CHAPTER IV. POIROT INVESTIGATES
The house which the Belgians occupied in the village was quite close tothe park gates. One could save time by taking a narrow path throughthe long grass, which cut off the detours of the winding drive. So I,accordingly, went that way. I had nearly reached the lodge, when myattention was arrested by the running figure of a man approaching me. Itwas Mr. Inglethorp. Where had he been? How did he intend to explain hisabsence?
He accosted me eagerly.
"My God! This is terrible! My poor wife! I have only just heard."
"Where have you been?" I asked.
"Denby kept me late last night. It was one o'clock before we'd finished.Then I found that I'd forgotten the latch-key after all. I didn't wantto arouse the household, so Denby gave me a bed."
"How did you hear the news?" I asked.
"Wilkins knocked Denby up to tell him. My poor Emily! She was soself-sacrificing--such a noble character. She over-taxed her strength."
A wave of revulsion swept over me. What a consummate hypocrite the manwas!
"I must hurry on," I said, thankful that he did not ask me whither I wasbound.
In a few minutes I was knocking at the door of Leastways Cottage.
Getting no answer, I repeated my summons impatiently. A window above mewas cautiously opened, and Poirot himself looked out.
He gave an exclamation of surprise at seeing me. In a few brief words, Iexplained the tragedy that had occurred, and that I wanted his help.
"Wait, my friend, I will let you in, and you shall recount to me theaffair whilst I dress."
In a few moments he had unbarred the door, and I followed him up to hisroom. There he installed me in a chair, and I related the wholestory, keeping back nothing, and omitting no circumstance, howeverinsignificant, whilst he himself made a careful and deliberate toilet.
I told him of my awakening, of Mrs. Inglethorp's dying words, of herhusband's absence, of the quarrel the day before, of the scrap ofconversation between Mary and her mother-in-law that I had overheard, ofthe former quarrel between Mrs. Inglethorp and Evelyn Howard, and of thelatter's innuendoes.
I was hardly as clear as I could wish. I repeated myself several times,and occasionally had to go back to some detail that I had forgotten.Poirot smiled kindly on me.
"The mind is confused? Is it not so? Take time, _mon ami_. You areagitated; you are excited--it is but natural. Presently, when we arecalmer, we will arrange the facts, neatly, each in his proper place. Wewill examine--and reject. Those of importance we will put on one side;those of no importance, pouf!"--he screwed up his cherub-like face, andpuffed comically enough--"blow them away!"
"That's all very well," I objected, "but how are you going to decidewhat is important, and what isn't? That always seems the difficulty tome."
Poirot shook his head energetically. He was now arranging his moustachewith exquisite care.
"Not so. _Voyons_! One fact leads to another--so we continue. Does thenext fit in with that? _A merveille_! Good! We can proceed. This nextlittle fact--no! Ah, that is curious! There is something missing--a linkin the chain that is not there. We examine. We search. And that littlecurious fact, that possibly paltry little detail that will not tally,we put it here!" He made an extravagant gesture with his hand. "It issignificant! It is tremendous!"
"Y--es--"
"Ah!" Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely at me that I quailedbefore it. "Beware! Peril to the detective who says: 'It is so small--itdoes not matter. It will not agree. I will forget it.' That way liesconfusion! Everything matters."
"I know. You always told me that. That's why I have gone into all thedetails of this thing whether they seemed to me relevant or not."
"And I am pleased with you. You have a good memory, and you have givenme the facts faithfully. Of the order in which you present them, I saynothing--truly, it is deplorable! But I make allowances--you are upset.To that I attribute the circumstance that you have omitted one fact ofparamount importance."
"What is that?" I asked.
"You have not told me if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night."
I stared at him. Surely the war had affected the little man's brain.He was carefully engaged in brushing his coat before putting it on, andseemed wholly engrossed in the task.
"I don't remember," I said. "And, anyway, I don't see----"
"You do not see? But it is of the first importance."
"I can't see why," I said, rather nettled. "As far as I can remember,she didn't eat much. She was obviously upset, and it had taken herappetite away. That was only natural."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "it was only natural."
He opened a drawer, and took out a small despatch-case, then turned tome.
"Now I am ready. We will proceed to the chateau, and study matters onthe spot. Excuse me, _mon ami_, you dressed in haste, and your tie is onone side. Permit me." With a deft gesture, he rearranged it.
"_Ça y est!_ Now, shall we start?"
We hurried up the village, and turned in at the lodge gates. Poirotstopped for a moment, and gazed sorrowfully over the beautiful expanseof park, still glittering with morning dew.
"So beautiful, so beautiful, and yet, the poor family, plunged insorrow, prostrated with grief."
He looked at me keenly as he spoke, and I was aware that I reddenedunder his prolonged gaze.
Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs. Inglethorp'sdeath so great? I realized that there was an emotional lack in theatmosphere. The dead woman had not the gift of commanding love. Herdeath was a shock and a distress, but she would not be passionatelyregretted.
Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded his head gravely.
"No, you are right," he said, "it is not as though there was a bloodtie. She has been kind and generous to these Cavendishes, but she wasnot their own mother. Blood tells--always remember that--blood tells."
"Poirot," I said, "I wish you would tell me why you wanted to know ifMrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turning it over in mymind, but I can't see how it has anything to do with the matter?"
He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finally hesaid:
"I do not mind telling you--though, as you know, it is not my habit toexplain until the end is reached. The present contention is that Mrs.Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably administered in hercoffee."
"Yes?"
"Well, what time was the coffee served?"
"About eight o'clock."
"Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight--certainly notmuch later. Well, strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects wouldbe felt very soon, probably in about an hour. Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp'scase, the symptoms do not manifest themselves until five o'clock thenext morning: nine hours! But a heavy meal, taken at about the same timeas the poison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent.Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account. But, according toyou, she ate very little for supper, and yet the symptoms do not developuntil early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance,my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In themeantime, remember it."
As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked wearyand haggard.
"This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastingshas explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?"
"I comprehend perfectly."
"You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon."
"Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only."
John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting acigarette as he did so.
"You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?"
"Yes. I met him."
John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which wastoo much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly.
"It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him."
"That difficulty will n
ot exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly.
John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this crypticsaying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me.
"Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see."
"The rooms are locked?" asked Poirot.
"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
"Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us."
We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I appenda plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it.
Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minuteinspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with theagility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterateany clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for myforbearance.
"What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you remain there like--howdo you say it?--ah, yes, the stuck pig?"
I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks.
"Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practically anarmy in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come hereand aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I needit."
He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an ill-advisedproceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, andprecipitated the despatch-case on the floor.
"_Eh voilà une table!_" cried Poirot. "Ah, my friend, one may live in abig house and yet have no comfort."
After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search.
A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on thewriting-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took out the keyfrom the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. I saw nothing peculiar,however. It was an ordinary key of the Yale type, with a bit of twistedwire through the handle.
Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in, assuringhimself that the bolt had really been shot. Then he went to the dooropposite leading into Cynthia's room. That door was also bolted, as Ihad stated. However, he went to the length of unbolting it, and openingand shutting it several times; this he did with the utmost precautionagainst making any noise. Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemedto rivet his attention. He examined it carefully, and then, nimblywhipping out a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out someminute particle which he carefully sealed up in a tiny envelope.
On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a spirit lamp and asmall saucepan on it. A small quantity of a dark fluid remained in thesaucepan, and an empty cup and saucer that had been drunk out of stoodnear it.
I wondered how I could have been so unobservant as to overlook this.Here was a clue worth having. Poirot delicately dipped his finger intoliquid, and tasted it gingerly. He made a grimace.
"Cocoa--with--I think--rum in it."
He passed on to the debris on the floor, where the table by the bed hadbeen overturned. A reading-lamp, some books, matches, a bunch of keys,and the crushed fragments of a coffee-cup lay scattered about.
"Ah, this is curious," said Poirot.
"I must confess that I see nothing particularly curious about it."
"You do not? Observe the lamp--the chimney is broken in two places; theylie there as they fell. But see, the coffee-cup is absolutely smashed topowder."
"Well," I said wearily, "I suppose someone must have stepped on it."
"Exactly," said Poirot, in an odd voice. "Someone stepped on it."
He rose from his knees, and walked slowly across to the mantelpiece,where he stood abstractedly fingering the ornaments, and straighteningthem--a trick of his when he was agitated.
"_Mon ami_," he said, turning to me, "somebody stepped on that cup,grinding it to powder, and the reason they did so was either because itcontained strychnine or--which is far more serious--because it did notcontain strychnine!"
I made no reply. I was bewildered, but I knew that it was no good askinghim to explain. In a moment or two he roused himself, and went on withhis investigations. He picked up the bunch of keys from the floor, andtwirling them round in his fingers finally selected one, very brightand shining, which he tried in the lock of the purple despatch-case. Itfitted, and he opened the box, but after a moment's hesitation, closedand relocked it, and slipped the bunch of keys, as well as the key thathad originally stood in the lock, into his own pocket.
"I have no authority to go through these papers. But it should bedone--at once!"
He then made a very careful examination of the drawers of thewash-stand. Crossing the room to the left-hand window, a round stain,hardly visible on the dark brown carpet, seemed to interest himparticularly. He went down on his knees, examining it minutely--evengoing so far as to smell it.
Finally, he poured a few drops of the cocoa into a test tube, sealing itup carefully. His next proceeding was to take out a little notebook.
"We have found in this room," he said, writing busily, "six points ofinterest. Shall I enumerate them, or will you?"
"Oh, you," I replied hastily.
"Very well, then. One, a coffee-cup that has been ground into powder;two, a despatch-case with a key in the lock; three, a stain on thefloor."
"That may have been done some time ago," I interrupted.
"No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four,a fragment of some dark green fabric--only a thread or two, butrecognizable."
"Ah!" I cried. "That was what you sealed up in the envelope."
"Yes. It may turn out to be a piece of one of Mrs. Inglethorp's owndresses, and quite unimportant. We shall see. Five, _this_!" With adramatic gesture, he pointed to a large splash of candle grease on thefloor by the writing-table. "It must have been done since yesterday,otherwise a good housemaid would have at once removed it withblotting-paper and a hot iron. One of my best hats once--but that is notto the point."
"It was very likely done last night. We were very agitated. Or perhapsMrs. Inglethorp herself dropped her candle."
"You brought only one candle into the room?"
"Yes. Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he was very upset. Heseemed to see something over here"--I indicated the mantelpiece--"thatabsolutely paralysed him."
"That is interesting," said Poirot quickly. "Yes, it is suggestive"--hiseye sweeping the whole length of the wall--"but it was not his candlethat made this great patch, for you perceive that this is whitegrease; whereas Monsieur Lawrence's candle, which is still on thedressing-table, is pink. On the other hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had nocandlestick in the room, only a reading-lamp."
"Then," I said, "what do you deduce?"
To which my friend only made a rather irritating reply, urging me to usemy own natural faculties.
"And the sixth point?" I asked. "I suppose it is the sample of cocoa."
"No," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I might have included that in thesix, but I did not. No, the sixth point I will keep to myself for thepresent."
He looked quickly round the room. "There is nothing more to be donehere, I think, unless"--he stared earnestly and long at the dead ashesin the grate. "The fire burns--and it destroys. But by chance--theremight be--let us see!"
Deftly, on hands and knees, he began to sort the ashes from the grateinto the fender, handling them with the greatest caution. Suddenly, hegave a faint exclamation.
"The forceps, Hastings!"
I quickly handed them to him, and with skill he extracted a small pieceof half charred paper.
"There, _mon ami!_" he cried. "What do you think of that?"
I scrutinized the fragment. This is an exact reproduction of it:--
I was puzzled. It was unusually thick, quite unlike ordinary notepaper.Suddenly an idea struck me.
"Poirot!" I cried. "This is a fragment of a will!"
"Exactly."
I looked up at him sharply.
"You are not surprised?"
"No," he said gravely, "I expected it."
I relinquished the piece of paper, and watched him put it away in hiscase, with the same methodical care that he bestowed on everything.My brain was in a whirl. What was this complication of a will? Who haddestroyed it? The person who had left the candle grease on the floor?Obviously. But how had anyone gained admission? All the doors had beenbolted on the inside.
"Now, my friend," said Poirot briskly, "we will go. I should like to aska few questions of the parlourmaid--Dorcas, her name is, is it not?"
We passed through Alfred Inglethorp's room, and Poirot delayed longenough to make a brief but fairly comprehensive examination of it.We went out through that door, locking both it and that of Mrs.Inglethorp's room as before.
I took him down to the boudoir which he had expressed a wish to see, andwent myself in search of Dorcas.
When I returned with her, however, the boudoir was empty.
"Poirot," I cried, "where are you?"
"I am here, my friend."
He had stepped outside the French window, and was standing, apparentlylost in admiration, before the various shaped flower beds.
"Admirable!" he murmured. "Admirable! What symmetry! Observe thatcrescent; and those diamonds--their neatness rejoices the eye. Thespacing of the plants, also, is perfect. It has been recently done; isit not so?"
"Yes, I believe they were at it yesterday afternoon. But come in--Dorcasis here."
"_Eh bien, eh bien!_ Do not grudge me a moment's satisfaction of theeye."
"Yes, but this affair is more important."
"And how do you know that these fine begonias are not of equalimportance?"
I shrugged my shoulders. There was really no arguing with him if hechose to take that line.
"You do not agree? But such things have been. Well, we will come in andinterview the brave Dorcas."
Dorcas was standing in the boudoir, her hands folded in front of her,and her grey hair rose in stiff waves under her white cap. She was thevery model and picture of a good old-fashioned servant.
In her attitude towards Poirot, she was inclined to be suspicious, buthe soon broke down her defences. He drew forward a chair.
"Pray be seated, mademoiselle."
"Thank you, sir."
"You have been with your mistress many years, is it not so?"
"Ten years, sir."
"That is a long time, and very faithful service. You were much attachedto her, were you not?"
"She was a very good mistress to me, sir."
"Then you will not object to answering a few questions. I put them toyou with Mr. Cavendish's full approval."
"Oh, certainly, sir."
"Then I will begin by asking you about the events of yesterdayafternoon. Your mistress had a quarrel?"
"Yes, sir. But I don't know that I ought----" Dorcas hesitated. Poirotlooked at her keenly.
"My good Dorcas, it is necessary that I should know every detail of thatquarrel as fully as possible. Do not think that you are betraying yourmistress's secrets. Your mistress lies dead, and it is necessary that weshould know all--if we are to avenge her. Nothing can bring her back tolife, but we do hope, if there has been foul play, to bring the murdererto justice."
"Amen to that," said Dorcas fiercely. "And, naming no names, there's_one_ in this house that none of us could ever abide! And an ill day itwas when first _he_ darkened the threshold."
Poirot waited for her indignation to subside, and then, resuming hisbusiness-like tone, he asked:
"Now, as to this quarrel? What is the first you heard of it?"
"Well, sir, I happened to be going along the hall outside yesterday----"
"What time was that?"
"I couldn't say exactly, sir, but it wasn't tea-time by a long way.Perhaps four o'clock--or it may have been a bit later. Well, sir, as Isaid, I happened to be passing along, when I heard voices very loud andangry in here. I didn't exactly mean to listen, but--well, there it is.I stopped. The door was shut, but the mistress was speaking very sharpand clear, and I heard what she said quite plainly. 'You have liedto me, and deceived me,' she said. I didn't hear what Mr. Inglethorpreplied. He spoke a good bit lower than she did--but she answered:'How dare you? I have kept you and clothed you and fed you! You oweeverything to me! And this is how you repay me! By bringing disgraceupon our name!' Again I didn't hear what he said, but she went on:'Nothing that you can say will make any difference. I see my dutyclearly. My mind is made up. You need not think that any fear ofpublicity, or scandal between husband and wife will deter me.' Then Ithought I heard them coming out, so I went off quickly."
"You are sure it was Mr. Inglethorp's voice you heard?"
"Oh, yes, sir, whose else's could it be?"
"Well, what happened next?"
"Later, I came back to the hall; but it was all quiet. At five o'clock,Mrs. Inglethorp rang the bell and told me to bring her a cup oftea--nothing to eat--to the boudoir. She was looking dreadful--so whiteand upset. 'Dorcas,' she says, 'I've had a great shock.' 'I'm sorry forthat, m'm,' I says. 'You'll feel better after a nice hot cup of tea,m'm.' She had something in her hand. I don't know if it was a letter, orjust a piece of paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staringat it, almost as if she couldn't believe what was written there. Shewhispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there: 'Thesefew words--and everything's changed.' And then she says to me: 'Nevertrust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' I hurried off, and got hera good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she'd feel betterwhen she'd drunk it. 'I don't know what to do,' she says. 'Scandalbetween husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush itup if I could.' Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say anymore."
"She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?"
"Yes, sir."
"What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?"
"Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purplecase of hers."
"Is that where she usually kept important papers?"
"Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it upevery night."
"When did she lose the key of it?"
"She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to lookcarefully for it. She was very much put out about it."
"But she had a duplicate key?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so wasI. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled.
"Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the keythat was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in thelock of the despatch-case upstairs.
Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head.
"That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I lookedeverywhere for it."
"Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it wasto-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark greendress in her wardrobe?"
Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question.
"No, sir."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?"
Dorcas reflected.
"Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress."
"Light or dark green?"
"A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it."
"Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?"
"No, sir--not that I know of."
Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed orotherwise. He merely remarked:
"Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believethat your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?"
"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."
"Why do you know so positively?"
"Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and shedidn't have any more made up."
"You are quite sure of that?"
; "Positive, sir."
"Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you tosign any paper yesterday?"
"To sign a paper? No, sir."
"When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, theyfound your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me noidea to whom these letters were addressed?"
"I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Anniecould tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared thecoffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here tolook after things."
Poirot lifted his hand.
"Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I prayyou. I should like to examine them."
"Very well, sir."
"What time did you go out last evening?"
"About six o'clock, sir."
"Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolledto the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How manygardeners are employed here, by the way?"
"Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept asa gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then,sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and youngWilliam, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like.Ah, these are dreadful times!"
"The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, willyou send Annie to me here?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked,in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost keyand the duplicate?"
"One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this."He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use forpowders.
"Where did you find it?"
"In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was NumberSix of my catalogue."
"But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not ofmuch importance?"
"Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiarabout this box?"
I examined it closely.
"No, I can't say that I do."
"Look at the label."
I read the label carefully: "'One powder to be taken at bedtime, ifrequired. Mrs. Inglethorp.' No, I see nothing unusual."
"Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?"
"Ah!" I exclaimed. "To be sure, that is odd!"
"Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that, without hisprinted name?"
"No, I can't say that I have."
I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour by remarking:
"Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not intrigue yourself, myfriend."
An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no timeto reply.
Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring underintense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of thetragedy.
Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness.
"I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able to tell mesomething about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last night. How manywere there? And can you tell me any of the names and addresses?"
Annie considered.
"There were four letters, sir. One was to Miss Howard, and one wasto Mr. Wells, the lawyer, and the other two I don't think I remember,sir--oh, yes, one was to Ross's, the caterers in Tadminster. The otherone, I don't remember."
"Think," urged Poirot.
Annie racked her brains in vain.
"I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticedit."
"It does not matter," said Poirot, not betraying any sign ofdisappointment. "Now I want to ask you about something else. There is asaucepan in Mrs. Inglethorp's room with some cocoa in it. Did she havethat every night?"
"Yes, sir, it was put in her room every evening, and she warmed it up inthe night--whenever she fancied it."
"What was it? Plain cocoa?"
"Yes, sir, made with milk, with a teaspoonful of sugar, and twoteaspoonfuls of rum in it."
"Who took it to her room?"
"I did, sir."
"Always?"
"Yes, sir."
"At what time?"
"When I went to draw the curtains, as a rule, sir."
"Did you bring it straight up from the kitchen then?"
"No, sir, you see there's not much room on the gas stove, so Cook usedto make it early, before putting the vegetables on for supper. Then Iused to bring it up, and put it on the table by the swing door, and takeit into her room later."
"The swing door is in the left wing, is it not?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the table, is it on this side of the door, or on thefarther--servants' side?"
"It's this side, sir."
"What time did you bring it up last night?"
"About quarter-past seven, I should say, sir."
"And when did you take it into Mrs. Inglethorp's room?"
"When I went to shut up, sir. About eight o'clock. Mrs. Inglethorp cameup to bed before I'd finished."
"Then, between 7.15 and 8 o'clock, the cocoa was standing on the tablein the left wing?"
"Yes, sir." Annie had been growing redder and redder in the face, andnow she blurted out unexpectedly:
"And if there _was_ salt in it, sir, it wasn't me. I never took the saltnear it."
"What makes you think there was salt in it?" asked Poirot.
"Seeing it on the tray, sir."
"You saw some salt on the tray?"
"Yes. Coarse kitchen salt, it looked. I never noticed it when I took thetray up, but when I came to take it into the mistress's room I saw it atonce, and I suppose I ought to have taken it down again, and asked Cookto make some fresh. But I was in a hurry, because Dorcas was out, and Ithought maybe the cocoa itself was all right, and the salt had only goneon the tray. So I dusted it off with my apron, and took it in."
I had the utmost difficulty in controlling my excitement. Unknown toherself, Annie had provided us with an important piece of evidence. Howshe would have gaped if she had realized that her "coarse kitchen salt"was strychnine, one of the most deadly poisons known to mankind. Imarvelled at Poirot's calm. His self-control was astonishing. I awaitedhis next question with impatience, but it disappointed me.
"When you went into Mrs. Inglethorp's room, was the door leading intoMiss Cynthia's room bolted?"
"Oh! Yes, sir; it always was. It had never been opened."
"And the door into Mr. Inglethorp's room? Did you notice if that wasbolted too?"
Annie hesitated.
"I couldn't rightly say, sir; it was shut but I couldn't say whether itwas bolted or not."
"When you finally left the room, did Mrs. Inglethorp bolt the door afteryou?"
"No, sir, not then, but I expect she did later. She usually did lock itat night. The door into the passage, that is."
"Did you notice any candle grease on the floor when you did the roomyesterday?"
"Candle grease? Oh, no, sir. Mrs. Inglethorp didn't have a candle, onlya reading-lamp."
"Then, if there had been a large patch of candle grease on the floor,you think you would have been sure to have seen it?"
"Yes, sir, and I would have taken it out with a piece of blotting-paperand a hot iron."
Then Poirot repeated the question he had put to Dorcas:
"Did your mistress ever have a green dress?"
"No, sir."
"Nor a mantle, nor a cape, nor a--how do you call it?--a sports coat?"
"Not green, sir."
"Nor anyone else in the house?"
Annie reflected.
"No, sir."
"You are sure of that?"
"Quite sure."
"_Bien!_ That is all I want to know. Thank you very much."
With a nervous giggle, Annie took herself creakingly out of the room. Mypent-up excitement burst forth.
"P
oirot," I cried, "I congratulate you! This is a great discovery."
"What is a great discovery?"
"Why, that it was the cocoa and not the coffee that was poisoned. Thatexplains everything! Of course it did not take effect until the earlymorning, since the cocoa was only drunk in the middle of the night."
"So you think that the cocoa--mark well what I say, Hastings, the_cocoa_--contained strychnine?"
"Of course! That salt on the tray, what else could it have been?"
"It might have been salt," replied Poirot placidly.
I shrugged my shoulders. If he was going to take the matter that way,it was no good arguing with him. The idea crossed my mind, not for thefirst time, that poor old Poirot was growing old. Privately I thought itlucky that he had associated with him someone of a more receptive typeof mind.
Poirot was surveying me with quietly twinkling eyes.
"You are not pleased with me, _mon ami?_"
"My dear Poirot," I said coldly, "it is not for me to dictate to you.You have a right to your own opinion, just as I have to mine."
"A most admirable sentiment," remarked Poirot, rising briskly to hisfeet. "Now I have finished with this room. By the way, whose is thesmaller desk in the corner?"
"Mr. Inglethorp's."
"Ah!" He tried the roll top tentatively. "Locked. But perhaps one ofMrs. Inglethorp's keys would open it." He tried several, twisting andturning them with a practiced hand, and finally uttering an ejaculationof satisfaction. "_Voilà!_ It is not the key, but it will open it at apinch." He slid back the roll top, and ran a rapid eye over the neatlyfiled papers. To my surprise, he did not examine them, merely remarkingapprovingly as he relocked the desk: "Decidedly, he is a man of method,this Mr. Inglethorp!"
A "man of method" was, in Poirot's estimation, the highest praise thatcould be bestowed on any individual.
I felt that my friend was not what he had been as he rambled ondisconnectedly:
"There were no stamps in his desk, but there might have been, eh,_mon ami?_ There might have been? Yes"--his eyes wandered round theroom--"this boudoir has nothing more to tell us. It did not yield much.Only this."
He pulled a crumpled envelope out of his pocket, and tossed it overto me. It was rather a curious document. A plain, dirty looking oldenvelope with a few words scrawled across it, apparently at random. Thefollowing is a facsimile of it.
The Mysterious Affair at Styles Page 4