Hercule Poirot 100 Years (1916 - 2016)

by Mark Place

  "Pardon me, mon ami, you were not precisely sympathique." He turned to me earnestly. "Tell me—you see now that he must not be arrested?"

  "Perhaps," I said doubtfully, for I was really quite indifferent to the fate of Alfred Inglethorp, and thought that a good fright would do him no harm.

  Poirot, who was watching me intently, gave a sigh.

  "Come, my friend," he said, changing the subject, "apart from Mr. Inglethorp, how did the evidence at the inquest strike you?"

  "Oh, pretty much what I expected."

  "Did nothing strike you as peculiar about it?"

  My thoughts flew to Mary Cavendish, and I hedged:

  "In what way?"

  "Well, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's evidence for instance?"

  I was relieved.

  "Oh, Lawrence! No, I don't think so. He's always a nervous chap."

  "His suggestion that his mother might have been poisoned accidentally by means of the tonic she was taking, that did not strike you as strange—bein?"

  "No, I can't say it did. The doctors ridiculed it of course. But it was quite a natural suggestion for a layman to make."

  "But Monsieur Lawrence is not a layman. You told me yourself that he had started by studying medicine, and that he had taken his degree."

  "Yes, that's true. I never thought of that." I was rather startled. "It is odd."

  Poirot nodded. "From the first, his behaviour has been peculiar. Of all the household, he alone would be likely to recognize the symptoms of strychnine poisoning, and yet we find him the only member of the family to uphold strenuously the theory of death from natural causes. If it had been Monsieur John, I could have understood it. He has no technical knowledge, and is by nature unimaginative. But Monsieur Lawrence—no! And now, to-day, he puts forward a suggestion that he himself must have known was ridiculous. There is food for thought in this, mon ami!"

  "It's very confusing," I agreed.

  "Then there is Mrs. Cavendish," continued Poirot. "That's another who is not telling all she knows! What do you make of her attitude?"

  "I don't know what to make of it. It seems inconceivable that she should be shielding Alfred Inglethorp. Yet that is what it looks like." Poirot nodded reflectively.

  "Yes, it is queer. One thing is certain, she overheard a good deal more of that 'private conversation' than she was willing to admit."

  "And yet she is the last person one would accuse of stooping to eavesdrop!"

  "Exactly. One thing her evidence has shown me. I made a mistake. Dorcas was quite right. The quarrel did take place earlier in the afternoon, about four o'clock, as she said."

  I looked at him curiously. I had never understood his insistence on that point.

  "Yes, a good deal that was peculiar came out to-day," continued Poirot. "Dr. Bauerstein, now, what was he doing up and dressed at that hour in the morning? It is astonishing to me that no one commented on the fact."

  "He has insomnia, I believe," I said doubtfully.

  "Which is a very good, or a very bad explanation," remarked Poirot. "It covers everything, and explains nothing. I shall keep my eye on our clever Dr. Bauerstein."

  "Any more faults to find with the evidence?" I inquired satirically.

  "Mon ami," replied Poirot gravely, "when you find that people are not telling you the truth—look out! Now, unless I am much mistaken, at the inquest to-day only one—at most, two persons were speaking the truth without reservation or subterfuge."

  "Oh, come now, Poirot! I won't cite Lawrence, or Mrs. Cavendish. But there's John—and Miss Howard, surely they were speaking the truth?"

  "Both of them, my friend? One, I grant you, but both——!"

  His words gave me an unpleasant shock. Miss Howard's evidence, unimportant as it was, had been given in such a downright straightforward manner that it had never occurred to me to doubt her sincerity. Still, I had a great respect for Poirot's sagacity—except on the occasions when he was what I described to myself as "foolishly pig-headed."

  "Do you really think so?" I asked. "Miss Howard had always seemed to me so essentially honest—almost uncomfortably so."

  Poirot gave me a curious look, which I could not quite fathom. He seemed to speak, and then checked himself.

  "Miss Murdoch too," I continued, "there's nothing untruthful about her."

  "No. But it was strange that she never heard a sound, sleeping next door; whereas Mrs. Cavendish, in the other wing of the building, distinctly heard the table fall."

  "Well, she's young. And she sleeps soundly."

  "Ah, yes, indeed! She must be a famous sleeper, that one!"

  I did not quite like the tone of his voice, but at that moment a smart knock reached our ears, and looking out of the window we perceived the two detectives waiting for us below. Poirot seized his hat, gave a ferocious twist to his moustache, and, carefully brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve, motioned me to precede him down the stairs; there we joined the detectives and set out for Styles. I think the appearance of the two Scotland Yard men was rather a shock—especially to John, though of course after the verdict, he had realized that it was only a matter of time. Still, the presence of the detectives brought the truth home to him more than anything else could have done. Poirot had conferred with Japp in a low tone on the way up, and it was the latter functionary who requested that the household, with the exception of the servants, should be assembled together in the drawing-room. I realized the significance of this. It was up to Poirot to make his boast good. Personally, I was not sanguine. Poirot might have excellent reasons for his belief in Inglethorp's innocence, but a man of the type of Summerhaye would require tangible proofs, and these I doubted if Poirot could supply. Before very long we had all trooped into the drawing-room, the door of which Japp closed. Poirot politely set chairs for everyone. The Scotland Yard men were the cynosure of all eyes. I think that for the first time we realized that the thing was not a bad dream, but a tangible reality. We had read of such things—now we ourselves were actors in the drama. To-morrow the daily papers, all over England, would blazon out the news in staring headlines:

  "MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY IN ESSEX"

  "WEALTHY LADY POISONED"

  There would be pictures of Styles, snap-shots of "The family leaving the Inquest"—the village photographer had not been idle! All the things that one had read a hundred times—things that happen to other people, not to oneself. And now, in this house, a murder had been committed. In front of us were "the detectives in charge of the case." The well-known glib phraseology passed rapidly through my mind in the interval before Poirot opened the proceedings. I think everyone was a little surprised that it should be he and not one of the official detectives who took the initiative.

  "Mesdames and messieurs," said Poirot, bowing as though he were a celebrity about to deliver a lecture, "I have asked you to come here all together, for a certain object. That object, it concerns Mr. Alfred Inglethorp."

  Inglethorp was sitting a little by himself—I think, unconsciously, everyone had drawn his chair slightly away from him—and he gave a faint start as Poirot pronounced his name.

  "Mr. Inglethorp," said Poirot, addressing him directly, "a very dark shadow is resting on this house—the shadow of murder."

  Inglethorp shook his head sadly.

  "My poor wife," he murmured. "Poor Emily! It is terrible."

  "I do not think, monsieur," said Poirot pointedly, "that you quite realize how terrible it may be—for you." And as Inglethorp did not appear to understand, he added: "Mr. Inglethorp, you are standing in very grave danger."

  The two detectives fidgeted. I saw the official caution "Anything you say will be used in evidence against you," actually hovering on Summerhaye's lips. Poirot went on.

  "Do you understand now, monsieur?"

  "No; What do you mean?"

  "I mean," said Poirot deliberately, "that you are suspected of poisoning your wife."

  A little gasp ran round the circle at this plain speaking.
/>   "Good heavens!" cried Inglethorp, starting up. "What a monstrous idea! I—poison my dearest Emily!"

  "I do not think"—Poirot watched him narrowly—"that you quite realize the unfavourable nature of your evidence at the inquest. Mr. Inglethorp, knowing what I have now told you, do you still refuse to say where you were at six o'clock on Monday afternoon?"

  With a groan, Alfred Inglethorp sank down again and buried his face in his hands. Poirot approached and stood over him.

  "Speak!" he cried menacingly.

  With an effort, Inglethorp raised his face from his hands. Then, slowly and deliberately, he shook his head.

  "You will not speak?"

  "No. I do not believe that anyone could be so monstrous as to accuse me of what you say."

  Poirot nodded thoughtfully, like a man whose mind is made up.

  "Soit!" he said. "Then I must speak for you."

  Alfred Inglethorp sprang up again.

  "You? How can you speak? You do not know——" he broke off abruptly.

  Poirot turned to face us. "Mesdames and messieurs! I speak! Listen! I, Hercule Poirot, affirm that the man who entered the chemist's shop, and purchased strychnine at six o'clock on Monday last was not Mr. Inglethorp, for at six o'clock on that day Mr. Inglethorp was escorting Mrs. Raikes back to her home from a neighbouring farm. I can produce no less than five witnesses to swear to having seen them together, either at six or just after and, as you may know, the Abbey Farm, Mrs. Raikes's home, is at least two and a half miles distant from the village. There is absolutely no question as to the alibi!"

  CHAPTER VIII. FRESH SUSPICIONS

  There was a moment's stupefied silence. Japp, who was the least surprised of any of us, was the first to speak.

  "My word," he cried, "you're the goods! And no mistake, Mr. Poirot! These witnesses of yours are all right, I suppose?"

  "Voila! I have prepared a list of them—names and addresses. You must see them, of course. But you will find it all right."

  "I'm sure of that." Japp lowered his voice. "I'm much obliged to you. A pretty mare's nest arresting him would have been." He turned to Inglethorp. "But, if you'll excuse me, sir, why couldn't you say all this at the inquest?"

  "I will tell you why," interrupted Poirot. "There was a certain rumour——"

  "A most malicious and utterly untrue one," interrupted Alfred Inglethorp in an agitated voice.

  "And Mr. Inglethorp was anxious to have no scandal revived just at present. Am I right?"

  "Quite right." Inglethorp nodded. "With my poor Emily not yet buried, can you wonder I was anxious that no more lying rumours should be started."

  "Between you and me, sir," remarked Japp, "I'd sooner have any amount of rumours than be arrested for murder. And I venture to think your poor lady would have felt the same. And, if it hadn't been for Mr. Poirot here, arrested you would have been, as sure as eggs is eggs!"

  "I was foolish, no doubt," murmured Inglethorp. "But you do not know, inspector, how I have been persecuted and maligned." And he shot a baleful glance at Evelyn Howard.

  "Now, sir," said Japp, turning briskly to John, "I should like to see the lady's bedroom, please, and after that I'll have a little chat with the servants. Don't you bother about anything. Mr. Poirot, here, will show me the way."

  As they all went out of the room, Poirot turned and made me a sign to follow him upstairs. There he caught me by the arm, and drew me aside. "Quick, go to the other wing. Stand there—just this side of the baize door. Do not move till I come." Then, turning rapidly, he rejoined the two detectives.

  I followed his instructions, taking up my position by the baize door, and wondering what on earth lay behind the request. Why was I to stand in this particular spot on guard? I looked thoughtfully down the corridor in front of me. An idea struck me. With the exception of Cynthia Murdoch's, every one's room was in this left wing. Had that anything to do with it? Was I to report who came or went? I stood faithfully at my post. The minutes passed. Nobody came. Nothing happened. It must have been quite twenty minutes before Poirot rejoined me.

  "You have not stirred?"

  "No, I've stuck here like a rock. Nothing's happened."

  "Ah!" Was he pleased, or disappointed? "You've seen nothing at all?"

  "No."

  "But you have probably heard something? A big bump—eh, mon ami?"

  "No."

  "Is it possible? Ah, but I am vexed with myself! I am not usually clumsy. I made but a slight gesture"—I know Poirot's gestures—"with the left hand, and over went the table by the bed!"

  He looked so childishly vexed and crest-fallen that I hastened to console him. “Never mind, old chap. What does it matter? Your triumph downstairs excited you. I can tell you, that was a surprise to us all. There must be more in this affair of Inglethorp's with Mrs. Raikes than we thought, to make him hold his tongue so persistently. What are you going to do now? Where are the Scotland Yard fellows?"

  "Gone down to interview the servants. I showed them all our exhibits. I am disappointed in Japp. He has no method!"

  "Hullo!" I said, looking out of the window. "Here's Dr. Bauerstein. I believe you're right about that man, Poirot. I don't like him."

  "He is clever," observed Poirot meditatively.

  "Oh, clever as the devil! I must say I was overjoyed to see him in the plight he was in on Tuesday. You never saw such a spectacle!" And I described the doctor's adventure. "He looked a regular scarecrow! Plastered with mud from head to foot."

  "You saw him, then?"

  "Yes. Of course, he didn't want to come in—it was just after dinner—but Mr. Inglethorp insisted."

  "What?" Poirot caught me violently by the shoulders. "Was Dr. Bauerstein here on Tuesday evening? Here? And you never told me? Why did you not tell me? Why? Why?"

  He appeared to be in an absolute frenzy.

  "My dear Poirot," I expostulated, "I never thought it would interest you. I didn't know it was of any importance."

  "Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night—the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything—everything!"

  I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that alters everything—everything."

  Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision.

  "Allons!" he said. "We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?"

  John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him.

  "Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in Tadminster. A new clue. May I take your motor?"

  "Why, of course. Do you mean at once?"

  "If you please."

  John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In another ten minutes, we were racing down the park and along the high road to Tadminster.

  "Now, Poirot," I remarked resignedly, "perhaps you will tell me what all this is about?"

  "Well, mon ami, a good deal you can guess for yourself. Of course you realize that, now Mr. Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is greatly changed. We are face to face with an entirely new problem. We know now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest—but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee—Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia."

  "Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion.

  "In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," contin
ued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes—doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself—have you no suspicions of anybody?"

  I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.

  "You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish."

  "Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts."

  "Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd—but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!"

  "Miss Howard?"

  "Yes—you'll laugh at me——"

  "Not at all. Why should I?"

  "I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?"

  "Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working."

  "Well?"

  "Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that—a convoy coming in unexpectedly—she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that."

  "Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I continued, "it's her extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I can't help feeling she'd do anything against him. And I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him."

  "You consider her vehemence unnatural?"

  "Y—es. She is so very violent. I wondered really whether she is quite sane on that point."