accepted his assurance, though I did not really see how he could be so positive about the matter.
‘Well,’ I said, with a sigh, ‘we will acquit Miss Howard, then. It is partly your fault that I ever came to suspect her. It was what you said about her evidence at the inquest that set me off.’
Poirot looked puzzled.
‘What did I say about her evidence at the inquest?’
‘Don’t you remember? When I cited her and John Cavendish as being above suspicion?’
‘Oh—ah—yes.’ He seemed a little confused, but recovered himself. ‘By the way, Hastings, there is something I want you to do for me.’
‘Certainly. What is it?’
‘Next time you happen to be alone with Lawrence Cavendish, I want you to say this to him. “I have a message for you from Poirot. He says: ‘Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace!’” Nothing more. Nothing less.’
‘“Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace!” Is that right?’ I asked, much mystified.
‘Excellent.’
‘But what does it mean?’
‘Ah, that I will leave you to find out. You have access to the facts. Just say that to him, and see what he says.’
‘Very well—but it’s all extremely mysterious.’
We were running into Tadminster now, and Poirot directed the car to the ‘Analytical Chemist’.
Poirot hopped down briskly, and went inside. In a few minutes he was back again.
‘There,’ he said. ‘That is all my business.’
‘What were you doing there?’ I asked in lively curiosity.
‘I left something to be analysed.’
‘Yes, but what?’
‘The sample of cocoa I took from the saucepan in the bedroom.’
‘But that has already been tested!’ I cried, stupefied. ‘Dr Bauerstein had it tested, and you yourself laughed at the possibility of there being strychnine in it.’
‘I know Dr Bauerstein had it tested,’ replied Poirot quietly.
‘Well, then?’
‘Well, I have a fancy for having it analysed again, that is all.’
And not another word on the subject could I drag out of him.
This proceeding of Poirot’s, in respect of the cocoa, puzzled me intensely. I could see neither rhyme nor reason in it. However, my confidence in him, which at one time had rather waned, was fully restored since his belief in Alfred Inglethorp’s innocence had been so triumphantly vindicated.
The funeral of Mrs Inglethorp took place the following day, and on Monday, as I came down to a late breakfast, John drew me aside, and informed me that Mr Inglethorp was leaving that morning, to take up his quarters at the Stylites Arms, until he should have completed his plans.
‘And really it’s a great relief to think he’s going, Hastings,’ continued my honest friend. ‘It was bad enough before, when we thought he’d done it, but I’m hanged if it isn’t worse now, when we all feel guilty for having been so down on the fellow. The fact is, we’ve treated him abominably. Of course, things did look black against him. I don’t see how anyone could blame us for jumping to the conclusions we did. Still, there it is, we were in the wrong, and now there’s a beastly feeling that one ought to make amends; which is difficult, when one doesn’t like the fellow a bit better than one did before. The whole thing’s damned awkward! And I’m thankful he’s had the tact to take himself off. It’s a good thing Styles wasn’t the mater’s to leave to him. Couldn’t bear to think of the fellow lording it here. He’s welcome to her money.’
‘You’ll be able to keep up the place all right?’ I asked.
‘Oh, yes. There are the death duties, of course, but half my father’s money goes with the place, and Lawrence will stay with us for the present, so there is his share as well. We shall be pinched at first, of course, because, as I once told you, I am in a bit of a hole financially myself. Still, the Johnnies will wait now.’
In the general relief at Inglethorp’s approaching departure, we had the most genial breakfast we had experienced since the tragedy. Cynthia, whose young spirits were naturally buoyant, was looking quite her pretty self again, and we all, with the exception of Lawrence, who seemed unalterably gloomy and nervous, were quietly cheerful, at the opening of a new and hopeful future.
The papers, of course, had been full of the tragedy. Glaring headlines, sandwiched biographies of every member of the household, subtle innuendoes, the usual familiar tag about the police having a clue. Nothing was spared us. It was a slack time. The war was momentarily inactive, and the newspapers seized with avidity on this crime in fashionable life: ‘The Mysterious Affair at Styles’ was the topic of the moment.
Naturally it was very annoying for the Cavendishes. The house was constantly besieged by reporters, who were consistently denied admission, but who continued to haunt the village and the grounds, where they lay in wait with cameras, for any unwary members of the household. We all lived in a blast of publicity. The Scotland Yard men came and went, examining, questioning, lynx-eyed and reserved of tongue. Towards what end they were working, we did not know. Had they any clue, or would the whole thing remain in the category of undiscovered crimes?
After breakfast, Dorcas came up to me rather mysteriously, and asked if she might have a few words with me.
‘Certainly. What is it, Dorcas?’
‘Well, it’s just this, sir. You’ll be seeing the Belgian gentleman today perhaps?’ I nodded. ‘Well, sir, you know how he asked me so particular if the mistress, or anyone else, had a green dress?’
‘Yes, yes. You have found one?’ My interest was aroused.
‘No, not that, sir. But since then I’ve remembered what the young gentlemen’—John and Lawrence were still the ‘young gentlemen’ to Dorcas—‘call the “dressing-up box”. It’s up in the front attic, sir. A great chest, full of old clothes and fancy dresses, and what not. And it came to me sudden like that there might be a green dress amongst them. So, if you’d tell the Belgian gentleman –’
‘I will tell him, Dorcas,’ I promised.
‘Thank you very much, sir. A very nice gentleman he is, sir. And quite a different class from them two detectives from London, what goes prying about, and asking questions. I don’t hold with foreigners as a rule, but from what the newspapers says I make out as how these brave Belgies isn’t the ordinary run of foreigners and certainly he’s a most polite spoken gentleman.’
Dear old Dorcas! As she stood there, with her honest face upturned to mine, I thought what a fine specimen she was of the old-fashioned servant that is so fast dying out.
I thought I might as well go down to the village at once, and look up Poirot; but I met him half-way, coming up to the house, and at once gave him Dorcas’s
