"Pardon me, _mon ami_, you were not precisely _sympathique_." He turnedto me earnestly. "Tell me--you see now that he must not be arrested?"
"Perhaps," I said doubtfully, for I was really quite indifferent to thefate of Alfred Inglethorp, and thought that a good fright would do himno 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 bymeans 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 wasquite a natural suggestion for a layman to make."
"But Monsieur Lawrence is not a layman. You told me yourself that he hadstarted 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 strychninepoisoning, and yet we find him the only member of the family to upholdstrenuously the theory of death from natural causes. If it hadbeen Monsieur John, I could have understood it. He has no technicalknowledge, and is by nature unimaginative. But Monsieur Lawrence--no!And now, to-day, he puts forward a suggestion that he himself must haveknown 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 isnot 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 shouldbe 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 moreof that 'private conversation' than she was willing to admit."
"And yet she is the last person one would accuse of stooping toeavesdrop!"
"Exactly. One thing her evidence _has_ shown me. I made a mistake.Dorcas was quite right. The quarrel did take place earlier in theafternoon, about four o'clock, as she said."
I looked at him curiously. I had never understood his insistence on thatpoint.
"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 inthe 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 ourclever Dr. Bauerstein."
"Any more faults to find with the evidence?" I inquired satirically.
"_Mon ami_," replied Poirot gravely, "when you find that people are nottelling you the truth--look out! Now, unless I am much mistaken, at theinquest to-day only one--at most, two persons were speaking the truthwithout reservation or subterfuge."
"Oh, come now, Poirot! I won't cite Lawrence, or Mrs. Cavendish. Butthere'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 downrightstraightforward manner that it had never occurred to me to doubt hersincerity. Still, I had a great respect for Poirot's sagacity--excepton the occasions when he was what I described to myself as "foolishlypig-headed."
"Do you really think so?" I asked. "Miss Howard had always seemed to meso essentially honest--almost uncomfortably so."
Poirot gave me a curious look, which I could not quite fathom. He seemedto 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 nextdoor; 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 smartknock reached our ears, and looking out of the window we perceived thetwo 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, motionedme to precede him down the stairs; there we joined the detectives andset out for Styles.
I think the appearance of the two Scotland Yard men was rather ashock--especially to John, though of course after the verdict, he hadrealized that it was only a matter of time. Still, the presence of thedetectives brought the truth home to him more than anything else cou
ldhave done.
Poirot had conferred with Japp in a low tone on the way up, and itwas the latter functionary who requested that the household, withthe exception of the servants, should be assembled together in thedrawing-room. I realized the significance of this. It was up to Poirotto make his boast good.
Personally, I was not sanguine. Poirot might have excellent reasonsfor his belief in Inglethorp's innocence, but a man of the type ofSummerhaye would require tangible proofs, and these I doubted if Poirotcould supply.
Before very long we had all trooped into the drawing-room, the doorof which Japp closed. Poirot politely set chairs for every one. TheScotland Yard men were the cynosure of all eyes. I think that forthe first time we realized that the thing was not a bad dream, but atangible reality. We had read of such things--now we ourselves wereactors in the drama. To-morrow the daily papers, all over England, wouldblazon out the news in staring headlines:
"MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY IN ESSEX"
"WEALTHY LADY POISONED"
There would be pictures of Styles, snap-shots of "The family leavingthe Inquest"--the village photographer had not been idle! All the thingsthat 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. Infront of us were "the detectives in charge of the case." The well-knownglib phraseology passed rapidly through my mind in the interval beforePoirot opened the proceedings.
I think every one was a little surprised that it should be he and notone of the official detectives who took the initiative.
"_Mesdames_ and _messieurs_," said Poirot, bowing as though he were acelebrity about to deliver a lecture, "I have asked you to come hereall together, for a certain object. That object, it concerns Mr. AlfredInglethorp."
Inglethorp was sitting a little by himself--I think, unconsciously,every one had drawn his chair slightly away from him--and he gave afaint start as Poirot pronounced his name.
"Mr. Inglethorp," said Poirot, addressing him directly, "a very darkshadow 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 quiterealize how terrible it may be--for you." And as Inglethorp did notappear to understand, he added: "Mr. Inglethorp, you are standing invery grave danger."
The two detectives fidgeted. I saw the official caution "Anythingyou say will be used in evidence against you," actually hovering onSummerhaye'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 poisoningyour 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 realizethe unfavourable nature of your evidence at the inquest. Mr. Inglethorp,knowing what I have now told you, do you still refuse to say where youwere at six o'clock on Monday afternoon?"
With a groan, Alfred Inglethorp sank down again and buried his face inhis hands. Poirot approached and stood over him.
"Speak!" he cried menacingly.
With an effort, Inglethorp raised his face from his hands. Then, slowlyand deliberately, he shook his head.
"You will not speak?"
"No. I do not believe that anyone could be so monstrous as to accuse meof 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 escortingMrs. Raikes back to her home from a neighbouring farm. I can produce noless than five witnesses to swear to having seen them together, eitherat six or just after and, as you may know, the Abbey Farm, Mrs. Raikes'shome, is at least two and a half miles distant from the village. Thereis absolutely no question as to the alibi!"