Read Online The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie - Free Book Online Page B

sugar,” said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the sugar-tongs.
    “No sugar? You abandon it in the wartime, eh?”
    “No, I never take it in coffee.”
    “Sacre!” murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back the replenished cup.
    Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I saw that his face was
     working with suppressed excitement, and his eyes were as green as a cat's. He had heard or
     seen something that had affected him strongly - but what was it? I do not usually label
     myself as dense, but I must confess that nothing out of the ordinary had attracted
    
    
     my
    
    
     attention.
    In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared. “Mr. Wells to see you, sir,” she
     said to John.
    I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer to whom Mrs. Inglethorp had written the
     night before.
    John rose immediately. “Show him into my study.” Then he turned to us. “My mother's
     lawyer,” he explained. And in a lower voice: “He is also Coroner - you understand. Perhaps
     you would like to come with me?”
    We acquiesced and followed him out of the room. John strode on ahead and I took the
     opportunity of whispering to Poirot: “There will be an inquest then?”
    Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so that my curiosity was
     aroused.
    “What is it? You are not attending to what I say.”
    “It is true, my friend. I am much worried.”
    “Why?”
    “Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee.”
    “What? You cannot be serious?”
    “But I am most serious. Ah, there is something there that I do not understand. My instinct
     was right.”
    “What instinct?”
    “The instinct that led me to insist on examining those coffee cups. Chut! no more now!”
    We followed John into his study, and he closed the door behind us. Mr. Wells was a
     pleasant man of middle age, with keen eyes, and the typical lawyer's mouth. John
     introduced us both, and explained the reason of our presence.
    “You will understand, Wells,” he added, “that this is all strictly private. We are still
     hoping that there will turn out to be no need for investigation of any kind.”
    “Quite so, quite so,” said Mr. Wells soothingly. “I wish we could have spared you the pain
     and publicity of an inquest, but of course it's quite unavoidable in the absence of a
     doctor's certificate.”
    “Yes, I suppose so.”
    “Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe.”
    “Indeed,” said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Then he added rather
     hesitatingly: “Shall we have to appear as witnesses - all of us, I mean?”
    “You, of course - and ah - er - Mr. - er - Inglethorp.”
    A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner: “Any other
     evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form.”
    “I see.”
    A faint expression of relief swept over John's face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion
     for it.
    “If you know of nothing to the contrary,” pursued Mr. Wells, “I had thought of Friday.
     That will give us plenty of time for the doctor's report. The post-mortem is to take place
     tonight, I believe?”
    “Yes.”
    “Then that arrangement will suit you?”
    “Perfectly.”
    “I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most tragic affair.”
    “Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?” interposed Poirot, speaking for the
     first time since we had entered the room.
    “I?”
    “Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the
     letter this morning.”
    “I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me to call upon her
     this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great importance.”
    “She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?”
    “Unfortunately, no.”
    “That is a pity,” said John.
    “A great pity,” agreed Poirot