The Mysterious Affair at Styles Page #11

The Mysterious Affair at Styles is a detective novel by British writer Agatha Christie. It was written in the middle of the First World War, in 1916, and first published by John Lane in the United States in October 1920 and in the United Kingdom by The Bodley Head on 21 January 1921.

• Mystery
• Novel

								


“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 of tea—nothing to eat—to the boudoir. She was looking dreadful—so white and upset. ‘Dorcas,’ she says, ‘I’ve had a great shock.’ ‘I’m sorry for that, 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, or just a piece of paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring at it, almost as if she couldn’t believe what was written there. She whispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there: ‘These few words—and everything’s changed.’ And then she says to me: ‘Never trust a man, Dorcas, they’re not worth it!’ I hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she’d feel better when she’d drunk it. ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she says. ‘Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I’d rather hush it up if I could.’ Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn’t say any more.”

“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 purple case of hers.”

“Is that where she usually kept important papers?”

“Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night.”

“When did she lose the key of it?”

“She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully 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 was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled.

“Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?” He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock 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 looked everywhere for it.”

“Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress 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 or otherwise. He merely remarked:

“Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that 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 she didn’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 to sign any paper yesterday?”

“To sign a paper? No, sir.”

“When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?”

“I’m afraid I couldn’t, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she’s a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That’s what happens when I’m not here to look after things.”

Poirot lifted his hand.

“Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. 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 strolled to the window. “I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?”

“Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a 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 young William, 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, will you 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 key and 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 for powders.

“Where did you find it?”

“In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp’s bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue.”

“But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?”

“Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about 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, if required. 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 his printed 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, my friend.”

An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no time to reply.

Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring under intense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of the tragedy.

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 me something about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last night. How many were 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 was to 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 other one, I don’t remember.”

“Think,” urged Poirot.

Annie racked her brains in vain.
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