Read Online The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie - Free Book Online
Authors: Agatha Christie
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this?” I asked Poirot, in lively curiosity.
“In the wastepaper basket. You recognise the handwriting?”
“Yes, it is Mrs. Inglethorp's. But what does it mean?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “I cannot say - but it is suggestive.”
A wild idea flashed across me. Was it possible that Mrs. Inglethorp's mind was deranged?
Had she some fantastic idea of demoniacal possession? And, if that were so, was it not
also possible that she might have taken her own life?
I was about to expound these theories to Poirot, when his own words distracted me. “Come,”
he said, “now to examine the coffee cups!”
“My dear Poirot! What on earth is the good of that, now that we know about the coco?”
“Oh, la la! That miserable coco!” cried Poirot flippantly. He laughed with apparent
enjoyment, raising his arms to heaven in mock despair, in what I could not but consider
the worst possible taste.
“And, anyway,” I said, with increasing coldness, “as Mrs. Inglethorp took her coffee
upstairs with her, I do not see what you expect to find, unless you consider it likely
that we shall discover a packet of strychnine on the coffee tray!”
Poirot was sobered at once. “Come, come, my friend,” he said, slipping his arms through
mine. “Ne vous fachez pas! Allow me to interest myself in my coffee cups, and I will
respect your coco. There! Is it a bargain?”
He was so quaintly humorous that I was forced to laugh; and we went together to the
drawing room, where the coffee cups and tray remained undisturbed as we had left them.
Poirot made me recapitulate the scene of the night before, listening very carefully, and
verifying the position of the various cups.
“So Mrs. Cavendish stood by the tray - and poured out. Yes. Then she came across to the
window where you sat with Mademoiselle Cynthia. Yes. Here are the three cups. And the cup
on the mantelpiece, half drunk, that would be Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's. And the one on the
tray?”
“John Cavendish's. I saw him put it down there.”
“Good. One, two, three, four, five - but where, then, is the cup of Mr. Inglethorp?”
“He does not take coffee.”
“Then all are accounted for. One moment, my friend.”
With infinite care, he took a drop or two from the grounds in each cup, sealing them up in
separate test tubes, tasting each in turn as he did so. His physiognomy underwent a
curious change. An expression gathered there that I can only describe as half puzzled, and
half relieved.
“Bien!” he said at last. “It is evident! I had an idea - but clearly I was mistaken. Yes,
altogether I was mistaken. Yet it is strange. But no matter!”
And, with a characteristic shrug, he dismissed whatever it was that was worrying him from
his mind. I could have told him from the beginning that this obsession of his over the
coffee was bound to end in a blind alley, but I restrained my tongue. After all, though he
was old, Poirot had been a great man in his day.
“Breakfast is ready,” said John Cavendish, coming in from the hall. “You will breakfast
with us, Monsieur Poirot?”
Poirot acquiesced. I observed John. Already he was almost restored to his normal self. The
shock of the events of the last night had upset him temporarily, but his equable poise
soon swung back to the normal. He was a man of very little imagination, in sharp contrast
with his brother, who had, perhaps, too much.
Ever since the early hours of the morning, John had been hard at work, sending telegrams -
one of the first had gone to Evelyn Howard - writing notices for the papers, and generally
occupying himself with the melancholy duties that a death entails.
“May I ask how things are proceeding?” he said. “Do your investigations point to my mother
having died a natural death - or - or must we prepare ourselves for the worst?”
“I think, Mr. Cavendish,” said Poirot gravely, “that you would do well
“In the wastepaper basket. You recognise the handwriting?”
“Yes, it is Mrs. Inglethorp's. But what does it mean?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “I cannot say - but it is suggestive.”
A wild idea flashed across me. Was it possible that Mrs. Inglethorp's mind was deranged?
Had she some fantastic idea of demoniacal possession? And, if that were so, was it not
also possible that she might have taken her own life?
I was about to expound these theories to Poirot, when his own words distracted me. “Come,”
he said, “now to examine the coffee cups!”
“My dear Poirot! What on earth is the good of that, now that we know about the coco?”
“Oh, la la! That miserable coco!” cried Poirot flippantly. He laughed with apparent
enjoyment, raising his arms to heaven in mock despair, in what I could not but consider
the worst possible taste.
“And, anyway,” I said, with increasing coldness, “as Mrs. Inglethorp took her coffee
upstairs with her, I do not see what you expect to find, unless you consider it likely
that we shall discover a packet of strychnine on the coffee tray!”
Poirot was sobered at once. “Come, come, my friend,” he said, slipping his arms through
mine. “Ne vous fachez pas! Allow me to interest myself in my coffee cups, and I will
respect your coco. There! Is it a bargain?”
He was so quaintly humorous that I was forced to laugh; and we went together to the
drawing room, where the coffee cups and tray remained undisturbed as we had left them.
Poirot made me recapitulate the scene of the night before, listening very carefully, and
verifying the position of the various cups.
“So Mrs. Cavendish stood by the tray - and poured out. Yes. Then she came across to the
window where you sat with Mademoiselle Cynthia. Yes. Here are the three cups. And the cup
on the mantelpiece, half drunk, that would be Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's. And the one on the
tray?”
“John Cavendish's. I saw him put it down there.”
“Good. One, two, three, four, five - but where, then, is the cup of Mr. Inglethorp?”
“He does not take coffee.”
“Then all are accounted for. One moment, my friend.”
With infinite care, he took a drop or two from the grounds in each cup, sealing them up in
separate test tubes, tasting each in turn as he did so. His physiognomy underwent a
curious change. An expression gathered there that I can only describe as half puzzled, and
half relieved.
“Bien!” he said at last. “It is evident! I had an idea - but clearly I was mistaken. Yes,
altogether I was mistaken. Yet it is strange. But no matter!”
And, with a characteristic shrug, he dismissed whatever it was that was worrying him from
his mind. I could have told him from the beginning that this obsession of his over the
coffee was bound to end in a blind alley, but I restrained my tongue. After all, though he
was old, Poirot had been a great man in his day.
“Breakfast is ready,” said John Cavendish, coming in from the hall. “You will breakfast
with us, Monsieur Poirot?”
Poirot acquiesced. I observed John. Already he was almost restored to his normal self. The
shock of the events of the last night had upset him temporarily, but his equable poise
soon swung back to the normal. He was a man of very little imagination, in sharp contrast
with his brother, who had, perhaps, too much.
Ever since the early hours of the morning, John had been hard at work, sending telegrams -
one of the first had gone to Evelyn Howard - writing notices for the papers, and generally
occupying himself with the melancholy duties that a death entails.
“May I ask how things are proceeding?” he said. “Do your investigations point to my mother
having died a natural death - or - or must we prepare ourselves for the worst?”
“I think, Mr. Cavendish,” said Poirot gravely, “that you would do well
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