Reading Help The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie. Ch.I-VI
`
` "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. "Voila! 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. `
` `
` `
` `
` CHAPTER V. `
` `
` "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 `
`
` "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. "Voila! 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. `
` `
` `
` `
` CHAPTER V. `
` `
` "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 `
`