erroneous.”
He smiled.
“You gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely.”
“Another point – how did you know that the key of the despatch-case had been lost?”
“I did not know it. It was a guess that turned out to be correct. You observed that it had a piece of twisted wire through the handle. That suggested to me at once that it had possibly been wrenched off a flimsy key-ring. Now, if it had been lost and recovered, Mrs. Inglethorp would at once have replaced it on her bunch; but on her bunch I found what was obviously the duplicate key, very new and bright, which led me to the hypothesis that somebody else had inserted the original key in the lock of the despatch-case.”
“Yes,” I said, “Alfred Inglethorp, without doubt.”
Poirot looked at me curiously.
“You are very sure of his guilt?”
“Well, naturally. Every fresh circumstance seems to establish it more clearly.”
“On the contrary,” said Poirot quietly, “there are several points in his favour.”
“Oh, come now!”
“Yes.”
“I see only one.”
“And that?”
“That he was not in the house last night.”
“‘Bad shot!’ as you English say! You have chosen the one point that to my mind tells against him.”
“How is that?”
“Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisoned last night, he would certainly have arranged to be away from the house. His excuse was an obviously trumped up one. That leaves us two possibilities: either he knew what was going to happen or he had a reason of his own for his absence.”
“And that reason?” I asked sceptically.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“How should I know? Discreditable, without doubt. This Mr. Inglethorp, I should say, is somewhat of a scoundrel – but that does not of necessity make him a murderer.”
I shook my head, unconvinced.
“We do not agree, eh?” said Poirot. “Well, let us leave it. Time will show which of us is right. Now let us turn to other aspects of the case. What do you make of the fact that all the doors of the bedroom were bolted on the inside?”
“Well –” I considered. “One must look at it logically.”
“True.”
“I should put it this way. The doors were bolted – our own eyes have told us that – yet the presence of the candle grease on the floor, and the destruction of the will, prove that during the night someone entered the room. You agree so far?”
“Perfectly. Put with admirable clearness. Proceed.”
“Well,” I said, encouraged, “as the person who entered did not do so by the window, nor by miraculous means, it follows that the door must have been opened from inside by Mrs. Inglethorp herself. That strengthens the conviction that the person in question was her husband. She would naturally open the door to her own husband.”
Poirot shook his head.
“Why should she? She had bolted the door leading into his room – a most unusual proceeding on her part – she had had a most violent quarrel with him that very afternoon. No, he was the last person she would admit.”
“But you agree with me that the door must have been opened by Mrs. Inglethorp herself?”
“There is another possibility. She may have forgotten to bolt the door into the passage when she went to bed, and have got up later, towards morning, and bolted it then.”
“Poirot, is that seriously your opinion?”
“No, I do not say it is so, but it might be. Now, to turn to another feature, what do you make of the scrap of conversation you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law?”
“I had forgotten that,” I said thoughtfully. “That is as enigmatical as ever. It seems incredible that a woman like Mrs. Cavendish, proud and reticent to the last degree, should interfere so violently in what was certainly not her affair.”
“Precisely. It was an astonishing thing for a woman of her breeding to do.”
“It is certainly curious,” I agreed. “Still, it is unimportant, and need not be taken into account.”
A groan burst from Poirot.
“What have I always told you? Everything must be taken into account. If the fact will not fit the theory – let the theory go.”
“Well, we shall see,” I said, nettled.
“Yes, we shall see.”
We had reached Leastways Cottage, and Poirot ushered me upstairs to his own room. He offered me one of the tiny Russian cigarettes he himself occasionally smoked. I was amused to notice that he stowed away the used matches most carefully in a little china pot. My momentary annoyance vanished.
Poirot had placed our two chairs in front of the open window which commanded a view of the village street. The fresh air blew in warm and pleasant. It was going to be a hot day.
Suddenly my attention was arrested by a weedy looking young man rushing down the street at a great pace. It was the expression on his face that was extraordinary – a curious mingling of terror and agitation.
“Look, Poirot!” I said.
He leant forward.
“Tiens!” he said. “It is Mr. Mace, from the chemist’s shop. He is coming here.”
The young man came to a halt before Leastways Cottage, and, after hesitating a moment, pounded vigorously at the door.
“A little minute,” cried Poirot from the window. “I come.”
Motioning to me to follow him, he ran swiftly down the stairs and opened the door. Mr. Mace began at once.
“Oh, Mr. Poirot, I’m sorry for the inconvenience, but I heard that you’d just come back from the Hall?”
“Yes, we have.”
The young man moistened his dry lips. His face was working curiously.
“It’s all over the village about old Mrs. Inglethorp dying so suddenly. They do say —” he lowered his voice cautiously – “that it’s poison?”
Poirot’s face remained quite impassive.
“Only the doctors can tell us that, Mr. Mace.”
“Yes, exactly – of course –” The young man hesitated, and then his agitation was too much for him. He
