Chapter 5 Chapter 5 Is it strychnine?
"Where did you find this?" I asked Poirot, wondering.
"In the wastebasket. You recognize the handwriting?"
"Yes, it is Mrs. Inglethorp's handwriting. But what does it mean?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"I can't tell—but it's instructive."
A ridiculous idea flashed through my mind.Might Mrs. Inglethorp be out of her mind?Had she been possessed by some queer idea?If so, is it also possible that she took her own life?
I was about to express these speculations to Poirot, but his words confused me again.
"Hey," he said, "now go check those coffee cups!"
"My dear Poirot, we already know about Coco. What's the use of finding out about it?"
"Hullo! Poor Coco!" exclaimed Poirot frivolously.
He smiled happily and raised his hands to the sky in feigned desperation.Of course I shouldn't think so, but I think it's the most vulgar behavior possible.
"But, anyhow," I said, more indifferently, "though Mrs. Inglethorp brought the coffee upstairs again, I don't think you can expect to find anything, unless you think it's possible that we will." Found a packet of strychnine in the coffee tray!"
Poirot immediately became serious.
"Come, come, my friend," he said, taking my arm, "don't be angry! You will allow me to take an interest in my coffee. I will respect your cocoa too. Good! Now Is it a deal?"
He was so good-humoured that I had to laugh; and we walked together into the living room.The coffee cups and trays were still there as quietly as we had left them.
Poirot asked me to give a brief account of the previous evening, and he listened carefully, checking the position of each glass.
"So Mrs. Cavendish was standing by that tea tray--pouring coffee. Well. Then she went to the window where you sat with Miss Cynthia. By the way. Here are three cups. The one on the mantelpiece drank Half of them belong to Mr. Laurence Cavendish. How about the one in the tea tray?"
"It belonged to John Cavendish. I saw he had it there."
"Good. One, two, three, four, five—and Mr. Inglethorp's glass?"
"He didn't drink his coffee."
"Then it's all cleared up. Wait a minute, my friend."
He carefully poured a drop or two of coffee from the bottom of each cup, sealed them in test tubes, and tasted each in turn as he did so.His countenance was changing strangely.There was such an expression concentrated there that I can only describe it as half bewildering and half comforting.
"There!" he said at last. "Got it! I had an idea--but obviously I was wrong. Yes, I was quite wrong. It's odd, though, but never mind!"
With his characteristic shrug, he dispelled any doubts about what had been bothering him.From the very beginning, I wanted to tell him that his obsession with coffee was bound to lead him to a dead end, but I refrained from saying it.Even though Poirot was old now, he was a celebrity back then.
"Breakfast is ready," said John Cavendish, coming in from the passage. "Would you like to have breakfast with us, M. Poirot?"
Poirot tacitly agreed.I looked over at John.He's pretty much back to normal.The shocking events of last night had disturbed him for a moment, but his composure soon returned to normal.He was a very unimaginative man, in stark contrast to his brother, who, perhaps, had too much imagination.
John had been busy this morning, early in the morning, with telegrams—the first one was to Evelyn Howard—writing obituaries for the papers, and all the frightening things that usually go at funerals. Sentimental business.
"May I ask a question? How are things going?" he said. "Does your investigation show that my mother's death was a natural death - or - or do we have to prepare for the worst?"
"I think, Mr. Cavendish," said Poirot gravely, "that you had better not allow yourself any false hopes. Could you tell me what the rest of the family think?"
"My brother Lawrence confirmed we were messing with nothing. He said everything pointed to it being entirely due to heart failure."
"He sees it that way? That's interesting—very interesting," muttered Poirot softly. "And Mrs. Cavendish?"
A thin cloud passed over John's face.
"I have no idea what my wife thinks about this issue."
That answer ensued a brief stalemate.It was John who broke the rather awkward silence, and with a little effort he said:
"Mr. Inglethorp has returned. Did I tell you?"
Poirot bowed his head.
"It's an embarrassing situation for all of us. Of course, he should have been treated as usual--but, hey, how could it be, sitting down to dinner with a presumably murderer, what's the point? Not disgusting!"
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
"I quite understand that you are in a difficult position, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to ask a question. Mr. Inglethorp did not come back last night, I believe because he forgot the key of the gate. Is that so? "
"yes."
"I suppose you're quite convinced that he forgot the gate key—but did he have it?"
"I don't know. It never occurred to me to look. We always keep the key in the hall drawer. I'll see if it's there now."
Poirot smiled and held up a hand.
"No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it's too late now. I'm sure you'll find it. Even if Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he'd have had time enough to put it back now." .”
"Then you think—"
"I don't have any idea. If someone happened to look at it this morning, before he came back, and see it was there, that would be a worthwhile argument in his favor. That's all."
John looked bewildered.
"Don't worry," said Poirot gently. "I want to reassure you that you don't need it to bother you. Since you are so hospitable, let's go get some breakfast."
All gathered in the dining room.Naturally we were not a pleasant party under the circumstances, and the reaction after a shocking event is always bad, so I think we are all suffering, but politeness and good breeding admonish our Behavior should be exactly as usual.But I still can't help being surprised, if this kind of self-control is indeed an extremely difficult thing.No tears were shed, no one secretly grieved, and I felt I was right in seeing that Dorcas was the one most personally affected by this tragedy.
I glanced over at Alfred, who was more or less pretending to be a widower and sickened by the hypocrisy.I wonder if he understands that we doubt him.No doubt he had no way of knowing this fact, as we kept it from him.Did he sense some dire lurking danger, or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished?This air of suspicion in the air must have warned him that he had become a suspicious man.
But, is everyone suspicious of him?How is Mrs. Cavendish?I looked at her, who sat at the head of the table, solemn, calm, and inscrutable.She was wearing a smooth gray coat, with white ruffles at the wrists and slender hands, looking very beautiful.However, her face can become as mysterious as it is if she chooses.She was taciturn and rarely spoke, which was also a little strange.I feel that the great power of her looks governs each of us.
And what about young Cynthia?Does she doubt it?I felt that she looked tired and sick.She looked very depressed and sad.I asked her if she was feeling ill, and she answered frankly:
"Yes. I have a terrible headache."
"Would you like another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?" said Poirot with concern. "It refreshes you. It's unique for headaches." He jumped up hastily, and took her glass.
"No sugar," said Cynthia, looking at Poirot as soon as he picked up the sugar-cube tongs.
"No sugar? No sugar during the war, eh?"
"No, I never drink sugar in my coffee."
"Damn it!" murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back the filled glass.
I was the only one who heard this, and I glanced at him curiously, and saw his face, convulsed with suppressed excitement, and his eyes, too, glowing green like a cat's.He must have heard or seen something that deeply moved him--but what was it?I've always thought of myself as not stupid, but this time I must confess that nothing unusual caught my attention.
After a while the door opened and Dorcas appeared.
"Mr. Wells sees you coming, sir," she said to John.
I remembered the name, the solicitor to whom Mrs. Inglethorp had written the night before.
John stood up immediately.
"Take him to my study." Then he turned to us. "My mother's lawyer," he explained.Then lowered his voice again: "He's also the coroner—you know. You might like to go with me?"
We acquiesced, so we followed him out of the room.John was striding ahead, and I took this opportunity to ask Poirot in a low voice:
"An interrogation?"
Poirot nodded absently.He seemed to be thinking about something, which aroused my curiosity.
"What's the matter? You didn't pay attention to what I said."
"Indeed, my friend. I am very worried."
"why?"
"Because Miss Cynthia drinks no sugar in her coffee."
"What? Can't you be serious?"
"I'm most serious. Well! There's something I don't understand. My instinct is right."
"What intuition?"
"That hunch made me insist on checking those coffee mugs, boo! Let's not talk about it now!"
We followed John into his study and he closed the door behind us.
Mr. Wells was a funny middle-aged man with keen eyes and a typical lawyer's mouth.John introduced the two of us and explained our reasons for coming together.
"You have to know, Wells," he added, "that this is strictly confidential. We still hope that it will prove that no investigation is necessary."
"Yes! Yes!" reassured Mr. Wells. "I suppose we should have spared you the pain and publicity of an interrogation. But without a doctor's death certificate, it's certainly a last resort."
"Yes, I think so too."
"Baustein is a smart man. I believe he is an authority on toxicology."
"That's right," said John, looking a little awkward.Then he added, rather vaguely, "Are we all going to testify — I mean, all of us?"
"You, of course - and - er - Inglethorp - er - sir."
After a slight pause, the lawyer continued to comfort Yue, "Any piece of evidence can easily prove that this is just a matter of form."
"I understand."
A look of relief flitted across John's face.This puzzled me, because I saw no reason for him to be so.
"If you have no objection to the contrary," continued Mr. Wells, "it will be Friday, I suppose. That will give us plenty of time to study the doctor's report. The post-mortem tonight, I suppose?"
"yes."
"Is this arrangement right for you?"
"It fits perfectly."
"My dear Cavendish, I need not tell you how much I am sorry to hear of this most unfortunate incident."
"Would you be able to give us a great deal of help in clarifying this matter, monsieur?" put in Poirot, speaking for the first time since we entered the room.
"I?"
"Yes. We heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You must have had the letter this morning."
"Yes, but there is no news in the letter. It is just a text message asking me to come and see her this morning because she wants to discuss a very important matter with me."
"Did she give you no hint of what it might be?"
"Unfortunately, no."
"What a pity," John said.
"It's a pity," Poirot agreed earnestly.
Everyone was silent.Poirot was lost in thought for a moment.Finally, he turned back to the lawyer.
"Mr. Wells, there is something I would like to ask of you—that is, if it does not violate the rules of your profession. When Mrs. Inglethorp dies, who will inherit her estate?"
The lawyer hesitated, then replied:
"The fact is about to be made public, and if Mr. Cavendish does not object—"
"Not at all," interjected John.
I don't see any reason I shouldn't be answering your question.According to her last will, dated August last year, she resolved to give all her property to her former son, Mr. John Cavendish, except for some insignificant relics bequeathed to servants, etc. "
"Isn't that - Mr. Cavendish, pardon my question - too unfair to the other son, Mr. Laurence Cavendish?"
"No, I don't think so. According to their father's will, when the stepmother died, Laurence would receive a large sum of money while John inherited. Mrs. Inglethorp left her own money to her eldest son. She knows he'll keep Styles. It's a fair division, in my opinion."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.
"I see. But I don't know if the will is void under your English law when Mrs. Inglethorp remarries again?"
Mr. Wells nodded.
"Because of my imminent prosecution, M. Poirot, that provision is now of no effect."
"Ah!" said Poirot.He thought for a moment, then asked: "Did Mrs. Inglethorp herself know about it?"
"I don't know. She might know."
"She just found out," said John unexpectedly, "that we were talking about the voiding of wills after marriage just yesterday."
"Ah! One more question, Mr. Wells. You said 'her last will.' Did Mrs. Inglethorp write several wills before this?"
"She writes at least one new will a year on average," said Mr. Wells calmly. "Regarding the distribution of property in the will, she always likes to change her mind. She wants to give alms to one person for a while, and then wants to give some benefits to another family member."
"Suppose," suggested Poirot, "without your knowledge, that she had written a new will in favor of someone who was not in any sense part of the family—for example, that we Say Miss Howard, would you be surprised?"
"Not at all."
"Ah!" Poirot seemed to have finished his question.
While John and the lawyer were discussing access to Mrs. Inglethorp's papers, I stayed close to Poirot.
"Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a will giving all her fortune to Miss Howard?" I asked in a low voice, somewhat curious.
Poirot laughed.
"No."
"Then why do you ask?"
"Hush!"
John Cavendish had turned towards Poirot.
"Are you coming with us, M. Poirot? We're going to go and look up my mother's papers. Mr. Inglethorp will be more than happy to give it all to Mr. Weiss and myself."
"That would make things much simpler," muttered the lawyer. "Of course, legally, he has—" He didn't finish the sentence.
"We'll have to check the desk in the boudoir first," explained John, "before we go upstairs to her bedroom. She keeps most of the important papers in a fuchsia attache-case, and we'll have to go through it." .”
"Well," said the lawyer, "there may be a newer will than the one I have here."
"There is an updated will." It was Poirot who spoke.
"What?" John and the lawyer stared at him in surprise.
"Or, rather," continued my friend calmly, "there was one."
"There was a copy. What do you mean? Where is it now?"
"Burned!"
"Burned?"
"Yes. Look!" He took out the charred piece of paper which we had found in the fireplace in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, and handed it to the lawyer, explaining briefly where and when it had been found. .
"But perhaps it's an old will?"
"I don't think so. In fact, I'm almost certain that this will was written no earlier than yesterday afternoon."
"What?" "Impossible!" The two blurted out together.
Poirot turned to John.
"I can confirm this to you if you will allow me to call your gardener."
"Oh, sure—but I don't understand—"
Poirot raised a hand.
"Do as I ask you first. Then you can ask as many questions as you like."
"Okay." John rang the bell.
Dorcas arrived just in time.
"Dorcas, you go and tell Manning to come and talk to me."
"Yes, sir."
Dorcas withdrew.
We waited in a tense silence.Poirot alone seemed perfectly at ease, dusting a forgotten corner of the bookcase.
The thud of hobnailed boots on the gravel outside.Indicates the arrival of Manning.John looked questioningly at Poirot, who nodded.
"Come in, Manning," John said, "I want to talk to you."
Manning approached slowly, stepped hesitantly through the French windows, and stood as close to the window as possible.He was holding his hat in both hands.Carefully turn it back and forth.His back was arched badly, though perhaps not as old as he looked.But his eyes were bright and quick, and they did not match his blunt, rather cautious mouth.
"Manning," said John, "this gentleman wants to ask you something, and I ask you to answer it well."
"Yes, sir," grumbled Manning.
Poirot walked briskly forward.Manning glanced at him with some contempt.
"Yesterday afternoon, you planted a bed of begonias south of the house, did you, Manning?"
"Yes, sir, William and I."
"Mrs. Inglethorp went to the window and called you, didn't she?"
"Yes, sir, she did."
"Tell me, in your own words, exactly what happened after this?"
"Well, sir, it's nothing serious. She just wants William to ride into the village and buy a will form, or something like that - I don't know exactly what - She wrote him a note."
"Is it?"
"Yes, he did, sir."
"What happened next?"
"We'll go on with the begonias, sir."
"Did Mrs. Inglethorp not call you again?"
"Yes, sir, and she called me and William."
"and after?"
"She made us both come straight in, and signed at the bottom of a long piece of paper—behind her signature."
"Did you see what was written in front of her signature?"
"No, sir, there's a little blotting-paper on that part."
"You signed where she told you?"
"Yes, sir, I sign first, then William."
"What happened to her with this thing afterward?"
"Ah, here, sir, she put it first in a long envelope, and then put it in a fuchsia box that stands on this desk."
"When did she first call you?"
"I think it was around four o'clock, sir."
"Will it be earlier? Will it be around three-thirty?"
"No, I dare not say so, sir. It's more likely a little past four—not before four."
"Thank you, Manning, that will do," said Poirot cheerfully.
The gardener glanced at his master, John nodded, and Manning raised a finger to his forehead, grunted, and turned cautiously out of the French window.
We all looked at each other.
"My God!" murmured John. "What a bizarre coincidence!"
"How—coincidence?"
"My mother just made a will on the day she died!"
Mr. Wells cleared his throat, and said coldly:
"Are you so sure it's a coincidence, Cavendish?"
"what do you mean?"
"You tell me your mother had a bad argument with a man yesterday afternoon—"
"What do you mean?" John asked loudly again, his voice trembling and his face pale.
"As a result of that quarrel, your mother hastily made a new will very suddenly. Its contents are never known to us. She told no one about the terms. No doubt she was due to make a new will this morning. I talked about it—but she had no chance. The will is now lost, and she took the secret to her grave. My fear, Cavendish, is that it may not be a coincidence. Mr. Poirot, I I am sure you will agree with me that these facts are suggestive."
"Hinted or not," interrupted John, "we are all greatly indebted to M. Poirot for clarifying the matter. We should never have known about the will without him. I I thought, may I ask you, M. Poirot, what first made you doubt this fact?"
Poirot replied with a smile:
"An old envelope with some words scrawled on it, and a new row of begonias."
I thought John would have gone further: but at that moment there was the loud throb of a car engine.We all head towards the window as it glides by.
"Evie!" John called. "Excuse me, Wells." He hurried out.
Poirot looked at me questioningly.
"Miss Howard," I explained.
"Well, I'm glad she's here. She's a brains and a good-hearted woman, Hastings, though good God didn't endow her with a pretty face."
I followed John's example and walked out of the room into the hall.Miss Howard was there trying to free herself from the coiled veil that wrapped her head.As soon as her eyes fell on me, a sudden wave of guilty grief shot at me.This is the woman who warned me so earnestly, but alas, I took it lightly!How quickly I forget it, how little I pay attention to it.And now that her words have been vindicated in such a tragic way, I am ashamed.She knew all about Alfred Inglethorp.I wonder if this tragedy would have happened if she had stayed in Styles?Would this person be afraid of her watchful gaze?
I was relieved when she shook my hand with that excruciating squeeze I still remember vividly.The look in her eyes that met me was very sad, but not reproachful.She must have been weeping bitterly, I could tell by the red circles around her eyes, but her rude manner remained the same.
"I started as soon as the telegram came. Just got off the night shift. Hired a car and made my way here."
"You haven't eaten anything this morning, Evie?" John asked.
"No."
"I know you haven't eaten. Go ahead, the breakfast hasn't been confiscated yet, they will make you a new pot of tea." He turned to me. "You take care of her, Hastings, will you? Wells is waiting for me. Oh, this is M. Poirot. He's helping us, you know, Evie."
Howard's team shook hands with Poirot, but she cast a suspicious glance over her shoulder at John.
"What do you mean—help us?"
"Help us investigate."
"There's nothing to investigate. Didn't they put him in jail already?"
"Who's in jail?"
"Who? Alfred Inglethorp, of course!"
"My dear Evie, be careful what you say, Lawrence thinks Mother died of a heart attack."
"Lawrence is a great fool!" retorted Miss Howard. "Of course it was Alfred Inglethorp who killed poor Emily—I've always told you he would."
"My dear Evie, don't be so loud. Whatever we may think or suspect, let's say as little as possible for now. There's an inquest on Friday."
"Hmph, stop talking nonsense!" Miss Howard's snort was really annoying. "You're all out of your wits. The guy's going to run away to a foreign country by then. If he's got any sense, he's not going to sit here and wait to go to the gallows."
John Cavendish eyed her resignedly.
"I know what it is," she accused him. "You've listened to the doctors. Don't listen to that. What do they know? Don't believe it at all—or you'll be tricked by them." .I should know--my own father was a doctor. That little Wilkins was just about the biggest idiot I'd ever seen. Heart attack, that's all they babbled. Any Anybody with any sense could see right away that her husband poisoned her. I kept saying he'd kill her in bed, poor thing. And now he did. But you can do Just murmuring nonsense in a low voice about 'heart attack' and 'Friday trial' and you should be ashamed of yourselves, John Cavendish."
"What do you want me to do?" John couldn't help smiling and asked. "There's no way, Evie, I can't grab him by the scruff of the neck and drag him to the local police station!"
"Come on, there's something you can do. Find out how he does it. He's a scheming fellow. I bet he must have soaked the flypaper. You ask the cook if she lost the flypaper .”
It occurred to me at this time that it might well be a daunting task to keep Miss Howard and Alfred Inglethorp in the same house, and to maintain a peaceful coexistence between them, and I did not envy john.It was evident from the expression on his face that he was fully aware of the difficulty of the situation, and had to take a momentary retreat, and he left the room abruptly and hastily.
Dorcas brought freshly brewed tea.As soon as she left the room, Poirot walked over from the window where he was standing, and sat down opposite Miss Howard.
"Miss," he said seriously, "I want to ask you something."
"Ask," replied the lady, looking at him with displeasure.
"I hope to have your help."
"I'd be happy to help you hang Alfred," she replied curtly.
"Hanging him is too polite to him. He should be quartered like in ancient times.".
"So we agree," said Poirot, "because I, too, wish to hang the criminal."
"Hanging Alfred Inglethorp?"
"He, or someone else."
"It couldn't have been the other one. Poor Emily would never have been killed if he hadn't come. I must say she was surrounded by a school of sharks—she was surrounded. But it was only her they were looking at." Purse, her life is still quite safe. But this Mr. Alfred Inglethorp came in--so, only two months--well, change it!"
"Believe me, Miss Howard," said Poirot with great sincerity, "if Mr. Inglethorp is such a man, he will in no way escape my grasp. I will hang him on my honor." As high as that."
"That's all the better," said Miss Howard, with increasing enthusiasm.
"But I must ask you to believe me. Your help is invaluable to me now. I will tell you why I say this. For, in all this mourning mansion, only your eyes have wept .”
Miss Howard blinked, and a new tone came into her husky voice.
"If you mean I love her--yes, I do. You know, Emily is a selfish, wayward old lady. She's generous, but she always needs something in return. She won't let People forget the good things she has done for them—and by doing so, she loses the love of others. Don't think she realizes that, or even feels that love is lacking. Don't hope for that anyway. I am In a different position. I've had my purpose right from the start. 'I'll take you so much a year. That's good enough. Nothing more—not even a pair of gloves, a play.' ticket.' She didn't understand, and was sometimes angry. Said I was stupidly proud. It wasn't so—but I couldn't explain it. I kept my pride anyway. So, with the whole The gang is different, and I am the only one who can make myself love her. I take care of her, protect her, and keep her from being bullied by their people. But then such a smooth-talking rogue broke in, so , bah! All my years of devotion have been in vain."
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
"I understand, miss, I quite understand how you feel. It's quite natural. You think we're cold—lack of enthusiasm and energy—but, believe me, it's not."
At this moment John poked his head in, and invited us both to Mrs. Inglethorp's room, for he and Mr. Wells had already inspected the writing-desk in the boudoir.
As we went upstairs, John glanced back at the dining-room door, and said in a low voice, secretly:
"Hey, what will happen if these two meet?"
I shook my head resignedly.
"I've told Mary to separate them as much as possible."
"Would she do that?"
"Only God knows. For one thing, Inglethorp himself may be reluctant to see her."
"Do you still have the keys, Poirot?" I asked as we reached the door of the locked room.
Taking the key from Poirot, John opened the door.We all went in.The lawyer went straight to the desk, and John followed him.
"I believe my mother kept her most important documents in this briefcase," he said.
Poirot produced a small bunch of keys.
"Allow me to explain. I locked it this morning as a precaution."
"But it's not locked now."
"impossible!"
"Look," said John and opened the lid of the box.
"It's not a big deal!" cried Poirot, stupefied with astonishment. "Both keys are in my pocket!" He rushed to Boxu, suddenly he was stunned. "So that's what happened! The lock was forced open!"
"what?"
Poirot put down the box again.
"Who did it? Why did they do it? When? But the door is locked?" These exclamations came incoherently from us.
Poirot answered each one clearly - almost mechanically.
"Who? That's a question. Why? Hey, I wish I knew. When? Since I left here an hour ago. As for the door being locked, it's a very ordinary lock. Perhaps the A key to any door will open it."
We all looked at each other in bewilderment.Poirot had moved to the mantelpiece.He looked composed outwardly, but I noticed that his hands, which, from long-established habit, were mechanically handling the paper-twisted bottle on the mantel-piece, were trembling violently.
"Well, here's the thing," he said at last. "What's in that box—a piece of evidence, perhaps small in itself, but a clue enough to connect the murderer with the crime. That it must be destroyed before it can be discovered and its significance realized, is to him It's a matter of life. That's why he took the risk, the big risk, to get in here. Finding the box locked, he was forced to pick it open, thus putting him out of the way. It's been exposed. He, it must be something of the utmost importance to take such a risk."
"what is that?"
"Hey!" cried Poirot, with an angry gesture. "Well, I don't know either! A document of some sort, probably a fragment of the one Dorcas saw in her hand yesterday afternoon. But I—" he flew into a rage—"I'm such a What a stupid animal! I didn't think of it! I was a complete fool! I should never have left that box here. I should have taken it with me. Oh, triple stupid pig! It's over now. It's ruined—is it ruined? Is there another chance—we'll have to do everything—"
He rushed out of the room suddenly like a madman, and I followed him as soon as I had recovered my senses sufficiently.However, when I ran to the stairs, he had disappeared.
玛丽·卡文迪什正站在楼梯的分岔处，往下朝门厅，朝波洛消失的那方向盯着。
“你那位卓越的小个子朋友出了什么事啦，哈斯丁？他刚才象头发疯的公牛似地从我身旁冲了过去，”
“有件事搞得他相当心烦意乱，”我有气无力地说。我实在不知道波洛希望我透露多少出去。看着卡文迪什太太那张富有表情的嘴边的笑靥，我竭力设法改变话题说：
“他们还没有碰过面吗？”
"Who?"
“英格里桑先生和霍华德小姐。”
她用一种相当困窘的模样瞧着我。
“你认为，如果他们一碰面，就是一场灾难吗？”
“是啊，你不这样看？”我说道，心中相当吃惊。
“不。”她平心静气地微笑着。“我倒想看一场怒气大爆发呢。它会使空气变得清新一点。现在，我们大家都是想得多，说得少啊。”
“约翰不这样看，”我说。“他竭力希望使他们一直分开。”
“哦，约翰！”
她的语气中有点什么东西把我给惹火了，我脱口而说：
“约翰是个非常好的好人。”
她好奇地朝我仔细察看了一两分钟，接着才开了腔，她的话使我大吃一惊：
“你对自己的朋友很忠实。为了这点我很喜欢你。”
“你不也是我的朋友吗？”
“我是个很坏的朋友。”
“你干么这样说？”
“因为这是真的。我对待自己的朋友是，今天好得让人着了魔似的，明天就把他们忘个精光。”
我不知道是什么驱使了我，不过我确被惹怒了，因而我就鲁莽地，很不礼貌地说了：
“可是你让鲍斯坦医生似乎是一直着了魔似的呀！”
话一出口，我立刻感到懊悔。她的脸绷紧了。我感到这下完了，我砧污了一个真正的女人的名声。她一句话也没说，迅速地转身径自上楼去了，我却象个白痴似的站在那儿，目瞪口呆地凝视着她的背影。
楼下的一阵大声的喧嚷声使我惊醒过来，想到了别的事情。我听到波洛在嚷嚷，大声地解释什么。我懊恼地想着自己交际手段的拙劣。这小个子看来对这一家人都非常信任，可是，至少我个人对他这种做法是否明智表示怀疑。对于我的朋友在激动起来时就如此容易失去头脑，不能不使我又一次感到懊恼。我急忙匆匆地跑下楼去。我一出现几乎立刻使波洛镇静了下来。我把他拉到一旁。
“老朋友，”我说，“这样明智么？你谅必不会让全家人都了解这情况吧？你这样干实际上是对罪犯有利。”
“你是这样想的么，哈斯丁？”
“我确实认为是这样。”
“好啦，好啦，我的朋友，我就听你的吧。”
“好。尽管，不幸的是现在已经太迟一点了。”
"Yes."
他看上去如此垂头丧气，羞愧难当，使我也感到非常难过，虽然我仍然认为我的指责是恰当的，也是英明的。
“喂，”他终于说，“我们走吧，朋友。”
“你这儿的事结束了吗？”
“是的，暂时告一段落。你陪我回村子去好吗？”
"Very happy to."
他捡起自己的小公文箱，于是我们就穿过开着的落地长窗，走进了客厅。这时，辛西娅·穆多契恰巧进来，波洛站在一边让她过去。
“请原谅，小姐，请待一会儿！”
“怎么啦？”她回过头来询问地说。
“你为英格里桑太太配过药吗？”
她的脸上飞起两朵淡淡的红晕，她颇为局促地回答说：
"No."
“药粉呢？”
辛西娅的脸更红了，她答道：
“嗯，配过。我为她配过一点安眠药粉。”
“是这个？”
他拿出那只装过药粉的空盒子。
She nodded.
“你能告诉我这是什么吗？索佛那？佛罗那？”
“都不是，是溴化剂药粉。”
“啊！谢谢你，小姐，再见。”
当我们踏着轻快的步子离开这幢房子时，我朝他看了不止一次。以前，我经常发现，要是有什么事情使他激动了，他的眼睛就变得象猫眼一样绿莹莹的。现在它们就是这祥，象两颗绿宝石似地在闪闪发光。
“我的朋友，”他终于打破了沉默，“我有一个小小的想法，一个非常古怪，也许是完全不可能的想法。然而——它很适合。”
我耸了耸自己的肩膀。我暗自思忖，波洛脑子里这类异想天开的想法稍微多了一点了。无疑，在这桩案子里，真目实在是一清二楚的了。
“这么一来，盒子上的空白标签就有了解释了，”我说。“象你说的一样，很简单。我实在觉得奇怪，我自己就没有想到这一点。”
波洛看来好象没有在听我说话。
“在那儿，他们又有了一项发现，”他伸出个大拇指，猛地举到肩上，往后朝斯泰尔斯的方向指了指，说。“我们上楼的时候，韦尔斯先生告诉我的。”
"What did you find?"
“他们把东西锁进闺房写字台的时候，发现了一份英格里桑太大的遗嘱，注明签字日期是在她这次结婚之前，上面写明把她的财产遗赠给阿弗雷德·英格里桑。这一定是在他们刚订婚那阵子立的。这真使韦尔斯大为谅诧——对约翰·卡文迪什也是如此。它写在一份印就的遗嘱格式纸上，由两名仆人连署——没有多卡斯。”
“英格里桑先生知道这个吗？”
“他说不知道。”
“对这不能完全相信，”我怀疑地说。“所有这些遗嘱全都乱七八糟。告诉我，信封上那几个乱涂的字怎么帮助你发现昨天下午立过一份遗嘱的？”
Poirot laughed.
“我的朋友，在你写东西的时候，你有过笔头呆的情况吗？忘掉了某个字的正确写法？”
“有过，经常这样。我想，人人都有这种情况。”
“确实如此。而且，在这种情况下，你会在吸墨水纸的边上，或者是一张空白的废张上，把这个词试写一两次，看看写对了没有，是吗？那么，英格里桑太太就是这样做的。你会发觉'possessed'（拥有），起初少写了一个's'，后来加了一个——才写对。为了要弄清楚，她又进一步试写了一个句子，即'Iampossessed'（我拥有），那末，这告诉了我什么呢？它告诉了我，英格里桑太太昨天下午写过'possessed'这个词，加之，由于我脑子里对壁炉里找到的那一小片纸记忆犹新，所以我马上就联想到可能有一份遗嘱——一份几乎肯定要包含这个词的文件。这一可能性被有关的事实所进一步证实。在这种全面的混乱情况下，今天早上闺房没有打扫。在写字台附近有几个褐色泥土的足迹。这几天天气都很好，因此，留下这么多的泥，一定不是普通的靴子。”
“我走到窗口旁边，马上就看到秋海棠是新栽的。花坛上的泥土和闺房地板上的完全一样。而且，我从你那儿获悉那些花是昨天下午新栽的。这时我就确信，有一个、或者也许是两个花匠——因为花坛上有两种脚印——走进闺房来过。而如果英格里桑太太仅仅想要和他们谈几句话的话，她多半只要站在窗子旁边就行了，他们根本不需要走进房间。因此，我就十分肯定，她新立了一份遗嘱，并且叫这两个花匠进来，在她的签字旁连署。结果证明我的推测完全正确。”
“这真是巧妙极了，”我不得不承认。“我必须承认，我从那几个乱涂的字所得出的结论是完全错误的。”
He laughed.
“你对你的想象力太放任了。想象力是个好奴仆，但也是个坏主人。最简单的解释总是最可靠的。”
“还有一点——你怎么知道公文箱的钥匙丢了？”
“这我原来并不知道。这是个推测，结果证明是正确的。你看到的，钥匙捏手处穿着一小段拧在一起的金属线，这马上使我想到，它有可能是从一只易于损坏的钥匙圈上扭落下来的。而假如钥匙是丢失后重又找到的话，英格里桑太太一定会马上把它套回到她的钥匙串上；但是在她那串钥匙上，我发现的显然是只备用钥匙，很新，很亮，这就使我作出这样的假设：另外有个什么人把原来那把钥匙插在公文箱的锁眼里了。”
“对了，”我说，“毫无疑问，一定是阿弗雷德·英格里桑。”
波洛严肃地着看我。
“你非常肯定是他犯的罪吗？”
“嗯，当然，每一个新的情况似乎都愈来愈清楚地证实了这一点。”
“恰恰相反，”波洛平静他说，“有好几点对他有利。”
“嗨，得啦！”
"it is true."
“我看只有一点。”
"Which point?"
“昨天晚上他不在家里。”
“这就象你们英国人说得一样：'打偏了！'你选的这一点我认为恰恰说明对他是不利的。”
"How do you say that?"
“因为，要是英格里桑先生事先知道他的妻子昨天晚上会被毒死，他当然可以有意地计划好离家不回来。他的借口显然是伪造的。这就给我们留下了两种可能性：或者是他知道将要发生的事，或者是有他自己的不在场的理由。”
“什么理由呢？”我怀疑地问道。
波洛耸耸肩膀。
“我怎么知道？毫无疑问是怕受怀疑。我得说，这位英格里桑先生多少是个坏蛋——可是不能说他必然是个杀人凶手。”
我不相信地摇摇头。
“我们的意见不一致，呢？”波洛说。“好，让它先搁着吧。时间会证明我们俩谁是对的。现在让我们来看看本案的另一些方面。卧室的所有门都在里面闩上，对这件事你是怎么看的？”
“唔——”我考虑了一下，“这得从逻辑上来看。”
"correct."
“我得这样来阐述。门都是闩的——这是我们的眼睛告诉我们的——一可是，地板上的焰烛油，烧毁的遗嘱，都说明昨天晚上有人进过房间。你同意这样看吗？”
“完全同意。阐述得很清楚。继续说下去吧。”
“好的，”我说，受到了鼓励，“由于进入房间的人不可能通过窗口，也不可能有什么神奇的方法，由此得出结论，门一定是英格里桑太太亲自从里面打开的。这更加使人确信，此人就是她的丈夫。她当然会打开通向她丈夫房间的门的。”
波洛摇摇头。
“为什么她一定会呢？她已经闩上通向他房间的门了——就她而言，是个极不平常的举动——昨天下午她和他刚有过一场很激烈的争吵，不，她决不会允许他进她的房间的。”
“不过你同意我的看法，门一定是英格里桑太太亲自开的吧？”
“有另一种可能。也许她上床睡时，忘了闩上通向过道的门，而到后来，天快亮时，她才起来闩上门。”
“波洛，你的说法不时开玩笑吧？”
“不，我没有说一定是这样，可是，也许是这样，好了，换一个问题吧。对你偶然听到的卡文迪什太太和她婆婆之间的谈话的片断，怎么理解？”
“我已经把这给忘了，”我若有所思地说。“完全象个谜。象卡文迪什太太这样一个极度高傲、谨慎的女人，会如此粗暴地去干涉完全不属于她自己的事情。这似乎是难以置信的。”
“确实如此。一个有教养的女人这样做，实在是件令人惊讶的事情。”
“这确实难以理解，”我同意说。“然而，这并不重要，没有必要去考虑它。”
波洛突然哼了一声。
“我一直怎么告诉你的？每一件事情都必须考虑。要是事实和理论不——那就让理论见鬼去吧。”
“好吧，我们要考虑。”我恼火地说。
“是的，我们应该考虑。”
我们到了李斯特韦思别墅，波洛把我领到楼上自己的房间。他递给我一支他自己偶尔抽的细小的俄国烟。我发现他把用过的火柴都非常小心收藏在一只小瓷罐里，觉得很有趣。我的一时的烦恼此刻都化为乌有了。
波洛在打开的窗前放了两张椅子，这儿可以俯瞰小村的街景。清新的空气扑面而来，暖和，舒适，预示着将是炎热的一天。
突然一个样子瘦弱的年轻人引起了我的注意，他飞快地在街上急匆匆走着。他脸上的表情极不平常——恐惧和焦虑奇怪地交织在一起。
“瞧，波洛！”我说。
他朝前探了探身子。
“啊！”他说，“是梅司先生，药店里的。他上这儿来了。”
年轻人在李斯特韦思别墅前停下了，他踌躇了一下后，使劲地敲起门来。
“稍等一会儿，”波洛从窗口喊道。“我就来。”
他示意我跟着他，随后就迅速地跑下楼去，开了门。
梅司先生立即就说开了：
“哦，波洛先生，对不起，打扰你了，听说你刚从庄园回来，是吗？”
“是的，我们刚到。”
年轻人润了润自己干燥的嘴唇。他的脸变得很严肃。
“村子里到处都在传英格里桑老太太突然去世的事。他们都说——”他谨慎地压低了声音——“是毒死的？”
波洛的脸仍然丝毫没有表情。
“那只是医生告诉我们的，梅司先生。”
“是啊，不错——当然——”年轻人吞吞吐吐的，接着他显得非常焦虑不安。他抓住波洛的手臂，压低声音轻声说：“快告诉我，波洛先生，是不是——是不是士的宁？是不是？”
我几乎没有听清波洛回答点什么。显然是几句态度不明的话。年轻人走了，当波洛把门关上时，他的目光和我的相遇了。
“是啊，”他严肃地点着头说。“审讯时他会出来作证的。”
我们又慢慢地走上楼去。当我刚要开口时，波洛就作了一个手势，止住了我。
“现在别说，现在别说，朋友。我需要考虑一下。我的脑子有点乱——这样不行。”
约摸有十来分钟，他一直默默地坐着，不吭一声，除了眉宇间出现过几次富有表情的变动外，他的两眼不断地变得愈来愈绿。终于他深深地叹了一口气。
“好了，糟糕的时刻过去啦。现在全部分门别类整理好了。一个人决不应该容许自己的脑子处于混乱状态。这桩案子还没有搞清楚——没有。因为它太复杂了！它把我，把我赫卡尔·波洛都给难住了！这儿还有两点重要的事实。”
“哪两点？”
“第一是昨天的天气情况。这一点非常重要。”
“是个好天气呀！”我打断了他的话。“波洛，你这是在戏弄我吧！”
“根本不是。寒暑表上是华氏80度。别忘了，我的朋友，这是打开整个闷葫芦的钥匙。”
“第二点呢？”我问。
“第二点重要的事实是，英格里桑先生穿一身很独特的衣服，有一大把黑胡子，而且还戴眼镜。”
“波洛，我不信你不是在开玩笑。”
“我绝对不是开玩笑，我的朋友。”
“可这是孩子的话呀！”
“不，这非常重要。”
“假如验尸陪审团宣布了以蓄意谋杀罪对阿弗雪德·英格里桑提出起诉的裁决，那你的推论会变成什么？”
“我的推论是动摇不了的，因为只有全是傻瓜才会碰巧犯同一个错误！可是那种事是不会发生的。举个例说，一个乡村陪审团用不着担心为它本身承担责任。而且，英格里桑先生实际上已处于地方乡绅的地位。”他还沉着地补充说：“这我不能答应！”
“你不答应？”
“不答应。”
我打量着这个奇怪的小个子，既好气又好笑。他的自信竟如此惊人。他似乎已经着透我的想法，有礼貌地补充说：
“哦，是的，我的朋友，我说到做到。”他站起身来，把一只手放到我的肩上。他脸上的表情完全变了，眼睛中含着泪水。“在这整个事情中，你知道，我想起了那位去世的可怜的英格里桑太太。她没有过份地受到敬爱——没有。可是，她对我们比利时人是非常好的——我本人就身受其益。”
我竭力想打断他，可是他顾自说下去。
“让我告诉你吧，哈斯丁。如果我让他的丈夫阿弗雷德·英格里桑现在——在我一句话就能救他的时候——被捕的话，她是永远也不会宽恕我的！”
Notes:
Notes: