The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie (red white and royal blue hardcover txt) 📕

mean to say,” I asked, slowly adapting myself to the new idea, “that Dr. Bauerstein is a spy?”

Poirot nodded.

“Have you never suspected it?”

“It never entered my head.”

“It did not strike you as peculiar that a famous London doctor should bury himself in a little village like this, and should be in the habit of walking about at all hours of the night, fully dressed?”

“No,” I confessed, “I never thought of such a thing.”

“He is, of course, a German by birth,” said Poirot thoughtfully, “though he has practiced so long in this country that nobody thinks of him as anything but an Englishman. He was naturalized about fifteen years ago. A very clever man⁠—a Jew, of course.”

“The blackguard!” I cried indignantly.

“Not at all. He is, on the contrary, a patriot. Think what he stands to lose. I admire the man myself.”

But I could not look at it in Poirot’s philosophical way.

“And this is the man with whom Mrs. Cavendish has been wandering about all over the country!” I cried indignantly.

“Yes. I should fancy he had found her very useful,” remarked Poirot. “So long as gossip busied itself in coupling their names together, any other vagaries of the doctor’s passed unobserved.”

“Then you think he never really cared for her?” I asked eagerly⁠—rather too eagerly, perhaps, under the circumstances.

“That, of course, I cannot say, but⁠—shall I tell you my own private opinion, Hastings?”

“Yes.”

“Well, it is this: that Mrs. Cavendish does not care, and never has cared one little jot about Dr. Bauerstein!”

“Do you really think so?” I could not disguise my pleasure.

“I am quite sure of it. And I will tell you why.”

“Yes?”

“Because she cares for someone else, mon ami.”

“Oh!” What did he mean? In spite of myself, an agreeable warmth spread over me. I am not a vain man where women are concerned, but I remembered certain evidences, too lightly thought of at the time, perhaps, but which certainly seemed to indicate⁠—

My pleasing thoughts were interrupted by the sudden entrance of Miss Howard. She glanced round hastily to make sure there was no one else in the room, and quickly produced an old sheet of brown paper. This she handed to Poirot, murmuring as she did so the cryptic words:

“On top of the wardrobe.” Then she hurriedly left the room.

Poirot unfolded the sheet of paper eagerly, and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. He spread it out on the table.

“Come here, Hastings. Now tell me, what is that initial⁠—J. or L.?”

It was a medium sized sheet of paper, rather dusty, as though it had lain by for some time. But it was the label that was attracting Poirot’s attention. At the top, it bore the printed stamp of Messrs. Parkson’s, the well-known theatrical costumiers, and it was addressed to “⁠—(the debatable initial) Cavendish, Esq., Styles Court, Styles St. Mary, Essex.”

“It might be T., or it might be L.,” I said, after studying the thing for a minute or two. “It certainly isn’t a J.”

“Good,” replied Poirot, folding up the paper again. “I, also, am of your way of thinking. It is an L., depend upon it!”

“Where did it come from?” I asked curiously. “Is it important?”

“Moderately so. It confirms a surmise of mine. Having deduced its existence, I set Miss Howard to search for it, and, as you see, she has been successful.”

“What did she mean by ‘On the top of the wardrobe’?”

“She meant,” replied Poirot promptly, “that she found it on top of a wardrobe.”

“A funny place for a piece of brown paper,” I mused.

“Not at all. The top of a wardrobe is an excellent place for brown paper and cardboard boxes. I have kept them there myself. Neatly arranged, there is nothing to offend the eye.”

“Poirot,” I asked earnestly, “have you made up your mind about this crime?”

“Yes⁠—that is to say, I believe I know how it was committed.”

“Ah!”

“Unfortunately, I have no proof beyond my surmise, unless⁠—” With sudden energy, he caught me by the arm, and whirled me down the hall, calling out in French in his excitement: “Mademoiselle Dorcas, Mademoiselle Dorcas, un moment, s’il vous plaît!”

Dorcas, quite flurried by the noise, came hurrying out of the pantry.

“My good Dorcas, I have an idea⁠—a little idea⁠—if it should prove justified, what magnificent chance! Tell me, on Monday, not Tuesday, Dorcas, but Monday, the day before the tragedy, did anything go wrong with Mrs. Inglethorp’s bell?”

Dorcas looked very surprised.

“Yes, sir, now you mention it, it did; though I don’t know how you came to hear of it. A mouse, or some such, must have nibbled the wire through. The man came and put it right on Tuesday morning.”

With a long drawn exclamation of ecstasy, Poirot led the way back to the morning-room.

“See you, one should not ask for outside proof⁠—no, reason should be enough. But the flesh is weak, it is consolation to find that one is on the right track. Ah, my friend, I am like a giant refreshed. I run! I leap!”

And, in very truth, run and leap he did, gambolling wildly down the stretch of lawn outside the long window.

“What is your remarkable little friend doing?” asked a voice behind me, and I turned to find Mary Cavendish at my elbow. She smiled, and so did I. “What is it all about?”

“Really, I can’t tell you. He asked Dorcas some question about a bell, and appeared so delighted with her answer that he is capering about as you see!”

Mary laughed.

“How ridiculous! He’s going out of the gate. Isn’t he coming back today?”

“I don’t know. I’ve given up trying to guess what he’ll do next.”

“Is he quite mad, Mr. Hastings?”

“I honestly don’t know. Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness.”

“I see.”

In spite of her laugh, Mary was looking thoughtful this morning. She seemed grave, almost sad.

It occurred to me that it would be a good opportunity to tackle her on the subject of Cynthia. I began rather tactfully, I