Chapter 1 I Go To Styles
The intense interest aroused in the public by what was known at the time as "The Styles Case" has now somewhat subsided. Nevertheless, in view of the world-wide notoriety which attended it, I have been asked, both by my friend Poirot and the family themselves, to write an account of the whole story. This, we trust, will effectually silence the sensational rumours which still persist.
I will therefore briefly set down the circumstances which led to my being connected with the affair.
I had been invalided home from the Front; and, after spending some months in a rather depressing Convalescent Home, was given a month's sick leave. Having no near relations or friends, I was trying to make up my mind what to do, when I ran across John Cavendish. I had seen very little of him for some years. Indeed, I had never known him particularly well. He was a good fifteen years my senior, for one thing, though he hardly looked his forty-five years. As a boy, though, I had often stayed at Styles, his mother's place in Essex.
We had a good yarn about old times, and it ended in his inviting me down to Styles to spend my leave there.
"The mater will be delighted to see you again--after all those years," he added.
"Your mother keeps well?" I asked.
"Oh, yes. I suppose you know that she has married again?"
I am afraid I showed my surprise rather plainly. Mrs. Cavendish, who had married John's father when he was a widower with two sons, had been a handsome woman of middle-age as I remembered her. She certainly could not be a day less than seventy now. I recalled her as an energetic, autocratic personality, somewhat inclined to charitable and social notoriety, with a fondness for opening bazaars and playing the Lady Bountiful. She was a most generous woman, and possessed a considerable fortune of her own.
Their country-place, Styles Court, had been purchased by Mr. Cavendish early in their married life. He had been completely under his wife's ascendancy, so much so that, on dying, he left the place to her for her lifetime, as well as the larger part of his income; an arrangement that was distinctly unfair to his two sons. Their step-mother, however, had always been most generous to them; indeed, they were so young at the time of their father's remarriage that they always thought of her as their own mother.
Lawrence, the younger, had been a delicate youth. He had qualified as a doctor but early relinquished the profession of medicine, and lived at home while pursuing literary ambitions; though his verses never had any marked success.
John practiced for some time as a barrister, but had finally settled down to the more congenial life of a country squire. He had married two years ago, and had taken his wife to live at Styles, though I entertained a shrewd suspicion that he would have preferred his mother to increase his allowance, which would have enabled him to have a home of his own. Mrs. Cavendish, however, was a lady who liked to make her own plans, and expected other people to fall in with them, and in this case she certainly had the whip hand, namely: the purse strings.
John noticed my surprise at the news of his mother's remarriage and smiled rather ruefully.
"Rotten little bounder too!" he said savagely. "I can tell you, Hastings, it's making life jolly difficult for us. As for Evie--you remember Evie?"
"No."
"Oh, I suppose she was after your time. She's the mater's factotum, companion, Jack of all trades! A great sport--old Evie! Not precisely young and beautiful, but as game as they make them."
"You were going to say----?"
"Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of being a second cousin or something of Evie's, though she didn't seem particularly keen to acknowledge the relationship. The fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see that. He's got a great black beard, and wears patent leather boots in all weathers! But the mater cottoned to him at once, took him on as secretary--you know how she's always running a hundred societies?"
I nodded.
"Well, of course the war has turned the hundreds into thousands. No doubt the fellow was very useful to her. But you could have knocked us all down with a feather when, three months ago, she suddenly announced that she and Alfred were engaged! The fellow must be at least twenty years younger than she is! It's simply bare-faced fortune hunting; but there you are--she is her own mistress, and she's married him."
"It must be a difficult situation for you all."
"Difficult! It's damnable!"
Thus it came about that, three days later, I descended from the train at Styles St. Mary, an absurd little station, with no apparent reason for existence, perched up in the midst of green fields and country lanes. John Cavendish was waiting on the platform, and piloted me out to the car.
"Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see," he remarked. "Mainly owing to the mater's activities."
The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about two miles from the little station, and Styles Court lay a mile the other side of it. It was a still, warm day in early July. As one looked out over the flat Essex country, lying so green and peaceful under the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible to believe that, not so very far away, a great war was running its appointed course. I felt I had suddenly strayed into another world. As we turned in at the lodge gates, John said:
"I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet down here, Hastings."
"My dear fellow, that's just what I want."
"Oh, it's pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life. I drill with the volunteers twice a week, and lend a hand at the farms. My wife works regularly 'on the land'. She is up at five every morning to milk, and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime. It's a jolly good life taking it all round--if it weren't for that fellow Alfred Inglethorp!" He checked the car suddenly, and glanced at his watch. "I wonder if we've time to pick up Cynthia. No, she'll have started from the hospital by now."
"Cynthia! That's not your wife?"
"No, Cynthia is a protegee of my mother's, the daughter of an old schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor. He came a cropper, and the girl was left an orphan and penniless. My mother came to the rescue, and Cynthia has been with us nearly two years now. She works in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster, seven miles away."
As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old house. A lady in a stout tweed skirt, who was bending over a flower bed, straightened herself at our approach.
"Hullo, Evie, here's our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings--Miss Howard."
Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip. I had an impression of very blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, with a deep voice, almost manly in its stentorian tones, and had a large sensible square body, with feet to match--these last encased in good thick boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the telegraphic style.
"Weeds grow like house afire. Can't keep even with 'em. Shall press you in. Better be careful."
"I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful," I responded.
"Don't say it. Never does. Wish you hadn't later."
"You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing. "Where's tea to-day--inside or out?"
"Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house."
"Come on then, you've done enough gardening for to-day. 'The labourer is worthy of his hire', you know. Come and be refreshed."
"Well," said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, "I'm inclined to agree with you."
She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the shade of a large sycamore.
A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps to meet us.
"My wife, Hastings," said John.
I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall, slender form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense of slumbering fire that seemed to find expression only in those wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any other woman's that I have ever known; the intense power of stillness she possessed, which nevertheless conveyed the impression of a wild untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilised body--all these things are burnt into my memory. I shall never forget them.
She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low clear voice, and I sank into a basket chair feeling distinctly glad that I had accepted John's invitation. Mrs. Cavendish gave me some tea, and her few quiet remarks heightened my first impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman. An appreciative listener is always stimulating, and I described, in a humorous manner, certain incidents of my Convalescent Home, in a way which, I flatter myself, greatly amused my hostess. John, of course, good fellow though he is, could hardly be called a brilliant conversationalist.
At that moment a well remembered voice floated through the open French window near at hand:
"Then you'll write to the Princess after tea, Alfred? I'll write to Lady Tadminster for the second day, myself. Or shall we wait until we hear from the Princess? In case of a refusal, Lady Tadminster might open it the first day, and Mrs. Crosbie the second. Then there's the Duchess--about the school fete."
There was the murmur of a man's voice, and then Mrs. Inglethorp's rose in reply:
"Yes, certainly. After tea will do quite well. You are so thoughtful, Alfred dear."
The French window swung open a little wider, and a handsome white-haired old lady, with a somewhat masterful cast of features, stepped out of it on to the lawn. A man followed her, a suggestion of deference in his manner.
Mrs. Inglethorp greeted me with effusion.
"Why, if it isn't too delightful to see you again, Mr. Hastings, after all these years. Alfred, darling, Mr. Hastings--my husband."
I looked with some curiosity at "Alfred darling". He certainly struck a rather alien note. I did not wonder at John objecting to his beard. It was one of the longest and blackest I have ever seen. He wore gold-rimmed pince-nez, and had a curious impassivity of feature. It struck me that he might look natural on a stage, but was strangely out of place in real life. His voice was rather deep and unctuous. He placed a wooden hand in mine and said:
"This is a pleasure, Mr. Hastings." Then, turning to his wife: "Emily dearest, I think that cushion is a little damp."
She beamed fondly on him, as he substituted another with every demonstration of the tenderest care. Strange infatuation of an otherwise sensible woman!
With the presence of Mr. Inglethorp, a sense of constraint and veiled hostility seemed to settle down upon the company. Miss Howard, in particular, took no pains to conceal her feelings. Mrs. Inglethorp, however, seemed to notice nothing unusual. Her volubility, which I remembered of old, had lost nothing in the intervening years, and she poured out a steady flood of conversation, mainly on the subject of the forthcoming bazaar which she was organizing and which was to take place shortly. Occasionally she referred to her husband over a question of days or dates. His watchful and attentive manner never varied. From the very first I took a firm and rooted dislike to him, and I flatter myself that my first judgments are usually fairly shrewd.
Presently Mrs. Inglethorp turned to give some instructions about letters to Evelyn Howard, and her husband addressed me in his painstaking voice:
"Is soldiering your regular profession, Mr. Hastings?"
"No, before the war I was in Lloyd's."
"And you will return there after it is over?"
"Perhaps. Either that or a fresh start altogether."
Mary Cavendish leant forward.
"What would you really choose as a profession, if you could just consult your inclination?"
"Well, that depends."
"No secret hobby?" she asked. "Tell me--you're drawn to something? Every one is--usually something absurd."
"You'll laugh at me."
She smiled.
"Perhaps."
"Well, I've always had a secret hankering to be a detective!"
"The real thing--Scotland Yard? Or Sherlock Holmes?"
"Oh, Sherlock Holmes by all means. But really, seriously, I am awfully drawn to it. I came across a man in Belgium once, a very famous detective, and he quite inflamed me. He was a marvellous little fellow. He used to say that all good detective work was a mere matter of method. My system is based on his--though of course I have progressed rather further. He was a funny little man, a great dandy, but wonderfully clever."
"Like a good detective story myself," remarked Miss Howard. "Lots of nonsense written, though. Criminal discovered in last chapter. Every one dumbfounded. Real crime--you'd know at once."
"There have been a great number of undiscovered crimes," I argued.
"Don't mean the police, but the people that are right in it. The family. You couldn't really hoodwink them. They'd know."
"Then," I said, much amused, "you think that if you were mixed up in a crime, say a murder, you'd be able to spot the murderer right off?"
"Of course I should. Mightn't be able to prove it to a pack of lawyers. But I'm certain I'd know. I'd feel it in my fingertips if he came near me."
"It might be a 'she,' " I suggested.
"Might. But murder's a violent crime. Associate it more with a man."
"Not in a case of poisoning." Mrs. Cavendish's clear voice startled me. "Dr. Bauerstein was saying yesterday that, owing to the general ignorance of the more uncommon poisons among the medical profession, there were probably countless cases of poisoning quite unsuspected."
"Why, Mary, what a gruesome conversation!" cried Mrs. Inglethorp. "It makes me feel as if a goose were walking over my grave. Oh, there's Cynthia!"
A young girl in V. A. D. uniform ran lightly across the lawn.
"Why, Cynthia, you are late to-day. This is Mr. Hastings--Miss Murdoch."
Cynthia Murdoch was a fresh-looking young creature, full of life and vigour. She tossed off her little V. A. D. cap, and I admired the great loose waves of her auburn hair, and the smallness and whiteness of the hand she held out to claim her tea. With dark eyes and eyelashes she would have been a beauty.
She flung herself down on the ground beside John, and as I handed her a plate of sandwiches she smiled up at me.
"Sit down here on the grass, do. It's ever so much nicer."
I dropped down obediently.
"You work at Tadminster, don't you, Miss Murdoch?"
She nodded.
"For my sins."
"Do they bully you, then?" I asked, smiling.
"I should like to see them!" cried Cynthia with dignity.
"I have got a cousin who is nursing," I remarked. "And she is terrified of 'Sisters'."
"I don't wonder. Sisters _are_, you know, Mr. Hastings. They simp--ly _are_! You've no idea! But I'm not a nurse, thank heaven, I work in the dispensary."
"How many people do you poison?" I asked, smiling.
Cynthia smiled too.
"Oh, hundreds!" she said.
"Cynthia," called Mrs. Inglethorp, "do you think you could write a few notes for me?"
"Certainly, Aunt Emily."
She jumped up promptly, and something in her manner reminded me that her position was a dependent one, and that Mrs. Inglethorp, kind as she might be in the main, did not allow her to forget it.
My hostess turned to me.
"John will show you your room. Supper is at half-past seven. We have given up late dinner for some time now. Lady Tadminster, our Member's wife--she was the late Lord Abbotsbury's daughter--does the same. She agrees with me that one must set an example of economy. We are quite a war household; nothing is wasted here--every scrap of waste paper, even, is saved and sent away in sacks."
I expressed my appreciation, and John took me into the house and up the broad staircase, which forked right and left half-way to different wings of the building. My room was in the left wing, and looked out over the park.
John left me, and a few minutes later I saw him from my window walking slowly across the grass arm in arm with Cynthia Murdoch. I heard Mrs. Inglethorp call "Cynthia" impatiently, and the girl started and ran back to the house. At the same moment, a man stepped out from the shadow of a tree and walked slowly in the same direction. He looked about forty, very dark with a melancholy clean-shaven face. Some violent emotion seemed to be mastering him. He looked up at my window as he passed, and I recognized him, though he had changed much in the fifteen years that had elapsed since we last met. It was John's younger brother, Lawrence Cavendish. I wondered what it was that had brought that singular expression to his face.
Then I dismissed him from my mind, and returned to the contemplation of my own affairs.
The evening passed pleasantly enough; and I dreamed that night of that enigmatical woman, Mary Cavendish.
The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and I was full of the anticipation of a delightful visit.
I did not see Mrs. Cavendish until lunch-time, when she volunteered to take me for a walk, and we spent a charming afternoon roaming in the woods, returning to the house about five.
As we entered the large hall, John beckoned us both into the smoking-room. I saw at once by his face that something disturbing had occurred. We followed him in, and he shut the door after us.
"Look here, Mary, there's the deuce of a mess. Evie's had a row with Alfred Inglethorp, and she's off."
"Evie? Off?"
John nodded gloomily.
"Yes; you see she went to the mater, and--Oh, here's Evie herself."
Miss Howard entered. Her lips were set grimly together, and she carried a small suit-case. She looked excited and determined, and slightly on the defensive.
"At any rate," she burst out, "I've spoken my mind!"
"My dear Evelyn," cried Mrs. Cavendish, "this can't be true!"
Miss Howard nodded grimly.
"True enough! Afraid I said some things to Emily she won't forget or forgive in a hurry. Don't mind if they've only sunk in a bit. Probably water off a duck's back, though. I said right out: 'You're an old woman, Emily, and there's no fool like an old fool. The man's twenty years younger than you, and don't you fool yourself as to what he married you for. Money! Well, don't let him have too much of it. Farmer Raikes has got a very pretty young wife. Just ask your Alfred how much time he spends over there.' She was very angry. Natural! I went on, 'I'm going to warn you, whether you like it or not. That man would as soon murder you in your bed as look at you. He's a bad lot. You can say what you like to me, but remember what I've told you. He's a bad lot!' "
"What did she say?"
Miss Howard made an extremely expressive grimace.
" 'Darling Alfred'--'dearest Alfred'--'wicked calumnies' --'wicked lies'--'wicked woman'--to accuse her 'dear husband'! The sooner I left her house the better. So I'm off."
"But not now?"
"This minute!"
For a moment we sat and stared at her. Finally John Cavendish, finding his persuasions of no avail, went off to look up the trains. His wife followed him, murmuring something about persuading Mrs. Inglethorp to think better of it.
As she left the room, Miss Howard's face changed. She leant towards me eagerly.
"Mr. Hastings, you're honest. I can trust you?"
I was a little startled. She laid her hand on my arm, and sank her voice to a whisper.
"Look after her, Mr. Hastings. My poor Emily. They're a lot of sharks--all of them. Oh, I know what I'm talking about. There isn't one of them that's not hard up and trying to get money out of her. I've protected her as much as I could. Now I'm out of the way, they'll impose upon her."
"Of course, Miss Howard," I said, "I'll do everything I can, but I'm sure you're excited and overwrought."
She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger.
"Young man, trust me. I've lived in the world rather longer than you have. All I ask you is to keep your eyes open. You'll see what I mean."
The throb of the motor came through the open window, and Miss Howard rose and moved to the door. John's voice sounded outside. With her hand on the handle, she turned her head over her shoulder, and beckoned to me.
"Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil--her husband!"
There was no time for more. Miss Howard was swallowed up in an eager chorus of protests and good-byes. The Inglethorps did not appear.
As the motor drove away, Mrs. Cavendish suddenly detached herself from the group, and moved across the drive to the lawn to meet a tall bearded man who had been evidently making for the house. The colour rose in her cheeks as she held out her hand to him.
"Who is that?" I asked sharply, for instinctively I distrusted the man.
"That's Dr. Bauerstein," said John shortly.
"And who is Dr. Bauerstein?"
"He's staying in the village doing a rest cure, after a bad nervous breakdown. He's a London specialist; a very clever man--one of the greatest living experts on poisons, I believe."
"And he's a great friend of Mary's," put in Cynthia, the irrepressible.
John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject.
"Come for a stroll, Hastings. This has been a most rotten business. She always had a rough tongue, but there is no stauncher friend in England than Evelyn Howard."
He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to the village through the woods which bordered one side of the estate.
As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again, a pretty young woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction bowed and smiled.
"That's a pretty girl," I remarked appreciatively.
John's face hardened.
"That is Mrs. Raikes."
"The one that Miss Howard----"
"Exactly," said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness.
I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside.
"Styles is really a glorious old place," I said to John.
He nodded rather gloomily.
"Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day--should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."
"Hard up, are you?"
"My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm at my wit's end for money."
"Couldn't your brother help you?"
"Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, we're an impecunious lot. My mother's always been awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up to now. Since her marriage, of course----" he broke off, frowning.
For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, something indefinable had gone from the atmosphere. Her presence had spelt security. Now that security was removed--and the air seemed rife with suspicion. The sinister face of Dr. Bauerstein recurred to me unpleasantly. A vague suspicion of every one and everything filled my mind. Just for a moment I had a premonition of approaching evil.
曾经轰动一时，在公众中引起强烈兴趣的“斯泰尔斯庄园案”，现在已经有点冷落下来了。然而，由于随之产生的种种流言蜚语广为流传，我的朋友波洛和那一家的人。都要求我把整个故事写出来。我们相信，这将有效地驳倒那些迄今为止仍在流传的耸人听闻的谣言。
因此，我决定把我和这一事件有关的一些情况简略地记下来。
我是作为伤病员从前线给遣送回家的；在一所令人相当沮丧的疗养院里挨过了几个月之后，总算给了我一个月的病假。我既无近亲也没有密友，当我正在考虑怎么来度过这一假期的时候，偶然遇见了约翰•卡文迪什，这些年来我很少见到他。说实在的，我并不十分了解他。首先，他比我足足大十五岁，虽然他根本着不出有四十五岁。虽说在做孩子的时候，我常在斯泰尔斯庄园逗留，那是他母亲在埃塞克期①的乡间邸宅。
我们经过了一番叙旧之后，接着他就邀我上斯泰尔斯去度过我的假期。
“隔了这么多年又见到你，母亲一定会很高兴的。”他补充说。
“你母亲好吗？”我问道。
“嗯，很好。她又结婚了，你大概知道了吧？”
我担心我已有点儿明显地流露出惊讶的神情。在我的记忆中，他的母亲是位端庄的中年妇女（她嫁给约翰父亲的时候，他是个鳏夫，已有两个儿子），现在，无疑至少有七十岁了。我记得她是个精力充沛、办事专断的人，有点喜欢慈善事业和社交活动，爱好搞搞义卖之类，扮演“帮得忙”大太②的角色。她是个非常慷慨的女人，她自己有相当可观的财产。
他们这幢乡问邸宅斯泰尔斯庄园，是早在他们结婚那年月，卡文迪什先生购置的。他本来已完全在他太太的控制之下，他一去世，这幢宅第也就留给她终生享用了，她的绝大部分收入也归了她；这样的安排，对他的两个儿子来无疑是不公正的。然而，他们的后母对他们倒是非常慷慨；实在是，他们的父亲再娶时。他们都还年幼，所以他们一向把她看成是自己的亲生母亲。
弟弟劳伦斯是个文雅的青年。他原已取得了当医生的资格，但他早就放弃了这个行医的职业，待在家里一心想实现文学上的抱负；虽然他的诗作从来没有任何显著的成就。
约翰当过一段时间开业律师，可是，他最终还是过起这种更为惬意的乡绅生活来了。他在两年前结了婚，带着妻子住在斯泰尔斯，不过，我总觉得，他是宁愿他的母亲多给他一点津贴，好让他能够有一个自己的家的。然而，那位老太太是个喜欢独断独行的人，希望别人听从她的安排，而在现在这样的情况下，她当然处于支配地应，就是说：财权在她手中。
约翰觉察到我听说他母亲再嫁的消息后所表现出来的惊讶，苦笑了一下。
“还是个卑鄙龌龊的粗俗汉子！”他粗鲁地说。“我可以告诉你，哈斯丁，这搞得我们的日子相当难过。至于哪个伊维③——你还记得伊维吗？”
“不记得了。”
“呵，我想她是在你那一次去过之后来的。她是母亲的管家，女伴，是个样样皆通的人物！那个老伊维，是个大玩物！既不年轻又不漂亮，大家都拿他们作为嘲弄的对象。
“你是打算说——？”
“哼，这家伙！谁知道他是打哪几钻出来的，借口是伊维的远房表兄弟什么的，虽说她似乎并不特别想承认这种关系。谁都能看出，这家伙完全是个粗俗汉子。一大把黑胡子，不管什么天气都穿双漆皮的长统靴！可母亲却立刻对他产生了好感，录用他当了秘书——你知道吗？她一直经营着上百个社会团体呢。”
我点点头。
“当然罗，战争已经把几百个这样的社团变成几千个了。这家伙对她来说无疑是很有用的。可是，三个月前，当她突然宣布她已和阿弗雷德订婚时，这可把我们都给惊呆了！这家伙至少比她要小二十岁呀！这简直是露骨的，追求有钱的女人；可是你知道，她是个独断独行的女主人，她就嫁给他啦。”
“这一定使你们大家处境都困难了吧。”
“困难！糟透了！”
就在这次谈话之后的第三天，我在斯泰尔斯站下了火车。这简直是个荒谬可笑的小站，四周全是碧绿的田野和乡间小道，看来毫无明显的存在理由。约翰•卡文迪什在站台上等着我，他把我领到汽车跟前。
“你瞧，总算还搞到了一、两滴汽油，”他说：“主要是由于我母亲的活动。”
斯泰尔斯村在离这个小站大约有两英里的地方，斯泰尔斯庄园则坐落在小站的另一方向，离它有一英里第。这是七月初一个宁静、暖和的日子。当你望着窗外掠过的这片埃塞克斯的平野时，它沐浴在午后的阳光中，显得如此青葱，如此宁静，简直使人不能相信，就在离这不很远的地方，一场大战正在按预定的过程进行。我感到自己已突然置身于另一个世界。当我们拐入庄园的大门时，约翰说道：
“我怕你在这儿会感到太冷清呢，哈斯丁。”
“老朋友，这正是我所需要的啊。”
“呵，你要是愿意过悠闲的生活，那这里可真舒适极了。我每星期去和志愿兵一起操练两次，在农庄上帮点忙。我的妻子按时去干点农活。她每天早上五点起身去挤牛奶，一直到吃中饭。要是没有阿弗雷德•英格里桑那家伙的话，这儿确实是一种快活似神仙的生活！”他突然煞住了车，看了着手表。“不知道我们是不是还来得及去接一下辛西娅。啊，不行啦，她可能已经从医院出来了。”
“辛西娅！就是你妻子吗？”
“不，辛西娅是我母亲的养女，她的一个老同学的女儿，这个老同学嫁给了一个律师，那人是个流氓，后来栽了大跟斗，弄得这姑娘身无分文，孤苦无依，结果是我母亲救了她。卒西碰往在我们家已经快两年了，她在塔明斯特的红十字医院工作，离这儿有七英里地。”
他说最后几句话时，我们已到了一幢高大的老式房子跟前。一个穿着宽大的花呢裙子的女人，正俯身在花床上，一见我们到来，连忙直起了身子。
“你好，伊维，这位就是我说的负伤的英雄！哈斯丁先生——这位是霍华德小姐。”
霍华德小姐握手很有劲，几乎都把我给握痛了，在她那被阳光晒黑的脸上有一对蓝莹莹的眼睛。她是个一眼看去挺讨人欢喜的女人，四十岁上下，嗓子深沉，洪亮的声音，几乎象个男人，生就一副显然很宽阔结实的身材，再配上一双合适的脚——它们被套在结实粗大的靴子里。我很快发现，她的谈吐语句十分简洁。
“杂草长起来就象房子着火，连赶都赶不上它们，我要抓你的夫的。最好当心一点。”
“我相信，能使自己成为一个有用的人，那我才高兴呐。”我回答说。
“别说这一套。决不要说，希望你以后也别说。”
“你真会挖苦人，伊维，”约翰笑了起来，说。“今天在哪儿喝茶呀——里面还是外面？”
“外面。这么好的天气还打算关在屋子里。”
“那就去吧，今天的园艺活你已经做够了。你要知道，‘雇工之劳动应与其雇金相符’。去吧，歇一歇，”
“好，”霍华德小姐答应说，脱掉自己的工作手套，“就听你的吧。”
她在前面带路，绕过房子，来到一棵大枫树的树荫下摆着茶点的地方。
有一个人从一张柳条椅上站起来。朝我们迎上来几步。
“我的妻子。这位是哈斯丁，”约翰介绍说。
我决不会忘掉第一次见到玛丽•卡文迪什的情景。她，高高的苗条的身材，在明朗的阳光下线条优美；那种欲露还藏的活泼表情。似乎只在那对神奇的褐色媚眼中才能找到。那双惊人的眼睛，和我所见过的所有女人的都不同；她拥有一种无声的非凡的魅力；然而，她那文静高雅的体态中仍然流露出一种狂热奔放的野性激情——所有这一切，都在我的记忆中熊熊燃烧。这是我永远不会忘记的。
她用一种轻柔、清晰的声音，说了几句热情的话，对我表示欢迎，随后我就在一张柳条椅上坐了下来，心中为自己接受约翰的邀请感到格外的高兴。卡文迪什太太给我斟了茶，她那寥寥数句文雅的话，更加深了我对她的最初印象，觉得她是个会使人完全神魂颠倒的女人。一个有欣赏力的听众总是提高人的兴致的，因而我用一种幽默的口吻叙述了一些疗养院中的趣闻轶事，我用这样的方式，引起了我的女主人很大的兴趣，我自己也感到很得意。当然，约翰虽是个大好人，但他不能被称作一个高明的对话者。
正在这时候，一个难以忘却的声音，从近处的一个开着的落地长窗中飘了出来：
“那末你喝了茶以后给公主写信吗，阿弗雷德？给第二天来的塔明斯特夫人的信我自己来写。或者我们还是等公主那边有了回答再说？要是她不答应，塔明斯特夫人就可以在第一天来，克罗斯贝太太第二天，再是公爵夫人——主持学校的开学典礼。”
传出一个男人的喃喃不清的声音，接着又响起英格里桑太大的答话声：
“对，当然可以。喝了茶以后就好好搞一搞，你考虑得真周到，亲爱的阿弗雷德。”
落地长窗又开大了一点，一位端庄的白发老太太，有着一副专横的面容，从里面走出来，来到草坪上，她的后面跟着一个男人，显得一副顺从的样儿。
英格里桑太太热情洋溢地对我表示欢迎。
“啊，隔了这么多年，现在又能见到你，真是太高兴了。
阿弗雷德，亲爱的，这是哈斯丁先生——这是我的丈夫。”
我有点好奇地打量着“亲爱的阿弗雷德”。此人确实有点几不含时宜。难怪约翰对他那脸络腮胡子那么反感。
这是我所见过的最长最黑的胡子之一。他戴一副金边的夹鼻眼镜，一脸难以理解的冷淡表情。这使我产生一个印象，他在舞台上也许倒是挺合适的，在现实生活中却怪不自然。他的声音颇为油滑，有点假殷勤的味道。他把一只木头般的手放到我的手中，说道：
“十分荣幸，哈斯丁先生，”接着他转身对他的妻子说：“亲爱的埃米莉，我觉得这椅垫儿有点潮湿呢。”
当他小心翼翼地调换了一个坐垫时，老太大多情地朝他微笑着。一个在各方面都很聪明的女人的奇怪的述恋！
由于英格里桑太大的在场，可以觉察出，在这家人的头上，似乎都蒙上了一层紧张的关系和隐藏着的敌意。霍毕德小姐尤其尽力掩饰住自己的感情。然而，英格里桑太太仿佛什么异常的情况都没有发现。我所记得的她昔日的那种多才善辩，经过这么些年来，依然不减当年，她滔滔不绝地说个不停，谈的话题主要是由她组织的、不久就要举行的义卖。她偶尔向她丈夫查问一下日子或日期方面的问题。他那殷勤小心的态度举上从不改变。打从一开始，我就厌恶他，这一想法在我脑子里一直根深蒂固，而且我自以为我的第一个印象通常都是相当准确的。
过了一会，英格里桑太太转向了伊夫琳•霍华德，对一些有关信件方面的事情吩咐了几句，于是她的文夫用他那煞费苦心的声音和我聊开了：
“你的固定职业就是军人吗，哈斯丁先生？”
“不，战前我在劳埃德商船协会。”
“战争结束后你还决定回去吗？”
“也许是。不外乎回那儿或者是找个新工作。”
玛丽•卡文迪什向前探过身来。
“要是你只是从你的爱好考虑的话，你愿意真正选择一个怎样的职业呢？”
“这个，那要看情况了。”
“没有秘密的癖好吧？”她问道。“告诉我——你被什么东西吸引来着？每个人通常都被某种可笑的东西吸引着的。”
“你会笑话我的。”
她笑了。
“也许是这样。”
“好吧，我一直暗地里渴望成为一个侦探！”
“真不赖——英格兰场④？还是谢洛克•福尔摩斯⑤呢？”
“噢，争取成为谢洛克•福尔摩斯。不过，事实上，认真说，我对此非常向往。我有一次在比利时遇到过一个人，是一位非常著名的侦探，是他激起了我对这一事业的热情。他是一个不可思议的小个子。他常说，一切优秀的侦探工作仅仅是一个方法问题。我的体系就是以他的这一说法为基础的——当然，虽然我已经有了更进一步的发展。他是个非常风趣的小个子，一个衣着时髦的花花公子，但是惊人地机敏。”
“我也喜欢优秀的侦探小说，”霍华德小姐议论说，“不过，总是写了那么多胡说八道的东西。到最后一章揭露了罪犯，弄得每个人都目瞪口呆。可是真正的犯罪行为——是很快就能发现的。”
“还有大量的犯罪行为没有被发现哩，”我表示不赞同。
“不是指警方，而是那些当事人。家里人。你没法真正能瞒过他们。他们一定会知道。”
“那么，”我十分感兴趣他说，“你认为假如你和一桩罪行，譬如说谋杀，牵连上的话，你一定能立刻认出罪犯的罗？”
“当然能认出。也许我不会去向一大群司法人员证实这一点，可是我确信我一定知道，如果他走近我，我凭手指尖就能感觉到。”
“也许是‘她’呢，”我提醒说。
“也许是。可是谋杀是一种暴力犯罪。干这的多半是男人。”
“放毒案就不是这样，”卡文迪什太太那清晰的嗓音使我大吃一惊。“鲍斯但医生昨天说过，由于医学界对多数罕有的毒药普遍无知，这就有可能使无数的放毒案完全不受怀疑。”，。
“唷，玛丽，你说得多可怕呀！”英格里桑太大喊了起来。“害得我都觉得毛骨悚然了。噢，辛西娅来了！”
一个穿着爱国护士会制服的年轻姑娘飘然地穿过草坪跑了过来。
“哦，辛西娅，你今天来晚了。这位是哈斯丁先生——这是穆多契小姐。”
辛西娅•穆多契小姐是个体格健美的年轻姑娘，充满生气和活力。她敏捷地摘下小小的护士帽，那一头疏松的栗色卷发真使我惊叹不已。她伸出一只又白又嫩的小手，接过了茶怀，要是再有乌黑的眼睛和睫毛，那就真是一个美人儿了。
她一下在约翰旁边的草地上坐了下来，当我把一盘三明冶朝她递过去时，她朝我笑了笑。
“来，坐到草地上来吧，这要舒服多了。”
我顺从地坐了下去。
“你是在塔明斯特工作吗，穆多契小姐？”
她点点头。
“活受罪。”
“怎么，他们欺负你了？”我笑着问道。
“我倒喜欢看到他们那样！”辛西娅神气十足地喊了起来。
“我有一个堂妹就是做护士的，”我说，“她也对那些‘修女们’⑥吓得要命。”
“这不奇怪。你知道，哈斯丁先生，护上长就是那样。她们的确是那样！你不知道！谢天谢地，我可不是护士，我在药房工作。”
“你毒死过多少人呀？”我笑着问道。
辛西姬也笑了起来。
“啊，好几百了！”她说。
“辛西娅，”英格里桑太太叫道，“你能给我写几封短信吗？”
“当然可以，埃来莉阿姨。”
她敏捷地一跃而起，她的一举一动中的某些东西，使我想到，她完全处于一个从属的地位；英格里桑太太总的来说可算是仁慈的，但她也不让她忘掉这一点。
我的女主人转向我。
“约翰会带你去你的房间。七点半吃晚饭。我们现在有时候已经不吃晚正餐了。塔明斯特夫人，就是我们的议员的太太——她是已故的阿博茨布雷勋爵的女儿——也是这样。她赞同我的意见，一个人必须成为节约的榜样。我们完全称得上是个战时家庭了；我们这儿一点东西都不浪费——即便是一小片废纸都要积起来，用麻袋装走。”
我表达了我的敬赏之意，接着约翰就带我进屋，上了楼梯，楼梯在半路上左右分开，通向这幢房子的两厢。我的房间在左侧，朝着庭园。
约翰走了，几分钟后，我从窗口看到他和辛西娅手挽手慢慢地从草坪上走了过去。接着，我听到了英格里桑大太急切地叫着“辛西娅”的声音，姑娘吃了一惊，立刻朝房子跑回去了。就在这时候，有个男人从树荫中踱了出来，慢慢地朝同一个方向走去。他看上去四十岁上下，皮肤黝黑，脸刮得光光的，表情忧郁，似乎正被一种强烈的感情所控制。当他经过我的窗下时，朝上看了看。啊，我认出了他，虽然从我们最后一次见面以来，在已经逝去的十五个年头中，他有了很大的变化。这是约翰的弟弟劳伦斯•卡文迪什。我感到纳闷，他脸上为什么会带上那样异常的表情。
后来，我就没有再会想他，回头考虑我自己的事情了。
这天傍晚过得十分愉快，晚上，我梦见了那个不可思议的女人——玛丽•卡文迪什。
第二天早晨，阳光灿烂，我满心期待着一次令人高兴的出游。
一直到吃中饭的时候，我才见到卡文迪什太太。她主动提出陪我去散步，于是我们在林子里漫游，度过了一个令人陶醉的下午，回家时已是五点左右。
我们一进门厅，约翰就招呼我们俩到吸烟室丢。从他脸上，我立刻看出一定出了什么乱子了。我们跟着他走进房间，等我们进去后，他关上了门。
“喂！玛丽，闹得一塌糊涂。伊维和阿弗雷德大吵了一场，她要走了。”
“伊维？要走？”
约翰阴郁地点点头。
“是的。现在她上母亲那儿丢了——哦，伊维来了。”
霍华德小姐走了进来。她冷冷地抿着嘴，手里拎着一只小提箱，看上去既激动又坚决，有点儿处于守势。
“不管怎么样，”她大声嚷道，“我已说出了我的想法！”
“亲爱的伊维，”卡文迪什太太说，“是真的？”
霍华德小姐冷冷地点点头。
千真万确！我对埃米莉说了一些事，恐怕她是不会忘记或者马上原谅我了。不管这些话是否只听进去了一点点，即使说了也可能是白说，我还是照直对她说了：“你是个上了年岁的老太太了，埃米莉，再没有一个人会象个老傻瓜一般傻的了。那男人比你年轻二十岁哩。别欺骗自己了，她娶你是为了什么？钱！行了，别给他那么多钱。那个农场主雷克斯可有个非常年轻美貌的老婆。你只要问问你的阿弗雷德看，他在那儿消磨掉多少时间。’她气坏了。傻瓜！可我还是说下去：‘我这是给你提出忠告，不管你爱听还是不爱听。那个男人看到你恨不得把你谋杀在你床上哩。他是一个坏蛋。你爱跟我怎么说就怎么说吧，但是请你记住我对你说过的话。他是一个坏蛋！’”
“她怎么说？”
霍华德小姐作了一个意味深长的怪相。
“什么‘亲爱的阿弗雷德’——还有‘最亲爱的阿弗雷德’——说什么这是‘恶意的诽谤’啦——‘无耻的谎言’啦——是‘刻毒的女人’——诬告她的‘亲爱的丈夫’！我还是早点离开她的家好。所以我这就走。”
“不是现在吧？”
“现在就走！”
我们坐在那儿盯着她看了一会。后来，约翰•卡文迪什发现他的劝说全然无济干事，就去查看火车时刻。跟着，他的妻子也走了，她嘴里咕哝着什么，大意是得劝英格里桑太太最好对此多想想。
她一离开房间，霍华德小姐的脸色就变了。她急切地朝我凑了过来。
“哈斯丁先生，你是一位正直的人。我可以信托你么？”
我微微一惊。她把一只手放到我的胳臂上，放低声音轻轻说：
“哈斯丁先生，请你对她多加照顾吧，我那可怜的埃米莉。他们是一伙骗子——所有人全是。哦，我知道我在说些什么。他们当中没有一个人不手头拮据，只想千方百计地从她那儿搞走钱。我已尽我所能地保护了她。现在，我让开了路，他们可以乘机欺弄她了。”
“当然，霍华德小姐，”我说道，“我将尽力而为，不过我认为你太激动了，也太过虑了。”
她缓缓接着一个食指打断了我的话。
“年轻人，相信我，我在这世界上好歹总算比你多活几年。我只要求你睁大眼睛时刻提防就是了。你会懂得我说这话的意思的。”
从打开的窗户外传来了汽车的震颠声，霍华德小姐站起身来，朝门口定去。外面响起约翰的声音，她一只字握着门把，扭过头来对我打了个招呼。
“主要的，哈斯丁先生，是要注意那个恶棍——她的文夫！”
没有时间再多说什么了。霍华德小姐已被淹没在一片热切的劝她别走的说话声和道别声中。英格里桑夫妇没有露面。
汽车刚一开走，卡文迪什太太就突然离开大家，穿过车道，往草坪那边向一个正朝这幢房子走来的蓄着胡子的高个子男人走了过去。当她对他伸出手去的时候，她的双颊泛起了两朵红晕。
“那是谁？”我锐声问道，因为我对此人有一种出于本能的怀疑。
“那是鲍斯坦医生。”约翰简单地回答说。
“鲍斯坦医生是谁？”
“他患过严重的神经衰弱症，现在正待在这个村子里进行安静疗法。他是伦敦的一位专家。我认为，是个很有才干的人——当今最出色的毒物学专家之一。”
“他是玛丽的要好朋友，”辛西娅忍不住插嘴说。
约翰•卡文迪什皱起了眉头，改变了话题。
“去散个步吧，哈斯丁。这是件糟糕透顶的事。她说话老是那么祖鲁，可是在英国没有比伊夫琳•霍华德这样更忠实可靠的朋友了。”
他带我走上种植园中间的小径，穿过在庄园一侧的林子，朝村子踱去。
当我们在回家的路上，再次穿过一座大门时，一个从对面过来的吉普赛型的漂亮年轻女人，微笑着向我们点头问好。
“是个漂亮姑娘，”我以鉴赏的口吻说。
约翰的脸色沉了下来。
“这是雷克斯太太。”
“就是霍华德小姐说的那个——”
“一点不差。”约翰说，带着一种毫无必要的粗鲁口吻。
我想起了大房子里的那位白发苍苍的老太太，以及方才对我们微笑来着的那张活泼淘气的小脸蛋，一种模模糊糊的预感象一阵寒风使得我全身毛骨悚然。我把它撇到了一边。
“斯泰尔斯真是一座光荣的古老邸宅。”我对约翰说。
约翰优郁地点点头。
“是呀，是一宗好资财啊。它将来总有一天会是我的——要是我父亲立下的是一份象样的遗嘱的话，按理现在就应该是我的了。而且。那样我手头也不会象现在这样拮据得要命了。”
“手头拮据，你？”，
“亲爱的哈斯丁，我不想告诉你，我为了搞钱真是智穷计尽了啊。”
“你弟弟不能助你一臂之力么？”
“劳伦斯？他用新奇花样的装帧印刷那些乱七八糟的诗，把他有的每一分钱都花光了。不，我们都是穷光蛋。
我必须说，我母亲一直来对我们还是很好的。这是说，到现在为止。当然，打她结婚以后——”他突然停住了，皱起了眉头。
我第一次感到，随着伊夫琳•霍华德的离去，某种难以确切表达的东西也从这环境中消失了。她的存在使安全有了保证。而现在，安全已经失去——空气中似乎都充满了猜疑。鲍斯坦医生那张阴险的脸又在我的眼前出现了，使我感到不快。我的脑子里充满了对每个人每件事的模模糊糊的怀疑。一时之间，我有了一种快要出事的预感。
注释：
①英格兰东海岸一郡。
②语处英国剧作家夸尔的喜剧（TheBeaux'Stratagem）中人物名。
③即伊夫琳的呢称。
④指伦敦警察厅，此处意为公家侦探。
⑤福尔摩斯为私家侦探。
⑥护士长。
Chapter 2 The 16th And 17th Of July
I had arrived at Styles on the 5th of July. I come now to the events of the 16th and 17th of that month. For the convenience of the reader I will recapitulate the incidents of those days in as exact a manner as possible. They were elicited subsequently at the trial by a process of long and tedious cross-examinations.
I received a letter from Evelyn Howard a couple of days after her departure, telling me she was working as a nurse at the big hospital in Middlingham, a manufacturing town some fifteen miles away, and begging me to let her know if Mrs. Inglethorp should show any wish to be reconciled.
The only fly in the ointment of my peaceful days was Mrs. Cavendish's extraordinary, and, for my part, unaccountable preference for the society of Dr. Bauerstein. What she saw in the man I cannot imagine, but she was always asking him up to the house, and often went off for long expeditions with him. I must confess that I was quite unable to see his attraction.
The 16th of July fell on a Monday. It was a day of turmoil. The famous bazaar had taken place on Saturday, and an entertainment, in connection with the same charity, at which Mrs. Inglethorp was to recite a War poem, was to be held that night. We were all busy during the morning arranging and decorating the Hall in the village where it was to take place. We had a late luncheon and spent the afternoon resting in the garden. I noticed that John's manner was somewhat unusual. He seemed very excited and restless.
After tea, Mrs. Inglethorp went to lie down to rest before her efforts in the evening and I challenged Mary Cavendish to a single at tennis.
About a quarter to seven, Mrs. Inglethorp called us that we should be late as supper was early that night. We had rather a scramble to get ready in time; and before the meal was over the motor was waiting at the door.
The entertainment was a great success, Mrs. Inglethorp's recitation receiving tremendous applause. There were also some tableaux in which Cynthia took part. She did not return with us, having been asked to a supper party, and to remain the night with some friends who had been acting with her in the tableaux.
The following morning, Mrs. Inglethorp stayed in bed to breakfast, as she was rather overtired; but she appeared in her briskest mood about 12.30, and swept Lawrence and myself off to a luncheon party.
"Such a charming invitation from Mrs. Rolleston. Lady Tadminster's sister, you know. The Rollestons came over with the Conqueror--one of our oldest families."
Mary had excused herself on the plea of an engagement with Dr. Bauerstein.
We had a pleasant luncheon, and as we drove away Lawrence suggested that we should return by Tadminster, which was barely a mile out of our way, and pay a visit to Cynthia in her dispensary. Mrs. Inglethorp replied that this was an excellent idea, but as she had several letters to write she would drop us there, and we could come back with Cynthia in the pony-trap.
We were detained under suspicion by the hospital porter, until Cynthia appeared to vouch for us, looking very cool and sweet in her long white overall. She took us up to her sanctum, and introduced us to her fellow dispenser, a rather awe-inspiring individual, whom Cynthia cheerily addressed as "Nibs."
"What a lot of bottles!" I exclaimed, as my eye travelled round the small room. "Do you really know what's in them all?"
"Say something original," groaned Cynthia. "Every single person who comes up here says that. We are really thinking of bestowing a prize on the first individual who does _not_ say: 'What a lot of bottles!' And I know the next thing you're going to say is: 'How many people have you poisoned?' "
I pleaded guilty with a laugh.
"If you people only knew how fatally easy it is to poison some one by mistake, you wouldn't joke about it. Come on, let's have tea. We've got all sorts of secret stories in that cupboard. No, Lawrence--that's the poison cupboard. The big cupboard--that's right."
We had a very cheery tea, and assisted Cynthia to wash up afterwards. We had just put away the last tea-spoon when a knock came at the door. The countenances of Cynthia and Nibs were suddenly petrified into a stern and forbidding expression.
"Come in," said Cynthia, in a sharp professional tone.
A young and rather scared looking nurse appeared with a bottle which she proffered to Nibs, who waved her towards Cynthia with the somewhat enigmatical remark:
"_I_'m not really here to-day."
Cynthia took the bottle and examined it with the severity of a judge.
"This should have been sent up this morning."
"Sister is very sorry. She forgot."
"Sister should read the rules outside the door."
I gathered from the little nurse's expression that there was not the least likelihood of her having the hardihood to retail this message to the dreaded "Sister".
"So now it can't be done until to-morrow," finished Cynthia.
"Don't you think you could possibly let us have it to-night?"
"Well," said Cynthia graciously, "we are very busy, but if we have time it shall be done."
The little nurse withdrew, and Cynthia promptly took a jar from the shelf, refilled the bottle, and placed it on the table outside the door.
I laughed.
"Discipline must be maintained?"
"Exactly. Come out on our little balcony. You can see all the outside wards there."
I followed Cynthia and her friend and they pointed out the different wards to me. Lawrence remained behind, but after a few moments Cynthia called to him over her shoulder to come and join us. Then she looked at her watch.
"Nothing more to do, Nibs?"
"No."
"All right. Then we can lock up and go."
I had seen Lawrence in quite a different light that afternoon. Compared to John, he was an astoundingly difficult person to get to know. He was the opposite of his brother in almost every respect, being unusually shy and reserved. Yet he had a certain charm of manner, and I fancied that, if one really knew him well, one could have a deep affection for him. I had always fancied that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that she on her side was inclined to be shy of him. But they were both gay enough this afternoon, and chatted together like a couple of children.
As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some stamps, so accordingly we pulled up at the post office.
As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just entering. I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly.
"Mon ami Hastings!" he cried. "It is indeed mon ami Hastings!"
"Poirot!" I exclaimed.
I turned to the pony-trap.
"This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years."
"Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily. "But I had no idea he was a friend of yours."
"Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously. "I know Mademoiselle Cynthia. It is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that I am here." Then, as I looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my friend, she had kindly extended hospitality to seven of my countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their native land. We Belgians will always remember her with gratitude."
Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man. He was hardly more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always perched it a little on one side. His moustache was very stiff and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible. I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a bullet wound. Yet this quaint dandyfied little man who, I was sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in his time one of the most celebrated members of the Belgian police. As a detective, his flair had been extraordinary, and he had achieved triumphs by unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day.
He pointed out to me the little house inhabited by him and his fellow Belgians, and I promised to go and see him at an early date. Then he raised his hat with a flourish to Cynthia, and we drove away.
"He's a dear little man," said Cynthia. "I'd no idea you knew him."
"You've been entertaining a celebrity unawares," I replied.
And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various exploits and triumphs of Hercule Poirot.
We arrived back in a very cheerful mood. As we entered the hall, Mrs. Inglethorp came out of her boudoir. She looked flushed and upset.
"Oh, it's you," she said.
"Is there anything the matter, Aunt Emily?" asked Cynthia.
"Certainly not," said Mrs. Inglethorp sharply. "What should there be?" Then catching sight of Dorcas, the parlourmaid, going into the dining-room, she called to her to bring some stamps into the boudoir.
"Yes, m'm." The old servant hesitated, then added diffidently: "Don't you think, m'm, you'd better get to bed? You're looking very tired."
"Perhaps you're right, Dorcas--yes--no--not now. I've some letters I must finish by post-time. Have you lighted the fire in my room as I told you?"
"Yes, m'm."
"Then I'll go to bed directly after supper."
She went into the boudoir again, and Cynthia stared after her.
"Goodness gracious! I wonder what's up?" she said to Lawrence.
He did not seem to have heard her, for without a word he turned on his heel and went out of the house.
I suggested a quick game of tennis before supper and, Cynthia agreeing, I ran upstairs to fetch my racquet.
Mrs. Cavendish was coming down the stairs. It may have been my fancy, but she, too, was looking odd and disturbed.
"Had a good walk with Dr. Bauerstein?" I asked, trying to appear as indifferent as I could.
"I didn't go," she replied abruptly. "Where is Mrs. Inglethorp?"
"In the boudoir."
Her hand clenched itself on the banisters, then she seemed to nerve herself for some encounter, and went rapidly past me down the stairs across the hall to the boudoir, the door of which she shut behind her.
As I ran out to the tennis court a few moments later, I had to pass the open boudoir window, and was unable to help overhearing the following scrap of dialogue. Mary Cavendish was saying in the voice of a woman desperately controlling herself:
"Then you won't show it to me?"
To which Mrs. Inglethorp replied:
"My dear Mary, it has nothing to do with that matter."
"Then show it to me."
"I tell you it is not what you imagine. It does not concern you in the least."
To which Mary Cavendish replied, with a rising bitterness:
"Of course, I might have known you would shield him."
Cynthia was waiting for me, and greeted me eagerly with:
"I say! There's been the most awful row! I've got it all out of Dorcas."
"What kind of a row?"
"Between Aunt Emily and _him_. I do hope she's found him out at last!"
"Was Dorcas there, then?"
"Of course not. She 'happened to be near the door'. It was a real old bust-up. I do wish I knew what it was all about."
I thought of Mrs. Raikes's gipsy face, and Evelyn Howard's warnings, but wisely decided to hold my peace, whilst Cynthia exhausted every possible hypothesis, and cheerfully hoped, "Aunt Emily will send him away, and will never speak to him again."
I was anxious to get hold of John, but he was nowhere to be seen. Evidently something very momentous had occurred that afternoon. I tried to forget the few words I had overheard; but, do what I would, I could not dismiss them altogether from my mind. What was Mary Cavendish's concern in the matter?
Mr. Inglethorp was in the drawing-room when I came down to supper. His face was impassive as ever, and the strange unreality of the man struck me afresh.
Mrs. Inglethorp came down last. She still looked agitated, and during the meal there was a somewhat constrained silence. Inglethorp was unusually quiet. As a rule, he surrounded his wife with little attentions, placing a cushion at her back, and altogether playing the part of the devoted husband. Immediately after supper, Mrs. Inglethorp retired to her boudoir again.
"Send my coffee in here, Mary," she called. "I've just five minutes to catch the post."
Cynthia and I went and sat by the open window in the drawing-room. Mary Cavendish brought our coffee to us. She seemed excited.
"Do you young people want lights, or do you enjoy the twilight?" she asked. "Will you take Mrs. Inglethorp her coffee, Cynthia? I will pour it out."
"Do not trouble, Mary," said Inglethorp. "I will take it to Emily." He poured it out, and went out of the room carrying it carefully.
Lawrence followed him, and Mrs. Cavendish sat down by us.
We three sat for some time in silence. It was a glorious night, hot and still. Mrs. Cavendish fanned herself gently with a palm leaf.
"It's almost too hot," she murmured. "We shall have a thunderstorm."
Alas, that these harmonious moments can never endure! My paradise was rudely shattered by the sound of a well known, and heartily disliked, voice in the hall.
"Dr. Bauerstein!" exclaimed Cynthia. "What a funny time to come."
I glanced jealously at Mary Cavendish, but she seemed quite undisturbed, the delicate pallor of her cheeks did not vary.
In a few moments, Alfred Inglethorp had ushered the doctor in, the latter laughing, and protesting that he was in no fit state for a drawing-room. In truth, he presented a sorry spectacle, being literally plastered with mud.
"What have you been doing, doctor?" cried Mrs. Cavendish.
"I must make my apologies," said the doctor. "I did not really mean to come in, but Mr. Inglethorp insisted."
"Well, Bauerstein, you are in a plight," said John, strolling in from the hall. "Have some coffee, and tell us what you have been up to."
"Thank you, I will." He laughed rather ruefully, as he described how he had discovered a very rare species of fern in an inaccessible place, and in his efforts to obtain it had lost his footing, and slipped ignominiously into a neighbouring pond.
"The sun soon dried me off," he added, "but I'm afraid my appearance is very disreputable."
At this juncture, Mrs. Inglethorp called to Cynthia from the hall, and the girl ran out.
"Just carry up my despatch-case, will you, dear? I'm going to bed."
The door into the hall was a wide one. I had risen when Cynthia did, John was close by me. There were therefore three witnesses who could swear that Mrs. Inglethorp was carrying her coffee, as yet untasted, in her hand.
My evening was utterly and entirely spoilt by the presence of Dr. Bauerstein. It seemed to me the man would never go. He rose at last, however, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
"I'll walk down to the village with you," said Mr. Inglethorp. "I must see our agent over those estate accounts." He turned to John. "No one need sit up. I will take the latch-key."
我是七月五日到达斯泰尔斯的。现在我要说的是那个月十六日和十七日的事。为了让读者方便，我将尽可能精确无误地把这几天来的事情扼要地重述一下。这些事情后来经过一系列冗长乏味的盘问才审讯清楚。
伊夫琳•霍华德走后两三天，我收到了她的一封信，信上告诉我，她已在米德林海姆的一家大医院里做护士，该地离这儿有十五、六英里，是个工业小城。她恳求我，要是英格里桑太太表示出有同她和好的愿望的话，就让她知道。
在我的宁静的日子里，唯一的美中不足是卡文迪什太太在和鲍斯坦医生的交往中那种特殊的、对我来说是不可理解的偏爱。她到底着中此人的哪一点，我没法想象，可是她老是邀请他到家里来，经常和他一块儿出去作长时间的旅游。我必须承认，我实在看不出他的吸引力究竟在哪里。
七月十六日是星期一，这一天整天乱糟糟的。一次著名的义卖已在上一个星期六开幕。这天晚上要举行一次和同一赈济有关的文娱晚会，英格里桑太太要在会上朗诵一首战争诗。上于我们大伙都忙着整理和布置开晚会的村子礼堂。中饭吃得很迟，下午就在花园里休息。我发觉约翰的神态有点异常。他好象十分焦躁不安。
喝好茶，英格里桑太大会躺下休息了，晚上她还得努力一番。而我则向玛丽•卡文迪什挑战，要和她作一次网球单打比赛。
六点三刻左右，英格里桑太太叫唤我们，说是我们要迟到了，因为这天的晚饭要提早。为了能及时准备好，我们只好草草收兵。晚饭还没吃完，汽车已经等在门口了。
晚会开得很成功。英格里桑太大的朗诵博得了一片热烈的掌声。还表演了一些舞台造型，辛西娅也在其中扮演了角色。她没有和我们一起回家，应邀参加一个晚餐会去了，这大晚上，她和那些和她一起演出的朋友在一起。
第二天早上，英格里桑太太是在床上吃的早饭，她有点疲劳过度了，但是，十二点半左右，她精神抖擞地出现了，硬要带劳伦斯和我也一起去参加一次午餐会。
“你知道，这是罗雷斯顿太太的盛情邀请，她就是塔明斯特夫人的妹妹。罗雷斯顿家和征服者①一起来到这儿，是我国最古老的家族之一。”
玛丽托词和鲍斯但有约在先，为自己不能同往表示了歉意。
我们吃了一顿非常适意的中饭，而当我们驱车离开时，劳伦斯提议，我们应该经由塔明斯特回来，那儿只离我们走的公路一英里，到辛西娅的药房去看看她。英格里桑太太回答说这是个好主意，可是由于她有几封信要写，她得把我们丢在那儿，我们可以和辛西娅一起乘轻便马车回来。
我们由于受到怀疑，一直被医院的看门人阻留着，直到辛西娅出来为我们证明才让进去。她穿着件白色的长外套，看上去既沉静又温柔。她带我们来到她的工作室，把我们介绍给和她一起的那位药剂师，一个有点使人害怕的人，辛西娅轻松地把他叫做“尼布斯”。
“瓶子真多！”当我的眼睛朝这个小小的房间巡视了一圈后，我惊呼说。“你真的都知道所有的瓶子里是什么吗？”
“说起来真怪，”辛西娅叹了口气说。“每个到这儿来的人都这么说。我们真想给第一个不讲‘瓶子真多’的人发笔奖金，我知道，你接下去打算问的一句话就是：‘你毒死多少人了呀？’”
我微笑着，感到很内疚。
“要是你们知道错毒死一个人是多么容易，你就不会说这样的笑话了。得啦！我们喝茶吧。那只橱里的各种内情真相我们都已掌握了。不，劳伦斯——那是毒药橱，是那只大橱子——对了。”
我们高高兴兴地喝了茶。后来还帮辛西娅洗了茶具。正当我们放好最后一只茶匙时，门外传来了一阵敲门声。
辛西娅和尼布斯突然板起了脸孔，露出了严肃的神情。
“进来，”辛西娅说，带着一种明显的职业性的语气。
一个显得有点惊慌模样的年轻护士，拿着一只瓶子出现了，她把瓶子递给了尼布斯，他示意她交给辛西娅，还说了句有点莫明其妙的话：
“今天我不是真正在这儿。”
辛西娅接过瓶子，象个法官一样严格地把它检查了一番。
“这应该是今天上午来领的。”
“护士长说很对不起。她忘了。”
“护士长应该来读读门外的规定。”
我从小护士的神色上猜出，她是不可能有这种胆量把这一口信带给那位使人害伯的“修女”的。
“这可得到明天才能领了。”
“你看今天晚上是不是有可能给我们？”
“好吧，”辛西娅宽厚地说。“我们很忙，不过，如果有时间的话，我们就装一装。”
小护士退出去了，辛西娅敏捷地从架子上取下一只大瓶，把那只瓶子灌满，然后把它放到门外的桌子上。
我笑了起来。
“纪律必须维持？”
“一点不错，到我们的小阳台上去吧。那儿外面的全部病房都能看到。”
我跟着辛西娅和她的朋友走到阳台上，他们指给我看各个不同的病房。劳伦斯仍留在房里。可是过了一会，辛西妞扭头叫了他一声，要他出来和我们一起来看。后来，她看了看表。
“没什么事情了吧，尼布斯？”
“没有了。”
“好吧。那我们可以锁门走了。”
那天下午，我对劳伦斯有了完全不同的看法。虽然和约翰相比，他是个使人吃惊地难以了解的人，几乎在每个方面部不同于他的哥哥，十分胆小，沉默寡言，可是，他还是有某些讨人喜欢的举止态度，因而我相信，要是一个人真正对他有很好的了解，是一定会深深地喜欢他的。我原来一直认为他对待辛西娅的态度相当不自然，她对他也羞答答。可是那天下午，他们俩都很快活，他们在一起谈得很起劲，仿佛象一对孩子。
当我们乘马车穿过林子时，我想起我要买几张邮票，于是我们就在邮局门口停了下来。
在我走出邮局时，我和一个正在进来的小个子男人撞了一个满怀。我急忙退到一边：向他道了歉，可那人突然大声惊叫了起来，把我紧紧地拥抱住，热情地吻我。
“亲爱的哈斯丁！”他喊道。“真的是亲爱的哈斯丁！”
“波洛！”我也喊了起来。
我们回到马车旁边。
“这是我一次非常愉快的会见，辛西娅小姐。这位是我的老朋友波洛先生，我已经有好几年没有见到他了。”
“噢，我们认识波洛先生，”辛西娅快活地说。“可是我没有想到他也是你的朋友。”
“不错，真的，”波洛一本正经地说。“我认识辛西娅小姐，我得以到这儿来是全仗好心的英格里桑太太的恩赐。”见我好奇地打量着他，他接着说：“是的，我的朋友，她友好地殷勤接待了我们七个同胞，唉，我们这几个都是从自己的祖国逃亡出来的人啊。我们比利时人将永远怀着感激的心情把她铭记在心里。”
波洛是个外表特别的小个子男人，身高只有五英尺四英寸，可是举止显得非常庄重。他的脑袋模样儿完全象只鸡蛋，而他总爱把它微微侧向一边。他的那一抹翘胡子又硬又挺，象个军人。他的衣着整洁得简直不可思议。我相信，在他身上落上一粒灰尘会使他感到比一颗子弹打伤他还要痛苦。这位漂亮的、打扮得象花花公子的小个子（看到他现在的精神这样沮丧，我感到很难过）原来一直是比利时警方最著名的工作人员之一，作为一个侦探，他有着非凡的天才，他曾经成功地侦破过当时的一些最最棘手的案件。
他指给我看了看他和他的比利时同胞栖身的小屋，我答应尽早去看望他。接着，他用一种戏剧性的动作，朝辛西娅扬了扬帽子。于是我们就上车离开了。
“他是个可爱的小个子，”辛西娅说。“我没有想到你认识他。”
“你们是在不知不觉地接待一位名人，”我回答说。
在回家的路上，我对他们讲述了赫卡尔•波洛的各种功绩和成就。
我们怀着欢乐的心情回到家里。当我们走进门厅时，英格里桑太太正从她的闺房②中出来。她看上去有些激动，心烦意乱。
“哦，是你们，”她说。
“出什么事了吗，埃米莉阿姨？”辛西娅问道。
“没有，”英格里桑太太警觉他说，“会出什么事呀？”这时她看到女佣人多卡斯走进餐室，就叫她拿点邮票到她房里去。
“好的，太太。”老女仆踌躇了一下，接着又胆怯地补充说：“大太，您不认为您最好还是上床去躺一会吗？您看来太疲劳了。”
“你也许说得对，多卡斯——是的——不——现在不行。我还有几封信，得赶在邮局收信之前写完。你已经按我告诉过你那样，在我房里生了火了吗？”
“生了，太太。”
“那我吃过晚饭就马上去睡。”
她又走进自己的房间，辛西娅凝视着她的背影。
“天啊！究竟出了什么事了？”她对劳伦斯说。
他仿佛没有听到她说的话，一声不吭地转身走出屋子去了。
我对辛西娅提议，在晚饭前来一场网球快速比赛，她同意了，于是我跑上楼去取球拍。
卡文迪什太太正下楼来。也许是我的一种错觉，可是她确实显得有点古怪，心神不定。
“去和鲍斯坦医生散步了吗？”我问道，尽可能表现出一种不在乎的样子。
“没去，”她仓猝地回答说。“英格里桑太太在哪儿？”
“在闺房里。”
她一只手紧握住栏杆，接着好象鼓起勇气去完成一件艰险的工作，匆匆地走过我的身旁，下了楼，穿过门厅，朝闺房走去，进去后，关上了身后的房门。
过了一会，我奔向网球场，我得从闺房的打开的窗下经过，这时我偶然地听到了下面这些谈话的片断。玛丽•卡文迪什以一个死命想控制住自己感情的妇女的声音在说：
“那你就不能给我看看吗？”
英格里桑太太对她回答说：
“亲爱的玛丽，这没有什么。”
“那就给我着看。”
“我告诉你了，事情不象你想的那样。这同你丝毫没有关系。”
玛丽•卡文迪什回答说，声音更加悲哀：
“当然罗，我早就知道你是会袒护他的。”
辛西娅正在等着我，她热切地迎着我说：
“嗨，大吵过一场啦！我从多卡斯那儿全部打听到了。”
“谁吵架呀？”
“埃米莉阿姨和他。我真希望她最终会看透他！”
“那么多卡斯在场吗？”
“当然不在。只是碰巧在房门口。这次可真是大破裂了。我真希望能把全部情况着；了解个一清二楚。”
我想起了雷克斯太太那张吉普赛人的脸蛋，以及伊夫琳•霍华德的警告，但是我明智地决心保持沉默，而辛西娅却千方百计地作了每一种可能的假设，兴奋地希望“埃米莉阿姨会把他撵走，会永远不再和他说话”。
我急于想见到约翰，可是到处都找不到他，显然，那天下午出了什么严重的事了。我竭力想忘掉我偶尔听到的那几句话，可是，不管我怎么着，我都没法把它们完全从我的脑子里抹去。玛丽•卡文迪什所关心的那件事是什么呢？
我下楼来吃饭时，英格里桑先生正坐在客厅里。他脸上的表情仍象往常一样冷淡，因而我重又感到此人的令人不快的虚伪。
英格里桑太太最后一个来，她看上去仍然焦躁不安。
吃饭期间餐桌上有着一种紧张的沉默。英格里桑异常平静，象往常一样，他给他的妻子时而献一点小殷勤，在她的背后放上一只背垫什么的，完全扮演着一个忠实丈夫的角色。饭后，英格里桑太太立即就回到自己的闺房去了。
“把我的咖啡拿来吧，玛丽，”她叫唤道。“要赶上邮班，只有五分钟了。”
我和辛西娅走到客厅的打开的窗户跟前，坐了下来。
玛丽•卡艾迪什给我们送来了咖啡。她显得有点激动。
“你们年轻人要开灯呢，”还是喜爱朦胧的黄昏？”她问道。“辛西娅，你把英格里桑太太的咖啡送去好吗？我来把它斟好。”
“你别麻烦了，玛丽，”英格里桑说：“我会给埃米莉送去的。”他斟了一杯咖啡，小心翼翼地端着它走出了房间。
劳伦斯也跟着出去了，于是卡文迪什太太在我们旁边坐了下来。
我们三人默默地坐了一会。这是个愉快的夜晚，四周一片静寂，天气很热，卡文迪什太太用一把棕榈叶扇轻轻地扇着凉。
“天气简直太热了，”她低声哺咕道，“要下雷雨了。””
唉，真是好景不长啊！我的良辰美景突然被门厅里的一阵熟识的非常讨厌的声音打破了。
“鲍斯坦医生！”辛西娅惊叫起来。“怪了，怎么这时候来。”
我偷偷地朝玛丽•卡文迪什瞥了一眼，可是她似乎十分泰然自若，她双颊上那娇白的脸色毫无变化。
过了一会，阿弗雷德•英格里桑把医生领进来了。后者大声笑着，坚决表示他这副样子去客厅是不适宜的。事实上，他真的出了洋相，他身上沾满了泥。
“你在忙什么呀，医生？”玛丽•卡文什迪大声问道。
“我得解释一下，”医生说。”我实在不打算进来，可是英格里桑先生定要我来。”
“哦，跑斯坦，你陷入窘境了。”约翰说着从过道里踱了进来。“喝点咖啡吧，和我们谈谈，你在忙点什么。”
“谢谢，我这就讲吧。”他苦笑着说。他说他在一个难攀登的地方发现了一种相当罕见的蕨类植物，而就在他千方百计想把它采到手的时候，他，实在丢人，竟失足掉进了近旁的一口池塘。
“太阳虽然很诀就把我的衣服晒干了，”他接着说，“可是我怕这一来我的面子都丢光了。”
就在这时候，英格里桑太太从过道里叫唤辛西娅了，于是，姑娘就跑出去了。
“请你把我的公文箱拿过来好吗，亲爱的？我打算睡觉了。”
通注过道的门开得很大。当辛西娅在拿箱子的时候，我已经站起身来，约翰就在我旁边。因此，有三个人可以证明，当时英格里桑太太还没喝咖啡，而是正端在手里。
我的那个傍晚，已被鲍斯坦医生的出现完全彻底地破坏了。看来此人好象不走了。然而，他终于站了起来，我才宽慰地舒了一口气。
“我走着陪你去村子吧，”英格里桑先生说。”我得去看看我们那个房地产代理人，”他又转身对着约翰说，“不需要人等我，我带大门钥匙去。”
注释：
①即一零六六年征服英国的英王威廉一世。
②系妇女的起居室或更衣室。
Chapter 3 The Night Of The Tragedy
To make this part of my story clear, I append the following plan of the first floor of Styles. The servants' rooms are reached through the door B. They have no communication with the right wing, where the Inglethorps' rooms were situated.
It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by Lawrence Cavendish. He had a candle in his hand, and the agitation of his face told me at once that something was seriously wrong.
"What's the matter?" I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to collect my scattered thoughts.
"We are afraid my mother is very ill. She seems to be having some kind of fit. Unfortunately she has locked herself in."
"I'll come at once."
I sprang out of bed; and, pulling on a dressing-gown, followed Lawrence along the passage and the gallery to the right wing of the house.
John Cavendish joined us, and one or two of the servants were standing round in a state of awe-stricken excitement. Lawrence turned to his brother.
"What do you think we had better do?"
Never, I thought, had his indecision of character been more apparent.
John rattled the handle of Mrs. Inglethorp's door violently, but with no effect. It was obviously locked or bolted on the inside. The whole household was aroused by now. The most alarming sounds were audible from the interior of the room. Clearly something must be done.
"Try going through Mr. Inglethorp's room, sir," cried Dorcas. "Oh, the poor mistress!"
Suddenly I realized that Alfred Inglethorp was not with us--that he alone had given no sign of his presence. John opened the door of his room. It was pitch dark, but Lawrence was following with the candle, and by its feeble light we saw that the bed had not been slept in, and that there was no sign of the room having been occupied.
We went straight to the connecting door. That, too, was locked or bolted on the inside. What was to be done?
"Oh, dear, sir," cried Dorcas, wringing her hands, "what ever shall we do?"
"We must try and break the door in, I suppose. It'll be a tough job, though. Here, let one of the maids go down and wake Baily and tell him to go for Dr. Wilkins at once. Now then, we'll have a try at the door. Half a moment, though, isn't there a door into Miss Cynthia's rooms?"
"Yes, sir, but that's always bolted. It's never been undone."
"Well, we might just see."
He ran rapidly down the corridor to Cynthia's room. Mary Cavendish was there, shaking the girl--who must have been an unusually sound sleeper--and trying to wake her.
In a moment or two he was back.
"No good. That's bolted too. We must break in the door. I think this one is a shade less solid than the one in the passage."
We strained and heaved together. The framework of the door was solid, and for a long time it resisted our efforts, but at last we felt it give beneath our weight, and finally, with a resounding crash, it was burst open.
We stumbled in together, Lawrence still holding his candle. Mrs. Inglethorp was lying on the bed, her whole form agitated by violent convulsions, in one of which she must have overturned the table beside her. As we entered, however, her limbs relaxed, and she fell back upon the pillows.
John strode across the room, and lit the gas. Turning to Annie, one of the housemaids, he sent her downstairs to the dining-room for brandy. Then he went across to his mother whilst I unbolted the door that gave on the corridor.
I turned to Lawrence, to suggest that I had better leave them now that there was no further need of my services, but the words were frozen on my lips. Never have I seen such a ghastly look on any man's face. He was white as chalk, the candle he held in his shaking hand was sputtering onto the carpet, and his eyes, petrified with terror, or some such kindred emotion, stared fixedly over my head at a point on the further wall. It was as though he had seen something that turned him to stone. I instinctively followed the direction of his eyes, but I could see nothing unusual. The still feebly flickering ashes in the grate, and the row of prim ornaments on the mantelpiece, were surely harmless enough.
The violence of Mrs. Inglethorp's attack seemed to be passing. She was able to speak in short gasps.
"Better now--very sudden--stupid of me--to lock myself in."
A shadow fell on the bed and, looking up, I saw Mary Cavendish standing near the door with her arm around Cynthia. She seemed to be supporting the girl, who looked utterly dazed and unlike herself. Her face was heavily flushed, and she yawned repeatedly.
"Poor Cynthia is quite frightened," said Mrs. Cavendish in a low clear voice. She herself, I noticed, was dressed in her white land smock. Then it must be later than I thought. I saw that a faint streak of daylight was showing through the curtains of the windows, and that the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to close upon five o'clock.
A strangled cry from the bed startled me. A fresh access of pain seized the unfortunate old lady. The convulsions were of a violence terrible to behold. Everything was confusion. We thronged round her, powerless to help or alleviate. A final convulsion lifted her from the bed, until she appeared to rest upon her head and her heels, with her body arched in an extraordinary manner. In vain Mary and John tried to administer more brandy. The moments flew. Again the body arched itself in that peculiar fashion.
At that moment, Dr. Bauerstein pushed his way authoritatively into the room. For one instant he stopped dead, staring at the figure on the bed, and, at the same instant, Mrs. Inglethorp cried out in a strangled voice, her eyes fixed on the doctor:
"Alfred--Alfred----" Then she fell back motionless on the pillows.
With a stride, the doctor reached the bed, and seizing her arms worked them energetically, applying what I knew to be artificial respiration. He issued a few short sharp orders to the servants. An imperious wave of his hand drove us all to the door. We watched him, fascinated, though I think we all knew in our hearts that it was too late, and that nothing could be done now. I could see by the expression on his face that he himself had little hope.
Finally he abandoned his task, shaking his head gravely. At that moment, we heard footsteps outside, and Dr. Wilkins, Mrs. Inglethorp's own doctor, a portly, fussy little man, came bustling in.
In a few words Dr. Bauerstein explained how he had happened to be passing the lodge gates as the car came out, and had run up to the house as fast as he could, whilst the car went on to fetch Dr. Wilkins. With a faint gesture of the hand, he indicated the figure on the bed.
"Ve--ry sad. Ve--ry sad," murmured Dr. Wilkins. "Poor dear lady. Always did far too much--far too much--against my advice. I warned her. Her heart was far from strong. 'Take it easy,' I said to her, 'Take--it--easy'. But no--her zeal for good works was too great. Nature rebelled. Na--ture--re--belled."
Dr. Bauerstein, I noticed, was watching the local doctor narrowly. He still kept his eyes fixed on him as he spoke.
"The convulsions were of a peculiar violence, Dr. Wilkins. I am sorry you were not here in time to witness them. They were quite--tetanic in character."
"Ah!" said Dr. Wilkins wisely.
"I should like to speak to you in private," said Dr. Bauerstein. He turned to John. "You do not object?"
"Certainly not."
We all trooped out into the corridor, leaving the two doctors alone, and I heard the key turned in the lock behind us.
We went slowly down the stairs. I was violently excited. I have a certain talent for deduction, and Dr. Bauerstein's manner had started a flock of wild surmises in my mind. Mary Cavendish laid her hand upon my arm.
"What is it? Why did Dr. Bauerstein seem so--peculiar?"
I looked at her.
"Do you know what I think?"
"What?"
"Listen!" I looked round, the others were out of earshot. I lowered my voice to a whisper. "I believe she has been poisoned! I'm certain Dr. Bauerstein suspects it."
"_What_?" She shrank against the wall, the pupils of her eyes dilating wildly. Then, with a sudden cry that startled me, she cried out: "No, no--not that--not that!" And breaking from me, fled up the stairs. I followed her, afraid that she was going to faint. I found her leaning against the bannisters, deadly pale. She waved me away impatiently.
"No, no--leave me. I'd rather be alone. Let me just be quiet for a minute or two. Go down to the others."
I obeyed her reluctantly. John and Lawrence were in the dining-room. I joined them. We were all silent, but I suppose I voiced the thoughts of us all when I at last broke it by saying:
"Where is Mr. Inglethorp?"
John shook his head.
"He's not in the house."
Our eyes met. Where _was_ Alfred Inglethorp? His absence was strange and inexplicable. I remembered Mrs. Inglethorp's dying words. What lay beneath them? What more could she have told us, if she had had time?
At last we heard the doctors descending the stairs. Dr. Wilkins was looking important and excited, and trying to conceal an inward exultation under a manner of decorous calm. Dr. Bauerstein remained in the background, his grave bearded face unchanged. Dr. Wilkins was the spokesman for the two. He addressed himself to John:
"Mr. Cavendish, I should like your consent to a postmortem."
"Is that necessary?" asked John gravely. A spasm of pain crossed his face.
"Absolutely," said Dr. Bauerstein.
"You mean by that----?"
"That neither Dr. Wilkins nor myself could give a death certificate under the circumstances."
John bent his head.
"In that case, I have no alternative but to agree."
"Thank you," said Dr. Wilkins briskly. "We propose that it should take place to-morrow night--or rather to-night." And he glanced at the daylight. "Under the circumstances, I am afraid an inquest can hardly be avoided--these formalities are necessary, but I beg that you won't distress yourselves."
There was a pause, and then Dr. Bauerstein drew two keys from his pocket, and handed them to John.
"These are the keys of the two rooms. I have locked them and, in my opinion, they would be better kept locked for the present."
The doctors then departed.
I had been turning over an idea in my head, and I felt that the moment had now come to broach it. Yet I was a little chary of doing so. John, I knew, had a horror of any kind of publicity, and was an easygoing optimist, who preferred never to meet trouble half-way. It might be difficult to convince him of the soundness of my plan. Lawrence, on the other hand, being less conventional, and having more imagination, I felt I might count upon as an ally. There was no doubt that the moment had come for me to take the lead.
"John," I said, "I am going to ask you something."
"Well?"
"You remember my speaking of my friend Poirot? The Belgian who is here? He has been a most famous detective."
"Yes."
"I want you to let me call him in--to investigate this matter."
"What--now? Before the post-mortem?"
"Yes, time is an advantage if--if--there has been foul play."
"Rubbish!" cried Lawrence angrily. "In my opinion the whole thing is a mare's nest of Bauerstein's! Wilkins hadn't an idea of such a thing, until Bauerstein put it into his head. But, like all specialists, Bauerstein's got a bee in his bonnet. Poisons are his hobby, so of course he sees them everywhere."
I confess that I was surprised by Lawrence's attitude. He was so seldom vehement about anything.
John hesitated.
"I can't feel as you do, Lawrence," he said at last. "I'm inclined to give Hastings a free hand, though I should prefer to wait a bit. We don't want any unnecessary scandal."
"No, no," I cried eagerly, "you need have no fear of that. Poirot is discretion itself."
"Very well, then, have it your own way. I leave it in your hands. Though, if it is as we suspect, it seems a clear enough case. God forgive me if I am wronging him!"
I looked at my watch. It was six o'clock. I determined to lose no time.
Five minutes' delay, however, I allowed myself. I spent it in ransacking the library until I discovered a medical book which gave a description of strychnine poisoning.
为了使我这个故事的这部分清楚一点，我特地附上下面这张斯泰尔斯庄园二楼的平面图。经过B门通向佣人的房间。它们和英格里桑夫妇的房间所在的右侧屋并不相通。
糟糕的是她偏偏把自己锁在里面。”
“我马上就来。”
我急忙跳下床，套上晨衣，跟着劳伦斯沿过道和长廊直奔房子的右侧。
约翰•卡文迪什也来了，还有一两个佣人也又敬畏又激动地站在周围。劳伦斯转脸对他的哥哥说：
“你看我们怎么办好？”
我认为，他的那种优柔寡断的性格从来没有象现在这样更为明显。
约翰使劲地把英格里桑太大的房门把手弄得格格作响，可是毫无结果。显然，是在里面锁上或者闩住了。现在全家人都被唤醒了。可以听到从房里传出来的令人极为惊恐的声音。很清楚，一定出什么事了。
“通过英格里桑先生的房间试试，先生，”多卡斯大声嚷道。“哎呀，可怜的女主人啊！”
我突然想到阿弗雷德•英格里桑没有在场——只有他连个影子也看不见。约翰打开了他的房门。房里漆黑一团，劳伦斯举着蜡烛跟了进来，凭着那微弱的烛光，我们发现，他的床没有睡过人，房里也看不出有人待过的迹象。
我们迳直走近和隔壁房间相通的门。可是里面也是锁上或者闩住了。怎么办呢？
“哎呀，天哪，先生！”多卡斯喊了起来，使劲捏着自己的手。“这可怎么办呀？”
“我看，我们得设法撬开门进去，尽管这种方法粗暴。喂，去个侍女，下楼去把贝利叫醒，要他马上去把威尔金斯医生请来。来，我们想法把门弄开。不，等一等，通辛西娅小姐的房间不是有扇门的吗？”
“是的，先生，可是那扇门一直闩住的，从来没有开过。
“好吧，我们先去看看。”
他飞快地沿过道奔向辛西娅的房间。玛丽•卡文迪什已在那儿，她正在摇那姑娘，试图把她弄醒，这姑娘偏偏睡得这么沉。
过了一会，他回来了。
“糟糕。那扇门也闩住的。我们还是撬进去。我看这一扇比过道里那扇要稍微不牢一点。”
我们一起使劲猛撞。门框很牢，我们花了很长时间，费了很大的劲，也没能撞进。后来，我们发现在我们的猛撞下，它毕竟支持不住了，终于很响地嘎啦一声，被撞开了。
我们一块儿跌跌绊绊地走进房间，劳伦斯手中仍旧举着那支蜡烛。英格里桑太太躺在床上，由于剧烈的痉挛，她的整个身子都在颤动，有一次想必是把身旁的桌子都给翻倒了。可是，我们一进去，她的四肢就松弛了下来，倒回到枕头上。
约翰大步走过房间，点亮了汽灯。接着，他转向侍女安妮，要她立刻到餐室去把白兰地取来。然后他走到母亲床边，我则去打开了通向过道的那扇门的门闩。
我转脸朝向劳伦斯，本想提出，现在已不再需要我帮忙，我还是离开比较好。可是话到口边又止住了。我从来没有在什么人的脸上见到这样惨白的脸色，他白得就象白垩土，握在他那直打颤的手中的蜡烛，烛油都溅到了地毯上，而他的一双眼睛，由于惊恐，或者是由于某种与此类似的感情，定着神，越过我的头顶呆呆地盯着远处墙上的一点。他仿佛看到了使他变成石头的什么东西。我本能地朝他两眼注视的方向着丢，可是什么特别的东西也没看见。壁炉里仍在微微闪烁的灰烬，炉台上成排整洁的礼拜用品，看来是决不会有害的。
英格里桑太太发病的严重时刻似乎正在过去，她能够急促地喘着气说话了。
“现在好些了——十分突然——我真傻——把自己锁在房里。”
一道影子投落在床上，我抬头一看，只见玛丽•卡文迪什站在门边，一只手臂围着辛西娅的腰。她似乎正竭力扶住这姑娘。姑娘看上去完全迷迷糊糊的，不象她原来的样子。她的脸色通红，不断地打着哈欠。
“可怜的辛西娅吓坏了，”卡文迪什太太清晰地低声说。她自己，我发现，则穿着一件干活时穿的白色工作服。时间，比我所想象的迟了一点。我看到一道朦胧晨曦透过窗帷，壁炉台上的时钟已快指到五点。
床上发出的一声窒息住的惨叫使我大吃一惊。疼痛重又侵袭了这位不幸的老太太。她痉挛得十分厉害，看着实在骇人，什么都乱成一团。我们拥挤在她的周围，可是无能为力，没法帮助她，或者减轻她的痛苦，最后，痉挛使得她从床上抬起身，直到用头和脚跟把她顶了起来，使她的身子奇怪地弯成弓形。玛丽和约翰白费力气地试图给她灌进更多的白兰地。过了一会，她的身子重又弯成了那种奇怪的样子。
就在这时候，鲍斯坦医生权威地挤开众人，走进了房间。他突然一动不动地站住了，注视着床上躯体的形状，而就在这一刹那间，英格里桑太太两眼盯着医生，用一种窒息住的声音叫道：
“阿弗雷德——阿弗雷德——”接着就住后一头倒在枕头上，一动不动了。
医生猛地一步跨到床前，抓住她的两臂，使劲把它们牵动着，我知道，这是在施行人工呼吸。他对佣人们下了几道简短严厉的命令，专横地挥动着一只手，把我们大家都赶到了门口。我们呆呆地盯着他，尽管我想我们大家心里都明白，已经太迟了，现在已经毫无办法。我从他脸上的表情，也可以着出，他自己也认为希望已经很小。
最后，他终于放弃了自己的急救工作，心情沉重地摇了摇头。就在这时，我们听到了门外响起的脚步声，英格里桑太太的私人医生威尔金斯急匆匆地走了进来，这是个肥胖的爱唠叨的矮个子。
鲍斯坦医生解释了几句，说是汽车开出去时，他恰好经过庄园的大门，于是他就尽快地跑到这幢房子里来，而让汽车继续去接威尔金斯医生。他用一种无力的手势指了指躺在床上的人。
“实——在——令人悲痛。实——在——令人悲痛，”威尔金斯医生咕哝着说，“可怜的太太哟，老是得做那么多工作——实在大多了——不听我的劝告。我早就告诫过她。她的心脏远不是健康的。‘不能紧张，’我曾对她说，‘不——能——紧张’。可是她没有办到，——她对各项慈善事业的热情太高了。脾气又倔强。脾——气——倔——强——啊。”
我发觉，鲍斯坦医生一直严密地注视着这位本地医生。在他说话的时候，他仍两眼紧紧地盯着他。
“老太太痉挛时的剧烈程度实在罕见，威尔金斯医生。我感到很遗憾，你没能及时赶到来亲眼目睹一下。那在性质上完全是一种强直性的痉挛。”
“啊！”威尔金斯医生聪明地答应了一声。
“我想和你个别谈一谈，”鲍斯坦医生说。接着他转脸朝向约翰，问道：“你不反对吗？”
“当然不反对。”
我们全部走到过道里，单单留下两位医生，我听到房门在我们身后锁上了。
我们慢慢地走下楼梯。我感到非常激动。我具有一种推理的才能。鲍斯坦医生的态度引起了我脑子里一大堆漫无边际的猜测。玛丽•卡文迪什把她的一只手搭在了我的手臂上。
“这是怎么回事？为什么鲍斯坦医生的举动着上去这么——怪？”
我瞧着她。
“你知道我在想什么吗？”
“想什么呢？”
“听我说！”我朝四周看了看，别的入都离开一段距离，不会听见。我压低声音，悄声说：“我认为她是被毒死的！我确信鲍斯坦医生对此已经有怀疑了。”
“什么？”她畏缩地倚在墙上，两眼慌乱地睁着。接着，她使我大吃一惊地突然喊了起来，大声嚷道：”不，不——不是那么回事——不是那么回事！”并且从我身边跑开，逃上楼去。我紧跟着她，生怕她马上会昏倒。我发现她靠在栏杆上，面如死色。她不耐烦地挥手，要我马上走开。
“别来，别来——离开我。我宁愿一个人待在这儿。就让我安静一会儿吧。下去，到旁的人那儿去。”我勉强地听从了她的话。约翰和劳伦斯在餐室里，我也走了进去。我们都默不作声，可是当我终于打破了这种沉默开口说话时，我猜想我说出了我们大伙的想法。
“英格里桑先生在哪儿？”
约翰摇摇头。
“他不在家。”
我们的目光相遇了。阿弗雷德•英格里桑在哪儿？他的不在场是很奇怪的，也是令人费解的。我想起了英格里桑太太临终时的话。那下面是什么？要是她还有时间的话。他还要告诉我们什么呢？
终于，我们听到了医生走下楼来。威尔金斯医生看上去既沉重，又激动，可他还是试图把内心的激动隐藏在有教养的镇静的风度之下。鲍斯但医生跟随在背后，他那张阴沉的、长着胡子的脸没有汪河变化。威尔金斯医生是他们俩的发言人。他对约翰说：
“卡文迪什先生，我希望你同意进行尸体解剖。”
“有必要吗？”约翰严肃地问道，他的脸上掠过一阵痛苦的表情。
“绝对有必要，”鲍斯坦医生说。
“你们这样说的意思是——？”
“因为在这样的情况下，不管是威尔主斯医生还是我本人，都不能开给死亡证明。”
约翰屈服了。
“既然是那样，我除了同意之外别无选择了。”
“谢谢，”威尔金斯医生轻松地回答说。“我们建议应该在明天晚上——或者就在今天晚上进行。”他朝黎明的曙光瞥了一眼。“在这样的情况下，我看恐怕一场审讯几乎已经不可避免——这样的手续是需要的，只是请你自己不要因此而悲痛。”
停了一会，接着鲍斯坦医生从口袋掏出两只钥匙。交给了约翰。
“这是那个房间的钥匙。我已经把它们锁上了。我看，暂时还是锁上的好。”
两位医生接着都离开了。
我的脑子里翻腾着一个想法，我觉得此刻可以把提出来加以讨论。然而，我又有点伯这样做。我知道，约翰最怕的是把事情传开去。而且他是个悠闲惯了的乐天派，从来就不愿在半路上碰到麻烦事。要使他相信我的计划是完善的，困难也许就在这里。另一方面，劳伦斯又是个少循常规，多具幻想的人。我觉得，我可以算作是个助手。毫无疑问，现在得我来领这个头了。
“约翰，”我说，“我打算问你一下。”
“什么事？”
“你还记得我和你谈过我的朋友波洛吧？你记不记得这个比利时人就在这儿？他是一位最有名的侦探呢！”
“是啊。”
“我要你让我现在就去把他请来——请他来调查这件事情。”
“什么——现在？验尸以前？”
“是的，假如——假如——这确实是一桩暴行，时间上愈快愈好。”
“胡扯！”劳伦斯生气地大声嚷道。“依我看，这全是鲍斯坦骗人的鬼花样！威尔金斯并没有这种想法。是鲍斯坦把这塞进他的脑袋的。可是，象所有的专家一样，鲍斯但的神经也是有点不正常的。毒药是他的癖好。因此在他看来到处都是毒药。”
我承认，我对劳伦斯的这种态度感到诧异，他是个对任何事情都难得这么动感情的人呀。
约翰犹豫着。
“我的看法和你不一样，劳伦斯，”他终于说了。
“我赞成让哈斯丁放手处理这件事，不过我宁愿再等一等，我们不要为此招来不必要的流言蜚语。”
“不，不，”我急切地大声说，“这你用不着担心。波洛做事是非常谨慎的。”
“那很好，那就听你的便吧，我把这件事交托给你啦。不过，要是事情真象我们所怀疑的那样，这可是桩十分清楚的案件。要是我冤枉了他的话，上帝会宽恕我的！”
我看了着表，已经六点钟。我决定不再浪费时间。然而，我还是容许自己耽搁了五分钟。我用这时间在藏书室里仔细寻找，直到找到一本叙述士的宁①的毒性的书。
注释：
①或称马钱子碱，一种烈性毒药，用极微量可以刺激神经。
Chapter 4 Poirot Investigates
The house which the Belgians occupied in the village was quite close to the park gates. One could save time by taking a narrow path through the long grass, which cut off the detours of the winding drive. So I, accordingly, went that way. I had nearly reached the lodge, when my attention was arrested by the running figure of a man approaching me. It was Mr. Inglethorp. Where had he been? How did he intend to explain his absence?
He accosted me eagerly.
"My God! This is terrible! My poor wife! I have only just heard."
"Where have you been?" I asked.
"Denby kept me late last night. It was one o'clock before we'd finished. Then I found that I'd forgotten the latch-key after all. I didn't want to arouse the household, so Denby gave me a bed."
"How did you hear the news?" I asked.
"Wilkins knocked Denby up to tell him. My poor Emily! She was so self-sacrificing--such a noble character. She over-taxed her strength."
A wave of revulsion swept over me. What a consummate hypocrite the man was!
"I must hurry on," I said, thankful that he did not ask me whither I was bound.
In a few minutes I was knocking at the door of Leastways Cottage.
Getting no answer, I repeated my summons impatiently. A window above me was cautiously opened, and Poirot himself looked out.
He gave an exclamation of surprise at seeing me. In a few brief words, I explained the tragedy that had occurred, and that I wanted his help.
"Wait, my friend, I will let you in, and you shall recount to me the affair whilst I dress."
In a few moments he had unbarred the door, and I followed him up to his room. There he installed me in a chair, and I related the whole story, keeping back nothing, and omitting no circumstance, however insignificant, whilst he himself made a careful and deliberate toilet.
I told him of my awakening, of Mrs. Inglethorp's dying words, of her husband's absence, of the quarrel the day before, of the scrap of conversation between Mary and her mother-in-law that I had overheard, of the former quarrel between Mrs. Inglethorp and Evelyn Howard, and of the latter's innuendoes.
I was hardly as clear as I could wish. I repeated myself several times, and occasionally had to go back to some detail that I had forgotten. Poirot smiled kindly on me.
"The mind is confused? Is it not so? Take time, mon ami. You are agitated; you are excited--it is but natural. Presently, when we are calmer, we will arrange the facts, neatly, each in his proper place. We will examine--and reject. Those of importance we will put on one side; those of no importance, pouf!"--he screwed up his cherub-like face, and puffed comically enough--"blow them away!"
"That's all very well," I objected, "but how are you going to decide what is important, and what isn't? That always seems the difficulty to me."
Poirot shook his head energetically. He was now arranging his moustache with exquisite care.
"Not so. Voyons! One fact leads to another--so we continue. Does the next fit in with that? A merveille! Good! We can proceed. This next little fact--no! Ah, that is curious! There is something missing--a link in the chain that is not there. We examine. We search. And that little curious fact, that possibly paltry little detail that will not tally, we put it here!" He made an extravagant gesture with his hand. "It is significant! It is tremendous!"
"Y--es--"
"Ah!" Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely at me that I quailed before it. "Beware! Peril to the detective who says: 'It is so small--it does not matter. It will not agree. I will forget it.' That way lies confusion! Everything matters."
"I know. You always told me that. That's why I have gone into all the details of this thing whether they seemed to me relevant or not."
"And I am pleased with you. You have a good memory, and you have given me the facts faithfully. Of the order in which you present them, I say nothing--truly, it is deplorable! But I make allowances--you are upset. To that I attribute the circumstance that you have omitted one fact of paramount importance."
"What is that?" I asked.
"You have not told me if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night."
I stared at him. Surely the war had affected the little man's brain. He was carefully engaged in brushing his coat before putting it on, and seemed wholly engrossed in the task.
"I don't remember," I said. "And, anyway, I don't see----"
"You do not see? But it is of the first importance."
"I can't see why," I said, rather nettled. "As far as I can remember, she didn't eat much. She was obviously upset, and it had taken her appetite away. That was only natural."
"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "it was only natural."
He opened a drawer, and took out a small despatch-case, then turned to me.
"Now I am ready. We will proceed to the chateau, and study matters on the spot. Excuse me, mon ami, you dressed in haste, and your tie is on one side. Permit me." With a deft gesture, he rearranged it.
"Ca y est! Now, shall we start?"
We hurried up the village, and turned in at the lodge gates. Poirot stopped for a moment, and gazed sorrowfully over the beautiful expanse of park, still glittering with morning dew.
"So beautiful, so beautiful, and yet, the poor family, plunged in sorrow, prostrated with grief."
He looked at me keenly as he spoke, and I was aware that I reddened under his prolonged gaze.
Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs. Inglethorp's death so great? I realized that there was an emotional lack in the atmosphere. The dead woman had not the gift of commanding love. Her death was a shock and a distress, but she would not be passionately regretted.
Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded his head gravely.
"No, you are right," he said, "it is not as though there was a blood tie. She has been kind and generous to these Cavendishes, but she was not their own mother. Blood tells--always remember that--blood tells."
"Poirot," I said, "I wish you would tell me why you wanted to know if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turning it over in my mind, but I can't see how it has anything to do with the matter?"
He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finally he said:
"I do not mind telling you--though, as you know, it is not my habit to explain until the end is reached. The present contention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably administered in her coffee."
"Yes?"
"Well, what time was the coffee served?"
"About eight o'clock."
"Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight-- certainly not much later. Well, strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in about an hour. Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp's case, the symptoms do not manifest themselves until five o'clock the next morning: nine hours! But a heavy meal, taken at about the same time as the poison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent. Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account. But, according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet the symptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it."
As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard.
"This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?"
"I comprehend perfectly."
"You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon."
"Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only."
John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so.
"You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?"
"Yes. I met him."
John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly.
"It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him."
"That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly.
John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me.
"Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see."
"The rooms are locked?" asked Poirot.
"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
"Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us."
We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it.
Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance.
"What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you remain there like--how do you say it?--ah, yes, the stuck pig?"
I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks.
"Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practically an army in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I need it."
He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated the despatch-case on the floor.
"Eh voila une table!" cried Poirot. "Ah, my friend, one may live in a big house and yet have no comfort."
After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search.
A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the writing-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took out the key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. I saw nothing peculiar, however. It was an ordinary key of the Yale type, with a bit of twisted wire through the handle.
Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in, assuring himself that the bolt had really been shot. Then he went to the door opposite leading into Cynthia's room. That door was also bolted, as I had stated. However, he went to the length of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it several times; this he did with the utmost precaution against making any noise. Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his attention. He examined it carefully, and then, nimbly whipping out a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out some minute particle which he carefully sealed up in a tiny envelope.
On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a spirit lamp and a small saucepan on it. A small quantity of a dark fluid remained in the saucepan, and an empty cup and saucer that had been drunk out of stood near it.
I wondered how I could have been so unobservant as to overlook this. Here was a clue worth having. Poirot delicately dipped his finger into liquid, and tasted it gingerly. He made a grimace.
"Coco--with--I think--rum in it."
He passed on to the debris on the floor, where the table by the bed had been overturned. A reading-lamp, some books, matches, a bunch of keys, and the crushed fragments of a coffee-cup lay scattered about.
"Ah, this is curious," said Poirot.
"I must confess that I see nothing particularly curious about it."
"You do not? Observe the lamp--the chimney is broken in two places; they lie there as they fell. But see, the coffee-cup is absolutely smashed to powder."
"Well," I said wearily, "I suppose some one must have stepped on it."
"Exactly," said Poirot, in an odd voice. "Some one stepped on it."
He rose from his knees, and walked slowly across to the mantelpiece, where he stood abstractedly fingering the ornaments, and straightening them--a trick of his when he was agitated.
"Mon ami," he said, turning to me, "somebody stepped on that cup, grinding it to powder, and the reason they did so was either because it contained strychnine or--which is far more serious--because it did not contain strychnine!"
I made no reply. I was bewildered, but I knew that it was no good asking him to explain. In a moment or two he roused himself, and went on with his investigations. He picked up the bunch of keys from the floor, and twirling them round in his fingers finally selected one, very bright and shining, which he tried in the lock of the purple despatch-case. It fitted, and he opened the box, but after a moment's hesitation, closed and relocked it, and slipped the bunch of keys, as well as the key that had originally stood in the lock, into his own pocket.
"I have no authority to go through these papers. But it should be done--at once!"
He then made a very careful examination of the drawers of the wash-stand. Crossing the room to the left-hand window, a round stain, hardly visible on the dark brown carpet, seemed to interest him particularly. He went down on his knees, examining it minutely--even going so far as to smell it.
Finally, he poured a few drops of the coco into a test tube, sealing it up carefully. His next proceeding was to take out a little notebook.
"We have found in this room," he said, writing busily, "six points of interest. Shall I enumerate them, or will you?"
"Oh, you," I replied hastily.
"Very well, then. One, a coffee-cup that has been ground into powder; two, a despatch-case with a key in the lock; three, a stain on the floor."
"That may have been done some time ago," I interrupted.
"No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric--only a thread or two, but recognizable."
"Ah!" I cried. "That was what you sealed up in the envelope."
"Yes. It may turn out to be a piece of one of Mrs. Inglethorp's own dresses, and quite unimportant. We shall see. Five, _this_!" With a dramatic gesture, he pointed to a large splash of candle grease on the floor by the writing-table. "It must have been done since yesterday, otherwise a good housemaid would have at once removed it with blotting-paper and a hot iron. One of my best hats once--but that is not to the point."
"It was very likely done last night. We were very agitated. Or perhaps Mrs. Inglethorp herself dropped her candle."
"You brought only one candle into the room?"
"Yes. Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he was very upset. He seemed to see something over here"--I indicated the mantelpiece--"that absolutely paralysed him."
"That is interesting," said Poirot quickly. "Yes, it is suggestive"--his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall--"but it was not his candle that made this great patch, for you perceive that this is white grease; whereas Monsieur Lawrence's candle, which is still on the dressing-table, is pink. On the other hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had no candlestick in the room, only a reading-lamp."
"Then," I said, "what do you deduce?"
To which my friend only made a rather irritating reply, urging me to use my own natural faculties.
"And the sixth point?" I asked. "I suppose it is the sample of coco."
"No," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I might have included that in the six, but I did not. No, the sixth point I will keep to myself for the present."
He looked quickly round the room. "There is nothing more to be done here, I think, unless"--he stared earnestly and long at the dead ashes in the grate. "The fire burns--and it destroys. But by chance--there might be--let us see!"
Deftly, on hands and knees, he began to sort the ashes from the grate into the fender, handling them with the greatest caution. Suddenly, he gave a faint exclamation.
"The forceps, Hastings!"
I quickly handed them to him, and with skill he extracted a small piece of half charred paper.
"There, mon ami!" he cried. "What do you think of that?"
I scrutinized the fragment. This is an exact reproduction of it:--
I was puzzled. It was unusually thick, quite unlike ordinary notepaper. Suddenly an idea struck me.
"Poirot!" I cried. "This is a fragment of a will!"
"Exactly."
I looked up at him sharply.
"You are not surprised?"
"No," he said gravely, "I expected it."
I relinquished the piece of paper, and watched him put it away in his case, with the same methodical care that he bestowed on everything. My brain was in a whirl. What was this complication of a will? Who had destroyed it? The person who had left the candle grease on the floor? Obviously. But how had anyone gained admission? All the doors had been bolted on the inside.
"Now, my friend," said Poirot briskly, "we will go. I should like to ask a few questions of the parlourmaid--Dorcas, her name is, is it not?"
We passed through Alfred Inglethorp's room, and Poirot delayed long enough to make a brief but fairly comprehensive examination of it. We went out through that door, locking both it and that of Mrs. Inglethorp's room as before.
I took him down to the boudoir which he had expressed a wish to see, and went myself in search of Dorcas.
When I returned with her, however, the boudoir was empty.
"Poirot," I cried, "where are you?"
"I am here, my friend."
He had stepped outside the French window, and was standing, apparently lost in admiration, before the various shaped flower beds.
"Admirable!" he murmured. "Admirable! What symmetry! Observe that crescent; and those diamonds--their neatness rejoices the eye. The spacing of the plants, also, is perfect. It has been recently done; is it not so?"
"Yes, I believe they were at it yesterday afternoon. But come in--Dorcas is here."
"Eh bien, eh bien! Do not grudge me a moment's satisfaction of the eye."
"Yes, but this affair is more important."
"And how do you know that these fine begonias are not of equal importance?"
I shrugged my shoulders. There was really no arguing with him if he chose to take that line.
"You do not agree? But such things have been. Well, we will come in and interview the brave Dorcas."
Dorcas was standing in the boudoir, her hands folded in front of her, and her grey hair rose in stiff waves under her white cap. She was the very model and picture of a good old-fashioned servant.
In her attitude towards Poirot, she was inclined to be suspicious, but he soon broke down her defences. He drew forward a chair.
"Pray be seated, mademoiselle."
"Thank you, sir."
"You have been with your mistress many years, is it not so?"
"Ten years, sir."
"That is a long time, and very faithful service. You were much attached to her, were you not?"
"She was a very good mistress to me, sir."
"Then you will not object to answering a few questions. I put them to you with Mr. Cavendish's full approval."
"Oh, certainly, sir."
"Then I will begin by asking you about the events of yesterday afternoon. Your mistress had a quarrel?"
"Yes, sir. But I don't know that I ought----" Dorcas hesitated. Poirot looked at her keenly.
"My good Dorcas, it is necessary that I should know every detail of that quarrel as fully as possible. Do not think that you are betraying your mistress's secrets. Your mistress lies dead, and it is necessary that we should know all--if we are to avenge her. Nothing can bring her back to life, but we do hope, if there has been foul play, to bring the murderer to justice."
"Amen to that," said Dorcas fiercely. "And, naming no names, there's _one_ in this house that none of us could ever abide! And an ill day it was when first _he_ darkened the threshold."
Poirot waited for her indignation to subside, and then, resuming his business-like tone, he asked:
"Now, as to this quarrel? What is the first you heard of it?"
"Well, sir, I happened to be going along the hall outside yesterday----"
"What time was that?"
"I couldn't say exactly, sir, but it wasn't tea-time by a long way. Perhaps four o'clock--or it may have been a bit later. Well, sir, as I said, I happened to be passing along, when I heard voices very loud and angry in here. I didn't exactly mean to listen, but--well, there it is. I stopped. The door was shut, but the mistress was speaking very sharp and clear, and I heard what she said quite plainly. 'You have lied to me, and deceived me,' she said. I didn't hear what Mr. Inglethorp replied. He spoke a good bit lower than she did--but she answered: 'How dare you? I have kept you and clothed you and fed you! You owe everything to me! And this is how you repay me! By bringing disgrace upon our name!' Again I didn't hear what he said, but she went on: 'Nothing that you can say will make any difference. I see my duty clearly. My mind is made up. You need not think that any fear of publicity, or scandal between husband and wife will deter me.' Then I thought I heard them coming out, so I went off quickly."
"You are sure it was Mr. Inglethorp's voice you heard?"
"Oh, yes, sir, whose else's could it be?"
"Well, what happened next?"
"Later, I came back to the hall; but it was all quiet. At five o'clock, Mrs. Inglethorp rang the bell and told me to bring her a cup of tea--nothing to eat--to the boudoir. She was looking dreadful--so white and upset. 'Dorcas,' she says, 'I've had a great shock.' 'I'm sorry for that, m'm,' I says. 'You'll feel better after a nice hot cup of tea, m'm.' She had something in her hand. I don't know if it was a letter, or just a piece of paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring at it, almost as if she couldn't believe what was written there. She whispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there: 'These few words--and everything's changed.' And then she says to me: 'Never trust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' I hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it. 'I don't know what to do,' she says. 'Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.' Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more."
"She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?" "Yes, sir."
"What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?"
"Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers."
"Is that where she usually kept important papers?"
"Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night."
"When did she lose the key of it?"
"She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it."
"But she had a duplicate key?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled.
"Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs.
Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head.
"That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it."
"Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?"
Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question.
"No, sir."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?"
Dorcas reflected.
"Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress."
"Light or dark green?"
"A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it."
"Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?"
"No, sir--not that I know of."
Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked:
"Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?"
"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."
"Why do you know so positively?"
"Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up."
"You are quite sure of that?"
"Positive, sir."
"Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?"
"To sign a paper? No, sir."
"When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?"
"I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things."
Poirot lifted his hand.
"Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them."
"Very well, sir."
"What time did you go out last evening?"
"About six o'clock, sir."
"Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?"
"Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!"
"The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and the duplicate?"
"One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders.
"Where did you find it?"
"In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue."
"But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?"
"Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about this box?"
I examined it closely.
"No, I can't say that I do."
"Look at the label."
I read the label carefully: " 'One powder to be taken at bedtime, if required. Mrs. Inglethorp.' No, I see nothing unusual."
"Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?"
"Ah!" I exclaimed. "To be sure, that is odd!"
"Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that, without his printed name?"
"No, I can't say that I have."
I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour by remarking:
"Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not intrigue yourself, my friend."
An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no time to reply.
Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring under intense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of the tragedy.
Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness.
"I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able to tell me something about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last night. How many were there? And can you tell me any of the names and addresses?"
Annie considered.
"There were four letters, sir. One was to Miss Howard, and one was to Mr. Wells, the lawyer, and the other two I don't think I remember, sir--oh, yes, one was to Ross's, the caterers in Tadminster. The other one, I don't remember."
"Think," urged Poirot.
Annie racked her brains in vain.
"I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it."
"It does not matter," said Poirot, not betraying any sign of disappointment. "Now I want to ask you about something else. There is a saucepan in Mrs. Inglethorp's room with some coco in it. Did she have that every night?"
"Yes, sir, it was put in her room every evening, and she warmed it up in the night--whenever she fancied it."
"What was it? Plain coco?"
"Yes, sir, made with milk, with a teaspoonful of sugar, and two teaspoonfuls of rum in it."
"Who took it to her room?"
"I did, sir."
"Always?"
"Yes, sir."
"At what time?"
"When I went to draw the curtains, as a rule, sir."
"Did you bring it straight up from the kitchen then?"
"No, sir, you see there's not much room on the gas stove, so Cook used to make it early, before putting the vegetables on for supper. Then I used to bring it up, and put it on the table by the swing door, and take it into her room later."
"The swing door is in the left wing, is it not?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the table, is it on this side of the door, or on the farther--servants' side?"
"It's this side, sir."
"What time did you bring it up last night?"
"About quarter-past seven, I should say, sir."
"And when did you take it into Mrs. Inglethorp's room?"
"When I went to shut up, sir. About eight o'clock. Mrs. Inglethorp came up to bed before I'd finished."
"Then, between 7.15 and 8 o'clock, the coco was standing on the table in the left wing?"
"Yes, sir." Annie had been growing redder and redder in the face, and now she blurted out unexpectedly:
"And if there _was_ salt in it, sir, it wasn't me. I never took the salt near it."
"What makes you think there was salt in it?" asked Poirot.
"Seeing it on the tray, sir."
"You saw some salt on the tray?"
"Yes. Coarse kitchen salt, it looked. I never noticed it when I took the tray up, but when I came to take it into the mistress's room I saw it at once, and I suppose I ought to have taken it down again, and asked Cook to make some fresh. But I was in a hurry, because Dorcas was out, and I thought maybe the coco itself was all right, and the salt had only gone on the tray. So I dusted it off with my apron, and took it in."
I had the utmost difficulty in controlling my excitement. Unknown to herself, Annie had provided us with an important piece of evidence. How she would have gaped if she had realized that her "coarse kitchen salt" was strychnine, one of the most deadly poisons known to mankind. I marvelled at Poirot's calm. His self-control was astonishing. I awaited his next question with impatience, but it disappointed me.
"When you went into Mrs. Inglethorp's room, was the door leading into Miss Cynthia's room bolted?"
"Oh! Yes, sir; it always was. It had never been opened."
"And the door into Mr. Inglethorp's room? Did you notice if that was bolted too?"
Annie hesitated.
"I couldn't rightly say, sir; it was shut but I couldn't say whether it was bolted or not."
"When you finally left the room, did Mrs. Inglethorp bolt the door after you?"
"No, sir, not then, but I expect she did later. She usually did lock it at night. The door into the passage, that is."
"Did you notice any candle grease on the floor when you did the room yesterday?"
"Candle grease? Oh, no, sir. Mrs. Inglethorp didn't have a candle, only a reading-lamp."
"Then, if there had been a large patch of candle grease on the floor, you think you would have been sure to have seen it?"
"Yes, sir, and I would have taken it out with a piece of blotting-paper and a hot iron."
Then Poirot repeated the question he had put to Dorcas:
"Did your mistress ever have a green dress?"
"No, sir."
"Nor a mantle, nor a cape, nor a--how do you call it?--a sports coat?"
"Not green, sir."
"Nor anyone else in the house?"
Annie reflected.
"No, sir."
"You are sure of that?"
"Quite sure."
"Bien! That is all I want to know. Thank you very much."
With a nervous giggle, Annie took herself creakingly out of the room. My pent-up excitement burst forth.
"Poirot," I cried, "I congratulate you! This is a great discovery."
"What is a great discovery?"
"Why, that it was the coco and not the coffee that was poisoned. That explains everything! Of course it did not take effect until the early morning, since the coco was only drunk in the middle of the night."
"So you think that the coco--mark well what I say, Hastings, the coco--contained strychnine?"
"Of course! That salt on the tray, what else could it have been?"
"It might have been salt," replied Poirot placidly.
I shrugged my shoulders. If he was going to take the matter that way, it was no good arguing with him. The idea crossed my mind, not for the first time, that poor old Poirot was growing old. Privately I thought it lucky that he had associated with him some one of a more receptive type of mind.
Poirot was surveying me with quietly twinkling eyes.
"You are not pleased with me, mon ami?"
"My dear Poirot," I said coldly, "it is not for me to dictate to you. You have a right to your own opinion, just as I have to mine."
"A most admirable sentiment," remarked Poirot, rising briskly to his feet. "Now I have finished with this room. By the way, whose is the smaller desk in the corner?"
"Mr. Inglethorp's."
"Ah!" He tried the roll top tentatively. "Locked. But perhaps one of Mrs. Inglethorp's keys would open it." He tried several, twisting and turning them with a practiced hand, and finally uttering an ejaculation of satisfaction. "Viola! It is not the key, but it will open it at a pinch." He slid back the roll top, and ran a rapid eye over the neatly filed papers. To my surprise, he did not examine them, merely remarking approvingly as he relocked the desk: "Decidedly, he is a man of method, this Mr. Inglethorp!"
A "man of method" was, in Poirot's estimation, the highest praise that could be bestowed on any individual.
I felt that my friend was not what he had been as he rambled on disconnectedly:
"There were no stamps in his desk, but there might have been, eh, mon ami? There might have been? Yes"--his eyes wandered round the room--"this boudoir has nothing more to tell us. It did not yield much. Only this."
He pulled a crumpled envelope out of his pocket, and tossed it over to me. It was rather a curious document. A plain, dirty looking old envelope with a few words scrawled across it, apparently at random. The following is a facsimile of it.
比利时人在村子里住的房子，紧贴园子的大门。沿着一条狭窄的小径，穿过一片长长的草坪，不走那弯弯曲曲的车道，抄近路去，可以省下不少时间。因此，我就走这条路。当我快到门房时，一个步履匆匆迎面而来的男人的身影，引起了我的注意。原来是英格里桑先生。他一直在哪儿呀？他打算怎样来解释他的不在场呢？
他急切地朝我迎了上来。
“我的天哪！大可泊了！我可怜的妻子啊！我方才才听说。”
“你在哪儿呀？”我问道。
“昨晚上登拜留我耽晚了，我们一直谈到深夜一点钟。这时，我发现到底还是忘了带大门的钥匙。我不想唤醒家里人，所以登拜留我过了夜。”
“你怎么知道这个消息的？”我问。
“威尔金斯敲开登拜的门告诉我的。我可怜的埃米莉！她如此舍己为人——有着这样的高贵品质。她操劳过度了。”
一阵厌恶的心情直朝我袭来。这是个多老于此道的伪君子啊！
“我有事得赶紧去，”我说，感谢他没有问我到哪儿去。
几分钟后，我就在敲小别墅的门了。
没有回答，我急不可耐地反复敲着。我头顶的一扇窗户小心谨慎地打开了，波洛本人伸出头来朝下面看了看。他看到是我，惊叫了一声。我三言两语地对他讲了发生的悲剧，并希望能得到他的帮助。
“等一等，朋友，我让你进来。我穿衣服时，你详细给我讲一讲这事情的经过。”
过了一会，他打开了门，我跟着他走进他的房间。他让我在一张椅子上坐了下来，接着我毫无隐瞒地叙述了整个事情的经过，即使是极小的细节也不遗漏。而他则一直精心细致地给自己打扮着。
我给他讲了我怎样被唤醒，英格里桑太太临终时说的话，她的丈夫为什么不在场，前一天的吵架情况，我偶然听到的玛丽和她的婆婆之间的那次谈话的片断，在此之前英格里桑太太和伊夫琳•霍华德之间的争吵，还有后者的暗示。等等。
我讲得没能象我所希望的那样清楚。有几次我讲重复了。偶尔，我又不得不回头讲某个漏掉的细节。波洛和蔼地朝我笑笑。
“脑子搞湖了么？不是这样的？慢慢讲吧，我的朋友。你讲得太急。你太激动了——一激动就不自然。过一会，等我们镇静一点的时候，我们来把事实理一理，好好归归类，使它们各得其所。然后，检查一下，剔掉一些。那些不重要的，卟！”——他皱起那张小天使般的脸，十分滑稽地吹了一口——“把它们吹跑！”
“那样当然很好，”我表示反对，“可是你打算怎么来确定什么是重要的，什么又是不重要的呢？那样做，我着始终是有困难的。”
波洛使劲地摇了摇头。这时他正异常仔细地在摆弄他那一抹翘胡子。
“并非如此。得啦！事实是一个连接一个的——因此我们得以继续下去。下一个和这相符吗？好极了！好！我们可以进行下去。这下一个很少是事实——不行！嗨！那就难以理解！就是缺了什么了——这根链条上有一环不对头，我们就要检查，我们就要探究。小小的一件难以理解的事实，可能是一个微不足道的细节不相符，那我们就把它放在这儿！”他做了一个放肆的手势。“这就值得注意！这就是异常情况！”
“是——的——”
“嗨！”波洛使劲地朝我摇着食指，我都在这前面给吓住了。“要当心！一个侦探如果说，‘这是小事一桩，无关紧要。那一点不对路，可以忽略。’就危险了。那就糟糕！事无大小，都很重要。”
“我知道。你一直就这样告诉我。所以我了解了这桩案子的全部细节，不管它们是否与我有关。”
“我很为你高兴。你的记忆力很好。你已经如实地告诉了我全部事实经过。可是根据你的介绍，我可无话可说——真的，这是可悲的。不过，我估计——你会为此感到狼狈。问题是我认为你把一个最重要的事实给遗漏了。”
“什么事实？”我问道。
“你没有告诉我，昨天晚上，英格里桑太太胃口是否好。
我瞪眼直盯着他，想必是战争影响了这位小个子的脑子。他把外套穿到身上之前，小小心心地把它刷了又刷，仿佛全神都贯注到这件工作上了。
“我不记得了，“我说。“而且，我无论如何都不懂——”
“你不懂？可这是头等重要的。”
“我不懂为什么，”我颇为恼火地说。“我只记得，她吃得不多。她显然心烦意乱，这影响了她的食欲。那是很自然的。”
“是呀，”波洛若有所思地说，“那是很自然的。”
他拉开抽屉，取出一只小小的公文箱，然后转脸对我说：
“我已准备好了。我们出发去庄园吧，去仔细看着现场的情况。请别见怪，我的朋友，你是匆匆忙忙穿的衣服吧，瞧你领带都歪到一边了。让我来给你整一整。”他用灵巧的手势，重新给我结了领带。
“行了！出发吧。”
我们匆匆赶到庄子里，拐进庄园园林的大门。波洛停下站了一会，无限感慨地凝视着这一大片园林的美丽景色，朝露还在放射出灿烂的珠光。
“多美啊，有多美！然而，这家可怜的人家却陷入了痛苦，沉浸于悲伤。”
他说话时，目光锐利地朝我注视着，我感到，在他的长时间的注视下，我的脸红了。
这家人家被悲伤征服了么？英格里桑太太的死引起的痛苦是如此强烈么？我感到空气中缺乏这种感情。去世的女人没有博得家大的爱戴。她的死是打击和不幸，但是她将不会受到深深的哀悼。
波洛仿佛尾随着我的思想。他严肃地点点头。
“是呀，你说得对，”他说，“他们不象有血缘关系。她虽然对待卡文迪什家的人仁慈，慷慨，可是她毕竟不是他们的亲生母亲，血缘——你千万要记住这点——血缘。”
“波洛，”我说，“我希望你能告诉我，为什么你要了解英格里桑大太昨天晚上吃得是不是好呢？这问题一直在我脑子里祈腾，可我闹不清楚这和事情有什么关系。
他沉默了一两分钟。我们一直走着，后来，他终于开腔了：
“我不反对告诉你——虽然，你也知道，事情没有到达结局就作解释，这不是我的习惯。现在的问题是，英格里桑太大有可能是被下在她的咖啡里的士的宁毒死的。
“真的？“
“是呀，咖啡是什么时候送的？”
“八点左右。”
“这么说，她是在八点至八点半之间这段时间喝的了——一定不会太晚。嗯，士的宁是一种功效相当快的毒药。它的毒性很快就能感觉到，可能在一小时之内。然而，在英格里桑太太身上，中毒的症伏直到第二天早上五点钟才出现。整整九个小时！固然，要是吃得很饱，几乎在同时服下药，可以拖迟毒性发作的时间，可是不太可能拖得那么久。不过这种可能性还是得加以考虑。但是，据你所说，她晚饭吃得很少，而中毒的症状竟到第二天一早才出现！这是一个难以理解的情况，我的朋友。通过尸体解剖可能会得到某种解释。到时候，你记着这一点。”
当我们走近房子时，约翰出来迎接我们。他的脸色显得疲倦，憔悴。
“这是一件极不愉快的事情，波洛先生。”他说，“哈斯丁已经对你说明了吧？我们迫切希望不要把这事宣扬开。”
“我完全理解。”
“你知道，到目前为止这仅仅是怀疑。我们还没什么根据。”
“确实如此。这只是一种预防措施。”
约翰转脸朝向我，同时掏出烟盒，点燃了一支烟。
“你知道吗，英格里桑那家伙回来了？”
“知道。我碰到他了。”
“约翰把火柴梗扔到了近旁的花床上，这种行为实在使波洛感情上受不了。于是他把它拾了起来，顺手埋掉了。
“难哪，不知道怎么来对待他。”
“这种难处不会太久了。”波洛平静他说。
约翰显出迷惑不解的样子，不十分理解波洛说的隐晦的预言，他把鲍斯坦医生给他的两只钥匙交给了我。
“凡是波洛先生要看的，全部给他看着。”
“房间锁着的？”波洛问道。
“鲍斯坦医生认为这样为好。”
波洛若有所思地点点头。
“那他是很有把握了。哦，对我们来说这使事情简单多了。”
我们一起走向发生悲剧的那个房间。为了方便起见，我附上下面这一张房间和房间中主要家俱陈设的平面图。
波洛在里面锁上了门，对房间进行了仔细的检查。他象蚱蜢一样灵活地从一件物品蹦向另一件物品。我怕抹掉什么线索，一动不动地站在门边。然而，波洛对于我的克制态度，似乎并无感激之意。
“你怎么啦，朋友？”他大声嚷道，“你站在那儿象个——那叫什么来着？——啊，对了，干么象根木桩子呀？”
我解释说，我怕抹掉什么足迹之类的东西。
“足迹？亏你想得出！这房间实际上就象来过一支军队了！我们还能找出什么足迹来呀？别站在那儿了，来，帮我一起来搜查吧。在我要用它之前，得先放下我的小公文箱。
说着，他把小箱子往窗边的圆桌上一放，可是动作猛了一点，结果由于桌面是松动的，它一边向上翘了起来，猛地使公文箱摔落到地板上。
“瞧这桌子！”波洛叫了起来。“嗨，我的朋友，一个人有可能住一幢大房子，可是也可能并不舒适。”
在作了一番说教之后，他重又开始检查。
写字台上有一只紫红色的小公文箱，箱于的锁上插着一把钥匙，这一时引起了他的注意。他从锁孔中拨出钥匙，递给我作检查。可是我看着并无特别之处。这是一把普通弹簧锁的钥匙，捏手的地方扎着一段拧在一起的金属线。
接着，他又检查了已被我们推破的门框，弄清楚插销确实被毁坏了。然后他又走到对面的通向辛西娅房间的门边。正如我所说的那样，这扇门也是闩住的。可是，他却拉开了插销，把门打开又关上，试了好几次；试的时候，他十分小心，尽量避免发出任何声音。突然，插销上的什么东西似乎引起了他的注意。他仔细作了检查。于是，敏捷地从自己的箱子里取出一只镊子，夹起一点极小的东西，小心翼翼地把它放进一只小小的封袋。
五斗橱上搁着一只托盘，盘子里有一盏酒精灯，上面放着一只小小的长柄平底锅。锅子里还留有少量发黑的液体。一只已经喝尽的空怀子和茶托摆在它的旁边。
我自己也感到奇怪，我怎么会这样粗心，连这都给看漏了。这儿有这么一个有价值的线索。波洛灵巧地伸出一个指头往液体里蘸了一下，然后小心翼翼地尝了尝。他装出一副怪相。
“可可——里面还掺了——我想是——糖酒。”
床边的一张小桌已经翻倒在地，他走到掉落在地板上的那摊东西跟前。一盏台灯，几本书，一些火柴，一串钥匙，一只打破的咖啡怀的碎片，撒得满地都是。
“啊，这可怪了，”波洛说。
“我得承认，我看这没什么特别奇怪的地方。”
“你不感到奇怪？看这台灯——玻璃罩只跌破两处，它掉下来时，就跌成这样子。可是你看，这咖啡杯跌得完全粉碎了。”
“是呀，”我显得有点不耐烦他说，”我猜想一定是什么人踩上去过了。”
“确实如此，”波洛用一种奇怪的声音说。“有个人踩过它。”
他站起身来，缓步走到壁炉台眼前，站在那儿心不在焉地摆弄着上面的礼拜用品，把它们理整齐——这是他心中焦虑时的一种习惯。
“我的朋友，”他转身对我说，”有人踩过这只杯子，有意把它碾成了粉未，而他们这样干的理由不是因为杯子有士的宁，就是因为——那就严重得多了——杯子里没有士的宁！”
我没有搭腔，这可把我搞糊涂了，可是我知道现在不便要他解释。过了一会，他又振作起精神，继续进行侦查。他从地板上捡起那串钥匙，捏在手上迅速地转了几圈，最后终于选中了雪亮发光的一只。他想用它来打开紫红色公文箱上的锁。它刚好合适，于是他打开了箱子，可是犹豫了一下后，他又把它关了回去，重新锁上，同时，也把这串钥匙，如同原来插在锁上的那把一样，塞进自己的口袋。
“我无权检查这些文件，但是这必须马上进行！”
接着，他又非常仔细地检查了脸盆架的抽屉。在他穿过房间，走向左边的窗口时，深咖啡色地毯上圆圆一滩不十分明显的污渍似乎特别使他发生了兴趣。他蹲下来检查了一会——甚至还扑到近旁闻了闻。
最后，他又倒了几滴可可到试管里，仔细地封上管口，然后掏出一本小小的笔记本。
“在这个房间里，”他说道，一边匆忙地写着：“我们发现了六个值得注意的疑点。要我列举一下吗？还是你说？”
“哦，你来。”我急忙回答说。
“那好吧。第一，一只已被碾成粉未的咖啡杯；第二，一只锁上插着钥匙的公文箱；第三，地板上的一滩污渍。”
“那也许是一些时候以前弄的。”我打断了他的话。
“不，因为它着得出还是湿的，而且还有咖啡的香味。第四，一点深绿色织物——只有一两根纱，但可以认出。”
“啊！”我叫了起来。“就是你夹起放进小封袋那东西。”
“是的，结果也有可能是英格里桑太太自己的一件衣服上钩下来的，那就毫无价值。我们将会弄清楚的。第五，就是这个！”他用一种演剧般的姿势指着写字台旁的地板上一大片蜡烛油说。“这一定是昨天滴下的，要不，会有个好女仆马上用吸油纸和熨斗把它给去掉的，有一回我的一顶最好的帽子——但这和这事无关。”
“很可能是昨天晚上滴下的。当时我们都很焦急不安。不过也有可能是英格里桑太大自己滴的。”
“你们只拿了一支蜡烛到房里来吧？”
“是的。是劳伦斯•卡文迪什拿着的。当时他心神干分不定。象是看到那边有什么东西，”——我朝壁炉台方向指了指——“使他吓得目瞪口呆。”
“这倒有意思了，”波洛马上说，“是呀，这很有启发，”——他的目光扫视着整堵墙壁——“不过这一大片蜡烛油可不是他手上的那支蜡烛滴的，因为你看到了，这是白色的，而劳伦斯先生的那支，现在它还在梳妆台上，是粉红的。另一方面，英格里桑太太房里并没有蜡浊台，只有一盏台灯。”
“那未，”我问道，“你的推断呢？”
对此，我的朋友只给了一个使人有点恼火的回答，他劝我要多用用自己的天赋才能。
“还有第六点呢？”我问道。“我猜是可可的试样了。”
“不，”波洛若有所思地说。“我本来可以把那算作第六点，可是我不那么做。不，这第六点目前我还需要保密。”
他朝整个房间迅速地打量了一遍。”这儿没什么要做了，我想，”——他认真地朝壁炉的死灰看了很久——
“除非这炉火还红着——它灭了。不过说不定碰巧——还红着——让我们来看一看！”
他扒在地上，灵巧地开始把炉灰从炉于里扒到它的围栏里，他干得十分小心。突然，他轻声喊了一声。
“镊子，哈斯丁！”
我赶忙把镊子递给了他，他熟练地夹起了一小片尚未烧尽的纸片。
“瞧，我的朋友，”他大声说道。“你看这是什么？”
我仔细察看了这点纸片。下面就是完全照原样的复制品：
（译文：全部以及）
这可把我难住了。它特别厚，完全不象平常用的信签。突然，我有了一个想法。
“波洛！”我喊道。“这是遗嘱的碎片！”
“一点不错。”
我锐利地朝他看着。
“你没有感到意外？”
“没有，”他严肃他说，“我料到这一点。”
我把纸片递还给他，看着他在公文箱里放好。他象收藏一件宝贝一样地非常仔细，有条有理，我的脑子里一片混乱。这遗嘱的纠纷是什么呢？是谁把它烧毁的呢？是把烛油滴在地上的人吗？显然是的。可是此人是怎么进去的呢？所有门都是里面闩住的呀。
“行了，我的朋友，”波洛轻快他说，“我们得走了。我还要去问那个客厅女仆几个问题哩，她叫多卡斯，是吗？”
我们走进阿弗雷德•英格里桑的房间。在这儿耽搁了一阵子，波洛对它进行了一次短暂的，但是相当全面的搜查。我们就从这个门出来，把它和英格里桑大太的房门都照原先那样锁上。
波洛曾表示希望到楼下的闺房看看，于是我把他带到那儿，然后我去找多卡斯。
可是，当我带着多卡斯回来时，闺房里却空无一人。
“波洛！”我喊道，“你在哪儿呀？”
“我在这儿哪，我的朋友。”
他已走到落地长窗的外面，正站立在那儿，面对着那各种形状的花坛，他显然已沉浸在赞美之中。
“妙极了！”他喃喃地说。“妙极了！多匀称啊！瞧那月牙形；还有那些菱形——那么优美精巧，真使人赏心悦目。这花木的株距也安排得好极了。这是新近栽的吧，早吗？”
“是的，我相信是昨天下午栽的。可是，你进来吧——多卡斯来了。”
“行了，行了！你就让我饱一会儿眼福吧。”
“好的，可是这件事更重要呀。”
“你怎么知道这些美丽的秋海棠不是同等重要呢？”
我耸了耸肩膀。要是他决意采取这样一种态度的话，那实在没有什么好同他辩论的了。
“你不同意？可是这样的事情是有的。好吧，我们进去见见勇敢的多卡斯吧。”
多卡斯站在闺房里，她两手合拢，垂在腹部，她那灰色的头发在白色的帽子下象巨浪似地高高隆起。她是一个忠实的老式女仆的真正典型和化身。
对波洛，她一心抱着一种疑虑的心情，可是他很快就冲破了她的防线。他向前递过一把椅子。
“请坐，小姐。”
“谢谢，先生。”
“你已经跟你的女主人好多年了吧，是么？”
“十年了，先生。”
“时间很长了，而且十分忠于职守。你非常喜爱她，是吗？”
“她对我来说是个很好的女主人，先生。”
“那未你将不会反对回答几个问题了。我得到卡文迪什先生的完全许可，要问问你这几个问题。”
“噢，当然可以，先生。”
“那我就要开始问昨天下午的事情了。你的女主人吵架了吗？”
“是的，先生。可是我不知道我该不该——”多卡斯吞吞吐吐地说。
波洛敏锐地注视着她。
“我的好多卡斯，我需要尽可能详尽地了解那次吵架的每一个细节。你别认为你这是在泄漏怀女主人的秘密。你的女主人不明不白地死了，因此我们必须弄个水落石出——要是我们要为她报仇的话。人死不能复生，但是如果这确是一桩暴行的话，我们一定要把凶手缉拿归案。”
“但愿如此，”多卡斯忿然他说，“那我就不指名道姓了，哼，这幢房子里有了这么一个人，我们当中就没有一个人能受得了。打从他进门后，日子就不好过了。”
波洛等着她把愤慨平静下来，然后重又用他那有条不紊的语气问道：
“嗯，那次吵架怎么样？你最先听到了什么？”
“噢，先生，昨天我碰巧走过过道，在外面——”
“那是什么时候？”
“确切的时间我说不出，先生，不过远不是喝茶的时候。也许是四点钟——或者是还要迟一点。这个，先生，我刚才说了，我碰巧走过，听到房里有很响、很生气的吵闹声。我确实不是有意偷听，不过——嗯，就是这样我停了下来。房门虽然关着，可是女主人的说话声又尖，又清晰，所以她说的我听得很真切。‘你对我澈谎，欺骗我，’她说，可是没听清楚英格里桑先生回答点什么。他的声音比她轻得多——接着她又回答说：‘我养活了你，供你吃，供你穿，你竟敢这样！你一切都得感谢我！你得好好报答我才是！尽给我们丢脸！’他说了什么我又没有听清，可她继续说：‘你说这一套毫无用处。我对自己的义务很清楚。我的主意已经定了。你不要以为我怕公开出去，或者是夫妻间的反目能吓住我。’这时，我觉得我听到他们快要出来，于是我急忙走开了。”
“你能肯定你听到的是英格里桑先生的声音吗？”
“哦，肯定，先生。这会是别人的声音吗？”
“好吧，后来怎么样？”
“后来，我又回到过道里；可是这时已经完全平息了。五点钟时，英格里桑太太按铃要我给她送怀茶——她没有要吃的——到闺房里去。她看上去叫人害怕——脸色苍白，心烦意乱。‘多卡斯，’她说，‘我受了一个很大的打击。’‘我为这感到难过，太太，’我说，‘您喝怀新沏的热茶吧，那样会好一些，太太，”这时候她手中拿着一件东西。我弄不清这是一封信，还是只是一张纸什么的，不过上面写着字，她一直朝它目不转睛地看着，简直象是没法相信那上面写的东西。她仿佛忘掉了我在那儿，自言自语地唧咕着：‘有了这几句话——一切就都改变了。’接着她又对我说：‘决不要相信一个男人，多卡斯，他们不值得相信！’我急忙离开。接着为她送去一杯新沏的浓茶，她向我道了谢。她喝了茶以后对我说，她觉得好一些了。‘我不知道该怎么办，’她说，‘夫妻间的反目是一件可怕的事情，多卡斯。要是可能的话，我也就瞒着不说它了。’这时恰巧卡文迪什大太走了进来，于是她就不再说了。”
“她把那封信，或者是别的什么东西，一直拿在手中吗？”
“是的，先生。”
“后来，她可能把那张东西怎么处置了呢？”
“哦，那我不知道了，先生。我猜想，她把它锁进她的紫红色箱子了。”
“那是她通常用来放重要文件的箱子吗？”
“是的，先生。每天早上她都随身把它带下楼来，每天晚上带上楼去。”
“她什么时候丢失那箱子钥匙的？”
“她是在昨天吃午饭的时候发觉丢失的，她要我仔细找过。为这事她感到非常不安哩。”
“她另外还有一只钥匙吗？”
“哦，是的，先生。”
多卡斯十分好奇地朝波洛注视着，说老实话，我也是如此。老问一只丢失的钥匙是什么意思呢？波洛笑了起来。
“没什么，多卡斯，把事情弄清楚是我的职责。这就是那把丢失的钥匙吗？”他从自己的口袋里掏出从楼上那只公文箱的锁上拔下的钥匙。
多卡斯吃惊地看着，两眼仿佛都要瞪出来了。
“正是这把，先生，一点不错。可是您在哪儿找到它的呀？我到处都找遍了。”
“嗨，你看，那地方昨天没有，今天在了。好了，”我们谈点别的吧，你女主人的衣服里有一件深绿色的吗？’
多卡斯被这意想不到的问题问得有点怔住了。
“没有，先生。”
“你很有把握吗？”
“哦，是的，先生。&
Chapter 5 
"It isn't strychnine, is it? "
"Where did you find this?" I asked Poirot, in lively curiosity.
"In the waste-paper 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 mantel-piece, 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 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 latch-key. Is not that so?"
"Yes."
"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _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."
Every one 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 every one 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 sugar," said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the sugar-tongs.
"No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, 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 to-night, 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 gravely.
There was silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes. Finally he turned to the lawyer again.
"Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you--that is, if it is not against professional etiquette. In the event of Mrs. Inglethorp's death, who would inherit her money?"
The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied:
"The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr. Cavendish does not object----"
"Not at all," interpolated John.
"I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. By her last will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legacies to servants, etc., she gave her entire fortune to her stepson, Mr. John Cavendish."
"Was not that--pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish--rather unfair to her other stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?"
"No, I do not think so. You see, under the terms of their father's will, while John inherited the property, Lawrence, at his stepmother's death, would come into a considerable sum of money. Mrs. Inglethorp left her money to her elder stepson, knowing that he would have to keep up Styles. It was, to my mind, a very fair and equitable distribution."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
"I see. But I am right in saying, am I not, that by your English law that will was automatically revoked when Mrs. Inglethorp remarried?"
Mr. Wells bowed his head.
"As I was about to proceed, Monsieur Poirot, that document is now null and void."
"Hein!" said Poirot. He reflected for a moment, and then asked: "Was Mrs. Inglethorp herself aware of that fact?"
"I do not know. She may have been."
"She was," said John unexpectedly. "We were discussing the matter of wills being revoked by marriage only yesterday."
"Ah! One more question, Mr. Wells. You say 'her last will.' Had Mrs. Inglethorp, then, made several former wills?"
"On an average, she made a new will at least once a year," said Mr. Wells imperturbably. "She was given to changing her mind as to her testamentary dispositions, now benefiting one, now another member of her family."
"Suppose," suggested Poirot, "that, unknown to you, she had made a new will in favour of some one who was not, in any sense of the word, a member of the family--we will say Miss Howard, for instance--would you be surprised?"
"Not in the least."
"Ah!" Poirot seemed to have exhausted his questions.
I drew close to him, while John and the lawyer were debating the question of going through Mrs. Inglethorp's papers.
"Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp made a will leaving all her money to Miss Howard?" I asked in a low voice, with some curiosity.
Poirot smiled.
"No."
"Then why did you ask?"
"Hush!"
John Cavendish had turned to Poirot.
"Will you come with us, Monsieur Poirot? We are going through my mother's papers. Mr. Inglethorp is quite willing to leave it entirely to Mr. Wells and myself."
"Which simplifies matters very much," murmured the lawyer. "As technically, of course, he was entitled----" He did not finish the sentence.
"We will look through the desk in the boudoir first," explained John, "and go up to her bedroom afterwards. She kept her most important papers in a purple despatch-case, which we must look through carefully."
"Yes," said the lawyer, "it is quite possible that there may be a later will than the one in my possession."
"There _is_ a later will." It was Poirot who spoke.
"What?" John and the lawyer looked at him startled.
"Or, rather," pursued my friend imperturbably, "there _was_ one."
"What do you mean--there was one? Where is it now?"
"Burnt!"
"Burnt?"
"Yes. See here." He took out the charred fragment we had found in the grate in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, and handed it to the lawyer with a brief explanation of when and where he had found it.
"But possibly this is an old will?"
"I do not think so. In fact I am almost certain that it was made no earlier than yesterday afternoon."
"What?" "Impossible!" broke simultaneously from both men.
Poirot turned to John.
"If you will allow me to send for your gardener, I will prove it to you."
"Oh, of course--but I don't see----"
Poirot raised his hand.
"Do as I ask you. Afterwards you shall question as much as you please."
"Very well." He rang the bell.
Dorcas answered it in due course.
"Dorcas, will you tell Manning to come round and speak to me here."
"Yes, sir."
Dorcas withdrew.
We waited in a tense silence. Poirot alone seemed perfectly at his ease, and dusted a forgotten corner of the bookcase.
The clumping of hobnailed boots on the gravel outside proclaimed the approach of Manning. John looked questioningly at Poirot. The latter nodded.
"Come inside, Manning," said John, "I want to speak to you."
Manning came slowly and hesitatingly through the French window, and stood as near it as he could. He held his cap in his hands, twisting it very carefully round and round. His back was much bent, though he was probably not as old as he looked, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent, and belied his slow and rather cautious speech.
"Manning," said John, "this gentleman will put some questions to you which I want you to answer."
"Yes sir," mumbled Manning.
Poirot stepped forward briskly. Manning's eye swept over him with a faint contempt.
"You were planting a bed of begonias round by the south side of the house yesterday afternoon, were you not, Manning?"
"Yes, sir, me and Willum."
"And Mrs. Inglethorp came to the window and called you, did she not?"
"Yes, sir, she did."
"Tell me in your own words exactly what happened after that."
"Well, sir, nothing much. She just told Willum to go on his bicycle down to the village, and bring back a form of will, or such-like--I don't know what exactly--she wrote it down for him."
"Well?"
"Well, he did, sir."
"And what happened next?"
"We went on with the begonias, sir."
"Did not Mrs. Inglethorp call you again?"
"Yes, sir, both me and Willum, she called."
"And then?"
"She made us come right in, and sign our names at the bottom of a long paper--under where she'd signed."
"Did you see anything of what was written above her signature?" asked Poirot sharply.
"No, sir, there was a bit of blotting paper over that part."
"And you signed where she told you?"
"Yes, sir, first me and then Willum."
"What did she do with it afterwards?"
"Well, sir, she slipped it into a long envelope, and put it inside a sort of purple box that was standing on the desk."
"What time was it when she first called you?"
"About four, I should say, sir."
"Not earlier? Couldn't it have been about half-past three?"
"No, I shouldn't say so, sir. It would be more likely to be a bit after four--not before it."
"Thank you, Manning, that will do," said Poirot pleasantly.
The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manning lifted a finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backed cautiously out of the window.
We all looked at each other.
"Good heavens!" murmured John. "What an extraordinary coincidence."
"How--a coincidence?"
"That my mother should have made a will on the very day of her death!"
Mr. Wells cleared his throat and remarked drily:
"Are you so sure it is a coincidence, Cavendish?"
"What do you mean?"
"Your mother, you tell me, had a violent quarrel with--some one yesterday afternoon----"
"What do you mean?" cried John again. There was a tremor in his voice, and he had gone very pale.
"In consequence of that quarrel, your mother very suddenly and hurriedly makes a new will. The contents of that will we shall never know. She told no one of its provisions. This morning, no doubt, she would have consulted me on the subject--but she had no chance. The will disappears, and she takes its secret with her to her grave. Cavendish, I much fear there is no coincidence there. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that the facts are very suggestive."
"Suggestive, or not," interrupted John, "we are most grateful to Monsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we should never have known of this will. I suppose, I may not ask you, monsieur, what first led you to suspect the fact?"
Poirot smiled and answered:
"A scribbled over old envelope, and a freshly planted bed of begonias."
John, I think, would have pressed his questions further, but at that moment the loud purr of a motor was audible, and we all turned to the window as it swept past.
"Evie!" cried John. "Excuse me, Wells." He went hurriedly out into the hall.
Poirot looked inquiringly at me.
"Miss Howard," I explained.
"Ah, I am glad she has come. There is a woman with a head and a heart too, Hastings. Though the good God gave her no beauty!"
I followed John's example, and went out into the hall, where Miss Howard was endeavouring to extricate herself from the voluminous mass of veils that enveloped her head. As her eyes fell on me, a sudden pang of guilt shot through me. This was the woman who had warned me so earnestly, and to whose warning I had, alas, paid no heed! How soon, and how contemptuously, I had dismissed it from my mind. Now that she had been proved justified in so tragic a manner, I felt ashamed. She had known Alfred Inglethorp only too well. I wondered whether, if she had remained at Styles, the tragedy would have taken place, or would the man have feared her watchful eyes?
I was relieved when she shook me by the hand, with her well remembered painful grip. The eyes that met mine were sad, but not reproachful; that she had been crying bitterly, I could tell by the redness of her eyelids, but her manner was unchanged from its old gruffness.
"Started the moment I got the wire. Just come off night duty. Hired car. Quickest way to get here."
"Have you had anything to eat this morning, Evie?" asked John.
"No."
"I thought not. Come along, breakfast's not cleared away yet, and they'll make you some fresh tea." He turned to me. "Look after her, Hastings, will you? Wells is waiting for me. Oh, here's Monsieur Poirot. He's helping us, you know, Evie."
Miss Howard shook hands with Poirot, but glanced suspiciously over her shoulder at John.
"What do you mean--helping us?"
"Helping us to investigate."
"Nothing to investigate. Have they taken him to prison yet?"
"Taken who to prison?"
"Who? Alfred Inglethorp, of course!"
"My dear Evie, do be careful. Lawrence is of the opinion that my mother died from heart seizure."
"More fool, Lawrence!" retorted Miss Howard. "Of course Alfred Inglethorp murdered poor Emily--as I always told you he would."
"My dear Evie, don't shout so. Whatever we may think or suspect, it is better to say as little as possible for the present. The inquest isn't until Friday."
"Not until fiddlesticks!" The snort Miss Howard gave was truly magnificent. "You're all off your heads. The man will be out of the country by then. If he's any sense, he won't stay here tamely and wait to be hanged."
John Cavendish looked at her helplessly.
"I know what it is," she accused him, "you've been listening to the doctors. Never should. What do they know? Nothing at all--or just enough to make them dangerous. I ought to know--my own father was a doctor. That little Wilkins is about the greatest fool that even I have ever seen. Heart seizure! Sort of thing he would say. Anyone with any sense could see at once that her husband had poisoned her. I always said he'd murder her in her bed, poor soul. Now he's done it. And all you can do is to murmur silly things about 'heart seizure' and 'inquest on Friday.' You ought to be ashamed of yourself, John Cavendish."
"What do you want me to do?" asked John, unable to help a faint smile. "Dash it all, Evie, I can't haul him down to the local police station by the scruff of his neck."
"Well, you might do something. Find out how he did it. He's a crafty beggar. Dare say he soaked fly papers. Ask Cook if she's missed any."
It occurred to me very forcibly at that moment that to harbour Miss Howard and Alfred Inglethorp under the same roof, and keep the peace between them, was likely to prove a Herculean task, and I did not envy John. I could see by the expression of his face that he fully appreciated the difficulty of the position. For the moment, he sought refuge in retreat, and left the room precipitately.
Dorcas brought in fresh tea. As she left the room, Poirot came over from the window where he had been standing, and sat down facing Miss Howard.
"Mademoiselle," he said gravely, "I want to ask you something."
"Ask away," said the lady, eyeing him with some disfavour.
"I want to be able to count upon your help."
"I'll help you to hang Alfred with pleasure," she replied gruffly. "Hanging's too good for him. Ought to be drawn and quartered, like in good old times."
"We are at one then," said Poirot, "for I, too, want to hang the criminal."
"Alfred Inglethorp?"
"Him, or another."
"No question of another. Poor Emily was never murdered until _he_ came along. I don't say she wasn't surrounded by sharks--she was. But it was only her purse they were after. Her life was safe enough. But along comes Mr. Alfred Inglethorp--and within two months--hey presto!"
"Believe me, Miss Howard," said Poirot very earnestly, "if Mr. Inglethorp is the man, he shall not escape me. On my honour, I will hang him as high as Haman!"
"That's better," said Miss Howard more enthusiastically.
"But I must ask you to trust me. Now your help may be very valuable to me. I will tell you why. Because, in all this house of mourning, yours are the only eyes that have wept."
Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into the gruffness of her voice.
"If you mean that I was fond of her--yes, I was. You know, Emily was a selfish old woman in her way. She was very generous, but she always wanted a return. She never let people forget what she had done for them--and, that way she missed love. Don't think she ever realized it, though, or felt the lack of it. Hope not, anyway. I was on a different footing. I took my stand from the first. 'So many pounds a year I'm worth to you. Well and good. But not a penny piece besides--not a pair of gloves, nor a theatre ticket.' She didn't understand--was very offended sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasn't that--but I couldn't explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, out of the whole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to be fond of her. I watched over her. I guarded her from the lot of them, and then a glib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh! all my years of devotion go for nothing."
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
"I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It is most natural. You think that we are lukewarm--that we lack fire and energy--but trust me, it is not so."
John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both to come up to Mrs. Inglethorp's room, as he and Mr. Wells had finished looking through the desk in the boudoir.
As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining-room door, and lowered his voice confidentially:
"Look here, what's going to happen when these two meet?"
I shook my head helplessly.
"I've told Mary to keep them apart if she can."
"Will she be able to do so?"
"The Lord only knows. There's one thing, Inglethorp himself won't be too keen on meeting her."
"You've got the keys still, haven't you, Poirot?" I asked, as we reached the door of the locked room.
Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it, and we all passed in. The lawyer went straight to the desk, and John followed him.
"My mother kept most of her important papers in this despatch-case, I believe," he said.
Poirot drew out the small bunch of keys.
"Permit me. I locked it, out of precaution, this morning."
"But it's not locked now."
"Impossible!"
"See." And John lifted the lid as he spoke.
"Milles tonnerres!" cried Poirot, dumfounded. "And I--who have both the keys in my pocket!" He flung himself upon the case. Suddenly he stiffened. "En voila une affaire! This lock has been forced."
"What?"
Poirot laid down the case again.
"But who forced it? Why should they? When? But the door was locked?" These exclamations burst from us disjointedly.
Poirot answered them categorically--almost mechanically.
"Who? That is the question. Why? Ah, if I only knew. When? Since I was here an hour ago. As to the door being locked, it is a very ordinary lock. Probably any other of the doorkeys in this passage would fit it."
We stared at one another blankly. Poirot had walked over to the mantel-piece. He was outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands, which from long force of habit were mechanically straightening the spill vases on the mantel-piece, were shaking violently.
"See here, it was like this," he said at last. "There was something in that case--some piece of evidence, slight in itself perhaps, but still enough of a clue to connect the murderer with the crime. It was vital to him that it should be destroyed before it was discovered and its significance appreciated. Therefore, he took the risk, the great risk, of coming in here. Finding the case locked, he was obliged to force it, thus betraying his presence. For him to take that risk, it must have been something of great importance."
"But what was it?"
"Ah!" cried Poirot, with a gesture of anger. "That, I do not know! A document of some kind, without doubt, possibly the scrap of paper Dorcas saw in her hand yesterday afternoon. And I--" his anger burst forth freely--"miserable animal that I am! I guessed nothing! I have behaved like an imbecile! I should never have left that case here. I should have carried it away with me. Ah, triple pig! And now it is gone. It is destroyed--but is it destroyed? Is there not yet a chance--we must leave no stone unturned--"
He rushed like a madman from the room, and I followed him as soon as I had sufficiently recovered my wits. But, by the time I had reached the top of the stairs, he was out of sight.
Mary Cavendish was standing where the staircase branched, staring down into the hall in the direction in which he had disappeared.
"What has happened to your extraordinary little friend, Mr. Hastings? He has just rushed past me like a mad bull."
"He's rather upset about something," I remarked feebly. I really did not know how much Poirot would wish me to disclose. As I saw a faint smile gather on Mrs. Cavendish's expressive mouth, I endeavoured to try and turn the conversation by saying: "They haven't met yet, have they?"
"Who?"
"Mr. Inglethorp and Miss Howard."
She looked at me in rather a disconcerting manner.
"Do you think it would be such a disaster if they did meet?"
"Well, don't you?" I said, rather taken aback.
"No." She was smiling in her quiet way. "I should like to see a good flare up. It would clear the air. At present we are all thinking so much, and saying so little."
"John doesn't think so," I remarked. "He's anxious to keep them apart."
"Oh, John!"
Something in her tone fired me, and I blurted out:
"Old John's an awfully good sort."
She studied me curiously for a minute or two, and then said, to my great surprise:
"You are loyal to your friend. I like you for that."
"Aren't you my friend too?"
"I am a very bad friend."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because it is true. I am charming to my friends one day, and forget all about them the next."
I don't know what impelled me, but I was nettled, and I said foolishly and not in the best of taste:
"Yet you seem to be invariably charming to Dr. Bauerstein!"
Instantly I regretted my words. Her face stiffened. I had the impression of a steel curtain coming down and blotting out the real woman. Without a word, she turned and went swiftly up the stairs, whilst I stood like an idiot gaping after her.
I was recalled to other matters by a frightful row going on below. I could hear Poirot shouting and expounding. I was vexed to think that my diplomacy had been in vain. The little man appeared to be taking the whole house into his confidence, a proceeding of which I, for one, doubted the wisdom. Once again I could not help regretting that my friend was so prone to lose his head in moments of excitement. I stepped briskly down the stairs. The sight of me calmed Poirot almost immediately. I drew him aside.
"My dear fellow," I said, "is this wise? Surely you don't want the whole house to know of this occurrence? You are actually playing into the criminal's hands."
"You think so, Hastings?"
"I am sure of it."
"Well, well, my friend, I will be guided by you."
"Good. Although, unfortunately, it is a little too late now."
"Sure."
He looked so crestfallen and abashed that I felt quite sorry, though I still thought my rebuke a just and wise one.
"Well," he said at last, "let us go, mon ami."
"You have finished here?"
"For the moment, yes. You will walk back with me to the village?"
"Willingly."
He picked up his little suit-case, and we went out through the open window in the drawing-room. Cynthia Murdoch was just coming in, and Poirot stood aside to let her pass.
"Excuse me, mademoiselle, one minute."
"Yes?" she turned inquiringly.
"Did you ever make up Mrs. Inglethorp's medicines?"
A slight flush rose in her face, as she answered rather constrainedly:
"No."
"Only her powders?"
The flush deepened as Cynthia replied:
"Oh, yes, I did make up some sleeping powders for her once."
"These?"
Poirot produced the empty box which had contained powders.
She nodded.
"Can you tell me what they were? Sulphonal? Veronal?"
"No, they were bromide powders."
"Ah! Thank you, mademoiselle; good morning."
As we walked briskly away from the house, I glanced at him more than once. I had often before noticed that, if anything excited him, his eyes turned green like a cat's. They were shining like emeralds now.
"My friend," he broke out at last, "I have a little idea, a very strange, and probably utterly impossible idea. And yet--it fits in."
I shrugged my shoulders. I privately thought that Poirot was rather too much given to these fantastic ideas. In this case, surely, the truth was only too plain and apparent.
"So that is the explanation of the blank label on the box," I remarked. "Very simple, as you said. I really wonder that I did not think of it myself."
Poirot did not appear to be listening to me.
"They have made one more discovery, la-bas," he observed, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Styles. "Mr. Wells told me as we were going upstairs."
"What was it?"
"Locked up in the desk in the boudoir, they found a will of Mrs. Inglethorp's, dated before her marriage, leaving her fortune to Alfred Inglethorp. It must have been made just at the time they were engaged. It came quite as a surprise to Wells--and to John Cavendish also. It was written on one of those printed will forms, and witnessed by two of the servants--not Dorcas."
"Did Mr. Inglethorp know of it?"
"He says not."
"One might take that with a grain of salt," I remarked sceptically. "All these wills are very confusing. Tell me, how did those scribbled words on the envelope help you to discover that a will was made yesterday afternoon?"
Poirot smiled.
"Mon ami, have you ever, when writing a letter, been arrested by the fact that you did not know how to spell a certain word?"
"Yes, often. I suppose every one has."
"Exactly. And have you not, in such a case, tried the word once or twice on the edge of the blotting-paper, or a spare scrap of paper, to see if it looked right? Well, that is what Mrs. Inglethorp did. You will notice that the word 'possessed' is spelt first with one 's' and subsequently with two--correctly. To make sure, she had further tried it in a sentence, thus: 'I am possessed.' Now, what did that tell me? It told me that Mrs. Inglethorp had been writing the word 'possessed' that afternoon, and, having the fragment of paper found in the grate fresh in my mind, the possibility of a will--(a document almost certain to contain that word)--occurred to me at once. This possibility was confirmed by a further circumstance. In the general confusion, the boudoir had not been swept that morning, and near the desk were several traces of brown mould and earth. The weather had been perfectly fine for some days, and no ordinary boots would have left such a heavy deposit.
"I strolled to the window, and saw at once that the begonia beds had been newly planted. The mould in the beds was exactly similar to that on the floor of the boudoir, and also I learnt from you that they had been planted yesterday afternoon. I was now sure that one, or possibly both of the gardeners--for there were two sets of footprints in the bed--had entered the boudoir, for if Mrs. Inglethorp had merely wished to speak to them she would in all probability have stood at the window, and they would not have come into the room at all. I was now quite convinced that she had made a fresh will, and had called the two gardeners in to witness her signature. Events proved that I was right in my supposition."
"That was very ingenious," I could not help admitting. "I must confess that the conclusions I drew from those few scribbled words were quite erroneous."
He smiled.
"You gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely."
"Another point--how did you know that the key of the despatch-case had been lost?"
"I did not know it. It was a guess that turned out to be correct. You observed that it had a piece of twisted wire through the handle. That suggested to me at once that it had possibly been wrenched off a flimsy key-ring. Now, if it had been lost and recovered, Mrs. Inglethorp would at once have replaced it on her bunch; but on her bunch I found what was obviously the duplicate key, very new and bright, which led me to the hypothesis that somebody else had inserted the original key in the lock of the despatch-case."
"Yes," I said, "Alfred Inglethorp, without doubt."
Poirot looked at me curiously.
"You are very sure of his guilt?"
"Well, naturally. Every fresh circumstance seems to establish it more clearly."
"On the contrary," said Poirot quietly, "there are several points in his favour."
"Oh, come now!"
"Yes."
"I see only one."
"And that?"
"That he was not in the house last night."
" 'Bad shot!' as you English say! You have chosen the one point that to my mind tells against him."
"How is that?"
"Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisoned last night, he would certainly have arranged to be away from the house. His excuse was an obviously trumped up one. That leaves us two possibilities: either he knew what was going to happen or he had a reason of his own for his absence."
"And that reason?" I asked sceptically.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"How should I know? Discreditable, without doubt. This Mr. Inglethorp, I should say, is somewhat of a scoundrel--but that does not of necessity make him a murderer."
I shook my head, unconvinced.
"We do not agree, eh?" said Poirot. "Well, let us leave it. Time will show which of us is right. Now let us turn to other aspects of the case. What do you make of the fact that all the doors of the bedroom were bolted on the inside?"
"Well----" I considered. "One must look at it logically."
"True."
"I should put it this way. The doors _were_ bolted--our own eyes have told us that--yet the presence of the candle grease on the floor, and the destruction of the will, prove that during the night some one entered the room. You agree so far?"
"Perfectly. Put with admirable clearness. Proceed."
"Well," I said, encouraged, "as the person who entered did not do so by the window, nor by miraculous means, it follows that the door must have been opened from inside by Mrs. Inglethorp herself. That strengthens the conviction that the person in question was her husband. She would naturally open the door to her own husband."
Poirot shook his head.
"Why should she? She had bolted the door leading into his room--a most unusual proceeding on her part--she had had a most violent quarrel with him that very afternoon. No, he was the last person she would admit."
"But you agree with me that the door must have been opened by Mrs. Inglethorp herself?"
"There is another possibility. She may have forgotten to bolt the door into the passage when she went to bed, and have got up later, towards morning, and bolted it then."
"Poirot, is that seriously your opinion?"
"No, I do not say it is so, but it might be. Now, to turn to another feature, what do you make of the scrap of conversation you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law?"
"I had forgotten that," I said thoughtfully. "That is as enigmatical as ever. It seems incredible that a woman like Mrs. Cavendish, proud and reticent to the last degree, should interfere so violently in what was certainly not her affair."
"Precisely. It was an astonishing thing for a woman of her breeding to do."
"It is certainly curious," I agreed. "Still, it is unimportant, and need not be taken into account."
A groan burst from Poirot.
"What have I always told you? Everything must be taken into account. If the fact will not fit the theory--let the theory go."
"Well, we shall see," I said, nettled.
"Yes, we shall see."
We had reached Leastways Cottage, and Poirot ushered me upstairs to his own room. He offered me one of the tiny Russian cigarettes he himself occasionally smoked. I was amused to notice that he stowed away the used matches most carefully in a little china pot. My momentary annoyance vanished.
Poirot had placed our two chairs in front of the open window which commanded a view of the village street. The fresh air blew in warm and pleasant. It was going to be a hot day.
Suddenly my attention was arrested by a weedy looking young man rushing down the street at a great pace. It was the expression on his face that was extraordinary--a curious mingling of terror and agitation.
"Look, Poirot!" I said.
He leant forward.
"Tiens!" he said. "It is Mr. Mace, from the chemist's shop. He is coming here."
The young man came to a halt before Leastways Cottage, and, after hesitating a moment, pounded vigorously at the door.
"A little minute," cried Poirot from the window. "I come."
Motioning to me to follow him, he ran swiftly down the stairs and opened the door. Mr. Mace began at once.
"Oh, Mr. Poirot, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I heard that you'd just come back from the Hall?"
"Yes, we have."
The young man moistened his dry lips. His face was working curiously.
"It's all over the village about old Mrs. Inglethorp dying so suddenly. They do say--" he lowered his voice cautiously--"that it's poison?"
Poirot's face remained quite impassive.
"Only the doctors can tell us that, Mr. Mace."
"Yes, exactly--of course----" The young man hesitated, and then his agitation was too much for him. He clutched Poirot by the arm, and sank his voice to a whisper: "Just tell me this, Mr. Poirot, it isn't--it isn't strychnine, is it?"
I hardly heard what Poirot replied. Something evidently of a non-committal nature. The young man departed, and as he closed the door Poirot's eyes met mine.
"Yes," he said, nodding gravely. "He will have evidence to give at the inquest."
We went slowly upstairs again. I was opening my lips, when Poirot stopped me with a gesture of his hand.
"Not now, not now, mon ami. I have need of reflection. My mind is in some disorder--which is not well."
For about ten minutes he sat in dead silence, perfectly still, except for several expressive motions of his eyebrows, and all the time his eyes grew steadily greener. At last he heaved a deep sigh.
"It is well. The bad moment has passed. Now all is arranged and classified. One must never permit confusion. The case is not clear yet--no. For it is of the most complicated! It puzzles _me_. _Me_, Hercule Poirot! There are two facts of significance."
"And what are they?"
"The first is the state of the weather yesterday. That is very important."
"But it was a glorious day!" I interrupted. "Poirot, you're pulling my leg!"
"Not at all. The thermometer registered 80 degrees in the shade. Do not forget that, my friend. It is the key to the whole riddle!"
"And the second point?" I asked.
"The important fact that Monsieur Inglethorp wears very peculiar clothes, has a black beard, and uses glasses."
"Poirot, I cannot believe you are serious."
"I am absolutely serious, my friend."
"But this is childish!"
"No, it is very momentous."
"And supposing the Coroner's jury returns a verdict of Wilful Murder against Alfred Inglethorp. What becomes of your theories, then?"
"They would not be shaken because twelve stupid men had happened to make a mistake! But that will not occur. For one thing, a country jury is not anxious to take responsibility upon itself, and Mr. Inglethorp stands practically in the position of local squire. Also," he added placidly, "I should not allow it!"
"_You_ would not allow it?"
"No."
I looked at the extraordinary little man, divided between annoyance and amusement. He was so tremendously sure of himself. As though he read my thoughts, he nodded gently.
"Oh, yes, mon ami, I would do what I say." He got up and laid his hand on my shoulder. His physiognomy underwent a complete change. Tears came into his eyes. "In all this, you see, I think of that poor Mrs. Inglethorp who is dead. She was not extravagantly loved--no. But she was very good to us Belgians--I owe her a debt."
I endeavoured to interrupt, but Poirot swept on.
"Let me tell you this, Hastings. She would never forgive me if I let Alfred Inglethorp, her husband, be arrested now--when a word from me could save him!"
“你在哪儿找到这东西的？”我问波洛，感到很奇怪。
“在废纸篓里。你认得这笔迹？”
“是的，这是英格里桑太大的笔迹。可是这是什么意思呢？”
波洛耸了耸自己的肩膀。
“我说不出——可是这是有启发的。”
我的脑子里闪过一个荒诞的念头。可能是英格里桑太太神经失常了吧？她是不是由于着了魔而有了某种古怪的念头？如果是这样，那是不是也有可能是她自己结果了自己的生命呢？
我正想对波洛说出这些推测，可是他的话又把我搞糊涂了。
“喂，”他说，“现在去检查那些咖啡杯吧！”
“亲爱的波洛，我们已知道可可的情况了，查那东西究竟有什么用处？”
“嗨！那倒霉的可可啊！”波洛轻浮地叫了起来。
他满脸高兴地笑着，伪装绝望地把双手举向天空。我当然不应该这样想，可我认为这种举止也许是最粗俗的了。
“可是，不管怎样，”我说道，语气更加冷淡了，“尽管英格里桑太大自己又把咖啡端到楼上去，可我看你别指望能发现什么了，除非你认为有可能我们会在咖啡托盘里发现一小包士的宁！”
波洛立刻变得严肃了。
“得啦，得啦，我的朋友，”他挽住我的手臂说道，“别生气了！你就允许我对我的咖啡怀发生兴趣吧。我也一定尊重你的可可。好！这下成交了吧？”
他如此风趣幽默，逗得我不得不笑了；于是我们一起走向客厅。咖啡杯和托盘仍象我们离开时那样静静地在那儿摆着。
波洛要我扼要叙述一下前一天晚上的情况，他听得很仔细，还核实了每只杯子的位置。
“这么说，卡文迪什太太站在那茶盘旁边——斟咖啡。嗯。后来，她走到窗口你同辛西娅小姐坐的地方。对了。这儿有三只杯子。壁炉台上那怀喝了一半的，是劳伦斯•卡文迪什先生的。那末茶盘里的一只呢？”
“是约翰•卡文迪什的。我看他放在那儿的。”
“好。一、二、三、四、五——那末英格里桑先生的杯子呢？”
“他没喝咖啡。”
“那就全弄清楚了。等一等，朋友。”
他小心翼翼地从每只杯底倒出一、两滴咖啡来，把它们分别封装在试管里，在做着这一切的时候，他还依次地每种都尝了尝。他的面容奇怪地在变化。那儿凝聚了这样一种表情，我只能说它一半是使人迷惑，一半是令人宽慰。
“好了！”他终于说道。“明白了！我原来有一个想法——可是显然我是错了。是的，我完全错了。然而这很奇怪，不过不要紧！”
他以他那独特的架式耸了耸肩膀，消除了不知是什么一直困扰着他的疑虑。打从一开始，我本想就告诉他，他对咖啡这样念念不忘，其结果必然会使他走进死胡同，可是我忍住没有说出口。尽管波洛现在老了，当年他毕竟是一位名人。
“早饭准备好了，”约翰•卡文迪什从过道里走了进来，说道。“你乐意和我们一起吃早饭吗，波洛先生？”
波洛默然同意。我朝约翰看了看。他差不多已经恢复了常态。昨晚上今人震惊的事件曾一度使他心烦意乱，可是他的平静沉着很快就又回复到正常。他是个极为缺少想象力的人，和他的弟弟形成鲜明的对照，而他弟弟，也许是想象力太丰富了。
这天早晨，从一大早开始，约翰就一直忙碌着，发电报——第一封就发给伊夫琳•霍华德——给报纸写讣告，以及通常在办丧事时得做的那些令人感伤的事务。
“我可以问一句吗？事情进行得怎么样？”他说。“你的调查表明，我母亲的去世是自然死亡呢——还是——还是我们必须对最坏的情况得有所准备？”
“我认为，卡文迪什先生，”波洛严肃地说，“你最好还是别让你自己产生任何虚假的希望。你能告诉我家里其它成员的看法吗？”
“我的弟弟劳伦斯确认我们是在无事自扰。他说一切都表明这完全是由于心力衰竭。”
“他是这样看的？那倒很有意思——很有意思，”波洛轻声咕哝着。“那末卡文迪什太太呢？”
约翰的脸上掠过一片薄薄的阴云。
“我一点不知道我妻子对这个问题的看法。”
这一回答接着形成了短暂的僵局。还是约翰打破了这相当尴尬的沉默，他稍微有点费力他说：
“英格里桑先生已经回来了。我告诉你了吧？”
波洛低了下头。
“这情况对我们大家来说都是很尴尬的。当然，本来应该象往常那样对待他，——可是，嘿，那怎么成，坐下来和一个有可能是杀人犯一起吃饭，怎能叫人不恶心！”
波洛同情地点点头。
“我非常理解，你们的处境是很为难，卡文迪什先生。我想问一个问题。英格里桑先生昨晚没有回来，我相信是因为他忘了带大门的钥匙。是这样吧？”
“是的。”
“我想你是完全相信他忘记带大门钥匙了——可是他到底带了没有呢？”
“我不知道。我从来没有想到要去看一下。我们总是把那钥匙放在门厅的抽屉里的。我去看看，现在是不是在那儿。”
波洛微笑着举起一只手。
“不，不，卡文迪什先生，现在太晚了。我确信你一定能找到它的。即使英格里桑先生真的带走过，现在他也已经有足够的时间把它放回去了。”
“那末你认为——”
“我没有任何想法。要是今天早上，在他回来之前，恰巧有人看过，看到它是在那儿，那才是一个对他有利的有价值的论据。如此而已。”
约翰显得茫然不知所措。
“别担忧，”波洛温和地说。“我要让你放心，你没有必要让它来烦扰你。由于你是如此好客，那就让我们去吃点早饭吧。”
所有人都聚集在餐室里。在这种情况下，我们自然不是一次令人愉快的聚会，一次令人震惊的事件以后反应总是难受的，因此我认为我们大家都在忍受着痛苦，但是礼貌和良好的教养告诫说我们的举止应该完全象往常一样。可我仍然没法消除惊讶的心情，如果说这种自制确实是一件极其困难的事的话。没有人眼红泪洒，也没有人暗自悲伤，我感到我的看法没有错，看上去多卡斯是个人方面受这一惨案影响最大的一个人。
我朝阿弗雷德扫了一眼，他多少有点装成是个失去妻子的鳏夫的样子，对于这种虚伪，我感到作呕。我真想知道，他是否了解我们任怀疑他。无疑，由于我们瞒着他，他是没法知道这一事实的。他已预感到有某种可怕的潜藏着的危险吗，还是自信他的罪行不会受到惩罚？空气中这种怀疑的气氛一定会对他提出警告：他已成了一个可疑的人。
可是，是不是所有人都怀疑他呢？卡文迪什太太怎么样？我朝她注视着，她坐在餐桌的头上，庄重，镇静，莫测高深。她上身穿着件光滑的灰色外衣，腕部的白色褶边披落在纤细的双手上，看上去十分美丽动人。然而，只要她愿意，她的脸可以变得象斯芬克斯①一样神秘莫测。她沉默寡言，很少开口，还有一点奇怪的是。我觉得她那品貌的强大力量在支配着我们每一个人。
还有年轻的辛西娅呢？她怀疑么？我感到她看上去疲倦不堪，象是病了。她的样子显得非常消沉，忧伤。我问她是不是觉得病了，她坦率地回答说：
“是的。我的头痛极了。”
“要不要再喝杯咖啡，小姐？”波洛关心地说。“它能使你恢复精神。用来治头痛，它是独一无二的。”他急忙跳起身来，拿了她的杯子。
“不要糖，”波洛刚拿起方糖钳子，辛西娅就看着他说道。
“不要糖？战争时期戒糖，呃？”
“不，我喝咖啡从来不放糖。”
“该死！”在把斟满的杯子端回来时，波洛自言自语地低声嘀咕说。
这话只有我听见，我好奇地朝他瞥了一眼，看到他的脸，由于抑制着的激动在抽搐，他的两眼也象猫眼似地发着绿光。想必他已听到或看到什么使他深为激动的东西了——可是那是什么呢？我一向认为自己是不算笨的，但是这次我得承认，没有一点不平常的迹象引起过我的注意。
过了一会，门打开了，出现了多卡斯。
“韦尔斯先生看您来了，先生，”她对约翰说。
我想起了这个名字，这就是头一天晚上英格里桑太太给他写过信的那位律师。
约翰立即站起身来。
“把他带到我的书房里丢。”然后他转向我们。“我母亲的律师，”他解释说。接着又放低了声音：“他也是验尸官——你们知道。你们也许想和我一起去一趟吧？”
我们默认了，于是就跟着他出了房间。约翰在前面大步走着，我趁此机会低声问波洛：
“要审讯么？”
波洛心不在焉地点点头。他似乎正在想什么，这一来引起了我的好奇心。
“这是怎么啦？你没有留意我说的。”
“确实如此，我的朋友。我很担心。”
“为什么？”
“因为辛西娅小姐喝咖啡不放糖。”
“什么？你不能严肃一点吗？”
“我这是最严肃的。嗳！那儿有件事情我不明白。我的直觉是对的。”
“什么直觉？”
“这直觉使我坚持要检查那些咖啡杯，嘘！现在不谈了！”
我们跟着约翰走进他的书房，他关上了我们身后的门。
韦尔斯先生是位风趣的中年人，两眼敏锐，一张典型的律师嘴巴。约翰为我们俩作了介绍，并说明了我们一起前来的原因。
“你得知道，韦尔斯，”他补充说，“这是严格保密的。我们还是希望将会证明不需要进行任何调查。”
“是啊！是啊！”韦尔斯先生安慰说。“我想我们本该使你免受审讯的痛楚和宣扬。可是没有医生的死亡证明，这样做当然是不得已的。”
“是呀，我也这样想。”
“鲍斯坦是个聪明人。我相信，他是毒物学方面的权威。”
“不错，”约翰说，态度显得有点不自然。随后他又相当含糊地补充说：“我们会不会都得出庭作证——我的意思是，我们大家？”
“你们，当然——还有——嗯——英格里桑——嗯——先生。”
略微停顿了一下，律师继续安慰悦，“任何一件旁的证据都能轻而易举地证实，这仅仅是形式问题。”
“我懂了。”
约翰的脸上掠过一丝宽慰的表情。这使我感到迷惑不解，因为我没看出他所以如此的理由。
“要是你没有相反的意见，”韦尔斯先生继续说，“那我想就在星期五吧。那样就会有充裕的时间给我们研究医生的报告了。我想，是今天晚上验尸吧？”
“是的。”
“这样安排对你合适么？”
“完全合适。”
“亲爱的卡文迪什，我不需要告诉你了，听到这一最不幸的事件，我有多么悲痛。”
“在搞清这件事方面，你能给我们大力帮助吗，先生？”波洛插嘴说，我们进房间以来，这是他第一次开口。
“我？”
“是的。我们听说英格里桑太太昨天晚上给你写过信。今天早上你一定收到这封信了。”
“是收到了，可是信上并没有什么消息，它只是封短信，要我今天早上来看她，因为她要和我商量一件十分重要的事情。”
“她没有给你暗示这可能是件什么事情吗？”
“很遗憾，没有。”
“真是遗憾。”约翰说。
“太遗憾了。”波洛认真地表示同意。
大家都沉默了。波洛出神地想了一会。最后又转头朝向律师。
“韦尔斯先生，有件事情我想请教请教你——这是说，要是这不违反你的职业规则的话。英格里桑太太去世了，谁将继承她的财产？”

Chapter 6 The Inquest
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'n 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 4.30, and not 4 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 5 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 coco in the middle of the night. Could the strychnine have been administered in that?"
"No, I myself took a sample of the coco 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 1 in 70,000, and can only be disguised by some strongly flavoured substance. Coco 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 4.30 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 4.30, 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 can't 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.
"Sacre!" 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."
在审讯前的这段时间，波洛的活动很频繁。他两次和韦尔斯先生闭门密谈：还到野外作了几次长时间的散步。我对他没有把我当作他的知心人本已相当不满，再加上我丝毫也猜不透他正在搞点什么名堂，这就更使我愤慨了。
我想他也许正在雷克斯农庄搞调查；星期三傍晚我去李斯特韦思别墅看他，他不在家，于是我就穿过那边的田野走，希望能碰上他。然而，连他的影子也没有，我踌躇了一下后，就径直朝那个农庄走去。当我正在走着时，碰见了一个上了年纪的庄稼人，他狡黠地朝我斜倪了一眼。
“您是大庄园的，是不？”他问。
“是的。我在找个朋友，我想他也许在这条路上散步。”
“一个小个子？说起话来老挥着手的？村子里的一个比利时佬？”
“对了，”我急忙说。“那么，他来过这儿了？”
“嘿，来过这儿，一点不错，还不止一次哩，他是您的朋友？嗳，您们这些大庄园里的先生——来得真不少啊！”他比开始更加戏谑似地斜睨着。
“怎么，大庄园里的先生常来这儿吗？”我尽量漫不经心地问道。
他狡黠地朝我眨眨眼睛。
“有一位常来，先生。请原谅，名字叫不出。也是一位非常大方的先生！”啊，先生，对不起，真的。”
我继续急速地走着。这么说伊夫琳•霍华德没有说错，当我想到阿弗雷特•英格里桑拿另一个女人的钱来挥豁时，我感到一阵令人厌恶的剧烈刺痛。犯罪的起因是那张动人的吉普赛女人似的脸，还是更为卑鄙的是金钱的原因？也许是有见识地两者兼有吧。
有一点上，波洛似乎使人难以理解地着了迷。他曾三番两次地对我说，他认为多卡斯一定把吵架的时间弄错了。他曾再三向她提出，她听到吵架声的时候应该是四点半，而不是四点。
但是多卡斯一口咬定，她听到吵架的时间和五点钟她送茶给女主人时，两者之间足足有一个钟点，甚至还更长一点。
审讯于星期五在村子里的村民公堂里举行。波洛和我坐在一起，我们没有被要求作证。
已经通过了预审。陪审团查验了尸体，由约翰•卡文迪什作了认明作证。
在进一步的审讯中，他叙述了那天凌晨怎么被叫醒，以及他母亲临终时的情况。
接下去听取了医务人员的证词。这时全场鸦雀无声，大家的目光都盯在那位著名的伦敦专家身上，他是当时毒物学这门学科方面最知名的权威之一。
他简要地用几句话就概述了致死的原因。去掉那些医学木语和技术细节，他的话就是说明这么一个事实：英格里桑太太的死亡是由于士的宁中毒的结果。从其服量鉴定判断，她的士的宁服量不少于四分之三喱①，但也有可能为一喱或稍多一点。
“她是否有误服的可能呢？”验尸官问道。
“我认为这非常不可能。士的宁并不象有的毒药那样，可供作家用。它的出售是受到限制的。”
“在你的检查过程中，是不是有什么使你判定毒药是怎样服下的？”
“没有。”
“我想，你是在威尔金斯医生之前到达斯泰尔斯的吧？”
“是这样。汽车在庄园大门外遇见我，于是我就尽快地赶到了那儿。”
“你能确切地给我们讲一讲那以后的情况吗？”
“我走进英格里桑太太的房间。当时她正处于典型的强直性痉挛中。她对着我，气喘喘地说：‘阿弗雷德——阿弗雷德——’”
“士的宁是不是有可能下在她丈夫端给她的那杯饭后咖啡里？”
“有可能，但是士的宁是一种毒效极快的药物。服后一、两小时，症状即会出现。当然，在一定情况下它会有所延缓，然而在本案中并不存在其中的任何一种特殊情况。我敢断言，英格里桑太太是在晚饭后大约八点钟喝的咖啡，而症状是出现在第二天凌晨，从表面上来判断，这表明毒药应该是在第一天晚上很晚才服下的。”
“英格里桑太太有半夜里喝一杯可可的习惯。士的宁有可能下在这里面吗？”
“不可能。我亲自对平底锅里的残留可可作过采样分析，里面没含士的宁。”
我听到波洛在我旁边轻轻地笑了一声。
“你了解到什么了？”我低声问道。
“听。”
“我得说，”——医生继续说——“我对任何另外一个结果都会感到相当地惊诧。”
“为什么？”
“简而言之，因为士的宁有一种特别的苦味。其一比七万的溶液也能觉出，它只能用某种有味道的物质掩盖起来。要做到这一点，可可是完全无能为力的。”
有个陪审团成员想弄清楚是否咖啡也有同样的缺点。
“不，咖啡本身有一种苦味，这有可能可以用来掩盖士的宁的味道。”
“这么说，你认为毒药下在咖啡里的可能比较大，但是由于某种不明的原因，它的作用延缓了。”
“是的，可是，杯子已打得粉碎，不可能对其内容物进行采样分析。”
鲍斯坦医生的证词到此结束。对他的证词威尔金斯医生在各方面部作了证实。在讲到自杀的可能性时，他作了完全的否定。他说，死者虽然患有心力衰弱，但完全享有健康人的乐趣，而且她性格开朗，神志正常。她是个最不至于会自杀的那种人。
接下去传讯劳伦斯•卡文迪什。他的证词毫无价值，纯粹是他哥哥的证词的翻版。就在他将要走下来时，他踌躇了一下，相当含糊地说：
“要是可以的话，我想提个看法行吗？”
他不以为然地朝验尸官瞥了一眼，对方迅速回答说：
“当然可以，卡文迪什先生，我们到这儿来是为了弄清这件事情的真相，欢迎提出能导致进一步阐明问题的任何意见。”
“这只是我的一点想法，”劳伦斯解释说。“当然，有可能是非常错误的，可是我仍然觉得似乎我母亲的死可能是一种必然的结果。”
“你怎么来证明这一点呢，卡文迪什先生？”
“我母亲在临死时，以及在这之前一段时间，一直服用一种含士的宁的补药。”
“啊！”验尸官说道。
验尸陪审团的成员都感兴趣地朝他看着。
“我相信，”劳伦斯继续说，“原因是由于一段时间来她服用的药中毒药成份的积累，从而终于引起了死亡。而且，她会不会有可能误服了过量的补药呢？”
“这是我们第一次听到死者在死前一直服用士的宁的事。我们非常感谢你，卡文迪什先生。”
威尔金斯医生再次受到了传讯，他把劳伦斯的想法嘲笑了一番。
“劳伦斯先生的说法根本不可能，任何一个医生都会象我这样说的。土的宁在某种意义上说，是一种累积性的毒品，可是它决不可能因此而导致突然死亡。它一定会有一个长时期的慢性中毒症状，而那立刻就会引起我的注意。我认为这整个说法都是荒谬可笑的。”
“那么第二个意见呢？英格里桑太太会不会出于疏忽服用过量的补药呢？”
“三倍，甚至于四倍的剂量，也不可能导致死亡。由于英格里桑太太和塔明斯特的库特药店的那班药剂师们有交情，他总是一次能配到剂量格外多的补药，可是，从尸体解剖中发现士的宁的含量看，她得一次服下几乎整整一大瓶。”
“那未，你认为补药无论如何不会引起她的死亡，我们可以予以排除吗？”
“当然可以。这种推测本身是荒谬的。”
原先打断过他的话的那个陪审团成员提出，配药的药剂师是否有可能发生差错。
“当然，那总是有可能的，”医生回答说。
可是，接下去传来作证的多卡斯，连这一可能性也给排除掉了。最近，英格里桑太太并没有配过补药，而是恰恰相反，她在去世那天服的是最后一剂药。
这样，补药的问题最后被放弃了。于是验尸官继续进行自己的审讯。他从多卡斯处了解到她怎样被她的女主人剧烈的铃声惊醒，随后又唤醒全家人，他又转而问了那天下午吵架的情况。
多卡斯在这个问题上的证词，内容很多，波洛和我已经听过，因而我就不在这儿赘述。
接下去一个证人是玛丽•卡文迪什，她站得笔挺，说话的声音轻幽、清晰，非常镇静。在回答验尸官的问题时，她说，她的闹钟象往常一样在四点三十分时把她唤醒，当她正在穿衣服时，突然被一声什么重物落地的声音吓了一大跳。
“那可能是床边的桌子吧？”验尸官解释说。
“我打开自己的房门，”玛丽继续说，“听了听。过了一会，铃声剧烈地响了起来。多卡斯跑来叫醒我的丈夫，于是我们就赶往婆婆的房间，可是房门是闩住的——”
验尸宫打断了她的话。
“说实在，我想在这个问题上我们就不必再麻烦你了。那以后发生的情况我们都已了解。但是，要是你能告诉我们，在这之前一大你所偶然听到的吵架情况，我们将非常感激。”
“我？”
她的语气中带有一点傲慢。她抬起一只手，理了理领子上花边的皱槽。这时，她微微偏着头。我的脑子里本能地掠过一个想法：她在故意拖时间！
“是的。”验尸官不慌不忙地继续说，“我知道，当时你正坐在闺房落地长窗外面的长凳上看书。是这样么？”
这对我来说是个新闻，我朝波洛瞟了一眼，心想，这对他同样也是新闻。
停了一会儿，只是犹豫了片刻，她就回答说：
“是的，是这样。”
“闺房的窗子是开着的，是么？”
说真的，她的脸变得有点越来越苍白，她回答说：
“是的。”
“那你不可能没有听到里面的声音吧，特别是在发起火来声音提高的时候？事实上，你坐的地方比在过道里听得更清楚。”
“有可能。”
“你能给我们说一下你碰巧听到的吵架情况吗？”
“我真的想不起听到过什么了。”
“你的意思是说你没有听到声音吗？”
“哦，不，我听到声音了，”可是我没有听到他们说些什么。”她的面颊上出现了一小片颜色。“我不习惯偷听人家的私下谈话。”
验尸官仍然坚持着。
“这么说你完全想不起了？一点都想不起，卡文迪什太太？使你意识到这是私下谈话的一个零星的词、零星的短语都没有？”
她踌躇了一会，似乎在考虑，外表却仍象原先一样镇静。
“对了，我想起来了。英格里桑太太说了点什么——确切的话我已记不起了——有关夫妻之间引起反目的事。”
“啊！”验尸官满意地向后一靠，”这同多卡斯听到的完全符合。可是，请原谅，卡文迪什太太，虽然你意识到这是在作私下谈话，可你并没有离开？你仍留在原地吧？”
当她抬起那双黄褐色的眼睛时，我看到了它们瞬息间的闪光。我确信，此时此刻她真乐于把这个冷嘲热讽的矮小律师撕成碎片，可是她仍非常镇静地回答说：
“不，我在那儿非常舒但，我把注意力完全集中在我的书上了。”
“这就是你能告诉我们的全部内容吗？”
“就这些了。”
审问到此结束，虽然我不相信验尸官对此完全满意。我想，他一定认为要是玛丽•卡文迪什愿意的话，她是能说出更多情况的。
接下去传讯店员艾米•希尔，她宣誓作证，十七日下午曾卖过一份遗嘱格式纸给斯泰尔斯的下级花匠威廉•埃尔。
继她传讯的是威廉•埃尔和曼宁，他们证实曾在一份证件上连署作证。曼宁断定时间是在四点半左右，威廉则认为还要早一点。
下面轮到了辛西娅•穆多契。然而，她讲得很少。在她被卡文迪什太太叫醒之前，有关这一悲剧，她一点也不知道。
“你没有听到桌子翻倒吗？”
“没有，我睡得很沉。”
验尸官笑了起来。
“心正睡得沉，”他说。“谢谢，穆多契小姐，就这些了。”
“霍华德小姐。”
霍华德小姐出示了英格里桑太太十七日傍晚给她写的一封信。当然，波洛和我都已看过这封信。它对于了解这一惨案毫无补益。下面就是这封信的内容：埃塞克斯斯泰尔斯庄园亲爱的伊夫琳：
我们不能永远忘掉那件十分难堪的事么？我觉得，要我原谅你说的那些攻击我亲爱的丈夫的话，是困难的。不过，我是个上了年纪的人了，我非常爱你。你的亲爱的埃米莉•英格里桑7月17日
信被交给了陪审团，他们都仔细地作了传阅。
“我怕这对我们并无多大帮助，”验尸官叹了一口气，说。“一点都没有提到那天下午的事情。”
“在我看来事情一清二楚，”霍华德小姐唐突地说。“它非常清楚地说明，我那可怜的老朋友好容易才发现她成了个大傻瓜！”
“信里并没有这样说，”验尸官指出。
“不，因为要埃米莉承认自己错啦，她受不了。可是我了解她。她要我回来。可她又不打算承认我是对的。她象多数人那样在兜圈子。我才不相信这一套。”
韦尔斯先生微微一笑。我发现有几个陪审团成员也是这样。霍华德小姐显然是个性情非常外露的人。
“不管怎样，现在这一套全是蠢事，都是在大大浪费时间，”小姐轻视地朝陪审团上下瞥了一眼，继续说。“讲啊——讲啊——讲啊！我们一直就清清楚楚地知道——”
验尸官极其忧虑地打断了她的话。
“谢谢，霍华德小姐，就到这里吧。”
我相信在她照办时，验尸官一定大大松了一口气。
于是，这一天的高潮到了。验尸官传药店伙计阿伯特•梅司。
这就是我们那个面色苍白，焦虑不安的年轻人。在回答验尸官的问题时，他解释说，他是个合格的药剂师，是新近来这家药店的，因为最近这家店原来的药剂师应征入伍了。
这些开场白一结束，验尸官就转入了正题。
“梅司先生，你最近把土的宁卖给未经批准的人了吗？”
“是的，先生。”
“在什么时候？”
“这个星期一晚上。”
“星期一？不是星期二？”
“不，先生，是星期一，十六号。”
“你能告诉我们卖给了什么人吗？”
这时，静得连根针落下也能听见。
“好的，先生。卖给了英格里桑先生。”
所有的目光都一齐转向阿弗雷德•英格里桑。他木然地坐着，毫无表情。当这些会导致定罪的话从这年轻人的口中说出时，他略微吃了一惊。我本来有点以为他会从椅子上站起来的，可是他仍然坐着，虽然在他的脸上现出了一种奇怪的完全象是装出的惊讶表情。
“你说的话确实么？”验尸官严肃地问道。
“完全确实，先生。”
“你惯常都这样不分青红皂白地在柜台上把士的宁卖出去的么？”
在验尸官的表示不满之下，这个可怜的年轻人显得十分颓丧。
“哦，不，先生——当然不是这样，可是，我看到是大庄园的英格里桑先生，心里想，这不会有什么问题。他说是用来毒一只狗的。”
我暗自表示同情。这只不过是人们的一种品性。竭力想巴结“大庄园”——特别是在这有可能使顾客从库特药店转到当地企业的时候。
“买毒药的人通常不是都要在一本本子上签名的么？”
“是的，先生，英格里桑先生签了。”
“你有没有把本子带来。”
“带来了，先生。”
本子交出来了，验尸官严厉地申斥了几句，然后把可怜的梅司先生打发开了。
接着，在全场鸦雀无声中，阿弗雷德•英格里桑受到传讯。我猜想，他一定意识到套着的绞索抽得离开他的脖子已经有多近了吧？
验尸官的话开门见山。
“本星期一的傍晚，你为了要毒死一只狗去买过士的宁吗？”
英格里桑非常镇静地回答说：
“没有，我没有买过，除了一只室外的护羊狗之外，
斯泰尔斯庄园里没有狗，而那只狗现在仍安然无恙。”
“你绝对否认本星期一从阿伯特•梅司那里买过土的宁吗？”
“我绝对否认。”
“这个你也否认吗？”
验尸官把那本上面有他的签名的登记簿递给了他。
“我完全否认。这笔迹和我的有很大不同。我来签给你们着。”
他从口袋里掏出一只旧信封，在上面写了自己的名字，把它交给了陪审团。确实完全不同。
“那末对于梅司先生的陈述，你有什么解释呢？”
阿弗雷德•英格里桑沉着地回答说：
“梅司先生一定是搞错了。”
验尸官犹豫了一下，然后说：
“英格里桑先生，作为纯粹是形式问题，你可否告诉我们，星期一，即七月十六号傍晚你在哪里？”
“说真的——我记不得。”
“这很可笑，英格里桑先生，”验尸官尖锐地说。
“再考虑一下吧。”
英格里桑摇摇头。
“我没法告诉你们。我想我是在外面散步。”
“往哪个方向。”
“我真的记不得了。”
验尸官的脸色变阴沉了。
“有人作伴吗？”
“没有。”
“散步时碰到过什么人吗？”
“没有。”
“真遗憾，”验尸官冷冰冰地说。“如果你拒绝说出梅司先生肯定认为你到他药店里买土的宁的时间你在哪儿，那我就要相信这一点了。”
“要是你那么愿意相信它，那就请便吧，”
“注意，英格里桑先生。”
波洛显得紧张地坐立不安。
“该死！”他低声抱怨说。“这个笨蛋是想被捕吗？”
英格里桑确实在造成一个不好的印象。他这种无益的否认就连孩子也不会相信。然而，验尸官却迅速地转到了另一个问题，至此，波洛深深地松了一口气。
“本星期二下午，你和你的妻子有过一场争论么？”
“对不起，”阿弗雷德•英格里桑打断了对方的话，“你听到的情况不正确。我并没有和我亲爱的妻子吵过架。这整个故事完全是虚构的。”那天整个下午我都不在家。”
“有人能给你证明这一点吗？”
“你可以相信我的活，”英格里桑傲慢地说。
验尸官立即回答了。
“有两个证人宣誓证明听到过你和英洛里桑太太争执。”
“那些证人弄错了。”
我被搞糊涂了。此人说话居然如此从容自信，实在使我惊愕。我着看波洛。在他的脸上有一种我所不能理解的得意的神情。”他终于承认阿弗雷德•英格里桑有罪了么？
“英格里桑先生，”验尸官说：“你已经听到在这儿重复过的你妻子临死时说的话了，对此你能作任何解释么？”
“我当然能解释。”
“你能解释？”
“这在我看来似乎很简单。那间房间光线很暗。鲍斯坦医生的身材、体态都和我差不多，而且也象我一样，留着胡子。在昏暗的光线下，在她痛苦交加中，我的可怜的妻子错把他当成我了。”
“嗨！”波洛自言自语地嘟嚷着。“这倒是个怪念头！”
“你认为这说法对？”我低声问。
“我没这么说。不过这确是个有独创性的想象。”
“你们把我妻子临终时的话看作是对我的控诉，”——英洛里桑继续说——“恰恰相反，这是在对我求助。”
验尸官沉思了一下，然后说：
“英格里桑先生，我想，那天傍晚那杯咖啡是你亲自斟了端给你妻子的吧？”
“是我斟的，是的，但是我并没有端给她。我正打算端去，有人告诉我，有个朋友到大门口了，于是我就把咖啡放在过道的桌子上，当过了一会，我再次经过过道时。咖啡已经不在了。”
这一陈述也许是真的，也许不是真的，但看来并没有使我对英格里桑的看法有多大改善。不管怎样，他都是有充分的时间来放毒药的。
就在这时，波洛用时轻轻推了推我，指指一块儿坐在门边的两个人。一个个子矮小，瘦削，黑头发，脸孔象雪貂，另一个是高个子，白脸金发。
我默然地对波洛露出疑问的目光。他贴着我的耳朵低声说：
“你知道那小个子是谁？”
我摇摇头。
“他是伦敦警察厅的侦探巡官詹姆士•贾普——吉米•贾普②，另一个也是伦敦警察厅的，事情进展得很快啊，我的朋友。”
我目不转睛地朝那两人看着，他们完全看不出是警察的模样，我毫不怀疑他们一定是官方的人物。
我还在看着，突然被陪审团宣布的裁决吓了一跳，而唤醒过来：
“此谋杀案为某人或某些人所为，尚未查明。”
注释：
①英美最小的重量单位，1喱等于64.8毫克。
②吉米为詹姆士的昵称。
Chapter 7 Poirot Pays His Debts
As we came out of the Stylites Arms, Poirot drew me aside by a gentle pressure of the arm. I understood his object. He was waiting for the Scotland Yard men.
In a few moments, they emerged, and Poirot at once stepped forward, and accosted the shorter of the two.
"I fear you do not remember me, Inspector Japp."
"Why, if it isn't Mr. Poirot!" cried the Inspector. He turned to the other man. "You've heard me speak of Mr. Poirot? It was in 1904 he and I worked together--the Abercrombie forgery case--you remember, he was run down in Brussels. Ah, those were great days, moosier. Then, do you remember 'Baron' Altara? There was a pretty rogue for you! He eluded the clutches of half the police in Europe. But we nailed him in Antwerp--thanks to Mr. Poirot here."
As these friendly reminiscences were being indulged in, I drew nearer, and was introduced to Detective-Inspector Japp, who, in his turn, introduced us both to his companion, Superintendent Summerhaye.
"I need hardly ask what you are doing here, gentlemen," remarked Poirot.
Japp closed one eye knowingly.
"No, indeed. Pretty clear case I should say."
But Poirot answered gravely:
"There I differ from you."
"Oh, come!" said Summerhaye, opening his lips for the first time. "Surely the whole thing is clear as daylight. The man's caught red-handed. How he could be such a fool beats me!"
But Japp was looking attentively at Poirot.
"Hold your fire, Summerhaye," he remarked jocularly. "Me and Moosier here have met before--and there's no man's judgment I'd sooner take than his. If I'm not greatly mistaken, he's got something up his sleeve. Isn't that so, moosier?"
Poirot smiled.
"I have drawn certain conclusions--yes."
Summerhaye was still looking rather sceptical, but Japp continued his scrutiny of Poirot.
"It's this way," he said, "so far, we've only seen the case from the outside. That's where the Yard's at a disadvantage in a case of this kind, where the murder's only out, so to speak, after the inquest. A lot depends on being on the spot first thing, and that's where Mr. Poirot's had the start of us. We shouldn't have been here as soon as this even, if it hadn't been for the fact that there was a smart doctor on the spot, who gave us the tip through the Coroner. But you've been on the spot from the first, and you may have picked up some little hints. From the evidence at the inquest, Mr. Inglethorp murdered his wife as sure as I stand here, and if anyone but you hinted the contrary I'd laugh in his face. I must say I was surprised the jury didn't bring it in Wilful Murder against him right off. I think they would have, if it hadn't been for the Coroner--he seemed to be holding them back."
"Perhaps, though, you have a warrant for his arrest in your pocket now," suggested Poirot.
A kind of wooden shutter of officialdom came down from Japp's expressive countenance.
"Perhaps I have, and perhaps I haven't," he remarked dryly.
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.
"I am very anxious, Messieurs, that he should not be arrested."
"I dare say," observed Summerhaye sarcastically.
Japp was regarding Poirot with comical perplexity.
"Can't you go a little further, Mr. Poirot? A wink's as good as a nod--from you. You've been on the spot--and the Yard doesn't want to make any mistakes, you know."
Poirot nodded gravely.
"That is exactly what I thought. Well, I will tell you this. Use your warrant: Arrest Mr. Inglethorp. But it will bring you no kudos--the case against him will be dismissed at once! Comme ca!" And he snapped his fingers expressively.
Japp's face grew grave, though Summerhaye gave an incredulous snort.
As for me, I was literally dumb with astonishment. I could only conclude that Poirot was mad.
Japp had taken out a handkerchief, and was gently dabbing his brow.
"I daren't do it, Mr. Poirot. I'd take your word, but there's others over me who'll be asking what the devil I mean by it. Can't you give me a little more to go on?"
Poirot reflected a moment.
"It can be done," he said at last. "I admit I do not wish it. It forces my hand. I would have preferred to work in the dark just for the present, but what you say is very just--the word of a Belgian policeman, whose day is past, is not enough! And Alfred Inglethorp must not be arrested. That I have sworn, as my friend Hastings here knows. See, then, my good Japp, you go at once to Styles?"
"Well, in about half an hour. We're seeing the Coroner and the doctor first."
"Good. Call for me in passing--the last house in the village. I will go with you. At Styles, Mr. Inglethorp will give you, or if he refuses--as is probable--I will give you such proofs that shall satisfy you that the case against him could not possibly be sustained. Is that a bargain?"
"That's a bargain," said Japp heartily. "And, on behalf of the Yard, I'm much obliged to you, though I'm bound to confess I can't at present see the faintest possible loop-hole in the evidence, but you always were a marvel! So long, then, moosier."
The two detectives strode away, Summerhaye with an incredulous grin on his face.
"Well, my friend," cried Poirot, before I could get in a word, "what do you think? Mon Dieu! I had some warm moments in that court; I did not figure to myself that the man would be so pig-headed as to refuse to say anything at all. Decidedly, it was the policy of an imbecile."
"H'm! There are other explanations besides that of imbecility," I remarked. "For, if the case against him is true, how could he defend himself except by silence?"
"Why, in a thousand ingenious ways," cried Poirot. "See; say that it is I who have committed this murder, I can think of seven most plausible stories! Far more convincing than Mr. Inglethorp's stony denials!"
I could not help laughing.
"My dear Poirot, I am sure you are capable of thinking of seventy! But, seriously, in spite of what I heard you say to the detectives, you surely cannot still believe in the possibility of Alfred Inglethorp's innocence?"
"Why not now as much as before? Nothing has changed."
"But the evidence is so conclusive."
"Yes, too conclusive."
We turned in at the gate of Leastways Cottage, and proceeded up the now familiar stairs.
"Yes, yes, too conclusive," continued Poirot, almost to himself. "Real evidence is usually vague and unsatisfactory. It has to be examined--sifted. But here the whole thing is cut and dried. No, my friend, this evidence has been very cleverly manufactured--so cleverly that it has defeated its own ends."
"How do you make that out?"
"Because, so long as the evidence against him was vague and intangible, it was very hard to disprove. But, in his anxiety, the criminal has drawn the net so closely that one cut will set Inglethorp free."
I was silent. And in a minute or two, Poirot continued:
"Let us look at the matter like this. Here is a man, let us say, who sets out to poison his wife. He has lived by his wits as the saying goes. Presumably, therefore, he has some wits. He is not altogether a fool. Well, how does he set about it? He goes boldly to the village chemist's and purchases strychnine under his own name, with a trumped up story about a dog which is bound to be proved absurd. He does not employ the poison that night. No, he waits until he has had a violent quarrel with her, of which the whole household is cognisant, and which naturally directs their suspicions upon him. He prepares no defence--no shadow of an alibi, yet he knows the chemist's assistant must necessarily come forward with the facts. Bah! do not ask me to believe that any man could be so idiotic! Only a lunatic, who wished to commit suicide by causing himself to be hanged, would act so!"
"Still--I do not see--" I began.
"Neither do I see. I tell you, mon ami, it puzzles me. Me --Hercule Poirot!"
"But if you believe him innocent, how do you explain his buying the strychnine?"
"Very simply. He did _not_ buy it."
"But Mace recognized him!"
"I beg your pardon, he saw a man with a black beard like Mr. Inglethorp's, and wearing glasses like Mr. Inglethorp, and dressed in Mr. Inglethorp's rather noticeable clothes. He could not recognize a man whom he had probably only seen in the distance, since, you remember, he himself had only been in the village a fortnight, and Mrs. Inglethorp dealt principally with Coot's in Tadminster."
"Then you think----"
"Mon ami, do you remember the two points I laid stress upon? Leave the first one for the moment, what was the second?"
"The important fact that Alfred Inglethorp wears peculiar clothes, has a black beard, and uses glasses," I quoted.
"Exactly. Now suppose anyone wished to pass himself off as John or Lawrence Cavendish. Would it be easy?"
"No," I said thoughtfully. "Of course an actor----"
But Poirot cut me short ruthlessly.
"And why would it not be easy? I will tell you, my friend: Because they are both clean-shaven men. To make up successfully as one of these two in broad daylight, it would need an actor of genius, and a certain initial facial resemblance. But in the case of Alfred Inglethorp, all that is changed. His clothes, his beard, the glasses which hide his eyes--those are the salient points about his personal appearance. Now, what is the first instinct of the criminal? To divert suspicion from himself, is it not so? And how can he best do that? By throwing it on some one else. In this instance, there was a man ready to his hand. Everybody was predisposed to believe in Mr. Inglethorp's guilt. It was a foregone conclusion that he would be suspected; but, to make it a sure thing there must be tangible proof--such as the actual buying of the poison, and that, with a man of the peculiar appearance of Mr. Inglethorp, was not difficult. Remember, this young Mace had never actually spoken to Mr. Inglethorp. How should he doubt that the man in his clothes, with his beard and his glasses, was not Alfred Inglethorp?"
"It may be so," I said, fascinated by Poirot's eloquence. "But, if that was the case, why does he not say where he was at six o'clock on Monday evening?"
"Ah, why indeed?" said Poirot, calming down. "If he were arrested, he probably would speak, but I do not want it to come to that. I must make him see the gravity of his position. There is, of course, something discreditable behind his silence. If he did not murder his wife, he is, nevertheless, a scoundrel, and has something of his own to conceal, quite apart from the murder."
"What can it be?" I mused, won over to Poirot's views for the moment, although still retaining a faint conviction that the obvious deduction was the correct one.
"Can you not guess?" asked Poirot, smiling.
"No, can you?"
"Oh, yes, I had a little idea sometime ago--and it has turned out to be correct."
"You never told me," I said reproachfully.
Poirot spread out his hands apologetically.
"Pardon me, mon ami, you were not precisely sympathique." He turned to me earnestly. "Tell me--you see now that he must not be arrested?"
"Perhaps," I said doubtfully, for I was really quite indifferent to the fate of Alfred Inglethorp, and thought that a good fright would do him no harm.
Poirot, who was watching me intently, gave a sigh.
"Come, my friend," he said, changing the subject, "apart from Mr. Inglethorp, how did the evidence at the inquest strike you?"
"Oh, pretty much what I expected."
"Did nothing strike you as peculiar about it?"
My thoughts flew to Mary Cavendish, and I hedged:
"In what way?"
"Well, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's evidence for instance?"
I was relieved.
"Oh, Lawrence! No, I don't think so. He's always a nervous chap."
"His suggestion that his mother might have been poisoned accidentally by means of the tonic she was taking, that did not strike you as strange--hein?"
"No, I can't say it did. The doctors ridiculed it of course. But it was quite a natural suggestion for a layman to make."
"But Monsieur Lawrence is not a layman. You told me yourself that he had started by studying medicine, and that he had taken his degree."
"Yes, that's true. I never thought of that." I was rather startled. "It _is_ odd."
Poirot nodded.
"From the first, his behaviour has been peculiar. Of all the household, he alone would be likely to recognize the symptoms of strychnine poisoning, and yet we find him the only member of the family to uphold strenuously the theory of death from natural causes. If it had been Monsieur John, I could have understood it. He has no technical knowledge, and is by nature unimaginative. But Monsieur Lawrence--no! And now, to-day, he puts forward a suggestion that he himself must have known was ridiculous. There is food for thought in this, mon ami!"
"It's very confusing," I agreed.
"Then there is Mrs. Cavendish," continued Poirot. "That's another who is not telling all she knows! What do you make of her attitude?"
"I don't know what to make of it. It seems inconceivable that she should be shielding Alfred Inglethorp. Yet that is what it looks like."
Poirot nodded reflectively.
"Yes, it is queer. One thing is certain, she overheard a good deal more of that 'private conversation' than she was willing to admit."
"And yet she is the last person one would accuse of stooping to eavesdrop!"
"Exactly. One thing her evidence _has_ shown me. I made a mistake. Dorcas was quite right. The quarrel did take place earlier in the afternoon, about four o'clock, as she said."
I looked at him curiously. I had never understood his insistence on that point.
"Yes, a good deal that was peculiar came out to-day," continued Poirot. "Dr. Bauerstein, now, what was _he_ doing up and dressed at that hour in the morning? It is astonishing to me that no one commented on the fact."
"He has insomnia, I believe," I said doubtfully.
"Which is a very good, or a very bad explanation," remarked Poirot. "It covers everything, and explains nothing. I shall keep my eye on our clever Dr. Bauerstein."
"Any more faults to find with the evidence?" I inquired satirically.
"Mon ami," replied Poirot gravely, "when you find that people are not telling you the truth--look out! Now, unless I am much mistaken, at the inquest to-day only one--at most, two persons were speaking the truth without reservation or subterfuge."
"Oh, come now, Poirot! I won't cite Lawrence, or Mrs. Cavendish. But there's John--and Miss Howard, surely they were speaking the truth?"
"Both of them, my friend? One, I grant you, but both----!"
His words gave me an unpleasant shock. Miss Howard's evidence, unimportant as it was, had been given in such a downright straightforward manner that it had never occurred to me to doubt her sincerity. Still, I had a great respect for Poirot's sagacity--except on the occasions when he was what I described to myself as "foolishly pig-headed."
"Do you really think so?" I asked. "Miss Howard had always seemed to me so essentially honest--almost uncomfortably so."
Poirot gave me a curious look, which I could not quite fathom. He seemed to speak, and then checked himself.
"Miss Murdoch too," I continued, "there's nothing untruthful about _her_."
"No. But it was strange that she never heard a sound, sleeping next door; whereas Mrs. Cavendish, in the other wing of the building, distinctly heard the table fall."
"Well, she's young. And she sleeps soundly."
"Ah, yes, indeed! She must be a famous sleeper, that one!"
I did not quite like the tone of his voice, but at that moment a smart knock reached our ears, and looking out of the window we perceived the two detectives waiting for us below.
Poirot seized his hat, gave a ferocious twist to his moustache, and, carefully brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve, motioned me to precede him down the stairs; there we joined the detectives and set out for Styles.
I think the appearance of the two Scotland Yard men was rather a shock--especially to John, though of course after the verdict, he had realized that it was only a matter of time. Still, the presence of the detectives brought the truth home to him more than anything else could have done.
Poirot had conferred with Japp in a low tone on the way up, and it was the latter functionary who requested that the household, with the exception of the servants, should be assembled together in the drawing-room. I realized the significance of this. It was up to Poirot to make his boast good.
Personally, I was not sanguine. Poirot might have excellent reasons for his belief in Inglethorp's innocence, but a man of the type of Summerhaye would require tangible proofs, and these I doubted if Poirot could supply.
Before very long we had all trooped into the drawing-room, the door of which Japp closed. Poirot politely set chairs for every one. The Scotland Yard men were the cynosure of all eyes. I think that for the first time we realized that the thing was not a bad dream, but a tangible reality. We had read of such things--now we ourselves were actors in the drama. To-morrow the daily papers, all over England, would blazon out the news in staring headlines:
"MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY IN ESSEX"
"WEALTHY LADY POISONED"
There would be pictures of Styles, snap-shots of "The family leaving the Inquest"--the village photographer had not been idle! All the things that one had read a hundred times--things that happen to other people, not to oneself. And now, in this house, a murder had been committed. In front of us were "the detectives in charge of the case." The well-known glib phraseology passed rapidly through my mind in the interval before Poirot opened the proceedings.
I think every one was a little surprised that it should be he and not one of the official detectives who took the initiative.
"Mesdames and messieurs," said Poirot, bowing as though he were a celebrity about to deliver a lecture, "I have asked you to come here all together, for a certain object. That object, it concerns Mr. Alfred Inglethorp."
Inglethorp was sitting a little by himself--I think, unconsciously, every one had drawn his chair slightly away from him--and he gave a faint start as Poirot pronounced his name.
"Mr. Inglethorp," said Poirot, addressing him directly, "a very dark shadow is resting on this house--the shadow of murder."
Inglethorp shook his head sadly.
"My poor wife," he murmured. "Poor Emily! It is terrible."
"I do not think, monsieur," said Poirot pointedly, "that you quite realize how terrible it may be--for you." And as Inglethorp did not appear to understand, he added: "Mr. Inglethorp, you are standing in very grave danger."
The two detectives fidgeted. I saw the official caution "Anything you say will be used in evidence against you," actually hovering on Summerhaye's lips. Poirot went on.
"Do you understand now, monsieur?"
"No; What do you mean?"
"I mean," said Poirot deliberately, "that you are suspected of poisoning your wife."
A little gasp ran round the circle at this plain speaking.
"Good heavens!" cried Inglethorp, starting up. "What a monstrous idea! _I_--poison my dearest Emily!"
"I do not think"--Poirot watched him narrowly--"that you quite realize the unfavourable nature of your evidence at the inquest. Mr. Inglethorp, knowing what I have now told you, do you still refuse to say where you were at six o'clock on Monday afternoon?"
With a groan, Alfred Inglethorp sank down again and buried his face in his hands. Poirot approached and stood over him.
"Speak!" he cried menacingly.
With an effort, Inglethorp raised his face from his hands. Then, slowly and deliberately, he shook his head.
"You will not speak?"
"No. I do not believe that anyone could be so monstrous as to accuse me of what you say."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully, like a man whose mind is made up.
"Soit!" he said. "Then I must speak for you."
Alfred Inglethorp sprang up again.
"You? How can you speak? You do not know----" he broke off abruptly.
Poirot turned to face us. "Mesdames and messieurs! I speak! Listen! I, Hercule Poirot, affirm that the man who entered the chemist's shop, and purchased strychnine at six o'clock on Monday last was not Mr. Inglethorp, for at six o'clock on that day Mr. Inglethorp was escorting Mrs. Raikes back to her home from a neighbouring farm. I can produce no less than five witnesses to swear to having seen them together, either at six or just after and, as you may know, the Abbey Farm, Mrs. Raikes's home, is at least two and a half miles distant from the village. There is absolutely no question as to the alibi!"
当我们走出村民公堂时，波洛悄悄抓住我的手臂，把我拉到一旁。我知道他的目的。他是在等伦敦警察厅的人。
过了一会，他们出现了，波洛立刻走上前去，和两人中较矮的一个打招呼。
“我怕你已经不记得我了吧，贾普巡官。”
“嗨，原来是波洛先生！”巡官喊了起来。他转身朝向另一个人。“你听我说起过波洛先生吧？一九零四年，我们曾在一起工作过——阿伯克龙比伪造案——你总还记得，他被追捕到布鲁塞尔①。嗨，那些日子多美，先生。另外，你还记得阿尔塔拉‘男爵’吗？你那个漂亮的流氓！他巧妙地逃脱了欧洲半数警察的抓捕。可是我们在安特卫普②把他给逮住了——多亏这位波洛先生。”
在沉迷于对这些往事的友好缅怀中，我走上前去，并且鼓介绍给贾普巡官，他也向我们俩介绍了他的同事萨默海警长。
“看来我是没有必要问你到这儿来做什么了，先生，”波洛说。
①比利时首都。
②比利时城市。
贾普狡黠地闭上一只眼睛。
“确实没有必要了。我得说情况已经一清二楚。”
但是波洛却严肃地回答说：
“我可和你的看法不一样。”
“嗨，得啦，”萨默海说，他第一次开口。“这整个事情完全象大白天一样一清二楚，这家伙是当场查获，还想装蒜来欺骗我！”
可是贾普却注意地朝波洛看着。
“别激动，萨默海，”他打趣地说。“我以前和这位先生打过交道——我没有一件案子能判得比他快。如果我没大大弄错的话，他一定暗地里有了一套打算了。是这样吧，先生？”
波洛笑了。
“我作了一些推断——是的。”
萨默海仍然显出怀疑的样子，可是贾普却继续细看着波洛。
“情况是这样，”他说，“到目前为止，我们只看到这个案子的表面现象。这是警察厅在此类案子中处于不利的地方，而且还在于这一谋杀案的败露，可以说只是在验尸之后。事情往往取决于先到现场掌握第一手资料，这也就是波洛先生胜我们一筹之处，要不是当场有个机灵的医生通过验尸官给了我们提示，我们本来是不会马上就上这儿来的。可你是一开始就去了现场，你也许已经获得了一些细小的线索，从审讯的情况看，英格里桑先生谋杀妻子，就象我站立在这儿一样千真万确。除了你，不管什么暗示对此有相反意见的话，我都会当面嘲笑他，我必须说，我感到意外的是陪审团没有立即宣布对他的蓄意谋杀进行起诉的裁决。我认为，这是他们的主张，如果验尸官没有此意——那他看来是被他们给阻止住了。”
“也许，你的口袋里现在就有一张抓他的逮捕证吧，”波洛说。
一道官僚作风的木板窗扉垂落在贾普那富有表情的脸上。
“我也许有，也许没有，”他干巴巴地说。
波洛若有所思地朝他看着。
“我极力希望他不要被捕，先生。”
“我看有可能，”萨默海挖苦地说。
贾普困惑可笑地注视着波洛。
“你能说得详细一点吗，波洛先生？你的每一句话，都是举足轻重的。你是去过现场的——你知道，警察厅不想犯错误。
波洛严肃地点点头。
“我确实是这样想的。好吧，我来告诉你们。用你们的逮捕证，把英格里桑先生逮捕。可是这不会给你们带来好名声——对他的起诉立刻就会驳回！就是这样！”他意味深长地把手指捻得劈啪作响。
贾普的脸色变得阴沉了，而萨默海则发出表示怀疑的哼鼻声。
至于我呢，我简直只好目瞪口呆地一声不吭。我只能断定，波洛大概是疯了。
贾普掏出一块手帕，轻轻地擦着自己的前额。
“我可不敢做这样的事，波洛先生。我相信你的话，可是我上面那些人会问，我这究竟算什么意思呢？你能再给我多说一点吗？”
波洛考虑了一会。
“只能这样，”他终于说。“我承认，我不希望说。这是在逼我。在目前，我倒是宁愿在一无所知的清况下工作，不过怀说的话完全正确——一个黄金时代已经过去的比利时警察的话是不够的啊！但是阿弗雷德•英格里桑无论如何不能逮捕。这我已经发过誓，我这位朋友哈斯丁知道，哎，我亲爱的贾普，你立即去斯泰尔斯吗？”
“嗯，半个来小时以后吧，我们得先去看看那位验尸官和医生。”
“好吧。经过时顺便叫我一声——就是村子过去最后的那幢房子。我和你们一起去。到斯泰尔斯，英格里桑先生会给你们作证，或者要是他拒绝——这有可能——我会拿出使你们完全满意的证据，证明对他的起诉有可能不会批准。就这么敲定了吧？”
“好，就这么敲定，”贾普诚心诚意他说。“我要代表警察厅，向你深表谢意，虽然我得坦白承认，目前我还没能看出证词中可能有的最小的漏洞，可是你是个一直令人惊叹的奇才！那么，再见了！先生。”
两个侦探大步地走了，萨默海咧着嘴，脸上露出怀疑的嘲笑。
“喂，朋友，”还没等我开口，波洛就大声说，“你以为怎么样？我的老天！我在法庭上实在是急坏了；我原来没有想到这人会如此顽固，以至于什么都拒绝说出，显然，这是个十分愚蠢的策略。”
“哼！除了愚蠢的策略，还有一些别的解释哩，”我说。“因为，要是真的对他提出起诉的话，除了用沉默外，他能用什么为自己辩护呢？”
“什么？有上千种方法呢，”波洛叫了起来。“瞧你，要是说犯了谋杀罪的是我，我就能编出七个象煞最有理由的故事来！这要比英格里桑先生的矢口否认使人信服得多哩！”
我忍不住笑了起来。
“我亲爱的波洛，我确信你能编出七十个故事来！可是，认真地说，不管我听你和那两个侦探说些什么，现在你谅必不能再认为阿弗雷德•英格里桑也许是清白无辜的了吧？”
“为什么现在不和以前一样呢？我的看法毫无改变。”
“可是证据是如此确凿。”
“是呀，太确凿了。”
我们拐进李斯特韦思别墅的大门，开始登上现在已经熟悉的楼梯。
“是呀，是呀，太确凿了”，”波洛几乎象自言自语地继续说。“真正的证据往往是模糊不清，不能令人满意得。它得受到审查——详细地审查。可是这儿的整个事情早已准备好的。不，朋友，这些证据是巧妙地虚构的——巧妙得把自己的目的意图都给摧毁了。”
“你这是怎么说？”
“因为，只要对他起诉的证据是模糊不清的，那就很难反驳。可是，罪犯担心的是，他已经把网拉得这么紧，有一个破口就会让英格里桑溜掉。”
我默不作声。他停了一会，又继续说：
“就让我们象这样来看一看这问题吧。这儿有个人，我们假定说他打算毒死自己的妻子。而他，正如俗话所说，是个靠施展小聪明过日子的人。因此，他可能有些小聪明，并不完全是个傻瓜。于是，这事情他怎么个着手呢？他大胆地以自己的名义去村子的药店买了士的宁，还编造了一个保证会证明是荒谬可笑的一只狗的故事。他没有在当天晚上施放毒药。不，他一直等到和她发生一场全家人都知晓的激烈争吵之后，这样全家人自然也就一致地怀疑到他。他也不打算为自己辩护——连点辩解的影子都没有。而且他知道药房伙计必然会出来告发的，哼！我才不信，哪有这样的傻瓜！只有精神诸乱，希望自己能上绞架自杀的人才会这么干！”
“可我还是——不明白——”我刚开口。
“我也不明白。我告诉你，朋友，这把我也给搞糊涂了。把我——赫卡尔•波洛！”
“可是，要是你相信他是无辜的，那怎么解释他买士的宁的事呢？”
“很简单。他没有买。”
“可是梅司认出是他呀！”
“对不起，他看到的是一个象英格里桑先生那样有一大把黑胡子的人，是一个象英格里桑先生那样戴眼镜的人，是一个穿着英格里桑先生那种相当引人注目的衣着的人。他不可能认出一个也许只是从老远见过的人，因为，你总还记得，他本人是在两星期前才到这个村子来的，而且，英格里桑太太主要是在塔明斯特的库特药店购药的。”
“那么你认为——”
“我的朋友，你忘了我强调过的两点了吗？第一点暂时不说，第二点是什么？”
“第二点重要的事实是，英格里桑先生穿一身很独特的衣服，有一大把黑胡子，而且还戴眼镜。”
“一点不错。现在假如有个人想要冒充约翰或者是劳伦斯，这容易吗？”
“不容易，”我想了想说。“当然，一个演员——”
“为什么不容易呢？我来告诉你吧，我的朋友，因为他们俩都是脸刮得光光的人。要想在光天化日之下化装成这两人中的一个，都得有演员的天才，而且脸型要基本上相似。可是阿弗雷特•英格里桑情况就完全不同了。他的衣着，他的胡子，蔽住他眼睛的眼镜——那些都是他的个人外表的特点。那末，这个犯罪分子的首要本能是什么呢？为了要从自己身上转移开怀疑，不是这样么？他怎么干最好呢？把这扔到另一个人身上。在这种情况下，手头就得有个人。要使每个人都倾向于相信英格里桑先生是有罪的。他被怀疑这是预料中的必然结果。但是，为了使这叫人相信，还得有确凿的证据——例如真的去买了毒药，而且化装成象英格里桑先生这样一个外表独特的人，并不困难。别忘记，这位年轻的梅司实际上以前从未和英格里桑先生交谈过。他怎么会怀疑这个穿着他的衣服，有着他的胡子和眼镜的人不是阿弗雷德•英格里桑呢？”
“也许是这样，”我说。被波洛的雄辩给迷住了。
“可是，要是情况是这样。为什么他不肯说出星期一傍晚六点钟他在哪儿呢？”
“哼，为什么？”波洛说，他平静了下来。“要是他被捕了，他多半就会说了。可是，我不希望事情发展到那一步，我必须让他看到他的处境的严重性。当然，在他的沉默的背后，一定有什么见不得人的东西。即使他没有谋杀他的妻子，他还是一个坏蛋，完全撇开谋杀不说，也有他自己的什么东西隐瞒着。”
“有可能是什么呢？”我思索着说，一时间折服于波洛的看法，虽然我还是不太相信这种显然是推论的意见是正确的。
“你猜不出？”波洛笑了起来，问道。
“猜不出。你呢？”
“嗯，是的，我不久前有了一个小小的想法——现在它已经证明是正确的了。”
“你从来没有对我说过，”我责备说。
波洛抱歉地摊开两手。
“请原谅，我的朋友，你一定不会赞同的。”他诚挚地对我说。”告诉我——你现在认为他应该逮捕吗？”
“大概是这样，”我含糊其词地回答，因为说实在，我对阿弗雷德•英格里桑的命运完全不感兴趣，而且我认为，好好吓唬他一下对他并无害处。
波洛目不转睛地注视着我，叹了一口气。
“得啦，朋友，”他改变了话题，“撇开英格里桑先生不说，对审讯的证词你有什么看法？”
“哦，几乎不出我之所料。”
“你没有觉得有什么特别的地方吗？”
我的思绪飞向了玛丽•卡文迪什，因而只是躲闪地说：
“在哪一方面？”
“就说，譬如劳伦斯•卡文迪什先生的证词吧？”
我放心了。
“哦，劳伦斯！不，我不这样想，他一直有点神经质。”
“他的看法是，他母亲可能是服用补药造成的偶然中毒。这你不觉得奇怪——啊？”
“不，我不能说这算奇怪。当然，医生们嘲笑这种看法。可是对一个外行来说，这种看法是很正常的。”
“可是劳伦斯先生不是外行呀。是你自己告诉我的，说他起初是学医的，已经取得学位。”
“对了，这倒是真的。我从来没有想到这一点，”我为此大吃一惊。“这确实奇怪。”
波洛点点头。
“首先，他的态度很特别。全家人当中，只有他能够认出士的宁的中毒症状，而且我们还发现他是这家人家唯一坚持自然死亡看法的人，要是这是约翰先生，我就能理解了，因为他没有这方面的专门知识，自然是想不到的。但是，劳伦斯先生——不一样！而今天，他提出的看法，他自己应该知道，是十分荒谬可笑的。其中大有值得思考的材料，朋友。”
“这确实很混乱，”我同意说。
“还有卡文迪什太太，”波洛继续说。“她是另一个没有说出她所了解的全部情况的人！你怎么解释她的态度？”
“我不知道怎么解释。似乎不可思议的是她想要包庇阿弗雷德•英格里桑。然而看起来象是这样。”
波洛沉思着点点头。
“是呀，这很奇怪，有一件事是确凿无疑的，她无意中听到的‘私下谈话’要比她愿意承认的多得多。”
“而且，她是最不可能俯身偷听的人”。
“确实如此。她的证词向我表明了一点。我错了。多卡斯完全对。那天下午的争吵确实发生得比较早，象她说的那样，在四点钟左右。”
我好奇地朝他打量着。我原来一直不知道他坚持这一点。
“是啊，今天出现了一大堆奇怪的事情，”波洛继续说。“象那位鲍斯坦医生，那天早上在那种时候，他怎么会穿戴停当，那么衣冠整齐的呢？使我惊讶的是没有一个人评论这一事实。”
“他有失眠症，我相信，”我含糊其词地说。
“一个非常善意的解释，或者是一个十分恶意的解释，”波洛指出。“都会掩盖事实真相，而且什么也解释不了。我可得对我们的机灵的鲍斯坦医生保持警惕。”
“证词中还挑出了什么毛病？”我挖苦地问道。
“我的朋友，”波洛严肃地回答，“当你发现人们没有告诉你真相的时候——就得当心！嗯，除非是我弄错了，在今天的审讯中，只有一个人，至多是两个人说了真话，没有保留或者是遁词。”
“哦，得啦，波洛！劳伦斯或者卡文迪什太太，我不去说了，可是约翰——还有霍华德小姐，他们俩说的谅必总是真话吧？”
他们两个吗，朋友？一个，我同意，可是两个——！”
他的话使我不愉快地震惊了一下。霍华德小姐的证词，尽管并不重要，但如此爽气坦率，对她的真诚，我从未产生过怀疑。不过，对于波洛的睿智我总是非常尊重的——除了在我自己把他看成是一个“傻瓜蛋”的场合之外。
“你真的这样想吗？”我问道。“霍华德小姐一直来对我似乎都是很诚实的——诚实得几乎使我有点不自在了。”
波洛那么奇怪地朝我瞥了一眼，我完全揣摩不出它的含义。他仿佛想说什么，可接着就忍往了。
“穆务契小姐也一样，”我继续说，“她也没有什么说谎的地方。”
“可是奇怪的是，她睡在隔壁，一点也没听到响声；住在房子另一侧的卡文迪什太太，却清楚地听到桌子翻倒。”
“咳，她年纪轻，睡得沉。”
“哼，不错，真是！如一定是个出名的瞌睡虫了，一个瞌睡虫！”
我很不喜欢他这种说话的腔调，可是就在这时候，我们听到了一阵响亮的敲门声，伸头到窗外一看，发现两位侦探已经在下面等我们了。
波洛抓起帽子，使劲地捻了捻自己的两撇翘胡子，又从袖子上拂去想象中的一点灰尘，然后才示意叫我走在前面，下了楼梯；我们和两位侦探一起，动身前往斯泰尔斯庄园。
我觉得这两位伦敦警察厅的人物的到来多少是一个震惊——特别是对约翰来说，当然，在陪审团裁决之后，他意识到这仅仅是时间问题。而且这两人的到场，比起别的来，会使他更多地看到事实真相。
路上，波洛和贾普低声作了商议，后者要求这一家人，除佣人外，都得集中到客厅里。我理解这个意思。波洛有责任实现自己夸下的海口。
就我个人而言，我是缺乏自信的。波洛也许有充分的理由相信英格里桑的无罪，可是象萨默海这样的人需要的是确凿的证据，而这样的证据波洛是否能提出，我仍表示怀疑。
一待我们成群地都走进客厅，贾普就把门给关上了。波洛殷勤地请大家就座。伦敦警察厅的两位人物是大家注意的目标。我认为，我们是第一次意识到这一事件并不是一场恶梦，而是活生生的现实。我们曾经读过不少这样的消息——现在，我们自己也成了这出戏中的演员了。明天，全英国的日报都会以下列显著的大字标题发表这一消息：
“埃塞克斯发生重大惨案有钱太太可怜中毒身亡”
还会刊出斯泰尔斯庄园的照片，“正在受到审讯的一家人”的快照——村子里的摄影师是不会闲着的！所有此类消息，每个人都曾读到过许多次——但都不是自己，而是发生在别人身上。而现在，在这幢房子里，发生了一件谋杀案。在我们面前的是“负责此案的侦探”。在波洛开始讲话之前的间歇里，各种熟悉、流利的措词从我的脑子里匆匆掠过。
我相信，所有人都有点感到意外，第一个说话的是他，而不是一位官方侦探。
“女士们，先生们，”波洛象一位马上要发表演说的名人似地鞠了个躬，然后说，“我请你们诸位一起到这儿来，是为了一件事情，就是有关阿弗雷德•英格里桑先生的问题。”
英格里桑差不多是独自一人坐在一边——我思忖，每个人都不自觉地把自己的椅子拖得离他稍远一点——当波洛提到他的名字时，他略微吃了一惊。
“英格里桑先生，”波洛径直对着他说，“这幢房子笼罩着一个十分黑暗的阴影——谋杀的阴影。”
英格里桑悲伤地摇摇头。
“我可怜的太太，”他喃喃地说。“可怜的埃米莉！这太可怕了。”
“我认为，先生，”波洛尖锐地说，“你还没有完全意识到这可能有多可怕——对你来说。”由于英格里桑看来还没理解，他又补充说：“英格里桑先生，你正处于非常严重的危险之中。”
两位侦探都显得坐立不安。我看到，那句公认的诫言“你说的每句话都会用在对你起诉的证词中”，如今一直逗留在萨默海的嘴唇上。波洛继续说：
“现在该懂了吧，先生？”
“不懂。你的意思是什么？”
“我的意思是，”波洛不慌不忙地说，“你被怀疑毒死了自己的妻子。”
由于这句坦率的话。使得周围的人几乎喘不过气来。
“天哪！”英格里桑喊道，蓦地站了起来。“多荒谬的念头！我——毒死我最亲爱的埃米莉！”
“我认为，”——波洛朝他仔细注视着——“你还没有完全意识到审讯时你的证词的不利之处，英格里桑先生，知道了我已经告诉你的话以后，你还拒绝说出星期一下午六点钟时你在哪儿吗？”
阿弗雷德•英格里桑呻吟了一声，重又坐了下来，同时把脸埋在自己的双手之中。波洛走向前去，站在他的身旁。
“说！”他大声威胁说。
英格里桑费力地从双手中抬起脸。接着缓慢地，不慌不忙的摇了摇头。
“你不愿说？”
“我不信人人部会这样荒谬，象你说的那样来控告我。”
波洛若有所思地点着头，象个决心已经下定的人一样。
“好罢！”他说。“那得我来给你说了。”
阿弗雷德•英格里桑又蓦地跳了起来。
“你？你怎么说？你又不知道——”他突然停住了。
波洛转身朝向我们。“女士们，先先们！我来说！请听着！我，赫卡尔•波洛，肯定地说，本星期一下午六点，到药店购买土的宁的人，决不是英格里桑先生，因为那天下午六点钟时，英格里桑先生正从邻近的一个农庄陪雷克斯太太回家。我可以提出不少于五个证人，都在六点钟或六点钟以后亲眼看到他们俩在一起，而且，正如你们所知道的，阿比农庄，即雷克斯太太的家，离村子至少有两英里半路。英格里桑先生不在犯罪现场，这是绝对不成问题的。”
Chapter 8 Fresh Suspicions
There was a moment's stupefied silence. Japp, who was the least surprised of any of us, was the first to speak.
"My word," he cried, "you're the goods! And no mistake, Mr. Poirot! These witnesses of yours are all right, I suppose?"
"Voila! I have prepared a list of them--names and addresses. You must see them, of course. But you will find it all right."
"I'm sure of that." Japp lowered his voice. "I'm much obliged to you. A pretty mare's nest arresting him would have been." He turned to Inglethorp. "But, if you'll excuse me, sir, why couldn't you say all this at the inquest?"
"I will tell you why," interrupted Poirot. "There was a certain rumour----"
"A most malicious and utterly untrue one," interrupted Alfred Inglethorp in an agitated voice.
"And Mr. Inglethorp was anxious to have no scandal revived just at present. Am I right?"
"Quite right." Inglethorp nodded. "With my poor Emily not yet buried, can you wonder I was anxious that no more lying rumours should be started."
"Between you and me, sir," remarked Japp, "I'd sooner have any amount of rumours than be arrested for murder. And I venture to think your poor lady would have felt the same. And, if it hadn't been for Mr. Poirot here, arrested you would have been, as sure as eggs is eggs!"
"I was foolish, no doubt," murmured Inglethorp. "But you do not know, inspector, how I have been persecuted and maligned." And he shot a baleful glance at Evelyn Howard.
"Now, sir," said Japp, turning briskly to John, "I should like to see the lady's bedroom, please, and after that I'll have a little chat with the servants. Don't you bother about anything. Mr. Poirot, here, will show me the way."
As they all went out of the room, Poirot turned and made me a sign to follow him upstairs. There he caught me by the arm, and drew me aside.
"Quick, go to the other wing. Stand there--just this side of the baize door. Do not move till I come." Then, turning rapidly, he rejoined the two detectives.
I followed his instructions, taking up my position by the baize door, and wondering what on earth lay behind the request. Why was I to stand in this particular spot on guard? I looked thoughtfully down the corridor in front of me. An idea struck me. With the exception of Cynthia Murdoch's, every one's room was in this left wing. Had that anything to do with it? Was I to report who came or went? I stood faithfully at my post. The minutes passed. Nobody came. Nothing happened.
It must have been quite twenty minutes before Poirot rejoined me.
"You have not stirred?"
"No, I've stuck here like a rock. Nothing's happened."
"Ah!" Was he pleased, or disappointed? "You've seen nothing at all?"
"No."
"But you have probably heard something? A big bump--eh, mon ami?"
"No."
"Is it possible? Ah, but I am vexed with myself! I am not usually clumsy. I made but a slight gesture"--I know Poirot's gestures--"with the left hand, and over went the table by the bed!"
He looked so childishly vexed and crest-fallen that I hastened to console him.
"Never mind, old chap. What does it matter? Your triumph downstairs excited you. I can tell you, that was a surprise to us all. There must be more in this affair of Inglethorp's with Mrs. Raikes than we thought, to make him hold his tongue so persistently. What are you going to do now? Where are the Scotland Yard fellows?"
"Gone down to interview the servants. I showed them all our exhibits. I am disappointed in Japp. He has no method!"
"Hullo!" I said, looking out of the window. "Here's Dr. Bauerstein. I believe you're right about that man, Poirot. I don't like him."
"He is clever," observed Poirot meditatively.
"Oh, clever as the devil! I must say I was overjoyed to see him in the plight he was in on Tuesday. You never saw such a spectacle!" And I described the doctor's adventure. "He looked a regular scarecrow! Plastered with mud from head to foot."
"You saw him, then?"
"Yes. Of course, he didn't want to come in--it was just after dinner--but Mr. Inglethorp insisted."
"What?" Poirot caught me violently by the shoulders. "Was Dr. Bauerstein here on Tuesday evening? Here? And you never told me? Why did you not tell me? Why? Why?"
He appeared to be in an absolute frenzy.
"My dear Poirot," I expostulated, "I never thought it would interest you. I didn't know it was of any importance."
"Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night--the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything--everything!"
I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that alters everything--everything."
Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision.
"Allons!" he said. "We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?"
John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him.
"Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in Tadminster. A new clue. May I take your motor?"
"Why, of course. Do you mean at once?"
"If you please."
John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In another ten minutes, we were racing down the park and along the high road to Tadminster.
"Now, Poirot," I remarked resignedly, "perhaps you will tell me what all this is about?"
"Well, mon ami, a good deal you can guess for yourself. Of course you realize that, now Mr. Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is greatly changed. We are face to face with an entirely new problem. We know now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest--but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee--Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia."
"Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion.
"In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes--doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself--have you no suspicions of anybody?"
I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.
"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish."
"Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts."
"Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd--but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!"
"Miss Howard?"
"Yes--you'll laugh at me----"
"Not at all. Why should I?"
"I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?"
"Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working."
"Well?"
"Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that--a convoy coming in unexpectedly--she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that."
"Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I continued, "it's her extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I can't help feeling she'd do anything against him. And I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him."
"You consider her vehemence unnatural?"
"Y--es. She is so very violent. I wondered really whether she is quite sane on that point."
Poirot shook his head energetically.
"No, no, you are on a wrong tack there. There is nothing weak-minded or degenerate about Miss Howard. She is an excellent specimen of well-balanced English beef and brawn. She is sanity itself."
"Yet her hatred of Inglethorp seems almost a mania. My idea was--a very ridiculous one, no doubt--that she had intended to poison him--and that, in some way, Mrs. Inglethorp got hold of it by mistake. But I don't at all see how it could have been done. The whole thing is absurd and ridiculous to the last degree."
"Still you are right in one thing. It is always wise to suspect everybody until you can prove logically, and to your own satisfaction, that they are innocent. Now, what reasons are there against Miss Howard's having deliberately poisoned Mrs. Inglethorp?"
"Why, she was devoted to her!" I exclaimed.
"Tcha! Tcha!" cried Poirot irritably. "You argue like a child. If Miss Howard were capable of poisoning the old lady, she would be quite equally capable of simulating devotion. No, we must look elsewhere. You are perfectly correct in your assumption that her vehemence against Alfred Inglethorp is too violent to be natural; but you are quite wrong in the deduction you draw from it. I have drawn my own deductions, which I believe to be correct, but I will not speak of them at present." He paused a minute, then went on. "Now, to my way of thinking, there is one insuperable objection to Miss Howard's being the murderess."
"And that is?"
"That in no possible way could Mrs. Inglethorp's death benefit Miss Howard. Now there is no murder without a motive."
I reflected.
"Could not Mrs. Inglethorp have made a will in her favour?" Poirot shook his head.
"But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?"
Poirot smiled.
"That was for a reason. I did not want to mention the name of the person who was actually in my mind. Miss Howard occupied very much the same position, so I used her name instead."
"Still, Mrs. Inglethorp might have done so. Why, that will, made on the afternoon of her death may----"
But Poirot's shake of the head was so energetic that I stopped.
"No, my friend. I have certain little ideas of my own about that will. But I can tell you this much--it was not in Miss Howard's favour."
I accepted his assurance, though I did not really see how he could be so positive about the matter.
"Well," I said, with a sigh, "we will acquit Miss Howard, then. It is partly your fault that I ever came to suspect her. It was what you said about her evidence at the inquest that set me off."
Poirot looked puzzled.
"What did I say about her evidence at the inquest?"
"Don't you remember? When I cited her and John Cavendish as being above suspicion?"
"Oh--ah--yes." He seemed a little confused, but recovered himself. "By the way, Hastings, there is something I want you to do for me."
"Certainly. What is it?"
"Next time you happen to be alone with Lawrence Cavendish, I want you to say this to him. 'I have a message for you, from Poirot. He says: "Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace!" ' Nothing more. Nothing less."
" 'Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.' Is that right?" I asked, much mystified.
"Excellent."
"But what does it mean?"
"Ah, that I will leave you to find out. You have access to the facts. Just say that to him, and see what he says."
"Very well--but it's all extremely mysterious."
We were running into Tadminster now, and Poirot directed the car to the "Analytical Chemist."
Poirot hopped down briskly, and went inside. In a few minutes he was back again.
"There," he said. "That is all my business."
"What were you doing there?" I asked, in lively curiosity.
"I left something to be analysed."
"Yes, but what?"
"The sample of coco I took from the saucepan in the bedroom."
"But that has already been tested!" I cried, stupefied. "Dr. Bauerstein had it tested, and you yourself laughed at the possibility of there being strychnine in it."
"I know Dr. Bauerstein had it tested," replied Poirot quietly.
"Well, then?"
"Well, I have a fancy for having it analysed again, that is all."
And not another word on the subject could I drag out of him.
This proceeding of Poirot's, in respect of the coco, puzzled me intensely. I could see neither rhyme nor reason in it. However, my confidence in him, which at one time had rather waned, was fully restored since his belief in Alfred Inglethorp's innocence had been so triumphantly vindicated.
The funeral of Mrs. Inglethorp took place the following day, and on Monday, as I came down to a late breakfast, John drew me aside, and informed me that Mr. Inglethorp was leaving that morning, to take up his quarters at the Stylites Arms until he should have completed his plans.
"And really it's a great relief to think he's going, Hastings," continued my honest friend. "It was bad enough before, when we thought he'd done it, but I'm hanged if it isn't worse now, when we all feel guilty for having been so down on the fellow. The fact is, we've treated him abominably. Of course, things did look black against him. I don't see how anyone could blame us for jumping to the conclusions we did. Still, there it is, we were in the wrong, and now there's a beastly feeling that one ought to make amends; which is difficult, when one doesn't like the fellow a bit better than one did before. The whole thing's damned awkward! And I'm thankful he's had the tact to take himself off. It's a good thing Styles wasn't the mater's to leave to him. Couldn't bear to think of the fellow fording it here. He's welcome to her money."
"You'll be able to keep up the place all right?" I asked.
"Oh, yes. There are the death duties, of course, but half my father's money goes with the place, and Lawrence will stay with us for the present, so there is his share as well. We shall be pinched at first, of course, because, as I once told you, I am in a bit of a hole financially myself. Still, the Johnnies will wait now."
In the general relief at Inglethorp's approaching departure, we had the most genial breakfast we had experienced since the tragedy. Cynthia, whose young spirits were naturally buoyant, was looking quite her pretty self again, and we all, with the exception of Lawrence, who seemed unalterably gloomy and nervous, were quietly cheerful, at the opening of a new and hopeful future.
The papers, of course, had been full of the tragedy. Glaring headlines, sandwiched biographies of every member of the household, subtle innuendoes, the usual familiar tag about the police having a clue. Nothing was spared us. It was a slack time. The war was momentarily inactive, and the newspapers seized with avidity on this crime in fashionable life: "The Mysterious Affair at Styles" was the topic of the moment.
Naturally it was very annoying for the Cavendishes. The house was constantly besieged by reporters, who were consistently denied admission, but who continued to haunt the village and the grounds, where they lay in wait with cameras, for any unwary members of the household. We all lived in a blast of publicity. The Scotland Yard men came and went, examining, questioning, lynx-eyed and reserved of tongue. Towards what end they were working, we did not know. Had they any clue, or would the whole thing remain in the category of undiscovered crimes?
After breakfast, Dorcas came up to me rather mysteriously, and asked if she might have a few words with me.
"Certainly. What is it, Dorcas?"
"Well, it's just this, sir. You'll be seeing the Belgian gentleman to-day perhaps?" I nodded. "Well, sir, you know how he asked me so particular if the mistress, or anyone else, had a green dress?"
"Yes, yes. You have found one?" My interest was aroused.
"No, not that, sir. But since then I've remembered what the young gentlemen"--John and Lawrence were still the "young gentlemen" to Dorcas--"call the 'dressing-up box.' It's up in the front attic, sir. A great chest, full of old clothes and fancy dresses, and what not. And it came to me sudden like that there might be a green dress amongst them. So, if you'd tell the Belgian gentleman----"
"I will tell him, Dorcas," I promised.
"Thank you very much, sir. A very nice gentleman he is, sir. And quite a different class from them two detectives from London, what goes prying about, and asking questions. I don't hold with foreigners as a rule, but from what the newspapers say I make out as how these brave Belges isn't the ordinary run of foreigners, and certainly he's a most polite spoken gentleman."
Dear old Dorcas! As she stood there, with her honest face upturned to mine, I thought what a fine specimen she was of the old-fashioned servant that is so fast dying out.
I thought I might as well go down to the village at once, and look up Poirot; but I met him half-way, coming up to the house, and at once gave him Dorcas's message.
"Ah, the brave Dorcas! We will look at the chest, although--but no matter--we will examine it all the same."
We entered the house by one of the windows. There was no one in the hall, and we went straight up to the attic.
Sure enough, there was the chest, a fine old piece, all studded with brass nails, and full to overflowing with every imaginable type of garment.
Poirot bundled everything out on the floor with scant ceremony. There were one or two green fabrics of varying shades; but Poirot shook his head over them all. He seemed somewhat apathetic in the search, as though he expected no great results from it. Suddenly he gave an exclamation.
"What is it?"
"Look!"
The chest was nearly empty, and there, reposing right at the bottom, was a magnificent black beard.
"Oho!" said Poirot. "Oho!" He turned it over in his hands, examining it closely. "New," he remarked. "Yes, quite new."
After a moment's hesitation, he replaced it in the chest, heaped all the other things on top of it as before, and made his way briskly downstairs. He went straight to the pantry, where we found Dorcas busily polishing her silver.
Poirot wished her good morning with Gallic politeness, and went on:
"We have been looking through that chest, Dorcas. I am much obliged to you for mentioning it. There is, indeed, a fine collection there. Are they often used, may I ask?"
"Well, sir, not very often nowadays, though from time to time we do have what the young gentlemen call 'a dress-up night.' And very funny it is sometimes, sir. Mr. Lawrence, he's wonderful. Most comic! I shall never forget the night he came down as the Char of Persia, I think he called it--a sort of Eastern King it was. He had the big paper knife in his hand, and 'Mind, Dorcas,' he says, 'you'll have to be very respectful. This is my specially sharpened scimitar, and it's off with your head if I'm at all displeased with you!' Miss Cynthia, she was what they call an Apache, or some such name--a Frenchified sort of cut-throat, I take it to be. A real sight she looked. You'd never have believed a pretty young lady like that could have made herself into such a ruffian. Nobody would have known her."
"These evenings must have been great fun," said Poirot genially. "I suppose Mr. Lawrence wore that fine black beard in the chest upstairs, when he was Shah of Persia?"
"He did have a beard, sir," replied Dorcas, smiling. "And well I know it, for he borrowed two skeins of my black wool to make it with! And I'm sure it looked wonderfully natural at a distance. I didn't know as there was a beard up there at all. It must have been got quite lately, I think. There was a red wig, I know, but nothing else in the way of hair. Burnt corks they use mostly--though 'tis messy getting it off again. Miss Cynthia was a nigger once, and, oh, the trouble she had."
"So Dorcas knows nothing about that black beard," said Poirot thoughtfully, as we walked out into the hall again.
"Do you think it is _the_ one?" I whispered eagerly.
Poirot nodded.
"I do. You notice it had been trimmed?"
"No."
"Yes. It was cut exactly the shape of Mr. Inglethorp's, and I found one or two snipped hairs. Hastings, this affair is very deep."
"Who put it in the chest, I wonder?"
"Some one with a good deal of intelligence," remarked Poirot dryly. "You realize that he chose the one place in the house to hide it where its presence would not be remarked? Yes, he is intelligent. But we must be more intelligent. We must be so intelligent that he does not suspect us of being intelligent at all."
I acquiesced.
"There, mon ami, you will be of great assistance to me."
I was pleased with the compliment. There had been times when I hardly thought that Poirot appreciated me at my true worth.
"Yes," he continued, staring at me thoughtfully, "you will be invaluable."
This was naturally gratifying, but Poirot's next words were not so welcome.
"I must have an ally in the house," he observed reflectively.
"You have me," I protested.
"True, but you are not sufficient."
I was hurt, and showed it. Poirot hurried to explain himself.
"You do not quite take my meaning. You are known to be working with me. I want somebody who is not associated with us in any way."
"Oh, I see. How about John?"
"No, I think not."
"The dear fellow isn't perhaps very bright," I said thoughtfully.
"Here comes Miss Howard," said Poirot suddenly. "She is the very person. But I am in her black books, since I cleared Mr. Inglethorp. Still, we can but try."
With a nod that was barely civil, Miss Howard assented to Poirot's request for a few minutes' conversation.
We went into the little morning-room, and Poirot closed the door.
"Well, Monsieur Poirot," said Miss Howard impatiently, "what is it? Out with it. I'm busy."
"Do you remember, mademoiselle, that I once asked you to help me?"
"Yes, I do." The lady nodded. "And I told you I'd help you with pleasure--to hang Alfred Inglethorp."
"Ah!" Poirot studied her seriously. "Miss Howard, I will ask you one question. I beg of you to reply to it truthfully."
"Never tell lies," replied Miss Howard.
"It is this. Do you still believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?"
"What do you mean?" she asked sharply. "You needn't think your pretty explanations influence me in the slightest. I'll admit that it wasn't he who bought strychnine at the chemist's shop. What of that? I dare say he soaked fly paper, as I told you at the beginning."
"That is arsenic--not strychnine," said Poirot mildly.
"What does that matter? Arsenic would put poor Emily out of the way just as well as strychnine. If I'm convinced he did it, it doesn't matter a jot to me _how_ he did it."
"Exactly. _If_ you are convinced he did it," said Poirot quietly. "I will put my question in another form. Did you ever in your heart of hearts believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?"
"Good heavens!" cried Miss Howard. "Haven't I always told you the man is a villain? Haven't I always told you he would murder her in her bed? Haven't I always hated him like poison?"
"Exactly," said Poirot. "That bears out my little idea entirely."
"What little idea?"
"Miss Howard, do you remember a conversation that took place on the day of my friend's arrival here? He repeated it to me, and there is a sentence of yours that has impressed me very much. Do you remember affirming that if a crime had been committed, and anyone you loved had been murdered, you felt certain that you would know by instinct who the criminal was, even if you were quite unable to prove it?"
"Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I suppose you think it nonsense?"
"Not at all."
"And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."
"No," said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against Mr. Inglethorp."
"What?"
"No. You wish to believe he committed the crime. You believe him capable of committing it. But your instinct tells you he did not commit it. It tells you more--shall I go on?"
She was staring at him, fascinated, and made a slight affirmative movement of the hand.
"Shall I tell you why you have been so vehement against Mr. Inglethorp? It is because you have been trying to believe what you wish to believe. It is because you are trying to drown and stifle your instinct, which tells you another name----"
"No, no, no!" cried Miss Howard wildly, flinging up her hands. "Don't say it! Oh, don't say it! It isn't true! It can't be true. I don't know what put such a wild--such a dreadful--idea into my head!"
"I am right, am I not?" asked Poirot.
"Yes, yes; you must be a wizard to have guessed. But it can't be so--it's too monstrous, too impossible. It must be Alfred Inglethorp."
Poirot shook his head gravely.
"Don't ask me about it," continued Miss Howard, "because I shan't tell you. I won't admit it, even to myself. I must be mad to think of such a thing."
Poirot nodded, as if satisfied.
"I will ask you nothing. It is enough for me that it is as I thought. And I--I, too, have an instinct. We are working together towards a common end."
"Don't ask me to help you, because I won't. I wouldn't lift a finger to--to----" She faltered.
"You will help me in spite of yourself. I ask you nothing--but you will be my ally. You will not be able to help yourself. You will do the only thing that I want of you."
"And that is?"
"You will watch!"
Evelyn Howard bowed her head.
"Yes, I can't help doing that. I am always watching--always hoping I shall be proved wrong."
"If we are wrong, well and good," said Poirot. "No one will be more pleased than I shall. But, if we are right? If we are right, Miss Howard, on whose side are you then?"
"I don't know, I don't know----"
"Come now."
"It could be hushed up."
"There must be no hushing up."
"But Emily herself----" She broke off.
"Miss Howard," said Poirot gravely, "this is unworthy of you."
Suddenly she took her face from her hands.
"Yes," she said quietly, "that was not Evelyn Howard who spoke!" She flung her head up proudly. "_This_ is Evelyn Howard! And she is on the side of Justice! Let the cost be what it may." And with these words, she walked firmly out of the room.
"There," said Poirot, looking after her, "goes a very valuable ally. That woman, Hastings, has got brains as well as a heart."
I did not reply.
"Instinct is a marvellous thing," mused Poirot. "It can neither be explained nor ignored."
"You and Miss Howard seem to know what you are talking about," I observed coldly. "Perhaps you don't realize that I am still in the dark."
"Really? Is that so, mon ami?"
"Yes. Enlighten me, will you?"
Poirot studied me attentively for a moment or two. Then, to my intense surprise, he shook his head decidedly.
"No, my friend."
"Oh, look here, why not?"
"Two is enough for a secret."
"Well, I think it is very unfair to keep back facts from me."
"I am not keeping back facts. Every fact that I know is in your possession. You can draw your own deductions from them. This time it is a question of ideas."
"Still, it would be interesting to know."
Poirot looked at me very earnestly, and again shook his head.
"You see," he said sadly, "_you_ have no instincts."
"It was intelligence you were requiring just now," I pointed out.
"The two often go together," said Poirot enigmatically.
The remark seemed so utterly irrelevant that I did not even take the trouble to answer it. But I decided that if I made any interesting and important discoveries--as no doubt I should--I would keep them to myself, and surprise Poirot with the ultimate result.
There are times when it is one's duty to assert oneself.
一阵由于惊呆的沉默。我们当中最少感到意外的贾普第一个开了腔。
“我得说，”他大声说，“你真行！的确如此，波洛先生！你的这些证人都没有搞错吧，我想？”
“那儿的话！我已经列了一张表——开了他们的姓名、地址。当然，你得去看看他们。不过你会发现一点没有错。”
“我相信这一点，”贾普放低了声音。“我非常感激你。差一点要把他给凭空地逮捕起来了。”他转身朝着英格里桑说：“可是，请原谅，先生，你为什么不在审讯时说出全部情况呢？”
“我来告诉你为什么，”波洛打断了他的话。“据某种谣传——”
“这是个最恶毒的、彻头彻尾的谣言，”阿弗雷德•英格里桑声音颤抖地打断说。
“英格里桑先生迫切希望不要有眼下在传的这种流言蜚语。我说得对吗？”
“很对，”英格里桑点点头，说。“我可怜的埃米莉还没安葬，我迫切希望这种谣言不再出现，这你会感到奇怪吗？”
“我和你想法不同，先生，”贾普说，“在我，与其因谋杀被捕，宁愿不管有多少流言了。我冒昧地认为，就连你那位可怜的太太，也许都会这样看的。要是没有波洛先生在这儿，你完全有可能已经被捕了，一点不假！”
“我也许是太愚蠢了，”英格里桑咕哝说。“可是你不知道，巡官先生，我已经受够迫害和诽谤了。”说着，他朝伊夫琳•霍华德狠狠地瞪了一眼。
“先生，”贾普敏捷地转身朝向约翰，说，“对不起，现在我想去看看老太太的卧室，接下去我还要和佣人们简单聊一聊。不必你多费神了。有波洛先生在这儿，他会给我引路的。”
一待他们都走出房间，波洛就转身对我示意，要我跟他上楼。到了楼上，他抓住我的手臂，把我拉到一旁。
“快，到另一侧去。站在那儿——就在厚呢盖着的门这一边。在我到来之前，别走动。”随后，他迅速回转身；重又和两个侦探一起走了。
我遵从他的指示，到了厚呢盖着的门旁边的位置上，我闹不清在这一要求的后面有什么安排。干么我一定站在这么个特指的地点守着呢？我深思地朝前面的过道注视着。我脑子里出现了一个想法。除了辛西娅•穆多契的之外，所有人的房间都在左侧。是不是有什么和这有关呢？我得报告谁来谁往吗？我忠实地站在自己的岗位上。几分钟过去了。没有一个人来。什么事都没有发生。
很可能过了约摸二十来分钟，波洛上我这儿来了。
“你没走动吧？”
“没有，我一直象块磐石似地安在这几。什么事都没发生。”
“嗨！”他是高兴呢，还是失望？“你一点东西都没有看到？”
“没有。”
“你也许听到什么了吧？猛地一撞——呢，朋友？”
“没有。”
“这可能么？嘿，我这是在自找烦恼！我一向不算笨的，只是轻轻做了个手势，”——我懂得波洛的手势——“我用左手掀翻了床边的桌子！”
他看上去如此孩子般地苦恼而又垂头丧气，于是我连忙安慰他。
“不要紧，老朋友。这有什么关系？你楼下的胜利鼓励着你哪。我可以告诉你，那使我们大家都感到意外。在英格里桑和雷克斯太太的这一不正当关系中，一定还有比我们想到的更多的情况，所以才使得他如此顽固地不肯开口。现在你打算怎么办？伦敦警察厅两位伙计哪儿去啦？”
“下楼和佣人们谈话去了。我给他们着了我们所有的证据。我对贾普很失望。他拿不出什么办法！”
“喂！”我朝窗外看看，说。“鲍斯坦医生在这儿。我认为你对他的看法是对的，波洛。我也不喜欢他。”
“此人挺机灵，”波洛沉思着说。
“哦，机灵得象魔鬼！我得说，看到他星期二进屋时的那股狼狈相，我真高兴极了。你一定从来没有见到过这样的场面！”于是我把那天医生的冒险活动描绘了一番。“他看上去十足象个田里的稻草人！从头到脚一身泥。”
“那未，你看到他了？”
“是呀，当然看到了。他不愿进来——那时刚吃好晚饭——可是英格里桑先生定要他进来。”
“什么？”波洛使劲地抓住了我的肩膀。“星期二傍晚鲍斯坦医生在这儿？在这儿？你从来没有告诉过我呀？你为什么不告诉我？为什么？为什么？”
他简直象要发疯似的。
“我亲爱的波洛，”我劝告说，“我从来没有想到，你会对这感兴趣的呀，我不知道它有什么重要。”
“什么重要？它头等重要！这么说，鲍斯坦医生星期二晚上——谋杀的这个晚上——在这儿。哈斯丁呀，你还没懂吗？这改变了一切——一切！”
我从来没有看到过他这样心烦意乱。他松开了抓住我的手，机械地摆弄着一对烛台，嘴里仍自言自语地喃喃叨念着：“是呀，这改变了一切——一切！”
“突然，他似乎做出了一个决定。”
“好吧！”他说。“我们必须马上行动。卡文迪什先生在哪儿？”
约瀚正在吸烟室里。波洛径直到了他那里。
“卡文迪什先生，我要去塔明斯特办件重要的事，有个新线索。我可以乘你的汽车吗？”
“哦，当然可以。你是说马上？”
“是的，对不起。”
约翰按了按铃，吩咐把车开过来。十分钟后，我们就已乘车经过园林，疾驰在前往塔明斯特的公路上了。
“波洛，”我顺从地说，“也许现在你可以告诉我有关这一切了吧？”
“好吧，朋友，有许多情况你自己是可以猜测到的。当然，你也了解，现在英格里桑先生解脱了，整个形势已经大大改变。我们面临的是完全新的问题。现在我们知道的，没有去买过毒药的有一个人。我们已经排除掉那些虚构的线索，现在得找到真正的线索。我已经查明，除了那位正在和你打网球的卡文迪什太太外，这家人家的任何一个人星期一傍晚都有可能冒充了英格里桑先生。同时，我们已经听过他的陈述，他把咖啡放在过道里了。审讯时，没有一个人对此多加注意——可是现在，它有着十分不同的意义。我们必须查明最后到底是谁把那杯咖啡送给英格里桑太太的，或者是在它搁在那儿时，有谁经过过道。据你说，只有两个人我们可以肯定说她们没有走近过那杯咖啡——就是卡文迪什太太，还有辛西娅小姐。”
“是的，是那样，”我感到心情变得无法形容的轻松。玛丽•卡文迪什当然不应该受到怀疑。
“在解脱阿弗雷德•英格里桑的过程中，”波洛继续说，“我还来不及仔细考虑，就被迫摊牌了。当我也许被认为是在迫踪他的时候，罪犯可能已放松了警惕，可是现在，他会加倍地小心。是的——会加倍小心。”他突然转身朝我问道：“如实告诉我，哈斯丁，你有没有怀疑什么人？”
我犹豫着。老实说，那天早上我脑子里曾经有一、两次闪过一个念头，这念头本身是轻率的，过份的。我已经因其荒谬而加以排斥，然而它仍固执地保留着。
“你不能把这叫做怀疑。”我喃喃地说。“它是十分可笑的。”
“说吧，”波洛鼓励地催促说，“别害怕，把你的想法说出来。你得一直注意你的直觉。”
“那好吧，”我脱口说出，“这说来是荒谬的——不过，我总怀疑霍华德小姐没有说出她所知道的全部情况！”
“霍华德小姐？…
“是的——你要笑我了——”
“一点也不。我干么要笑？”
“我总觉得，”我继续象犯了错误似他说，“我们有点把她搁在可能的怀疑范围之外了，单凭她已经离开了这儿这一点。可是，离这儿毕竟只有十五英里呀。车子半小时就能到。我们能肯定说发生谋杀那天晚上她一定不在斯泰尔斯么？”
“是呀，我的朋友，”波洛出乎意外地说，“我们能肯定。我的第一个行动就是打电话给她工作的那个医院。”
“是么？”
“是的，我获悉，星期二那天，她做下午班，而——突然来了一个伤员护送队——她欣然提出继续留着做夜班，这一提议被十分感激地接受了。事情就是这样。”
“哦！”我感到相当狼狈。“说实在，”我继续说，“她那么出奇地激烈反对英格里桑，倒使我怀疑起她来了。我总觉得，她事事都反对他。因此，我有一个想法，有关烧毁遗嘱方面。她也许知道点什么。也许是她烧掉了这份新的遗嘱，把它错当成比较早的于他有利的那份了。她也恨死他了。”
“你认为她的激烈反常吗？”
“是——的。她太激烈了。我实在怀疑她在这个问题上是否神志正常。”
波洛使劲地摇着头。
“不，不，这你方向完全不对头了。霍华德小姐脑子既没有毛病，智力也没有衰退。她是个神志健全、身强力壮的杰出典范。她的神志完全正常。”
“然而她恨英格里桑恨得简直象个疯子了。我的想法是——毫无疑问，这是个很可笑的想法——她想要毒死他——而由于某种原因，英格里桑太太把它给误服了。可是我一点都想不出这可能是怎么发生的。我这整个想法都是极其荒谬可笑的。”
“有一点，你还是对的。应该怀疑每一个人，然后从逻辑上加以验证，直到你自己完全满意，他们确实无罪，这样做始终是明智的。那未，有没有什么理由控告霍华德小姐蓄意毒死英格里桑太太呢？”
“什么！她很忠诚于她的呀！”我惊叫起来。
“嘿！嘿！”波洛急躁地大声说。“你说话象个孩子。要是霍华德小姐有能耐毒死这位老大太，她也就完全有本领装出她对她的忠诚。不，我们必须看看别的方面。你的设想是完全正确的，她反对阿弗雷德•英格里桑的程度已经激烈到不正常了；但是你从中得出的推论是完全错误的。我已经得出了我自己的推论，我相信这是正确的，不过眼下我还不愿说，”他停了一下，然后继续说：“现在，在我看来，说霍华德小姐是个凶手，还有一个难以迈越的障碍。”
“是什么呢？”
“英格里桑太大的死对霍华德小姐毫无好处。因为没有目的的谋杀是没有的。”
我考虑了一下。
“英格里桑太太会不会有可能写过一份于她有利的遗嘱？”
波洛摇摇头。
“可是你自己不是就对韦尔斯先生提到过这种可能吗？”
波洛笑了起来。
“那是有原因的。我不想提到我脑子里实际上想的那个人的名字。而霍华德小姐所处的地位与之有很多相同的地方，所以我就用她的名字来代替了。”
“不过，英格里桑太太也许真的写过。唔，她死那天下午写的那张遗嘱可能——”
可是。波洛的头摇得那么用劲，我只好停下不说了。
“不，朋友，关于那份遗嘱，我有我自己的一些想法。这我可以告诉你许多话——那遗嘱对霍华德小姐没有利。”
我接受他的断言，虽然我并没有真正搞清楚，关于这件事他怎么会如此肯定。
“好吧，”我叹了一口气说，“那未我们得宣判霍华德小姐无罪啦。我之所以一直来怀疑她，部分是由于你的过错。是你说的关于她在审讯时的证词的话，使我引起的。”
波洛显得困惑不解。
“关于她在审讯时的证词，我说了什么啦？”
“你不记得了？当我举例说到她和约翰•卡文迪什可以排除在怀疑对象之外时？”
“啊——哈——是的。”他似乎有点慌乱，可是接着就恢复了镇静。“顺便说一下，有件事情我想要你给我办一下。”
“当然可以。是什么事？”
“下一次你碰上单独和劳伦斯•卡文迪什在一起时，我想要你对他说这样几句话：‘波洛要我带一个口信给你。他说：‘找到那种特大号咖啡怀，你就可以安心了！’不要多说，也不要少说。”
“‘找到那种特大号咖啡杯，你就可以安心了！’对吗？”我问道，心中十分迷惑不解。
“好极了。”
“可这是什么意思呀？”
“嗳，这我要交给你去发现了。你有机会接触到真相的。只是把这对他说一说，着看他说点什么。”
“这好倒是好，——可是实在太神秘了。”
这时，我们驶进了塔明斯特，波洛指点车子开到“分析化学师”家。
波洛轻快地跳下车子，走了进去。几分钟后他又回来了。
“瞧，”他说。”这就是我的全部工作。”
“你在干什么呀？”我非常好奇地问道。
“我留下一点东西进行分析。”
“我知道，可是到底是什么呀？”
“我从卧室长柄平底锅里取的试样。”
“那已经作过化验了呀！”我喊了起来，惊得发呆了。“鲍斯坦医生已经拿它化验过了，你自己当时还讥笑里面可能有士的宁的说法呢！”
“我知道鲍斯坦医生化验过，”波洛心平气和地回答说。
“那为什么？”
“嗯，我想到要再化验一下，就这么回事。”
有关这个问题，我没能从他那儿再掏出别的话来。
就可可这件事来说，波洛的这种举动使我极为困惑不解。对此，我感到莫明其妙，然而，我信任他，虽然这种信任曾经一度有所减弱，但是，自从他的阿弗雷德•英格里桑是无罪的看法成功地证明是正确的以来，它又完全恢复了。
英格里桑太太的葬礼在第二天举行，在星期一，当我下楼来吃晚早餐时，约翰把我拉到一旁，告诉我说，英格里桑先生这天早上就要离开，住到村民公堂去，要住到他得以完成自己的计划。
“想到他要走，实在是一个很大的宽慰，哈斯丁，”我的老实朋友继续说。“以前我们认为事情是他干的，这是非常不好的，而现在，当我们为过去对他那么厌恶而感到内疚时，也决不会更坏。事实是，我们讨厌他。当然，也就事事都对他板面孔了。我看任何人都不会责备我们结论下得武断。而要是我们犯错，现在仍旧这样，还有这种粗鲁的感情的话，就得改正；一个人对他一点也不比从前喜欢的话，那就难办了。这整个事情真是尴尬透了！所以我很感激他的识趣，自动地离开了！母亲没有把斯泰尔斯庄园遗赠给他，这是一件大好事。一想到这个人会在这儿逞威作福，就叫人没法忍受。那样他就可以随意地乱花母亲的钱了。”
“你真的能保住这地方吗？”我问道。
“哦，是的。当然，得付遗产税，可是我父亲的一半财产在这儿，眼下，劳伦斯可以和我们待在一起，也有他的一份。当然，开始时我们会感到拮据一些，因为，正如我曾告诉过你那样，我自己在财务方面还有点亏空。眼下那批家伙还在等着哩。”
由于英格里桑的即将离丢，大家都如释重负，我们吃了一顿发生惨事以来感到最为适意的早餐。辛西娅自然更加精神勃勃，轻松愉快，她看上去又如原来那么健美漂亮了。除了劳伦斯仿佛依然那么忧郁、胆怯外，我们大家都非常高兴，展现在眼前的是一片崭新的，满怀希望的前景。
不用说，报纸上已经连篇累牍地登满了这一惨案的消息。引人注目的大字标题，这家人家每个成员的简历，微妙的影射，以及惯用的、大家所熟悉的诸如“警方已有线索云云”之类的陈词滥调。对我们真是什么都不加吝惜。这是个无精打采的时日，战争一时打得不死不活，于是报纸就使劲地抓住上流社会生活中的这类犯罪行为大做文章，“斯泰尔斯庄园奇案”就是当时的话题。
这自然使卡文迪什家的人十分恼火。这座宅邸不断受到那批新闻记者的包围，他们虽然一直未被允许进入房子，但他们仍继续逗留在村子里，以及在庄园的庭园中。带着照相机埋伏着，等候拍摄这家人家的任何一个未加留神的成员。我们整天都生活在一股宣传的疾风之中。伦敦警察厅的人员来来往往，调查、询问，目光锐利，言语冷淡。至于他们搞出什么结果，我们则一无所知。他们是不是有了线索？还是整个事情仍然处于未被查明的罪行一类？
早餐之后，多卡斯相当神秘地走到我的眼前问我，她是否可以和我说几句话。
“当然可以，是什么事，多卡斯？”
“哦，是这么一回事，先生。今天您多半能见着那位比利时先生吧？”
我点点头。
“是这样，先生，您知道，他特意问过我，我的女主人或者别的什么人，是不是有件绿色的衣服？”
“对，对。你发现一件了吗？”这引起了我的注意。
“不，不是那么回事，先生。不过后来我想起，少爷他们（多卡斯仍旧把约翰和劳伦斯称作‘少爷’）有只什么‘化装箱’，它就在前屋的阁楼里，先生，是口大柜子，里面全装满旧时的衣服和各种化装服饰，什么都有。我突然想到那里面也许有件绿色的女服。因此，请您告诉一下那位比利时先生——”
“我会告诉他的，多卡斯，”我答应说。
“多谢您了，先生。他是一位非常和蔼的先生，他打听事情，问起问题来，和伦敦来的那两位侦探完全不一个样。我通常是不要看外国人的，可是从报纸上说的我了解到，这些勇敢的比利时人是些不同寻常的外国人。确实是这样，他就是一位说话非常和气的先生。”
亲爱的老多卡斯！当她站在那儿，一张诚实坦率的脸向上朝着我，我心里想，她是一个那正在迅速消失的老式女仆的多好的典范啊。
我考虑，我得马上去村子拜访波洛；可是，我在半路上碰上了他，他正来庄园，于是我立即将多卡斯的口信转告了他。
“啊，这位勇敢的多卡斯！我们得去看看那柜子，虽然——不过没有关系——我们还是可以检查的。”
我们通过一扇长窗进入了屋子。门厅里一个人也没有，于是我们就迳直爬上那间阁楼。
一点不错，是有一口柜子，是口精致的老式箱柜，上面全是黄铜的饰钉，里面装满一切可以想得出的衣着服饰。波洛毫不客气地把里面的东西一件件都草草扔到地板上。有一、两样深浅不同的绿色织物，可是波洛看后都摇摇头。他对这次搜查似乎有点冷淡，仿佛他估计到不会有什么大结果。突然，他惊叫了一声。
“那是什么？”
“瞧！”
柜子都快掏空了，就在柜底摊着一大绺漂亮的黑胡子。
“啊！”波洛喊道。“嘿，嗨！”他双手提着它翻看了一阵，仔细作了检查。“新的，”他说。“是的，全新的。”
他踌躇了一会后，把它放回到柜子里，又象原先一样在它上面堆上所有其它的东西，然后敏捷地走下楼来。他径直走向餐具室，我们在那儿找到了正在忙着擦银餐具的多卡斯。
波洛用一种法国人的殷勤态度向她问了好，然后说：
“我们刚才已经仔细查看过那只柜子了，多卡斯，我非常感谢你告诉我这件事。那里面的确收藏了不少东西。我想问问你，那些东西他们常用吗？”
“噢，先生，现今不很常用了，虽然我们还是经常搞，少爷们管它叫‘化装晚会’的那种活动。有时这种活动非常有趣，先生。劳伦斯先生，他扮演得真精彩。好笑极了！我永远不会忘记他扮成波斯查①下楼来的那个晚上。我记得他是那么叫的——这是个东方国家的国王什么的吧。他手握着一把厚纸板做的大刀子，冲我说：‘当心，多卡斯，你得对我恭恭敬敬。这是我的磨得特快的短弯刀。要是你惹得我生起气来，它就叫你脑袋搬家！’辛西娅小姐，他们管她叫阿巴希②，大概是这么个名字——我想这是个法国式的杀人凶手一类的角色吧，她看上去象真的一样。你决不会相信，一个象她那么年轻漂亮的小姐竟能扮成这样一个凶恶的暴徒。没有一个人能认出她来。”
“这些晚会一定有趣极了，”波洛亲切地说。“我想，那次劳伦斯扮成波斯沙时，是戴了柜子里那绺漂亮的黑胡子下楼来的吧？”
“他是戴了一绺胡子，先生，”多卡斯笑着回答说。
“这我全知道，因为为了做这玩意儿，他还向我借过两绞黑绒线呢。我敢说，站得稍远一点的话，它着上去简直象是真的，至于说楼上有一络假胡子，这我一点不知道。我想，那一定是一直后来才买的。头发方面，据我知道，只有一顶红假发，别的就没有了。他们多半是用烧过的软木炭的——虽然在把它洗去时，弄起来很脏。有一次，辛西娅扮一个黑人，哦，她就招了麻烦。”
“这么说多卡斯不知道那绺黑胡子，”当我们出来重又走到过道里时，波洛若有所思地说。
“你认为这就是那一绺？”我热切地低声问道。
波洛点点头。
“我是这么想。它已被修剪过了，你注意到没有？”
“没有。”
“剪过了。完全剪成了英格里桑先生的样子，而且我还发现了一、两根剪下的胡子。哈斯丁，这案子可奥妙哩。”
“我真纳闷，是谁把它放进柜子的呢？”
“是个非常聪明的人，”波洛冷冰冰地说。“他在这幢房子里选择这么一个不会被觉察的地方来藏放它，这你想得到吗？是的，他很聪明。但是我们应该更聪明。我们应该聪明得使他一点都想不到我们是聪明的。”
我默然表示同意。
“瞧，朋友，你对我帮助是很大的。”
听了这赞扬的话，我十分高兴。以前，有时我总感到波洛并没有了解我的真正的价值。
“是的，”他若有所思地注视着我，继续说。“你对我来说是十分宝贵的。”
这自然使我感到非常满意，可是波洛下面的话却叫人不那么高兴了。
“在这幢房子里我必须有一个助手，”他沉思着说。
“有我。”我表示。
“不错，可是你胜任不了。”
我的自尊心受到了伤害，而且表现出来了。波洛急忙解释说：
“你没有完全理解我的意思。大家都知道你正和我在一起工作。我需要一个在任何方面都和我们没有联系的人。”
“哦，我明白了。约翰怎么样？”
“不行。我看不行。
“这位老兄也许不太机灵，”我沉思着说。
“霍华德小姐来了，”波洛突然说。“她正是我所要的人。不过，自从我为英格里桑先生开脱罪责以来，我已失去她的好感了。但是，我们还是可以试一试。”
霍华德小姐点了点头，那是一种极为勉强的礼貌，她总算同意波洛的谈几分钟话的请求。
我们走进小休息室，波洛关上了门。
“好吧，波洛先生，”霍华德个姐不耐烦地说，“有什么事？说吧。我忙着呢。”
“你还记得吗，小姐，我曾经请求你帮助我？”
“是的，我记得。”女士点点头。“我曾告诉你，我很乐意帮助你——绞死阿弗雷德•英洛里桑。”
“啊！”波洛严肃地朝她仔细看着。“霍华德小姐，我想问你一个问题。我要求你能予以如实地回答。”
“从来不会说谎，”霍华德小姐回答说。
“是这么一个问题。你仍然认为英格里桑大太是她的丈夫毒死的吗？”
你这是什么意思？”她尖刻地反问道。“你别以为你那漂亮的解释会对我有丝毫影响。我承认到药店买士的宁的不是他。那有什么？我敢说，他浸泡了毒蝇纸，就象我一开始就告诉你的一样。”
“那是砒霜——不是士的宁，”波洛温和地说。
“那有什么关系？用来干掉可怜的埃米莉，砒霜和士的宁是完全一样的。既然我确信这是他干的，他怎么干，这对我来说毫无关系。”
“确实如此。既然你确信这是他干的，”波洛平静地说。“我想以另一种方式提出我的问题。你从内心来说，到底是不是认为英格里桑太太是她丈夫毒死的？”
“天哪！”霍华德小姐喊了起来。”我不是一直对你们说他是个坏蛋吗？我不是一直对你们说他会把她杀死在床上吗？我不是一直把他恨透了吗？”
“确实如此，”波洛说。“这完全证明了我的一个小小的想法。”
“什么小小的想法？”
“霍华德小姐，你还记得我的朋友刚到这儿那天进行的一次谈话吗？他对我说了，其中你有一句话对我的印象非常深刻。你曾断言，要是发生了犯罪行为，任何一个你所爱的人被谋杀了，你确信，你凭直觉就能知道谁是罪犯，即使你完全不能证实这一点，这你还记得吗？”
“是的，我记得是那么说的。而且我也相信是那样。我猜想，你认为这是胡说八道吧？”
“一点也不。”
“可是你并没有注意到我对阿弗雷德•英格里桑的直觉吧？”
“是的，”波洛直截了当地回答说。“因为你的直觉不是英格里桑先生。”
“什么？”
“是的。你想要相信他犯了罪。你相信他会犯这个罪。但是你的直觉告诉你，他没有犯这个罪。它更多地告诉你的是——我要说下去吗？”
她迷惑不解地注视着他，做了个稍稍表示肯定的手势。
“为什么你一直反对英格里桑先生这么激烈，这我来告诉你好么？这是因为你试图相信你想要相信的事情。这是因为你试图抑制往你的直觉，而你的直觉是告诉你另一个名字——”
“不，不，不！”霍华德小姐挥起双手激动地喊了起来。“别说！哦，别说！这不是真的！这不可能是真的！我不知道我的脑子里怎么会钻进这么个荒唐的——这么个可怕的——念头！”
“我说得对，还是不对？”波洛问道。
“对的，对的；你一定是个能猜善算的男巫。可是事情不可能是这样——这太荒谬了，太不可能了。这一定是阿弗雷德•英格里桑。”
波洛严肃地摇摇头。
“这事别问我了，”霍华德小姐继续说，“我不会告诉你的。我也不会承认，那怕对我自己。一想到这样的事，我就会发疯的。”
波洛点点头，仿佛感到满意。
“我不再问你什么了。对我来说，证实事情如我所想就足够了。我——我也有一种直觉。为了达到共同的目标，我们将携手一起工作。”
“别要求我帮助你，因为我不愿意。我连个小指头都不会提起来——到——”说到这儿她踌躇了。
“你会不由自主地帮助我的。我对你没有要求——但是你会成为我的助手。你不可能去帮助你自己的。你只会去做我希望你做的事情。”
“那是什么呢？”
“你会看到的！”
伊夫琳•霍华德低下了头。
“是的，我不能帮着做那种事情。我要一直等着——一直等到我被证实是错了。”
“要是我们错了，那也好，”波洛说。“没有一个人会比我更高兴的。可是，要是我们对了呢？要是我们对了，霍华德小姐，那时你站在谁的一边呢？”
“我不知道，我不知道——”
“好吧。”
“这事可以下作声张。”
“没有必要秘而不宣。”
“可是埃米莉本人——”她突然停下不说了。
“霍华德小姐，”波洛严肃地说，“这对你来说是不相称的。”
她突然仰起埋在手中的脸。
“是的，”她镇静地说，“那可不是伊夫琳•霍华德说的话！”她蓦地骄傲地把头向上一甩。这才是伊夫琳•霍华德的话！她要站在正义一边！要付多大代价就让它付多大代价吧！”说着，她跨着坚定的步伐走出了房间。
“瞧！”波洛看着她的背影说，“一个多有价值的助手。这个女人，哈斯丁，她是很有头脑，很有心眼的。”
我没有应声。
“直觉是一种不可思议的东西，”波洛若有所思地说。“它既没法解释，又不能忽视。”
“你和霍华德小姐似乎都知道你们在谈什么，”我冷冷地说。”也许你还没意识到我可仍在五里雾中。”
“真的？是这样，我的朋友？”
“是的。给我开导开导，行吗？“
波洛朝我仔细地打量了一会。接着，使我极为惊诧的是，他坚决地摇摆头。
“不行，我的朋友。”
“啊，瞧你，为什么不行？”
“一个秘密最多两人知。”
“嘿，我认为，对我也保密，这很不公平。”
“我没有保密。我知道的每一个事实，你都了解。你可以从中作出自己的推论。现在是个思考的问题。”
“
Chapter 9 Dr. Bauerstein
I HAD had no opportunity as yet of passing on Poirot's message to Lawrence. But now, as I strolled out on the lawn, still nursing a grudge against my friend's high-handedness, I saw Lawrence on the croquet lawn, aimlessly knocking a couple of very ancient balls about, with a still more ancient mallet.
It struck me that it would be a good opportunity to deliver my message. Otherwise, Poirot himself might relieve me of it. It was true that I did not quite gather its purport, but I flattered myself that by Lawrence's reply, and perhaps a little skillful cross-examination on my part, I should soon perceive its significance. Accordingly I accosted him.
"I've been looking for you," I remarked untruthfully.
"Have you?"
"Yes. The truth is, I've got a message for you--from Poirot."
"Yes?"
"He told me to wait until I was alone with you," I said, dropping my voice significantly, and watching him intently out of the corner of my eye. I have always been rather good at what is called, I believe, creating an atmosphere.
"Well?"
There was no change of expression in the dark melancholic face. Had he any idea of what I was about to say?
"This is the message." I dropped my voice still lower. " 'Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.' "
"What on earth does he mean?" Lawrence stared at me in quite unaffected astonishment.
"Don't you know?"
"Not in the least. Do you?"
I was compelled to shake my head.
"What extra coffee-cup?"
"I don't know."
"He'd better ask Dorcas, or one of the maids, if he wants to know about coffee-cups. It's their business, not mine. I don't know anything about the coffee-cups, except that we've got some that are never used, which are a perfect dream! Old Worcester. You're not a connoisseur, are you, Hastings?"
I shook my head.
"You miss a lot. A really perfect bit of old china--it's pure delight to handle it, or even to look at it."
"Well, what am I to tell Poirot?"
"Tell him I don't know what he's talking about. It's double Dutch to me."
"All right."
I was moving off towards the house again when he suddenly called me back.
"I say, what was the end of that message? Say it over again, will you?"
" 'Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.' Are you sure you don't know what it means?" I asked him earnestly.
He shook his head.
"No," he said musingly, "I don't. I--I wish I did."
The boom of the gong sounded from the house, and we went in together. Poirot had been asked by John to remain to lunch, and was already seated at the table.
By tacit consent, all mention of the tragedy was barred. We conversed on the war, and other outside topics. But after the cheese and biscuits had been handed round, and Dorcas had left the room, Poirot suddenly leant forward to Mrs. Cavendish.
"Pardon me, madame, for recalling unpleasant memories, but I have a little idea"--Poirot's "little ideas" were becoming a perfect byword--"and would like to ask one or two questions."
"Of me? Certainly."
"You are too amiable, madame. What I want to ask is this: the door leading into Mrs. Inglethorp's room from that of Mademoiselle Cynthia, it was bolted, you say?"
"Certainly it was bolted," replied Mary Cavendish, rather surprised. "I said so at the inquest."
"Bolted?"
"Yes." She looked perplexed.
"I mean," explained Poirot, "you are sure it was bolted, and not merely locked?"
"Oh, I see what you mean. No, I don't know. I said bolted, meaning that it was fastened, and I could not open it, but I believe all the doors were found bolted on the inside."
"Still, as far as you are concerned, the door might equally well have been locked?"
"Oh, yes."
"You yourself did not happen to notice, madame, when you entered Mrs. Inglethorp's room, whether that door was bolted or not?"
"I--I believe it was."
"But you did not see it?"
"No. I--never looked."
"But I did," interrupted Lawrence suddenly. "I happened to notice that it _was_ bolted."
"Ah, that settles it." And Poirot looked crestfallen.
I could not help rejoicing that, for once, one of his "little ideas" had come to naught.
After lunch Poirot begged me to accompany him home. I consented rather stiffly.
"You are annoyed, is it not so?" he asked anxiously, as we walked through the park.
"Not at all," I said coldly.
"That is well. That lifts a great load from my mind."
This was not quite what I had intended. I had hoped that he would have observed the stiffness of my manner. Still, the fervour of his words went towards the appeasing of my just displeasure. I thawed.
"I gave Lawrence your message," I said.
"And what did he say? He was entirely puzzled?"
"Yes. I am quite sure he had no idea of what you meant."
I had expected Poirot to be disappointed; but, to my surprise, he replied that that was as he had thought, and that he was very glad. My pride forbade me to ask any questions.
Poirot switched off on another tack.
"Mademoiselle Cynthia was not at lunch to-day? How was that?"
"She is at the hospital again. She resumed work to-day."
"Ah, she is an industrious little demoiselle. And pretty too. She is like pictures I have seen in Italy. I would rather like to see that dispensary of hers. Do you think she would show it to me?"
"I am sure she would be delighted. It's an interesting little place."
"Does she go there every day?"
"She has all Wednesdays off, and comes back to lunch on Saturdays. Those are her only times off."
"I will remember. Women are doing great work nowadays, and Mademoiselle Cynthia is clever--oh, yes, she has brains, that little one."
"Yes. I believe she has passed quite a stiff exam."
"Without doubt. After all, it is very responsible work. I suppose they have very strong poisons there?"
"Yes, she showed them to us. They are kept locked up in a little cupboard. I believe they have to be very careful. They always take out the key before leaving the room."
"Indeed. It is near the window, this cupboard?"
"No, right the other side of the room. Why?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"I wondered. That is all. Will you come in?"
We had reached the cottage.
"No. I think I'll be getting back. I shall go round the long way through the woods."
The woods round Styles were very beautiful. After the walk across the open park, it was pleasant to saunter lazily through the cool glades. There was hardly a breath of wind, the very chirp of the birds was faint and subdued. I strolled on a little way, and finally flung myself down at the foot of a grand old beech-tree. My thoughts of mankind were kindly and charitable. I even forgave Poirot for his absurd secrecy. In fact, I was at peace with the world. Then I yawned.
I thought about the crime, and it struck me as being very unreal and far off.
I yawned again.
Probably, I thought, it really never happened. Of course, it was all a bad dream. The truth of the matter was that it was Lawrence who had murdered Alfred Inglethorp with a croquet mallet. But it was absurd of John to make such a fuss about it, and to go shouting out: "I tell you I won't have it!"
I woke up with a start.
At once I realized that I was in a very awkward predicament. For, about twelve feet away from me, John and Mary Cavendish were standing facing each other, and they were evidently quarrelling. And, quite as evidently, they were unaware of my vicinity, for before I could move or speak John repeated the words which had aroused me from my dream.
"I tell you, Mary, I won't have it."
Mary's voice came, cool and liquid:
"Have _you_ any right to criticize my actions?"
"It will be the talk of the village! My mother was only buried on Saturday, and here you are gadding about with the fellow."
"Oh," she shrugged her shoulders, "if it is only village gossip that you mind!"
"But it isn't. I've had enough of the fellow hanging about. He's a Polish Jew, anyway."
"A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavens the"--she looked at him--"stolid stupidity of the ordinary Englishman."
Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice. I did not wonder that the blood rose to John's face in a crimson tide.
"Mary!"
"Well?" Her tone did not change.
The pleading died out of his voice.
"Am I to understand that you will continue to see Bauerstein against my express wishes?"
"If I choose."
"You defy me?"
"No, but I deny your right to criticize my actions. Have _you_ no friends of whom I should disapprove?"
John fell back a pace. The colour ebbed slowly from his face.
"What do you mean?" he said, in an unsteady voice.
"You see!" said Mary quietly. "You _do_ see, don't you, that _you_ have no right to dictate to _me_ as to the choice of my friends?"
John glanced at her pleadingly, a stricken look on his face.
"No right? Have I _no_ right, Mary?" he said unsteadily. He stretched out his hands. "Mary----"
For a moment, I thought she wavered. A softer expression came over her face, then suddenly she turned almost fiercely away.
"None!"
She was walking away when John sprang after her, and caught her by the arm.
"Mary"--his voice was very quiet now--"are you in love with this fellow Bauerstein?"
She hesitated, and suddenly there swept across her face a strange expression, old as the hills, yet with something eternally young about it. So might some Egyptian sphinx have smiled.
She freed herself quietly from his arm, and spoke over her shoulder.
"Perhaps," she said; and then swiftly passed out of the little glade, leaving John standing there as though he had been turned to stone.
Rather ostentatiously, I stepped forward, crackling some dead branches with my feet as I did so. John turned. Luckily, he took it for granted that I had only just come upon the scene.
"Hullo, Hastings. Have you seen the little fellow safely back to his cottage? Quaint little chap! Is he any good, though, really?"
"He was considered one of the finest detectives of his day."
"Oh, well, I suppose there must be something in it, then. What a rotten world it is, though!"
"You find it so?" I asked.
"Good Lord, yes! There's this terrible business to start with. Scotland Yard men in and out of the house like a jack-in-the-box! Never know where they won't turn up next. Screaming headlines in every paper in the country--damn all journalists, I say! Do you know there was a whole crowd staring in at the lodge gates this morning. Sort of Madame Tussaud's chamber of horrors business that can be seen for nothing. Pretty thick, isn't it?"
"Cheer up, John!" I said soothingly. "It can't last for ever."
"Can't it, though? It can last long enough for us never to be able to hold up our heads again."
"No, no, you're getting morbid on the subject."
"Enough to make a man morbid, to be stalked by beastly journalists and stared at by gaping moon-faced idiots, wherever he goes! But there's worse than that."
"What?"
John lowered his voice:
"Have you ever thought, Hastings--it's a nightmare to me--who did it? I can't help feeling sometimes it must have been an accident. Because--because--who could have done it? Now Inglethorp's out of the way, there's no one else; no one, I mean, except--one of us."
Yes, indeed, that was nightmare enough for any man! One of us? Yes, surely it must be so, unless-----
A new idea suggested itself to my mind. Rapidly, I considered it. The light increased. Poirot's mysterious doings, his hints--they all fitted in. Fool that I was not to have thought of this possibility before, and what a relief for us all.
"No, John," I said, "it isn't one of us. How could it be?"
"I know, but, still, who else is there?"
"Can't you guess?"
"No."
I looked cautiously round, and lowered my voice.
"Dr. Bauerstein!" I whispered.
"Impossible!"
"Not at all."
"But what earthly interest could he have in my mother's death?"
"That I don't see," I confessed, "but I'll tell you this: Poirot thinks so."
"Poirot? Does he? How do you know?"
I told him of Poirot's intense excitement on hearing that Dr. Bauerstein had been at Styles on the fatal night, and added:
"He said twice: 'That alters everything.' And I've been thinking. You know Inglethorp said he had put down the coffee in the hall? Well, it was just then that Bauerstein arrived. Isn't it possible that, as Inglethorp brought him through the hall, the doctor dropped something into the coffee in passing?"
"H'm," said John. "It would have been very risky."
"Yes, but it was possible."
"And then, how could he know it was her coffee? No, old fellow, I don't think that will wash."
But I had remembered something else.
"You're quite right. That wasn't how it was done. Listen." And I then told him of the coco sample which Poirot had taken to be analysed.
John interrupted just as I had done.
"But, look here, Bauerstein had had it analysed already?"
"Yes, yes, that's the point. I didn't see it either until now. Don't you understand? Bauerstein had it analysed--that's just it! If Bauerstein's the murderer, nothing could be simpler than for him to substitute some ordinary coco for his sample, and send that to be tested. And of course they would find no strychnine! But no one would dream of suspecting Bauerstein, or think of taking another sample--except Poirot," I added, with belated recognition.
"Yes, but what about the bitter taste that coco won't disguise?"
"Well, we've only his word for that. And there are other possibilities. He's admittedly one of the world's greatest toxicologists----"
"One of the world's greatest what? Say it again."
"He knows more about poisons than almost anybody," I explained. "Well, my idea is, that perhaps he's found some way of making strychnine tasteless. Or it may not have been strychnine at all, but some obscure drug no one has ever heard of, which produces much the same symptoms."
"H'm, yes, that might be," said John. "But look here, how could he have got at the coco? That wasn't downstairs?"
"No, it wasn't," I admitted reluctantly.
And then, suddenly, a dreadful possibility flashed through my mind. I hoped and prayed it would not occur to John also. I glanced sideways at him. He was frowning perplexedly, and I drew a deep breath of relief, for the terrible thought that had flashed across my mind was this: that Dr. Bauerstein might have had an accomplice.
Yet surely it could not be! Surely no woman as beautiful as Mary Cavendish could be a murderess. Yet beautiful women had been known to poison.
And suddenly I remembered that first conversation at tea on the day of my arrival, and the gleam in her eyes as she had said that poison was a woman's weapon. How agitated she had been on that fatal Tuesday evening! Had Mrs. Inglethorp discovered something between her and Bauerstein, and threatened to tell her husband? Was it to stop that denunciation that the crime had been committed?
Then I remembered that enigmatical conversation between Poirot and Evelyn Howard. Was this what they had meant? Was this the monstrous possibility that Evelyn had tried not to believe?
Yes, it all fitted in.
No wonder Miss Howard had suggested "hushing it up." Now I understood that unfinished sentence of hers: "Emily herself----" And in my heart I agreed with her. Would not Mrs. Inglethorp have preferred to go unavenged rather than have such terrible dishonour fall upon the name of Cavendish.
"There's another thing," said John suddenly, and the unexpected sound of his voice made me start guiltily. "Something which makes me doubt if what you say can be true."
"What's that?" I asked, thankful that he had gone away from the subject of how the poison could have been introduced into the coco.
"Why, the fact that Bauerstein demanded a post-mortem. He needn't have done so. Little Wilkins would have been quite content to let it go at heart disease."
"Yes," I said doubtfully. "But we don't know. Perhaps he thought it safer in the long run. Some one might have talked afterwards. Then the Home Office might have ordered exhumation. The whole thing would have come out, then, and he would have been in an awkward position, for no one would have believed that a man of his reputation could have been deceived into calling it heart disease."
"Yes, that's possible," admitted John. "Still," he added, "I'm blest if I can see what his motive could have been."
I trembled.
"Look here," I said, "I may be altogether wrong. And, remember, all this is in confidence."
"Oh, of course--that goes without saying."
We had walked, as we talked, and now we passed through the little gate into the garden. Voices rose near at hand, for tea was spread out under the sycamore-tree, as it had been on the day of my arrival.
Cynthia was back from the hospital, and I placed my chair beside her, and told her of Poirot's wish to visit the dispensary.
"Of course! I'd love him to see it. He'd better come to tea there one day. I must fix it up with him. He's such a dear little man! But he _is_ funny. He made me take the brooch out of my tie the other day, and put it in again, because he said it wasn't straight."
I laughed.
"It's quite a mania with him."
"Yes, isn't it?"
We were silent for a minute or two, and then, glancing in the direction of Mary Cavendish, and dropping her voice, Cynthia said:
"Mr. Hastings."
"Yes?"
"After tea, I want to talk to you."
Her glance at Mary had set me thinking. I fancied that between these two there existed very little sympathy. For the first time, it occurred to me to wonder about the girl's future. Mrs. Inglethorp had made no provisions of any kind for her, but I imagined that John and Mary would probably insist on her making her home with them--at any rate until the end of the war. John, I knew, was very fond of her, and would be sorry to let her go.
John, who had gone into the house, now reappeared. His good-natured face wore an unaccustomed frown of anger.
"Confound those detectives! I can't think what they're after! They've been in every room in the house--turning things inside out, and upside down. It really is too bad! I suppose they took advantage of our all being out. I shall go for that fellow Japp, when I next see him!"
"Lot of Paul Prys," grunted Miss Howard.
Lawrence opined that they had to make a show of doing something.
Mary Cavendish said nothing.
After tea, I invited Cynthia to come for a walk, and we sauntered off into the woods together.
"Well?" I inquired, as soon as we were protected from prying eyes by the leafy screen.
With a sigh, Cynthia flung herself down, and tossed off her hat. The sunlight, piercing through the branches, turned the auburn of her hair to quivering gold.
"Mr. Hastings--you are always so kind, and you know such a lot."
It struck me at this moment that Cynthia was really a very charming girl! Much more charming than Mary, who never said things of that kind.
"Well?" I asked benignantly, as she hesitated.
"I want to ask your advice. What shall I do?"
"Do?"
"Yes. You see, Aunt Emily always told me I should be provided for. I suppose she forgot, or didn't think she was likely to die--anyway, I am _not_ provided for! And I don't know what to do. Do you think I ought to go away from here at once?"
"Good heavens, no! They don't want to part with you, I'm sure."
Cynthia hesitated a moment, plucking up the grass with her tiny hands. Then she said: "Mrs. Cavendish does. She hates me."
"Hates you?" I cried, astonished.
Cynthia nodded.
"Yes. I don't know why, but she can't bear me; and _he_ can't, either."
"There I know you're wrong," I said warmly. "On the contrary, John is very fond of you."
"Oh, yes--_John_. I meant Lawrence. Not, of course, that I care whether Lawrence hates me or not. Still, it's rather horrid when no one loves you, isn't it?"
"But they do, Cynthia dear," I said earnestly. "I'm sure you are mistaken. Look, there is John--and Miss Howard--"
Cynthia nodded rather gloomily. "Yes, John likes me, I think, and of course Evie, for all her gruff ways, wouldn't be unkind to a fly. But Lawrence never speaks to me if he can help it, and Mary can hardly bring herself to be civil to me. She wants Evie to stay on, is begging her to, but she doesn't want me, and--and--I don't know what to do." Suddenly the poor child burst out crying.
I don't know what possessed me. Her beauty, perhaps, as she sat there, with the sunlight glinting down on her head; perhaps the sense of relief at encountering someone who so obviously could have no connection with the tragedy; perhaps honest pity for her youth and loneliness. Anyway, I leant forward, and taking her little hand, I said awkwardly:
"Marry me, Cynthia."
Unwittingly, I had hit upon a sovereign remedy for her tears. She sat up at once, drew her hand away, and said, with some asperity:
"Don't be silly!"
I was a little annoyed.
"I'm not being silly. I am asking you to do me the honour of becoming my wife."
To my intense surprise, Cynthia burst out laughing, and called me a "funny dear."
"It's perfectly sweet of you," she said, "but you know you don't want to!"
"Yes, I do. I've got--"
"Never mind what you've got. You don't really want to--and I don't either."
"Well, of course, that settles it," I said stiffly. "But I don't see anything to laugh at. There's nothing funny about a proposal."
"No, indeed," said Cynthia. "Somebody might accept you next time. Good-bye, you've cheered me up very much."
And, with a final uncontrollable burst of merriment, she vanished through the trees.
Thinking over the interview, it struck me as being profoundly unsatisfactory.
It occurred to me suddenly that I would go down to the village, and look up Bauerstein. Somebody ought to be keeping an eye on the fellow. At the same time, it would be wise to allay any suspicions he might have as to his being suspected. I remembered how Poirot had relied on my diplomacy. Accordingly, I went to the little house with the "Apartments" card inserted in the window, where I knew he lodged, and tapped on the door.
An old woman came and opened it.
"Good afternoon," I said pleasantly. "Is Dr. Bauerstein in?"
She stared at me.
"Haven't you heard?"
"Heard what?"
"About him."
"What about him?"
"He's took."
"Took? Dead?"
"No, took by the perlice."
"By the police!" I gasped. "Do you mean they've arrested him?"
"Yes, that's it, and--"
I waited to hear no more, but tore up the village to find Poirot.
迄今为止，我都没有机会把波洛的口信传给劳伦斯。而现在，当我仍然对我的朋友的专横怀着一肚子不满。去草坪上散步时，我看到劳伦斯在草地槌球场上，正在漫无目标地乱敲几只非常老式的槌球，用的木槌则更加老式。
我觉得，这是个传话的好机会。否则，也许波洛本人要和他谈这件事情了，可我的确没有完全推测出它的目的所在。不过我自己认为通过劳伦斯的回答，也许再加上我的一点巧妙的盘问，我是很快能理解它的意义的。因此，我就走上前去和他搭话。
“我一直在找你，”我说了假话。
“你在找？”
“是的，是真的。我给你带来个口信——是波洛的。”
“是吗？”
“他要我等到我和你单独在一起时才说，”我意味深长地压低声音说，并且目不转睛地斜眼睨看他。我相信，在所谓谓制造气氛方面，我向来是有一套的。
“噢？”
那张黝黑、忧郁的脸上的表情毫无变化。对我要说的话他有什么想法呢？
“是这么个口信，”我更加压低了声音。“‘找到那种特大号咖啡杯，你就可以安心了。’”
“他这到底是什么意思？”劳伦斯十分真挚的惊讶地盯着我。
“你不懂？”
“一点不懂。你呢？”
我不得不摇摇头。
“什么特大号咖啡怀？”
“我不知道。”
“要是他要了解咖啡杯的事，他最好还是去问问多卡斯，或者别的女佣人，这是她们的职责，不是我的事。有关咖啡杯的事我什么也不知道，我们只搞到过几只永远没法用的，那可真是妙极了！是老伍斯特①。你不是个鉴赏家，是吧，哈斯丁？”
我摇摇头。
“这么说来实在太可惜了，那才叫真正是完美无缺的古老瓷器——摸它一下，或看甚至是看上一眼，也是十分愉快的。”
“喂，我告诉波洛什么？”
“告诉他，我不懂他在说什么。对我来说这是句莫明其妙的话。”
“好吧。”
当我朝房子走去时，他突然把我叫了回来。
“我说，那口信的结尾是什么？你再说一遍，行吗？”
“‘找到那种特大号咖啡杯，你就可以安心了。’你真的不懂这是什么意思吗？”我认真地问他。
他摇摇头。
“不懂，”他若有所思地说，“我不懂，我——我希望我能懂。”
房子里传出当当的锣声，于是我们一起走了进去。波洛接受约翰的邀请，留下来吃中饭了，他已坐在餐桌旁。
经大家默许，一律不提及惨案的事。我们谈论战争，以及其它外界的话题。可是，在轮递过乳酪和饼干，多卡斯离开房间之后，波洛突然朝卡文迪什太太俯过身子。
“恕我想起一些不愉快的事，太太，我有个小小的想法！——波洛的“小小的想法”快要成为一个极好的绰号了。——。“想要问一、两个问题。”
“问我？当然可以。”
“你太和蔼克亲了，太太。我要问的是这个：从辛西娅小姐房间通向英格里桑太太房间的门，你说是闩着的吗？”
“确实是闩着的，”玛丽•卡文迪什回答说，她显得有点惊奇。“我在审讯时就这么说了。”
“闩着的？”
“是的，”她显得困惑不解。
“我的意思是，”波洛解释说，“你能肯定门是闩着的，不仅上了锁？”
“哦，我懂得你的意思了。不，我不知道。我说闩着，意思是说它关牢了，我没法打开它，不过我相信，所有门发现都在里面给闩上了。”
“就你所知，那门也许同样还锁得好好的吧？”
“哦，是的。”
“你自己没有碰巧注意到。大太，当你走进英格里桑太太房间时，那门是闩着的还是不闩的？”
“我——我相信它是闩着的。”
“你没看到？”
“是的。我——没看。”
“可是，我注意了，”劳伦斯突然打断了话。“我碰巧注意到，它是闩着的。”
“噢，那就解决了。”于是波洛显得垂头丧气。
我为他这一次一个“小小的想法”的落空而忍不住感到高兴。
午饭后。波洛请求我陪同回家。我勉强地答应了。
“你生气了吗？”我们走过园林时，他焦急地问道。
“根本没有。”我冷冷地回答。
“那就好。我思想上的大负担解除了。”
这不完全是我原来的目的。我本来是希望他会批评我的生硬态度的。可他还是用热情的话来平息我的怒气。我缓和下来了。
“我把你的口信带给劳伦斯了，”我说。
“他说了什么来着？他完全给懵住了吧？”
“是的，我完全相信他根本不懂你说的意思是什么。”
我原来认为波洛会因之感到失望的；可是，使我惊诧的是，他回答说，这正不出他之所料，还说，他感到非常高兴。我的自尊心不允许我再对他提出任何问题。
波洛调换了话题。
“辛西娅小姐今天吃中饭时不在吧？这是怎么啦？”
“她又去医院了。今天她继续上班了。”
“啊，她真是个勤劳的女孩子。又长得那么漂亮。她就象我在意大利看到过的那些美人画。我很想去看看她的那间药房。你认为她会让我看吗？”
“我确信她是会高兴的。那是个很有趣的小房间。”
“她每天上那儿吗？”
“她星期三都休息，星期六吃中饭就回来。那是她唯一的休假时间。”
“我会记得的。现在女人都在担当重大的工作，辛西娅小姐很聪明——啊，是的，她很有才智，这个小女孩。”
“是的，我相信她经过非常严格的考试。”
“毫无疑问，毕竟这是一项责任重大的工作。我猜想，她们那儿也有剧毒药吧？”
“是的，她曾指给我们看过，全都锁在一只小橱子里。我相信他们都必须十分小心，离开那房间时，他们总是把钥匙交出。”
“当然，它靠近窗口吗，那小橱子？”
“不，恰恰在房间的另一边。怎么啦？”
波洛耸耸自己的肩膀。
“我感到奇怪。就这么回事。你要进来吗？”
我们已经走到他的小别墅跟前了。
“不，我想我这就回去了。我打算套远路穿过林子走。”
斯泰尔斯庄园周围的林于是非常美丽的。在开阔的园囿中步行后，再缓缓地漫步在这凉爽的林间空地上，使人心旷神怡。几乎是没有一丝微风。就连鸟儿的啾啾声也是轻幽幽。我在一条小径上漫步着，最后终于在一棵高大的老山毛榉树脚一屁股坐了下来，我对人类的看法是仁慈的，也是宽厚的，我甚至原谅了波洛的荒谬的保密。实际上，我是与世无争。接着，我就打起呵欠来了。
我想起了那桩罪行，而且感到它是那么虚幻，那么遥远。
我又打了个呵欠。
我心里想，也许，这种事真的从来没有发生过。当然，这全是一场恶梦。事情的真相是劳伦斯用槌球木槌杀害了阿弗雷德•英格里桑。但是，可笑的是约翰对这件事竟如此大惊小怪，他大声嚷道：“我告诉你，我不许你这样！”
我突然惊醒了。
这时，我立刻就意识到我正处于尴尬的境地。因为，在离我大约十二英尺的地方，约翰和玛丽•卡文迪什正面对面地站着，他们显然正在争吵。而且，很明显，他们没有觉察我就在近旁。因为，在我走上前去或者开口之前，约翰又重复了把我从梦中惊醒的那句话。
“我告诉你，玛丽，我不许你这样！”
传来了玛丽的声音，冷淡、清脆。
“你有什么权利来批评我的行动？”
“这会成为村子里的话柄！我母亲星期六刚刚葬掉，你这就和那家伙到处闲荡。”
“哼，”她耸耸肩，“要是你所关心的只是村子里的闲话就好了！”
“可是不仅如此，那个东游西荡的家伙的那一套，我已经领教够了。不管怎样，他是个波兰犹太人。”
“犹太血统的色调并不是坏东西。它能使那”——她朝他看着——“迟钝愚蠢的普通英国人变得灵活起来。”
她的两眼热如炭火，她的语气冷若冰霜，热血象绯红的潮水，一直涌到约翰的脸上，对此我没有感到惊讶。
“玛丽！”
“怎么啦？”她的语气没有改变。
他的声音中已经没有辩论的味道。
“我要知道，你是不是还要违背我的意愿继续丢着鲍斯坦？”
“只要我愿意。”
“你向我挑战？”
“不，但是我不承认你有权批评我的行动。你的朋友难道我都满意的吗？”
约翰后退了一步。他的脸色慢漫变淡了。
“你这算什么意思？”他反问道，语气动摇不定。
“你自己知道！”玛丽平静地回答说。“你应该知道，你有没有权来指挥我选择朋友。”
约翰恳求似地朝她瞥了一眼，在他脸上有一种惊慌的神情。
“没权？我没权，玛丽？”他颤抖着说，他伸开了两手。“玛丽——”
片刻间，我想，她犹豫了，她的脸上出现了一种较为温和的表情，接着，她突然一转身，几乎是恶狠狠地离开了。
“别这样！”
她顾自走开，约翰急忙追上前去，抓住她的手臂。
“玛丽，”——他的声音现在已非常平静——“你爱上那个鲍斯坦了吗？”
她犹豫了一下，突然间，她的脸上掠过了一种奇怪的表情，老样子，但带着某种新的从未见过的东西。大概有个埃及的狮身人面象就是这么笑着的。
她从容地从他的手臂中挣脱出来，扭过头说：
“也许是。”
说完，她就迅速地穿过小小的林间空地走了，留下约翰一人一动不动地站在那儿，仿佛已经变成了一块石头。
我有意颇为招摇地向前走去，尽量用脚劈劈啪啪地踩着地上的枯枝败叶。约翰转过身米。幸亏，他以为我刚来到这儿。
“喂，哈斯丁。你看到那小个子安全回到自己的小别墅了吗？多有趣的小个子！可是，他真的那么能干么？”
“他被认为是他那个时代的最杰出的侦探之一。”
“哦，好吧，那我想其中必有一定道理。可是，这次可不太妙啊！”
“你觉得如此？””我问道。
“老天爷，说真的！首先是这件倒霉事。伦敦警察厅的那些人从屋子里进进出出，就象是只玩偶匣②，始终不知道下次他们会从那儿跳上来。国内的每份报纸上都是惊人的大标题——哼，那些该死的记者！你知道，今天早上有一大群人挤在庄园的大门口，朝里盯着看。有几分象塔梭滋夫人名人蜡象陈列馆了。可以免费参观。太过分了，不是吗？”
“别灰心丧气，约翰！”我安慰说。“不会老是这么下去的。”
“什么不会？它会拖得我们永远再抬不起头来。”
“不，不，是你在这个问题上精神有点病态了。”
“是会把一个人给搞病的，成天受那班卑鄙下流的新闻记者的潜步追踪，还要受那伙目瞪口呆的圆脸傻瓜的惊讶凝视，你叫他往哪儿走呀！可是情况还有比这更坏的哩。”
“什么？”
约翰压低了声音。
“你想过没有，哈斯丁——这对我来说真是一场恶梦——这是谁干的？有时我禁不住会认为这一定是个偶然事件。因为——因为谁会干这种事呢？现在，英格里桑已排除在外，不会有另外的人了；不会有了，我的意思是，除他之外，我们当中没有一个人会干这种事的。”
是的，确实如此，这事对任何人来说都是一场恶梦！我们当中的一个？是的，事情谅必确实如此，除非——
一个新的想法浮现在我的脑际，迅速地考虑了一下。心里亮堂了。波洛的不可思议的举动，他的暗示——一所有这一切都和我的想法符合。真是傻瓜。以前我竟没有想到这种可能性。这对我们大家来说都是一个多大的宽慰。
“不，约翰，”我说道，“这不是我们当中的一个。这怎么会呢？”
“我知道，但另外还有谁呢？”
“你猜得到吗？”
“猜不到。”
我谨慎地朝四周打量了一下，然后压低了声音。
“鲍斯坦医生！”我低声说。
“不可能！”
“毫无问题。”
“可是他和我母亲的死究竟会有什么利害关系呢？”
“这我还弄不清，”我承认，“不过我得告诉你：波洛是这么想的。”
“波洛？他这么想？你怎么知道？”
我告诉他，波洛听到说那个不幸的晚上鲍斯坦医生在斯泰尔斯时，非常激动，我还进而说：
“他说了两次：‘这改变了一切’。我一直都在想。你知道的，英格里桑不是说把咖啡放在过道里的吗？咳，恰恰就在那时，鲍斯坦到了。是不是有这种可能，当英格里桑带他经过过道时，他把什么东西放进了咖啡？”
“哼，”约翰说。“那可太冒险了。”
“是的，但这是有可能的。”
“可是，当时他怎么会知道这是她的咖啡呢？不，老朋友，我认为这是站不住脚的。”
但是我想起了另一件事。
“你说得很对。问题不在于这是怎么做的。你听我说，”接着，我告诉了他波洛拿可可试样去做分析的事。
当我还在说时，约翰就打断了我的话。
“但是，请注意，鲍斯坦已经拿它去作过分析了。”
“是的，是的，这是要害。迄今为止，我们根本没有看到过那试样。你还不理解吗？鲍斯但拿它去做分析——正是这一点！如果鲍斯坦就是凶手，没有什么比他用某种普通的可可来取代他的试样送去化验更为简便的了。当然，他们也就发现不了士的宁！可是除了波洛，任何人做梦也不会去怀疑鲍斯坦，或者想到再取一次试样，”我带着迟晚了的认识进一步说。
“是的，可是那可可掩盖不了苦味怎么办呢？”
“咳，这我们只是听了他说的。还有另一种可能呀。他是公认的世界上最著名的毒物学家之一——”
“世界上最著名的什么之一？再说一遍。”
“他懂得的有关毒药的知识，几乎比任何人都要多，”我解释说。“嗯，我的想法是，可能他已经找到某种方法使士的宁无味。或者是也许那根本就不是士的宁，而是某种从来没人听到过的不知名的毒药，它会产生许多相同的症状。”
“哼，是呀，也许是这样，”约翰说。“可是注意，他怎么够得着那可可呢？它不在楼下呀！”
“是的，它是不在楼下，”我勉强承认说。
于是，突然，一种可怕的可能性在我的脑际一闪。我暗自希望并祈祷，但愿约翰不要也产生这种想法。我朝他瞟了一眼。他正迷惑不解地皱着眉头，于是我宽慰地深深戏了一口气。因为我脑际掠过的可怕念头是：鲍斯坦医生可能有一个同谋。
然而这还不能肯定！的确，没有一个象玛丽•卡文迪什这样漂亮的女人，会是个持刀杀人的凶手。但是漂亮的女人下毒。过去是时有所闻的。
于是，我突然想起，我刚到那天喝茶时的第一次谈话。当她说到毒药是女人的武器时，她的两眼在闪闪发光。在那个不幸的星期二的傍晚，她是多么焦虑不安！是不是英格里桑太太发现了她和鲍斯坦之间的什么，而且威胁说要告诉她的丈夫？这次犯罪就是为了要阻止那种告发？
后来，我又想起了波洛和伊夫琳•霍华德之间的那次莫明奇妙的谈话，他们的意思是不是就是这个？这是不是就是伊夫琳所竭力不予相信的可怕的可能性？
对了，这全部符合。
霍华德小姐提出“这事可以不作声张，”也就不奇怪了。现在，我已经懂得她那句没有说完的话：“埃米莉本人——”我内心也完全同意她的看法。英格里桑太大一定宁愿不要报仇，而决不愿这种极其丢脸的事落到卡文迪什这个姓氏上的。
“另外还有一件事，”约翰突然说，他那出乎意外的说话声使我内疚地吃了一惊。“这使我怀疑你说的是否符合事实。”
“是什么事？”我问道，感谢他已抛开毒药如何能放进可可这个话题。
“嗨，事实上是鲍斯坦要求验尸的。他本来不需要这样做嘛。那位小个子威尔金斯是很愿意让它作为心脏病死的。”
“是的，”我含糊地说。“但是我们不知道。可能，他认为从长远来着，这样做比较安全。以后也许会有人说闲话。到那时，说不定内务部还会下令挖尸检验。整个事情就会暴露，那样他就会处于尴尬的境地，因为没有一个人会相信，象他这样一个有声望的人会把这错着成心脏病。”
“是。那是可能的。”约翰承认。不过，”他又补充说，“我可不想知道他的动机可能是什么。”
我哆嗦了一下。
“喂，注意，”我说，“我可能完全错了，还有，请记住，这都是秘密。”
“噢，当然——不要说出去。”
我们边谈边走，现在，我们已穿过一个小门，走进庄园。近傍响起了说话声。那棵大枫树下，已经摆好了茶点，就是我刚来那天摆过的地方，
辛西娅从医院回来了，于是我把自己的椅子放到她的旁边，同时告诉她，波洛希望去参观她们的药房。
“当然可以！我欢迎他去看看。他最好哪天上那儿喝茶去。我一定为他准备好。他是位多亲切的小个子！可是他这人真有趣。那天，他要我从领结上取下饰针，再别回去，因为他说它没有别直。”
我笑了起来。
“这完全是他的一种癖好。”
“啊，是么？”
我们沉默了一两分钟，接着，辛西娅朝玛丽•卡文迪什的方向瞥了一眼，压低声音说：
“哈斯丁先生。”
“什么事？”
“喝完茶，我想和你谈谈。”
她朝玛丽那一瞥引起了我的联想。心想，这两人之间很少有共同之处。我第一次对这姑娘的前途感到纳闷。英格里桑太太没有为她作出任何安徘，不过我料想约翰和玛丽多半是一定要她和他们住在一起的——至少得到战争结束。我知道，约翰很喜欢她，他是舍不得让她走的。
进屋去的约翰现在又出现了。他那张温厚的脸上，一反常态地气得皱起了眉头。
“那些侦探莫讨厌！我真闹不清他们在找些什么！屋子的每个房间都去了——翻箱倒柜的搞得乱七八槽。真是太讨厌了！他们是利用我们都不在的时候搞的。下次见到那个贾普，我要找他了！”
“一帮打破砂锅问到底的家伙，”霍华德小姐咕哝着说。
劳伦斯则认为，这是他们不得不表示一下他们是在干事。
玛丽•卡文迪什什么也没有说。
喝完茶，我邀辛西娅去散步，我们一块儿漫步进树林。
“怎么样？”一当窗帘般的树叶把盯着我们的目光挡住后，我就问道。
辛西娅叹了一口气，猛地坐了下来，一下子脱丢帽子。透过枝叶的阳光，把她栗色的头发照成了闪闪发光的金黄。
“哈斯丁先生——你总是那么和蔼，而且你懂得这么多。”
这时，我感到辛西娅确实是一个非常迷人的姑娘！比从来不说这类话的玛丽要妩媚得多。
“怎么样？”当她犹豫不决时，我温和地问道。
“我想征求你的意见。我该怎么办？”
“怎么办？”
“是呀。你知道，埃米莉阿姨总是对我说，我会得到抚养。我想她准是忘了，或者没有想到她会去世——不管怎么样，我现在没人赡养了！我不知道怎么办。你认为我应当马上离开这儿吗？”
“天啊，不！我相信，他们是不想和你分手的。”
“辛西娅犹豫了一下，用她那双小手拔着小草。后来，她说了：“卡文迪什太太是想我走的。她不喜欢我。”
“不喜欢你？”我惊讶地大声说道。
辛西娅点点头。
“是的。我不知道为什么，可是她看不惯我；他也是这样。”
“这我知道是你错了，”我热诚地说。“恰恰相反，约翰是很喜欢你的。”
“是的，约翰是这样。我指的是劳伦斯。当然，当没有一个人爱你时，这是相当可怕的。不是吗？”
“可是他们是爱你的，亲爱的辛西娅，”我诚挚地说，“我相信，是你错了。瞧，有约翰——还有霍华德小姐——”
辛西娅颇为忧伤地点点头。“是的，我想约翰是喜欢我的，还有伊维，当然，尽管她的脾气不好，可她是一点都不会伤害人的。可是劳伦斯从来没有对我说过这方面他是否能有所帮助，而玛丽简直不能使自己变得对我客气一点。她要伊维继续留下来，在求她，可是她不要我，所以——所以——我不知道该怎么办。”突然，这可怜的女孩子哭了起来。
我不知道是什么迷住了我。也许是她的美丽，她坐在那儿，阳光在她的头上闪烁；也许是在遇到一个与这悲剧如此明显地截然无关的人时的宽慰心情；也许是真诚地怜悯她的青春和孤寂。总之，我向前屈下了身子，拿起她的一只小手，笨拙地说：
“嫁给我吧，辛西娅。”
我竟然无意地找到了治疗她的眼泪的特效药。她立即坐直身于，缩回自己的手，带点严厉地说：
“别傻！”
我有点生气了。
“我不是傻。我是在要求你给我赏光做我的妻子。”
使我极为惊讶的是，辛西娅突然大笑起来，而且还把我叫做“好笑的亲爱的人”。
“你这完全是在逗乐，”她说，“可是你知道你是不要的！”
“不。我要的。我有——”
“你有什么都没矢系。你不会真正要——而我也是如此。”
“好吧，当然，那就这样算了，”我生硬地说。“不过，我没有看到有什么可嘲笑的东西。求婚没什么可笑的。”
“确实没有，”辛西娅说。“下一次有人也许会接受你的求婚的。再见，你已经使我感到十分高兴。”
于是，她带着一种最终难以控制地迸发出来的欢乐，消失在树丛之中。
仔细地考虑了一下这次会面，我感到十分不能令人满意。
突然，我想到该去村子一趟，去着看鲍斯坦。应该有人一直监视住这家伙，同时，减少他也许已经意识到的自己已被怀疑的疑虑，是明智的。我想起波洛就很信赖我的交际手段。因此，我就来到这座窗口嵌有“公寓”二字卡片的小屋跟前，我知道他寄住在这儿，我轻轻地敲敲门。
一位老太太来开了门。
“你好，”我举止文雅地说。“鲍斯坦医生在吗？”
她两眼朝我盯着。
“你没听说？”
“听说什么？”
“关于他。”
“关于他什么？”
“他拖走了。”
“拖走？死了？”
“不，被警察拖走了。”
“被警察！”我气吁吁地说。“你的意思是说，他们把他逮捕了？”
“是的，是这样，而且——”
我没有再等着听下去，而是向村子飞奔去找波洛。
注释：
①英国伍斯特郡一小城镇，以制造瓷器著称。
②一种玩具，揭开盖子即有玩偶跳起。
Chapter 10 The Arrest
To my extreme annoyance, Poirot was not in, and the old Belgian who answered my knock informed me that he believed he had gone to London.
I was dumbfounded. What on earth could Poirot be doing in London! Was it a sudden decision on his part, or had he already made up his mind when he parted from me a few hours earlier?
I retraced my steps to Styles in some annoyance. With Poirot away, I was uncertain how to act. Had he foreseen this arrest? Had he not, in all probability, been the cause of it? Those questions I could not resolve. But in the meantime what was I to do? Should I announce the arrest openly at Styles, or not? Though I did not acknowledge it to myself, the thought of Mary Cavendish was weighing on me. Would it not be a terrible shock to her? For the moment, I set aside utterly any suspicions of her. She could not be implicated--otherwise I should have heard some hint of it.
Of course, there was no possibility of being able permanently to conceal Dr. Bauerstein's arrest from her. It would be announced in every newspaper on the morrow. Still, I shrank from blurting it out. If only Poirot had been accessible, I could have asked his advice. What possessed him to go posting off to London in this unaccountable way?
In spite of myself, my opinion of his sagacity was immeasurably heightened. I would never have dreamt of suspecting the doctor, had not Poirot put it into my head. Yes, decidedly, the little man was clever.
After some reflecting, I decided to take John into my confidence, and leave him to make the matter public or not, as he thought fit.
He gave vent to a prodigious whistle, as I imparted the news.
"Great Scot! You _were_ right, then. I couldn't believe it at the time."
"No, it is astonishing until you get used to the idea, and see how it makes everything fit in. Now, what are we to do? Of course, it will be generally known to-morrow."
John reflected.
"Never mind," he said at last, "we won't say anything at present. There is no need. As you say, it will be known soon enough."
But to my intense surprise, on getting down early the next morning, and eagerly opening the newspapers, there was not a word about the arrest! There was a column of mere padding about "The Styles Poisoning Case," but nothing further. It was rather inexplicable, but I supposed that, for some reason or other, Japp wished to keep it out of the papers. It worried me just a little, for it suggested the possibility that there might be further arrests to come.
After breakfast, I decided to go down to the village, and see if Poirot had returned yet; but, before I could start, a well-known face blocked one of the windows, and the well-known voice said:
"Bon jour, mon ami!"
"Poirot," I exclaimed, with relief, and seizing him by both hands, I dragged him into the room. "I was never so glad to see anyone. Listen, I have said nothing to anybody but John. Is that right?"
"My friend," replied Poirot, "I do not know what you are talking about."
"Dr. Bauerstein's arrest, of course," I answered impatiently.
"Is Bauerstein arrested, then?"
"Did you not know it?"
"Not the least in the world." But, pausing a moment, he added: "Still, it does not surprise me. After all, we are only four miles from the coast."
"The coast?" I asked, puzzled. "What has that got to do with it?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"Surely, it is obvious!"
"Not to me. No doubt I am very dense, but I cannot see what the proximity of the coast has got to do with the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp."
"Nothing at all, of course," replied Poirot, smiling. "But we were speaking of the arrest of Dr. Bauerstein."
"Well, he is arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp----"
"What?" cried Poirot, in apparently lively astonishment. "Dr. Bauerstein arrested for the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp?"
"Yes."
"Impossible! That would be too good a farce! Who told you that, my friend?"
"Well, no one exactly told me," I confessed. "But he is arrested."
"Oh, yes, very likely. But for espionage, mon ami."
"Espionage?" I gasped.
"Precisely."
"Not for poisoning Mrs. Inglethorp?"
"Not unless our friend Japp has taken leave of his senses," replied Poirot placidly.
"But--but I thought you thought so too?"
Poirot gave me one look, which conveyed a wondering pity, and his full sense of the utter absurdity of such an idea.
"Do you mean to say," I asked, slowly adapting myself to the new idea, "that Dr. Bauerstein is a spy?"
Poirot nodded.
"Have you never suspected it?"
"It never entered my head."
"It did not strike you as peculiar that a famous London doctor should bury himself in a little village like this, and should be in the habit of walking about at all hours of the night, fully dressed?"
"No," I confessed, "I never thought of such a thing."
"He is, of course, a German by birth," said Poirot thoughtfully, "though he has practiced so long in this country that nobody thinks of him as anything but an Englishman. He was naturalized about fifteen years ago. A very clever man--a Jew, of course."
"The blackguard!" I cried indignantly.
"Not at all. He is, on the contrary, a patriot. Think what he stands to lose. I admire the man myself."
But I could not look at it in Poirot's philosophical way.
"And this is the man with whom Mrs. Cavendish has been wandering about all over the country!" I cried indignantly.
"Yes. I should fancy he had found her very useful," remarked Poirot. "So long as gossip busied itself in coupling their names together, any other vagaries of the doctor's passed unobserved."
"Then you think he never really cared for her?" I asked eagerly--rather too eagerly, perhaps, under the circumstances.
"That, of course, I cannot say, but--shall I tell you my own private opinion, Hastings?"
"Yes."
"Well, it is this: that Mrs. Cavendish does not care, and never has cared one little jot about Dr. Bauerstein!"
"Do you really think so?" I could not disguise my pleasure.
"I am quite sure of it. And I will tell you why."
"Yes?"
"Because she cares for some one else, mon ami."
"Oh!" What did he mean? In spite of myself, an agreeable warmth spread over me. I am not a vain man where women are concerned, but I remembered certain evidences, too lightly thought of at the time, perhaps, but which certainly seemed to indicate----
My pleasing thoughts were interrupted by the sudden entrance of Miss Howard. She glanced round hastily to make sure there was no one else in the room, and quickly produced an old sheet of brown paper. This she handed to Poirot, murmuring as she did so the cryptic words:
"On top of the wardrobe." Then she hurriedly left the room.
Poirot unfolded the sheet of paper eagerly, and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. He spread it out on the table.
"Come here, Hastings. Now tell me, what is that initial--J. or L.?"
It was a medium sized sheet of paper, rather dusty, as though it had lain by for some time. But it was the label that was attracting Poirot's attention. At the top, it bore the printed stamp of Messrs. Parkson's, the well-known theatrical costumiers, and it was addressed to "--(the debatable initial) Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court, Styles St. Mary, Essex."
"It might be T., or it might be L.," I said, after studying the thing for a minute or two. "It certainly isn't a J."
"Good," replied Poirot, folding up the paper again. "I, also, am of your way of thinking. It is an L., depend upon it!"
"Where did it come from?" I asked curiously. "Is it important?"
"Moderately so. It confirms a surmise of mine. Having deduced its existence, I set Miss Howard to search for it, and, as you see, she has been successful."
"What did she mean by 'On the top of the wardrobe'?"
"She meant," replied Poirot promptly, "that she found it on top of a wardrobe."
"A funny place for a piece of brown paper," I mused.
"Not at all. The top of a wardrobe is an excellent place for brown paper and cardboard boxes. I have kept them there myself. Neatly arranged, there is nothing to offend the eye."
"Poirot," I asked earnestly, "have you made up your mind about this crime?"
"Yes--that is to say, I believe I know how it was committed."
"Ah!"
"Unfortunately, I have no proof beyond my surmise, unless----" With sudden energy, he caught me by the arm, and whirled me down the hall, calling out in French in his excitement: "Mademoiselle Dorcas, Mademoiselle Dorcas, un moment, s'il vous plait!"
Dorcas, quite flurried by the noise, came hurrying out of the pantry.
"My good Dorcas, I have an idea--a little idea--if it should prove justified, what magnificent chance! Tell me, on Monday, not Tuesday, Dorcas, but Monday, the day before the tragedy, did anything go wrong with Mrs. Inglethorp's bell?"
Dorcas looked very surprised.
"Yes, sir, now you mention it, it did; though I don't know how you came to hear of it. A mouse, or some such, must have nibbled the wire through. The man came and put it right on Tuesday morning."
With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot led the way back to the morning-room.
"See you, one should not ask for outside proof--no, reason should be enough. But the flesh is weak, it is consolation to find that one is on the right track. Ah, my friend, I am like a giant refreshed. I run! I leap!"
And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside the long window.
"What is your remarkable little friend doing?" asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. "What is it all about?"
"Really, I can't tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!"
Mary laughed.
"How ridiculous! He's going out of the gate. Isn't he coming back to-day?"
"I don't know. I've given up trying to guess what he'll do next."
"Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?"
"I honestly don't know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness."
"I see."
In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost sad.
It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, I thought, but I had not gone far before she stopped me authoritatively.
"You are an excellent advocate, I have no doubt, Mr. Hastings, but in this case your talents are quite thrown away. Cynthia will run no risk of encountering any unkindness from me."
I began to stammer feebly that I hoped she hadn't thought--But again she stopped me, and her words were so unexpected that they quite drove Cynthia, and her troubles, out of my mind.
"Mr. Hastings," she said, "do you think I and my husband are happy together?"
I was considerably taken aback, and murmured something about it's not being my business to think anything of the sort.
"Well," she said quietly, "whether it is your business or not, I will tell you that we are _not_ happy."
I said nothing, for I saw that she had not finished.
She began slowly, walking up and down the room, her head a little bent, and that slim, supple figure of hers swaying gently as she walked. She stopped suddenly, and looked up at me.
"You don't know anything about me, do you?" she asked. "Where I come from, who I was before I married John--anything, in fact? Well, I will tell you. I will make a father confessor of you. You are kind, I think--yes, I am sure you are kind."
Somehow, I was not quite as elated as I might have been. I remembered that Cynthia had begun her confidences in much the same way. Besides, a father confessor should be elderly, it is not at all the role for a young man.
"My father was English," said Mrs. Cavendish, "but my mother was a Russian."
"Ah," I said, "now I understand--"
"Understand what?"
"A hint of something foreign--different--that there has always been about you."
"My mother was very beautiful, I believe. I don't know, because I never saw her. She died when I was quite a little child. I believe there was some tragedy connected with her death--she took an overdose of some sleeping draught by mistake. However that may be, my father was broken-hearted. Shortly afterwards, he went into the Consular Service. Everywhere he went, I went with him. When I was twenty-three, I had been nearly all over the world. It was a splendid life--I loved it."
There was a smile on her face, and her head was thrown back. She seemed living in the memory of those old glad days.
"Then my father died. He left me very badly off. I had to go and live with some old aunts in Yorkshire." She shuddered. "You will understand me when I say that it was a deadly life for a girl brought up as I had been. The narrowness, the deadly monotony of it, almost drove me mad." She paused a minute, and added in a different tone: "And then I met John Cavendish."
"Yes?"
"You can imagine that, from my aunts' point of view, it was a very good match for me. But I can honestly say it was not this fact which weighed with me. No, he was simply a way of escape from the insufferable monotony of my life."
I said nothing, and after a moment, she went on:
"Don't misunderstand me. I was quite honest with him. I told him, what was true, that I liked him very much, that I hoped to come to like him more, but that I was not in any way what the world calls 'in love' with him. He declared that that satisfied him, and so--we were married."
She waited a long time, a little frown had gathered on her forehead. She seemed to be looking back earnestly into those past days.
"I think--I am sure--he cared for me at first. But I suppose we were not well matched. Almost at once, we drifted apart. He--it is not a pleasing thing for my pride, but it is the truth--tired of me very soon." I must have made some murmur of dissent, for she went on quickly: "Oh, yes, he did! Not that it matters now--now that we've come to the parting of the ways."
"What do you mean?"
She answered quietly:
"I mean that I am not going to remain at Styles."
"You and John are not going to live here?"
"John may live here, but I shall not."
"You are going to leave him?"
"Yes."
"But why?"
She paused a long time, and said at last:
"Perhaps--because I want to be--free!"
And, as she spoke, I had a sudden vision of broad spaces, virgin tracts of forests, untrodden lands--and a realization of what freedom would mean to such a nature as Mary Cavendish. I seemed to see her for a moment as she was, a proud wild creature, as untamed by civilization as some shy bird of the hills. A little cry broke from her lips:
"You don't know, you don't know, how this hateful place has been prison to me!"
"I understand," I said, "but--but don't do anything rash."
"Oh, rash!" Her voice mocked at my prudence.
Then suddenly I said a thing I could have bitten out my tongue for:
"You know that Dr. Bauerstein has been arrested?"
An instant coldness passed like a mask over her face, blotting out all expression.
"John was so kind as to break that to me this morning."
"Well, what do you think?" I asked feebly.
"Of what?"
"Of the arrest?"
"What should I think? Apparently he is a German spy; so the gardener had told John."
Her face and voice were absolutely cold and expressionless. Did she care, or did she not?
She moved away a step or two, and fingered one of the flower vases.
"These are quite dead. I must do them again. Would you mind moving--thank you, Mr. Hastings." And she walked quietly past me out of the window, with a cool little nod of dismissal.
No, surely she could not care for Bauerstein. No woman could act her part with that icy unconcern.
Poirot did not make his appearance the following morning, and there was no sign of the Scotland Yard men.
But, at lunch-time, there arrived a new piece of evidence--or rather lack of evidence. We had vainly tried to trace the fourth letter, which Mrs. Inglethorp had written on the evening preceding her death. Our efforts having been in vain, we had abandoned the matter, hoping that it might turn up of itself one day. And this is just what did happen, in the shape of a communication, which arrived by the second post from a firm of French music publishers, acknowledging Mrs. Inglethorp's cheque, and regretting they had been unable to trace a certain series of Russian folksongs. So the last hope of solving the mystery, by means of Mrs. Inglethorp's correspondence on the fatal evening, had to be abandoned.
Just before tea, I strolled down to tell Poirot of the new disappointment, but found, to my annoyance, that he was once more out.
"Gone to London again?"
"Oh, no, monsieur, he has but taken the train to Tadminster. 'To see a young lady's dispensary,' he said."
"Silly ass!" I ejaculated. "I told him Wednesday was the one day she wasn't there! Well, tell him to look us up to-morrow morning, will you?"
"Certainly, monsieur."
But, on the following day, no sign of Poirot. I was getting angry. He was really treating us in the most cavalier fashion.
After lunch, Lawrence drew me aside, and asked if I was going down to see him.
"No, I don't think I shall. He can come up here if he wants to see us."
"Oh!" Lawrence looked indeterminate. Something unusually nervous and excited in his manner roused my curiosity.
"What is it?" I asked. "I could go if there's anything special."
"It's nothing much, but--well, if you are going, will you tell him--" he dropped his voice to a whisper--"I think I've found the extra coffee-cup!"
I had almost forgotten that enigmatical message of Poirot's, but now my curiosity was aroused afresh.
Lawrence would say no more, so I decided that I would descend from my high horse, and once more seek out Poirot at Leastways Cottage.
This time I was received with a smile. Monsieur Poirot was within. Would I mount? I mounted accordingly.
Poirot was sitting by the table, his head buried in his hands. He sprang up at my entrance.
"What is it?" I asked solicitously. "You are not ill, I trust?"
"No, no, not ill. But I decide an affair of great moment."
"Whether to catch the criminal or not?" I asked facetiously.
But, to my great surprise, Poirot nodded gravely.
" 'To speak or not to speak,' as your so great Shakespeare says, 'that is the question.' "
I did not trouble to correct the quotation.
"You are not serious, Poirot?"
"I am of the most serious. For the most serious of all things hangs in the balance."
"And that is?"
"A woman's happiness, mon ami," he said gravely.
I did not quite know what to say.
"The moment has come," said Poirot thoughtfully, "and I do not know what to do. For, see you, it is a big stake for which I play. No one but I, Hercule Poirot, would attempt it!" And he tapped himself proudly on the breast.
After pausing a few minutes respectfully, so as not to spoil his effect, I gave him Lawrence's message.
"Aha!" he cried. "So he has found the extra coffee-cup. That is good. He has more intelligence than would appear, this long-faced Monsieur Lawrence of yours!"
I did not myself think very highly of Lawrence's intelligence; but I forebore to contradict Poirot, and gently took him to task for forgetting my instructions as to which were Cynthia's days off.
"It is true. I have the head of a sieve. However, the other young lady was most kind. She was sorry for my disappointment, and showed me everything in the kindest way."
"Oh, well, that's all right, then, and you must go to tea with Cynthia another day."
I told him about the letter.
"I am sorry for that," he said. "I always had hopes of that letter. But no, it was not to be. This affair must all be unravelled from within." He tapped his forehead. "These little grey cells. It is 'up to them'--as you say over here." Then, suddenly, he asked: "Are you a judge of finger-marks, my friend?"
"No," I said, rather surprised, "I know that there are no two finger-marks alike, but that's as far as my science goes."
"Exactly."
He unlocked a little drawer, and took out some photographs which he laid on the table.
"I have numbered them, 1, 2, 3. Will you describe them to me?"
I studied the proofs attentively.
"All greatly magnified, I see. No. 1, I should say, are a man's finger-prints; thumb and first finger. No. 2 are a lady's; they are much smaller, and quite different in every way. No. 3"--I paused for some time--"there seem to be a lot of confused finger-marks, but here, very distinctly, are No. 1's."
"Overlapping the others?"
"Yes."
"You recognize them beyond fail?"
"Oh, yes; they are identical."
Poirot nodded, and gently taking the photographs from me locked them up again.
"I suppose," I said, "that as usual, you are not going to explain?"
"On the contrary. No. 1 were the finger-prints of Monsieur Lawrence. No. 2 were those of Mademoiselle Cynthia. They are not important. I merely obtained them for comparison. No. 3 is a little more complicated."
"Yes?"
"It is, as you see, highly magnified. You may have noticed a sort of blur extending all across the picture. I will not describe to you the special apparatus, dusting powder, etc., which I used. It is a well-known process to the police, and by means of it you can obtain a photograph of the finger-prints of any object in a very short space of time. Well, my friend, you have seen the finger-marks--it remains to tell you the particular object on which they had been left."
"Go on--I am really excited."
"Eh bien! Photo No. 3 represents the highly magnified surface of a tiny bottle in the top poison cupboard of the dispensary in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster--which sounds like the house that Jack built!"
"Good heavens!" I exclaimed. "But what were Lawrence Cavendish's finger-marks doing on it? He never went near the poison cupboard the day we were there!"
"Oh, yes, he did!"
"Impossible! We were all together the whole time."
Poirot shook his head.
"No, my friend, there was a moment when you were not all together. There was a moment when you could not have been all together, or it would not have been necessary to call to Monsieur Lawrence to come and join you on the balcony."
"I'd forgotten that," I admitted. "But it was only for a moment."
"Long enough."
"Long enough for what?"
Poirot's smile became rather enigmatical.
"Long enough for a gentleman who had once studied medicine to gratify a very natural interest and curiosity."
Our eyes met. Poirot's were pleasantly vague. He got up and hummed a little tune. I watched him suspiciously.
"Poirot," I said, "what was in this particular little bottle?"
Poirot looked out of the window.
"Hydro-chloride of strychnine," he said, over his shoulder, continuing to hum.
"Good heavens!" I said it quite quietly. I was not surprised. I had expected that answer.
"They use the pure hydro-chloride of strychnine very little-- only occasionally for pills. It is the official solution, Liq. Strychnine Hydro-clor. that is used in most medicines. That is why the finger-marks have remained undisturbed since then."
"How did you manage to take this photograph?"
"I dropped my hat from the balcony," explained Poirot simply. "Visitors were not permitted below at that hour, so, in spite of my many apologies, Mademoiselle Cynthia's colleague had to go down and fetch it for me."
"Then you knew what you were going to find?"
"No, not at all. I merely realized that it was possible, from your story, for Monsieur Lawrence to go to the poison cupboard. The possibility had to be confirmed, or eliminated."
"Poirot," I said, "your gaiety does not deceive me. This is a very important discovery."
"I do not know," said Poirot. "But one thing does strike me. No doubt it has struck you too."
"What is that?"
"Why, that there is altogether too much strychnine about this case. This is the third time we run up against it. There was strychnine in Mrs. Inglethorp's tonic. There is the strychnine sold across the counter at Styles St. Mary by Mace. Now we have more strychnine, handled by one of the household. It is confusing; and, as you know, I do not like confusion."
Before I could reply, one of the other Belgians opened the door and stuck his head in.
"There is a lady below, asking for Mr Hastings."
"A lady?"
I jumped up. Poirot followed me down the narrow stairs. Mary Cavendish was standing in the doorway.
"I have been visiting an old woman in the village," she explained, "and as Lawrence told me you were with Monsieur Poirot I thought I would call for you."
"Alas, madame," said Poirot, "I thought you had come to honour me with a visit!"
"I will some day, if you ask me," she promised him, smiling.
"That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame" --she started ever so slightly--"remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service."
She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away.
"Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?"
"Enchanted, madame."
All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot's eyes.
The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing.
We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong.
Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears.
"Oh, m'am! Oh, m'am! I don't know how to tell you--"
"What is it, Dorcas?" I asked impatiently. "Tell us at once."
"It's those wicked detectives. They've arrested him--they've arrested Mr. Cavendish!"
"Arrested Lawrence?" I gasped.
I saw a strange look come into Dorcas's eyes.
"No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence--Mr. John."
Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot's eyes.
使我极度烦恼的是波洛不在，那位来给我开门的比利时老汉告诉我说，他相信波洛去伦敦了。
我惊讶得目瞪口呆了。波洛去伦敦究竟于什么呀！这是他突然决定的呢，还是几小时前和我分手时就有了这个念头的？
我怀着某种烦恼的心情顺原路返回斯泰尔斯。由于波洛走了，没法确定该怎么行动。他已预见到这次逮捕吗？他很可能不是为这桩案子去的？这些问题我都没法解答。可是在这段时间里，我得做点什么呢？该不该在斯泰尔斯公开宣布这一逮捕的消息？尽管我不会对自己承认这一点，为玛丽•卡文迪什担忧的想法却一直压在我的心头。这对她会不会是一个可怕的打击？此刻，我已把对她的任何怀疑完全搁到一边。她不可能受牵连的——要不我就该听到一些有关的风声。
当然，鲍斯坦医生被捕的事不可能永久地瞒住她。这会在第二天的各种报纸上发表。可是我还是怕脱口说出这件事。只要能见到波洛，我就可以问问他的意见了。什么事如此不可理解地使他匆匆前往伦敦呢？
我对他的洞察力的评价，禁不住无边无际地增大了。要不是波洛在我脑子里安进这个念头，我是做梦也不会怀疑这位医生的。是啊，很明显，这个小个子的确机灵。
经过一番考虑，我决定把约翰当作知心人，在他认为合适的时候，是否让他来公开这件事。
当我向他透露了这个消息后，他吹了一声奇妙的口哨。
“天哪！那么说你是对了。不过我可现在都不相信。”
“不，这事是惊人的，要到你对此习惯为止，你瞧，这使得每件事都合情合理了。现在，我们该怎么办？当然，一般说来，明天大家就会知道了。”
约翰考虑了一下。
“没关系，”他终于说，“目前，我们什么也不要说。没有必要。象你说的那样，这件事大家很快就可知道的。”
但是，使我吃惊的是，第二天一早下楼，急切地打开报纸一看，关于逮捕的事，上面居然一个字也没有！只有一个纯粹是铺张词藻的“斯泰尔斯毒杀案”专栏，没什么新内容。这颇为令人费解，不过我猜想，这是基于某种原因，贾普希望让它置身于报纸之外。可这恰恰使我有点担忧，因为这有可能将来作进一步的逮捕。
吃过早饭，我决定到村子去一趟，看着波洛是否已经回来；可是，在我动身之前，一张熟悉的脸孔挡住了窗口，一个熟悉的声音说：
“早安，我的朋友！”
“波洛！”我宽慰地喊了起来，然后抓住他的双手，把他拉进房间。”我看到任何人都从来没有这样高兴过。听我说，除了约翰，我没有告诉过任何人。这对吗？”
“我的朋友，”波洛回答说，“我不知道你在说些什么呀？”
“当然是鲍斯坦医生被捕的事啦，”我不耐烦地回答。
“这么说鲍斯坦被捕了？”
“这你不知道？”
“这事我确实一点也不知道哩，”然而，他停了一下，补充说：“不过这并不使我吃惊，我们这里离海岸毕竟只有四英里。”
“海岸？”我迷惑不解地问道。“那和这有什么关系？”
波洛耸了耸肩膀。
“说实在，这是很清楚的。”
“我可不清楚。也许我太笨了，可是我看不出靠近海岸和英格里桑太大的谋杀案有什么关系。”
“当然毫无关系，”波洛微笑着回答说，“可是我们现在是在谈鲍斯坦医生的被捕呀。”
“是呀，他是由于谋杀英格里桑太太被捕的——”
“什么？”波洛喊了起来，显然是大吃一惊。“鲍斯坦医生被捕是由于谋杀英格里桑太太？”
“是呀。”
“不可能！那大概是一出绝妙的滑稽戏吧！谁告诉你的，朋友？”
“嗯，没有一个人确切地告诉我过，”我承认。“可是他被捕了。”
“哦，是的，很可能。但那是由于间谍活动，我的朋友。”
“间谍活动？”我喘不过气来了。
“正是如此。”
“不是由于毒死英格里桑太太？”
“不是的，除非我们的朋友贾普发疯了，”波洛平静地回答。
“可是——可是我以为你也这样想的。”
波洛朝我看了一眼，这一眼转达了一种感到惊讶的遗憾，以及完全认为这种念头是十足荒谬的神情。
“你的意思是说，鲍斯坦医生是个间谍？”我问道，慢慢地使我自己适应了这种新的想法。
波洛点点头。
“你从来都没有怀疑到这点？”
“我从来没有想到过。”
“一个著名的伦敦医生就这么隐居在一个小村子里，习惯于整个晚上都穿戴整齐地到处闲逛，这没有使你感到奇怪吗？”
“没有，”我承认说，“我从来没有想到过这样的事。”
“他原来当然是个德国人。”波洛若有所思地说，“虽然他在这个国家已经开业很久，甚至没有一个人会认为他不是英国人。大约十五年前，他加入了英国籍。是个很聪明的人——当然，是个犹太人。”
“恶棍！”我愤慨地叫了起来。
“根本不是。恰恰相反，他是一个爱国主义者。你想，他受到多大的损失。我本人钦佩这种人。”
但是，我可没法用波洛的哲学方法来看待这件事。
“而这就是卡文迪什太太一直和他在村子里到处闲逛的那个人！”我愤慨地喊道。
“是的。我得认为，这是他发现她很有用处，”波洛说。“只要爱说闲话的人忙着把他们俩的名字连在一起，这位医生的任何古怪行径也就不会引人注意了。”
“那么你认为他从来没有真正对她喜欢过吗？”我急切地问道——在这种情况下也许稍微太急切了一点。
“那当然我说不出，可是要我告诉你我个人的意见吗，哈斯丁？”
“好的。
“好吧，是这样：卡文迪什太太并不喜欢他，她丝毫没有喜欢过鲍斯坦医生！”
“你真的这样认为？”我没法掩饰住我的高兴。
“我完全确信这一点。我会告诉诉你为什么。”
“是吗？”
“因为她喜欢的是另外一个人，我的朋友。”
“哦！”他这是什么意思呢？不由自主地，一股令人愉快的暖流传遍了我的全身，我不是个牵涉到女人时九爱虚荣的人，但是我回忆起某些迹象，现在想来也许太轻而易举了，可它们似乎的确暗示了——
我的美好的沉思被霍华德小姐的突然进来打断了。她慌忙朝四周扫视了一眼，弄清房间里没有别的人，接着就飞快地拿出一张旧的包装纸。她把这递给了波洛，低声说了这么句含义隐晦的话：
“在那口衣柜顶上。”
说完她就匆匆地离开了房间。
波洛急忙打开这张纸，发出一声满意的惊叫。他把它摊在桌子上。
“过来，哈斯丁。告诉我，这个起首字母是什么——J.还是L.？”
这是张中号尺寸的包装纸，上面满是灰尘，好象搁着有一段时间了。但是引起波洛注意的是顶上的签条。上面有著名戏剧服装商派克森先生商店的印戳，它寄给“埃塞克斯，斯泰尔斯村，斯泰尔斯庄园，X（尚未确定的起首字母）卡文迪什先生。”
“这可能是T.或者是L.，”我对这研究了一番后说，“决不是J.。”
“好，”波洛回答说，重又把纸折了起来。“我也是和你一样的想法。没错，这是个L.①！”
“这是哪儿来的？”我好奇地问道。“重要吗？”
“中等程度。这进一步证实了我的推测。我推断有这么一张纸，就叫霍华德小姐去搜寻，结果，如你刚才所看见的，她找到了。”
“她说的‘在那口衣柜顶上’是什么意思？”
“她说的意思是，”波洛立刻回答。“她是在一口大柜顶上找到它的。”
“放张包装纸的怪地方，”我沉思着。
“根本不奇怪。大柜顶上是放包装纸和纸盒子的好地方。我自己就是把它们放在那儿的。摆整齐了，一点也不刺眼。”
“波洛，”我认真地问道，“关于这件罪行，你已经有自己的想法了吗？”
“是的——可以说，我相信我知道是怎么干的。”
“啊！”
“不幸的是，除了推测之外我还没有证据，除非——”他突然使劲一把抓住我的手臂，旋风似地急速把我带到楼下过道里，激动地用法语喊道：“多卡斯小姐，多卡斯小姐，有空请你来一下！”
多卡斯被这叫声弄得张皇失措，急忙从餐具室里奔了出来。
“我亲爱的多卡斯，我有一个想法———个小小的想法——要是它证明是正确的，那该是多好的运气！告诉我，星期一，不是星期二，多卡斯，而是星期一，就是法生惨案的前一天，英格里桑太大的电铃是不是出过毛病？”
多卡斯显得十分吃惊。
“是的，先生，你说中了，它是出过毛病；可是我不知道你这是怎么听说的。一定是老鼠什么的把线给咬断了。星期二早上来人修好的。”
波洛高兴得长长地惊叫了一声，带头回到休息室。
“瞧，一个人不一定去找表面的证据——不，只需推理也行。可是人类是脆弱的，发现他的想法完全对头，就得到安慰了。嗨，我的朋友，我现在就象一个精神振作的巨人。我要跑！我要跳！”
他真的又跑又跳起来，胡乱往下跳到落地长窗外面的那一大片草坪上去了。
“你那位不平常的小个子朋友在做什么呀？“我身后的一个声音问道。我一回头，发现玛丽•卡文迪什就在我的旁边。她微笑着，于是我也笑了。“这是怎么一回事？”
“我实在没法告诉你。他问了多卡斯一个关于电铃的问题，她给他回答以后，他就高兴得象你看到的这样蹦蹦跳跳了！”
玛丽笑了。
“多滑稽！他从大门出去了。今天他不回来了吗？”
“我不知道。我已经不想去猜测下一次他要做什么了。”
“他的确有点疯疯癫癫吗？哈斯丁先生？”
“我真的不知道。有时候，我确信他是疯疯癫癫的；其次，在他最癫狂的时候，我发现他的癫狂是有条理的。”
“我明白了。”
尽管玛丽在笑，”可是今天早上她看上去心事重重。她似乎很严肃，几乎有点哀伤。
我想，这也许是和她交涉辛西娅问题的好机会。我认为，一开始，我还颇为得体，可是我没说多久，她就以命令的口吻把我给止住了。
“我不怀疑，你是一位杰出的辩护律师，哈斯丁先生，可是在这件‘案子’上，你的才能算是给完全白扔了。辛西娅不会遭到我的任何刻薄对待的。”
我开始无力地结结巴巴说，希望她不要认为——可是她再次止住了我，而她的话是那么出人意外，以致从我的脑子里彻底赶跑了辛西娅，以及她的烦恼。
“哈斯丁先生，”她说，“你认为我和我的丈夫在一起幸福吗？”
我大大地吃了一惊，于是支支吾吾地说了几句，我说找无权考虑这种事情。
“好吧，”她平静地说，“不管你有权无权，我得告诉你，我们是不幸福的。”
我什么也没有说，因为看到她还没说完。
她在房间里来回地踱着，慢条斯理地开始说，她的头有点儿侧着，当她走动时，她那苗条、柔软的体态轻轻摇摆着。她突然停住脚步，仰望着我。
“你不了解我的情况，是吗？”她问道。“我是哪儿人，和约翰结婚前我是谁——实际上你全不了解？好吧，我来告诉你。我要使你成为一个忏悔神父。我认为，你很仁慈，是的，我相信，你是恨仁慈的。”
不知怎么地，我并不完全象我也许应该有的那么兴高采烈。我想起辛西娅也是用大致相同的方式开始吐露她的知心事的。而且，忏悔神父应该是上了年纪的，它根本就不是一个年轻人扮演的角色。
“我的父亲是英国人，”玛丽•卡文迪什说，“可是我的母亲是个俄国人。”
“哦，”我说，“现在我懂了——”
“懂什么？”
“在你身上总有那么一种外国的——不同的——味道。”
“我相信，我的母亲是很漂亮的。我不知道，因为我从来没有看见过她。当我完全是个小孩子时，她就死了。我认为她的死是一个悲剧——她过量地误服了某种安眠药。不管怎样，我的父亲悲伤极了。不久以后，他进入驻外领事馆工作。不论他到哪儿，我都跟着他。在我二十三岁的时候，我几乎已经跑遍了全世界。那是一种非常美妙的生活——我喜爱那种生活。”
她的脸上露出微笑，她的头向后仰着。她似乎正沉浸在对过去那些欢乐时日的回忆之中。
“后来，我的父亲死了。他留下了我，很穷，我不得不去和约克郡②的几个老姑母一起住。”她突然打起颤来。“当我说，对一个象我这样成长起来的姑娘来说，那是一种死一般的生活时，你是会理解我的。那种狭窄的生活圈子，死一般单调的生活方式，几乎逼得我发疯了。”她停了一会，然后用一种不同的声调接着说：“后来我遇到了约翰•卡文迪什。”
“是吗？”
“你可以想象到，以我那些姑母的观点，这对我来说是一门很好的亲事。但是，我可以老实地说，这对我毫无意义。不，它只不过是一种使我得以逃离难以忍受的单调生活的方法而已。”
我没有吭声，过了一会，她又继读说：
“别误解我。我对他是非常诚实的。我把真相告诉了他，还说我非常爱他，而且希望以后更加爱他，但是我也告诉他，我和他并没有任何那种称之为‘相亲相爱’的感情。他表示，他对这感到很满意，于是——我们就结了婚。”
她停了很久，她的前领上聚集了几丝皱纹。她似乎在认真地回顾过去的那些日子。
“我认为——我确信——他开始是喜欢我的。但是我想，我们并不是很配的一对。几乎是马上，我们俩就疏远了。他——这对我的自尊心来说不是一件愉快的事，但这是事实——很快就对我厌倦了。”我只来得及低声说了几句表示异议的话，她就很快接下去说：“哦，是的，他是那样！不是现在才发生这种情况——现在我们是已经到了十字路口了。”
“你这是什么意思？”
她平静地回答说：
“我的意思是我不打算留在斯泰尔斯了。”
“你和约翰不打算住在这儿了？”
“约翰可能住在这儿，可是我不住了。”
“你打算离开他？”
“是的。”
“那为什么？”
她停了很久，后来终于说：
“也许——因为我要——自由！”
在他说着时，我突然幻想到那一望无边的旷野，大片的原始森林，未经开垦的处女地——对玛丽•卡文迪什来说，自由可能就意味着是这样的自然美景。片刻间，我仿佛看到她既象是一匹未经文明驯服的野马，又象是深山幽谷中一只易于受惊的小鸟。她突然抽泣起来：
“你不知道，你不知道，这个该死的地方对我来说多么象一座监狱！”
“我知道，”我说，“可是——可是别做任何轻率的事。”
“哟，轻率！”她的口气嘲笑我的谨慎。
这时，我突然说了一件事，这事我本来是可以不说的：
“你知道鲍斯坦医生被捕了吗？”
一种突然的冷漠象一个面具罩到了她的脸上，掩住了她的全部表情。
“今天早上，约翰很仁慈，拍这都向我透露了。”
“哦，你有什么想法？”我无力地问。
“什么方面？”
“关于逮捕的事？”
“我能有什么想法？很明显，他是个德国间谍；园丁们就是这样告诉约翰的。”
她的脸部和语气都是那么冷漠，毫无表情。她是关心呢还是不关心？
她走开了几步，然后摆弄着一只花瓶。
“这些花全都死了。得从新换一换。对不起，请你搬一搬，谢谢你，哈斯丁。”她从容地走过我的身旁，跨出落地长窗，冷淡地点了点头走了。
不，她确实不可能喜欢鲍斯但。没有一个女人能用如此冷淡的态度来扮演她这样的角色的。
第二天早上，波洛没有露面，也不见伦敦警察厅人员的影子。
但是，在吃中饭时，接到了一件新的证据——或者说是颇无价值的证据。我们一直徒劳地试图查明英格里桑太太临死前那个傍晚写的第四封信。由于我们的努力完全白费，对这件事我们已经放弃了，只希望有一天它自己会出现。这情况果然在通信来往中发现了。二班邮件③送来了一封法国一家音乐书籍出版商号寄来的信，通知说英格里桑太大的支票已经收到，但是很抱歉，他们没能找到某一套俄罗斯民歌丛书。这样，本想通过英格里桑太太在那个不幸的晚上的通信来解这个谜的最后希望，就不得不放弃了。”
就在喝茶前，我赶去告诉波洛这一新的令人失望的消息，但是，使我烦恼的是发现波洛又出门了。
“又去伦敦了吗？”
“噢，不，先生，他只是乘火车去塔明斯特。他说：‘去参观一位年轻女士的药房。’”
“傻瓜！”我突然喊了出来。“我告诉过他星期三她不在那儿！好吧，请告诉他明天早上去看我们，好吗？”
“当然可以，先生。”
可是，第二天，仍不见波洛的影子。我生气了。他果真用这种最傲慢的态度来对待我们。
吃过中饭，劳伦斯把我拉到一旁，问我是否打算去看波洛。
“不，我没有想到要去。如果他想来看我们，他可以上这儿来。”
“哦！”劳伦斯显得犹豫不决，在他的举止中有着某种异常的不安和激动引起了我的好奇。
“怎么啦？”找问道。“要是有什么特别要紧的事，我可以去一趟。”
“没什么太多的事，不过——好吧，如果你去的话，请你告诉他——”他放低了声音。“我想我已经找到特大号咖啡杯！”
我几乎已经忘掉波洛的那个莫明其妙的口信了，而现在，重又引起了我的好奇心。
劳伦斯不会再多说，于是我决定屈尊再一次到李斯特韦思别墅去找波洛。
这一次，我受到了微笑的接待。波洛先生在里面。我还摆架子么？我还是要摆。
波洛正坐在桌子旁边，双手捧着头。
“怎么啦？”我担心地问。“我希望你没生病吧？”
“没有，没有，没有生病。我是在考虑决定一件重大的事情。”
“是不是抓罪犯？”我开玩笑地问。
但是，使我大为吃惊的是，波洛竟然严肃地点点头。
“正象你们那位伟大的莎士比亚所说的那样，‘说还是不说：这是问题。④’”
我没有费神去纠正他这句话。
“你这是在开玩笑吧，波洛？”
“我这是最最严肃的。因为这件最严肃的事情的成败如何还悬而未决。”
“什么事？”
“一个女人的幸福，我的朋友，”他认真地说。
我完全不懂他说的是什么。
“这个时刻已经来到，”波洛若有所思地说，“而我不知道该怎么办。因为，你要知道，这是我押上的一笔大赌注。除了我，赫卡尔•波洛，没有一个人敢作这样的尝试！”说着他得意洋洋地拍拍自己的胸脯。
为了不损害他的形象，在恭敬地停了一会后，我才把劳伦斯的口信转告给他。
“啊哈！”他叫了起来。“这么说他已经找到特大号咖啡杯了。那很好。他的智力比他表现出来的要强，你那位闷闷不乐的劳伦斯先生！”
我本人对劳伦斯的智力并没有根高的评价，但是我克制着没有去反驳波洛，而是温和地责备他怎么忘掉了我告诉他的辛西娅休假的日子。”
“是啊，我老要忘记。不过，另外那位年轻的女士很和气。她为我的扫兴感到很难过，于是就非常热心地带我参观了一切。”
“啊，那好，不要紧。不过你改日得上辛西娅那儿喝茶去。”
我给他讲了那封信的事。
“这件事真遗憾。我对那封信一直怀着希望。可是不行了，没有可能了。这件事必须完全从内部来解决了。”他拍拍自己的前额。“依靠这些小小的灰白细胞，‘由它们来担当’——象你常说的那样。”接着他突然问道：
“你会鉴定指纹吗，朋友？”
“不会，”我感到相当吃惊地回答，“我知道没有两个指纹是相同的，可我的技术也就到此为止。”
“正是这样。”
他打开一只小抽屉，拿出几张照片，把它们放在桌子上。
“我已经给它们编了号：一号、二号、三号。你能给我说一说吗？”
我仔细地对这些指纹照片作了研究。
“我看出，这全都经过高度放大。我得说，一号是个男人的捐纹，姆指和食指。二号是一位女士的，它们要小得多，各方面部不一样。三号”——我停顿了一会——“象是有许多乱七八槽的捐纹，但有一个，很明显，是一号的。”
“和别的重迭的？”
“是的。”
“你确实认清了么？”
“哦。是的，它们一模一样。”
波洛点点头，小心地从我手中拿过照片，重又把它们锁进抽屉。
“我猜想，”我说，“你仍象往常一样，不打算作解释吧？”
“恰恰相反。一号是劳伦斯先生的指纹。二号是辛西娅小姐的，它们并不重要，我只是拿它们作个比较。三号较为复杂一点。”
“是么？”
“就象你所看到的，照片经过高度放大。你大概已经注意到在整张照片上布满的一种污迹，我不需要向你解说我所使用的撒粉的专门器械了。这对警务人员来说是熟知的方法，用它你能在很短的时间内获得任何物体上的指纹照片。好吧，朋友，你已经着过这些指纹——剩下来的，只要告诉你这个留有这些指纹的特别物体就行了。”
“快说下去——这实在使我激动。”
“好吧！三号照片是塔明斯特红十字医院药房的剧毒药品橱里一只小瓶子的经过高度放大的表面——这听起来好象很不可靠！”
“天哪！”我惊叫起来。”可是劳伦斯•卡文迪什的指纹怎么会留在它上面的？我们去那一天，他从来没有走近过那只毒药橱呀！”
“哦，不，他走近了！”
“不可能！我们一直都在一起。”
波洛摇摇头。
“不，我的朋友，有一会儿你们根本不在一起，要不就不需要叫劳伦斯先生出来和阳台上的你们一起了。”
“我已经把这给忘了，”我承认。“可是那只是一会儿功夫。”
“够久了。”
“够久做什么？”
波洛的微笑变得颇为不可思议。
“对于一位研究过药物的先生来说，要使之满足一种非常自然的兴趣和好奇，这已经够久了。”
我们的目光相遇了。波洛的目光愉快、暖昧。他站起身来，还哼起了小调。我疑惑地注视着他。
“波洛，”我说，“这只特别的小瓶子里装的是什么呢？”
波洛朝窗外看着。
“士的宁盐酸，”他回过头来说了一句，继续哼着小调。
“天哪！”我颇为平静地说了一句。我已不再感到惊奇，我预料到这样的回答。
“他们很少用纯士的宁盐酸——只是偶尔入药。正式用的是用在大部分药里的液体士的宁盐酸。这就是为什么从那时候以来，指纹仍得以泰然自若地留着。”
“你怎么设法拍下这张照片的？”
“我故意让我的帽子从阳台上掉了下去，”波洛简单解释说。“那个时候参观者是不允许下去的，这样，经不住我再三表示歉意，辛西娅小姐的同事只好下去为我拾了回来。”
“那未你是知道你将会找到什么的了？”
“不，根本不是，我只是从你的叙述中了解到，有可能劳伦斯先生走近过那只剧毒药品橱。而这种可能必须得到进一步证实，或者是予以排除。”
“波洛，”我说，“你的高兴并没有使我失望。这是一个很重要的发现。”
“我不知道，”波洛说。“可是有一件事给我印象很深，无疑对你也是如此。”
“是什么？”
“咳，就是和这桩案子有关的士的宁，总的说来是太多了，这是我们第三次意外地发现。英格里桑太太的补药里有士的宁。斯泰尔斯的梅司门市卖出过士的宁。现在，我们又有了更多的士的宁，为这家人家的一个成员所掌握。这么乱糟槽的；可是正如你所知道的那样，我是不喜欢混乱的。”
我还没来得及回答，另一个比利时人打开了门，探进头来。
“下面有一位女士要找哈斯丁先生。”
“一位女士？”
我一跃而起。波洛也随我走下狭窄的楼梯。玛丽•卡文迪什正站在门口。
“我刚去探望了村子里的一位老太太，”她解释说，“因为劳伦斯告诉我，你在波洛先生这里，我想我顺路来叫你一声。”
“哟！太太，”波洛说，”我想你还是赏光来探望我一次吧！”
“要是你邀请我，哪一天我来，”她微笑着答应他说。
“那好极了。要是你需要一个忏悔神父，太太，——她略为有点吃惊——“请记住，波洛神父随时听候你的吩咐。”
她盯着他看了一会，仿佛力图理解他的话中的某种更深的含义。接着，她就突然动身离去了。
“喂，波洛先生，你也愿意和我们一起去吧？”
“非常高兴，太太。”
在回斯泰尔斯的路上，玛丽•卡文迪什一直又快又兴奋地说个不停。可是，我总觉得，她在某种程度上害怕波洛的眼睛。
天气突然变了，狂风的泼辣程度几乎已象秋天。玛丽冷得有点发抖，她把自己的黑色运动服扣得更紧一点。风刮过树林，发出一种悲哀的声音，就象是个巨人在叹息。
刚走到斯泰尔斯庄园的大门口，我们立即就知道，一定出了什么事了。
多卡斯跑出来迎接我们。她一边哭着，一边伤心地绞扭着自己的双手。我发觉，其他的佣人也都挤成一团，全神贯注站在后面。
“哦，太太！哦，太太！我不知道该怎么告诉你——”
“怎么啦，多卡斯？”我焦急地问，”快告诉我们。”
“就是那些坏透了的侦探。他们把他抓走了——他们抓走了卡文迪什先生！”
“把劳伦斯抓走了？”我气吁吁地说。
我看到多卡斯的眼中露出了惊诧的神情。
“不，先生，不是劳伦斯先生——是约翰先生。”
我的背后一声惊叫，玛丽•卡文迪什沉重地倒在我的身上，而当我转身抓住她时，我看到了波洛眼中的无声的喜悦。
注释：
①J•为约翰，L.为劳伦斯英文名字的起首字母。
②英格兰北部一郡。
③当时英国寄送邮件时间分早班、二班、末班等。
④这句话借自莎士比亚的名剧《哈姆莱特》，该剧中，王子哈姆莱特常说的一句话本为：“干还是不干：这是问题。”但波洛说成了这样。
Chapter 11 The Case For The Prosecution
The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later.
Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband's side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail.
I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully.
"Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have--"
"Jealousy?" I queried.
"Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him."
He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for "a woman's happiness," I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands.
"Even now," I said, "I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!"
Poirot grinned.
"I know you did."
"But John! My old friend John!"
"Every murderer is probably somebody's old friend," observed Poirot philosophically. "You cannot mix up sentiment and reason."
"I must say I think you might have given me a hint."
"Perhaps, mon ami, I did not do so, just because he _was_ your old friend."
I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot's views concerning Bauerstein. He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him. Nevertheless, although he had been too clever for them this time, and the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings were pretty well clipped for the future.
I asked Poirot whether he thought John would be condemned. To my intense surprise, he replied that, on the contrary, he was extremely likely to be acquitted.
"But, Poirot--" I protested.
"Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along that I have no proofs. It is one thing to know that a man is guilty, it is quite another matter to prove him so. And, in this case, there is terribly little evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, Hercule Poirot, know, but I lack the last link in my chain. And unless I can find that missing link--" He shook his head gravely.
"When did you first suspect John Cavendish?" I asked, after a minute or two.
"Did you not suspect him at all?"
"No, indeed."
"Not after that fragment of conversation you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law, and her subsequent lack of frankness at the inquest?"
"No."
"Did you not put two and two together, and reflect that if it was not Alfred Inglethorp who was quarrelling with his wife--and you remember, he strenuously denied it at the inquest--it must be either Lawrence or John. Now, if it was Lawrence, Mary Cavendish's conduct was just as inexplicable. But if, on the other hand, it was John, the whole thing was explained quite naturally."
"So," I cried, a light breaking in upon me, "it was John who quarrelled with his mother that afternoon?"
"Exactly."
"And you have known this all along?"
"Certainly. Mrs. Cavendish's behaviour could only be explained that way."
"And yet you say he may be acquitted?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"Certainly I do. At the police court proceedings, we shall hear the case for the prosecution, but in all probability his solicitors will advise him to reserve his defence. That will be sprung upon us at the trial. And--ah, by the way, I have a word of caution to give you, my friend. I must not appear in the case."
"What?"
"No. Officially, I have nothing to do with it. Until I have found that last link in my chain, I must remain behind the scenes. Mrs. Cavendish must think I am working for her husband, not against him."
"I say, that's playing it a bit low down," I protested.
"Not at all. We have to deal with a most clever and unscrupulous man, and we must use any means in our power--otherwise he will slip through our fingers. That is why I have been careful to remain in the background. All the discoveries have been made by Japp, and Japp will take all the credit. If I am called upon to give evidence at all"--he smiled broadly--"it will probably be as a witness for the defence."
I could hardly believe my ears.
"It is quite en regle," continued Poirot. "Strangely enough, I can give evidence that will demolish one contention of the prosecution."
"Which one?"
"The one that relates to the destruction of the will. John Cavendish did not destroy that will."
Poirot was a true prophet. I will not go into the details of the police court proceedings, as it involves many tiresome repetitions. I will merely state baldly that John Cavendish reserved his defence, and was duly committed for trial.
September found us all in London. Mary took a house in Kensington, Poirot being included in the family party.
I myself had been given a job at the War Office, so was able to see them continually.
As the weeks went by, the state of Poirot's nerves grew worse and worse. That "last link" he talked about was still lacking. Privately, I hoped it might remain so, for what happiness could there be for Mary, if John were not acquitted?
On September 15th John Cavendish appeared in the dock at the Old Bailey, charged with "The Wilful Murder of Emily Agnes Inglethorp," and pleaded "Not Guilty."
Sir Ernest Heavywether, the famous K. C., had been engaged to defend him.
Mr. Philips, K. C., opened the case for the Crown.
The murder, he said, was a most premeditated and cold-blooded one. It was neither more nor less than the deliberate poisoning of a fond and trusting woman by the stepson to whom she had been more than a mother. Ever since his boyhood, she had supported him. He and his wife had lived at Styles Court in every luxury, surrounded by her care and attention. She had been their kind and generous benefactress.
He proposed to call witnesses to show how the prisoner, a profligate and spendthrift, had been at the end of his financial tether, and had also been carrying on an intrigue with a certain Mrs. Raikes, a neighbouring farmer's wife. This having come to his stepmother's ears, she taxed him with it on the afternoon before her death, and a quarrel ensued, part of which was overheard. On the previous day, the prisoner had purchased strychnine at the village chemist's shop, wearing a disguise by means of which he hoped to throw the onus of the crime upon another man--to wit, Mrs. Inglethorp's husband, of whom he had been bitterly jealous. Luckily for Mr. Inglethorp, he had been able to produce an unimpeachable alibi.
On the afternoon of July 17th, continued Counsel, immediately after the quarrel with her son, Mrs. Inglethorp made a new will. This will was found destroyed in the grate of her bedroom the following morning, but evidence had come to light which showed that it had been drawn up in favour of her husband. Deceased had already made a will in his favour before her marriage, but--and Mr. Philips wagged an expressive forefinger--the prisoner was not aware of that. What had induced the deceased to make a fresh will, with the old one still extant, he could not say. She was an old lady, and might possibly have forgotten the former one; or--this seemed to him more likely--she may have had an idea that it was revoked by her marriage, as there had been some conversation on the subject. Ladies were not always very well versed in legal knowledge. She had, about a year before, executed a will in favour of the prisoner. He would call evidence to show that it was the prisoner who ultimately handed his stepmother her coffee on the fatal night. Later in the evening, he had sought admission to her room, on which occasion, no doubt, he found an opportunity of destroying the will which, as far as he knew, would render the one in his favour valid.
The prisoner had been arrested in consequence of the discovery, in his room, by Detective Inspector Japp--a most brilliant officer--of the identical phial of strychnine which had been sold at the village chemist's to the supposed Mr. Inglethorp on the day before the murder. It would be for the jury to decide whether or not these damning facts constituted an overwhelming proof of the prisoner's guilt.
And, subtly implying that a jury which did not so decide, was quite unthinkable, Mr. Philips sat down and wiped his forehead.
The first witnesses for the prosecution were mostly those who had been called at the inquest, the medical evidence being again taken first.
Sir Ernest Heavywether, who was famous all over England for the unscrupulous manner in which he bullied witnesses, only asked two questions.
"I take it, Dr. Bauerstein, that strychnine, as a drug, acts quickly?"
"Yes."
"And that you are unable to account for the delay in this case?"
"Yes."
"Thank you."
Mr. Mace identified the phial handed him by Counsel as that sold by him 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 some one 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 Hydrochloride. 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 practiced 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 mantel-piece, 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.
因其谋杀继母而对约翰•卡文迪什的审判在两个月后进行。
有关这几个星期来的情况，我要说的不多，但是，对玛丽•卡文迪什，我充满了真诚的赞美和同情。她热情地站在丈夫的一边，摈斥一切认为他是有罪的念头，并且竭尽全力为他战斗。
我把我的这种赞美告诉了波洛，他若有所思地点点头。
“是呀，她是那种在逆境中方能显出她们的最好美德的女人，在这种时候才能充分表现出她们身上的极度温存和无限真诚。她的骄做和妒忌已被——”
“妒忌？”我问道。
“是的。你没有意识到她是一个非常妒忌的女人？我现在在说的时候，她的骄做和妒忌已被搁到一边。除了她的丈夫，以及那威胁着他的可怕的命运，她什么都不去考虑了。”
他说得非常富有感情，我诚挚地朝他注视着，想起了那最后一个下午，当时他正在仔细考虑说还是不说。怀着他的为了“一个女人的幸福”的柔情，我感到高兴的是，这一决定是由他作出的。
“即使到现在，“我说，“我也几乎不能相信这一点。你知道，直到最后一刻，我还认为是劳伦斯！”
波洛咧着嘴笑了。
“我知道你的想法。”
“结果却是约翰！我的老朋友约翰！”
“每一个杀人犯都可能是某一个人的老朋友，”波洛富有哲学意味他说。“你不能把感情和理智混淆起来。”
“我得说我认为你本来司“以给我一点暗示的。”
“也许，我的朋友，我不这样做，正因为他是你的老朋友。”
这话使我感到有点难堪，我想起了我如何把我认为是波洛对鲍斯坦的看法急急忙忙地告诉了约翰。顺便说一句，有关对他指控一事，他已被宣判无罪。不过，尽管这一次由于他对此极为机灵，指控他犯有间谍活动罪没能得到证实，他的活动可大大地受到限制了。
我问波洛他是否认为约翰会被宣判有罪。使我十分吃惊的是，他回答说，恰恰相反，他非常有可能宣判无罪。
“可是，波洛——”我表示不同意。
“哦，我的朋友，我一直没有对你说过，我没有证据。知道一个人犯罪是一回事，而证明他犯罪又是另一回事，假若是这样的话，证据是极少极少的。这就是整个困难所在。我，赫卡尔•波洛，是知道的，但是，在我的链条中，还缺少最后的一环。除非我能找到这缺少的一环——”他沉重地摇摇头。
“你什么时候开始怀疑约翰。卡文迪什的？”过了一会，我问道。
“你一点都没有怀疑他？”
“真的没有。”
“在你偶然听到卡文迪什太太和她婆婆之间的那次谈话片断，以及看到她后来审讯中不够坦率之后，也没有？”
“是的。”
“你不要把两个和两个放在一起，而应该考虑到，假如那天下午和英格里桑太太吵架的不是阿弗雷德•英格里桑——你总还记得，他在审讯时竭力否认这一点——那一定是劳伦斯或者是约翰了。如果这是劳伦斯，玛丽•卡文迪什的举动则就令人费解。但换之，如果是约翰，这整个事情解释起来就非常自然了。”
“这么说，”我恍然大悟，叫了起来，“那天下午和英格里桑太太吵架的是约翰了？”
“一点不错。”
“你一直知道这情况？”
“当然。卡文迪什太太的举动只能这样来解释。”
“可是你说他可能被宣判无罪？”
波洛耸耸肩膀。
“我是这么说的。在警察法庭的诉讼程序中，我们将会听到对原告有利的案情陈述，可是完全有可能他的律师会建议他保留答辩权。而到正式审判时，会使我们大吃一惊。还有——哦，顺便我有句话要告诫你，朋友。在这种情况下我不一定出面。”
“什么？”
“是的。正式说，我和这没有什么关系。在我找到我链条那最后的一环之前，我必须留在后台。卡文迪什太太一定会想到，我正在为他的丈夫奔波，而不是在搞他。”
“哟，我看，这可有点象在耍手段。”我表示不赞同。
“根本不是。我们不得不和一个极其狡滑、无耻的人打交道，因此我们必须采用一切方法来控制住他——否则他会从我们的指缝中溜掉。这就是为什么我要谨慎小心地呆在幕后。所有发现都是贾普作出的，因此贾普将得到全部荣誉。要是叫我去作证的话，”——他豁达地笑了起来——“那就有可能成为有利于被告一方的证人了。”
我简直不能相信自己的耳朵了。
“这完全是按章办事，”波洛继续说。“说也奇怪，我可以提出证据来推翻原告一方的一个论点。”
“哪一个？”
“说是毁坏遗嘱这个论点。约翰•卡文迪什并没有毁坏那份遗嘱。”
波洛是一位真正的先知。我不想去探究警察法庭诉讼程序中的那些细节了，因为它包括了许多令人厌烦的复述。我只打算直截了当他说一点：约翰•卡文迪什保留了自己的答辩权，并被正式交付审判。
九月间，我们全部到了伦敦。玛丽在肯辛顿租了一幢房子，家庭聚会的人员中包括波洛。
我自己已被分配在陆军部任职，因此得以经常地看到他们。
随着几个星期的过去，波洛的精神态度变得愈来愈坏了。他说的那个“最后一环”依然没有着落。我私底下希望，也许还是这么搁着的好，因为，要是约翰宣判有罪的话，对玛丽来说，还能有什么幸福可言呢？
九月十五日，约翰•卡文迪什因被控“蓄意谋杀埃米莉•阿格尼丝•英格里桑”，且“不服”，在伦敦中央刑事法院出庭受审。
著名的王室法律顾问欧内斯特•海维韦萨爵土受聘为他辩护。
菲利普斯先生代表王国政府开始提出公诉。
他说，这是一桩经过充分预谋的，极为残酷的凶杀案。它完全证实，一个慈祥轻信的女人被她的前房儿子所蓄意毒杀，而她对待他胜过亲生母亲。自他童年起，她就开始抚养他。直到今天，他和他的妻子仍受到她的无微不至的爱护和照料，在斯泰尔斯庄园过着奢侈的生活。她是他们的慈善、慷慨的恩人。
他提议传证人上庭证明被告——一个浪荡公子——如何在经济方面已处于山穷水尽的地步，可他还继续和一个邻近的农场主的老婆叫雷克斯太太的私通。这一消息传到他后母的耳中，就在她被害的那天下午，她为此责备了他，结果发生了争吵，其中一部分话被人无意中听到。在这前一天，被告曾去村子里的药店买回士的宁，他化了装，试图借此把罪责加到另一个人——即英格里桑太太的丈夫身上，被告对他极为妒忌。幸亏英格里桑先生能够提出无可指摘的证据，证明本人不在犯罪现场。
检察官继续说，七月十六日下午，和自己的儿子争吵后，英格里桑太太立即立了一份新遗嘱，这份遗嘱第二天早上发现已被毁于她的卧室的壁炉中，但证据经显露，表明它立得有利于她的丈夫。实际上，在结婚之前，死者已立有一份于他丈夫有利的遗嘱，但是——这时菲利普斯先生摇着一个富有表情的食指——被告对此一无所知。这份旧遗嘱迄今还在。是什么导致死者重立一份新的，他没能说出。她是一位上了年纪的老太太了，说不定有可能已经忘掉了以前的一份；或者是——这种说法对他来说似乎更可靠——她也许有一个想法，以为结了婚这份遗嘱就作废了，因为在这个问题上曾经有过某种说法。女士们总是不很精通法律知识的。大约在一年前，她已经签署了一份于被告有利的遗嘱。他还将传来证人证明在那个不幸的晚上，最后把咖啡递给英格里桑太太的是被告。当天晚上，他曾得到允许进入她的房间，就在那时候，无疑，他找到了烧毁这份遗嘱的机会，因为就他所知，这份遗嘱会使英格里桑先生的受宠得以合法化。
被告的被捕是由于侦探贾普巡官——一位非常高明的警宫——在他的房里发现了一只装士的宁的小药瓶，这就是作案前一天村子药店卖给假英格里桑先生的那一只。陪审团将确定这些导致定罪的事实是否足以构成判定被告有罪的充分证据。
菲利普斯先生巧妙地暗示，陪审团如果不作出这样的决定是非常难以想象的，随后他坐了下来，擦了擦前额。
为原告作证的主要证人大多为验尸时被审讯过的那些，此外，还第一次提出了验尸报告。
欧内斯特•海维韦萨爵士——他以对待证人采用威胁方式而闻名全英国——只问了两个问题。
“我想，鲍斯坦医生，那士的宁作为一种麻醉剂，作用是很快的吧？”
“是的。”
“而你说不出在本案中所以缓延的原因？”
“是的。”
“谢谢。”
梅司先生认出检察宫给他着的这只小药瓶就是他卖给“英格里桑先生”的那只。经催促，他承认他只是跟英格里桑先生面熟，从来没有和他谈过话。这个证人没有再受到盘问。
阿弗雷德•英格里桑受到传讯，他矢口否认去买过毒药。他也否认同他的妻子有过争吵。好几个证人都证明这些陈述是正确的。
花匠的证词，叙述了有关在遗嘱上连署的情况，接下去传讯到多卡斯。
忠实于她的“少爷”的多卡斯，竭力否认她听到的是约翰的声音，而且不顾一切地一口咬定，在闺房里和女主人争吵的是英格里桑先生。正在受审的被告脸上，掠过了一丝苦笑。他非常清楚地知道，她的勇敢的违抗是多么地没有用处，因为否认这一点并不是辩护的目的。卡文迪什太太当然不可能被传到庭上来发表不利于她丈夫的证词。
就其它情况提了几个问题后，菲利普斯先生问道：
“在今年六月底的时候，你是否记得派克森商店给劳伦斯•卡文迪什先生寄来过一个包裹？”
多卡斯摇摇头。
“我不记得了，先生。也许有这件事，不过劳伦斯先生六月份有一段时间不在家。”
“倘使有个包裹寄给他而他又不在家，那怎么办？”
“可以放在他房里或者是转给他。”
“这由你管吗？”
“不，先生，我只是把它搁在过道的桌子上。象这类事都由霍华德小姐料理。”
伊夫琳•霍华德被传到庭上。问了她几个别的问题后，就问她这个包裹的事。
“不记得，来的包裹很多。我没法一个个都专门记住。”
“你是否记得劳伦斯先生去威尔士后，你有没有把这个包裹转给他，或者是你就把它放在他房里了？”
“想不起转过包裹。有的话应该记得的。”
“假如有个包裹寄来给劳伦斯•卡文迪什先生，可后来它不见了，你应该发觉它的失落吧？”
“不，我不这样想。我会认为有个人把它保管起来了。”
“我相信，霍华德小姐，是你找到这张包装纸的吧？”他举起波洛和我在斯泰尔斯庄园的起居室里检查过的那张满是灰尘的纸。给她看了看。
“是的，是我。”
“你怎么会去找这张纸的？”
“那个雇来办这桩案子的比利时侦探要我找的。”
“你最后是在哪儿发现它的？”
“在衣柜的——的——顶上。”
“在被告的衣柜顶上？”
“我——我相信是这样。”
“不是你自己找到的？”
“不。”
“那你应该知道你是在哪儿找到的了？”
“是的，在被告的衣柜上。”
“这就好了。”
派克森戏剧服装商店的一个店员作证说，六月二十九日，他们根据要求给L.•卡文迪什先生供应了一大绺黑胡子。它是来信订购的，信内附有一张邮政汇票。不，来信他们没有保存。全部交易情况都记载入册。根据来信指明地址，他们已将胡于迳寄“斯泰尔斯庄园，L.•卡文迪什先生。”
欧内斯特•海维韦萨爵士沉重地站了起来。
“这信是从哪儿写来的？”
“从斯泰尔斯庄园。”
“你们包裹寄的是同一地址？”
“是的。”
“信是从那儿来的？”
“是的。”
海维韦萨就象一头猛兽朝他扑了上去。
“你怎么知道？”
“我——我不懂。”
“你怎么知道信是从斯泰尔斯来的？你看到邮戳了？”
“没有——不过——”
“啊，你没有看到邮戳！可你竟这么自信地肯定说信是从斯泰尔斯来的，事实上，它也许盖的是别的什么地方的邮戳呢？”
“是——的。”
“这封信虽然写在印有地址的信纸上，可事实上，它也许是从别的什么地方投寄的呢？譬如从威尔士？”
证人承认情况有可能是这样，于是欧内斯待爵士才表示满意。
斯泰尔斯庄园一个干粗活的女佣人伊丽莎白•威尔斯陈述说，那天晚上她已上床，后来想起她把大门给闩住了，没有象英格里桑先生所要求的那样只扣上弹簧锁。因此，她就又下楼去纠正自己的错误。这时，她听到右侧屋有轻微的响声，偷偷朝过道一看，看到约翰•卡文迪什先生正在敲英格里桑太太的门。
欧内斯特•海维韦萨爵上迅速解决了她的问题，在他的无情的逼问下，她绝望地自相矛盾起来了，于是欧内斯特爵上脸上带着满意的笑容重新坐了下来。
安妮的证词叙述了地板上蜡烛油的事，以及看到被告把咖啡送进闺房。
审判到此休庭，定次日继续进行。
我们一回到家里，玛丽就大骂检察官。
“这个可恶的人！他给我的可怜的约翰拉上了一张什么网！他竟把每一桩小事都歪曲得面目全非！”
“哦，”我安慰说，“到明天情况会不同的。”
“是啊，”她若有所思地说；接着她突然压低了声音。“哈斯丁先生，你不会认为——”这谅必不会是劳伦斯——哦，不，不可能！”
可是我自己也感到迷惑不解，因此一和波洛单独在一起，我就问他，他认为欧内斯特爵士到底是什么意思。
“嗨！”波洛赏识地说，“他是个聪明人，那位欧内斯特爵士。”
“你认为他是否相信劳伦斯犯了罪？”
“我并不认为他相信或者特别注意某一点！不，他这样做的意图是要在陪审团的思想上引起混乱，使他们在认为是他兄长干的这个意见上产生分歧。他力图证明告发劳伦斯的证据完全和告发约翰的一样多——我十分相信他一定会成功。”
重又开庭审判时，第一个被传的证人是侦探巡官贾普，他的证词简明扼要。在叙述了较早的一些事情后，他继而说：
“接到按照通知行动的指示后，萨默海警长和我本人，趁被告暂离住房时，搜查了他的房间。在他的五斗橱里，一些内衣裤的底下，我们发现：首先是一副和英格里桑先生戴的那副相似的金边夹鼻眼镜。”——它己提交给庭上——”其次就是这只小药瓶。”
小药瓶就是药店伙计已经辨认过的那只，是只蓝色的小玻璃瓶，里面装有一点白色结晶状粉未，瓶上标明：
“土的宁盐酸。剧毒。”
自警察法庭起诉以来，被侦探们发现的一件新证据是一张长长的，几乎是全新的吸墨水纸。它是在英格里桑太太的一本支票簿里发现的，用镜子一反照，就清晰地映出这么几个字：“……我死之后，我所拥有的全部财产均遗给我心爱的丈夫阿弗雷德•英格……”这无可争辩地证实了这样一个事实：那份被毁的遗嘱是有利于死去的太太的文夫的。当时，贾普曾出示经过复原的壁炉里取出的烧焦纸片作为证据。而现在，这，再加上在阁楼上发现的假胡子，使他的证据得以完善了。
但是，欧内斯特爵士还是进行了盘问。
“你搜查被告的房间是哪一天？”
“星期二，七月二十四号。”
“恰好是发生惨案后一星期？”
“是的。”
“你说，你们是在五斗橱里发现这两样东西的。那抽斗没锁吧？”
“是的。”
“你认为，一个犯了罪的人把罪证保存在一只任何人都能发现的没锁的抽斗里是可能的吗？”
“他也许匆忙中暂时把它们藏在那儿。”
“可是你刚才说了，从犯罪那天起已经有整整一个星期了。他应该有充分的时间来转移它们，以及毁掉它们。”
“也许有。”
“在这个问题上不存在‘也许’。他是有，还是没有充裕的时间来转移和毁掉它们呢？”
“有的。”
“底下藏着这两样东西的那堆内衣裤是厚的还是薄的？”
“很厚。”
“换句话说，这是些冬天穿的内衣裤。显然，被告是不可能去开那抽斗的罗？”
“也许不可能。”
“请回答我的问题。在炎热的夏天里最热的一个星期，被告可不可能去开放着冬天内衣裤的抽斗？可能还是不可能？”
“不可能。”
“假如是那样，现在谈到的这两样东西是否有可能为一个第三者所放，而被告对此完全不知情呢？”
“我可认为这不太可能。”
“但这有可能吗？”
“有。”
“那就行了。”
接下去是一些其它证据。有关被告发觉自己到七月底要陷入经济困境的证据。有关他和雷克斯太太私通的证据——可怜的玛丽，对她这么一个矜持的女人来说，听这是很痛苦的。伊夫琳•霍华德说的事实是对的，虽然她对阿弗雷德•英格里桑的憎恨使得她武断地乱下了个结论，硬说他是与比案有关连的人。
后来，劳伦斯•卡文迪什被带进了证人席。他用一种很低的声音来回答菲利普斯先生的问题，他矢口否认六月间向派克森商店订购过东西。事实上，六月二十九日，他已不在家里，在威尔士。”
欧内斯特爵士的下巴立即好斗地向前突了出来。
“你否认六月二十九日向派克森商店订购过黑胡子吗？”
“是的。”
“啊！万一你哥哥出了事。谁将继承斯泰尔斯庄园呢？”
这句残酷的问话直问得劳伦斯那张苍白的脸一片通红。法官不满地低声抱怨着，被告席上的被告恼怒地屈身向前。
海维韦萨对当事人的恼怒毫不在意。
“请你回答我的问题。”
“我想，”劳伦斯平静他说。“是我。”
“你说‘想’，这是什么意思？怀哥哥没有孩子，将由你继承它，是么？”
“是的。”
“哦，那很好。”海维韦萨带着一种残忍的亲切语气说。“你还将继承大部分财产，是么？”
“说实在，欧内期特爵士，”法官提出了异议，“这些问题是无关的。”
欧内斯持爵士点点头，继续发射出他的利箭。
“七月十七日，星期二那天，我相信，你曾和另一位客人去拜访过塔明斯持红十字医院的药房，是么？”
“是的。”
“当你碰巧单独待着几秒钟的时候，你曾打开毒药橱检查过一些瓶子么？”
“我——我——可能是这样。”
“我看你是肯定这样吧？”
“是的。”
欧内斯特爵士紧接着又迳直朝他射出了第二个问题。
“你有没有特别检查过一只瓶子？”
“没有，我没有这么想。”
“注意，卡文迪什先生。我说的是一小瓶士的宁盐酸。”
劳伦斯的脸色刷地发青了。
“没——没——有，我真的没有。”
“那么你怎么来解释你在它上面留下一清二楚的指纹这一事实呢？”
这种威吓手法对于神经过敏的脾性极为灵验。
“我——我想，我一定拿过这只瓶子了。”
“我也这样想！你取过瓶子里的东西没有？”
“确实没有。”
“那你为什么拿它？”
“我曾学过医，这类东西自然使我感兴趣。”
“啊！这么说毒药‘自然使你感兴趣’，是么？还有，你是等到独个人时才来满足你的‘兴趣’的吧？”
“那纯粹是巧合。即使其它人在那儿，我同样也会这么做的。”
“可是，这事发生的时候，其它人不在那儿吧？”
“是的，不过——”
“事实上，在那整个下午，你只有几分钟独自一人，而你对士的宁盐酸表现出‘自然的兴趣’，就发生——我说的是，就发生——在这几分钟内，是么？”
劳伦斯可怜地结结巴巴说：
“我——我——”
欧内斯特爵士露出满意的表情说道：
“我没有更多的东西要问你了，卡文迪什先生。”
这几分钟的盘问引起了法庭上的极大骚动。在座的许多衣着时髦的女人都忙忙碌碌地交头接耳着，她们的低语已经影响到这样的程度使得法官生气地威胁说要是再不立刻静下来，他就要把她们清除出庭了。
还有一件证据，请来了几位笔迹专家，就药店毒药出售登记簿上的“阿弗雷德•英格里桑”这个签名听取了他们的看法。他们都一致断言，这确实不是他本人的笔迹，他们的看法是，这也许是被告的笔迹。经过询问，他们承认这可能为被告所巧妙地伪造。
欧内斯特•海维韦萨爵土的、开始使案情有利于被告的讲话虽然不长，但是态度十分坚决有力。他说，在他漫长的经历中，从来都不知道凭这么一点证据可以控告一个人犯谋杀罪。它们不仅完全是一些次要的间接证据，而且其中极大部份实际上未经证实。让他们来看看他们听过的以及在公正地审查的这些证据吧，在被告房间的一只抽斗里发现了士的宁。正如他所指出的，这只抽斗并未上锁，他认为，并无证据证明把毒药藏在那儿的就是被告。事实上，这是某个第三者企图把罪名栽在被告身上的恶毒阴谋的一部分。检察当局拿不出一点证据来证实他们的论点：向派克森商店订购黑胡子的是被告。有关被告和他的后母之间发生的争吵，被告早已坦率地承认，但是这件事以及他在经济上的困境都被严重地夸大了。
他的同行——欧内斯特漫不经心地向菲利普斯点了点头——说，如果被告是个无辜的人，在警察法庭审讯时他就应该站出来解释清楚，争吵的是他，而不是英格里桑先生。他认为事实因而被歪曲了。真买的情况是这样的：星期二晚上，被告一回到家里，别人就非常可靠地告诉他，英格里桑夫妇俩发生了激烈的争吵。被告没有想到有人会有可能把他的声音错当作英格里桑的。他自然而然地也就断定他的后母有过两次争吵了。
检察当局断言，七月十六日，星期一那天，被告伪装成英格里桑先生去过村子里那家药店。恰恰相反，当时被告正在一个叫做马斯顿丛林的荒凉处所，他被一张匿名字条召唤到那儿，字条上都是讹诈的言词，威胁说，要是不照条子上的要求去做，就要向他的妻子揭露某些事情，因此被告到了指定的地点，可是在那儿空等了半个小时，之后才返回家来。不幸的是来回的路上没有碰到一个人可以证明他的故事的真实性，可是侥幸的是他还保存着那张字条，它可以作为证据。
至于有关烧毁遗嘱的供述，被告以前曾做过开业律师，他清楚地知道，一年前所立的那份于他有利的遗嘱，由于他的后母再嫁已经作废。他可以提出证据来表明是谁烧毁了这份遗嘱，从而也许有可能出现一个有关本案的全薪的见解。
最后，他给陪审团指出，除了约翰•卡文迪什外，还有着告发别人的证据。他要他们注意下列事实：告发劳伦斯•卡文迪什的证据如果说不比告发他的哥哥多的话，至少也是不相上下。
这时他刘被告招呼了一下。
约榆往被告席上表现得很好。在欧内斯特爵士巧妙的安排下，他令人信服、满意地叙述了自己去丛林的事。他拿出他收到的那张匿名字条，把它交给陪审团审查。他欣然承认了他在经济上的困难，以及和后母的意见不一，这对他的否认谋杀具有很大意义。
申述结束，他停顿了一下，说：
“有一件事我想要明确声明。我坚决拒绝、绝不赞同欧内斯特•海维韦萨爵士对我弟弟所暗示的怀疑。我认为，在这一罪行中，我的弟弟决不会比我做得更多。”
欧内斯特爵士只是微微一笑，他的锐利的目光注意到，约翰的抗辩已经在陪审团中产生了良好的印象。
接着，开始盘诘。
“我认为，你说的你没有想到审讯时的证人会有可能把你的声音错当作英格里桑先生的。这不使人感到非常奇怪么？”
“不，我不这样想，当时别人告诉我说我母亲和英格里桑先生之间发生了争吵，而我根本没有想到事情会不是真的这样。”
“当女佣人多卡斯复述了某些谈话片段之后——这些片段你理应记得——你也没有想到吗？”
“我不记得那些话。”
“你的记忆力谅必是很差的了！”
“不，而是因为当时我们两人都很生气，我想我们说的话比我门想要说的多。我很少主义我母亲实际说的话。”
菲利普斯先生的表示不相信的嗤鼻是辩论技本上的一大成就。他转到了字条的问题上。
“你这张字条交得非常及时。告诉我，这笔迹不熟悉么？”
“我不熟悉。”
“你不认为它和你的笔迹明显地相似么——经过仔细伪装的？”
“不，我不这样认为。”
“我要对你说，这是你自己的笔迹！”
“不。”
“我要对你说，是你为了急于要表明自己不在犯罪现场，想出了这个虚构的、相当不可信的约会的主意，并且自己写了这张字条以便证实你的供述！”
“不。”
“就在你自称在一个偏僻的、人迹罕到的处所空等着的时候，你实在是到了斯泰尔斯村的药店里，在那儿冒名阿弗雷德•英格里桑买了士的宁，这不是事实吗？”
“不，这是谎言！”
“我要对你说，是你穿了一套英格里桑先生的衣服，戴上修剪得象他一样的黑胡子，到了那儿——还以他的名义在登记簿上签了名！”
“这绝对不是事实。”
“那我将把这字条、登记簿上
Chapter 12 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 reunion in the salon? It is necessary for every one 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 4 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 5 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 4 o'clock she has been angry, but completely mistress of herself. At 5 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 4 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 4.30, 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 5 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 4.30 and 5 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 indeed 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 coco which she took every night to Mrs. Inglethorp's room. I accordingly secured a sample of that coco, 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 coco 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 coco, 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 coco, and drank it off then and there. Now we are faced with a new problem. We know the coco 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 . . . . . . gr.I 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!"
波洛的突然离去大大地引起了我们大家的好奇心。星期天早上过去了，他仍然没有出现。可是到三点左右，外面一声响亮、拖长的汽车喇叭声把我们都驱赶到窗口，只见波洛在贾普和萨默悔的陪同下，从一辆汽车里钻了出来。这小个子变了。他流露出一股可笑的自鸣得意的神情。他用过分的尊敬向玛丽•卡文迪什鞠了一个躬。
“大太，你允许我在客厅里开个小会吗？每个人都得出席。”
玛丽苦笑了一下。
“你知道，波洛先生，你有权安排一切。”
“你真是太温厚了，太太。”
波洛依然满脸笑容，把我们大家都集合到客厅里，他一面安排，一面往前搬着椅子。
“霍华德小姐——到了。辛西娅小姐。劳伦斯先生。诚实的多卡斯。还有安妮。好！我们的会还得延迟一会儿开始，等英格里桑先生来。我已经给他送去一个条子了。
霍华德小姐立即从座位上站了起来。
“要是那家伙进这屋里来，我马上离开这儿！”
“别这样，别这样！”波洛走到她跟前，低声请求说。
霍华德小姐终于答应，坐回到自己的椅子上。过了一会，英格里桑先生走进了客厅。
等人一到齐，波洛就从坐位上站了起来，摆出一个受欢迎的演说家的架势，向他的听众有礼貌地鞠了一个躬。
“先生们，女士们，正如你们诸位所知道的，我是受约翰•卡文迪什先生之约来调查此案的。我当时立即检查了死者的卧室，那间卧室根据医生们的建议，早已上了锁，因而它完全确切地保持着发生惨案时的情况。我在检查中发现：首先是一点绿色的布片；其次是，在窗口附近的地毯上有一片污迹，还是潮湿的；第三是，一只装溴化剂药粉的空盒子。
“先说这点绿色的布片，我发现，它钩在那间卧室和隔壁辛西娅小姐住的房间相通的那扇门的插销上。我曾经把这点布碎交给警方作过检查，他们认为这不很重要，但是他们认出了这是什么——这是一点从绿色务农臂章上撕下的布片。”
人们有点骚动起来了。
“目前，在斯泰尔斯只有一个人是务农的——就是卡文迪什太太。因此，一定是卡文迪什太太经由和辛西娅小姐房间相通的这道门进入过死看的房间。
“可是那道门是在里面闩上的呀！”我叫了起来。
“我去检查那房间时，是这样。但是，最初，这情况我们只是听她说的，因为去试看那道特别的门以及报告它闩住的都是她。在后来的混乱情况下，她是有足够的机会再把门闩上的。我早就找到一个机会检验过我的推测。首先，布片和卡文迪什太太臂章上一个扯破的小洞完全吻合。而且在验尸审讯时，卡文迪什太太还曾公开宣称，从自己的房里听到了床边那张桌子翻倒的声音。我也早已测验过她的这种说法，我要我的朋友哈斯丁站在房子的左侧，就在卡文迪什太太的门外。我自己和警方人员一起到了死者的房间，在那儿我表面上显得偶然地弄翻了谈论到的那张桌子，可是我发现，正如我所料想的那样，哈斯丁先生什么声音也没有听到。这使我更加相信，她公开宣称的惨案发生时她正在自己房里穿衣服，说的并不是真话。事实上，我确信，在响起报警的铃声时，卡文迪什太太并不是在自己的房里，而实际上是在死看的房中。”
我朝玛丽迅速地瞥了一眼。她的脸色非常苍白，但仍在微笑。
“我来继续说清这个假设的理由。卡文迪什太太在自己的婆婆的房中。我们可以说，她正在寻找什么东西，而且没找到。突然，英格里桑太太醒了过来，她以为毛病发作而感到一阵惊慌，猛地伸出手去，结果推翻了床头桌，接着不顾一切地拉响了电铃。卡文迪什太太大吃一惊，失手跌落了拿着的蜡烛，把浊油撒到了地毯上。她拾起蜡烛，飞快地退进辛西娅小姐的房间，关上了身后的门。她急匆匆地奔出房间来到过道里，因为不应当让佣人们发现她在这儿。但是已经太晚了！连接两侧的长廊那边已经传来脚步声。她该怎么办？她迅速一想，急忙退回到年轻姑娘的房间，并且动手把她摇醒。仓促地被唤醒的一家人聚集在过道里。他们都忙着猛敲英格里桑太太的房门，没有想到卡文迪什太太没有和其它人一起来，可是——这值得注意——我可以查明没有一个人看到她从另一侧过来。”他注视着玛丽•卡文迪什。“我说得对吗，太太？”
她点点头。
“一点没错，先生。你知道，要是我想到泄露这些事实会使我的丈夫有点好处的话，我早就这样做了。但是我觉得这并不关系到他的有罪或者无辜的问题。”
“在某种意义上说，这是正确的，太太。但是这能澄清我脑子里的许多错觉，现在让我来坦率他说一说那些真正有意义的事实吧。”
“遗嘱！”劳伦斯叫了起来。“那未它是你，玛丽，是谁烧毁那遗嘱的？”
她摇摇头，波洛也摇摇头。
“不，”他平静地说。“只有一个人有可能烧毁那遗嘱——就是英格里桑太太本人！”
“不可能！”我惊叫起来。“那是她当天下午刚写成的呀！”
“然而，我的朋友，这确实是英格里桑太太。因为，你没有其它的方法可以解释这样一个事实：在今年最热的日子里的一天，英格里桑太太竟然吩咐在她的房间里生火。”
我喘了一口气。我们真是傻瓜，从来都没有想到生火这多不合理！波洛继续说：
“那天的温度，先生们，在荫处为华氏80度，而英格里桑太太还吩咐生火！这为什么？因为她想要烧掉什么东西，不可能想到别的。你总还记得，由于在斯泰尔斯实行战时经济，连一张废纸也不让扔掉，因此像一份遗嘱这么厚的一份文件也不能烧掉。在我听到说在英格里桑太太房里生火的时候，我就匆匆武断地下了结论，这一定是要烧毁什么重要文件——可能是一份遗嘱。因此，在壁炉里发现烧焦的碎片并没有使我感到惊奇。当然，当时我不知道，我们讲到的这份遗嘱是这天下午刚立的，而且我得承认，当我听到这一事实后，我曾误入严重的歧途，我得出结论，认为英格里桑太太烧毁她的遗嘱的决定是由于当天下午发生争吵引起的直接结果，因此这次争吵系发生在立遗嘱之后，而不是立遗嘱之前。
“在这点上，正如我们所知道的，我搞错了，我被迫放弃了这个想法。我以一个新的观点来对待这个问题。哦，在四点钟时，多卡斯偶然听到她的女主人生气地说：‘你不要以为我怕公开出去，或者是夫妻间的反目能吓住我。’我对此作了推测，而且我的推测是正确的，这些话并不是对她的丈夫，而是对约翰•卡文迪什说的。五点钟时，即一小时之后，她说了几乎是同样的话，但是出发点不同。她对多卡斯承认，‘我不知道该怎么办；夫妻间的反目是一件可怕的事情。’四点钟时，她在生气，可本人完全是个女主人的样子。五点钟时，她已极度悲伤，说的话使人大为震惊。
“从心理学的角度来着这件事情，我得出一个结论，我认为这个结论是正确的。她第二次说的‘反目’不同于第一次——这是关于她自己的！
“让我们重新再来设想一下。四点钟时，英格里桑太太是和她的儿子争吵，威胁说要向她的妻子告发他——顺便说一句，他的妻子已碰巧听到了这次谈话的大部分。四点三十分时，英格里桑太太由于有了一次关于遗嘱的有效性问题的淡话之故，立了一份有利于他丈夫的遗嘱，这就是两个花匠连署的一份。五点钟时，多卡斯发现她的女主人的情绪相当激动不安，她手中拿着一张纸——多卡斯认为‘一封信’——这时她吩咐在她的房里生上火，有可能在当时，就是在四点三十分到五点之间，发生了什么事情，引起了她感情上非常剧烈的变化，因为这时她急干要烧毁这份遗嘱翼就象她在这以前，急于要立它一样。那么这是什么事情呢？
“就我们所知，在这半小时内，她完全是独自一人。没有一个人进来或者离开过那间闺房。那末是什么引起这一思想感情上的突变呢？”
“只能有一种推测，可是我相信我的推测是正确的。英格里桑太太的写字台里没有邮票。这我们知道，因为后来她曾要多卡斯给她拿一些来。而在那个房间的对角，放着她丈夫的写字台——是锁着的。她因为急于要找到几张邮票，于是，根据我的推论，她试图用自己的钥匙打开那张写字台。据我所知，其中有一只钥匙是配得上的。因此，她打开了写字台，而在寻找邮票的过程中，她偶然发现了一件别的东西——就是多卡斯看到她拿在手中的那张纸，这张东西无疑是决不能让英格里桑太太看到的。另一方面，卡文迪什太太却认为，她的婆婆如此紧紧地握着的这张纸是她自己的丈夫与人私通的书面证据。她要求英格里桑太太把这给她，她却要她放心，说是确实什么事情都没有发生。卡文迪什太太不相信她。她认为英格里桑太太在包庇自己的儿子。而卡文迪什太太是个非常果敢的女人，在她那谨慎自制的面纱后面，有的是对她丈夫的狂烈的妒忌。她决心要不惜一切代价来取得那份材料，而且在这种决心下有个机会帮助了她。她碰巧拾到英格里桑太太那大早上丢失的公文箱钥匙。她知道，她婆婆总是把重要的文件放在这只特殊的箱里的。
“因此，卡文迪什太太制订了自己的计划，就象只有一个因妒忌铤而走险的女人才会做出来的那样。傍晚的某个时候，她拉开了通往辛西娅小姐房间的那个门的插销。可能她还在折叶上点了油，因为我发现当我该着开门时，它一点声音也没有。她把她的计划拖延到那天凌晨，以便比较安全，因为在那个时候佣人们习惯干听到她在房间附近走动的声音。她穿好她的全套田间劳动服，悄俏地通过辛西娅小姐的房间，走进英格里桑太太的房间。”
他停顿了一下，辛西娅打断了他的话：
“可是，要是有人经过我的房间，我本当惊醒过来的呀？”
“要是你被麻醉了，你就醒不过来了，小姐。”
“麻醉？”
“是呀！”
“你们总还记得，”——他又对我们大家说——“一直都那么乱哄哄，可隔壁的辛西娅小姐却睡得那么沉。这有两种可能。不是她装睡——我不相信这一点——就是被某种人为的方法搞昏迷了。”
“脑子里带着后一种想法，我非常仔细地检查了全部咖啡杯，我记得前一天晚上拿咖啡给辛西娅小姐的是卡文迪什太太。我从每一只杯子里都取了试样，对它们进行了分析——由于没有结果，我又仔细地计算杯子，万一有一只已经拿走了呢。六个人喝过咖啡，六只杯子都在。我不得不承认自己错了。
“可是后来，我发现我犯了极为严重的粗枝大叶的错误。喝过咖啡的是七个人。而不是六个人，因为那天傍晚鲍斯坦医生也在那儿。这改变了整个事情的面貌，因为现在有一只杯子不见了。佣人们并没有引起注意，女佣人安妮端来了咖啡，拿进来七只杯子，她不知道英格里桑先生一直都没有喝，而第二天早上收杯子的多卡斯，象往常一样只找到六只——或者严格地说她只见到五只，这第六只就是发现打碎在英格里桑太太房里的一只。
“我确信不见的这只就是辛西娅小姐的那只。我之相信这一事实还有一个附带的理由，所有杯子里发现都放过糖，而辛西娅小姐是从来不在自己的咖啡里放糖的。我的注意力被安妮说的她每晚要送到英格里桑太太房里去的可可的托盘里发现一些“盐”的事吸引住了。因此我采了一点那可可的试样，把它送去作了分析。”
“可是鲍斯坦医生已经搞过了，”劳伦斯迅速地说。
“不完全如此。他只要求分析人员报告是否有士的宁。而不象我一样，要求化验是否有麻醉剂。”
“麻醉剂？”
“是的。这是分析人员的报告。卡文迪什太太给英格里桑太太和辛西娅小姐两人放了一种安全而有效的麻醉剂。这样她才有可能有一个‘作案”的时间！当她的婆婆突然死去，而且一听到‘毒药’这个字后，她的感觉是可以想象的！她相信，她所放的安眠药是完全无害的，但是，无疑，在那骇人的刹那间，她一定是害怕别人把英格里桑太太的死归罪到她头上了。她显得惊慌失措，在这种影响下，她匆匆跑到楼下，迅速把辛西娅小姐喝过的那只咖啡杯连同茶托一起扔进了一只黄铜大花瓶，后来它就是被劳伦斯先生在那里面找到的。而那留下来的可可，她碰也没敢去碰。看着她的眼睛太多了。当提到士的宁，而且她发现这整个惨案并非她所造成之后，她的宽慰是可以猜测到的。
“现在我们可以说明士的宁中毒的症状这么久才出现的原因了。麻醉剂和士的宁一起服下，使毒药的作用延缓了好几个小时。”
波洛停了一下。玛丽朝他着着，她的脸上渐渐有了血色。
“你说的全部是事实，波洛先生，这是我一生中最最庄严的时刻。我将永远不会忘记它。可是，你真是太好了。我现在知道——”
“我告诉过你，你向波洛神父忏悔错不了，我说的是什么意思，呢？可是你不信任我。”
“现在我一切都明白了，”劳伦斯说。“有麻醉剂的可可，加到了有毒药的咖啡上面，这就造成毒性发作延缓的原因。”
“一点不错。可是，咖啡是有毒的，还是没有毒的呢？这儿我们碰到了一点困难，因为英格里桑太太一直就没有喝咖啡。”
“什么？”大家都惊叫起来。
“没有喝。你们还记得我说的英格里桑太太房里地毯上的污迹吗？有关那污迹，有一些特点，它还是潮湿的，散发出强烈的咖啡味，而且渗进了地毯的绒毛，我还发现了一些很小的磁器碎未。发生的事情对我来说是一清二楚的。我曾把我的小公文箱放在靠窗的那张桌子上，可是桌子突然一边向上翘了起来，把它摔落到地板上，恰恰也落在了同一个地方。正是如此，头一天晚上，英格里桑太太把那杯拿到房里来的咖啡放了上去，而那张不牢靠的桌子也是这么捉弄了她一下。
“以后发生的情况，就我而言，仅仅是一种推论而已，但是我应当说，之后英格里桑太太拾起了打破的杯子，把它放到了床边的桌子上。她感到需要喝点兴奋的东西，于是就热了可可，当时就喝下去了。现在，我们面临了一个新的问题。我们知道，可可里不含士的宁，咖啡她又根本没有喝，而且士的宁一定是在傍晚七点到九点之间这段时间放的。这第三种媒介物是什么呢——一种能如此适合地掩盖掉士的宁的味道，以致奇怪地没有一个人想到它的东西？”波洛朝房间里环顾了一周，而后令人难忘地自己作了回答。“她的补药！”
“你的意思是凶手把士的宁放进了她的补药？”我大声问道。
“不需要放。它已经在里面了——在混合剂里。杀害英格里桑太太的土的宁是威尔金斯医生处方上开的同一种士的宁。为了使诸位清楚起见，我要给诸位念一念从一本药物配方书上抄下的一段摘录，这本书是我在塔明斯特红十字医院的药房里发现的：
“‘下述配方在教科书上已出名：
士的宁盐…………gr.1溴化钾……………3vi水…………………3viii混合
此溶液数小时后能使大部分士的宁盐沉淀为一种难以溶解的成透明晶体状溴化物。一英国女士因服用一种类似的混合剂丧生，因沉淀之士的宁均聚集在瓶底，而在服用最后一剂时，她近乎服下全部士的宁！’”
“当然，在威尔金斯医生的处方中并没有这种溴化物，但是诸位一定还记得我曾提到过一只溴化剂药粉的空盒子。放一、两包这种药粉到盛满的补药瓶里，就能使士的宁有效地沉淀，而象书上说的那样，使之服下那最后一剂。诸位以后一定会听到，这个惯常为英格里桑太太倒药的人，一直都非常当心，不去摇动瓶子，而在瓶底留下的沉淀物也就安然不动。”
“总之，有许多迹象表明惨案本当在星期一晚上发生。那一天，英格里桑太太的叫人铃的电线被整整齐齐地割断，当天晚上，辛西娅小姐又在朋友家过夜，因此在右侧屋只有英格里桑太太独自一人，这样就完全断绝了任何救助，而使她多半在请医生急救之前就死去。但是，那天晚上由于英格里桑太太急急忙忙地要赶去参加村子里的文娱晚会，她忘掉了服药，第二天，她又没有在家吃中饭，因此那最后——致命的——一剂药，实际上也就比凶手预期的迟服了二十四小时；正由于这一延迟，这决定性的证据——这根链条中的最后一环——现在落到了我的手中。”
在众人屏息的激动之中，他掏出了三张薄薄的纸条。
“一封凶手的亲笔信，朋友们！它在措词方面若更为清楚一点，要是及时得到警告，英格里桑太太是有可能得以免于被害的。其实，她已意识到自己处境的危险，但是她不知道杀害她的方法。”
在死一般的寂静中，波洛把几张纸条拼在一起，清了清嗓子，念道：
“‘最亲爱的伊夫琳：
你一定为听不到消息在着急吧。一切顺利
——只是它将在今天晚上而不是昨天晚上。你是
能理解的。等老太婆一死，处理掉，好日子就来
了。没有一个人能确实证明是我犯的罪。你的那
个有关溴化物的主意，真是天才的一着！不过我
们还得十分谨慎小心。走错一步——’
“朋友们，信到此为止。毫无疑问，笔者被打断了；但是，有关他的身分，已经不成问题。我们大家都知道，这手迹和——”
一声近乎尖叫的嚎吼打破了寂静。
“你混蛋！你怎么搞到它的？”
一张椅子被推翻了。波洛轻捷地跳到一旁。他飞快一个动作，攻击他的人就砰地一声跌倒在地。
“先生们，女士们，”波洛带着一种戏剧性的动作说。“请允许我向诸位介绍这位凶手——阿弗雷德•英格里桑先生！”
Chapter 13 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, bon jour 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 chateau, 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 nonsuccess 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 mantel-piece?"
"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 mantel-piece. And, if they were already straightened, there would be no need to straighten them again, unless, in the meantime, some one 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 190> 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 denouement. 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----"
“波洛，你这个老家伙，”我说，“我真有点想扼杀你！你已经做了，为什么竟然还骗我？”
我们正坐在藏书室里。令人激动的几天已经过去。在下面的房间里，约翰和玛丽重又相聚了，而阿弗雷德•英格里桑和霍华德小姐则已被拘留。现在，我终于要波洛对我说一说了，以便能消除仍在烧灼着我的好奇心。
波洛没有马上给我回答，但后来他终于开了口：
“我并没有骗你，我的朋友，至多是我容许你骗了你自己。”
“是吗？为什么这么说？”
“嗯，这很难解释。你看，我的朋友，你有一个这么诚实的性格，又有一张如此坦率的面容，以致于——要想隐藏住你的感情终究是不可能的！假如我把我的想法都告诉给你，在你第一眼见到阿弗雷德•英格里桑先生时，那位狡猾的绅土就会——在你的如此富有表情的风度中——‘嗅到秘密’！然后，对我们要逮住他的打算说声‘再见’！”
“我认为我有比你对我的称赞更多的外交手腕。”
“我的朋友，”波洛恳求说，“我求求你，不要发火！你的帮助是最最宝贵的。只是因为你的这种极为美好的性格使得我有所踌躇。”
“嗯，”我咕哝着，稍为平静了一点。“可我仍认为，你可以给我一点暗示呀。”
“我给了，朋友。给了几个。你没能领会呀。你现在想想，我对你说过我相信约翰•卡文迪什是有罪的吗？恰恰相反，我不是告诉过你他一定会被宣判无罪吗？”
“是的，但是——”
“而且，我接下去不是马上就谈到要把凶手缉拿归案是困难的吗？我说的是两个完全不同的人，这你还不明白？”
“不，”我说，“我不明白！”
“还有，”波洛继续说，“一开始，我不是就反复说过好几次，现在我不要让英格里桑先生被捕？那应该说已经把某种信息传递给你了。”
“你的意思是说早在那个时候你就怀疑他了？”
“是的。首先，英格里桑太太的死对其它人都有好处，而她的丈夫受益最大。这是逃脱不了的。当我和你第一天到斯泰尔斯去时，这个罪是怎么犯的，我并无想法，但是从我对英格里桑先生的了解中，我认识到要找到把他和这一罪行联系起来的任何证据都是很困难的。当时，一到大庄园，我就马上知道，烧毁遗嘱的是英格里桑太太；瞧，顺便说一句，这你不能抱怨了，朋友，因为我已经竭尽所能来迫使你认清盛夏季节在卧室里生火这件事的重要性了。”
“是的，是的，”我急切地说。“快说下去。”
“好吧，我的朋友，正象我所说的，我的认为英格里桑先生是有罪的看法是非常动摇不定的。实际上，告发他的证据是这么多，以致使得我倾向于相信他并没有干过这些事。”
“你的看法是什么时候改变的？”
“当时，我感到我越是作出努力设法宣布他无罪，他却越是千方百计想使自己被捕。后来，当我发现英格里桑和雷克斯太太并无不正当关系。事实上是约翰•卡文迪什对那个女人发生兴趣时，我就完全有把握了。”
“为什么？”
“这很简单。要是英格里桑和雷克斯太太有不正当关系的话，他的沉默是完全可以理解的。可是，当我发现传遍整个村子的是说约翰被农场主的那个漂亮妻子吸引时，他的沉默就有完全不同的解释。借口说他害伯流言蜚语，这是胡说，因为不可能有流言蜚语能缚住他的手脚。他的这种态度强烈地促使我去思索，我渐渐地被迫作出这样的推论，阿弗雷德•英格里桑希望自己被捕。好吧！从那时候起，我就相应地作出决定，他不应当被捕。”
“等一等。我不懂，为什么他希望被捕呢？”
“因为，我的朋友，你们国家的法律规定，一个已被宣判无罪的人决不能因同一罪行而再次受审判，啊哈！他的主意——确实不错！毫无疑问，他是个有办法的人。你瞧，他知道，处于他的地位，他必定要受到怀疑，因此他构想出这个十分巧妙的主意，准备了一大堆捏造的证据来控告自己。他希望被捕。到时候，他可以提出他的无假可击的不在犯罪现场的证据——于是，嗨，说变就变，他的老命就平安无事了！”
“可是我仍然不明白他用什么办法来证明自己不在犯罪现场，他可是去过药店的？”
波洛诧异地注视着我。
“这可能吗？我可怜的朋友啊！你还不知道去药店的是霍华德小姐？”
“霍华德小姐？”
“当然是她。还会有别人？对她来说这是轻而易举的。她的身材很高，声音低沉，象个男人；而且，别忘记，她和英格里桑是表兄妹，他们两人之间有明显的相似之处，特别是在他们的走路姿势和举止风度方面。这是再简单也没有了。他们真是机灵的一对！”
“关于溴化物的事究竟是怎么搞的，我还是有点模糊，”我说。
“好！我将尽可能地为你描述出整个经过。我倾向于认为霍华德小姐是这一事件的主使者。你还记得吗，她曾经说起她的父亲是个医生？可能是她给他配过药，或者是她从手边的一本书上得到了这个主意，辛西娅在准备考试时就放着许多这样的医学书。不管怎样，她是熟悉把溴化剂加到含有士的宁的混合剂中能引起后者沉淀这件事的。很有可能她产生这个主意非常突然。英格里桑太太有一盒溴化剂药粉，她晚上偶尔服用。还有什么能比暗中拿一、两包这种药粉，溶解到英格里桑太太刚从库特药店买来的大瓶补药中来得容易呢？危险实际上等于零。惨案几乎要到两个星期以后才会发生。即使有人看到他们两人中无论哪一个接触过这种补药，到那时候他们也会把这忘记了。霍华德小姐策划了自己那次争吵，并且离开了这个家。时间上的间隔，以及她的不在，将会击败一切怀疑。是的，这是一个绝妙的主意！要是他们就这么干，也许永远不能确实证明罪行是他们所犯。可是他们没有以此满足。他们试图成为更机灵的人——这就导致了他们的毁灭。”
波洛喷着细小的雪前烟，他的两眼凝视着天花板。
“他们安排了一个计划，通过到村子药店买上的宁，并模仿他的笔迹在登记簿上签名，把怀疑都抛到约翰•卡文迪什身上。
“星期一，英格里桑太太将要服最后一剂补药。因此，星期一下午六点钟，阿弗雷德•英格里桑有意作了安排，让许多人看到他到一个远离村子的地方去。霍华德小姐事先还捏造了一个他和雷克斯大太胡搞的荒诞故事，以说明后来他保持缄默的原因。六点钟时，霍华德小姐乔装成阿弗雷德•英格里桑，到了药店里，以毒狗的名义买了士的宁，并且用预先仔细学会的约翰的笔迹，签上阿弗雷德•英格里桑的名字。
“可是，要是约翰也能提出不在犯罪现场的证据，这就毫无用处了，于是她又给他写了一张匿名条子——还是模仿他的笔迹——把他弄到一个偏僻的地方，在那儿极不可能会有人看到他。
“到此为上，一切都进行得很顺利。霍华德小姐回到米德林海姆，阿弗雷德•英格里桑返回斯泰尔斯。没有什么会使他遭致损害，因为霍华德小姐手上有士的宁，事后只需把这作为诱饵，就可把怀疑抛到约翰•卡文迪什身上了。
“但是，现在发生了故障。那天晚上英格里桑太太没有服药。割断电铃线，辛西娅的不在——这是英格里桑通过妻子安排的——这些全都白费了。于是，接着——他就犯了错误。
“英格里桑太太出去了，他坐下来给他的同谋写信。他怕她因为他们的计划没有成功而可能惊慌失措。也许是英格里桑太太回来得比他预计的要早。突然听到声音后，他显得有点慌张，急忙就关锁上自己的写字台。他害怕，假如他留在房间里，也许会不得不再次打开它，英格里桑太太可能会在他把这封信抓在手中之前，就看到它。因此，他就走了出去，到林子里转了一通，他几乎做梦也没有想到英格里桑太太会打开他的写字台，发现这一件证明有罪的证据。
“而正如我们所知道的，就发生了下面所说的事。英格里桑太太看了这封未写完的信，发觉到自己的丈夫和伊夫琳•霍华德小姐的背信弃义，虽然不幸的是有关溴化物的那句话没有在她思想上引起警惕。她知道，她正处于危险之中——但是不知道危险在哪儿。她决定对她的丈夫只字不提，而是坐下来给她的律师写信，请他第二天就来一趟，而且她还决定立即烧毁刚刚立下的遗嘱。她保存起这封致命的信件。”
“那未她的丈夫强行撬开公文箱的锁是为了找那封信了？”
“是的，从他冒那么大的风险，我们可以看出他完全意识到它的重要性。除了那封信之外，绝对没有什么可以把他和这一罪行联系在一起。”
“可是还有一件事情我不理解，他拿到这封信后为什么不马上烧毁呢？”
“因为他不敢冒最大的风险——把它保存在自己那里。”
“我不懂。”
“要从他的观点来看。我发现他只有短短的五分钟时间来处理它——五分钟后我们就立即到达了现场，因为在这之前，安妮在掸刷楼梯，凡是有人经过走向右侧，她都会看到。你自己想象一下那情景吧！他用另一间房间的钥匙打开了房间——它们全都相象——走进了房间。他急忙奔向公文箱——它是锁着的，钥匙又不知道在哪儿，这对他来说是当头一棒，因为这意味着他到这房间里来的事不能象他原来希望的那样隐瞒住了。但是他清楚地知道，为了这张该死的证据，必须冒一切风险。快，他用随身小刀撬开了锁，翻查了里面的文件，直到找到了他要找的东西。
“可是现在出现了一个新的窘境：他不敢把这张东西留在身边。说不定已经有人看到他离开这个房间，他也许会受到搜查。要是在他身上发现了这张东西，那就全完了。很可能，也就在这个时候，他听到了楼下韦尔斯先生和约翰离开闺房的声音。他必须迅速行动。他能把这张可怕的东西藏到哪儿去呢？废纸篓里的东西都被保存起来了，总之肯定会受到检查。既没法烧毁它，又不敢保存它。他朝四周打量了一下，于是看到了——你想是什么，朋友？”
我摇摇头。
“他立刻把信撕成细条条，又卷成几只纸捻，然后把它们插到壁炉架上那只瓶子里的其它点火纸捻中间。”
我发出了一声惊叫。
“没有一个人会想到去那儿看看。”波洛继续说。
“在他有空时，他可以回来烧毁这唯一的一份告发他的证据。”
“那么，它一直就在英格里桑太太卧室里的纸捻瓶里，就在我们的鼻子底下？”我大声说。
波洛点点头。
“是的，我的朋友。那就是我发现我的‘最后一环’的地方，而且我应该把这一非常侥幸的发现归功于你。”
“归功于我？”
“是的。你还记得吗，你告诉我说，我在摆弄壁炉架上的礼拜用品时，我的手在颤抖？”
“是的，可是我没有看出——”
“不，可是我看出了。你一定知道，我的朋友，我记得那天一大早，我们一起在那儿时，我已经整理好壁炉架上的全部东西。而且，如果它们已经被整理好了，也就不需要再整理了，否则，在此期间一定有别的什么人动过它们。”
“呵，”我咕哝道，“这也就为你的举止反常作了说明了。你飞快地赶到斯泰尔斯，发现它仍在那儿？”
“是的，这是一场时间上的竞赛。”
“可是，我还是搞不懂，为什么英格里桑这么傻，还让它留在那儿，他有许多机会可以烧毁它呀。”
“啊，他没有机会。我看住的。”
“你？”
“是呀，你记得吧，你不是还责备我，说我在这件事情上把这一家人都当作知心吗？”
“是的。”
“噢，我的朋友，我看到只有一个机会。当时，我没有把握，英格里桑到底是否犯了罪，而要是他犯了，我推想他身边不会有这张东西，而会把它藏到某个地方，依靠全家人的帮助，我就能够有效地防止他把它烧毁。他已经受到了怀疑，而通过把这件事公开化，我就有了十来名业余侦探为我服务了，他们会一直监视着他，正由于他本人意识到他们的监视，他不敢进一步去烧毁这一证据。因而他被迫离开了庄园，把它留在了纸捻瓶子里。”
“但是霍华德小姐无疑有足够的机会帮他忙的。”
“是的，可是霍华德小姐并不知道有这张东西存在。按照他们原定的计划，她决不能和阿弗雷德•英格里桑说话。他们应该成为死对头，因此在约翰•卡文迪什有把握被宣判有罪之前，他们当中的任何一个都不敢冒险去会面的。当然，我也安排了一个监视人员，一直看着英格里桑先生，希望他迟早会把我领到藏东西的地方。可是他太狡滑了，并没有去冒任何险。那张信藏在那儿很安全，因为在第一个星期内没有一个人想到要丢那儿看看，在那以后要想这么做，就不可能了。不过，照你说的这么侥幸的话，我们也许就永远不能把他缉拿归案了。”
“现在我懂了；可是你是什么时候开始怀疑霍华德小姐的？”
“从我发现她审讯时在她收到英格里桑太太的那封信的问题上撒了一个谎之后。”
“唷，撤了什么谎？”
“你看过那封信吧？你还记得大体的样子吗？”
“多少还有点记得。”
“那你一定想得起来，英格里桑太太写字有一个与众不同的地方，她在字和字之间留下了很大的空隙。可是，要是你看着那封信头上的日子，你就会发现，7月17日，这几个字在这方面完全不同。你明白我的意思吗？”
“不，”我承认说，“我不明白。”
“那封信不是17日写的，而是7日写的——也就是霍华德小姐离开之后那天，你还不明白吗？在‘7’的前面写上一个‘1’，使它变成了‘17日’。”
“可是为什么？”
“这正是我问过自己的问题。为什么霍华德小姐要隐瞒17日写的那封信，而交出这封假的来代替呢？因为她不想拿出17日的那一封。又是为什么？我的脑子里立刻产生了怀疑。你一定还记得，我曾说过，对一个对你不说实话的人多加提防是明智的。”
“可是，”我愤慨地大声说，“在那以后，你给我说了霍华德小姐不可能犯罪的两个理由！”
“而且也是非常正确的理由，”波洛说。“因为很长一段时间来它们对我来说都是一块绊脚石，直到我想到一个非常重要的事实：她和阿弗雷德是表兄妹。她不可能单枪匹马地去犯罪，但是与此相反的理由是并不能排除她成为一个同谋。而且，她的仇恨实在过于激烈了！它隐蔽着一种完全相反的感情。毫无疑问，远在他来斯泰尔斯之前，他们之间就有一种暧昧关系。他们早就策划了他们的罪恶计划——他应当和这个富有然而相当愚蠢的老太太结婚，劝诱她立一张遗嘱，把她的财产都留给他，然后通过一个设想得极为巧妙的犯罪行为来达到他们的目的。要是全都按他们的计划完成，事成之后他们很可能就离开英国，靠他们的可怜的受害者的钱在一起过活了。
“他们是非常狡猾，无耻的一对。当怀疑直接对准他的时候，她为一个完全不同的结局暗中做了许多准备。她从米德林海姆来到时带来了她拥有的全部害人项目。怀疑不会落到她身上，”她进出这幢房子没有人会引起注意。她把士的宁和眼镜藏到了约翰的房里。她把胡子放到了阁楼上。她一定要使这些东西早晚被及时发现。”
“我不很明白，为什么他们要千方百计把罪名栽到约翰身上，”我说。“对他们来说，把这归罪于劳伦斯要容易得多。”
“是呀，可是那纯粹是偶然。所有控告劳伦斯的证据，完全由于偶然事件所引起。事实上，这显然也使这对阴谋家感到烦恼。”
“劳伦斯的态度实在令人遗憾，”我若有所思地说。
“是的。你当然知道在那后面是什么了？”
“不知道。”
“他认为辛西娅小姐在这桩案子中是有罪的，这你不了解吗？”
“不了解，”我喊了起来，感到大为惊讶。“这不可能！”
“一点不错。我自己差不多也有过同样的想法。当我向韦尔斯先生问到有关遗嘱的第一个问题时，我脑子里有了这个想法。后来，又有了她配制的溴化剂药粉，象多卡斯说的那样，她还能维妙维肖地扮演男人。说实在，可以控告她的证据要比对任何人的多。”
“你在开玩笑吧，波洛！”
“不。我要告诉你吗，在那个不幸的晚上，劳伦斯先生最初走进母亲的房间时，是什么使得他的脸色变得这么苍白？这是因为，当他的母亲显然是中毒躺在那儿时，他扭头看到通向辛西娅小姐房间的那道门并没有闩上。”
“可是他公开说他看到它是闩上的！”我喊了起来。
“确实如此，”波洛干巴巴地说。“这恰恰加深了我的怀疑，事实并非如此。他在包庇辛西娅小姐。”
“可是他为什么要包庇她？”
“因为他和她相爱。”
我笑了起来。
“波洛，这你可完全错了！我曾偶尔了解到一个事实，他不仅没有和她相爱，而且他肯定不喜欢她。”
“这是谁告诉你的，朋友？”
“辛西娅本人。”
“这可怜的孩子！她忧心重重了吧？”
“她说她根本就不在乎。”
“那就是说她必定非常在乎了，”波洛说。”他们完全象——一对恋人！”
“你说的有关劳伦斯的情况，使我大为惊诧。”我说。
“为什么？这是一清二楚的呀。每一次辛西娅小姐和他的哥哥交谈或者说笑时，他不是都摆出一张愠怒的面孔吗？他那只过于聪明的脑袋认为辛西娅小姐爱上约翰先生了。当他走进他母亲的房间时，他着出她显然是中了毒。子是就匆匆作出结论，认为在这件事情上辛西娅小姐一定了解一些内情。他几乎因绝望而弄得不顾一切了。首先，他用脚把那只咖啡杯踩碎，他记得头天晚上是她陪他母亲上楼的，他决意不让人有机会化验这只杯子里的东西。在那以后，他又使劲地，毫无用处地坚持‘自然死亡’的论点。
“还有‘特大号咖啡杯’是怎么一回事？”
“我确信杯子是卡文迪什太太藏起来的，但是我必须查清楚。劳伦斯先生根本不知道我的意思；不过，经过考虑，他得出结论，要是他不管在哪儿能找到一只特大号咖啡杯，他的意中人就可摆脱怀疑。因此他完全明白了。”
“还有一件事。英格里桑太太临终时说的话是什意思呀？”
“当然是告发她的丈夫了。”
“呵，波洛，”我叹了一口气说，“我想你已经把全部事情解释清楚了。我很高兴这整个案子有了这么一个圆满的结局。连约翰和玛丽也言归于好了。”
“多亏我。”
“你这话什么意思——多亏你？”
“我亲爱的朋友，你没意识到这纯粹是使他们俩重新和好的一种审判么？我相信，约翰•卡文迪什仍然爱着他的妻子，而他的妻子同样也爱着他。可是原来他们俩已经非常疏远了。一切全由误会引起。她和他结婚缺乏爱情。他也知道这一点。他是个性情方面比较敏感的人，要是她不大理他，他不会强迫自己去讨好她的。由于他的撤退，她的爱情唤醒了。而他们俩又都异常骄傲，因而他们的自尊心使得他们始终顽固地保持着一定的距离。他不知不觉地被雷克斯太太缠住了，她也蓄意培植和鲍斯坦医生之间的友谊，约翰•卡文迪什被捕那天，你发现我在考虑一个重大决定，这你还记得吧？”
“记得，当时我非常理解你的苦恼。”
“请原谅，我的朋友，可是对此你一点也不理解。我当时正在试图作出决定，是否要马上开脱约翰•卡文迪什。我本来可以为他开脱——虽然这也许会使证明真正的罪犯有罪遭到失败。直到最后一刻，有关我的真正态度，他们都完全蒙在鼓里——这在一定程度上说明了我的成功。”
“你的意思是说你本来可以搭救约翰•卡文迪什，使他免受审判的？”
“是的，我的朋友。可是我最后还是决定支持‘一个女人的幸福’。只有让他们通过急流险滩，才能使这两个骄傲的人物重新和好。”
我默不作声，惊愕地注视着波洛。这个小个子的话多么不近人情！世界上，除了这个波洛，谁会想到用谋杀审判来恢复夫妇之间的幸福的！
“我看出了你的想法，朋友，”波洛朝我微笑着说。“除了赫卡尔•波洛，没有一个人会试图做这样的事情！可是，谴责这件事你可是错了。一个男人和一个女人的幸福，是整个世界上最大的大事。”
他的话使我想起了早些时候的事。我回忆起玛丽，当时她脸色苍白，精疲力尽地躺坐在沙发上，留神地听着，听着。下面传来了铃声。她蓦地站了起来。波洛已经推开了门，迎着她那极度痛苦的眼睛，有礼貌地点点头：“好了，太太，”他说。“我已经把他带回来给你了。”他站到一边，而当我走到门外时，我看到了玛丽眼中的神情，这时，约翰•卡文迪什已经把自己的妻子搂在怀中了。
“也许你是对的，波洛，”我轻声地说。“是的，这是世界上最大的大事。”
突然，响起了叩门声，辛西娅往里面探进头来。
“我——我只是——”
“请进来，”我说着，跳起身来。
她走了进来，然而没有坐下。
“我——只是想对你们说件事情——”
“是吗？”
辛西娅站了一会，不安地玩弄着一条小流苏，接着，她突然大声喊道：“你们真好！”她先吻了我，又吻了波洛，然后奔出了房间。
“这究竟是什么意思？”我吃惊地问道。
受辛西娅一吻是非常愉快的，但是这种公开的接吻有点减弱了乐趣。
“这是说，她已经发现芳伦斯先生并不象她原来想的那样不喜欢她。”波洛富有哲理地回答说。
“可是——”
“他来了。”
就在这时候，劳伦斯跨进了房门。
“啊！劳伦斯先生，”波洛叫道。“我们得向你道喜了，是这样吧？”
劳伦斯的脸红了，然后尴尬地微笑着。一个在恋爱的男人总是一副不好意思的样子。这时辛西娅看上去真是媚人极了。
我叹了一口气。
“这是怎么啦，朋友？”
“没什么，”我伤心地说。“她们是两个讨人喜欢的女人！”
“她们两人中没一个供你喜欢吧？”波洛最后说。“没关系。自我安慰一下吧，我的朋友。我们可以一块儿再追猎，谁知道呀？以后——”
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