Chapter 8 Chapter 8 New Doubts

There was a stunned silence.Japp, the least surprised of us, was the first to speak. "I must say," he exclaimed, "you are very good! Indeed, M. Poirot! These witnesses of yours are not mistaken, I suppose?" "There! I've made a list—with their names and addresses. You'll have to see them, of course. But you'll find nothing wrong." "I believe that," Japp lowered his voice. "I am very grateful to you. Almost brought him under arrest for nothing." He turned to Inglethorp. "But, excuse me, sir, why didn't you tell the whole story at the trial?"

"I'll tell you why," interrupted Poirot. "According to some rumor—" "It's a most vicious, down-to-earth rumour," interrupted Alfred Inglethorp, in a trembling voice. "Mr. Inglethorp is anxious not to have the gossip that is going on. Am I right?" "Exactly," said Inglethorp, nodding. "Does it surprise you that my poor Emily has not yet been buried, and I desperately hope that such rumors will no longer be repeated?" "I don't think as you do, sir," said Japp. "I'd rather let go of the gossip than be arrested for murder. I venture to think that even your poor lady might think so." .If M. Poirot hadn't been here, you might have been arrested, quite literally!"

"Perhaps I'm being too stupid," muttered Inglethorp. "But you don't know, Mr. Inspector, I've had enough of persecution and slander," he said, casting a sharp look at Evelyn Howard. "Sir," said Japp, turning briskly to John, "I am sorry, but now I want to see the old lady's bedroom, and then I have a brief chat with the servants. You need not trouble yourself. Poirot Sir is here, and he will show me the way." As soon as they were all out of the room, Poirot turned and motioned to me to follow him upstairs.Once upstairs, he grabbed my arm and pulled me aside.

"Quick, get to the other side. Stand there--on the side of the baize-covered door. Don't move until I come." Then he turned quickly; and went off again with the two detectives. . I obeyed his instructions and took my place by the baize-covered door, wondering what was behind this request.Why do I have to stand guard at such a specific place?I gazed thoughtfully down the aisle ahead.An idea popped into my head.All but Cynthia Murdoch's rooms are on the left.Is there something to do with this?Do I have to report who's coming and who's going?I stand faithfully at my post.A few minutes passed.No one came.Nothing happened.

It was probably about twenty minutes later that Poirot came up to me. "You didn't move?" "No, I've been sitting here like a rock. Nothing happened." "Hi!" Is he happy, or disappointed? "You didn't see anything?" "No." "Perhaps you heard something? There was a slam—what, my friend?" "No." "Is it possible? Why, I'm asking for trouble! I've never been stupid, and I just made a slight gesture"—I knew Poirot's gesture—"and with my left hand I overturned the side of the bed. table!"

He looked so childishly distressed and downcast that I hurried to comfort him. "Never mind, old friend. What does it matter? Your victory downstairs encouraged you. I can tell you it surprised us all. In this illicit relationship between Inglethorp and Mrs. Rex There must have been more circumstances than we thought, which made him so obstinate. Now what are you going to do? Where are the two Scotland Yard officers?" "Going down and talking to the servants. I gave them all our evidence. I'm disappointed in Japp. He can't do anything!" "Hi!" I said, looking out the window. "Dr. Bauerstein is here. I think you are right about him, Poirot. I don't like him either."

"He's quite clever," said Poirot thoughtfully. "Oh, as clever as a devil! I must say I was overjoyed to see the way he came into the house on Tuesday. You must have never seen anything like it!" So I told the doctor's adventures that day. Activities are described. "He looks like a scarecrow in the field! He's covered in mud from head to toe." "Then, did you see him?" "Yes, of course I did. He didn't want to come in--supper had just been finished--but Mr. Inglethorp insisted on him." "What?" Poirot grabbed my shoulders vigorously. "Dr. Bauerstein here on Tuesday evening? Here? You never told me? Why didn't you tell me? Why? Why?"

He looked like he was going crazy. "My dear Poirot," I advised, "it never occurred to me that you would be interested in this. I don't know its importance." "What's important? It's first and foremost! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night—the night of the murder. Don't you understand, Hastings? That changes everything—everything!" I've never seen him so distraught.He let go of my grip, and mechanically fiddled with a pair of candlesticks, still muttering to himself, "Yeah, that changed everything—everything!" "Suddenly, he seemed to have made a decision."

"Okay!" he said. "We must act now. Where is Mr. Cavendish?" John is in the smoking room.Poirot went straight to him. "Mr. Cavendish, I'm going to Tminster on some important business, and I have a new lead. May I travel in your car?" "Oh, of course. You mean immediately?" "Yes, sorry." John rang the bell and ordered the car to be brought over.Ten minutes later we were driving through the park and on the road to Tumminster. "Poirot," I said resignedly, "perhaps you can tell me all about it now?" "Well, my friend, there are many circumstances which you can guess yourself. You understand, of course, that the whole situation has changed considerably now that Mr. Yes, there's one man who hasn't bought the poison. We've got rid of the fictitious clues, and now we've got to find the real ones. I've found out that, except for Mrs. Cavendish, who's playing tennis with you, the Any one of them could have been impersonating Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the meantime, we have heard his statement that he left his coffee in the passage. At the interrogation, no one paid much attention to this— But now, it has a very different meaning. We have to find out who gave Mrs. Inglethorp that cup of coffee in the end, or who passed down the aisle while it was lying there. According to you, only Two we can say with certainty did not go near that cup of coffee—Mrs Cavendish, and Miss Cynthia."

"Yes, that's it," I felt unspeakably relieved.Mary Cavendish certainly shouldn't be suspected. "In the process of freeing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I was forced to show my cards before I had time to think about it. While I might have been thought to be pursuing him, the criminal might have He's let his guard down, but now, he'll be twice as careful. Yes—more careful." He turned to me abruptly and asked, "Tell me the truth, Hastings, do you suspect anyone?" I hesitated.To be honest, once or twice that morning a thought crossed my mind, which itself was thoughtless and excessive.I have rejected it for its absurdity, yet it stubbornly remains.

"You can't call that suspicion," I murmured. "It's pretty ridiculous." "Speak," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Don't be afraid to speak your mind. You must always pay attention to your intuition." "Well then," I blurted out, "that's absurd—but I always suspect that Miss Howard hasn't told all she knows!" "Miss Howard?" "Yes—you're going to laugh at me—" "Not at all. Why should I laugh?" "I always feel," I went on, as if I had made a mistake, "that we're sort of putting her beyond possible suspicion, just by the fact that she's gone. But it's only fifteen miles away. Yeah. It's half an hour's drive away. Are we sure she wasn't in Styles the night of the murder?" "Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we are sure of it. My first course of action would be to telephone the hospital where she works." "Is it?" "Yes, I have been informed that on Tuesday she was working the afternoon shift, and—a convoy of wounded came suddenly—she kindly offered to stay on the night shift, an offer which was very gratefully accepted. That was the way it was. " "Oh!" I felt quite embarrassed. "To tell the truth," I went on, "she was so surprisingly vehemently against Inglethorp that I became suspicious of her. I always felt that she was against him in everything. I therefore had a thought about burning About the will. Maybe she knows something. Maybe she burned the new will and mistook it for the earlier one in his favor. She hated him too." "Do you think her violent perversion?" "Y-yes. She's so hot. I really doubt she's sane about it." Poirot shook his head vigorously. "No, no, that's where you're going in the wrong direction. There's nothing wrong with Miss Howard's head or mental decline. She's an excellent example of sanity and strength. She's perfectly sane." "And yet she hated Inglethorp like a madman. My idea was--a ridiculous idea, no doubt--that she wanted to poison him--and for some reason, Inglethorp Mrs. Risan took it by mistake. But I have no idea how it could have happened. The whole idea of ​​mine is utterly absurd." "On one point, you're still right. It's always wise to suspect everyone and then test them logically until you're completely satisfied that they're innocent. Then, is there any reason to charge Miss Howard Intentionally poisoning Mrs Inglethorp?" "What! She's so loyal to her!" I exclaimed. "Hey! Hey!" cried Poirot impatiently. "You talk like a child. If Miss Howard can poison the old lady, she's perfectly capable of feigning her devotion. No, we'll have to look elsewhere. Your assumption is quite correct." , her opposition to Alfred Inglethorp was unnaturally violent; but the inferences you draw from them are quite false. I have drawn my own, which I believe to be correct, But I don't want to say it at the moment." He paused, and then went on: "Now, it seems to me, there is one more hurdle to say that Miss Howard is a murderer." "what is it then?" "Mrs. Inglethorp's death will do Miss Howard no good. For there is no murder without purpose." I thought about it. "Is it possible that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote a will in her favour?" Poirot shook his head. "But you yourself mentioned the possibility to Mr. Wells?" Poirot laughed. "There's a reason for that. I don't want to mention the name of the person I actually have in mind. And Miss Howard's position has a lot in common with it, so I'll use her name instead." "Mrs. Inglethorp may have written it, though. Well, the will she wrote the afternoon she died may—" But.Poirot shook his head so hard that I had to stop talking. "No, my friend, I have some ideas of my own about that will. I can tell you a great deal about it—it's not in Miss Howard's favor." I accept his assertion, though I don't really know how he can be so sure about it. "Well," I said with a sigh, "then we'll have to acquit Miss Howard. It's partly your fault that I've been suspicious of her. It's what you said about her testimony at the trial." If you say it, it makes me arouse." Poirot looked puzzled. "What did I say about her testimony at the trial?" "Don't you remember? When I mentioned that she and John Cavendish could be excluded from suspicion?" "Ah-ha-yes." He seemed flustered, but then regained his composure. "By the way, there's something I want you to do for me." "Of course. What's the matter?" "The next time you are alone with Laurence Cavendish, I would like you to say a few words to him: 'Poirot wants me to bring you a message.' He said: Find that extra-large coffee Huai, you can rest easy!' Don't say too much, don't say too little." "'Find one of those extra-large coffee mugs and you'll be fine!' Right?" I asked, bewildered. "great." "But what does that mean?" "Well, I'll leave that to you to find out. You've got a chance to get in touch with the truth. Just tell him about it and see what he says." "That's all very well—but it's too mysterious." We were now in Tumminster, and Poirot directed the car to the house of the "analytical chemist". Poirot jumped briskly out of the car and went in.He came back a few minutes later. "Look," he said. "That's all I do." "What are you doing?" I asked very curiously. "I leave a little for analysis." "I know, but what is it?" "Samples I took from my bedroom skillet." "That's been tested!" I shouted, stunned. "Dr. Bauerstein has tested it, and you yourself laughed at the suggestion that strychnine might be in it!" "I know that Dr. Bauerstein has tested it," replied Poirot calmly. "Then why?" "Well, I thought of doing another test, that's all." I couldn't get anything else out of him on this subject. In the case of Coco, this behavior of Poirot puzzled me immensely.I am baffled by this, yet I trust him, though that trust has waned for a time, since his view of the innocence of Alfred Inglethorp has been successfully vindicated. Since then, it has fully recovered. Mrs. Inglethorp's funeral was the next day, and on the Monday, when I came down for late breakfast, John took me aside and told me that Mr. Inglethorp was leaving that morning. Live in the villager's court, until he can complete his plan. "It's a great relief, Hastings, to think he's going," continued my good friend. "Before we thought he did it, which was very bad, and now, when we feel guilty for hating him so much in the past, it can never be worse. The truth is, we hate him. Of course, also I don't think anyone can reproach us for jumping to conclusions. And if we erred, as we still do, and have such rough feelings, we must correct them; No more than I used to like it, then it would be difficult. The whole thing was so embarrassing! So I was grateful for his wit and left of my own accord! Mother didn't bequeath Styles to him, it was a thing That's a good thing. It's unbearable to think that this man's going to get his way here. Then he can spend mother's money as he pleases." "Can you really keep this place?" I asked. "Oh, yes. Of course there's an inheritance tax to pay, but half my father's fortune is here, and for now Laurence can stay with us and have his share. We'll be a little tighter at first, of course, because, As I told you, I'm a little short financially myself. The guys are waiting right now." With a great deal of relief at Inglethorp's imminent departure, we ate the most agreeable breakfast we had felt since the tragedy.Cynthia was naturally more lively and cheerful, and she looked as fit and beautiful as ever.Except for Lawrence, who still seemed so melancholy and timid, we were all very happy that a new and hopeful prospect lay before us. Needless to say, the newspapers were already full of news of this tragedy.Eye-catching headlines, biographies of every member of the family, subtle allusions, and the usual, familiar clichés like "the police have a clue and so on."Nothing was spared for us.It was a languid time, and the war was raging for a while, and the papers made an effort to seize upon such crimes in high society life, and the "Mysterious Case at Stiles" was the talk of the day. This naturally annoyed the Cavendish family very much.The mansion was constantly besieged by those journalists who, although never allowed to enter the house, continued to linger in the village and in the grounds of the estate.Lying in ambush with a camera, waiting to photograph any unwary member of the family.We live in a whirlwind of propaganda all day long.The officers of the Metropolitan Police came and went, investigating and questioning, with sharp eyes and cold words.As to what they came up with, we don't know anything.Did they have a clue?Or is the whole thing still in the category of unidentified crime? After breakfast Dorcas came up to me rather mysteriously and asked if she would speak to me a few words. "Certainly. What is it, Dorcas?" "Oh, that's what it is, sir. You will see the Belgian gentleman today?" I nod. "Well, sir, you know, he specifically asked me if my mistress, or anyone else, had a green dress?" "Yes, yes. Did you find one?" That got my attention. "No, that's not the case, sir. But then I remembered that the masters (Dorcas still called John and Lawrence 'Masters') had some 'beauty-box' in the attic of the front room, It's a big chest, sir, full of old clothes and all kinds of fancy dress, and everything. It occurred to me that there might be a green dress in there. So tell the Belgian gentleman—" "I'll tell him, Dorcas," I promised. "Thank you very much, sir. He is a very nice gentleman. He asks questions, and he is quite different from the two detectives from London. I usually don't look at foreigners, but from the newspapers These brave Belgians, I understand from the book, are unusual foreigners. They are, and he is a very nice-spoken gentleman." Dear old Dorcas!As she stood there with her honest, candid face turned upward toward me, I thought to myself what a fine example she was of that old-fashioned housemaid who was fast disappearing. I considered that I must go to the village at once to visit Poirot; but I met him on the way, coming to the estate, and I immediately relayed Dorcas' message to him. "Ah, brave Dorcas! We must go and see the chest, though--but never mind--we can examine it." We entered the house through a long window.There was no one in the hall, so we went straight up to the attic. There was, indeed, a chest, a fine old-fashioned chest, all studded with brass, filled with every conceivable line of clothing.Poirot threw the contents hastily, piece by piece, on the floor.There were one or two fabrics of different shades of green, but Poirot shook his head after looking at them.He seemed a little indifferent to the search, as if he hadn't expected any major results.Suddenly, he let out a cry. "what is that?" "Look!" The cabinet was almost empty, and there was a large beautiful black beard at the bottom of the cabinet. "Ah!" cried Poirot. "Hey, hi!" He flipped through it for a while with both hands, and checked it carefully. "New," he said. "Yes, brand new." After a moment's hesitation, he put it back in the cupboard, piled all the other things on top of it as before, and came briskly downstairs.He went straight to the pantry, where we found Dorcas busy polishing the silver. Poirot greeted her with French hospitality, and said: "We've been looking over that cabinet just now, Dorcas, and I'm very grateful to you for telling me about it. It does contain a lot of things. I want to ask you, do they use them?" "Oh, sir, it's not very common these days, though we do do what the boys call 'masquerade parties.' It's very funny sometimes, sir. Mr. Lawrence, he's really good at it. Funny." Brilliant! I'll never forget the night he came downstairs dressed up. I remember him calling it that way—this is some Eastern country king or something. He had a big cardboard knife in his hand, Said to me: 'Look out, Dorcas, you've got to be respectful to me. Here's my sharp-sharpened cutlass. If you make me angry, it'll make your head move!' Miss Cynthia Well, they called her, or something like that—I think it was a French murderer kind of thing, and she looked like the real thing. You'd never believe it, a lady as young and pretty as she was To pose as such a vicious thug. No one would have recognized her." "These parties must be very interesting," said Poirot affectionately. "I suppose Laurence came downstairs wearing that beautiful black beard that was in the cupboard when he was dressed as Persian Sha?" "He has a lock of beard, sir," replied Dorcas, laughing. "I know all about that, because he borrowed two skeins of black wool from me to make it with. I dare say it looked real from a distance, and as for the one upstairs False beards, I don't know a thing about that. I think it must have been bought later. For hair, as far as I know, there is only a red wig, and nothing else. They are probably made of burnt soft charcoal. It's—although it gets dirty when you wash it off. Cynthia played a black person once, and oh, she got in trouble." "So Dorcas didn't know about the black beard," said Poirot thoughtfully, as we came out into the passage again. "You think this is the lock?" I asked eagerly in a low voice. Poirot nodded. "That's what I thought. It's been pruned, have you noticed?" "No." "Cut it. It's exactly Mr. Inglethorp's, and I found a clipped beard or two. Hastings, it's a wonderful case." "I wonder, who put it in the cupboard?" "A very clever man," said Poirot drily. "Can you imagine him choosing such an imperceptible place in this house to hide it? Yes, he's smart. But we should be smarter. We should be so smart that it doesn't occur to him that we are clever." I tacitly agree. "See, my friend, you have been a great help to me." I am very happy to hear this praise.There had been times when I had felt that Poirot had not understood my true worth. "Yes," he continued, eyeing me thoughtfully. "You are very precious to me." This, of course, gave me great satisfaction, but what Poirot said next made it less pleasant. "I must have an assistant in this house," he said thoughtfully. "There is me." I said. "Yes, but you can't do it." My ego was hurt and it showed.Poirot hastened to explain: "You don't fully understand me. You are known to be working with me. I need someone who is not connected to us in any way." "Oh, I see. How's John?" "No. I don't think so." "Maybe the dude isn't very clever," I mused. "Miss Howard is here," said Poirot suddenly. "She's just what I want. I've lost her good graces, though, since I exonerated Mr. Inglethorp. But we can try." Miss Howard nodded, a very reluctant courtesy, and she finally agreed to Poirot's request for a few minutes. We went into the small drawing room and Poirot closed the door. "Well, M. Poirot," said Howard's sister impatiently, "what's the matter? Come on. I'm busy." "Do you remember, Miss, that I asked you to help me?" "Yes, I remember." The lady nodded. "I told you I would gladly help you—hang Alfred Inlorisson." "Ah!" Poirot looked at her gravely and carefully. "Miss Howard, I want to ask you a question. I ask you to answer it truthfully." "Never lie," replied Miss Howard. "That's the question. Do you still think Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" what do you mean? she asked sharply. "Don't you think that your beautiful explanation will have the slightest influence on me."I admit that it was not he who went to the pharmacy to buy strychnine.What's there?Dare I say, he soaked the flypaper, like I told you at the beginning. " "That's arsenic—not strychnine," said Poirot mildly. "What does that matter? Arsenic and strychnine are exactly the same thing used to kill poor Emily. Now that I'm sure he did it, it doesn't matter to me how he did it." "Indeed. Since you are sure he did it," said Poirot quietly. "I would like to put my question in another way. Do you think, in your heart, that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?" "My God!" cried Miss Howard. "Didn't I always tell you he was a villain? Didn't I always tell you he'd kill her in bed? Didn't I always hate him?" "Indeed," said Poirot. "It totally justified a little idea of ​​mine." "What little thought?" "Miss Howard, do you remember a conversation my friend had the day he first arrived here? He said to me one of your words which struck me very deeply. You asserted that if a crime had been committed, any Someone you loved was murdered, you were sure, you knew intuitively who the culprit was, even though you couldn't prove it at all, remember?" "Yes, I remember saying that. And I believe so. I suppose you think it's nonsense?" "not at all." "But you haven't noticed my instinct about Alfred Inglethorp?" "Yes," replied Poirot flatly. "Because your instinct is not Mr. Inglethorp." "what?" "Yes. You want to believe he committed the crime. You believe he would. But your gut tells you he didn't. It's telling you more about—shall I go on? " She gazed at him in bewilderment, and made a slight gesture of affirmation. "May I tell you why you've been so vehemently against Mr. Inglethorp? It's because you're trying to believe what you want to believe. It's because you're trying to suppress your intuition, and your intuition is Tell you another name—" "No, no, no!" cried Miss Howard excitedly, throwing up her hands. "Don't say it! Oh, don't say it! It's not true! It can't be true! I don't know how such a ridiculous--such a terrible--thought got into my head!" "Am I right, or am I not?" asked Poirot. "Yes, yes; you must be a wizard of guesses and calculations. But it can't be so--it's too absurd, too improbable. It must be Alfred Inglethorp." Poirot shook his head gravely. "Don't ask me about it," went on Miss Howard. "I won't tell you. I won't admit it, even to myself. It drives me crazy to think of it." Poirot nodded, as if satisfied. "I'm not going to ask you anything anymore. It's enough for me to verify that things are what I think they are. I—I have a gut feeling too. We'll work hand in hand to achieve a common goal." "Don't ask me to help you, because I won't. I can't lift a little finger—to—" Here she hesitated. "You will help me involuntarily. I don't ask of you—but you will be my assistant. You cannot help yourself. You will only do what I want you to do." "what is that?" "You'll see!" Evelyn Howard bowed her head. "No, I can't help with that kind of thing. I'm going to wait—until I'm proven wrong." "It's all right if we're wrong," said Poirot. "Nobody could be happier than I am. But what if we're right? If we're right, Miss Howard, whose side are you on then?" "I do not know I do not know--" "Ok." "This matter can be made public." "There's no need to keep it secret." "But Emily herself—" She broke off suddenly. "Miss Howard," said Poirot gravely, "it is unbecoming of you." She suddenly raised her face buried in her hands. "Yes," she said calmly, "that's not what Evelyn Howard said!" She tossed her head up suddenly proudly. "These are the words of Evelyn Howard! She will stand on the side of justice! Let it pay as much as it costs!" She walked out of the room with firm steps. "Look!" said Poirot, looking after her, "what a valuable assistant. This woman, Hastings, has a lot of head and a heart." I didn't answer. "Intuition is a marvelous thing," said Poirot thoughtfully. "It can neither be explained nor ignored." "Both you and Miss Howard seem to know what you're talking about," I said coldly. "Maybe you don't realize I'm still in the dark." "Really? Is that so, my friend?" "Yes. Enlighten me, will you?" Poirot looked me over carefully for a moment.Then, to my great surprise, he shook his head resolutely. "No, my friend." "Oh, look at you, why not?" "A secret can be known by at most two people." "Hey, I don't think it's fair to keep it a secret from me, too." "I have no secrecy. Every fact I know, you know. You can draw your own inferences from it. Now it's a matter of thinking." "But I'm still interested in finding out." Polofi looked at me earnestly and shook his head again. "See," he said sadly, "you have no intuition." "What you're asking for now is intelligence," I pointed out. "The two often go together," said Poirot inscrutably. The sentence sounded so irrelevant that I didn't even bother to answer him.But I decided to myself that if I made a discovery of any interest and importance--and no doubt I would--I would also keep it a secret and surprise Poirot with the final result. Standing up to one's own authority is sometimes, often, one's duty.

---

Notes: