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