The "Stiles case," which had once been a sensation and aroused intense public interest, had now somewhat languished.However, my friend Poirot and the family, as a result of all the gossip that ensued, were widely circulated.Both asked me to write the whole story.We believe that this will effectively refute the lurid rumors that have so far been circulating. I have therefore resolved to set down a brief account of my connection with this incident. I was sent home from the front as a sick and wounded; after a rather depressing few months in a sanatorium, I was finally given a month's sick leave.I have no close relations or close friends, and as I was considering how to spend this holiday I came across John Cavendish, whom I had seen very little over the years.To be honest, I don't know him very well.For one thing, he was a good fifteen years older than me, though he was hardly forty-five at all.Although as a child I used to stop at Styles, the country house where his mother lived.

After we caught up, then he invited me to spend my vacation at Styles. "Mum will be delighted to see you again after all these years," he added. "How is your mother?" I asked. "Well, very well. She's married again, you know, I guess?" I'm afraid I've become a little overtly surprised.His mother was, as far as I can remember, a dignified middle-aged woman (she married John's father, who was a widower and had two sons), now undoubtedly at least seventy years old.I remember her as an energetic, assertive person who was kind of into charity and socializing, doing bazaars and things like that, playing roles.She was a very generous woman, with a considerable fortune of her own.

Their country mansion, Styles Park, had been bought by Mr. Cavendish back in the year of their marriage.He was already completely under the control of his wife, and when he died, the house was left to her for life, and most of her income went to her; It is undoubtedly unfair.However, their stepmother was very generous to them; indeed, when their father remarried.They were both young, so they always regarded her as their own mother. The younger brother Lawrence was an elegant young man.He had already qualified as a doctor, but he had long since abandoned the practice to pursue his literary ambitions at home; though he never achieved any notable success in poetry.

John practiced for a time as a barrister, but at last he settled into the more comfortable life of a country gentleman.He married two years ago and lives in Styles with his wife, but I always get the feeling that he would prefer his mother to give him a little more allowance so that he can have a home of his own.However, the old lady is a person who likes to act on her own, and hopes that others will follow her arrangements, and under the current situation, she is of course in the dominant position, that is to say: the financial power is in her hands. Sensing my surprise at the news of his mother's remarriage, John smiled wryly.

"Still a vile, dirty vulgar fellow!" he said roughly. "I can tell you, Hastings, it's making our days pretty rough. As for which—do you remember Evie?" "Can not remember." "Oh, I think she came after your visit. She's mother's housekeeper, chaperone, and everything! That old Evie, a big plaything! Neither young nor pretty, Everyone made fun of them." "Are you going to say—?" "Huh, this guy! Who knows how he got out, the excuse is Evie's distant cousin or something, although she doesn't seem to particularly want to admit the relationship. Anyone can see that this guy is a total Uncouth guy. Big black beard, patent leather boots in all weathers! But mother took a liking to him right away, hired him as secretary—you know? She's been running hundreds of society What about the group?"

I nod. "Of course, the war has turned hundreds of such societies into thousands. This fellow will no doubt be of use to her. However, three months ago, when she suddenly announced that she and Alfred When we were engaged, it blew us away! The fellow was at least twenty years younger than she was! It was blatant, after a rich woman; but you know, she was a despot mistress who Just marry him." "It must have put you all in a difficult position." "Difficult! Terrible!" Just three days after this conversation, I got off the train at Styles station.It was a ridiculous little station, surrounded by green fields and country lanes, with no apparent reason for its existence.John Cavendish was waiting for me on the platform and he led me to the car.

"Look, I managed to get a drop or two of petrol," he said, "mostly because of my mother's activity." The village of Styles is about two miles from this station, and Styles Manor is a mile in the other direction.It was a quiet, warm day in early July.When you look out the window at this plain of Essex passing by, so green and peaceful in the afternoon sun, it's hard to believe that, not far from here, a The battle is going on as scheduled.I felt myself suddenly in another world.As we turned in the gates of the manor, John said: "I'm afraid you'll find it too deserted here, Hastings."

"Old friend, this is exactly what I need." "Well, if you want to live a life of leisure, it's very comfortable here. I go to practice with the volunteers twice a week, and help a little on the farm. My wife goes to do some farm work on time. She every morning at five Get up at 1 o'clock to milk the cows till lunchtime. It's a pretty god-like life here if it's not for that guy Alfred Inglethorp!" ​​He stopped the car suddenly and looked at his watch. "I don't know if we'll have time to pick up Cynthia. Ah, no, she might be out of the hospital already."

"Cynthia! Is that your wife?" "No, Cynthia is my mother's adopted daughter, the daughter of an old schoolmate of hers, who married a lawyer, a rascal, and fell into a tussle, leaving the girl penniless and helpless. , it was my mother who rescued her. Jussie has been with us for nearly two years, and she works at the Red Cross Hospital in Tumminster, seven miles from here." By the time he spoke his last words, we had reached a tall old-fashioned house.A woman in a loose tweed skirt, who was bending over a flower bed, straightened up quickly when she saw us approaching.

"Hello, Evie, this is the wounded hero I was talking about! Mr. Hastings—this is Miss Howard." Miss Howard had a handshake so strong it almost hurt me, and she had blue eyes in a sunburned face.She was a pleasant-looking woman, about forty, with a deep, sonorous, almost masculine voice, with a decidedly broad, muscular figure, paired with well-fitting feet—they were Quilted in stout boots.I soon discovered that her speech was very concise. "The weeds grow like a house on fire, you can't catch them, and I'm going to get your husband. Better watch out." "I believe I should be happy if I can make myself a useful person," I replied.

"Don't say that. Never say it, and I hope you won't say it again." "You can be sarcastic, Evie," John said, laughing. "Where are you having tea today—in or out?" "Outside. The weather is so good and I plan to stay indoors." "Go on, then, you've done enough gardening for today. You know, 'The labor of a hired man shall be equal to his wages.' Go on, and take a rest." "Very well," promised Miss Howard, taking off her work gloves, "I will follow you." She led the way, round the house, to where refreshments were set in the shade of a large maple tree. A man got up from a wicker chair.Take a few steps towards us. "My wife. This is Hastings," John introduced. I will never forget the first time I met Mary Cavendish.She has a tall and slender figure, with graceful lines in the bright sunlight; that kind of lively expression that wants to reveal but hides.Seems to be found only in those magical brown winks.Those astonishing eyes were unlike any woman I have ever seen; she possessed a silent, marvelous charm; yet there was still a wild, unrestrained passion in her quiet elegance--all All of this is burning brightly in my memory.This is something I will never forget. She welcomed me with a few warm words in a soft, clear voice, and I sat down in a wicker chair, feeling exceedingly glad that I had accepted John's invitation.Mrs. Cavendish poured me tea, and her few gentle words reinforced my first impression of her as a woman who would utterly fascinate one.An appreciative audience always enhances one's interest, so I related in a humorous tone some anecdotes of sanitariums, in such a way that I aroused the great interest of my hostess, I I also feel very proud.John, of course, was a good man, but he could not be called a good interlocutor. At this moment, an unforgettable voice floated out from a nearby open French window: "Would you write to the princess after tea, then, Alfred? I'll write the letter to Mrs. Tumminster when she comes next day. Or should we wait for an answer from the princess? If she If not, Lady Tminster can come on the first day, Mrs Crossby the next day, and then the Duchess-officiate at the opening of the school." A man's murmured voice was heard, followed by Mrs. Inglethorp's reply: "Yes, of course. Do it right after tea, you're very thoughtful, my dear Alfred." The French windows were opened a little wider, and a dignified, white-haired old lady with a domineering face stepped out onto the lawn, followed by a man who appeared submissive. Mrs. Inglethorp welcomed me warmly. "Oh, it's such a pleasure to see you again after all these years. Alfred, dear, this is Mr. Hastings—this is my husband." I eyed "Dear Alfred" with some curiosity.This person is indeed a bit out of date.No wonder John was so disgusted with his whiskers. This is one of the longest and blackest beards I've ever seen.He wore a pair of gold-rimmed pince-nez and had an expression of incomprehensible indifference.This gave me the impression that he might have been quite right on the stage, but in real life he seemed strangely unnatural.His voice was rather slick, with a bit of fake gallantry.He put a wooden hand into mine and said: "It's a great pleasure, Mr. Hastings," he said, turning to his wife. "My dear Emily, I think the upholstery is a bit damp." The old lady smiled at him affectionately as he carefully changed a cushion.Strange love story of a woman who was wise in every way! In the presence of Mrs. Inglethorp, it was perceptible that there was a layer of tension and hidden hostility over the heads of the family.Miss Hobbit especially did her best to conceal her feelings.Mrs. Inglethorp, however, seemed to notice nothing unusual.The eloquence I remembered from her days was still the same after all these years, and she talked incessantly, chiefly about the soon-to-be bazaar she was organizing.She occasionally checks with her husband about days or dates.His attentive demeanor never changed.I've hated him from the very beginning, it's always been in my head, and I think my first impressions are usually pretty accurate. After a while, Mrs. Inglethorp turned to Evelyn Howard, to give some instructions concerning the correspondence, and her husband, in his labored voice, chatted with me: "Is your regular employment in the army, Mr. Hastings?" "No, I was in Lloyd's before the war." "Did you decide to go back after the war?" "Maybe. It's all about going back there or finding a new job." Mary Cavendish leaned forward. "If you only consider your hobbies, what kind of career would you really choose?" "Well, that depends on the situation." "No secret fetish?" she asked. "Tell me—what are you attracted to? Everyone is usually attracted to something ridiculous." "You'll laugh at me." she laughed. "Maybe so." "Well, I've always secretly longed to be a detective!" "Not bad—? Or?" "Oh, to try to be Sherlock Holmes. In fact, though, seriously, I'd rather be. I met a man once in Belgium, a very famous detective, who inspired me to Enthusiasm for the cause. He was a marvelous little man. He used to say that all good detective work was merely a matter of method. My system was based on this statement of his—although, of course, I already had He went a step further. He was a very funny little man, a smartly dressed dandy, but surprisingly astute." "I like a good detective story, too," remarked Miss Howard, "but there's always so much nonsense written. Everyone's dumbfounded by the last chapter when the criminal is revealed. But real crime— — will soon be discovered.” "There is still a great deal of crime that goes undiscovered," I disagree. "Not the police, but the parties. The family. You can't really hide it from them. They'll know." "So," said I, with great interest, "you think that if you were implicated in a crime, say murder, you would recognize the criminal at once?" "Of course I can. Maybe I'm not going to testify it to a large judiciary, but I'm sure I know it. If he came near me, I'd feel it with my fingertips." "Maybe it's her," I reminded. "Maybe. But murder is a violent crime. It's mostly done by men." "That's not the case with the poisoning case," said Mrs. Cavendish's clear voice, which startled me. "Dr. Bowsdan said yesterday that the general ignorance of the medical profession about most of the rare poisons has made it possible to render countless cases of poisoning entirely beyond suspicion.",. "Why, Mary, what a dreadful thing you say!" exclaimed Mrs. Inglethorp. "It gives me the creeps. Oh, here comes Cynthia!" A young girl in the uniform of the Society of Patriotic Nurses came running across the lawn with a buoyant air. "Oh, Cynthia, you're late to-day. This is Mr. Hastings—this is Miss Murdoch." Miss Cynthia Murdoch was a well-built young girl, full of life and energy.She took off her little nurse's cap nimbly, and I was amazed at the loose chestnut curls.She stretched out a small white and tender hand, and took the cup of tea. If she had black eyes and eyelashes, she would really be a beauty. She sat down on the grass next to John and smiled at me when I passed her a plate of sandwiches. "Come on, sit on the grass, it's much more comfortable." I sat down obediently. "Do you work at Tminster, Miss Murdoch?" She nodded. "Live and suffer." "Why, did they bully you?" I asked with a smile. "I'd like to see them like that!" exclaimed Cynthia grandly. "I have a cousin who's a nurse," I said, "and she's terrified of those too." "It's not surprising. You know, Mr. Hastings, the superintendent is like that. They are! You don't know! I'm not a nurse, thank God. I work in a pharmacy." "How many people have you poisoned to death?" I asked with a smile. Cynthia laughed too. "Oh, hundreds!" she said. "Cynthia," cried Mrs. Inglethorp, "can you write me some notes?" "Of course, Aunt Ellie." She sprang up swiftly, and something in her manner suggested to me that she was in a wholly subordinate position; Mrs. Inglethorp was kind on the whole, but she did not let her Forget about that. My mistress turned to me. "John will show you to your chambers. Supper at half-past seven. We sometimes skip late dinner now. Mrs. Tumminster, our MP's wife--she was the late Abbotsbray The lord's daughter--so was she. She agreed with me that one must be an example of thrift. We are quite a war family; Collect them and pack them in sacks." I expressed my appreciation, and John led me inside and up the stairs, which parted halfway to the left and right, leading to both sides of the house.My room is on the left, facing the garden. John was gone, and a few minutes later I saw from the window him and Cynthia walking slowly across the lawn, arm in arm.Then I heard Mrs. Inglethorp's eager voice calling "Cynthia," and the girl was startled, and ran back towards the house.At this moment, a man stepped out of the shade and walked slowly in the same direction.He looked to be about forty years old, dark and clean-shaven, with a sad expression, as if possessed by a powerful emotion.He looked up as he passed under my window.Ah, I recognize him, though he has changed a great deal in the fifteen years that have passed since we last met.This is John's younger brother, Laurence Cavendish.I wondered why he had such a strange expression on his face. Later, I didn't think about him any more, and turned back to think about my own affairs. The evening passed very pleasantly, and in the evening I dreamed of that incredible woman—Mary Cavendish. The next morning, the sun was shining brightly, and I was full of anticipation for a pleasant excursion. I didn't see Mrs. Cavendish until lunch time.She offered to go for a walk with me, and we spent a lovely afternoon roaming the woods, returning home about five o'clock. As soon as we entered the hall, John directed us both to the smoking room.From his face, I saw at once that something was wrong.We followed him into the room, and when we were in, he closed the door. "Hey! Mary, what a mess. Evie and Alfred had a big fight, and she's leaving." "Evie? Going away?" John nodded gloomily. "Yes. Now she's lost at mother's—oh, here's Evie." Miss Howard came in.She pursed her lips coldly, carrying a small suitcase in her hand, looking excited and determined, a little on the defensive. "At any rate," she cried, "I have spoken my mind!" "Dear Evie," said Mrs. Cavendish, "is it true?" Miss Howard nodded grimly. True!I said something to Emily, and I'm afraid she won't forget or forgive me right away.Whether or not these words were only slightly heard, and if they were said, they might have been in vain, I said to her directly: "You are an old lady, Emily, and there is no one else who will be like that." As stupid as an old fool. That man is twenty years younger than you. Don't lie to yourself, what did she marry you for? Money! Come on, don't give him so much money. That farmer Rex has A very young and beautiful wife. You only have to ask your Alfred how much time he spends there. She's pissed off. Fool! But I'll go on: 'I'm giving you advice, no matter what You want to hear it or you don't. That man would have murdered you in your bed when he saw you. He's a badass. Say what you like with me, but please remember what I told you. He's a badass!'" "What did she say?" Miss Howard made a meaningful grimace. "What 'dear Alfred' - and 'dearest Alfred' - said it was a 'malicious slander' - 'a shameless lie' - a 'bitter woman '—falsely accusing her 'dear husband'! I'd better leave her house early. So I'm going." "Not now?" "Let's go now!" We sat there staring at her for a while.Later, John Cavendish, finding his persuasion to no avail, went to check train times.Then his wife went away, muttering something to the effect that Mrs. Inglethorp had better think about it. Miss Howard's face changed as soon as she left the room.She rushed towards me eagerly. "Mr. Hastings, you are a man of integrity. May I trust you?" I was slightly taken aback.She put a hand on my arm and said softly in a low voice: "Mr. Hastings, please take good care of her, my poor Emily. They're a bunch of liars--all of them. Oh, I know what I'm talking about. There's not a single one of them who doesn't Hard up money, just trying to get money out of her. I've protected her as best I can. Now that I'm out of the way, they can take advantage of her." "Of course, Miss Howard," said I, "I'll do my best, but I think you're too excited and worried." She interrupted me slowly with one index finger. "Young man, believe me, I will live a few years longer than you in this world. I just ask you to keep your eyes open and be on guard all the time. You will understand what I mean." From the open window there was the rumbling of a motor vehicle, and Miss Howard got up and made for the door.John's voice sounded outside, she held the doorknob with one word, turned her head and greeted me. "The main thing, Mr. Hastings, is to watch out for that villain—her husband!" There is no time to say more.Miss Howard was drowned in a sea of ​​eager voices and farewells urging her not to go.The Inglethorps were not seen. No sooner had the car pulled away than Mrs. Cavendish left the group abruptly and walked across the drive across the lawn to a tall bearded man who was approaching the house.When she held out her hand to him, two flushes appeared on her cheeks. "Who is that?" I asked sharply, because I had an instinctive suspicion of this person. "That's Dr. Bauerstein," John replied simply. "Who is Dr. Bauerstein?" "He's had a severe neurasthenia and is staying in this village on quiet therapy. He's a specialist in London. A man of great ability, I think--one of the best toxicologists alive. " "He's Mary's best friend," put in Cynthia, unable to restrain herself. John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject. "Go for a walk, Hastings. It's a very bad business. She's always Zulu-talking, but there's no friend in England who is more faithful and trustworthy than Evelyn Howard." He took me up the path in the middle of the plantation, through the woods on one side of the estate, and walked towards the village. When we passed through a gate again on our way home, a beautiful young woman of the gypsy type came from the opposite side, smiling and nodding to us. "A pretty girl," I said appreciatively. John's face darkened. "This is Mrs. Rex." "That's what Miss Howard said—" "Exactly," said John, in an unnecessarily rude tone. I thought of the gray-haired old lady in the big house, and the lively and mischievous little face that smiled at us just now. A vague premonition, like a gust of cold wind, made my hair stand on end.I brushed it aside. "Stiles is a glorious old mansion," I said to John. John nodded gloomily. "Yes, a fine estate. It will be mine one day—if my father made a decent will, it should be mine now. And. Money won’t be as tight as it is now.” "Strapped, you?" "My dear Hastings, I don't want to tell you that I've gone out of my way for money." "Can't your brother help you?" "Lawrence? He spends every penny he has on printing those jumbled poems in fancy bindings. No, we're all paupers. I must say my mother has been very kind to us. That is, so far. Of course, after she's married—" He stopped suddenly, frowning. For the first time, I felt that with Evelyn Howard gone, something inarticulate had disappeared from the surroundings.Her presence ensures safety.And now, the safety is gone - there seems to be suspicion in the air.Dr. Bauerstein's sinister face reappeared before my eyes, which made me uncomfortable.My mind was filled with vague doubts about everyone and everything.All of a sudden, I had a premonition that something was about to happen.

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