"Yes--more or less."
"You will recollect, then, that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a very distinctivehand, and left large clear spaces between her words. But if you look atthe date at the top of the letter you will notice that 'July 17th' isquite 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 onthe 7th--the day after Miss Howard's departure? The '1' was written inbefore the '7' to turn it into the '17th'."
"But why?"
"That is exactly what I asked myself. Why does Miss Howard suppress theletter written on the 17th, and produce this faked one instead? Becauseshe did not wish to show the letter of the 17th. Why, again? And at oncea suspicion dawned in my mind. You will remember my saying that it waswise to beware of people who were not telling you the truth."
"And yet," I cried indignantly, "after that, you gave me two reasons whyMiss Howard could not have committed the crime!"
"And very good reasons too," replied Poirot. "For a long time they werea stumbling-block to me until I remembered a very significant fact: thatshe and Alfred Inglethorp were cousins. She could not have committed thecrime single-handed, but the reasons against that did not debar herfrom being an accomplice. And, then, there was that rather over-vehementhatred of hers! It concealed a very opposite emotion. There was,undoubtedly, a tie of passion between them long before he came toStyles. They had already arranged their infamous plot--that he shouldmarry this rich, but rather foolish old lady, induce her to make a willleaving her money to him, and then gain their ends by a very cleverlyconceived crime. If all had gone as they planned, they would probablyhave left England, and lived together on their poor victim's money.
"They are a very astute and unscrupulous pair. While suspicion was to bedirected against him, she would be making quiet preparations for avery different _dénouement_. She arrives from Middlingham with all thecompromising items in her possession. No suspicion attaches to her.No notice is paid to her coming and going in the house. She hides thestrychnine 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 toLawrence."
"Yes, but that was mere chance. All the evidence against him arose outof pure accident. It must, i
n fact, have been distinctly annoying to thepair 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 ofthe crime?"
"No," I exclaimed, astonished. "Impossible!"
"Not at all. I myself nearly had the same idea. It was in my mind when Iasked Mr. Wells that first question about the will. Then there werethe bromide powders which she had made up, and her clever maleimpersonations, as Dorcas recounted them to us. There was really moreevidence against her than anyone else."
"You are joking, Poirot!"
"No. Shall I tell you what made Monsieur Lawrence turn so pale whenhe first entered his mother's room on the fatal night? It was because,whilst his mother lay there, obviously poisoned, he saw, over yourshoulder, 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 mysuspicion 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 likethat--_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 sourface every time Mademoiselle Cynthia spoke and laughed with his brother?He had taken it into his long head that Mademoiselle Cynthia was inlove with Monsieur John. When he entered his mother's room, and sawher obviously poisoned, he jumped to the conclusion that MademoiselleCynthia knew something about the matter. He was nearly driven desperate.First he crushed the coffee-cup to powder under his feet, rememberingthat _she_ had gone up with his mother the night before, and hedetermined 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, butI 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 anextra 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 explainedeverything. I am glad it has all ended so happily. Even John and hiswife 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 thetrial which has brought them together again? That John Cavendish stillloved his wife, I was convinced. Also, that she was equally in lovewith him. But they had drifted very far apart. It all arose from amisunderstanding. She married him without love. He knew it. He is asensitive man in his way, he would not force himself upon her if shedid not want him. And, as he withdrew, her love awoke. But they are bothunusually proud, and their pride held them inexorably apart. He driftedinto an entanglement with Mrs. Raikes, and she deliberately cultivatedthe friendship of Dr. Bauerstein. Do you remember the day of JohnCavendish'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 wastrying to decide whether or not I would clear John Cavendish at once. Icould have cleared him--though it might have meant a failure to convictthe real criminals. They were entirely in the dark as to my realattitude up to the very last moment--which partly accounts for mysuccess."
"Do you mean that you could have saved John Cavendish from being broughtto trial?"
"Yes, my friend. But I eventually decided in favour of 'a woman'shappiness'. Nothing but the great danger through which they have passedcould have brought these two proud souls together again."
I looked at Poirot in silent amazement. The colossal cheek of the littleman! Who on earth but Poirot would have thought of a trial for murder asa restorer of conjugal happiness!
"I perceive your thoughts, _mon ami_," said Poirot, smiling at me. "Noone but Hercule Poirot would have attempted such a thing! And you arewrong in condemning it. The happiness of one man and one woman is thegreatest thing in all the world."
His words took me back to earlier events. I remembered Mary as she laywhite and exhausted on the sofa, listening, listening. There had comethe sound of the bell below. She had started up. Poirot had opened thedoor, and meeting her agonized eyes had nodded gently. "Yes, madame,"he said. "I have brought him back to you." He had stood aside, and asI went out I had seen the look in Mary's eyes, as John Cavendish hadcaught his wife in his arms.
"Perhaps you are right, Poirot," I said gently. "Yes, it is the greatestthing 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, suddenlyexclaiming: "You dears!" kissed first me and then Poirot, and rushed outof 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 thesalute rather impaired the pleasure.
"It means that she has discovered Monsieur Lawrence does not dislike heras 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 itnot so?"
Lawrence blushed, and then smiled awkwardly. A man in love is a sorryspectacle. 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? Andthen----"
THE END