The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie [41]
‘Do you really think so?’ I asked. ‘Miss Howard had always seemed to me so essentially honest—almost uncomfortably so.’
Poirot gave me a curious look, which I could not quite fathom. He seemed about to speak, and then checked himself.
‘Miss Murdoch too,’ I continued, ‘there’s nothing untruthful about her.’
‘No. But it was strange that she never heard a sound, sleeping next door; whereas Mrs Cavendish, in the other wing of the building, distinctly heard the table fall.’
‘Well, she’s young. And she sleeps soundly.’
‘Ah, yes, indeed! She must be a famous sleeper, that one!’
I did not quite like the tone of his voice, but at that moment a smart knock reached our ears, and looking out of the window we perceived the two detectives waiting for us below.
Poirot seized his hat, gave a ferocious twist to his moustache, and, carefully brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve, motioned me to precede him down the stairs; there we joined the detectives and set out for Styles.
I think the appearance of the two Scotland Yard men was rather a shock—especially to John, though, of course, after the verdict, he had realized that it was only a matter of time. Still, the presence of the detectives brought the truth home to him more than anything else could have done.
Poirot had conferred with Japp in a low tone on the way up, and it was the latter functionary who requested that the household, with the exception of the servants, should be assembled together in the drawing-room. I realized the significance of this. It was up to Poirot to make his boast good.
Personally, I was not sanguine. Poirot might have excellent reasons for his belief in Inglethorp’s innocence, but a man of the type of Summerhaye would require tangible proofs, and these I doubted if Poirot could supply.
Before very long we had all trooped into the drawing-room, the door of which Japp closed. Poirot politely set chairs for everyone. The Scotland Yard men were the cynosure of all eyes. I think that for the first time we realized that the thing was not a bad dream, but a tangible reality. We had read of such things—now we ourselves were actors in the drama. Tomorrow the daily papers, all over England, would blazon out the news in staring headlines:
MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY IN ESSEX
WEALTHY LADY POISONED
There would be pictures of Styles, snap-shots of ‘The family leaving the Inquest’—the village photographer had not been idle! All the things that one had read a hundred times—things that happen to other people, not to oneself. And now, in this house, a murder had been committed. In front of us were ‘the detectives in charge of the case’. The well-known glib phraseology passed rapidly through my mind in the interval before Poirot opened the proceedings.
I think everyone was a little surprised that it should be he and not one of the official detectives who took the initiative.
‘Mesdames and messieurs,’ said Poirot, bowing as though he were a celebrity about to deliver a lecture, ‘I have asked you to come here all together, for a certain object. That object, it concerns Mr Alfred Inglethorp.’
Inglethorp was sitting a little by himself—I think, unconsciously, everyone had drawn his chair slightly away from him—and he gave a faint start as Poirot pronounced his name.
‘Mr Inglethorp,’ said Poirot, addressing him directly, ‘a very dark shadow is resting on this house—the shadow of murder.’
Inglethorp shook his head sadly.
‘My poor wife,’ he murmured. ‘Poor Emily! It is terrible.’
‘I do not think, monsieur,’ said Poirot pointedly, ‘that you quite realize how terrible it may be—for you.’ And as Inglethorp did not appear to understand, he added: ‘Mr Inglethorp, you are standing in very grave danger.’
The two detectives fidgeted. I saw the official caution ‘Anything you say will be used in evidence against you,’ actually hovering on Summerhaye’s lips. Poirot went on:
‘Do you understand now, monsieur?’
‘No. What do you mean?’
‘I mean,’ said Poirot deliberately, ‘that you are suspected of poisoning your wife.’
A