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Authors: Agatha Christie
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not to buoy
yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell me the views of the other members of the
family?”
“My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss over nothing. He says that
everything points to its being a simple case of heart failure.”
“He does, does he? That is very interesting - very interesting,” murmured Poirot softly.
“And Mrs. Cavendish?”
A faint cloud passed over John's face. “I have not the least idea what my wife's views on
the subject are.”
The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train. John broke the rather awkward
silence by saying with a slight effort: “I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has
returned?”
Poirot bent his head.
“It's an awkward position for all of us. Of course one has to treat him as usual - but,
hang it all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eat with a possible murderer!”
Poirot nodded sympathetically. “I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for
you, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for not
returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latchkey. Is not that so?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you are quite sure that the latchkey
was
forgotten - that he did not take it after all?”
“I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall drawer. I'll go
and see if it's there now.”
Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile. “No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I
am certain that you would find it. If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to
replace it by now.”
“But do you think - - ”
“I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before his return, and seen
it there, it would have been a valuable point in his favour. That is all.”
John looked perplexed.
“Do not worry,” said Poirot smoothly. “I assure you that you need not let it trouble you.
Since you are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast.”
Everyone was assembled in the dining room. Under the circumstances, we were naturally not
a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were all
suffering from it. Decorum and good breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should
be much as usual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really a matter
of great difficulty. There were no red eyes, no signs of secretly indulged grief. I felt
that I was right in my opinion that Dorcas was the person most affected by the personal
side of the tragedy.
I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in a manner that I felt to
be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know that we suspected him, I wondered. Surely he
could not be unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring
of fear, or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in
the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a marked man.
But did everyone suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I watched her as she sat at the
head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. In her soft grey frock, with white
ruffles at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she
chose, however, her face could be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent,
hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great strength of her
personality was dominating us all.
And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, I thought. The
heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. I asked her if she were feeling ill,
and she answered frankly:
“Yes, I've got the most beastly headache.”
“Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?” said Poirot solicitously. “It will revive you.
It is unparalleled for the mal de tete.” He jumped up and took her cup.
“No
yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell me the views of the other members of the
family?”
“My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss over nothing. He says that
everything points to its being a simple case of heart failure.”
“He does, does he? That is very interesting - very interesting,” murmured Poirot softly.
“And Mrs. Cavendish?”
A faint cloud passed over John's face. “I have not the least idea what my wife's views on
the subject are.”
The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train. John broke the rather awkward
silence by saying with a slight effort: “I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has
returned?”
Poirot bent his head.
“It's an awkward position for all of us. Of course one has to treat him as usual - but,
hang it all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eat with a possible murderer!”
Poirot nodded sympathetically. “I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for
you, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for not
returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latchkey. Is not that so?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose you are quite sure that the latchkey
was
forgotten - that he did not take it after all?”
“I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall drawer. I'll go
and see if it's there now.”
Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile. “No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I
am certain that you would find it. If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to
replace it by now.”
“But do you think - - ”
“I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before his return, and seen
it there, it would have been a valuable point in his favour. That is all.”
John looked perplexed.
“Do not worry,” said Poirot smoothly. “I assure you that you need not let it trouble you.
Since you are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast.”
Everyone was assembled in the dining room. Under the circumstances, we were naturally not
a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were all
suffering from it. Decorum and good breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should
be much as usual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really a matter
of great difficulty. There were no red eyes, no signs of secretly indulged grief. I felt
that I was right in my opinion that Dorcas was the person most affected by the personal
side of the tragedy.
I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in a manner that I felt to
be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know that we suspected him, I wondered. Surely he
could not be unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring
of fear, or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in
the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a marked man.
But did everyone suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I watched her as she sat at the
head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. In her soft grey frock, with white
ruffles at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she
chose, however, her face could be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent,
hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great strength of her
personality was dominating us all.
And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, I thought. The
heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. I asked her if she were feeling ill,
and she answered frankly:
“Yes, I've got the most beastly headache.”
“Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?” said Poirot solicitously. “It will revive you.
It is unparalleled for the mal de tete.” He jumped up and took her cup.
“No
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