to “Mr. Inglethorp.” Pressed, he admitted that he only knew Mr.
Inglethorp by sight. He had never spoken to him. The witness was not
cross-examined.

Alfred Inglethorp was called, and denied having purchased the poison.
He also denied having quarrelled with his wife. Various witnesses
testified to the accuracy of these statements.

The gardeners’ evidence, as to the witnessing of the will was taken,
and then Dorcas was called.

Dorcas, faithful to her “young gentlemen,” denied strenuously that it
could have been John’s voice she heard, and resolutely declared, in the
teeth of everything, that it was Mr. Inglethorp who had been in the
boudoir with her mistress. A rather wistful smile passed across the
face of the prisoner in the dock. He knew only too well how useless her
gallant defiance was, since it was not the object of the defence to
deny this point. Mrs. Cavendish, of course, could not be called upon to
give evidence against her husband.

After various questions on other matters, Mr. Philips asked:

“In the month of June last, do you remember a parcel arriving for Mr.
Lawrence Cavendish from Parkson’s?”

Dorcas shook her head.

“I don’t remember, sir. It may have done, but Mr. Lawrence was away
from home part of June.”

“In the event of a parcel arriving for him whilst he was away, what
would be done with it?”

“It would either be put in his room or sent on after him.”

“By you?”

“No, sir, I should leave it on the hall table. It would be Miss Howard
who would attend to anything like that.”

Evelyn Howard was called and, after being examined on other points, was
questioned as to the parcel.

“Don’t remember. Lots of parcels come. Can’t remember one special one.”

“You do not know if it was sent after Mr. Lawrence Cavendish to Wales,
or whether it was put in his room?”

“Don’t think it was sent after him. Should have remembered it if it
was.”

“Supposing a parcel arrived addressed to Mr. Lawrence Cavendish, and
afterwards it disappeared, should you remark its absence?”

“No, don’t think so. I should think someone had taken charge of it.”

“I believe, Miss Howard, that it was you who found this sheet of brown
paper?” He held up the same dusty piece which Poirot and I had examined
in the morning-room at Styles.

“Yes, I did.”

“How did you come to look for it?”

“The Belgian detective who was employed on the case asked me to search
for it.”

“Where did you eventually discover it?”

“On the top of—of—a wardrobe.”

“On top of the prisoner’s wardrobe?”

“I—I believe so.”

“Did you not find it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Then you must know where you found it?”

“Yes, it was on the prisoner’s wardrobe.”

“That is better.”

An assistant from Parkson’s, Theatrical Costumiers, testified that on
June 29th, they had supplied a black beard to Mr. L. Cavendish, as
requested. It was ordered by letter, and a postal order was enclosed.
No, they had not kept the letter. All transactions were entered in
their books. They had sent the beard, as directed, to “L. Cavendish,
Esq., Styles Court.”

Sir Ernest Heavywether rose ponderously.

“Where was the letter written from?”

“From Styles Court.”

“The same address to which you sent the parcel?”

“Yes.”

“And the letter came from there?”

“Yes.”

Like a beast of prey, Heavywether fell upon him:

“How do you know?”

“I—I don’t understand.”

“How do you know that letter came from Styles? Did you notice the
postmark?”

“No—but——”

“Ah, you did _not_ notice the postmark! And yet you affirm so
confidently that it came from Styles. It might, in fact, have been any
postmark?”

“Y—es.”

“In fact, the letter, though written on stamped notepaper, might have
been posted from anywhere? From Wales, for instance?”

The witness admitted that such might be the case, and Sir Ernest
signified that he was satisfied.

Elizabeth Wells, second housemaid at Styles, stated that after she had
gone to bed she remembered that she had bolted the front door, instead
of leaving it on the latch as Mr. Inglethorp had requested. She had
accordingly gone downstairs again to rectify her error. Hearing a
slight noise in the West wing, she had peeped along the passage, and
had seen Mr. John Cavendish knocking at Mrs. Inglethorp’s door.

Sir Ernest Heavywether made short work of her, and under his unmerciful
bullying she contradicted herself hopelessly, and Sir Ernest sat down
again with a satisfied smile on his face.

With the evidence of Annie, as to the candle grease on the floor, and
as to seeing the prisoner take the coffee into the boudoir, the
proceedings were adjourned until the following day.

As we went home, Mary Cavendish spoke bitterly against the prosecuting
counsel.

“That hateful man! What a net he has drawn around my poor John! How he
twisted every little fact until he made it seem what it wasn’t!”

“Well,” I said consolingly, “it will be the other way about to-morrow.”

“Yes,” she said meditatively; then suddenly dropped her voice. “Mr.
Hastings, you do not think—surely it could not have been Lawrence—Oh,
no, that could not be!”

But I myself was puzzled, and as soon as I was alone with Poirot I
asked him what he thought Sir Ernest was driving at.

“Ah!” said Poirot appreciatively. “He is a clever man, that Sir
Ernest.”

“Do you think he believes Lawrence guilty?”

“I do not think he believes or cares anything! No, what he is trying
for is to create such confusion in the minds of the jury that they are
divided in their opinion as to which brother did it. He is endeavouring
to make out that there is quite as much evidence against Lawrence as
against John—and I am not at all sure that he will not succeed.”

Detective-inspector Japp was the first witness called when the trial
was reopened, and gave his evidence succinctly and briefly. After
relating the earlier events, he proceeded:

“Acting on information received, Superintendent Summerhaye and myself
searched the prisoner’s room, during his temporary absence from the
house. In his chest of drawers, hidden beneath some underclothing, we
found: first, a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez similar to those worn by
Mr. Inglethorp”—these were exhibited—“secondly, this phial.”

The phial was that already recognized by the chemist’s assistant, a
tiny bottle of blue glass, containing a few grains of a white
crystalline powder, and labelled: “Strychnine Hydro-chloride. POISON.”

A fresh piece of evidence discovered by the detectives since the police
court proceedings was a long, almost new piece of blotting-paper. It
had been found in Mrs. Inglethorp’s cheque book, and on being reversed
at a mirror, showed clearly the words: “. . . erything of which I die
possessed I leave to my beloved husband Alfred Ing...” This placed
beyond question the fact that the destroyed will had been in favour of
the deceased lady’s husband. Japp then produced the charred fragment of
paper recovered from the grate, and this, with the discovery of the
beard in the attic, completed his evidence.

But Sir Ernest’s cross-examination was yet to come.

“What day was it when you searched the prisoner’s room?”

“Tuesday, the 24th of July.”

“Exactly a week after the tragedy?”

“Yes.”

“You found these two objects, you say, in the chest of drawers. Was the
drawer unlocked?”

“Yes.”

“Does it not strike you as unlikely that a man who had committed a
crime should keep the evidence of it in an unlocked drawer for anyone
to find?”

“He might have stowed them there in a hurry.”

“But you have just said it was a whole week since the crime. He would
have had ample time to remove them and destroy them.”

“Perhaps.”

“There is no perhaps about it. Would he, or would he not have had
plenty of time to remove and destroy them?”

“Yes.”

“Was the pile of underclothes under which the things were hidden heavy
or light?”

“Heavyish.”

“In other words, it was winter underclothing. Obviously, the prisoner
would not be likely to go to that drawer?”

“Perhaps not.”

“Kindly answer my question. Would the prisoner, in the hottest week of
a hot summer, be likely to go to a drawer containing winter
underclothing. Yes, or no?”

“No.”

“In that case, is it not possible that the articles in question might
have been put there by a third person, and that the prisoner was quite
unaware of their presence?”

“I should not think it likely.”

“But it is possible?”

“Yes.”

“That is all.”

More evidence followed. Evidence as to the financial difficulties in
which the prisoner had found himself at the end of July. Evidence as to
his intrigue with Mrs. Raikes—poor Mary, that must have been bitter
hearing for a woman of her pride. Evelyn Howard had been right in her
facts, though her animosity against Alfred Inglethorp had caused her to
jump to the conclusion that he was the person concerned.

Lawrence Cavendish was then put into the box. In a low voice, in answer
to Mr. Philips’ questions, he denied having ordered anything from
Parkson’s in June. In fact, on June 29th, he had been staying away, in
Wales.

Instantly, Sir Ernest’s chin was shooting pugnaciously forward.

“You deny having ordered a black beard from Parkson’s on June 29th?”

“I do.”

“Ah! In the event of anything happening to your brother, who will
inherit Styles Court?”

The brutality of the question called a flush to Lawrence’s pale face.
The judge gave vent to a faint murmur of disapprobation, and the
prisoner in the dock leant forward angrily.

Heavywether cared nothing for his client’s anger.

“Answer my question, if you please.”

“I suppose,” said Lawrence quietly, “that I should.”

“What do you mean by you ‘suppose’? Your brother has no children. You
_would_ inherit it, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Ah, that’s better,” said Heavywether, with ferocious geniality. “And
you’d inherit a good slice of money too, wouldn’t you?”

“Really, Sir Ernest,” protested the judge, “these questions are not
relevant.”

Sir Ernest bowed, and having shot his arrow proceeded.

“On Tuesday, the 17th July, you went, I believe, with another guest, to
visit the dispensary at the Red Cross Hospital in Tadminster?”

“Yes.”

“Did you—while you happened to be alone for a few seconds—unlock the
poison cupboard, and examine some of the bottles?”

“I—I—may have done so.”

“I put it to you that you did do so?”

“Yes.”

Sir Ernest fairly shot the next question at him.

“Did you examine one bottle in particular?”

“No, I do not think so.”

“Be careful, Mr. Cavendish. I am referring to a little bottle of
Hydro-chloride of Strychnine.”

Lawrence was turning a sickly greenish colour.

“N—o—I am sure I didn’t.”

“Then how do you account for the fact that you left the unmistakable
impress of your finger-prints on it?”

The bullying manner was highly efficacious with a nervous disposition.

“I—I suppose I must have taken up the bottle.”

“I suppose so too! Did you abstract any of the contents of the bottle?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then why did you take it up?”

“I once studied to be a doctor. Such things naturally interest me.”

“Ah! So poisons ‘naturally interest’ you, do they? Still, you waited to
be alone before gratifying that ‘interest’ of yours?”

“That was pure chance. If the others had been there, I should have done
just the same.”

“Still, as it happens, the others were not there?”

“No, but——”

“In fact, during the whole afternoon, you were only alone for a couple
of minutes, and it happened—I say, it happened—to be during those two
minutes that you displayed your ‘natural interest’ in Hydro-chloride of
Strychnine?”

Lawrence stammered pitiably.

“I—I——”

With a satisfied and expressive countenance, Sir Ernest observed:

“I have nothing more to ask you, Mr. Cavendish.”

This bit of cross-examination had caused great excitement in court. The
heads of the many fashionably attired women present were busily laid
together, and their whispers became so loud that the judge angrily
threatened to have the court cleared if there was not immediate
silence.

There was little more evidence. The hand-writing experts were called
upon for their opinion of the signature of “Alfred Inglethorp” in the
chemist’s poison register. They all declared unanimously that it was
certainly not his hand-writing, and gave it as their view that it might
be that of the prisoner disguised. Cross-examined, they admitted that
it might be the prisoner’s hand-writing cleverly counterfeited.

Sir Ernest Heavywether’s speech in opening the case for the defence was
not a long one, but it was backed by the full force of his emphatic
manner. Never, he said, in the course of his long experience, had he
known a charge of murder rest on slighter evidence. Not only was it
entirely circumstantial, but the greater part of it was practically
unproved. Let them take the testimony they had heard and sift it
impartially. The strychnine had been found in a drawer in the
prisoner’s room. That drawer was an unlocked one, as he had pointed
out, and he submitted that there was no evidence to prove that it was
the prisoner who had concealed the poison there. It was, in fact, a
wicked and malicious attempt on the part of some third person to fix
the crime on the prisoner. The prosecution had been unable to produce a
shred of evidence in support of their contention that it was the
prisoner who ordered the black beard from Parkson’s. The quarrel which
had taken place between prisoner and his stepmother was freely
admitted, but both it and his financial embarrassments had been grossly
exaggerated.

His learned friend—Sir Ernest nodded carelessly at Mr. Philips—had
stated that if the prisoner were an innocent man, he would have come
forward at the inquest to explain that it was he, and not Mr.
Inglethorp, who had been the participator in the quarrel. He thought
the facts had been misrepresented. What had actually occurred was this.
The prisoner, returning to the house on Tuesday evening, had been
authoritatively told that there had been a violent quarrel between Mr.
and Mrs. Inglethorp. No suspicion had entered the prisoner’s head that
anyone could possibly have mistaken his voice for that of Mr.
Inglethorp. He naturally concluded that his stepmother had had two
quarrels.

The prosecution averred that on Monday, July 16th, the prisoner had
entered the chemist’s shop in the village, disguised as Mr. Inglethorp.
The prisoner, on the contrary, was at that time at a lonely spot called
Marston’s Spinney, where he had been summoned by an anonymous note,
couched in blackmailing terms, and threatening to reveal certain
matters to his wife unless he complied with its demands. The prisoner
had, accordingly, gone to the appointed spot, and after waiting there
vainly for half an hour had returned home. Unfortunately, he had met
with no one on the way there or back who could vouch for the truth of
his story, but luckily he had kept the note, and it would be produced
as evidence.

As for the statement relating to the destruction of the will, the
prisoner had formerly practised at the Bar, and was perfectly well
aware that the will made in his favour a year before was automatically
revoked by his stepmother’s remarriage. He would call evidence to show
who did destroy the will, and it was possible that that might open up
quite a new view of the case.

Finally, he would point out to the jury that there was evidence against
other people besides John Cavendish. He would direct their attention to
the fact that the evidence against Mr. Lawrence Cavendish was quite as
strong, if not stronger than that against his brother.

He would now call the prisoner.

John acquitted himself well in the witness-box. Under Sir Ernest’s
skilful handling, he told his tale credibly and well. The anonymous
note received by him was produced, and handed to the jury to examine.
The readiness with which he admitted his financial difficulties, and
the disagreement with his stepmother, lent value to his denials.

At the close of his examination, he paused, and said:

“I should like to make one thing clear. I utterly reject and disapprove
of Sir Ernest Heavywether’s insinuations against my brother. My
brother, I am convinced, had no more to do with the crime than I have.”

Sir Ernest merely smiled, and noted with a sharp eye that John’s
protest had produced a very favourable impression on the jury.

Then the cross-examination began.

“I understand you to say that it never entered your head that the
witnesses at the inquest could possibly have mistaken your voice for
that of Mr. Inglethorp. Is not that very surprising?”

“No, I don’t think so. I was told there had been a quarrel between my
mother and Mr. Inglethorp, and it never occurred to me that such was
not really the case.”

“Not when the servant Dorcas repeated certain fragments of the
conversation—fragments which you must have recognized?”

“I did not recognize them.”

“Your memory must be unusually short!”

“No, but we were both angry, and, I think, said more than we meant. I
paid very little attention to my mother’s actual words.”

Mr. Philips’ incredulous sniff was a triumph of forensic skill. He
passed on to the subject of the note.

“You have produced this note very opportunely. Tell me, is there
nothing familiar about the hand-writing of it?”

“Not that I know of.”

“Do you not think that it bears a marked resemblance to your own
hand-writing—carelessly disguised?”

“No, I do not think so.”

“I put it to you that it is your own hand-writing!”

“No.”

“I put it to you that, anxious to prove an alibi, you conceived the
idea of a fictitious and rather incredible appointment, and wrote this
note yourself in order to bear out your statement!”

“No.”

“Is it not a fact that, at the time you claim to have been waiting
about at a solitary and unfrequented spot, you were really in the
chemist’s shop in Styles St. Mary, where you purchased strychnine in
the name of Alfred Inglethorp?”

“No, that is a lie.”

“I put it to you that, wearing a suit of Mr. Inglethorp’s clothes, with
a black beard trimmed to resemble his, you were there—and signed the
register in his name!”

“That is absolutely untrue.”

“Then I will leave the remarkable similarity of hand-writing between
the note, the register, and your own, to the consideration of the
jury,” said Mr. Philips, and sat down with the air of a man who has
done his duty, but who was nevertheless horrified by such deliberate
perjury.

After this, as it was growing late, the case was adjourned till Monday.

Poirot, I noticed, was looking profoundly discouraged. He had that
little frown between the eyes that I knew so well.

“What is it, Poirot?” I inquired.

“Ah, _mon ami_, things are going badly, badly.”

In spite of myself, my heart gave a leap of relief. Evidently there was
a likelihood of John Cavendish being acquitted.

When we reached the house, my little friend waved aside Mary’s offer of
tea.

“No, I thank you, madame. I will mount to my room.”

I followed him. Still frowning, he went across to the desk and took out
a small pack of patience cards. Then he drew up a chair to the table,
and, to my utter amazement, began solemnly to build card houses!

My jaw dropped involuntarily, and he said at once:

“No, _mon ami_, I am not in my second childhood! I steady my nerves,
that is all. This employment requires precision of the fingers. With
precision of the fingers goes precision of the brain. And never have I
needed that more than now!”

“What is the trouble?” I asked.

With a great thump on the table, Poirot demolished his carefully built
up edifice.

“It is this, _mon ami!_ That I can build card houses seven stories
high, but I cannot”—thump—“find”—thump—“ that last link of which I
spoke to you.”

I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my peace, and he began
slowly building up the cards again, speaking in jerks as he did so.

“It is done—so! By placing—one card—on another—with
mathematical—precision!”

I watched the card house rising under his hands, story by story. He
never hesitated or faltered. It was really almost like a conjuring
trick.

“What a steady hand you’ve got,” I remarked. “I believe I’ve only seen
your hand shake once.”

“On an occasion when I was enraged, without doubt,” observed Poirot,
with great placidity.

“Yes indeed! You were in a towering rage. Do you remember? It was when
you discovered that the lock of the despatch-case in Mrs. Inglethorp’s
bedroom had been forced. You stood by the mantelpiece, twiddling the
things on it in your usual fashion, and your hand shook like a leaf! I
must say——”

But I stopped suddenly. For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate
cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards, and putting his hands
over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the
keenest agony.

“Good heavens, Poirot!” I cried. “What is the matter? Are you taken
ill?”

“No, no,” he gasped. “It is—it is—that I have an idea!”

“Oh!” I exclaimed, much relieved. “One of your ‘little ideas’?”

“Ah, _ma foi_, no!” replied Poirot frankly. “This time it is an idea
gigantic! Stupendous! And you—_you_, my friend, have given it to me!”

Suddenly clasping me in his arms, he kissed me warmly on both cheeks,
and before I had recovered from my surprise ran headlong from the room.

Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.

“What _is_ the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying
out: ‘A garage! For the love of Heaven, direct me to a garage, madame!’
And, before I could answer, he had dashed out into the street.”

I hurried to the window. True enough, there he was, tearing down the
street, hatless, and gesticulating as he went. I turned to Mary with a
gesture of despair.

“He’ll be stopped by a policeman in another minute. There he goes,
round the corner!”

Our eyes met, and we stared helplessly at one another.

“What can be the matter?”

I shook my head.

“I don’t know. He was building card houses, when suddenly he said he
had an idea, and rushed off as you saw.”

“Well,” said Mary, “I expect he will be back before dinner.”

But night fell, and Poirot had not returned.

CHAPTER XII.
THE LAST LINK

Poirot’s abrupt departure had intrigued us all greatly. Sunday morning
wore away, and still he did not reappear. But about three o’clock a
ferocious and prolonged hooting outside drove us to the window, to see
Poirot alighting from a car, accompanied by Japp and Summerhaye. The
little man was transformed. He radiated an absurd complacency. He bowed
with exaggerated respect to Mary Cavendish.

“Madame, I have your permission to hold a little _réunion_ in the
_salon_? It is necessary for everyone to attend.”

Mary smiled sadly.

“You know, Monsieur Poirot, that you have _carte blanche_ in every
way.”

“You are too amiable, madame.”

Still beaming, Poirot marshalled us all into the drawing-room, bringing
forward chairs as he did so.

“Miss Howard—here. Mademoiselle Cynthia. Monsieur Lawrence. The good
Dorcas. And Annie. _Bien!_ We must delay our proceedings a few minutes
until Mr. Inglethorp arrives. I have sent him a note.”

Miss Howard rose immediately from her seat.

“If that man comes into the house, I leave it!”

“No, no!” Poirot went up to her and pleaded in a low voice.

Finally Miss Howard consented to return to her chair. A few minutes
later Alfred Inglethorp entered the room.

The company once assembled, Poirot rose from his seat with the air of a
popular lecturer, and bowed politely to his audience.

“_Messieurs, mesdames_, as you all know, I was called in by Monsieur
John Cavendish to investigate this case. I at once examined the bedroom
of the deceased which, by the advice of the doctors, had been kept
locked, and was consequently exactly as it had been when the tragedy
occurred. I found: first, a fragment of green material; second, a stain
on the carpet near the window, still damp; thirdly, an empty box of
bromide powders.

“To take the fragment of green material first, I found it caught in the
bolt of the communicating door between that room and the adjoining one
occupied by Mademoiselle Cynthia. I handed the fragment over to the
police who did not consider it of much importance. Nor did they
recognize it for what it was—a piece torn from a green land armlet.”

There was a little stir of excitement.

“Now there was only one person at Styles who worked on the land—Mrs.
Cavendish. Therefore it must have been Mrs. Cavendish who entered the
deceased’s room through the door communicating with Mademoiselle
Cynthia’s room.”

“But that door was bolted on the inside!” I cried.

“When I examined the room, yes. But in the first place we have only her
word for it, since it was she who tried that particular door and
reported it fastened. In the ensuing confusion she would have had ample
opportunity to shoot the bolt across. I took an early opportunity of
verifying my conjectures. To begin with, the fragment corresponds
exactly with a tear in Mrs. Cavendish’s armlet. Also, at the inquest,
Mrs. Cavendish declared that she had heard, from her own room, the fall
of the table by the bed. I took an early opportunity of testing that
statement by stationing my friend Monsieur Hastings in the left wing of
the building, just outside Mrs. Cavendish’s door. I myself, in company
with the police, went to the deceased’s room, and whilst there I,
apparently accidentally, knocked over the table in question, but found
that, as I had expected, Monsieur Hastings had heard no sound at all.
This confirmed my belief that Mrs. Cavendish was not speaking the truth
when she declared that she had been dressing in her room at the time of
the tragedy. In fact, I was convinced that, far from having been in her
own room, Mrs. Cavendish was actually in the deceased’s room when the
alarm was given.”

I shot a quick glance at Mary. She was very pale, but smiling.

“I proceeded to reason on that assumption. Mrs. Cavendish is in her
mother-in-law’s room. We will say that she is seeking for something and
has not yet found it. Suddenly Mrs. Inglethorp awakens and is seized
with an alarming paroxysm. She flings out her arm, overturning the bed
table, and then pulls desperately at the bell. Mrs. Cavendish,
startled, drops her candle, scattering the grease on the carpet. She
picks it up, and retreats quickly to Mademoiselle Cynthia’s room,
closing the door behind her. She hurries out into the passage, for the
servants must not find her where she is. But it is too late! Already
footsteps are echoing along the gallery which connects the two wings.
What can she do? Quick as thought, she hurries back to the young girl’s
room, and starts shaking her awake. The hastily aroused household come
trooping down the passage. They are all busily battering at Mrs.
Inglethorp’s door. It occurs to nobody that Mrs. Cavendish has not
arrived with the rest, but—and this is significant—I can find no one
who saw her come from the other wing.” He looked at Mary Cavendish. “Am
I right, madame?”

She bowed her head.

“Quite right, monsieur. You understand that, if I had thought I would
do my husband any good by revealing these facts, I would have done so.
But it did not seem to me to bear upon the question of his guilt or
innocence.”

“In a sense, that is correct, madame. But it cleared my mind of many
misconceptions, and left me free to see other facts in their true
significance.”

“The will!” cried Lawrence. “Then it was you, Mary, who destroyed the
will?”

She shook her head, and Poirot shook his also.

“No,” he said quietly. “There is only one person who could possibly
have destroyed that will—Mrs. Inglethorp herself!”

“Impossible!” I exclaimed. “She had only made it out that very
afternoon!”

“Nevertheless, _mon ami_, it was Mrs. Inglethorp. Because, in no other
way can you account for the fact that, on one of the hottest days of
the year, Mrs. Inglethorp ordered a fire to be lighted in her room.”

I gave a gasp. What idiots we had been never to think of that fire as
being incongruous! Poirot was continuing:

“The temperature on that day, messieurs, was 80 degrees in the shade.
Yet Mrs. Inglethorp ordered a fire! Why? Because she wished to destroy
something, and could think of no other way. You will remember that, in
consequence of the War economics practiced at Styles, no waste paper
was thrown away. There was therefore no means of destroying a thick
document such as a will. The moment I heard of a fire being lighted in
Mrs. Inglethorp’s room, I leaped to the conclusion that it was to
destroy some important document—possibly a will. So the discovery of
the charred fragment in the grate was no surprise to me. I did not, of
course, know at the time that the will in question had only been made
this afternoon, and I will admit that, when I learnt that fact, I fell
into a grievous error. I came to the conclusion that Mrs. Inglethorp’s
determination to destroy her will arose as a direct consequence of the
quarrel she had that afternoon, and that therefore the quarrel took
place after, and not before the making of the will.

“Here, as we know, I was wrong, and I was forced to abandon that idea.
I faced the problem from a new standpoint. Now, at four o’clock, Dorcas
overheard her mistress saying angrily: ‘You need not think that any
fear of publicity, or scandal between husband and wife will deter me.”
I conjectured, and conjectured rightly, that these words were
addressed, not to her husband, but to Mr. John Cavendish. At five
o’clock, an hour later, she uses almost the same words, but the
standpoint is different. She admits to Dorcas, ‘I don’t know what to
do; scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing.’ At four
o’clock she has been angry, but completely mistress of herself. At five
o’clock she is in violent distress, and speaks of having had a great
shock.

“Looking at the matter psychologically, I drew one deduction which I
was convinced was correct. The second ‘scandal’ she spoke of was not
the same as the first—and it concerned herself!

“Let us reconstruct. At four o’clock, Mrs. Inglethorp quarrels with her
son, and threatens to denounce him to his wife—who, by the way,
overheard the greater part of the conversation. At four-thirty, Mrs.
Inglethorp, in consequence of a conversation on the validity of wills,
makes a will in favour of her husband, which the two gardeners witness.
At five o’clock, Dorcas finds her mistress in a state of considerable
agitation, with a slip of paper—‘a letter,’ Dorcas thinks—in her hand,
and it is then that she orders the fire in her room to be lighted.
Presumably, then, between four-thirty and five o’clock, something has
occurred to occasion a complete revolution of feeling, since she is now
as anxious to destroy the will, as she was before to make it. What was
that something?

“As far as we know, she was quite alone during that half-hour. Nobody
entered or left that boudoir. What then occasioned this sudden change
of sentiment?

“One can only guess, but I believe my guess to be correct. Mrs.
Inglethorp had no stamps in her desk. We know this, because later she
asked Dorcas to bring her some. Now in the opposite corner of the room
stood her husband’s desk—locked. She was anxious to find some stamps,
and, according to my theory, she tried her own keys in the desk. That
one of them fitted I know. She therefore opened the desk, and in
searching for the stamps she came across something else—that slip of
paper which Dorcas saw in her hand, and which assuredly was never meant
for Mrs. Inglethorp’s eyes. On the other hand, Mrs. Cavendish believed
that the slip of paper to which her mother-in-law clung so tenaciously
was a written proof of her own husband’s infidelity. She demanded it
from Mrs. Inglethorp who assured her, quite truly, that it had nothing
to do with that matter. Mrs. Cavendish did not believe her. She thought
that Mrs. Inglethorp was shielding her stepson. Now Mrs. Cavendish is a
very resolute woman, and, behind her mask of reserve, she was madly
jealous of her husband. She determined to get hold of that paper at all
costs, and in this resolution chance came to her aid. She happened to
pick up the key of Mrs. Inglethorp’s despatch-case, which had been lost
that morning. She knew that her mother-in-law invariably kept all
important papers in this particular case.

“Mrs. Cavendish, therefore, made her plans as only a woman driven
desperate through jealousy could have done. Some time in the evening
she unbolted the door leading into Mademoiselle Cynthia’s room.
Possibly she applied oil to the hinges, for I found that it opened
quite noiselessly when I tried it. She put off her project until the
early hours of the morning as being safer, since the servants were
accustomed to hearing her move about her room at that time. She dressed
completely in her land kit, and made her way quietly through
Mademoiselle Cynthia’s room into that of Mrs. Inglethorp.”

He paused a moment, and Cynthia interrupted:

“But I should have woken up if anyone had come through my room?”

“Not if you were drugged, mademoiselle.”

“Drugged?”

“_Mais, oui!_”

“You remember”—he addressed us collectively again—“that through all the
tumult and noise next door Mademoiselle Cynthia slept. That admitted of
two possibilities. Either her sleep was feigned—which I did not
believe—or her unconsciousness was induced by artificial means.

“With this latter idea in my mind, I examined all the coffee-cups most
carefully, remembering that it was Mrs. Cavendish who had brought
Mademoiselle Cynthia her coffee the night before. I took a sample from
each cup, and had them analysed—with no result. I had counted the cups
carefully, in the event of one having been removed. Six persons had
taken coffee, and six cups were duly found. I had to confess myself
mistaken.

“Then I discovered that I had been guilty of a very grave oversight.
Coffee had been brought in for seven persons, not six, for Dr.
Bauerstein had been there that evening. This changed the face of the
whole affair, for there was now one cup missing. The servants noticed
nothing, since Annie, the housemaid, who took in the coffee, brought in
seven cups, not knowing that Mr. Inglethorp never drank it, whereas
Dorcas, who cleared them away the following morning, found six as
usual—or strictly speaking she found five, the sixth being the one
found broken in Mrs. Inglethorp’s room.

“I was confident that the missing cup was that of Mademoiselle Cynthia.
I had an additional reason for that belief in the fact that all the
cups found contained sugar, which Mademoiselle Cynthia never took in
her coffee. My attention was attracted by the story of Annie about some
‘salt’ on the tray of cocoa which she took every night to Mrs.
Inglethorp’s room. I accordingly secured a sample of that cocoa, and
sent it to be analysed.”

“But that had already been done by Dr. Bauerstein,” said Lawrence
quickly.

“Not exactly. The analyst was asked by him to report whether strychnine
was, or was not, present. He did not have it tested, as I did, for a
narcotic.”

“For a narcotic?”

“Yes. Here is the analyst’s report. Mrs. Cavendish administered a safe,
but effectual, narcotic to both Mrs. Inglethorp and Mademoiselle
Cynthia. And it is possible that she had a _mauvais quart d’heure_ in
consequence! Imagine her feelings when her mother-in-law is suddenly
taken ill and dies, and immediately after she hears the word ‘Poison’!
She has believed that the sleeping draught she administered was
perfectly harmless, but there is no doubt that for one terrible moment
she must have feared that Mrs. Inglethorp’s death lay at her door. She
is seized with panic, and under its influence she hurries downstairs,
and quickly drops the coffee-cup and saucer used by Mademoiselle
Cynthia into a large brass vase, where it is discovered later by
Monsieur Lawrence. The remains of the cocoa she dare not touch. Too
many eyes are upon her. Guess at her relief when strychnine is
mentioned, and she discovers that after all the tragedy is not her
doing.

“We are now able to account for the symptoms of strychnine poisoning
being so long in making their appearance. A narcotic taken with
strychnine will delay the action of the poison for some hours.”

Poirot paused. Mary looked up at him, the colour slowly rising in her
face.

“All you have said is quite true, Monsieur Poirot. It was the most
awful hour of my life. I shall never forget it. But you are wonderful.
I understand now——”

“What I meant when I told you that you could safely confess to Papa
Poirot, eh? But you would not trust me.”

“I see everything now,” said Lawrence. “The drugged cocoa, taken on top
of the poisoned coffee, amply accounts for the delay.”

“Exactly. But was the coffee poisoned, or was it not? We come to a
little difficulty here, since Mrs. Inglethorp never drank it.”

“What?” The cry of surprise was universal.

“No. You will remember my speaking of a stain on the carpet in Mrs.
Inglethorp’s room? There were some peculiar points about that stain. It
was still damp, it exhaled a strong odour of coffee, and imbedded in
the nap of the carpet I found some little splinters of china. What had
happened was plain to me, for not two minutes before I had placed my
little case on the table near the window, and the table, tilting up,
had deposited it upon the floor on precisely the identical spot. In
exactly the same way, Mrs. Inglethorp had laid down her cup of coffee
on reaching her room the night before, and the treacherous table had
played her the same trick.

“What happened next is mere guess work on my part, but I should say
that Mrs. Inglethorp picked up the broken cup and placed it on the
table by the bed. Feeling in need of a stimulant of some kind, she
heated up her cocoa, and drank it off then and there. Now we are faced
with a new problem. We know the cocoa contained no strychnine. The
coffee was never drunk. Yet the strychnine must have been administered
between seven and nine o’clock that evening. What third medium was
there—a medium so suitable for disguising the taste of strychnine that
it is extraordinary no one has thought of it?” Poirot looked round the
room, and then answered himself impressively. “Her medicine!”

“Do you mean that the murderer introduced the strychnine into her
tonic?” I cried.

“There was no need to introduce it. It was already there—in the
mixture. The strychnine that killed Mrs. Inglethorp was the identical
strychnine prescribed by Dr. Wilkins. To make that clear to you, I will
read you an extract from a book on dispensing which I found in the
Dispensary of the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster:

“‘The following prescription has become famous in text books:

          Strychninae Sulph. . . . . . 1 gr.

          Potass Bromide . . . . . . . 3vi

          Aqua ad. . . . . . . . . . . . . 3viii

          Fiat Mistura

_This solution deposits in a few hours the greater part of the
strychnine salt as an insoluble bromide in transparent crystals. A lady
in England lost her life by taking a similar mixture: the precipitated
strychnine collected at the bottom, and in taking the last dose she
swallowed nearly all of it!_

“Now there was, of course, no bromide in Dr. Wilkins’ prescription, but
you will remember that I mentioned an empty box of bromide powders. One
or two of those powders introduced into the full bottle of medicine
would effectually precipitate the strychnine, as the book describes,
and cause it to be taken in the last dose. You will learn later that
the person who usually poured out Mrs. Inglethorp’s medicine was always
extremely careful not to shake the bottle, but to leave the sediment at
the bottom of it undisturbed.

“Throughout the case, there have been evidences that the tragedy was
intended to take place on Monday evening. On that day, Mrs.
Inglethorp’s bell wire was neatly cut, and on Monday evening
Mademoiselle Cynthia was spending the night with friends, so that Mrs.
Inglethorp would have been quite alone in the right wing, completely
shut off from help of any kind, and would have died, in all
probability, before medical aid could have been summoned. But in her
hurry to be in time for the village entertainment Mrs. Inglethorp
forgot to take her medicine, and the next day she lunched away from
home, so that the last—and fatal—dose was actually taken twenty-four
hours later than had been anticipated by the murderer; and it is owing
to that delay that the final proof—the last link of the chain—is now in
my hands.”

Amid breathless excitement, he held out three thin strips of paper.

“A letter in the murderer’s own hand-writing, _mes amis!_ Had it been a
little clearer in its terms, it is possible that Mrs. Inglethorp,
warned in time, would have escaped. As it was, she realized her danger,
but not the manner of it.”

In the deathly silence, Poirot pieced together the slips of paper and,
clearing his throat, read:

Dearest Evelyn:

    ‘You will be anxious at hearing nothing. It is all right—only it
    will be to-night instead of last night. You understand. There’s a
    good time coming once the old woman is dead and out of the way. No
    one can possibly bring home the crime to me. That idea of yours
    about the bromides was a stroke of genius! But we must be very
    circumspect. A false step——’

“Here, my friends, the letter breaks off. Doubtless the writer was
interrupted; but there can be no question as to his identity. We all
know this hand-writing and——”

A howl that was almost a scream broke the silence.

“You devil! How did you get it?”

A chair was overturned. Poirot skipped nimbly aside. A quick movement
on his part, and his assailant fell with a crash.

“_Messieurs, mesdames_,” said Poirot, with a flourish, “let me
introduce you to the murderer, Mr. Alfred Inglethorp!”

CHAPTER XIII.
POIROT EXPLAINS

“Poirot, you old villain,” I said, “I’ve half a mind to strangle you!
What do you mean by deceiving me as you have done?”

We were sitting in the library. Several hectic days lay behind us. In
the room below, John and Mary were together once more, while Alfred
Inglethorp and Miss Howard were in custody. Now at last, I had Poirot
to myself, and could relieve my still burning curiosity.

Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at last he said:

“I did not deceive you, _mon ami_. At most, I permitted you to deceive
yourself.”

“Yes, but why?”

“Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my friend, you have a
nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that—_enfin_, to
conceal your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the
very first time you saw Mr. Alfred Inglethorp that astute gentleman
would have—in your so expressive idiom—‘smelt a rat’! And then,
_bonjour_ to our chances of catching him!”

“I think that I have more diplomacy than you give me credit for.”

“My friend,” besought Poirot, “I implore you, do not enrage yourself!
Your help has been of the most invaluable. It is but the extremely
beautiful nature that you have, which made me pause.”

“Well,” I grumbled, a little mollified. “I still think you might have
given me a hint.”

“But I did, my friend. Several hints. You would not take them. Think
now, did I ever say to you that I believed John Cavendish guilty? Did I
not, on the contrary, tell you that he would almost certainly be
acquitted?”

“Yes, but——”

“And did I not immediately afterwards speak of the difficulty of
bringing the murderer to justice? Was it not plain to you that I was
speaking of two entirely different persons?”

“No,” I said, “it was not plain to me!”

“Then again,” continued Poirot, “at the beginning, did I not repeat to
you several times that I didn’t want Mr. Inglethorp arrested _now_?
That should have conveyed something to you.”

“Do you mean to say you suspected him as long ago as that?”

“Yes. To begin with, whoever else might benefit by Mrs. Inglethorp’s
death, her husband would benefit the most. There was no getting away
from that. When I went up to Styles with you that first day, I had no
idea as to how the crime had been committed, but from what I knew of
Mr. Inglethorp I fancied that it would be very hard to find anything to
connect him with it. When I arrived at the château, I realized at once
that it was Mrs. Inglethorp who had burnt the will; and there, by the
way, you cannot complain, my friend, for I tried my best to force on
you the significance of that bedroom fire in midsummer.”

“Yes, yes,” I said impatiently. “Go on.”

“Well, my friend, as I say, my views as to Mr. Inglethorp’s guilt were
very much shaken. There was, in fact, so much evidence against him that
I was inclined to believe that he had not done it.”

“When did you change your mind?”

“When I found that the more efforts I made to clear him, the more
efforts he made to get himself arrested. Then, when I discovered that
Inglethorp had nothing to do with Mrs. Raikes and that in fact it was
John Cavendish who was interested in that quarter, I was quite sure.”

“But why?”

“Simply this. If it had been Inglethorp who was carrying on an intrigue
with Mrs. Raikes, his silence was perfectly comprehensible. But, when I
discovered that it was known all over the village that it was John who
was attracted by the farmer’s pretty wife, his silence bore quite a
different interpretation. It was nonsense to pretend that he was afraid
of the scandal, as no possible scandal could attach to him. This
attitude of his gave me furiously to think, and I was slowly forced to
the conclusion that Alfred Inglethorp wanted to be arrested. _Eh bien!_
from that moment, I was equally determined that he should not be
arrested.”

“Wait a minute. I don’t see why he wished to be arrested?”

“Because, _mon ami_, it is the law of your country that a man once
acquitted can never be tried again for the same offence. Aha! but it
was clever—his idea! Assuredly, he is a man of method. See here, he
knew that in his position he was bound to be suspected, so he conceived
the exceedingly clever idea of preparing a lot of manufactured evidence
against himself. He wished to be arrested. He would then produce his
irreproachable alibi—and, hey presto, he was safe for life!”

“But I still don’t see how he managed to prove his alibi, and yet go to
the chemist’s shop?”

Poirot stared at me in surprise.

“Is it possible? My poor friend! You have not yet realized that it was
Miss Howard who went to the chemist’s shop?”

“Miss Howard?”

“But, certainly. Who else? It was most easy for her. She is of a good
height, her voice is deep and manly; moreover, remember, she and
Inglethorp are cousins, and there is a distinct resemblance between
them, especially in their gait and bearing. It was simplicity itself.
They are a clever pair!”

“I am still a little fogged as to how exactly the bromide business was
done,” I remarked.

“_Bon!_ I will reconstruct for you as far as possible. I am inclined to
think that Miss Howard was the master mind in that affair. You remember
her once mentioning that her father was a doctor? Possibly she
dispensed his medicines for him, or she may have taken the idea from
one of the many books lying about when Mademoiselle Cynthia was
studying for her exam. Anyway, she was familiar with the fact that the
addition of a bromide to a mixture containing strychnine would cause
the precipitation of the latter. Probably the idea came to her quite
suddenly. Mrs. Inglethorp had a box of bromide powders, which she
occasionally took at night. What could be easier than quietly to
dissolve one or more of those powders in Mrs. Inglethorp’s large sized
bottle of medicine when it came from Coot’s? The risk is practically
nil. The tragedy will not take place until nearly a fortnight later. If
anyone has seen either of them touching the medicine, they will have
forgotten it by that time. Miss Howard will have engineered her
quarrel, and departed from the house. The lapse of time, and her
absence, will defeat all suspicion. Yes, it was a clever idea! If they
had left it alone, it is possible the crime might never have been
brought home to them. But they were not satisfied. They tried to be too
clever—and that was their undoing.”

Poirot puffed at his tiny cigarette, his eyes fixed on the ceiling.

“They arranged a plan to throw suspicion on John Cavendish, by buying
strychnine at the village chemist’s, and signing the register in his
hand-writing.

“On Monday Mrs. Inglethorp will take the last dose of her medicine. On
Monday, therefore, at six o’clock, Alfred Inglethorp arranges to be
seen by a number of people at a spot far removed from the village. Miss
Howard has previously made up a cock and bull story about him and Mrs.
Raikes to account for his holding his tongue afterwards. At six
o’clock, Miss Howard, disguised as Alfred Inglethorp, enters the
chemist’s shop, with her story about a dog, obtains the strychnine, and
writes the name of Alfred Inglethorp in John’s handwriting, which she
had previously studied carefully.

“But, as it will never do if John, too, can prove an alibi, she writes
him an anonymous note—still copying his hand-writing—which takes him to
a remote spot where it is exceedingly unlikely that anyone will see
him.

“So far, all goes well. Miss Howard goes back to Middlingham. Alfred
Inglethorp returns to Styles. There is nothing that can compromise him
in any way, since it is Miss Howard who has the strychnine, which,
after all, is only wanted as a blind to throw suspicion on John
Cavendish.

“But now a hitch occurs. Mrs. Inglethorp does not take her medicine
that night. The broken bell, Cynthia’s absence—arranged by Inglethorp
through his wife—all these are wasted. And then—he makes his slip.

“Mrs. Inglethorp is out, and he sits down to write to his accomplice,
who, he fears, may be in a panic at the non-success of their plan. It
is probable that Mrs. Inglethorp returned earlier than he expected.
Caught in the act, and somewhat flurried he hastily shuts and locks his
desk. He fears that if he remains in the room he may have to open it
again, and that Mrs. Inglethorp might catch sight of the letter before
he could snatch it up. So he goes out and walks in the woods, little
dreaming that Mrs. Inglethorp will open his desk, and discover the
incriminating document.

“But this, as we know, is what happened. Mrs. Inglethorp reads it, and
becomes aware of the perfidy of her husband and Evelyn Howard, though,
unfortunately, the sentence about the bromides conveys no warning to
her mind. She knows that she is in danger—but is ignorant of where the
danger lies. She decides to say nothing to her husband, but sits down
and writes to her solicitor, asking him to come on the morrow, and she
also determines to destroy immediately the will which she has just
made. She keeps the fatal letter.”

“It was to discover that letter, then, that her husband forced the lock
of the despatch-case?”

“Yes, and from the enormous risk he ran we can see how fully he
realized its importance. That letter excepted, there was absolutely
nothing to connect him with the crime.”

“There’s only one thing I can’t make out, why didn’t he destroy it at
once when he got hold of it?”

“Because he did not dare take the biggest risk of all—that of keeping
it on his own person.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Look at it from his point of view. I have discovered that there were
only five short minutes in which he could have taken it—the five
minutes immediately before our own arrival on the scene, for before
that time Annie was brushing the stairs, and would have seen anyone who
passed going to the right wing. Figure to yourself the scene! He enters
the room, unlocking the door by means of one of the other doorkeys—they
were all much alike. He hurries to the despatch-case—it is locked, and
the keys are nowhere to be seen. That is a terrible blow to him, for it
means that his presence in the room cannot be concealed as he had
hoped. But he sees clearly that everything must be risked for the sake
of that damning piece of evidence. Quickly, he forces the lock with a
penknife, and turns over the papers until he finds what he is looking
for.

“But now a fresh dilemma arises: he dare not keep that piece of paper
on him. He may be seen leaving the room—he may be searched. If the
paper is found on him, it is certain doom. Probably, at this minute,
too, he hears the sounds below of Mr. Wells and John leaving the
boudoir. He must act quickly. Where can he hide this terrible slip of
paper? The contents of the waste-paper-basket are kept and in any case,
are sure to be examined. There are no means of destroying it; and he
dare not keep it. He looks round, and he sees—what do you think, _mon
ami?_”

I shook my head.

“In a moment, he has torn the letter into long thin strips, and rolling
them up into spills he thrusts them hurriedly in amongst the other
spills in the vase on the mantle-piece.”

I uttered an exclamation.

“No one would think of looking there,” Poirot continued. “And he will
be able, at his leisure, to come back and destroy this solitary piece
of evidence against him.”

“Then, all the time, it was in the spill vase in Mrs. Inglethorp’s
bedroom, under our very noses?” I cried.

Poirot nodded.

“Yes, my friend. That is where I discovered my ‘last link,’ and I owe
that very fortunate discovery to you.”

“To me?”

“Yes. Do you remember telling me that my hand shook as I was
straightening the ornaments on the mantelpiece?”

“Yes, but I don’t see——”

“No, but I saw. Do you know, my friend, I remembered that earlier in
the morning, when we had been there together, I had straightened all
the objects on the mantelpiece. And, if they were already straightened,
there would be no need to straighten them again, unless, in the
meantime, someone else had touched them.”

“Dear me,” I murmured, “so that is the explanation of your
extraordinary behaviour. You rushed down to Styles, and found it still
there?”

“Yes, and it was a race for time.”

“But I still can’t understand why Inglethorp was such a fool as to
leave it there when he had plenty of opportunity to destroy it.”

“Ah, but he had no opportunity. _I_ saw to that.”

“You?”

“Yes. Do you remember reproving me for taking the household into my
confidence on the subject?”

“Yes.”

“Well, my friend, I saw there was just one chance. I was not sure then
if Inglethorp was the criminal or not, but if he was I reasoned that he
would not have the paper on him, but would have hidden it somewhere,
and by enlisting the sympathy of the household I could effectually
prevent his destroying it. He was already under suspicion, and by
making the matter public I secured the services of about ten amateur
detectives, who would be watching him unceasingly, and being himself
aware of their watchfulness he would not dare seek further to destroy
the document. He was therefore forced to depart from the house, leaving
it in the spill vase.”

“But surely Miss Howard had ample opportunities of aiding him.”

“Yes, but Miss Howard did not know of the paper’s existence. In
accordance with their prearranged plan, she never spoke to Alfred
Inglethorp. They were supposed to be deadly enemies, and until John
Cavendish was safely convicted they neither of them dared risk a
meeting. Of course I had a watch kept on Mr. Inglethorp, hoping that
sooner or later he would lead me to the hiding-place. But he was too
clever to take any chances. The paper was safe where it was; since no
one had thought of looking there in the first week, it was not likely
they would do so afterwards. But for your lucky remark, we might never
have been able to bring him to justice.”

“I understand that now; but when did you first begin to suspect Miss
Howard?”

“When I discovered that she had told a lie at the inquest about the
letter she had received from Mrs. Inglethorp.”

“Why, what was there to lie about?”

“You saw that letter? Do you recall its general appearance?”

“Yes—more or less.”

“You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very
distinctive hand, and left large clear spaces between her words. But if
you look at the date at the top of the letter you will notice that
‘July 17th’ is quite different in this respect. Do you see what I
mean?”

“No,” I confessed, “I don’t.”

“You do not see that that letter was not written on the 17th, but on
the 7th—the day after Miss Howard’s departure? The ‘1’ was written in
before the ‘7’ to turn it into the ‘17th’.”

“But why?”

“That is exactly what I asked myself. Why does Miss Howard suppress the
letter written on the 17th, and produce this faked one instead? Because
she did not wish to show the letter of the 17th. Why, again? And at
once a suspicion dawned in my mind. You will remember my saying that it
was wise to beware of people who were not telling you the truth.”

“And yet,” I cried indignantly, “after that, you gave me two reasons
why Miss Howard could not have committed the crime!”

“And very good reasons too,” replied Poirot. “For a long time they were
a stumbling-block to me until I remembered a very significant fact:
that she and Alfred Inglethorp were cousins. She could not have
committed the crime single-handed, but the reasons against that did not
debar her from being an accomplice. And, then, there was that rather
over-vehement hatred of hers! It concealed a very opposite emotion.
There was, undoubtedly, a tie of passion between them long before he
came to Styles. They had already arranged their infamous plot—that he
should marry this rich, but rather foolish old lady, induce her to make
a will leaving her money to him, and then gain their ends by a very
cleverly conceived crime. If all had gone as they planned, they would
probably have left England, and lived together on their poor victim’s
money.

“They are a very astute and unscrupulous pair. While suspicion was to
be directed against him, she would be making quiet preparations for a
very different _dénouement_. She arrives from Middlingham with all the
compromising items in her possession. No suspicion attaches to her. No
notice is paid to her coming and going in the house. She hides the
strychnine and glasses in John’s room. She puts the beard in the attic.
She will see to it that sooner or later they are duly discovered.”

“I don’t quite see why they tried to fix the blame on John,” I
remarked. “It would have been much easier for them to bring the crime
home to Lawrence.”

“Yes, but that was mere chance. All the evidence against him arose out
of pure accident. It must, in fact, have been distinctly annoying to
the pair of schemers.”

“His manner was unfortunate,” I observed thoughtfully.

“Yes. You realize, of course, what was at the back of that?”

“No.”

“You did not understand that he believed Mademoiselle Cynthia guilty of
the crime?”

“No,” I exclaimed, astonished. “Impossible!”

“Not at all. I myself nearly had the same idea. It was in my mind when
I asked Mr. Wells that first question about the will. Then there were
the bromide powders which she had made up, and her clever male
impersonations, as Dorcas recounted them to us. There was really more
evidence against her than anyone else.”

“You are joking, Poirot!”

“No. Shall I tell you what made Monsieur Lawrence turn so pale when he
first entered his mother’s room on the fatal night? It was because,
whilst his mother lay there, obviously poisoned, he saw, over your
shoulder, that the door into Mademoiselle Cynthia’s room was unbolted.”

“But he declared that he saw it bolted!” I cried.

“Exactly,” said Poirot dryly. “And that was just what confirmed my
suspicion that it was not. He was shielding Mademoiselle Cynthia.”

“But why should he shield her?”

“Because he is in love with her.”

I laughed.

“There, Poirot, you are quite wrong! I happen to know for a fact that,
far from being in love with her, he positively dislikes her.”

“Who told you that, _mon ami?_”

“Cynthia herself.”

“_La pauvre petite!_ And she was concerned?”

“She said that she did not mind at all.”

“Then she certainly did mind very much,” remarked Poirot. “They are
like that—_les femmes!_”

“What you say about Lawrence is a great surprise to me,” I said.

“But why? It was most obvious. Did not Monsieur Lawrence make the sour
face every time Mademoiselle Cynthia spoke and laughed with his
brother? He had taken it into his long head that Mademoiselle Cynthia
was in love with Monsieur John. When he entered his mother’s room, and
saw her obviously poisoned, he jumped to the conclusion that
Mademoiselle Cynthia knew something about the matter. He was nearly
driven desperate. First he crushed the coffee-cup to powder under his
feet, remembering that _she_ had gone up with his mother the night
before, and he determined that there should be no chance of testing its
contents. Thenceforward, he strenuously, and quite uselessly, upheld
the theory of ‘Death from natural causes’.”

“And what about the ‘extra coffee-cup’?”

“I was fairly certain that it was Mrs. Cavendish who had hidden it, but
I had to make sure. Monsieur Lawrence did not know at all what I meant;
but, on reflection, he came to the conclusion that if he could find an
extra coffee-cup anywhere his lady love would be cleared of suspicion.
And he was perfectly right.”

“One thing more. What did Mrs. Inglethorp mean by her dying words?”

“They were, of course, an accusation against her husband.”

“Dear me, Poirot,” I said with a sigh, “I think you have explained
everything. I am glad it has all ended so happily. Even John and his
wife are reconciled.”

“Thanks to me.”

“How do you mean—thanks to you?”

“My dear friend, do you not realize that it was simply and solely the
trial which has brought them together again? That John Cavendish still
loved his wife, I was convinced. Also, that she was equally in love
with him. But they had drifted very far apart. It all arose from a
misunderstanding. She married him without love. He knew it. He is a
sensitive man in his way, he would not force himself upon her if she
did not want him. And, as he withdrew, her love awoke. But they are
both unusually proud, and their pride held them inexorably apart. He
drifted into an entanglement with Mrs. Raikes, and she deliberately
cultivated the friendship of Dr. Bauerstein. Do you remember the day of
John Cavendish’s arrest, when you found me deliberating over a big
decision?”

“Yes, I quite understood your distress.”

“Pardon me, _mon ami_, but you did not understand it in the least. I
was trying to decide whether or not I would clear John Cavendish at
once. I could have cleared him—though it might have meant a failure to
convict the real criminals. They were entirely in the dark as to my
real attitude up to the very last moment—which partly accounts for my
success.”

“Do you mean that you could have saved John Cavendish from being
brought to trial?”

“Yes, my friend. But I eventually decided in favour of ‘a woman’s
happiness’. Nothing but the great danger through which they have passed
could have brought these two proud souls together again.”

I looked at Poirot in silent amazement. The colossal cheek of the
little man! Who on earth but Poirot would have thought of a trial for
murder as a restorer of conjugal happiness!

“I perceive your thoughts, _mon ami_,” said Poirot, smiling at me. “No
one but Hercule Poirot would have attempted such a thing! And you are
wrong in condemning it. The happiness of one man and one woman is the
greatest thing in all the world.”

His words took me back to earlier events. I remembered Mary as she lay
white and exhausted on the sofa, listening, listening. There had come
the sound of the bell below. She had started up. Poirot had opened the
door, and meeting her agonized eyes had nodded gently. “Yes, madame,”
he said. “I have brought him back to you.” He had stood aside, and as I
went out I had seen the look in Mary’s eyes, as John Cavendish had
caught his wife in his arms.

“Perhaps you are right, Poirot,” I said gently. “Yes, it is the
greatest thing in the world.”

Suddenly, there was a tap at the door, and Cynthia peeped in.

“I—I only——”

“Come in,” I said, springing up.

She came in, but did not sit down.

“I—only wanted to tell you something——”

“Yes?”

Cynthia fidgeted with a little tassel for some moments, then, suddenly
exclaiming: “You dears!” kissed first me and then Poirot, and rushed
out of the room again.

“What on earth does this mean?” I asked, surprised.

It was very nice to be kissed by Cynthia, but the publicity of the
salute rather impaired the pleasure.

“It means that she has discovered Monsieur Lawrence does not dislike
her as much as she thought,” replied Poirot philosophically.

“But——”

“Here he is.”

Lawrence at that moment passed the door.

“Eh! Monsieur Lawrence,” called Poirot. “We must congratulate you, is
it not so?”

Lawrence blushed, and then smiled awkwardly. A man in love is a sorry
spectacle. Now Cynthia had looked charming.

I sighed.

“What is it, _mon ami?_”

“Nothing,” I said sadly. “They are two delightful women!”

“And neither of them is for you?” finished Poirot. “Never mind. Console
yourself, my friend. We may hunt together again, who knows? And then——”

THE END