The Mysterious Affair at Styles Playbook 1 · The Return and the Tragedy

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

Playbook 1 · The Return and the Tragedy

Adapted by Kateule Sydney from the Original work by Agatha Christie · Public domain (1920)

Styles Court — where secrets lurk behind every door

📖 Table of Contents — Playbook 1

• Chapter I · The Arrival at Styles
• Chapter II · The Household Revealed
• Chapter III · The First Shadow Falls
• Chapter IV · The Poison and the Vial
• Chapter V · The Will and the Warning
• Chapter VI · The Inquest Begins
• Chapter VII · The Stranger Arrives
• Chapter VIII · The Letter and the Puzzle

Chapter I · The Arrival at Styles

The July sun beat down with relentless fury upon the rolling Essex countryside as the train from London chugged its way through the verdant fields. I, Arthur Hastings, found myself gazing out of the carriage window, my thoughts a mixture of anticipation and melancholy. The war had left its mark upon me — a bullet wound in my shoulder that had invalided me out of the service, and a weariness of spirit that no amount of rest seemed to cure.

It was John Cavendish's invitation that had brought me here. "Come and rest at Styles," he had written. "The air is bracing, and the company, I promise you, is anything but dull." Little did I know how prophetic those words would prove.

As the train slowed and the platform of Styles St. Mary came into view, I saw John waiting for me. He had aged since our school days — the boyish enthusiasm was still there, but it was now tempered by a gravity that spoke of cares and responsibilities. He grasped my hand warmly.

John: “Hastings, my dear fellow! You look thinner, but the life of the country will soon put that right. Come, the trap is waiting.”

As we drove through the leafy lanes, with the hedgerows bursting with wild roses and honeysuckle, John's conversation was cheerful enough, yet I detected an undercurrent of unease. He spoke of his mother, Emily Inglethorp, and of her recent marriage to a man much younger than herself — a man named Alfred Inglethorp.

John: “It is not that I object to the marriage itself, Hastings. But the man — there is something about him that I cannot trust. He has a way of looking at one, as though he knows something that you do not.”

I dismissed his words as the natural jealousy of a son who had lost his mother's sole attention. But as the great iron gates of Styles swung open, and the imposing red-brick manor came into view, I felt a strange premonition — a whisper that the peaceful summer days ahead would be shadowed by something far more sinister.

The house itself was a splendid example of Victorian Gothic, with turrets and gables and mullioned windows that caught the afternoon light. Yet there was something forbidding about it, as though it guarded secrets that it had no intention of revealing.

Chapter II · The Household Revealed

Styles Court was a world unto itself. Its rooms were filled with the faded grandeur of a bygone age — heavy oak furniture, portraits of stern-faced ancestors, and the musty scent of old books and lavender. Mrs. Inglethorp — Emily, as she insisted I call her — received me with a warmth that seemed almost theatrical. She was a tall, commanding woman of about sixty, with sharp grey eyes that missed nothing and a voice that could cut glass when she chose.

Mrs. Inglethorp: “My dear Mr. Hastings, John has told me so much about you. You must consider Styles your home for as long as you wish. We are a small circle here, but I trust you will find us agreeable.”

Her eyes lingered on me a moment longer than was comfortable, as though she were weighing me up, calculating my worth. I felt suddenly like a piece on a chessboard, moved into position by unseen hands.

At dinner that evening, I met the full cast of characters who made up this strange household. There was Alfred Inglethorp himself, a man of about forty-five with a languid, almost theatrical manner. He spoke little, but when he did, his words carried a peculiar weight, as though each one had been carefully chosen for maximum effect. He had a dark, pointed beard and eyes that seemed to gleam with a secret amusement.

Then there was John's wife, Mary Cavendish. She was a woman of extraordinary beauty — pale, graceful, with dark hair and eyes that held a deep, unfathomable reserve. She moved through the room like a ghost, speaking rarely, but when she did, her voice was low and musical. I noticed that Alfred's eyes followed her more than once, and that John watched them both with a barely concealed jealousy.

Lawrence Cavendish, John's younger brother, was a different creature entirely. He was a dreamy, bookish fellow of about twenty-eight, who preferred the library to the drawing-room and the company of poets to that of people. He had a gentle, absent-minded air that seemed to set him apart from the tensions that simmered beneath the surface of the household.

And then there was Miss Cynthia Murdoch, Mrs. Inglethorp's orphaned ward. She was a lively, pretty girl of nineteen, with a fondness for gossip and a passion for chemistry that seemed oddly out of place in such a setting. Her eyes sparkled with mischief as she talked of her experiments.

Cynthia: “Oh, but chemistry is the most fascinating thing in the world! You can create such wonderful effects — colours, explosions, even poisons. Not that I would ever use them, of course,” she added, with a laugh that was not entirely convincing.

The conversation that evening was polite but strained. Mrs. Inglethorp dominated the table, her voice rising and falling like a general commanding troops. Alfred listened in silence, his eyes flickering from one face to another. John was moody, Lawrence distracted, and Mary retreated into a silence that seemed almost hostile.

Later, as I walked in the garden with John, he confided in me.

John: “It is not the house itself that troubles me, Hastings. It is the people in it. My mother has changed since she married Alfred. She is suspicious, secretive. And Mary — she seems to have withdrawn into a world of her own. I fear that something terrible is about to happen.”

I tried to reassure him, but his words had planted a seed of unease in my mind that would not be easily uprooted.

Chapter III · The First Shadow Falls

The first indication that all was not well came on the third morning of my stay. I had risen early and was enjoying a book in the library when I heard a sharp cry from the direction of Mrs. Inglethorp's boudoir. It was a cry of alarm, of genuine fear, and it sent a chill down my spine.

I rushed out into the corridor and found John and Lawrence already there, their faces pale. We pushed open the door to find Mrs. Inglethorp standing by her dressing table, her hand trembling as she held up a small glass vial.

Mrs. Inglethorp: “Someone has been in my room. This vial — it was not here yesterday. It contains a strange, bitter powder.”

Alfred Inglethorp appeared in the doorway, his face a mask of concern. He took the vial from his wife's hand with a show of solicitude, but I saw his eyes flicker with something — was it fear? Or was it triumph?

Alfred: “My dear, you must not upset yourself. It is probably some medicine you have forgotten. Perhaps one of the servants placed it here by mistake.”

But Mrs. Inglethorp shook her head vehemently. “No, Alfred. I know my medicines. This is something different. And it has a smell — a strange, bitter smell, like almonds.”

At the mention of almonds, I felt a cold hand grip my heart. I had heard, during the war, of poisons that smelled of bitter almonds — poisons like cyanide. But I said nothing, not wishing to alarm anyone further.

John took me aside later that morning, his face grim.

John: “I told you, Hastings. There is something wrong in this house. My mother believes she is being poisoned. She has told me that she suspects Alfred.”

I was shocked. “But why would he do such a thing? He has everything to gain by her death — the estate, the money, everything.”

John: “Precisely. That is what frightens me. My mother has made a new will, Hastings. She is leaving everything to Alfred. Everything. And she is a woman of considerable wealth.”

I spent the rest of that day in a state of growing unease. The household seemed to be on edge, with whispered conversations and meaningful glances. Even Cynthia, usually so cheerful, was subdued.

Chapter IV · The Poison and the Vial

It was Cynthia who first spoke openly of poison. We were walking in the garden that afternoon, her arm linked through mine as she chattered about her experiments. Her enthusiasm for chemistry was undimmed, even in the face of the morning's events.

Cynthia: “You know, Hastings, strychnine is a fascinating substance. In small doses, it can be a stimulant, but a slightly larger amount — well, it is lethal. The symptoms are quite unmistakable. Convulsions, rigidity of the muscles, and finally, death in a state of extreme agony.”

I shuddered. “Why do you study such terrible things?”

Cynthia: “Because, my dear Hastings, knowledge is power. And in a house like this, one never knows when such knowledge might prove useful.”

She laughed at my expression, but there was a knowing look in her eyes that made me uneasy. Was she simply a curious young woman, or did she know more than she was letting on?

That evening, I made a point of examining the vial that had been found in Mrs. Inglethorp's room. It had been placed on the mantelpiece in the drawing-room, and I took the opportunity to study it closely. It was a small, blue glass bottle, with a cork stopper. Inside was a white powder that had a faint, bitter smell. I was no chemist, but I knew enough to recognize that it was not a common medicine.

Mary Cavendish entered the room while I was examining it. She started when she saw me, and her face flushed.

Mary: “Mr. Hastings, you startled me. What are you doing with that?”

I explained that I was curious about its contents. Mary's expression was unreadable.

Mary: “It is a strange thing, is it not, that such a vial should appear in Mrs. Inglethorp's room? I wonder who could have placed it there.”

Her eyes met mine, and I saw something in them — a flicker of fear, perhaps, or of knowledge. Before I could question her further, she turned and left the room, leaving me with more questions than answers.

Chapter V · The Will and the Warning

The solicitor, Mr. Wells, arrived on the afternoon of the fourth day. He was a thin, dry man with a face like parchment and a voice that seemed to rustle. Mrs. Inglethorp had summoned him to discuss the new will that had been the source of so much tension in the household.

The drawing-room was crowded that afternoon. Mrs. Inglethorp sat in her usual chair, her back straight and her eyes fixed on Mr. Wells. Alfred stood by the fireplace, his expression carefully neutral. John and Lawrence occupied chairs near the window, while Mary and Cynthia sat on a settee, their hands clasped in their laps.

Mr. Wells opened his briefcase and drew out a document bound in red ribbon.

“The will,” Mr. Wells announced, “is quite clear. I shall read it to you, as is my duty.”

He cleared his throat and began to read. The document was long and legalistic, but the crucial clause was unmistakable: the entire estate, including Styles Court and all its lands, was left to Alfred Inglethorp, with only a small annuity set aside for John and Lawrence.

John's face went white. Lawrence stared blankly at the carpet. Mary Cavendish's hands trembled, and Cynthia bit her lip.

Alfred, however, remained impassive, a faint smile playing on his lips.

Alfred: “It is what my dear wife wished. I am sure you all understand that she has acted with the best of intentions.”

John rose to his feet, his voice shaking with emotion.

John: “Mother, I cannot believe that you would do this. After all that Father left us, you would cut us out of our inheritance?”

Mrs. Inglethorp's voice was cold as steel.

Mrs. Inglethorp: “John, you forget yourself. This is my money, and I shall dispose of it as I see fit. Alfred has been a good husband to me, and I wish to provide for him.”

That evening, I found John in the study, his head in his hands. He looked up as I entered, and I saw the tears in his eyes.

John: “It is not the money, Hastings. It is the betrayal. My own mother, who once loved me, has turned against me. I do not know what Alfred has done to her, but he has poisoned her mind against us all.”

I tried to comfort him, but his words echoed in my mind: poisoned her mind. Was it only a metaphor, or was there something more sinister at work?

Chapter VI · The Inquest Begins

The inquest was held on the morning of the seventh day. I shall never forget the coroner's grave face as he examined the evidence. Mrs. Inglethorp had died in her sleep, her face contorted in a mask of agony. The doctors had confirmed strychnine poisoning — the same poison that Cynthia had spoken of with such fascination.

The coroner's court was held in the village hall, a small, whitewashed room that was packed with curious onlookers. John and Lawrence sat on the front row, their faces pale and drawn. Mary was there too, her eyes downcast, while Cynthia fidgeted nervously in her seat. Alfred Inglethorp sat apart, his hands folded in his lap, his expression one of studied calm.

The coroner's voice was crisp and businesslike.

Coroner: “The poison was administered in Mrs. Inglethorp's evening cocoa. The question we must answer is — who had the opportunity to place it there?”

One by one, the servants were called to give evidence. The cook testified that she had prepared the cocoa as usual and had left it on the kitchen counter. The parlourmaid had taken it to Mrs. Inglethorp's room. But several people had had access to the cocoa in the intervening time.

Suspicion fell immediately upon Alfred Inglethorp. Had he not been the chief beneficiary of the will? Yet he had an alibi: he had been in the village that evening, seen by several witnesses at the local inn.

John was questioned, as was Lawrence, and even Cynthia. The household was a web of accusations and denials, with each person seeming to suspect the other.

At the end of the proceedings, the coroner returned a verdict of murder against a person or persons unknown. The police, he announced, would continue their investigations.

As we left the hall, I felt a heavy weight settle upon my shoulders. The murderer was still at large, and worse still, the murderer was likely someone I knew, someone I had broken bread with, someone I had trusted.

Chapter VII · The Stranger Arrives

It was on the following day that the stranger arrived. I was sitting in the library, attempting to read, when John burst in with a look of astonishment on his face.

John: “Hastings, come quickly. There is someone here — a strange little man who claims to be a detective. He says he has come to help.”

I followed John into the drawing-room, where I found a most remarkable figure. He was a small, elderly man, with a magnificent walrus moustache and a head that was almost perfectly egg-shaped. His eyes were small and shrewd, twinkling with a quiet intelligence. He wore a well-cut suit and carried a small cane, and he moved with a quick, bird-like energy.

Poirot: “Good morning. I am Hercule Poirot. I have come to assist in your investigation. The police, they are good, but they often miss the little details — the details that hide in plain sight.”

He introduced himself as a retired Belgian detective, now living in England, who had been following the case in the newspapers. He had written to the police offering his services, and they had reluctantly agreed to let him observe.

Poirot: “I shall need to see the room, the cocoa cup, the medicine cabinet. I shall need to speak with everyone who was in the house that evening. The truth, I assure you, will reveal itself to those who know how to look.”

He asked question after question, each one more precise than the last. He examined the door handle, the windows, the carpet. He took notes in a small notebook, his pen moving rapidly across the page. And all the while, his eyes never stopped moving, taking in every detail.

After several hours, he sat back with a satisfied smile.

Poirot: “The poison, it was in the cocoa. But who put it there? And more importantly — why?”

He looked at me, and I saw a flicker of amusement in his eyes.

Poirot: “The puzzle, Hastings, is like a jigsaw. Each piece, when placed correctly, reveals the whole picture. But one must be patient. And one must be precise.”

Chapter VIII · The Letter and the Puzzle

That night, a letter was discovered. It had been slipped under Mrs. Inglethorp's door on the evening of her death, and had been overlooked in the confusion. The handwriting was disguised, but the contents were damning: a threat, written in a hand that seemed to tremble with malice.

“You have one night to change your will, or I shall expose what you did in the spring of 1917. The world will know the truth, and your name will be dishonoured forever.”

Poirot read the letter carefully, his brow furrowing. He turned it over, examined the paper, the ink, the handwriting.

Poirot: “Ah. Now the puzzle begins to take shape. The letter, the poison, the will — they are all connected. But how?”

He sat in silence for a long moment, his eyes closed. Then he opened them and smiled.

Poirot: “I have a theory, Hastings. But it is not yet complete. I must gather more evidence. But one thing is certain — the murderer is not who the police suspect. The truth is far more subtle, far more elegant.”

He paused, his eyes twinkling with that same quiet amusement.

Poirot: “The game, Hastings, is afoot. And I promise you, the solution will be most entertaining.”

He left me with those words, and I felt a chill run down my spine. The mystery of Styles was far from over. In fact, I suspected, it was only just beginning.

End of Playbook 1 · The mystery deepens…

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Adapted from the Original work by Agatha Christie

Public domain (1920) · This adaptation follows the playbook series format