The Mysterious Affair at Styles Playbook 4 — The Spy and the Accusation
A Playbook Series Adaptation · Verified public domain in the United States · Adapted by Kateule Sydney · E-cyclopedia Resources Hub
Dr. Bauerstein is arrested — but not for murder. As the true shape of the case emerges, John Cavendish is charged with the killing of his stepmother, and Poirot must work in the shadows to find the proof that will save him. A torn letter hidden in a vase of spills, a black beard wrapped in sacking, and a small round stain on a carpet will prove to be the keys.
Series Plan
Source: The Mysterious Affair at Styles
Author: Agatha Christie
First published: 1920 (United States)
Public domain: Verified for the United States; other jurisdictions should be checked independently
Source length: Approximately 57,000 words (13 chapters)
This Playbook: Playbook 4 of 5, covering Chapters IX–X
Target length: 6,000–8,500 words
Source reference: Project Gutenberg, The Mysterious Affair at Styles (public-domain edition)
Method declaration: This post is an original adaptation of a verified public-domain source. Narrative events, characters, settings, and historical elements are derived from the source where applicable. The prose, dialogue, organization, pacing, framing, commentary, and presentation are newly written for this adaptation. No copyrighted modern translation or later adaptation has been reproduced.
Previous Playbook — Playbook 3 | Playbook 4 of 5 | Next Playbook — Playbook 5
Previously in the Series: At the inquest, Albert Mace testified that he had sold strychnine to a man he took to be Alfred Inglethorp. Poirot, convinced that Inglethorp was being framed, produced an alibi that cleared him — he had been walking home with Mrs. Raikes, the farmer's wife, at the time of the purchase. The Scotland Yard men arrived, and then the blow fell: not Alfred Inglethorp, but John Cavendish was arrested for the murder of his stepmother. Poirot, working in the shadows, set Miss Howard to search the house, and she found a sheet of brown paper from a theatrical costumier's, addressed to L. Cavendish, on top of a wardrobe.
Table of Contents — The Spy and the Accusation
Chapter I — Dr. Bauerstein Explains
Chapter II — Miss Howard's Confession
Chapter III — The Chest in the Attic
Chapter V — Lawrence's Confession
Chapter I — Dr. Bauerstein Explains
The arrest of Dr. Bauerstein changed everything, and it changed nothing at all. That was the first thing I understood, as I stood in the village street with the old woman's words still ringing in my ears: he had not been arrested for the murder of Emily Inglethorp. He had been arrested as a German spy.
I found Poirot at the station, waiting for the London train, and when I told him what I had heard he did not seem surprised. He asked two or three questions, in a quiet, careful voice, about the manner of the arrest and the source of my information, and then he nodded, and said that it was as he had expected, and that it would make his task more difficult, but not impossible. He said it with such calm that I lost my temper with him, and demanded to know what on earth he meant.
"You see, Hastings," he said, "the arrest of Dr. Bauerstein is not a matter of murder at all. It is a matter of war. The man is a German by birth, naturalized fifteen years ago, and he has been using his practice and his position in the village to gather information of a kind that the German naval staff would find very useful. He has been walking at all hours of the night, fully dressed, in a district within four miles of the coast. He has been cultivating the acquaintance of officers and their wives. He has been asking questions in the wrong places. None of that has anything to do with the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp. And yet it has everything to do with it, because it explains why he was in the house on the night of the murder, and why he was able to be there without anyone finding it strange."
I said that I did not see what that proved.
"It proves nothing," Poirot agreed. "But it removes one suspect from the list, and leaves us free to look at the others. The doctor is a spy. He is not a murderer. I have known that for some days, but I could not tell you, because you would have argued with me, and arguing with you would have made me late for dinner."
I was not sure whether this was a joke. With Poirot, one never is.
"But the brown paper, Poirot," I said. "The sheet of brown paper from Parkson's, addressed to L. Cavendish. Surely that is the key. Surely that proves that Lawrence ordered the black beard — that Lawrence disguised himself as Inglethorp and bought the strychnine at the chemist's shop?"
Poirot did not answer at once. He stood looking out across the platform, and for a moment I thought he had not heard me.
"It proves that someone ordered a black beard from Parkson's," he said at last, "and that the parcel was addressed to L. Cavendish, and that it was sent to this house. It does not prove that Lawrence Cavendish was that someone. Do you not see, Hastings, that the person who ordered the beard would be very careful to arrange matters so that, if the parcel were ever discovered, suspicion would fall on someone else?"
"But the initial is L.," I objected. "Not J."
"Exactly. That is the cleverness of it. If the initial had been J., and John Cavendish had been meant, then the parcel would have been opened by Mr. John, or delivered to Mr. John, and the whole thing would have come out at once. But the initial is L. — which is the initial of Lawrence — and the parcel would have been delivered to Lawrence, or left on the hall table for him. And Lawrence, who has nothing to do with the matter, would have opened it, and would have found a black beard he never ordered, and would have said nothing about it, because to say anything would be to draw attention to himself. And then, when the murder happened, and the beard was found, the evidence would point to him."
"But that's monstrous," I said. "Who would do such a thing?"
"Who would do such a thing?" Poirot repeated, in a voice that was almost sad. "The same person who wrote the anonymous note that took John Cavendish to Marston's Spinney on the night of the murder. The same person who bought the strychnine under Inglethorp's name, wearing a black beard. The same person who has been quietly building a case against every member of this family, one piece at a time, so that no one — not the police, not the Coroner, not the family — would ever know where to look."
I was silent. The wind had risen, and the platform was cold, and the gas lamp over our heads flickered with the draught.
"Then who, Poirot?" I asked. "Who is it?"
"I have my suspicions," he said. "But I have no proof. And until I have proof, I will not speak."
He turned, and walked slowly back along the platform, and I followed him. The train came in a few minutes later, and we took it back to Styles St. Mary together, and did not speak of the case again that day.
Chapter II — Miss Howard's Confession
It was on the following afternoon that I came across Miss Howard in the garden. She was sitting on the bench near the sundial, with her hands folded in her lap, and she was looking out over the park with an expression that I had not seen on her face before. She looked tired and old, and she had been crying, and she did not trouble to hide it.
I sat down beside her, and for a while neither of us spoke. Then she said, without looking at me:
"You've been talking to your little Belgian friend, I suppose."
"Yes."
"What does he say?"
"Very little. He thinks he knows something. He won't tell me what."
Miss Howard nodded slowly.
"He's a clever little man," she said. "I don't like foreigners as a rule, but I'll say that for him. He's clever, and he's honest. And he's the only one of the lot of you that's had the sense to see that we've been chasing the wrong man."
"You mean Inglethorp?"
"I mean Inglethorp, of course. I've been shouting at you all for weeks that he did it, and I was wrong, and I hate being wrong, and I hate him for making me wrong. I've hated that man since the day I first set eyes on him, and I still hate him, and I'll hate him to my dying day. But I know now that he didn't kill her."
"What makes you so sure?"
She turned and looked at me, and her eyes were full of tears.
"Because he was with Mrs. Raikes," she said. "That's what he was hiding. That's what he wouldn't say at the inquest. He's been carrying on with that woman behind Emily's back for months, and he'd sooner have been hanged than admit it. I'd have said he was a fool, a week ago. I don't say it now. I've known what it is to have something you'd rather die than have the world know."
I said nothing. There was something in her voice that made me keep still.
"It was the girl," she went on. "Cynthia. That's what I wouldn't say, that afternoon when your friend asked me. I've been watching that girl since she came to this house, and I've seen her grow up, and I've watched her with the family, and I've had my suspicions, and I couldn't bear to think it. I couldn't bear to think that a girl I'd come to love — that a girl Emily loved — could have done such a thing. And so I put it out of my head, and I went on telling myself it was Inglethorp, because it was easier to believe that than to believe the other thing."
"And now?" I asked.
"And now I don't know what I believe," she said. "That's the truth of it. I don't know what to believe, and I'm too old to be chasing shadows, and I'm too tired to be lying awake at nights, and I've told your friend that I'll help him, because I don't know what else to do. He asked me to watch, and I'm watching, and I'll go on watching until this is over. And when it's over, I'm going to leave this house, and I'm not coming back."
I said that I hoped she would not be too hard on herself, and that whatever happened, she had done nothing wrong. She gave me a long look, and then she smiled, a small, tired smile, and said that I was a good boy, and that I ought to be careful, because the world was a harder place than I seemed to think.
And then she got up, and went back into the house, and left me sitting on the bench by the sundial, watching the shadows lengthen across the grass.
Chapter III — The Chest in the Attic
The news of John Cavendish's arrest reached the household at Styles like a blow. It was Dorcas who brought it, and she was crying so hard that she could hardly speak, and Mary Cavendish fell against me in the hall, and I caught her, and for a moment I thought she was going to faint. She did not faint. She pulled herself upright, and drew a long breath, and looked at me with a face that was white and set.
"Where is he?" she asked.
"At the police station," said Dorcas. "They came and took him half an hour ago, m'am, and they wouldn't let me go with him, and they wouldn't let me send for you, and I've been running all the way —"
"I will go to him," said Mary. She turned to me. "Mr. Hastings, will you come with me?"
I said I would, and we went down to the village together, and it was the longest walk I have ever taken, because neither of us spoke, and the wind was cold, and the trees were dripping. At the police station, they told us that John had been taken to London — the Yard had insisted, they said, because the case was too important to be handled locally — and that we could see him to-morrow if we came up. Mary turned and walked out without a word, and I followed her, and on the way back she said, quietly:
"He did not do it."
I said that I knew he did not.
"Then who did?" she asked, and I could not answer her, because I did not know.
That evening, Poirot came up to the house, and asked to see me alone. We went into the library, and he closed the door, and stood with his back to it for a long moment, looking at me.
"Hastings," he said at last, "I am going to tell you something that I have not told anyone. I believe I know how the crime was committed. I believe I know who committed it. But I have no proof. And, without proof, I can do nothing. If I speak now, I will destroy the case against the real murderer, and I will not save John Cavendish. So I must remain silent, and I must work in the shadows, and I must ask you to trust me."
"I trust you," I said. "But I wish you would tell me what you suspect."
"I cannot," said Poirot. "Not because I do not trust you, but because if I tell you, you will behave differently, and your behaviour will be observed. You are not a good liar, Hastings. You have a face that tells the truth even when your mouth is silent."
I was nettled by this, and said so, and Poirot smiled, and apologised, and said that he meant it as a compliment.
"But there is something you can do for me," he went on. "Something of the greatest importance. You remember the chest in the attic? The one Dorcas told us about?"
"The dressing-up box? Yes."
"I want you to go up to that attic to-night, when everyone is asleep, and bring me the black beard that is hidden at the bottom of the chest."
"Why?"
"Because the police will search the house to-morrow, and if they find it, it will be used against Lawrence Cavendish, and that is exactly what the murderer wants. So we must take it away before they find it."
"But isn't that suppressing evidence?"
"It is not suppressing evidence," said Poirot. "It is preserving evidence. When the moment comes, we will produce it, and it will be used against the right person. But we must choose the moment. Not the police, and not the murderer. Us."
I said that I would do it, and he told me to go at midnight, and to take a candle and to be very quiet, and to wrap the beard in a cloth and bring it to him at the cottage. And I did as he asked, and I can still remember the cold of that attic, and the smell of old clothes, and the way my hand shook as I drew the black beard out of the chest and wrapped it in a piece of sacking. It was soft, and it was heavy, and it had been trimmed to the shape of Alfred Inglethorp's beard, and there were little snipped hairs caught in the mesh. I wrapped it up and carried it down the back stairs, and out through the kitchen garden, and along the path to the village, and Poirot took it from me at the door of Leastways Cottage, and locked it away in a drawer, and said, "Good. Now we can wait."
"Wait for what?" I asked.
He did not answer.
Chapter IV — The Broken Vase
Two days later, Poirot asked me to meet him at Styles, and when I arrived I found him in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom, standing before the mantelpiece with a look of quiet satisfaction on his face.
"Hastings," he said, "do you remember that, on the morning after the murder, I came into this room and straightened the ornaments on this mantelpiece?"
"Yes. I remember you saying that the things on it were not straight, and that someone must have touched them."
"Exactly. And do you remember what I said about the candle grease on the floor — that it was white grease, whereas Monsieur Lawrence's candle is pink?"
"Yes."
"And do you remember the small round stain on the carpet, near the window, that smelled of coffee?"
"Yes."
"Good. Now, look at this." He lifted down a tall vase from the mantelpiece — a blue-and-white china vase, of the sort that is used for spills and paper spills — and tipped it gently onto the table, and a small shower of torn paper strips fell out onto the polished surface. They were written on, in a hand I recognised at once. It was Mrs. Inglethorp's.
"These," said Poirot, "are the spills I found in this vase on the morning after the murder. They have been there all the time. I saw them, and I recognised them, and I said nothing, because I was not sure. Now I am sure."
He arranged the strips carefully on the table, and I saw that they fitted together into a letter. It was the letter Mrs. Inglethorp had been writing to Evelyn Howard on the afternoon of her death, the letter that had been torn into strips and hidden in the vase. And it was a letter that named the murderer, and described the method, and gave the motive. I read it twice, and then I sat down, because my legs would not hold me.
"Poirot," I said, "this is the missing evidence. This is the last link in the chain."
"Yes," said Poirot. "It is. And now we must be very careful. We must not produce this letter until the right moment. If we produce it now, the murderer will have time to prepare a defence. But if we wait until the trial is under way, and produce it at the moment when the case against John Cavendish is at its strongest, then the murderer will have no time to prepare, and the truth will come out."
"But the trial," I said. "When is it?"
"In two months' time," said Poirot. "At the Old Bailey. And I intend to be there, Hastings, and so do you, because I am going to give evidence, and I am going to make sure that the truth comes out."
I asked him who the murderer was, and he shook his head, and said that he would not tell me, not yet, not until the trial, because if I knew, I would not be able to sit still in the courtroom, and everyone would see it on my face. And I said that I thought that was unfair, and he said that it was not unfair, it was necessary, and that I should trust him. And I did trust him, though I did not like it.
Chapter V — Lawrence's Confession
It was on the evening before we left for London that Lawrence Cavendish came to me. He had been avoiding me for days, and I had assumed he was avoiding everyone, and it was a surprise to hear his knock at my door, and a greater surprise to see his face. He looked ill, and his hands were shaking, and he had the air of a man who has been carrying a weight for a long time and has decided to put it down.
"Hastings," he said, "I want to talk to you. May I come in?"
I said of course, and he came in and sat down on the edge of my bed, and for a moment he did not speak.
"I have been a fool," he said at last. "I have been a coward, too. And I have made everything worse, and I want to tell you the truth, because I cannot carry it any longer."
"About the murder?"
"About the murder, and about the coffee-cup, and about the door." He took a long breath. "When we broke into my mother's room that night, I saw something that I have never told anyone. I saw that the door into Cynthia's room was not bolted. It was closed, but it was not bolted. And I knew what that meant. I knew that someone had gone into that room through Cynthia's room, and I knew that the someone was most likely Cynthia herself, and I was terrified. I was terrified because I loved her. I love her still. I have loved her since the day she came to this house, and I have never said a word to her about it, because I am not the sort of man who says such things."
"Lawrence —"
"Let me finish. I told the police the door was bolted, because I thought if I said it was not, they would suspect Cynthia. And then I tried to make the whole thing out to be a natural death, because if it was a natural death, no one would be suspected at all, and Cynthia would be safe. And when the doctors said it was poison, I still clung to the tonic theory, and I still hoped, and I still lied. And all the time, I knew that the door was not bolted, and I knew that Cynthia had no part in it, and I knew that I was making things worse for John, and I could not stop myself."
He was crying now, quietly, with his hands over his face.
"And the coffee-cup?" I asked.
"I stepped on it. The night of the murder, before anyone else came in, I stepped on it and ground it to powder under my heel. I don't know why. I think I was afraid it might have something in it that would hurt Cynthia. I have never been so frightened in my life."
I sat with him for a long time, and I did not say very much, because there was nothing to say. He had done wrong, and he had done it out of love, and he had made everything harder for everyone, and he knew it, and he was telling me now because he could not bear it any longer. And I thought, as I sat there, that Poirot had been right. Lawrence was in love with Cynthia. And Cynthia had told me that Lawrence disliked her. And both of them, in their different ways, had been lying — not out of wickedness, but out of the ordinary human fear of being seen.
I told Poirot about it the next morning, on the train to London, and he listened without interrupting, and at the end he nodded and said:
"Yes. That is what I thought. He is a good man, Monsieur Lawrence. He is a fool, but he is a good man."
"Will it hurt the case?" I asked.
"It will not help it," said Poirot. "But it will not hurt it either. The prosecution has its own case, and it does not rest on the coffee-cup. It rests on the poison, and the will, and the quarrel, and the beard. And when the moment comes, we will show them that all of it points in the wrong direction."
He looked out of the window at the flat green fields of Essex, and said nothing more.
Chapter VI — The Trial Begins
The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later, at the Old Bailey. September had come, and the weather had turned, and the streets of London were grey and wet, and the newspapers had been full of the case for weeks. Mary Cavendish had taken a house in Kensington, and Poirot was staying with her, and I was given a room there too, so that we could be together during the trial. And every morning, we went down to the Old Bailey together, and every evening, we came back, and every night, Poirot sat in his room and built his card houses and said nothing at all.
As the weeks went by, the state of Poirot's nerves grew worse and worse. That "last link" he talked about was still lacking, or so he said, though I could not see what more he needed, since we had the beard, and the letter, and the evidence of the gardeners. But Poirot was not satisfied, and he would sit for hours in silence, and sometimes he would get up and walk about the room, and sometimes he would take out the little strips of paper and read them over again, as if he hoped to find something in them that he had missed.
The trial opened on the fifteenth of September. Sir Ernest Heavywether, the famous K.C., had been engaged to defend John, and Mr. Philips, K.C., opened the case for the Crown. The courtroom was crowded, and the gallery was full of fashionably dressed women, and the atmosphere was tense, and I sat beside Poirot in the public benches and tried to keep my hands still.
Mr. Philips's opening speech was a model of its kind. The murder, he said, was a most premeditated and cold-blooded one. It was neither more nor less than the deliberate poisoning of a fond and trusting woman by the stepson to whom she had been more than a mother. Ever since his boyhood, she had supported him. He and his wife had lived at Styles Court in every luxury, surrounded by her care and attention. She had been their kind and generous benefactress.
He proposed to call witnesses to show how the prisoner, a profligate and spendthrift, had been at the end of his financial tether, and had also been carrying on an intrigue with a certain Mrs. Raikes, a neighbouring farmer's wife. This having come to his stepmother's ears, she taxed him with it on the afternoon before her death, and a quarrel ensued, part of which was overheard. On the previous day, the prisoner had purchased strychnine at the village chemist's shop, wearing a disguise by means of which he hoped to throw the onus of the crime upon another man — to wit, Mrs. Inglethorp's husband, of whom he had been bitterly jealous. Luckily for Mr. Inglethorp, he had been able to produce an unimpeachable alibi.
On the afternoon of July 17th, continued Counsel, immediately after the quarrel with her son, Mrs. Inglethorp made a new will. This will was found destroyed in the grate of her bedroom the following morning, but evidence had come to light which showed that it had been drawn up in favour of her husband. Deceased had already made a will in his favour before her marriage, but — and Mr. Philips wagged an expressive forefinger — the prisoner was not aware of that. What had induced the deceased to make a fresh will, with the old one still extant, he could not say. She was an old lady, and might possibly have forgotten the former one; or — this seemed to him more likely — she may have had an idea that it was revoked by her marriage, as there had been some conversation on the subject. Ladies were not always very well versed in legal knowledge. She had, about a year before, executed a will in favour of the prisoner. He would call evidence to show that it was the prisoner who ultimately handed his stepmother her coffee on the fatal night. Later in the evening, he had sought admission to her room, on which occasion, no doubt, he found an opportunity of destroying the will which, as far as he knew, would render the one in his favour valid.
The prisoner had been arrested in consequence of the discovery, in his room, by Detective Inspector Japp — a most brilliant officer — of the identical phial of strychnine which had been sold at the village chemist's to the supposed Mr. Inglethorp on the day before the murder. It would be for the jury to decide whether or not these damning facts constituted an overwhelming proof of the prisoner's guilt.
And, subtly implying that a jury which did not so decide, was quite unthinkable, Mr. Philips sat down and wiped his forehead.
I looked at Poirot. His eyes were closed, and his face was expressionless, and he did not seem to be listening at all.
Chapter VII — The Case for the Crown
The first witnesses for the prosecution were mostly those who had been called at the inquest, the medical evidence being again taken first.
Sir Ernest Heavywether, who was famous all over England for the unscrupulous manner in which he bullied witnesses, only asked two questions.
"I take it, Dr. Bauerstein, that strychnine, as a drug, acts quickly?"
"Yes."
"And that you are unable to account for the delay in this case?"
"Yes."
"Thank you."
Mr. Mace identified the phial handed him by Counsel as that sold by him to "Mr. Inglethorp." Pressed, he admitted that he only knew Mr. Inglethorp by sight. He had never spoken to him. The witness was not cross-examined.
Alfred Inglethorp was called, and denied having purchased the poison. He also denied having quarrelled with his wife. Various witnesses testified to the accuracy of these statements.
The gardeners' evidence, as to the witnessing of the will was taken, and then Dorcas was called.
Dorcas, faithful to her "young gentlemen," denied strenuously that it could have been John's voice she heard, and resolutely declared, in the teeth of everything, that it was Mr. Inglethorp who had been in the boudoir with her mistress. A rather wistful smile passed across the face of the prisoner in the dock. He knew only too well how useless her gallant defiance was, since it was not the object of the defence to deny this point. Mrs. Cavendish, of course, could not be called upon to give evidence against her husband.
After various questions on other matters, Mr. Philips asked:
"In the month of June last, do you remember a parcel arriving for Mr. Lawrence Cavendish from Parkson's?"
Dorcas shook her head.
"I don't remember, sir. It may have done, but Mr. Lawrence was away from home part of June."
"In the event of a parcel arriving for him whilst he was away, what would be done with it?"
"It would either be put in his room or sent on after him."
"By you?"
"No, sir, I should leave it on the hall table. It would be Miss Howard who would attend to anything like that."
Evelyn Howard was called and, after being examined on other points, was questioned as to the parcel.
"Don't remember. Lots of parcels come. Can't remember one special one."
"You do not know if it was sent after Mr. Lawrence Cavendish to Wales, or whether it was put in his room?"
"Don't think it was sent after him. Should have remembered it if it was."
"Supposing a parcel arrived addressed to Mr. Lawrence Cavendish, and afterwards it disappeared, should you remark its absence?"
"No, don't think so. I should think someone had taken charge of it."
"I believe, Miss Howard, that it was you who found this sheet of brown paper?" He held up the same dusty piece which Poirot and I had examined in the morning-room at Styles.
"Yes, I did."
"How did you come to look for it?"
"The Belgian detective who was employed on the case asked me to search for it."
"Where did you eventually discover it?"
"On the top of — of — a wardrobe."
"On top of the prisoner's wardrobe?"
"I — I believe so."
"Did you not find it yourself?"
"Yes."
"Then you must know where you found it?"
"Yes, it was on the prisoner's wardrobe."
"That is better."
An assistant from Parkson's, Theatrical Costumiers, testified that on June 29th, they had supplied a black beard to Mr. L. Cavendish, as requested. It was ordered by letter, and a postal order was enclosed. No, they had not kept the letter. All transactions were entered in their books. They had sent the beard, as directed, to "L. Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court."
Sir Ernest Heavywether rose ponderously.
"Where was the letter written from?"
"From Styles Court."
"The same address to which you sent the parcel?"
"Yes."
"And the letter came from there?"
"Yes."
Like a beast of prey, Heavywether fell upon him:
"How do you know?"
"I — I don't understand."
"How do you know that letter came from Styles? Did you notice the postmark?"
"No — but —"
"Ah, you did not notice the postmark! And yet you affirm so confidently that it came from Styles. It might, in fact, have been any postmark?"
"Y — es."
"In fact, the letter, though written on stamped notepaper, might have been posted from anywhere? From Wales, for instance?"
The witness admitted that such might be the case, and Sir Ernest signified that he was satisfied.
Elizabeth Wells, second housemaid at Styles, stated that after she had gone to bed she remembered that she had bolted the front door, instead of leaving it on the latch as Mr. Inglethorp had requested. She had accordingly gone downstairs again to rectify her error. Hearing a slight noise in the West wing, she had peeped along the passage, and had seen Mr. John Cavendish knocking at Mrs. Inglethorp's door.
Sir Ernest Heavywether made short work of her, and under his unmerciful bullying she contradicted herself hopelessly, and Sir Ernest sat down again with a satisfied smile on his face.
With the evidence of Annie, as to the candle grease on the floor, and as to seeing the prisoner take the coffee into the boudoir, the proceedings were adjourned until the following day.
Chapter VIII — The Cross-Examination
As we went home, Mary Cavendish spoke bitterly against the prosecuting counsel.
"That hateful man! What a net he has drawn around my poor John! How he twisted every little fact until he made it seem what it wasn't!"
"Well," I said consolingly, "it will be the other way about to-morrow."
"Yes," she said meditatively; then suddenly dropped her voice. "Mr. Hastings, you do not think — surely it could not have been Lawrence — Oh, no, that could not be!"
But I myself was puzzled, and as soon as I was alone with Poirot I asked him what he thought Sir Ernest was driving at.
"Ah!" said Poirot appreciatively. "He is a clever man, that Sir Ernest."
"Do you think he believes Lawrence guilty?"
"I do not think he believes or cares anything! No, what he is trying for is to create such confusion in the minds of the jury that they are divided in their opinion as to which brother did it. He is endeavouring to make out that there is quite as much evidence against Lawrence as against John — and I am not at all sure that he will not succeed."
Detective-inspector Japp was the first witness called when the trial was reopened, and gave his evidence succinctly and briefly. After relating the earlier events, he proceeded:
"Acting on information received, Superintendent Summerhaye and myself searched the prisoner's room, during his temporary absence from the house. In his chest of drawers, hidden beneath some underclothing, we found: first, a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez similar to those worn by Mr. Inglethorp" — these were exhibited — "secondly, this phial."
The phial was that already recognized by the chemist's assistant, a tiny bottle of blue glass, containing a few grains of a white crystalline powder, and labelled: "Strychnine Hydro-chloride. POISON."
A fresh piece of evidence discovered by the detectives since the police court proceedings was a long, almost new piece of blotting-paper. It had been found in Mrs. Inglethorp's cheque book, and on being reversed at a mirror, showed clearly the words: ". . . erything of which I die possessed I leave to my beloved husband Alfred Ing..." This placed beyond question the fact that the destroyed will had been in favour of the deceased lady's husband. Japp then produced the charred fragment of paper recovered from the grate, and this, with the discovery of the beard in the attic, completed his evidence.
But Sir Ernest's cross-examination was yet to come.
"What day was it when you searched the prisoner's room?"
"Tuesday, the 24th of July."
"Exactly a week after the tragedy?"
"Yes."
"You found these two objects, you say, in the chest of drawers. Was the drawer unlocked?"
"Yes."
"Does it not strike you as unlikely that a man who had committed a crime should keep the evidence of it in an unlocked drawer for anyone to find?"
"He might have stowed them there in a hurry."
"But you have just said it was a whole week since the crime. He would have had ample time to remove them and destroy them."
"Perhaps."
"There is no perhaps about it. Would he, or would he not have had plenty of time to remove and destroy them?"
"Yes."
"Was the pile of underclothes under which the things were hidden heavy or light?"
"Heavyish."
"In other words, it was winter underclothing. Obviously, the prisoner would not be likely to go to that drawer?"
"Perhaps not."
"Kindly answer my question. Would the prisoner, in the hottest week of a hot summer, be likely to go to a drawer containing winter underclothing. Yes, or no?"
"No."
"In that case, is it not possible that the articles in question might have been put there by a third person, and that the prisoner was quite unaware of their presence?"
"I should not think it likely."
"But it is possible?"
"Yes."
"That is all."
More evidence followed. Evidence as to the financial difficulties in which the prisoner had found himself at the end of July. Evidence as to his intrigue with Mrs. Raikes — poor Mary, that must have been bitter hearing for a woman of her pride. Evelyn Howard had been right in her facts, though her animosity against Alfred Inglethorp had caused her to jump to the conclusion that he was the person concerned.
Lawrence Cavendish was then put into the box. In a low voice, in answer to Mr. Philips' questions, he denied having ordered anything from Parkson's in June. In fact, on June 29th, he had been staying away, in Wales.
Instantly, Sir Ernest's chin was shooting pugnaciously forward.
"You deny having ordered a black beard from Parkson's on June 29th?"
"I do."
"Ah! In the event of anything happening to your brother, who will inherit Styles Court?"
The brutality of the question called a flush to Lawrence's pale face. The judge gave vent to a faint murmur of disapprobation, and the prisoner in the dock leant forward angrily.
Heavywether cared nothing for his client's anger.
"Answer my question, if you please."
"I suppose," said Lawrence quietly, "that I should."
"What do you mean by you 'suppose'? Your brother has no children. You would inherit it, wouldn't you?"
"Yes."
"Ah, that's better," said Heavywether, with ferocious geniality. "And you'd inherit a good slice of money too, wouldn't you?"
"Really, Sir Ernest," protested the judge, "these questions are not relevant."
Sir Ernest bowed, and having shot his arrow proceeded.
"On Tuesday, the 17th July, you went, I believe, with another guest, to visit the dispensary at the Red Cross Hospital in Tadminster?"
"Yes."
"Did you — while you happened to be alone for a few seconds — unlock the poison cupboard, and examine some of the bottles?"
"I — I — may have done so."
"I put it to you that you did do so?"
"Yes."
Sir Ernest fairly shot the next question at him.
"Did you examine one bottle in particular?"
"No, I do not think so."
"Be careful, Mr. Cavendish. I am referring to a little bottle of Hydro-chloride of Strychnine."
Lawrence was turning a sickly greenish colour.
"N — o — I am sure I didn't."
"Then how do you account for the fact that you left the unmistakable impress of your finger-prints on it?"
The bullying manner was highly efficacious with a nervous disposition.
"I — I suppose I must have taken up the bottle."
"I suppose so too! Did you abstract any of the contents of the bottle?"
"Certainly not."
"Then why did you take it up?"
"I once studied to be a doctor. Such things naturally interest me."
"Ah! So poisons 'naturally interest' you, do they? Still, you waited to be alone before gratifying that 'interest' of yours?"
"That was pure chance. If the others had been there, I should have done just the same."
"Still, as it happens, the others were not there?"
"No, but —"
"In fact, during the whole afternoon, you were only alone for a couple of minutes, and it happened — I say, it happened — to be during those two minutes that you displayed your 'natural interest' in Hydro-chloride of Strychnine?"
Lawrence stammered pitiably.
"I — I —"
With a satisfied and expressive countenance, Sir Ernest observed:
"I have nothing more to ask you, Mr. Cavendish."
This bit of cross-examination had caused great excitement in court. The heads of the many fashionably attired women present were busily laid together, and their whispers became so loud that the judge angrily threatened to have the court cleared if there was not immediate silence.
There was little more evidence. The hand-writing experts were called upon for their opinion of the signature of "Alfred Inglethorp" in the chemist's poison register. They all declared unanimously that it was certainly not his hand-writing, and gave it as their view that it might be that of the prisoner disguised. Cross-examined, they admitted that it might be the prisoner's hand-writing cleverly counterfeited.
Sir Ernest Heavywether's speech in opening the case for the defence was not a long one, but it was backed by the full force of his emphatic manner. Never, he said, in the course of his long experience, had he known a charge of murder rest on slighter evidence. Not only was it entirely circumstantial, but the greater part of it was practically unproved. Let them take the testimony they had heard and sift it impartially. The strychnine had been found in a drawer in the prisoner's room. That drawer was an unlocked one, as he had pointed out, and he submitted that there was no evidence to prove that it was the prisoner who had concealed the poison there. It was, in fact, a wicked and malicious attempt on the part of some third person to fix the crime on the prisoner. The prosecution had been unable to produce a shred of evidence in support of their contention that it was the prisoner who ordered the black beard from Parkson's. The quarrel which had taken place between prisoner and his stepmother was freely admitted, but both it and his financial embarrassments had been grossly exaggerated.
His learned friend — Sir Ernest nodded carelessly at Mr. Philips — had stated that if the prisoner were an innocent man, he would have come forward at the inquest to explain that it was he, and not Mr. Inglethorp, who had been the participator in the quarrel. He thought the facts had been misrepresented. What had actually occurred was this. The prisoner, returning to the house on Tuesday evening, had been authoritatively told that there had been a violent quarrel between Mr. and Mrs. Inglethorp. No suspicion had entered the prisoner's head that anyone could possibly have mistaken his voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. He naturally concluded that his stepmother had had two quarrels.
The prosecution averred that on Monday, July 16th, the prisoner had entered the chemist's shop in the village, disguised as Mr. Inglethorp. The prisoner, on the contrary, was at that time at a lonely spot called Marston's Spinney, where he had been summoned by an anonymous note, couched in blackmailing terms, and threatening to reveal certain matters to his wife unless he complied with its demands. The prisoner had, accordingly, gone to the appointed spot, and after waiting there vainly for half an hour had returned home. Unfortunately, he had met with no one on the way there or back who could vouch for the truth of his story, but luckily he had kept the note, and it would be produced as evidence.
As for the statement relating to the destruction of the will, the prisoner had formerly practised at the Bar, and was perfectly well aware that the will made in his favour a year before was automatically revoked by his stepmother's remarriage. He would call evidence to show who did destroy the will, and it was possible that that might open up quite a new view of the case.
Finally, he would point out to the jury that there was evidence against other people besides John Cavendish. He would direct their attention to the fact that the evidence against Mr. Lawrence Cavendish was quite as strong, if not stronger than that against his brother.
He would now call the prisoner.
John acquitted himself well in the witness-box. Under Sir Ernest's skilful handling, he told his tale credibly and well. The anonymous note received by him was produced, and handed to the jury to examine. The readiness with which he admitted his financial difficulties, and the disagreement with his stepmother, lent value to his denials.
At the close of his examination, he paused, and said:
"I should like to make one thing clear. I utterly reject and disapprove of Sir Ernest Heavywether's insinuations against my brother. My brother, I am convinced, had no more to do with the crime than I have."
Sir Ernest merely smiled, and noted with a sharp eye that John's protest had produced a very favourable impression on the jury.
Then the cross-examination began.
"I understand you to say that it never entered your head that the witnesses at the inquest could possibly have mistaken your voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. Is not that very surprising?"
"No, I don't think so. I was told there had been a quarrel between my mother and Mr. Inglethorp, and it never occurred to me that such was not really the case."
"Not when the servant Dorcas repeated certain fragments of the conversation — fragments which you must have recognized?"
"I did not recognize them."
"Your memory must be unusually short!"
"No, but we were both angry, and, I think, said more than we meant. I paid very little attention to my mother's actual words."
Mr. Philips' incredulous sniff was a triumph of forensic skill. He passed on to the subject of the note.
"You have produced this note very opportunely. Tell me, is there nothing familiar about the hand-writing of it?"
"Not that I know of."
"Do you not think that it bears a marked resemblance to your own hand-writing — carelessly disguised?"
"No, I do not think so."
"I put it to you that it is your own hand-writing!"
"No."
"I put it to you that, anxious to prove an alibi, you conceived the idea of a fictitious and rather incredible appointment, and wrote this note yourself in order to bear out your statement!"
"No."
"Is it not a fact that, at the time you claim to have been waiting about at a solitary and unfrequented spot, you were really in the chemist's shop in Styles St. Mary, where you purchased strychnine in the name of Alfred Inglethorp?"
"No, that is a lie."
"I put it to you that, wearing a suit of Mr. Inglethorp's clothes, with a black beard trimmed to resemble his, you were there — and signed the register in his name!"
"That is absolutely untrue."
"Then I will leave the remarkable similarity of hand-writing between the note, the register, and your own, to the consideration of the jury," said Mr. Philips, and sat down with the air of a man who has done his duty, but who was nevertheless horrified by such deliberate perjury.
After this, as it was growing late, the case was adjourned till Monday.
Poirot, I noticed, was looking profoundly discouraged. He had that little frown between the eyes that I knew so well.
"What is it, Poirot?" I inquired.
"Ah, mon ami, things are going badly, badly."
In spite of myself, my heart gave a leap of relief. Evidently there was a likelihood of John Cavendish being acquitted.
When we reached the house, my little friend waved aside Mary's offer of tea.
"No, I thank you, madame. I will mount to my room."
I followed him. Still frowning, he went across to the desk and took out a small pack of patience cards. Then he drew up a chair to the table, and, to my utter amazement, began solemnly to build card houses!
My jaw dropped involuntarily, and he said at once:
"No, mon ami, I am not in my second childhood! I steady my nerves, that is all. This employment requires precision of the fingers. With precision of the fingers goes precision of the brain. And never have I needed that more than now!"
"What is the trouble?" I asked.
With a great thump on the table, Poirot demolished his carefully built up edifice.
"It is this, mon ami! That I can build card houses seven stories high, but I cannot" — thump — "find" — thump — " that last link of which I spoke to you."
I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my peace, and he began slowly building up the cards again, speaking in jerks as he did so.
"It is done — so! By placing — one card — on another — with mathematical — precision!"
I watched the card house rising under his hands, story by story. He never hesitated or faltered. It was really almost like a conjuring trick.
"What a steady hand you've got," I remarked. "I believe I've only seen your hand shake once."
"On an occasion when I was enraged, without doubt," observed Poirot, with great placidity.
"Yes indeed! You were in a towering rage. Do you remember? It was when you discovered that the lock of the despatch-case in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom had been forced. You stood by the mantelpiece, twiddling the things on it in your usual fashion, and your hand shook like a leaf! I must say —"
But I stopped suddenly. For Poirot, uttering a hoarse and inarticulate cry, again annihilated his masterpiece of cards, and putting his hands over his eyes swayed backwards and forwards, apparently suffering the keenest agony.
"Good heavens, Poirot!" I cried. "What is the matter? Are you taken ill?"
"No, no," he gasped. "It is — it is — that I have an idea!"
"Oh!" I exclaimed, much relieved. "One of your 'little ideas'?"
"Ah, ma foi, no!" replied Poirot frankly. "This time it is an idea gigantic! Stupendous! And you — you, my friend, have given it to me!"
Suddenly clasping me in his arms, he kissed me warmly on both cheeks, and before I had recovered from my surprise ran headlong from the room.
Mary Cavendish entered at that moment.
"What is the matter with Monsieur Poirot? He rushed past me crying out: 'A garage! For the love of Heaven, direct me to a garage, madame!' And, before I could answer, he had dashed out into the street."
I hurried to the window. True enough, there he was, tearing down the street, hatless, and gesticulating as he went. I turned to Mary with a gesture of despair.
"He'll be stopped by a policeman in another minute. There he goes, round the corner!"
Our eyes met, and we stared helplessly at one another.
"What can be the matter?"
I shook my head.
"I don't know. He was building card houses, when suddenly he said he had an idea, and rushed off as you saw."
"Well," said Mary, "I expect he will be back before dinner."
But night fell, and Poirot had not returned.
Historical Context — The Old Bailey and the English Criminal Trial in 1917
The trial of John Cavendish, held at the Central Criminal Court in the Old Bailey, reflects the structure of the English criminal justice system as it stood during the First World War. The prosecuting counsel, Mr. Philips, K.C., represented the Crown; the defending counsel, Sir Ernest Heavywether, K.C., was a barrister of the highest rank, entitled to sit within the bar and to wear a silk gown. The procedure was adversarial, with each side calling its own witnesses and each side entitled to cross-examine the witnesses of the other. The judge presided but did not examine witnesses; his role was to rule on questions of law and, at the end, to sum up the case for the jury. The jury, twelve men chosen from the locality, decided the facts. Sir Ernest's tactic of trying to divide the jury's mind between two possible culprits was a familiar one in the period, and the judge's warning that certain questions were "not relevant" reflects the constant tension in criminal trials between the desire of counsel to explore every possibility and the duty of the court to keep the proceedings within reasonable bounds. The atmosphere of the courtroom — the crowded gallery, the fashionably dressed women, the whispered commentary — is not a fictional invention; the sensational murder trial was a major public entertainment in the period, and reporters competed fiercely for the best seats.
Literary Note — The Construction of Suspicion
One of the most interesting features of this section of the novel is the way Christie allows the case against John Cavendish to grow, piece by piece, until it seems impossible to resist. The prosecution has the poison, the disguise, the quarrel, the will, the anonymous note — every element that a jury would require. And yet each element is, in fact, either misread or manipulated. The poison was planted; the disguise was worn by someone else; the quarrel was genuine but unrelated to the murder; the will was destroyed by the victim herself; the anonymous note was written by the murderer. Christie's technique is to build a case in which every individual fact is true and every conclusion drawn from those facts is false. This is the structural heart of the fair-play detective story: the reader is given all the material necessary to reach the truth, but the material has been arranged so that the truth is the last thing it suggests. When Poirot eventually explains, at the end of the novel, how each piece of evidence should have been read, the reader is not cheated — the reader is shown that the answer was there all along.
Original Value — The Ethics of the Detective's Silence
Poirot's decision to withhold the evidence of the beard, and later of the letter, raises a genuine ethical question that is worth pausing on. He is, in effect, suppressing material evidence for a period of weeks, in order to bring the murderer to justice more effectively. Is he justified? The law, certainly, would say no: a citizen is obliged to hand over relevant evidence to the police, and to withhold it is a criminal offence. Poirot's justification is pragmatic — if the evidence were produced too early, the murderer would have time to prepare a defence — but there is a deeper argument at work in his mind, which is the argument of the novel itself: that justice is not merely a matter of catching the guilty, but of catching them in a way that makes their guilt visible and undeniable. Poirot's silence is a gamble, and it is a gamble that nearly fails; the "last link" he seeks is withheld from him until the very end. But it is a gamble that expresses something essential about his character: he is a detective who cares about the whole truth, not merely about the verdict, and who is prepared to act unilaterally, and even illegally, in the service of that truth. Christie does not ask the reader to approve of this, but she does ask the reader to understand it.
Continue the Series
In Playbook 5 — The Trial and the Truth — the last link in Poirot's chain is found, and the whole case is turned on its head. The murderer is named, the method is explained, and the mystery that began with a locked door and a broken coffee cup is unravelled at last — in a final chapter that will reveal how every clue in the case pointed, from the very beginning, to the one person no one suspected.
You Might Also Want to Read
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Pride and Prejudice — Playbook 1 · The Arrival of Fortunes — A new neighbour, a pair of eligible young men, and a small country town in which gossip and marriage are the only two subjects worth discussing.
Porter's Five Forces — A framework for understanding the competitive pressures that shape an industry, and for identifying where power really lies.
The Art of Discipline — A practical exploration of the habits and mental habits that turn intention into action, and ambition into achievement.
References
Christie, Agatha. The Mysterious Affair at Styles. New York: John Lane, 1920. Public-domain edition available via Project Gutenberg.
Project Gutenberg. The Mysterious Affair at Styles. https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/863
Library of Congress. Catalogue record for The Mysterious Affair at Styles. https://catalog.loc.gov
Adapted from the original work by Agatha Christie
Public-domain status verified for the United States; other jurisdictions should be checked independently.