Classic Works from Women Writers

by Editors of Canterbury Classics

  “Exactly. And have you not, in such a case, tried the word once or twice on the edge of the blotting-paper, or a spare scrap of paper, to see if it looked right? Well, that is what Mrs. Inglethorp did. You will notice that the word ‘possessed’ is spelt first with one ‘s’ and subsequently with two—correctly. To make sure, she had further tried it in a sentence, thus: ‘I am possessed.’ Now, what did that tell me? It told me that Mrs. Inglethorp had been writing the word ‘possessed’ that afternoon, and, having the fragment of paper found in the grate fresh in my mind, the possibility of a will—(a document almost certain to contain that word)—occurred to me at once. This possibility was confirmed by a further circumstance. In the general confusion, the boudoir had not been swept that morning, and near the desk were several traces of brown mould and earth. The weather had been perfectly fine for some 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 had been newly planted. The mould in the beds was exactly similar to that on the floor of the boudoir, and also I learnt from you that they had been planted yesterday afternoon. I was now sure that one, or possibly both of the gardeners—for there were two sets of footprints in the bed—had entered the boudoir, for if Mrs. Inglethorp had merely wished to speak to them she would in all probability have stood at the window, and they would not have come into the room at all. I was now quite convinced that she had made a fresh will, and had called the two gardeners in to witness her signature. Events proved that I was right in my supposition.”

  “That was very ingenious,” I could not help admitting. “I must confess that the conclusions I drew from those few scribbled words were quite erroneous.”

  He smiled.

  “You gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely.”

  “Another point—how did you know that the key of the despatch-case had been lost?”

  “I did not know it. It was a guess that turned out to be correct. You observed that it had a piece of twisted wire through the handle. That suggested to me at once that it had possibly been wrenched off a flimsy key-ring. Now, if it had been lost and recovered, Mrs. Inglethorp would at once have replaced it on her bunch; but on her bunch I found what was obviously the duplicate key, very new and bright, which led me to the hypothesis that somebody else had inserted the original key in the lock of 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 more clearly.”

  “On the contrary,” said Poirot quietly, “there are several points in his favour.”

  “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 to my mind tells against him.”

  “How is that?”

  “Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisoned last night, he would certainly have arranged to be away from the house. His excuse was an obviously trumped up one. That leaves us two possibilities: either he knew what was going to happen or he had a reason 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 necessity make him a murderer.”

  I shook my head, unconvinced.

  “We do not agree, eh?” said Poirot. “Well, let us leave it. Time will show 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 were bolted 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 have told us that—yet the presence of the candle grease on the floor, and the destruction of the will, prove that during the night someone entered the room. You agree so far?”

  “Perfectly. Put with admirable clearness. Proceed.”

  “Well,” I said, encouraged, “as the person who entered did not do so by the window, nor by miraculous means, it follows that the door must have been opened from inside by Mrs. Inglethorp herself. That strengthens the conviction that the person in question was her husband. She would naturally open the door to her own husband.”

  Poirot shook his head.

  “Why should she? She had bolted the door leading into his room—a most unusual proceeding on her part—she had had a most violent quarrel with him 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 door into the passage when she went to bed, and have got up later, towards morning, 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 another feature, what do you make of the scrap of conversation you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law?”

  “I had forgotten that,” I said thoughtfully. “That is as enigmatical as ever. It seems incredible that a woman like Mrs. Cavendish, proud and reticent to the last degree, should interfere so violently in what was certainly not her affair.”

  “Precisely. It was an astonishing thing for a woman of her breeding to do.”

  “It is certainly curious,” I agreed. “Still, it is unimportant, and need not be taken into account.”

  A groan burst from Poirot.

  “What have I always told you? Everything must be taken into account. If the 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 his own room. He offered me one of the tiny Russian cigarettes he himself occasionally smoked. I was amused to notice that he stowed away the used matches most carefully in a little china pot. My momentary annoyance vanished.

  Poirot had placed our two chairs in front of the open window which commanded a view of the village street. The fresh air blew in warm and pleasant. It was going to be a hot day.

  Suddenly my attention was arrested by a weedy looking young man rushing down the street at a great pace. It was the expression on his face that was 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 is coming here.”

  The young man came to a halt before Leastways Cottage, and, after hesitating 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 opened the door. Mr. Mace began at once.

  “Oh, Mr. Poirot, I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I heard that you’d just 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 his agitation was too much for him. He clutched Poirot by the arm, and sank his voice to a whisper: “Just
tell me this, Mr. Poirot, it isn’t—it isn’t strychnine, is it?”

  I hardly heard what Poirot replied. Something evidently of a non-committal nature. The young man departed, and as he closed the door Poirot’s eyes met mine.

  “Yes,” he said, nodding gravely. “He will have evidence to give at the inquest.”

  We went slowly upstairs again. I was opening my lips, when Poirot stopped me with a gesture of his hand.

  “Not now, not now, mon ami. I have need of reflection. My mind is in some disorder—which is not well.”

  For about ten minutes he sat in dead silence, perfectly still, except for several expressive motions of his eyebrows, and all the time his eyes grew steadily greener. At last he heaved a deep sigh.

  “It is well. The bad moment has passed. Now all is arranged and classified. One must never permit confusion. The case is not clear yet—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 very important.”

  “But it was a glorious day!” I interrupted. “Poirot, you’re pulling my leg!”

  “Not at all. The thermometer registered 80 degrees in the shade. Do not forget 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 peculiar clothes, 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 Murder against Alfred Inglethorp. What becomes of your theories, then?”

  “They would not be shaken because twelve stupid men had happened to make a mistake! But that will not occur. For one thing, a country jury is not anxious to take responsibility upon itself, and Mr. Inglethorp stands practically 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 and amusement. He was so tremendously sure of himself. As though he read my thoughts, he nodded gently.

  “Oh, yes, mon ami, I would do what I say.” He got up and laid his hand on my shoulder. His physiognomy underwent a complete change. Tears came 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 was very 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 let Alfred Inglethorp, her husband, be arrested now—when a word from me could save him!”

  Chapter VI

  THE INQUEST

  In the interval before the inquest, Poirot was unfailing in his activity. Twice he was closeted with Mr. Wells. He also took long walks into the country. I rather resented his not taking me into his confidence, the more so as I could not in the least guess what he was driving at.

  It occurred to me that he might have been making inquiries at Raikes’s farm; so, finding him out when I called at Leastways Cottage on Wednesday evening, I walked over there by the fields, hoping to meet him. But there was no sign of him, and I hesitated to go right up to the farm itself. As I walked away, I met an aged rustic, who leered at me cunningly.

  “You’m from the Hall, bain’t you?” he asked.

  “Yes. I’m looking for a friend of mine whom I thought might have walked this way.”

  “A little chap? As waves his hands when he talks? One of them Belgies from the village?”

  “Yes,” I said eagerly. “He has been here, then?”

  “Oh, ay, he’s been here, right enough. More’n once too. Friend of yours, is he? Ah, you gentlemen from the Hall—you’n a pretty lot!” And he leered more jocosely than ever.

  “Why, do the gentlemen from the Hall come here often?” I asked, as carelessly as I could.

  He winked at me knowingly.

  “One does, mister. Naming no names, mind. And a very liberal gentleman too! Oh, thank you, sir, I’m sure.”

  I walked on sharply. Evelyn Howard had been right then, and I experienced a sharp twinge of disgust, as I thought of Alfred Inglethorp’s liberality with another woman’s money. Had that piquant gipsy face been at the bottom of the crime, or was it the baser mainspring of money? Probably a judicious mixture of both.

  On one point, Poirot seemed to have a curious obsession. He once or twice observed to me that he thought Dorcas must have made an error in fixing the time of the quarrel. He suggested to her repeatedly that it was 4.30, and not 4 o’clock when she had heard the voices.

  But Dorcas was unshaken. Quite an hour, or even more, had elapsed between the time when she had heard the voices and 5 o’clock, when she had taken tea to her mistress.

  The inquest was held on Friday at the Stylites Arms in the village. Poirot and I sat together, not being required to give evidence.

  The preliminaries were gone through. The jury viewed the body, and John Cavendish gave evidence of identification.

  Further questioned, he described his awakening in the early hours of the morning, and the circumstances of his mother’s death.

  The medical evidence was next taken. There was a breathless hush, and every eye was fixed on the famous London specialist, who was known to be one of the greatest authorities of the day on the subject of toxicology.

  In a few brief words, he summed up the result of the post-mortem. Shorn of its medical phraseology and technicalities, it amounted to the fact that Mrs. Inglethorp had met her death as the result of strychnine poisoning. Judging from the quantity recovered, she must have taken not less than three-quarters of a grain of strychnine, but probably one grain or slightly over.

  “Is it possible that she could have swallowed the poison by accident?” asked the Coroner.

  “I should consider it very unlikely. Strychnine is not used for domestic purposes, as some poisons are, and there are restrictions placed on its sale.”

  “Does anything in your examination lead you to determine how the poison was administered?”

  “No.”

  “You arrived at Styles before Dr. Wilkins, I believe?”

  “That is so. The motor met me just outside the lodge gates, and I hurried there as fast as I could.”

  “Will you relate to us exactly what happened next?”

  “I entered Mrs. Inglethorp’s room. She was at that moment in a typical tetanic convulsion. She turned towards me, and gasped out: ‘Alfred—Alfred—’ ”

  “Could the strychnine have been administered in Mrs. Inglethorp’s after-dinner coffee which was taken to her by her husband?”

  “Possibly, but strychnine is a fairly rapid drug in its action. The symptoms appear from one to two hours after it has been swallowed. It is retarded under certain conditions, none of which, however, appear to have been present in this case. I presume Mrs. Inglethorp took the coffee after dinner about eight o’clock, whereas the symptoms did not manifest themselves until the early hours of the morning, which, on the face of it, points to the drug having been taken much later in the evening.”

  “Mrs. Inglethorp was in the habit of drinking a cup of cocoa in the middle of the night. Could the strychnine have been administered in that?”

  “No, I myself took a sample of the cocoa remaining in the saucepan and had it analysed. There was no strychnine present.”

  I heard Poirot chuckle softly beside me.

  “How did you know?” I whispered.

  “Listen.”

  “I should say”—the doctor was continuing—“that I would have been considerably surprised at any other result.”

  “Why?”

  “Simply because
strychnine has an unusually bitter taste. It can be detected in a solution of 1 in 70,000, and can only be disguised by some strongly flavoured substance. Cocoa would be quite powerless to mask it.”

  One of the jury wanted to know if the same objection applied to coffee.

  “No. Coffee has a bitter taste of its own which would probably cover the taste of strychnine.”

  “Then you consider it more likely that the drug was administered in the coffee, but that for some unknown reason its action was delayed.”

  “Yes, but, the cup being completely smashed, there is no possibility of analyzing its contents.”

  This concluded Dr. Bauerstein’s evidence. Dr. Wilkins corroborated it on all points. Sounded as to the possibility of suicide, he repudiated it utterly. The deceased, he said, suffered from a weak heart, but otherwise enjoyed perfect health, and was of a cheerful and well-balanced disposition. She would be one of the last people to take her own life.

  Lawrence Cavendish was next called. His evidence was quite unimportant, being a mere repetition of that of his brother. Just as he was about to step down, he paused, and said rather hesitatingly:

  “I should like to make a suggestion if I may?”

  He glanced deprecatingly at the Coroner, who replied briskly:

  “Certainly, Mr. Cavendish, we are here to arrive at the truth of this matter, and welcome anything that may lead to further elucidation.”

  “It is just an idea of mine,” explained Lawrence. “Of course I may be quite wrong, but it still seems to me that my mother’s death might be accounted for by natural means.”

  “How do you make that out, Mr. Cavendish?”

  “My mother, at the time of her death, and for some time before it, was taking a tonic containing strychnine.”

  “Ah!” said the Coroner.

  The jury looked up, interested.

  “I believe,” continued Lawrence, “that there have been cases where the cumulative effect of a drug, administered for some time, has ended by causing death. Also, is it not possible that she may have taken an overdose of her medicine by accident?”

  “This is the first we have heard of the deceased taking strychnine at the time of her death. We are much obliged to you, Mr. Cavendish.”