The Mysterious Affair at Styles
by Agatha Christie
THE INQUEST
CHAPTER VI
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’m 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 four-thirty, and not four 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 five 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 one in seventy thousand, 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.”
Dr. Wilkins was recalled and ridiculed the idea.
“What Mr. Cavendish suggests is quite impossible. Any doctor would tell
you the same. Strychnine is, in a certain sense, a cumulative poison,
but it would be quite impossible for it to result in sudden death in
this way. There would have to be a long period of chronic symptoms
which would at once have attracted my attention. The whole thing is
absurd.”
“And the second suggestion? That Mrs. Inglethorp may have inadvertently
taken an overdose?”
“Three, or even four doses, would not have resulted in death. Mrs.
Inglethorp always had an extra large amount of medicine made up at a
time, as she dealt with Coot’s, the Cash Chemists in Tadminster. She
would have had to take very nearly the whole bottle to account for the
amount of strychnine found at the post-mortem.”
“Then you consider that we may dismiss the tonic as not being in any
way instrumental in causing her death?”
“Certainly. The supposition is ridiculous.”
The same juryman who had interrupted before here suggested that the
chemist who made up the medicine might have committed an error.
“That, of course, is always possible,” replied the doctor.
But Dorcas, who was the next witness called, dispelled even that
possibility. The medicine had not been newly made up. On the contrary,
Mrs. Inglethorp had taken the last dose on the day of her death.
So the question of the tonic was finally abandoned, and the Coroner
proceeded with his task. Having elicited from Dorcas how she had been
awakened by the violent ringing of her mistress’s bell, and had
subsequently roused the household, he passed to the subject of the
quarrel on the preceding afternoon.
Dorcas’s evidence on this point was substantially what Poirot and I had
already heard, so I will not repeat it here.
The next witness was Mary Cavendish. She stood very upright, and spoke
in a low, clear, and perfectly composed voice. In answer to the
Coroner’s question, she told how, her alarm clock having aroused her at
four-thirty as usual, she was dressing, when she was startled by the
sound of something heavy falling.
“That would have been the table by the bed?” commented the Coroner.
“I opened my door,” continued Mary, “and listened. In a few minutes a
bell rang violently. Dorcas came running down and woke my husband, and
we all went to my mother-in-law’s room, but it was locked——”
The Coroner interrupted her.
“I really do not think we need trouble you further on that point. We
know all that can be known of the subsequent happenings. But I should
be obliged if you would tell us all you overheard of the quarrel the
day before.”
“I?”
There was a faint insolence in her voice. She raised her hand and
adjusted the ruffle of lace at her neck, turning her head a little as
she did so. And quite spontaneously the thought flashed across my mind:
“She is gaining time!”
“Yes. I understand,” continued the Coroner deliberately, “that you were
sitting reading on the bench just outside the long window of the
boudoir. That is so, is it not?”
This was news to me and glancing sideways at Poirot, I fancied that it
was news to him as well.
There was the faintest pause, the mere hesitation of a moment, before
she answered:
“Yes, that is so.”
“And the boudoir window was open, was it not?”
Surely her face grew a little paler as she answered:
“Yes.”
“Then you cannot have failed to hear the voices inside, especially as
they were raised in anger. In fact, they would be more audible where
you were than in the hall.”
“Possibly.”
“Will you repeat to us what you overheard of the quarrel?”
“I really do not remember hearing anything.”
“Do you mean to say you did not hear voices?”
“Oh, yes, I heard the voices, but I did not hear what they said.” A
faint spot of colour came into her cheek. “I am not in the habit of
listening to private conversations.”
The Coroner persisted.
“And you remember nothing at all? _Nothing_, Mrs. Cavendish? Not one
stray word or phrase to make you realize that it _was_ a private
conversation?”
She paused, and seemed to reflect, still outwardly as calm as ever.
“Yes; I remember. Mrs. Inglethorp said something—I do not remember
exactly what—about causing scandal between husband and wife.”
“Ah!” the Coroner leant back satisfied. “That corresponds with what
Dorcas heard. But excuse me, Mrs. Cavendish, although you realized it
was a private conversation, you did not move away? You remained where
you were?”
I caught the momentary gleam of her tawny eyes as she raised them. I
felt certain that at that moment she would willingly have torn the
little lawyer, with his insinuations, into pieces, but she replied
quietly enough:
“No. I was very comfortable where I was. I fixed my mind on my book.”
“And that is all you can tell us?”
“That is all.”
The examination was over, though I doubted if the Coroner was entirely
satisfied with it. I think he suspected that Mary Cavendish could tell
more if she chose.
Amy Hill, shop assistant, was next called, and deposed to having sold a
will form on the afternoon of the 17th to William Earl, under-gardener
at Styles.
William Earl and Manning succeeded her, and testified to witnessing a
document. Manning fixed the time at about four-thirty, William was of
the opinion that it was rather earlier.
Cynthia Murdoch came next. She had, however, little to tell. She had
known nothing of the tragedy, until awakened by Mrs. Cavendish.
“You did not hear the table fall?”
“No. I was fast asleep.”
The Coroner smiled.
“A good conscience makes a sound sleeper,” he observed. “Thank you,
Miss Murdoch, that is all.”
“Miss Howard.”
Miss Howard produced the letter written to her by Mrs. Inglethorp on
the evening of the 17th. Poirot and I had, of course already seen it.
It added nothing to our knowledge of the tragedy. The following is a
facsimile:
STYLES COURT
ESSEX
hand written note:
July 17th
My dear Evelyn
Can we not bury
the hachet? I have
found it hard to forgive
the things you said
against my dear husband
but I am an old woman
& very fond of you
Yours affectionately,
Emily Inglethorpe
It was handed to the jury who scrutinized it attentively.
“I fear it does not help us much,” said the Coroner, with a sigh.
“There is no mention of any of the events of that afternoon.”
“Plain as a pikestaff to me,” said Miss Howard shortly. “It shows
clearly enough that my poor old friend had just found out she’d been
made a fool of!”
“It says nothing of the kind in the letter,” the Coroner pointed out.
“No, because Emily never could bear to put herself in the wrong. But
_I_ know her. She wanted me back. But she wasn’t going to own that I’d
been right. She went round about. Most people do. Don’t believe in it
myself.”
Mr. Wells smiled faintly. So, I noticed, did several of the jury. Miss
Howard was obviously quite a public character.
“Anyway, all this tomfoolery is a great waste of time,” continued the
lady, glancing up and down the jury disparagingly. “Talk—talk—talk!
When all the time we know perfectly well——”
The Coroner interrupted her in an agony of apprehension:
“Thank you, Miss Howard, that is all.”
I fancy he breathed a sigh of relief when she complied.
Then came the sensation of the day. The Coroner called Albert Mace,
chemist’s assistant.
It was our agitated young man of the pale face. In answer to the
Coroner’s questions, he explained that he was a qualified pharmacist,
but had only recently come to this particular shop, as the assistant
formerly there had just been called up for the army.
These preliminaries completed, the Coroner proceeded to business.
“Mr. Mace, have you lately sold strychnine to any unauthorized person?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When was this?”
“Last Monday night.”
“Monday? Not Tuesday?”
“No, sir, Monday, the 16th.”
“Will you tell us to whom you sold it?”
You could have heard a pin drop.
“Yes, sir. It was to Mr. Inglethorp.”
Every eye turned simultaneously to where Alfred Inglethorp was sitting,
impassive and wooden. He started slightly, as the damning words fell
from the young man’s lips. I half thought he was going to rise from his
chair, but he remained seated, although a remarkably well acted
expression of astonishment rose on his face.
“You are sure of what you say?” asked the Coroner sternly.
“Quite sure, sir.”
“Are you in the habit of selling strychnine indiscriminately over the
counter?”
The wretched young man wilted visibly under the Coroner’s frown.
“Oh, no, sir—of course not. But, seeing it was Mr. Inglethorp of the
Hall, I thought there was no harm in it. He said it was to poison a
dog.”
Inwardly I sympathized. It was only human nature to endeavour to please
“The Hall”—especially when it might result in custom being transferred
from Coot’s to the local establishment.
“Is it not customary for anyone purchasing poison to sign a book?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Inglethorp did so.”
“Have you got the book here?”
“Yes, sir.”
It was produced; and, with a few words of stern censure, the Coroner
dismissed the wretched Mr. Mace.
Then, amidst a breathless silence, Alfred Inglethorp was called. Did he
realize, I wondered, how closely the halter was being drawn around his
neck?
The Coroner went straight to the point.
“On Monday evening last, did you purchase strychnine for the purpose of
poisoning a dog?”
Inglethorp replied with perfect calmness:
“No, I did not. There is no dog at Styles, except an outdoor sheepdog,
which is in perfect health.”
“You deny absolutely having purchased strychnine from Albert Mace on
Monday last?”
“I do.”
“Do you also deny _this_?”
The Coroner handed him the register in which his signature was
inscribed.
“Certainly I do. The hand-writing is quite different from mine. I will
show you.”
He took an old envelope out of his pocket, and wrote his name on it,
handing it to the jury. It was certainly utterly dissimilar.
“Then what is your explanation of Mr. Mace’s statement?”
Alfred Inglethorp replied imperturbably:
“Mr. Mace must have been mistaken.”
The Coroner hesitated for a moment, and then said:
“Mr. Inglethorp, as a mere matter of form, would you mind telling us
where you were on the evening of Monday, July 16th?”
“Really—I cannot remember.”
“That is absurd, Mr. Inglethorp,” said the Coroner sharply. “Think
again.”
Inglethorp shook his head.
“I cannot tell you. I have an idea that I was out walking.”
“In what direction?”
“I really can’t remember.”
The Coroner’s face grew graver.
“Were you in company with anyone?”
“No.”
“Did you meet anyone on your walk?”
“No.”
“That is a pity,” said the Coroner dryly. “I am to take it then that
you decline to say where you were at the time that Mr. Mace positively
recognized you as entering the shop to purchase strychnine?”
“If you like to take it that way, yes.”
“Be careful, Mr. Inglethorp.”
Poirot was fidgeting nervously.
“_Sacré!_” he murmured. “Does this imbecile of a man _want_ to be
arrested?”
Inglethorp was indeed creating a bad impression. His futile denials
would not have convinced a child. The Coroner, however, passed briskly
to the next point, and Poirot drew a deep breath of relief.
“You had a discussion with your wife on Tuesday afternoon?”
“Pardon me,” interrupted Alfred Inglethorp, “you have been misinformed.
I had no quarrel with my dear wife. The whole story is absolutely
untrue. I was absent from the house the entire afternoon.”
“Have you anyone who can testify to that?”
“You have my word,” said Inglethorp haughtily.
The Coroner did not trouble to reply.
“There are two witnesses who will swear to having heard your
disagreement with Mrs. Inglethorp.”
“Those witnesses were mistaken.”
I was puzzled. The man spoke with such quiet assurance that I was
staggered. I looked at Poirot. There was an expression of exultation on
his face which I could not understand. Was he at last convinced of
Alfred Inglethorp’s guilt?
“Mr. Inglethorp,” said the Coroner, “you have heard your wife’s dying
words repeated here. Can you explain them in any way?”
“Certainly I can.”
“You can?”
“It seems to me very simple. The room was dimly lighted. Dr. Bauerstein
is much of my height and build, and, like me, wears a beard. In the dim
light, and suffering as she was, my poor wife mistook him for me.”
“Ah!” murmured Poirot to himself. “But it is an idea, that!”
“You think it is true?” I whispered.
“I do not say that. But it is truly an ingenious supposition.”
“You read my wife’s last words as an accusation”—Inglethorp was
continuing—“they were, on the contrary, an appeal to me.”
The Coroner reflected a moment, then he said:
“I believe, Mr. Inglethorp, that you yourself poured out the coffee,
and took it to your wife that evening?”
“I poured it out, yes. But I did not take it to her. I meant to do so,
but I was told that a friend was at the hall door, so I laid down the
coffee on the hall table. When I came through the hall again a few
minutes later, it was gone.”
This statement might, or might not, be true, but it did not seem to me
to improve matters much for Inglethorp. In any case, he had had ample
time to introduce the poison.
At that point, Poirot nudged me gently, indicating two men who were
sitting together near the door. One was a little, sharp, dark,
ferret-faced man, the other was tall and fair.
I questioned Poirot mutely. He put his lips to my ear.
“Do you know who that little man is?”
I shook my head.
“That is Detective Inspector James Japp of Scotland Yard—Jimmy Japp.
The other man is from Scotland Yard too. Things are moving quickly, my
friend.”
I stared at the two men intently. There was certainly nothing of the
policeman about them. I should never have suspected them of being
official personages.
I was still staring, when I was startled and recalled by the verdict
being given:
“Wilful Murder against some person or persons unknown.”
*****
