The Cornish Mystery: A Hercule Poirot Short Story. Agatha Christie

       The Cornish Mystery

      ‘The Cornish Mystery’ was first published in The Sketch, 28 November 1923.

      ‘Mrs Pengelley,’ announced our landlady, and withdrew discreetly.

      Many unlikely people came to consult Poirot, but to my mind, the woman who stood nervously just inside the door, fingering her feather neck-piece, was the most unlikely of all. She was so extraordinarily commonplace – a thin, faded woman of about fifty, dressed in a braided coat and skirt, some gold jewellery at her neck, and with her grey hair surmounted by a singularly unbecoming hat. In a country town you pass a hundred Mrs Pengelleys in the street every day.

      Poirot came forward and greeted her pleasantly, perceiving her obvious embarrassment.

      ‘Madame! Take a chair, I beg of you. My colleague, Captain Hastings.’

      The lady sat down, murmuring uncertainly: ‘You are M. Poirot, the detective?’

      ‘At your service, madame.’

      But our guest was still tongue-tied. She sighed, twisted her fingers, and grew steadily redder and redder.

      ‘There is something I can do for you, eh, madame?’

      ‘Well, I thought – that is – you see –’

      ‘Proceed, madame, I beg of you – proceed.’

      Mrs Pengelley, thus encouraged, took a grip on herself.

      ‘It’s this way, M. Poirot – I don’t want to have anything to do with the police. No, I wouldn’t go to the police for anything! But all the same, I’m sorely troubled about something. And yet I don’t know if I ought –’ She stopped abruptly.

      ‘Me, I have nothing to do with the police. My investigations are strictly private.’

      Mrs Pengelley caught at the word.

      ‘Private – that’s what I want. I don’t want any talk or fuss, or things in the papers. Wicked it is, the way they write things, until the family could never hold up their heads again. And it isn’t as though I was even sure – it’s just a dreadful idea that’s come to me, and put it out of my head I can’t.’ She paused for breath. ‘And all the time I may be wickedly wronging poor Edward. It’s a terrible thought for any wife to have. But you do read of such dreadful things nowadays.’

      ‘Permit me – it is of your husband you speak?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘And you suspect him of – what?’

      ‘I don’t like even to say it, M. Poirot. But you do read of such things happening – and the poor souls suspecting nothing.’

      I was beginning to despair of the lady’s ever coming to the point, but Poirot’s patience was equal to the demand made upon it.

      ‘Speak without fear, madame. Think what joy will be yours if we are able to prove your suspicions unfounded.’

      ‘That’s true – anything’s better than this wearing uncertainty. Oh, M. Poirot, I’m dreadfully afraid I’m being poisoned.’

      ‘What makes you think so?’

      Mrs Pengelley, her reticence leaving her, plunged into a full recital more suited to the ears of her medical attendant.

      ‘Pain and sickness after food, eh?’ said Poirot thoughtfully. ‘You have a doctor attending you, madame? What does he say?’

      ‘He says it’s acute gastritis, M. Poirot. But I can see that he’s puzzled and uneasy, and he’s always altering the medicine, but nothing does any good.’

      ‘You have spoken of your – fears, to him?’

      ‘No, indeed, M. Poirot. It might get about in the town. And perhaps it is gastritis. All the same, it’s very odd that whenever Edward is away for the week-end, I’m quite all right again. Even Freda notices that – my niece, M. Poirot. And then there’s that bottle of weed-killer, never used, the gardener says, and yet it’s half-empty.’

      She looked appealingly at Poirot. He smiled reassuringly at her, and reached for a pencil and notebook.

      ‘Let us be businesslike, madame. Now, then, you and your husband reside – where?’

      ‘Polgarwith, a small

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