The Mysterious Affair at Styles Playbook 2 · The Investigation Unfolds

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

Playbook 2 · The Investigation Unfolds

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

Poirot's little grey cells begin to work — the truth is never what it seems

📖 Table of Contents — Playbook 2

• Chapter I · Poirot's Method
• Chapter II · The Alibi Examined
• Chapter III · The Chemistry of Murder
• Chapter IV · The Secret of the Will
• Chapter V · The Suspicious Servant
• Chapter VI · The Midnight Visitor
• Chapter VII · The Second Vial
• Chapter VIII · The Web Tightens

Chapter I · Poirot's Method

The morning after the inquest dawned grey and overcast, as though the very heavens mourned the tragedy at Styles. I found Poirot already at work in the library, his small frame hunched over a table covered with papers and notes. He greeted me with a twinkle in his eye that seemed entirely out of place given the circumstances.

Poirot: "Ah, Hastings! You are just the person I wished to see. Come, sit down. I have been arranging my thoughts. The little grey cells, they are working, working."

I pulled up a chair and watched as he arranged a series of small cards on the table, each one bearing a name. Mrs. Inglethorp. Alfred Inglethorp. John Cavendish. Mary Cavendish. Lawrence Cavendish. Cynthia Murdoch. The servants — Evelyn Howard, the housekeeper; Annie, the parlourmaid; and Dorcas, the cook.

Poirot: "You see, Hastings, each person in this house has a motive. Each person had the opportunity, or could have had it. The question is not who is capable of murder — that is many. The question is, who had the intelligence, the cunning, the means?"

He picked up the card bearing Alfred Inglethorp's name and studied it carefully.

Poirot: "The police, they believe it is Alfred. They say, 'He had the motive — the money. He had the opportunity — he could have returned to the house unnoticed. He had the means — perhaps he obtained strychnine.' But it is too simple, mon ami. Too obvious. A clever murderer does not make it so easy for the police."

I stared at him in astonishment. "Then you believe Alfred is innocent?"

Poirot: "I believe nothing yet. That is the beauty of the method. One must start with an empty mind, and let the facts fill it. The facts, Hastings, are the only true guide."

He proceeded to question me closely about everything I had observed since my arrival at Styles. Every detail, no matter how trivial, was noted and filed away in his remarkable memory. He seemed particularly interested in the movements of each person on the evening of the murder — who had been where, at what time, and with whom.

Chapter II · The Alibi Examined

Later that morning, Poirot summoned the household to the drawing-room. One by one, they filed in, their faces wary. Alfred Inglethorp sat in the corner, his fingers drumming impatiently on the arm of his chair. John stood by the fireplace, his jaw tight. Mary sat apart, her eyes fixed on the floor. Cynthia fidgeted with her handkerchief, while Lawrence stared out the window.

Poirot: "I have asked you all here because I wish to clarify a few matters. Do not be alarmed. I am merely gathering information."

He turned to Alfred first. "Mr. Inglethorp, you were in the village on the evening of your wife's death. You say you were at the Three Crowns Inn, and that several witnesses saw you there. Could you tell me, precisely, what time you left the inn?"

Alfred's eyes narrowed, but he answered calmly. "I left at approximately nine o'clock, and walked home. I arrived at Styles just after half past nine."

Poirot: "And did you pass anyone on the road? Did anyone see you?"

Alfred hesitated. "I do not recall. It was dark, and I was eager to get home."

Poirot: "Ah. A pity. The path from the village to Styles, it is not short. Half an hour, you say? It is a walk of perhaps two miles. A man walking briskly could do it in twenty minutes. A man in a hurry — perhaps less."

His meaning was clear, and a murmur ran through the room. Alfred's face flushed with anger.

Alfred: "Are you accusing me, Monsieur Poirot? I was a devoted husband. I had no reason to harm my wife."

Poirot: "I accuse no one. I merely observe. It is a habit of mine."

He turned next to John. "Mr. Cavendish, you were in the study that evening, I believe, writing letters. Can anyone confirm this?"

John shook his head. "I was alone, but the servants can confirm that I asked for a fresh pot of tea at around eight o'clock. And my wife can confirm that I was in the study when she came to say goodnight at half past nine."

Mary nodded, her voice barely audible. "Yes, I saw John at half past nine. He was in his chair, reading."

Poirot nodded, his face impassive. He asked similar questions of Lawrence, Cynthia, and each of the servants. He was thorough, meticulous, and utterly unreadable.

Chapter III · The Chemistry of Murder

I found Cynthia in the conservatory that afternoon, surrounded by bottles and beakers. She was conducting some experiment with a fierce concentration that made her look older than her nineteen years.

Cynthia: "Oh, Hastings! I am so glad you came. Look at this — I am trying to isolate the active ingredient in foxglove. It is called digitalis, and it has the most remarkable effects on the heart."

I watched as she carefully measured a pale liquid into a test tube. Her hands were steady, her movements precise.

Hastings: "Cynthia, I must ask you something. That vial that was found in Mrs. Inglethorp's room — the one with the powder. Do you know anything about it?"

She looked up, her eyes wide with surprise. "I? No, why should I? I told you, I only study these things academically. I would never —" She broke off, her voice catching.

Cynthia: "But I have been thinking, Hastings. You know who might have had access to such a poison? The gardener, Mr. Collins. He has been complaining that someone has been stealing from his stores — he keeps a supply of strychnine for the rabbits and the rats."

This was news indeed. "And who has access to the gardener's shed?"

Cynthia: "Anyone, really. The shed is not locked. But I have noticed that Mr. Inglethorp has been spending a great deal of time in the garden lately. And he has a key to the greenhouse."

I thanked Cynthia and hurried to find Poirot. He was in the library, reading a book on poisons. He listened to my account with great interest, his eyes gleaming.

Poirot: "Ah, the gardener's shed. An interesting development. But tell me, Hastings, who would be most likely to know of the strychnine in the shed? Someone who has been in the garden often. And who would be most likely to obtain it without being noticed? Someone who is part of the household."

He fell silent, his fingers drumming on the table. "The pieces, they are beginning to fit together. But there is still a piece missing. One vital piece."

Chapter IV · The Secret of the Will

That evening, Poirot requested a private interview with Mr. Wells, the solicitor who had drawn up Mrs. Inglethorp's will. The old man arrived looking flustered and somewhat resentful at being summoned.

Wells: "I really must protest, Monsieur Poirot. The will is a matter of public record now. I cannot divulge confidential information."

Poirot: "But Monsieur, I am not asking for confidential information. I am asking for confirmation of a fact. Mrs. Inglethorp made a previous will, I believe. A will that left everything to her sons, John and Lawrence. Is that not correct?"

Mr. Wells hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. "Yes, that is true. But she changed it three months ago, after her marriage to Mr. Inglethorp."

Poirot: "And did she give any reason for this change? Was there any — how shall I put it? — any suggestion of coercion or undue influence?"

The solicitor shifted uncomfortably. "Mrs. Inglethorp was a strong-willed woman. She made her own decisions. However..." He paused, as though weighing his words. "She did mention, on one occasion, that she felt she had been 'persuaded' by her husband. But she was quite adamant that the new will was her own wish."

Poirot leaned forward, his eyes sharp. "Persuaded. An interesting choice of word. Tell me, Monsieur Wells, did Mrs. Inglethorp seem anxious, or fearful, at any point during your consultations?"

Wells: "She did, yes. She spoke of being watched, of having her letters opened. She asked me if it was possible to make a will in secret, without her husband's knowledge. I advised her against it."

Poirot's expression was unreadable. "Thank you, Monsieur. You have been most helpful."

After the solicitor had left, Poirot turned to me, his face grave. "You see, Hastings, there are deeper currents at work here. Mrs. Inglethorp was afraid. Afraid of her husband. And when a person is afraid, they are vulnerable. Vulnerable to suggestion. Vulnerable to pressure. Vulnerable — to murder."

Chapter V · The Suspicious Servant

I was awakened early the next morning by the sound of raised voices. I hurried downstairs to find Poirot in the kitchen, engaged in a heated conversation with Evelyn Howard, the housekeeper. She was a formidable woman of about forty-five, with iron-grey hair and a piercing gaze that could strip a man bare.

Evelyn: "I tell you, Monsieur Poirot, I saw him. Mr. Inglethorp came back to the house that evening. I saw him with my own eyes."

Poirot: "But you did not give this evidence at the inquest. Why?"

The housekeeper's face flushed with indignation. "Because I was afraid, Monsieur. Afraid of what he might do to me. He has a terrible temper, Mr. Inglethorp. And he is the master of the house now. I did not wish to lose my position."

Poirot's eyes narrowed. "What time was this? When did you see him?"

Evelyn: "It was just after nine o'clock. I had gone to the garden to pick some herbs for the cook. He came up the path from the village, walking very fast. He went into the house through the side door. I saw him clearly in the moonlight."

Poirot asked her a series of detailed questions — what had Alfred been wearing, had he been carrying anything, had he seemed agitated. Evelyn answered each question with precision, her fear replaced by a grim determination.

After she had gone, Poirot turned to me, his face alight with excitement. "You see, Hastings? The alibi, it is not as solid as it seemed. Alfred Inglethorp could have returned to the house, put the poison in the cocoa, and returned to the village without anyone being the wiser. But — and this is the important point — he would have had to be very quick. Very quick indeed."

Chapter VI · The Midnight Visitor

That night, I could not sleep. The events of the past days had unsettled me deeply, and I found myself pacing my room, going over everything that had happened. It was then that I heard a soft footstep in the corridor.

I opened my door a crack and peered out. A figure was moving stealthily down the hall — small, dark, and quick. It was Poirot. He was carrying a candle, and he moved with the silent tread of a hunter stalking his prey.

I followed him, keeping to the shadows. He descended the stairs and made his way to the study. I heard the soft click of a lock, and then silence.

Minutes passed, or perhaps an hour. I was about to return to my room when the door opened and Poirot emerged. He seemed startled to see me.

Poirot: "Ah, Hastings. You could not sleep either. Come, I have something to show you."

He led me into the study and pointed to the desk. "Look, mon ami. The desk has been searched. Papers have been disturbed. Someone has been here before me."

I examined the desk. It was true — several drawers were slightly open, and a small lock on one of them had been forced.

Poirot: "Someone is looking for something. Perhaps the missing letter — the one that was slipped under Mrs. Inglethorp's door. Or perhaps something else entirely."

He sat down in the chair behind the desk and stared at the scattered papers. "This is good, Hastings. Very good. It tells me that whoever the murderer is, they are still here. They are still afraid. And they are still trying to cover their tracks."

He smiled, a thin, satisfied smile. "The hunter, he has become the hunted. And soon, the trap will close."

Chapter VII · The Second Vial

The next morning, a startling discovery was made. Annie, the parlourmaid, found a second vial in the garden, hidden beneath a rose bush. It was identical to the one found in Mrs. Inglethorp's room — small, blue glass, containing a white powder.

Poirot was summoned immediately. He examined the vial with the same meticulous care he had shown before, turning it over and over in his hands.

Poirot: "It is the same, I think. The same powder. The same vial. But why was it hidden here? And by whom?"

He questioned the gardeners, the servants, everyone who might have had access to the garden. But no one had seen anything unusual.

Later, when we were alone, Poirot confided his thoughts to me.

Poirot: "Whoever hid this vial is clever, Hastings. They chose a spot that was secluded, but not so hidden that it would never be found. They wanted it to be discovered. But why?"

He paused, his eyes narrowing. "Unless — unless they wanted to throw suspicion on someone else. To create a false trail."

I stared at him, my mind racing. "But who would do that?"

Poirot: "That, my friend, is the question. And I think I am beginning to see the answer."

Chapter VIII · The Web Tightens

That evening, Poirot called the entire household together once more. The atmosphere was tense, charged with suspicion and fear. I watched the faces of those gathered — Alfred, pale and defiant; John, grim and determined; Mary, her eyes downcast; Lawrence, restless and agitated; Cynthia, biting her lip nervously; and Evelyn Howard, standing stiffly by the door.

Poirot stood before them, his hands clasped behind his back.

Poirot: "I have asked you all here because I am reaching a conclusion. The evidence, it is still incomplete, but the picture, it is becoming clearer."

He turned to Alfred. "You, Monsieur Inglethorp, have been the chief suspect. But I believe you are innocent of the murder. You are, perhaps, guilty of many other things — greed, selfishness, manipulation — but not murder."

Alfred's face flushed with anger, but Poirot continued, his voice calm and measured.

Poirot: "The true murderer is someone who had not only the motive and the means, but also the intelligence to create a web of suspicion around others. Someone who has been playing a very clever game."

He paused, his eyes scanning the room. "I have one more question for each of you. I will ask it in private, in the library. You will come to me one by one."

He turned and left the room, and I followed him. In the library, he sat down behind the desk and waited.

Poirot: "The truth, Hastings, is near. I can feel it. The murderer is among us, and they are beginning to panic. That is when mistakes are made. That is when the trap springs shut."

He smiled, a cold, calculating smile.

Poirot: "Tomorrow, I will reveal the name of the murderer. But tonight, I will let them sleep — or rather, I will let them try to sleep. The guilty conscience, it is a terrible thing."

He leaned back in his chair, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "The game, Hastings, is almost over. And I promise you, the solution will be most satisfying."

End of Playbook 2 · The net closes in…

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Adapted from the Original work by Agatha Christie

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