Bad shot!' as you English say! You have chosen the one point that tomy mind tells against him."
"How is that?"
"Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisoned lastnight, he would certainly have arranged to be away from the house.His excuse was an obviously trumped up one. That leaves us twopossibilities: either he knew what was going to happen or he had areason of his own for his absence."
"And that reason?" I asked sceptically.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"How should I know? Discreditable, without doubt. This Mr. Inglethorp,I should say, is somewhat of a scoundrel--but that does not of necessitymake him a murderer."
I shook my head, unconvinced.
"We do not agree, eh?" said Poirot. "Well, let us leave it. Time willshow which of us is right. Now let us turn to other aspects of the case.What do you make of the fact that all the doors of the bedroom werebolted on the inside?"
"Well----" I considered. "One must look at it logically."
"True."
"I should put it this way. The doors _were_ bolted--our own eyes havetold us that--yet the presence of the candle grease on the floor, andthe destruction of the will, prove that during the night someone enteredthe room. You agree so far?"
; "Perfectly. Put with admirable clearness. Proceed."
"Well," I said, encouraged, "as the person who entered did not do so bythe window, nor by miraculous means, it follows that the door must havebeen opened from inside by Mrs. Inglethorp herself. That strengthensthe conviction that the person in question was her husband. She wouldnaturally open the door to her own husband."
Poirot shook his head.
"Why should she? She had bolted the door leading into his room--a mostunusual proceeding on her part--she had had a most violent quarrel withhim that very afternoon. No, he was the last person she would admit."
"But you agree with me that the door must have been opened by Mrs.Inglethorp herself?"
"There is another possibility. She may have forgotten to bolt the doorinto the passage when she went to bed, and have got up later, towardsmorning, and bolted it then."
"Poirot, is that seriously your opinion?"
"No, I do not say it is so, but it might be. Now, to turn to anotherfeature, what do you make of the scrap of conversation you overheardbetween Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law?"
"I had forgotten that," I said thoughtfully. "That is as enigmatical asever. It seems incredible that a woman like Mrs. Cavendish, proud andreticent to the last degree, should interfere so violently in what wascertainly not her affair."
"Precisely. It was an astonishing thing for a woman of her breeding todo."
"It is certainly curious," I agreed. "Still, it is unimportant, and neednot be taken into account."
A groan burst from Poirot.
"What have I always told you? Everything must be taken into account. Ifthe fact will not fit the theory--let the theory go."
"Well, we shall see," I said, nettled.
"Yes, we shall see."
We had reached Leastways Cottage, and Poirot ushered me upstairs to hisown room. He offered me one of the tiny Russian cigarettes he himselfoccasionally smoked. I was amused to notice that he stowed away the usedmatches most carefully in a little china pot. My momentary annoyancevanished.
Poirot had placed our two chairs in front of the open window whichcommanded a view of the village street. The fresh air blew in warm andpleasant. It was going to be a hot day.
Suddenly my attention was arrested by a weedy looking young man rushingdown the street at a great pace. It was the expression on his face thatwas extraordinary--a curious mingling of terror and agitation.
"Look, Poirot!" I said.
He leant forward.
"_Tiens!_" he said. "It is Mr. Mace, from the chemist's shop. He iscoming here."
The young man came to a halt before Leastways Cottage, and, afterhesitating a moment, pounded vigorously at the door.
"A little minute," cried Poirot from the window. "I come."
Motioning to me to follow him, he ran swiftly down the stairs and openedthe door. Mr. Mace began at once.
"Oh, Mr. Poirot, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I heard that you'djust come back from the Hall?"
"Yes, we have."
The young man moistened his dry lips. His face was working curiously.
"It's all over the village about old Mrs. Inglethorp dying so suddenly.They do say--" he lowered his voice cautiously--"that it's poison?"
Poirot's face remained quite impassive.
"Only the doctors can tell us that, Mr. Mace."
"Yes, exactly--of course----" The young man hesitated, and then hisagitation was too much for him. He clutched Poirot by the arm, and sankhis voice to a whisper: "Just tell me this, Mr. Poirot, it isn't--itisn't strychnine, is it?"
I hardly heard what Poirot replied. Something evidently of anon-committal nature. The young man departed, and as he closed the doorPoirot's eyes met mine.
"Yes," he said, nodding gravely. "He will have evidence to give at theinquest."
We went slowly upstairs again. I was opening my lips, when Poirotstopped me with a gesture of his hand.
"Not now, not now, _mon ami_. I have need of reflection. My mind is insome disorder--which is not well."
For about ten minutes he sat in dead silence, perfectly still, exceptfor several expressive motions of his eyebrows, and all the time hiseyes grew steadily greener. At last he heaved a deep sigh.
"It is well. The bad moment has passed. Now all is arranged andclassified. One must never permit confusion. The case is not clearyet--no. For it is of the most complicated! It puzzles _me_. _Me_,Hercule Poirot! There are two facts of significance."
"And what are they?"
"The first is the state of the weather yesterday. That is veryimportant."
"But it was a glorious day!" I interrupted. "Poirot, you're pulling myleg!"
"Not at all. The thermometer registered 80 degrees in the shade. Do notforget that, my friend. It is the key to the whole riddle!"
"And the second point?" I asked.
"The important fact that Monsieur Inglethorp wears very peculiarclothes, has a black beard, and uses glasses."
"Poirot, I cannot believe you are serious."
"I am absolutely serious, my friend."
"But this is childish!"
"No, it is very momentous."
"And supposing the Coroner's jury returns a verdict of Wilful Murderagainst Alfred Inglethorp. What becomes of your theories, then?"
"They would not be shaken because twelve stupid men had happened to makea mistake! But that will not occur. For one thing, a country jury is notanxious to take responsibility upon itself, and Mr. Inglethorp standspractically in the position of local squire. Also," he added placidly,"_I_ should not allow it!"
"_You_ would not allow it?"
"No."
I looked at the extraordinary little man, divided between annoyance andamusement. He was so tremendously sure of himself. As though he read mythoughts, he nodded gently.
"Oh, yes, _mon ami_, I would do what I say." He got up and laid his handon my shoulder. His physiognomy underwent a complete change. Tearscame into his eyes. "In all this, you see, I think of that poor Mrs.Inglethorp who is dead. She was not extravagantly loved--no. But she wasvery good to us Belgians--I owe her a debt."
I endeavoured to interrupt, but Poirot swept on.
"Let me tell you this, Hastings. She would never forgive me if I letAlfred Inglethorp, her husband, be arrested _now_--when a word from mecould save him!"