Reading Help The Mysterious Affair at Styles Ch.VII-XIII
`
` 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!" `
` `
`
` 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!" `
` `
`