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Chapter 8：Fresh Suspicions

There was a moment's stupefied silence. Japp, who was the least surprised of any of us, was the first to speak.
"My word," he cried, "you're the goods! And no mistake, Mr. Poirot! These witnesses of yours are all right, I suppose?"
"Voila! I have prepared a list of them--names and addresses. You must see them, of course. But you will find it all right."
"I'm sure of that." Japp lowered his voice. "I'm much obliged to you. A pretty mare's nest arresting him would have been." He turned to Inglethorp. "But, if you'll excuse me, sir, why couldn't you say all this at the inquest?"

"I will tell you why," interrupted Poirot. "There was a certain rumour----"
"A most malicious and utterly untrue one," interrupted Alfred Inglethorp in an agitated voice.
"And Mr. Inglethorp was anxious to have no scandal revived just at present. Am I right?"
"Quite right." Inglethorp nodded. "With my poor Emily not yet buried, can you wonder I was anxious that no more lying rumours should be started."
"Between you and me, sir," remarked Japp, "I'd sooner have any amount of rumours than be arrested for murder. And I venture to think your poor lady would have felt the same. And, if it hadn't been for Mr. Poirot here, arrested you would have been, as sure as eggs is eggs!"
"I was foolish, no doubt," murmured Inglethorp. "But you do not know, inspector, how I have been persecuted and maligned." And he shot a baleful glance at Evelyn Howard.

"Now, sir," said Japp, turning briskly to John, "I should like to see the lady's bedroom, please, and after that I'll have a little chat with the servants. Don't you bother about anything. Mr. Poirot, here, will show me the way."
As they all went out of the room, Poirot turned and made me a sign to follow him upstairs. There he caught me by the arm, and drew me aside.
"Quick, go to the other wing. Stand there--just this side of the baize door. Do not move till I come." Then, turning rapidly, he rejoined the two detectives.

I followed his instructions, taking up my position by the baize door, and wondering what on earth lay behind the request. Why was I to stand in this particular spot on guard? I looked thoughtfully down the corridor in front of me. An idea struck me. With the exception of Cynthia Murdoch's, every one's room was in this left wing. Had that anything to do with it? Was I to report who came or went? I stood faithfully at my post. The minutes passed. Nobody came. Nothing happened.
It must have been quite twenty minutes before Poirot rejoined me.
"You have not stirred?"
"No, I've stuck here like a rock. Nothing's happened."
"Ah!" Was he pleased, or disappointed? "You've seen nothing at all?"
"No."
"But you have probably heard something? A big bump--eh, mon ami?"
"No."
"Is it possible? Ah, but I am vexed with myself! I am not usually clumsy. I made but a slight gesture"--I know Poirot's gestures--"with the left hand, and over went the table by the bed!"

He looked so childishly vexed and crest-fallen that I hastened to console him.
"Never mind, old chap. What does it matter? Your triumph downstairs excited you. I can tell you, that was a surprise to us all. There must be more in this affair of Inglethorp's with Mrs. Raikes than we thought, to make him hold his tongue so persistently. What are you going to do now? Where are the Scotland Yard fellows?"
"Gone down to interview the servants. I showed them all our exhibits. I am disappointed in Japp. He has no method!"
"Hullo!" I said, looking out of the window. "Here's Dr. Bauerstein. I believe you're right about that man, Poirot. I don't like him."
"He is clever," observed Poirot meditatively.

"Oh, clever as the devil! I must say I was overjoyed to see him in the plight he was in on Tuesday. You never saw such a spectacle!" And I described the doctor's adventure. "He looked a regular scarecrow! Plastered with mud from head to foot."
"You saw him, then?"
"Yes. Of course, he didn't want to come in--it was just after dinner--but Mr. Inglethorp insisted."
"What?" Poirot caught me violently by the shoulders. "Was Dr. Bauerstein here on Tuesday evening? Here? And you never told me? Why did you not tell me? Why? Why?"
He appeared to be in an absolute frenzy.

"My dear Poirot," I expostulated, "I never thought it would interest you. I didn't know it was of any importance."
"Importance? It is of the first importance! So Dr. Bauerstein was here on Tuesday night--the night of the murder. Hastings, do you not see? That alters everything--everything!"
I had never seen him so upset. Loosening his hold of me, he mechanically straightened a pair of candlesticks, still murmuring to himself: "Yes, that alters everything--everything."
Suddenly he seemed to come to a decision.
"Allons!" he said. "We must act at once. Where is Mr. Cavendish?"
John was in the smoking-room. Poirot went straight to him.

"Mr. Cavendish, I have some important business in Tadminster. A new clue. May I take your motor?"
"Why, of course. Do you mean at once?"
"If you please."
John rang the bell, and ordered round the car. In another ten minutes, we were racing down the park and along the high road to Tadminster.
"Now, Poirot," I remarked resignedly, "perhaps you will tell me what all this is about?"

"Well, mon ami, a good deal you can guess for yourself. Of course you realize that, now Mr. Inglethorp is out of it, the whole position is greatly changed. We are face to face with an entirely new problem. We know now that there is one person who did not buy the poison. We have cleared away the manufactured clues. Now for the real ones. I have ascertained that anyone in the household, with the exception of Mrs. Cavendish, who was playing tennis with you, could have personated Mr. Inglethorp on Monday evening. In the same way, we have his statement that he put the coffee down in the hall. No one took much notice of that at the inquest--but now it has a very different significance. We must find out who did take that coffee to Mrs. Inglethorp eventually, or who passed through the hall whilst it was standing there. From your account, there are only two people whom we can positively say did not go near the coffee--Mrs. Cavendish, and Mademoiselle Cynthia."

"Yes, that is so." I felt an inexpressible lightening of the heart. Mary Cavendish could certainly not rest under suspicion.
"In clearing Alfred Inglethorp," continued Poirot, "I have been obliged to show my hand sooner than I intended. As long as I might be thought to be pursuing him, the criminal would be off his guard. Now, he will be doubly careful. Yes--doubly careful." He turned to me abruptly. "Tell me, Hastings, you yourself--have you no suspicions of anybody?"

I hesitated. To tell the truth, an idea, wild and extravagant in itself, had once or twice that morning flashed through my brain. I had rejected it as absurd, nevertheless it persisted.
"You couldn't call it a suspicion," I murmured. "It's so utterly foolish."
"Come now," urged Poirot encouragingly. "Do not fear. Speak your mind. You should always pay attention to your instincts."
"Well then," I blurted out, "it's absurd--but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!"

"Miss Howard?"
"Yes--you'll laugh at me----"
"Not at all. Why should I?"
"I can't help feeling," I continued blunderingly; "that we've rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?"
"Yes, my friend," said Poirot unexpectedly, "we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working."
"Well?"

"Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that--a convoy coming in unexpectedly--she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that."
"Oh!" I said, rather nonplussed. "Really," I continued, "it's her extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I can't help feeling she'd do anything against him. And I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him."
"You consider her vehemence unnatural?"

"Y--es. She is so very violent. I wondered really whether she is quite sane on that point."
Poirot shook his head energetically.
"No, no, you are on a wrong tack there. There is nothing weak-minded or degenerate about Miss Howard. She is an excellent specimen of well-balanced English beef and brawn. She is sanity itself."
"Yet her hatred of Inglethorp seems almost a mania. My idea was--a very ridiculous one, no doubt--that she had intended to poison him--and that, in some way, Mrs. Inglethorp got hold of it by mistake. But I don't at all see how it could have been done. The whole thing is absurd and ridiculous to the last degree."

"Still you are right in one thing. It is always wise to suspect everybody until you can prove logically, and to your own satisfaction, that they are innocent. Now, what reasons are there against Miss Howard's having deliberately poisoned Mrs. Inglethorp?"
"Why, she was devoted to her!" I exclaimed.
"Tcha! Tcha!" cried Poirot irritably. "You argue like a child. If Miss Howard were capable of poisoning the old lady, she would be quite equally capable of simulating devotion. No, we must look elsewhere. You are perfectly correct in your assumption that her vehemence against Alfred Inglethorp is too violent to be natural; but you are quite wrong in the deduction you draw from it. I have drawn my own deductions, which I believe to be correct, but I will not speak of them at present." He paused a minute, then went on. "Now, to my way of thinking, there is one insuperable objection to Miss Howard's being the murderess."

"And that is?"
"That in no possible way could Mrs. Inglethorp's death benefit Miss Howard. Now there is no murder without a motive."
I reflected.
"Could not Mrs. Inglethorp have made a will in her favour?" Poirot shook his head.
"But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?"
Poirot smiled.
"That was for a reason. I did not want to mention the name of the person who was actually in my mind. Miss Howard occupied very much the same position, so I used her name instead."

"Still, Mrs. Inglethorp might have done so. Why, that will, made on the afternoon of her death may----"
But Poirot's shake of the head was so energetic that I stopped.
"No, my friend. I have certain little ideas of my own about that will. But I can tell you this much--it was not in Miss Howard's favour."
I 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 coco 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 coco, 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 fording 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 to-day 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 say I make out as how these brave Belges 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 message.
"Ah, the brave Dorcas! We will look at the chest, although--but no matter--we will examine it all the same."
We entered the house by one of the windows. There was no one in the hall, and we went straight up to the attic.

Sure enough, there was the chest, a fine old piece, all studded with brass nails, and full to overflowing with every imaginable type of garment.
Poirot bundled everything out on the floor with scant ceremony. There were one or two green fabrics of varying shades; but Poirot shook his head over them all. He seemed somewhat apathetic in the search, as though he expected no great results from it. Suddenly he gave an exclamation.
"What is it?"
"Look!"
The chest was nearly empty, and there, reposing right at the bottom, was a magnificent black beard.
"Oho!" said Poirot. "Oho!" He turned it over in his hands, examining it closely. "New," he remarked. "Yes, quite new."

After a moment's hesitation, he replaced it in the chest, heaped all the other things on top of it as before, and made his way briskly downstairs. He went straight to the pantry, where we found Dorcas busily polishing her silver.
Poirot wished her good morning with Gallic politeness, and went on:
"We have been looking through that chest, Dorcas. I am much obliged to you for mentioning it. There is, indeed, a fine collection there. Are they often used, may I ask?"

"Well, sir, not very often nowadays, though from time to time we do have what the young gentlemen call 'a dress-up night.' And very funny it is sometimes, sir. Mr. Lawrence, he's wonderful. Most comic! I shall never forget the night he came down as the Char of Persia, I think he called it--a sort of Eastern King it was. He had the big paper knife in his hand, and 'Mind, Dorcas,' he says, 'you'll have to be very respectful. This is my specially sharpened scimitar, and it's off with your head if I'm at all displeased with you!' Miss Cynthia, she was what they call an Apache, or some such name--a Frenchified sort of cut-throat, I take it to be. A real sight she looked. You'd never have believed a pretty young lady like that could have made herself into such a ruffian. Nobody would have known her."

"These evenings must have been great fun," said Poirot genially. "I suppose Mr. Lawrence wore that fine black beard in the chest upstairs, when he was Shah of Persia?"
"He did have a beard, sir," replied Dorcas, smiling. "And well I know it, for he borrowed two skeins of my black wool to make it with! And I'm sure it looked wonderfully natural at a distance. I didn't know as there was a beard up there at all. It must have been got quite lately, I think. There was a red wig, I know, but nothing else in the way of hair. Burnt corks they use mostly--though 'tis messy getting it off again. Miss Cynthia was a nigger once, and, oh, the trouble she had."
"So Dorcas knows nothing about that black beard," said Poirot thoughtfully, as we walked out into the hall again.

"Do you think it is _the_ one?" I whispered eagerly.
Poirot nodded.
"I do. You notice it had been trimmed?"
"No."
"Yes. It was cut exactly the shape of Mr. Inglethorp's, and I found one or two snipped hairs. Hastings, this affair is very deep."
"Who put it in the chest, I wonder?"
"Some one with a good deal of intelligence," remarked Poirot dryly. "You realize that he chose the one place in the house to hide it where its presence would not be remarked? Yes, he is intelligent. But we must be more intelligent. We must be so intelligent that he does not suspect us of being intelligent at all."
I acquiesced.
"There, mon ami, you will be of great assistance to me."
I was pleased with the compliment. There had been times when I hardly thought that Poirot appreciated me at my true worth.
"Yes," he continued, staring at me thoughtfully, "you will be invaluable."
This was naturally gratifying, but Poirot's next words were not so welcome.

"I must have an ally in the house," he observed reflectively.
"You have me," I protested.
"True, but you are not sufficient."
I was hurt, and showed it. Poirot hurried to explain himself.
"You do not quite take my meaning. You are known to be working with me. I want somebody who is not associated with us in any way."
"Oh, I see. How about John?"
"No, I think not."
"The dear fellow isn't perhaps very bright," I said thoughtfully.
"Here comes Miss Howard," said Poirot suddenly. "She is the very person. But I am in her black books, since I cleared Mr. Inglethorp. Still, we can but try."
With a nod that was barely civil, Miss Howard assented to Poirot's request for a few minutes' conversation.

We went into the little morning-room, and Poirot closed the door.
"Well, Monsieur Poirot," said Miss Howard impatiently, "what is it? Out with it. I'm busy."
"Do you remember, mademoiselle, that I once asked you to help me?"
"Yes, I do." The lady nodded. "And I told you I'd help you with pleasure--to hang Alfred Inglethorp."
"Ah!" Poirot studied her seriously. "Miss Howard, I will ask you one question. I beg of you to reply to it truthfully."
"Never tell lies," replied Miss Howard.
"It is this. Do you still believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?"
"What do you mean?" she asked sharply. "You needn't think your pretty explanations influence me in the slightest. I'll admit that it wasn't he who bought strychnine at the chemist's shop. What of that? I dare say he soaked fly paper, as I told you at the beginning."
"That is arsenic--not strychnine," said Poirot mildly.

"What does that matter? Arsenic would put poor Emily out of the way just as well as strychnine. If I'm convinced he did it, it doesn't matter a jot to me _how_ he did it."
"Exactly. _If_ you are convinced he did it," said Poirot quietly. "I will put my question in another form. Did you ever in your heart of hearts believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her husband?"
"Good heavens!" cried Miss Howard. "Haven't I always told you the man is a villain? Haven't I always told you he would murder her in her bed? Haven't I always hated him like poison?"
"Exactly," said Poirot. "That bears out my little idea entirely."
"What little idea?"

"Miss Howard, do you remember a conversation that took place on the day of my friend's arrival here? He repeated it to me, and there is a sentence of yours that has impressed me very much. Do you remember affirming that if a crime had been committed, and anyone you loved had been murdered, you felt certain that you would know by instinct who the criminal was, even if you were quite unable to prove it?"
"Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I suppose you think it nonsense?"
"Not at all."
"And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred Inglethorp."
"No," said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against Mr. Inglethorp."
"What?"

"No. You wish to believe he committed the crime. You believe him capable of committing it. But your instinct tells you he did not commit it. It tells you more--shall I go on?"
She was staring at him, fascinated, and made a slight affirmative movement of the hand.
"Shall I tell you why you have been so vehement against Mr. Inglethorp? It is because you have been trying to believe what you wish to believe. It is because you are trying to drown and stifle your instinct, which tells you another name----"
"No, no, no!" cried Miss Howard wildly, flinging up her hands. "Don't say it! Oh, don't say it! It isn't true! It can't be true. I don't know what put such a wild--such a dreadful--idea into my head!"
"I am right, am I not?" asked Poirot.
"Yes, yes; you must be a wizard to have guessed. But it can't be so--it's too monstrous, too impossible. It must be Alfred Inglethorp."
Poirot shook his head gravely.

"Don't ask me about it," continued Miss Howard, "because I shan't tell you. I won't admit it, even to myself. I must be mad to think of such a thing."
Poirot nodded, as if satisfied.
"I will ask you nothing. It is enough for me that it is as I thought. And I--I, too, have an instinct. We are working together towards a common end."
"Don't ask me to help you, because I won't. I wouldn't lift a finger to--to----" She faltered.
"You will help me in spite of yourself. I ask you nothing--but you will be my ally. You will not be able to help yourself. You will do the only thing that I want of you."
"And that is?"
"You will watch!"
Evelyn Howard bowed her head.

"Yes, I can't help doing that. I am always watching--always hoping I shall be proved wrong."
"If we are wrong, well and good," said Poirot. "No one will be more pleased than I shall. But, if we are right? If we are right, Miss Howard, on whose side are you then?"
"I don't know, I don't know----"
"Come now."
"It could be hushed up."
"There must be no hushing up."
"But Emily herself----" She broke off.
"Miss Howard," said Poirot gravely, "this is unworthy of you."

Suddenly she took her face from her hands.
"Yes," she said quietly, "that was not Evelyn Howard who spoke!" She flung her head up proudly. "_This_ is Evelyn Howard! And she is on the side of Justice! Let the cost be what it may." And with these words, she walked firmly out of the room.
"There," said Poirot, looking after her, "goes a very valuable ally. That woman, Hastings, has got brains as well as a heart."
I did not reply.
"Instinct is a marvellous thing," mused Poirot. "It can neither be explained nor ignored."
"You and Miss Howard seem to know what you are talking about," I observed coldly. "Perhaps you don't realize that I am still in the dark."
"Really? Is that so, mon ami?"
"Yes. Enlighten me, will you?"

Poirot studied me attentively for a moment or two. Then, to my intense surprise, he shook his head decidedly.
"No, my friend."
"Oh, look here, why not?"
"Two is enough for a secret."
"Well, I think it is very unfair to keep back facts from me."
"I am not keeping back facts. Every fact that I know is in your possession. You can draw your own deductions from them. This time it is a question of ideas."
"Still, it would be interesting to know."

Poirot looked at me very earnestly, and again shook his head.
"You see," he said sadly, "_you_ have no instincts."
"It was intelligence you were requiring just now," I pointed out.
"The two often go together," said Poirot enigmatically.
The remark seemed so utterly irrelevant that I did not even take the trouble to answer it. But I decided that if I made any interesting and important discoveries--as no doubt I should--I would keep them to myself, and surprise Poirot with the ultimate result.
There are times when it is one's duty to assert oneself.


一阵由于惊呆的沉默。我们当中最少感到意外的贾普第一个开了腔。
“我得说，”他大声说，“你真行！的确如此，波洛先生！你的这些证人都没有搞错吧，我想？”
“那儿的话！我已经列了一张表——开了他们的姓名、地址。当然，你得去看看他们。不过你会发现一点没有错。”
“我相信这一点，”贾普放低了声音。“我非常感激你。差一点要把他给凭空地逮捕起来了。”他转身朝着英格里桑说：“可是，请原谅，先生，你为什么不在审讯时说出全部情况呢？”
“我来告诉你为什么，”波洛打断了他的话。“据某种谣传——”
“这是个最恶毒的、彻头彻尾的谣言，”阿弗雷德·英格里桑声音颤抖地打断说。

“英格里桑先生迫切希望不要有眼下在传的这种流言蜚语。我说得对吗？”
“很对，”英格里桑点点头，说。“我可怜的埃米莉还没安葬，我迫切希望这种谣言不再出现，这你会感到奇怪吗？”
“我和你想法不同，先生，”贾普说，“在我，与其因谋杀被捕，宁愿不管有多少流言了。我冒昧地认为，就连你那位可怜的太太，也许都会这样看的。要是没有波洛先生在这儿，你完全有可能已经被捕了，一点不假！”
“我也许是太愚蠢了，”英格里桑咕哝说。“可是你不知道，巡官先生，我已经受够迫害和诽谤了。”说着，他朝伊夫琳·霍华德狠狠地瞪了一眼。
“先生，”贾普敏捷地转身朝向约翰，说，“对不起，现在我想去看看老太太的卧室，接下去我还要和佣人们简单聊一聊。不必你多费神了。有波洛先生在这儿，他会给我引路的。”

一待他们都走出房间，波洛就转身对我示意，要我跟他上楼。到了楼上，他抓住我的手臂，把我拉到一旁。
“快，到另一侧去。站在那儿——就在厚呢盖着的门这一边。在我到来之前，别走动。”随后，他迅速回转身；重又和两个侦探一起走了。
我遵从他的指示，到了厚呢盖着的门旁边的位置上，我闹不清在这一要求的后面有什么安排。干么我一定站在这么个特指的地点守着呢？我深思地朝前面的过道注视着。我脑子里出现了一个想法。除了辛西娅·穆多契的之外，所有人的房间都在左侧。是不是有什么和这有关呢？我得报告谁来谁往吗？我忠实地站在自己的岗位上。几分钟过去了。没有一个人来。什么事都没有发生。

很可能过了约摸二十来分钟，波洛上我这儿来了。
“你没走动吧？”
“没有，我一直象块磐石似地安在这几。什么事都没发生。”
“嗨！”他是高兴呢，还是失望？“你一点东西都没有看到？”
“没有。”
“你也许听到什么了吧？猛地一撞——呢，朋友？”
“没有。”

“这可能么？嘿，我这是在自找烦恼！我一向不算笨的，只是轻轻做了个手势，”——我懂得波洛的手势——“我用左手掀翻了床边的桌子！”
他看上去如此孩子般地苦恼而又垂头丧气，于是我连忙安慰他。
“不要紧，老朋友。这有什么关系？你楼下的胜利鼓励着你哪。我可以告诉你，那使我们大家都感到意外。在英格里桑和雷克斯太太的这一不正当关系中，一定还有比我们想到的更多的情况，所以才使得他如此顽固地不肯开口。现在你打算怎么办？伦敦警察厅两位伙计哪儿去啦？”
“下楼和佣人们谈话去了。我给他们着了我们所有的证据。我对贾普很失望。他拿不出什么办法！”
“喂！”我朝窗外看看，说。“鲍斯坦医生在这儿。我认为你对他的看法是对的，波洛。我也不喜欢他。”
“此人挺机灵，”波洛沉思着说。
“哦，机灵得象魔鬼！我得说，看到他星期二进屋时的那股狼狈相，我真高兴极了。你一定从来没有见到过这样的场面！”于是我把那天医生的冒险活动描绘了一番。“他看上去十足象个田里的稻草人！从头到脚一身泥。”

“那未，你看到他了？”
“是呀，当然看到了。他不愿进来——那时刚吃好晚饭——可是英格里桑先生定要他进来。”
“什么？”波洛使劲地抓住了我的肩膀。“星期二傍晚鲍斯坦医生在这儿？在这儿？你从来没有告诉过我呀？你为什么不告诉我？为什么？为什么？”
他简直象要发疯似的。
“我亲爱的波洛，”我劝告说，“我从来没有想到，你会对这感兴趣的呀，我不知道它有什么重要。”
“什么重要？它头等重要！这么说，鲍斯坦医生星期二晚上——谋杀的这个晚上——在这儿。哈斯丁呀，你还没懂吗？这改变了一切——一切！”
我从来没有看到过他这样心烦意乱。他松开了抓住我的手，机械地摆弄着一对烛台，嘴里仍自言自语地喃喃叨念着：“是呀，这改变了一切——一切！”
“突然，他似乎做出了一个决定。”
“好吧！”他说。“我们必须马上行动。卡文迪什先生在哪儿？”
约瀚正在吸烟室里。波洛径直到了他那里。
“卡文迪什先生，我要去塔明斯特办件重要的事，有个新线索。我可以乘你的汽车吗？”
“哦，当然可以。你是说马上？”
“是的，对不起。”

约翰按了按铃，吩咐把车开过来。十分钟后，我们就已乘车经过园林，疾驰在前往塔明斯特的公路上了。
“波洛，”我顺从地说，“也许现在你可以告诉我有关这一切了吧？”
“好吧，朋友，有许多情况你自己是可以猜测到的。当然，你也了解，现在英格里桑先生解脱了，整个形势已经大大改变。我们面临的是完全新的问题。现在我们知道的，没有去买过毒药的有一个人。我们已经排除掉那些虚构的线索，现在得找到真正的线索。我已经查明，除了那位正在和你打网球的卡文迪什太太外，这家人家的任何一个人星期一傍晚都有可能冒充了英格里桑先生。同时，我们已经听过他的陈述，他把咖啡放在过道里了。审讯时，没有一个人对此多加注意——可是现在，它有着十分不同的意义。我们必须查明最后到底是谁把那杯咖啡送给英格里桑太太的，或者是在它搁在那儿时，有谁经过过道。据你说，只有两个人我们可以肯定说她们没有走近过那杯咖啡——就是卡文迪什太太，还有辛西娅小姐。”
“是的，是那样，”我感到心情变得无法形容的轻松。玛丽·卡文迪什当然不应该受到怀疑。

“在解脱阿弗雷德·英格里桑的过程中，”波洛继续说，“我还来不及仔细考虑，就被迫摊牌了。当我也许被认为是在迫踪他的时候，罪犯可能已放松了警惕，可是现在，他会加倍地小心。是的——会加倍小心。”他突然转身朝我问道：“如实告诉我，哈斯丁，你有没有怀疑什么人？”
我犹豫着。老实说，那天早上我脑子里曾经有一、两次闪过一个念头，这念头本身是轻率的，过份的。我已经因其荒谬而加以排斥，然而它仍固执地保留着。
“你不能把这叫做怀疑。”我喃喃地说。“它是十分可笑的。”
“说吧，”波洛鼓励地催促说，“别害怕，把你的想法说出来。你得一直注意你的直觉。”
“那好吧，”我脱口说出，“这说来是荒谬的——不过，我总怀疑霍华德小姐没有说出她所知道的全部情况！”

“霍华德小姐？…
“是的——你要笑我了——”
“一点也不。我干么要笑？”
“我总觉得，”我继续象犯了错误似他说，“我们有点把她搁在可能的怀疑范围之外了，单凭她已经离开了这儿这一点。可是，离这儿毕竟只有十五英里呀。车子半小时就能到。我们能肯定说发生谋杀那天晚上她一定不在斯泰尔斯么？”
“是呀，我的朋友，”波洛出乎意外地说，“我们能肯定。我的第一个行动就是打电话给她工作的那个医院。”
“是么？”
“是的，我获悉，星期二那天，她做下午班，而——突然来了一个伤员护送队——她欣然提出继续留着做夜班，这一提议被十分感激地接受了。事情就是这样。”

“哦！”我感到相当狼狈。“说实在，”我继续说，“她那么出奇地激烈反对英格里桑，倒使我怀疑起她来了。我总觉得，她事事都反对他。因此，我有一个想法，有关烧毁遗嘱方面。她也许知道点什么。也许是她烧掉了这份新的遗嘱，把它错当成比较早的于他有利的那份了。她也恨死他了。”
“你认为她的激烈反常吗？”
“是——的。她太激烈了。我实在怀疑她在这个问题上是否神志正常。”
波洛使劲地摇着头。
“不，不，这你方向完全不对头了。霍华德小姐脑子既没有毛病，智力也没有衰退。她是个神志健全、身强力壮的杰出典范。她的神志完全正常。”
“然而她恨英格里桑恨得简直象个疯子了。我的想法是——毫无疑问，这是个很可笑的想法——她想要毒死他——而由于某种原因，英格里桑太太把它给误服了。可是我一点都想不出这可能是怎么发生的。我这整个想法都是极其荒谬可笑的。”

“有一点，你还是对的。应该怀疑每一个人，然后从逻辑上加以验证，直到你自己完全满意，他们确实无罪，这样做始终是明智的。那未，有没有什么理由控告霍华德小姐蓄意毒死英格里桑太太呢？”
“什么！她很忠诚于她的呀！”我惊叫起来。
“嘿！嘿！”波洛急躁地大声说。“你说话象个孩子。要是霍华德小姐有能耐毒死这位老大太，她也就完全有本领装出她对她的忠诚。不，我们必须看看别的方面。你的设想是完全正确的，她反对阿弗雷德·英格里桑的程度已经激烈到不正常了；但是你从中得出的推论是完全错误的。我已经得出了我自己的推论，我相信这是正确的，不过眼下我还不愿说，”他停了一下，然后继续说：“现在，在我看来，说霍华德小姐是个凶手，还有一个难以迈越的障碍。”

“是什么呢？”
“英格里桑太大的死对霍华德小姐毫无好处。因为没有目的的谋杀是没有的。”
我考虑了一下。
“英格里桑太太会不会有可能写过一份于她有利的遗嘱？”
波洛摇摇头。
“可是你自己不是就对韦尔斯先生提到过这种可能吗？”
波洛笑了起来。
“那是有原因的。我不想提到我脑子里实际上想的那个人的名字。而霍华德小姐所处的地位与之有很多相同的地方，所以我就用她的名字来代替了。”

“不过，英格里桑太太也许真的写过。唔，她死那天下午写的那张遗嘱可能——”
可是。波洛的头摇得那么用劲，我只好停下不说了。
“不，朋友，关于那份遗嘱，我有我自己的一些想法。这我可以告诉你许多话——那遗嘱对霍华德小姐没有利。”
我接受他的断言，虽然我并没有真正搞清楚，关于这件事他怎么会如此肯定。
“好吧，”我叹了一口气说，“那未我们得宣判霍华德小姐无罪啦。我之所以一直来怀疑她，部分是由于你的过错。是你说的关于她在审讯时的证词的话，使我引起的。”
波洛显得困惑不解。
“关于她在审讯时的证词，我说了什么啦？”
“你不记得了？当我举例说到她和约翰·卡文迪什可以排除在怀疑对象之外时？”

“啊——哈——是的。”他似乎有点慌乱，可是接着就恢复了镇静。“顺便说一下，有件事情我想要你给我办一下。”
“当然可以。是什么事？”
“下一次你碰上单独和劳伦斯·卡文迪什在一起时，我想要你对他说这样几句话：‘波洛要我带一个口信给你。他说：‘找到那种特大号咖啡怀，你就可以安心了！’不要多说，也不要少说。”
“‘找到那种特大号咖啡杯，你就可以安心了！’对吗？”我问道，心中十分迷惑不解。
“好极了。”
“可这是什么意思呀？”

“嗳，这我要交给你去发现了。你有机会接触到真相的。只是把这对他说一说，着看他说点什么。”
“这好倒是好，——可是实在太神秘了。”
这时，我们驶进了塔明斯特，波洛指点车子开到“分析化学师”家。
波洛轻快地跳下车子，走了进去。几分钟后他又回来了。
“瞧，”他说。”这就是我的全部工作。”
“你在干什么呀？”我非常好奇地问道。
“我留下一点东西进行分析。”
“我知道，可是到底是什么呀？”
“我从卧室长柄平底锅里取的试样。”

“那已经作过化验了呀！”我喊了起来，惊得发呆了。“鲍斯坦医生已经拿它化验过了，你自己当时还讥笑里面可能有士的宁的说法呢！”
“我知道鲍斯坦医生化验过，”波洛心平气和地回答说。
“那为什么？”
“嗯，我想到要再化验一下，就这么回事。”
有关这个问题，我没能从他那儿再掏出别的话来。
就可可这件事来说，波洛的这种举动使我极为困惑不解。对此，我感到莫明其妙，然而，我信任他，虽然这种信任曾经一度有所减弱，但是，自从他的阿弗雷德·英格里桑是无罪的看法成功地证明是正确的以来，它又完全恢复了。

英格里桑太太的葬礼在第二天举行，在星期一，当我下楼来吃晚早餐时，约翰把我拉到一旁，告诉我说，英格里桑先生这天早上就要离开，住到村民公堂去，要住到他得以完成自己的计划。
“想到他要走，实在是一个很大的宽慰，哈斯丁，”我的老实朋友继续说。“以前我们认为事情是他干的，这是非常不好的，而现在，当我们为过去对他那么厌恶而感到内疚时，也决不会更坏。事实是，我们讨厌他。当然，也就事事都对他板面孔了。我看任何人都不会责备我们结论下得武断。而要是我们犯错，现在仍旧这样，还有这种粗鲁的感情的话，就得改正；一个人对他一点也不比从前喜欢的话，那就难办了。这整个事情真是尴尬透了！所以我很感激他的识趣，自动地离开了！母亲没有把斯泰尔斯庄园遗赠给他，这是一件大好事。一想到这个人会在这儿逞威作福，就叫人没法忍受。那样他就可以随意地乱花母亲的钱了。”
“你真的能保住这地方吗？”我问道。

“哦，是的。当然，得付遗产税，可是我父亲的一半财产在这儿，眼下，劳伦斯可以和我们待在一起，也有他的一份。当然，开始时我们会感到拮据一些，因为，正如我曾告诉过你那样，我自己在财务方面还有点亏空。眼下那批家伙还在等着哩。”
由于英格里桑的即将离丢，大家都如释重负，我们吃了一顿发生惨事以来感到最为适意的早餐。辛西娅自然更加精神勃勃，轻松愉快，她看上去又如原来那么健美漂亮了。除了劳伦斯仿佛依然那么忧郁、胆怯外，我们大家都非常高兴，展现在眼前的是一片崭新的，满怀希望的前景。
不用说，报纸上已经连篇累牍地登满了这一惨案的消息。引人注目的大字标题，这家人家每个成员的简历，微妙的影射，以及惯用的、大家所熟悉的诸如“警方已有线索云云”之类的陈词滥调。对我们真是什么都不加吝惜。这是个无精打采的时日，战争一时打得不死不活，于是报纸就使劲地抓住上流社会生活中的这类犯罪行为大做文章，“斯泰尔斯庄园奇案”就是当时的话题。

这自然使卡文迪什家的人十分恼火。这座宅邸不断受到那批新闻记者的包围，他们虽然一直未被允许进入房子，但他们仍继续逗留在村子里，以及在庄园的庭园中。带着照相机埋伏着，等候拍摄这家人家的任何一个未加留神的成员。我们整天都生活在一股宣传的疾风之中。伦敦警察厅的人员来来往往，调查、询问，目光锐利，言语冷淡。至于他们搞出什么结果，我们则一无所知。他们是不是有了线索？还是整个事情仍然处于未被查明的罪行一类？
早餐之后，多卡斯相当神秘地走到我的眼前问我，她是否可以和我说几句话。
“当然可以，是什么事，多卡斯？”
“哦，是这么一回事，先生。今天您多半能见着那位比利时先生吧？”
我点点头。
“是这样，先生，您知道，他特意问过我，我的女主人或者别的什么人，是不是有件绿色的衣服？”
“对，对。你发现一件了吗？”这引起了我的注意。

“不，不是那么回事，先生。不过后来我想起，少爷他们（多卡斯仍旧把约翰和劳伦斯称作‘少爷’）有只什么‘化装箱’，它就在前屋的阁楼里，先生，是口大柜子，里面全装满旧时的衣服和各种化装服饰，什么都有。我突然想到那里面也许有件绿色的女服。因此，请您告诉一下那位比利时先生——”
“我会告诉他的，多卡斯，”我答应说。
“多谢您了，先生。他是一位非常和蔼的先生，他打听事情，问起问题来，和伦敦来的那两位侦探完全不一个样。我通常是不要看外国人的，可是从报纸上说的我了解到，这些勇敢的比利时人是些不同寻常的外国人。确实是这样，他就是一位说话非常和气的先生。”
亲爱的老多卡斯！当她站在那儿，一张诚实坦率的脸向上朝着我，我心里想，她是一个那正在迅速消失的老式女仆的多好的典范啊。
我考虑，我得马上去村子拜访波洛；可是，我在半路上碰上了他，他正来庄园，于是我立即将多卡斯的口信转告了他。
“啊，这位勇敢的多卡斯！我们得去看看那柜子，虽然——不过没有关系——我们还是可以检查的。”

我们通过一扇长窗进入了屋子。门厅里一个人也没有，于是我们就迳直爬上那间阁楼。
一点不错，是有一口柜子，是口精致的老式箱柜，上面全是黄铜的饰钉，里面装满一切可以想得出的衣着服饰。波洛毫不客气地把里面的东西一件件都草草扔到地板上。有一、两样深浅不同的绿色织物，可是波洛看后都摇摇头。他对这次搜查似乎有点冷淡，仿佛他估计到不会有什么大结果。突然，他惊叫了一声。
“那是什么？”
“瞧！”
柜子都快掏空了，就在柜底摊着一大绺漂亮的黑胡子。

“啊！”波洛喊道。“嘿，嗨！”他双手提着它翻看了一阵，仔细作了检查。“新的，”他说。“是的，全新的。”
他踌躇了一会后，把它放回到柜子里，又象原先一样在它上面堆上所有其它的东西，然后敏捷地走下楼来。他径直走向餐具室，我们在那儿找到了正在忙着擦银餐具的多卡斯。
波洛用一种法国人的殷勤态度向她问了好，然后说：
“我们刚才已经仔细查看过那只柜子了，多卡斯，我非常感谢你告诉我这件事。那里面的确收藏了不少东西。我想问问你，那些东西他们常用吗？”
“噢，先生，现今不很常用了，虽然我们还是经常搞，少爷们管它叫‘化装晚会’的那种活动。有时这种活动非常有趣，先生。劳伦斯先生，他扮演得真精彩。好笑极了！我永远不会忘记他扮成波斯查①下楼来的那个晚上。我记得他是那么叫的——这是个东方国家的国王什么的吧。他手握着一把厚纸板做的大刀子，冲我说：‘当心，多卡斯，你得对我恭恭敬敬。这是我的磨得特快的短弯刀。要是你惹得我生起气来，它就叫你脑袋搬家！’辛西娅小姐，他们管她叫阿巴希②，大概是这么个名字——我想这是个法国式的杀人凶手一类的角色吧，她看上去象真的一样。你决不会相信，一个象她那么年轻漂亮的小姐竟能扮成这样一个凶恶的暴徒。没有一个人能认出她来。”

“这些晚会一定有趣极了，”波洛亲切地说。“我想，那次劳伦斯扮成波斯沙时，是戴了柜子里那绺漂亮的黑胡子下楼来的吧？”
“他是戴了一绺胡子，先生，”多卡斯笑着回答说。
“这我全知道，因为为了做这玩意儿，他还向我借过两绞黑绒线呢。我敢说，站得稍远一点的话，它着上去简直象是真的，至于说楼上有一络假胡子，这我一点不知道。我想，那一定是一直后来才买的。头发方面，据我知道，只有一顶红假发，别的就没有了。他们多半是用烧过的软木炭的——虽然在把它洗去时，弄起来很脏。有一次，辛西娅扮一个黑人，哦，她就招了麻烦。”

“这么说多卡斯不知道那绺黑胡子，”当我们出来重又走到过道里时，波洛若有所思地说。
“你认为这就是那一绺？”我热切地低声问道。
波洛点点头。
“我是这么想。它已被修剪过了，你注意到没有？”
“没有。”
“剪过了。完全剪成了英格里桑先生的样子，而且我还发现了一、两根剪下的胡子。哈斯丁，这案子可奥妙哩。”
“我真纳闷，是谁把它放进柜子的呢？”
“是个非常聪明的人，”波洛冷冰冰地说。“他在这幢房子里选择这么一个不会被觉察的地方来藏放它，这你想得到吗？是的，他很聪明。但是我们应该更聪明。我们应该聪明得使他一点都想不到我们是聪明的。”
我默然表示同意。

“瞧，朋友，你对我帮助是很大的。”
听了这赞扬的话，我十分高兴。以前，有时我总感到波洛并没有了解我的真正的价值。
“是的，”他若有所思地注视着我，继续说。“你对我来说是十分宝贵的。”
这自然使我感到非常满意，可是波洛下面的话却叫人不那么高兴了。
“在这幢房子里我必须有一个助手，”他沉思着说。
“有我。”我表示。
“不错，可是你胜任不了。”

我的自尊心受到了伤害，而且表现出来了。波洛急忙解释说：
“你没有完全理解我的意思。大家都知道你正和我在一起工作。我需要一个在任何方面都和我们没有联系的人。”
“哦，我明白了。约翰怎么样？”
“不行。我看不行。
“这位老兄也许不太机灵，”我沉思着说。
“霍华德小姐来了，”波洛突然说。“她正是我所要的人。不过，自从我为英格里桑先生开脱罪责以来，我已失去她的好感了。但是，我们还是可以试一试。”
霍华德小姐点了点头，那是一种极为勉强的礼貌，她总算同意波洛的谈几分钟话的请求。
我们走进小休息室，波洛关上了门。

“好吧，波洛先生，”霍华德个姐不耐烦地说，“有什么事？说吧。我忙着呢。”
“你还记得吗，小姐，我曾经请求你帮助我？”
“是的，我记得。”女士点点头。“我曾告诉你，我很乐意帮助你——绞死阿弗雷德·英洛里桑。”
“啊！”波洛严肃地朝她仔细看着。“霍华德小姐，我想问你一个问题。我要求你能予以如实地回答。”
“从来不会说谎，”霍华德小姐回答说。

“是这么一个问题。你仍然认为英格里桑大太是她的丈夫毒死的吗？”
你这是什么意思？”她尖刻地反问道。“你别以为你那漂亮的解释会对我有丝毫影响。我承认到药店买士的宁的不是他。那有什么？我敢说，他浸泡了毒蝇纸，就象我一开始就告诉你的一样。”
“那是砒霜——不是士的宁，”波洛温和地说。
“那有什么关系？用来干掉可怜的埃米莉，砒霜和士的宁是完全一样的。既然我确信这是他干的，他怎么干，这对我来说毫无关系。”
“确实如此。既然你确信这是他干的，”波洛平静地说。“我想以另一种方式提出我的问题。你从内心来说，到底是不是认为英格里桑太太是她丈夫毒死的？”
“天哪！”霍华德小姐喊了起来。”我不是一直对你们说他是个坏蛋吗？我不是一直对你们说他会把她杀死在床上吗？我不是一直把他恨透了吗？”
“确实如此，”波洛说。“这完全证明了我的一个小小的想法。”
“什么小小的想法？”
“霍华德小姐，你还记得我的朋友刚到这儿那天进行的一次谈话吗？他对我说了，其中你有一句话对我的印象非常深刻。你曾断言，要是发生了犯罪行为，任何一个你所爱的人被谋杀了，你确信，你凭直觉就能知道谁是罪犯，即使你完全不能证实这一点，这你还记得吗？”
“是的，我记得是那么说的。而且我也相信是那样。我猜想，你认为这是胡说八道吧？”
“一点也不。”
“可是你并没有注意到我对阿弗雷德·英格里桑的直觉吧？”
“是的，”波洛直截了当地回答说。“因为你的直觉不是英格里桑先生。”
“什么？”

“是的。你想要相信他犯了罪。你相信他会犯这个罪。但是你的直觉告诉你，他没有犯这个罪。它更多地告诉你的是——我要说下去吗？”
她迷惑不解地注视着他，做了个稍稍表示肯定的手势。
“为什么你一直反对英格里桑先生这么激烈，这我来告诉你好么？这是因为你试图相信你想要相信的事情。这是因为你试图抑制往你的直觉，而你的直觉是告诉你另一个名字——”
“不，不，不！”霍华德小姐挥起双手激动地喊了起来。“别说！哦，别说！这不是真的！这不可能是真的！我不知道我的脑子里怎么会钻进这么个荒唐的——这么个可怕的——念头！”
“我说得对，还是不对？”波洛问道。

“对的，对的；你一定是个能猜善算的男巫。可是事情不可能是这样——这太荒谬了，太不可能了。这一定是阿弗雷德·英格里桑。”
波洛严肃地摇摇头。
“这事别问我了，”霍华德小姐继续说，“我不会告诉你的。我也不会承认，那怕对我自己。一想到这样的事，我就会发疯的。”
波洛点点头，仿佛感到满意。
“我不再问你什么了。对我来说，证实事情如我所想就足够了。我——我也有一种直觉。为了达到共同的目标，我们将携手一起工作。”
“别要求我帮助你，因为我不愿意。我连个小指头都不会提起来——到——”说到这儿她踌躇了。
“你会不由自主地帮助我的。我对你没有要求——但是你会成为我的助手。你不可能去帮助你自己的。你只会去做我希望你做的事情。”
“那是什么呢？”
“你会看到的！”
伊夫琳·霍华德低下了头。

“是的，我不能帮着做那种事情。我要一直等着——一直等到我被证实是错了。”
“要是我们错了，那也好，”波洛说。“没有一个人会比我更高兴的。可是，要是我们对了呢？要是我们对了，霍华德小姐，那时你站在谁的一边呢？”
“我不知道，我不知道——”
“好吧。”
“这事可以下作声张。”
“没有必要秘而不宣。”
“可是埃米莉本人——”她突然停下不说了。
“霍华德小姐，”波洛严肃地说，“这对你来说是不相称的。”
她突然仰起埋在手中的脸。
“是的，”她镇静地说，“那可不是伊夫琳·霍华德说的话！”她蓦地骄傲地把头向上一甩。这才是伊夫琳·霍华德的话！她要站在正义一边！要付多大代价就让它付多大代价吧！”说着，她跨着坚定的步伐走出了房间。
“瞧！”波洛看着她的背影说，“一个多有价值的助手。这个女人，哈斯丁，她是很有头脑，很有心眼的。”
我没有应声。

“直觉是一种不可思议的东西，”波洛若有所思地说。“它既没法解释，又不能忽视。”
“你和霍华德小姐似乎都知道你们在谈什么，”我冷冷地说。”也许你还没意识到我可仍在五里雾中。”
“真的？是这样，我的朋友？”
“是的。给我开导开导，行吗？“
波洛朝我仔细地打量了一会。接着，使我极为惊诧的是，他坚决地摇摆头。
“不行，我的朋友。”
“啊，瞧你，为什么不行？”
“一个秘密最多两人知。”
“嘿，我认为，对我也保密，这很不公平。”
“我没有保密。我知道的每一个事实，你都了解。你可以从中作出自己的推论。现在是个思考的问题。”

引用

Chapter 7：Poirot Pays His Debts

As we came out of the Stylites Arms, Poirot drew me aside by a gentle pressure of the arm. I understood his object. He was waiting for the Scotland Yard men.
In a few moments, they emerged, and Poirot at once stepped forward, and accosted the shorter of the two.
"I fear you do not remember me, Inspector Japp."

"Why, if it isn't Mr. Poirot!" cried the Inspector. He turned to the other man. "You've heard me speak of Mr. Poirot? It was in 1904 he and I worked together--the Abercrombie forgery case--you remember, he was run down in Brussels. Ah, those were great days, moosier. Then, do you remember 'Baron' Altara? There was a pretty rogue for you! He eluded the clutches of half the police in Europe. But we nailed him in Antwerp--thanks to Mr. Poirot here."
As these friendly reminiscences were being indulged in, I drew nearer, and was introduced to Detective-Inspector Japp, who, in his turn, introduced us both to his companion, Superintendent Summerhaye.
"I need hardly ask what you are doing here, gentlemen," remarked Poirot.
Japp closed one eye knowingly.
"No, indeed. Pretty clear case I should say."

But Poirot answered gravely:
"There I differ from you."
"Oh, come!" said Summerhaye, opening his lips for the first time. "Surely the whole thing is clear as daylight. The man's caught red-handed. How he could be such a fool beats me!"
But Japp was looking attentively at Poirot.
"Hold your fire, Summerhaye," he remarked jocularly. "Me and Moosier here have met before--and there's no man's judgment I'd sooner take than his. If I'm not greatly mistaken, he's got something up his sleeve. Isn't that so, moosier?"
Poirot smiled.
"I have drawn certain conclusions--yes."

Summerhaye was still looking rather sceptical, but Japp continued his scrutiny of Poirot.
"It's this way," he said, "so far, we've only seen the case from the outside. That's where the Yard's at a disadvantage in a case of this kind, where the murder's only out, so to speak, after the inquest. A lot depends on being on the spot first thing, and that's where Mr. Poirot's had the start of us. We shouldn't have been here as soon as this even, if it hadn't been for the fact that there was a smart doctor on the spot, who gave us the tip through the Coroner. But you've been on the spot from the first, and you may have picked up some little hints. From the evidence at the inquest, Mr. Inglethorp murdered his wife as sure as I stand here, and if anyone but you hinted the contrary I'd laugh in his face. I must say I was surprised the jury didn't bring it in Wilful Murder against him right off. I think they would have, if it hadn't been for the Coroner--he seemed to be holding them back."

"Perhaps, though, you have a warrant for his arrest in your pocket now," suggested Poirot.
A kind of wooden shutter of officialdom came down from Japp's expressive countenance.
"Perhaps I have, and perhaps I haven't," he remarked dryly.
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.
"I am very anxious, Messieurs, that he should not be arrested."
"I dare say," observed Summerhaye sarcastically.
Japp was regarding Poirot with comical perplexity.
"Can't you go a little further, Mr. Poirot? A wink's as good as a nod--from you. You've been on the spot--and the Yard doesn't want to make any mistakes, you know."
Poirot nodded gravely.

"That is exactly what I thought. Well, I will tell you this. Use your warrant: Arrest Mr. Inglethorp. But it will bring you no kudos--the case against him will be dismissed at once! Comme ca!" And he snapped his fingers expressively.
Japp's face grew grave, though Summerhaye gave an incredulous snort.
As for me, I was literally dumb with astonishment. I could only conclude that Poirot was mad.
Japp had taken out a handkerchief, and was gently dabbing his brow.

"I daren't do it, Mr. Poirot. I'd take your word, but there's others over me who'll be asking what the devil I mean by it. Can't you give me a little more to go on?"
Poirot reflected a moment.
"It can be done," he said at last. "I admit I do not wish it. It forces my hand. I would have preferred to work in the dark just for the present, but what you say is very just--the word of a Belgian policeman, whose day is past, is not enough! And Alfred Inglethorp must not be arrested. That I have sworn, as my friend Hastings here knows. See, then, my good Japp, you go at once to Styles?"
"Well, in about half an hour. We're seeing the Coroner and the doctor first."

"Good. Call for me in passing--the last house in the village. I will go with you. At Styles, Mr. Inglethorp will give you, or if he refuses--as is probable--I will give you such proofs that shall satisfy you that the case against him could not possibly be sustained. Is that a bargain?"
"That's a bargain," said Japp heartily. "And, on behalf of the Yard, I'm much obliged to you, though I'm bound to confess I can't at present see the faintest possible loop-hole in the evidence, but you always were a marvel! So long, then, moosier."
The two detectives strode away, Summerhaye with an incredulous grin on his face.

"Well, my friend," cried Poirot, before I could get in a word, "what do you think? Mon Dieu! I had some warm moments in that court; I did not figure to myself that the man would be so pig-headed as to refuse to say anything at all. Decidedly, it was the policy of an imbecile."
"H'm! There are other explanations besides that of imbecility," I remarked. "For, if the case against him is true, how could he defend himself except by silence?"
"Why, in a thousand ingenious ways," cried Poirot. "See; say that it is I who have committed this murder, I can think of seven most plausible stories! Far more convincing than Mr. Inglethorp's stony denials!"

I could not help laughing.
"My dear Poirot, I am sure you are capable of thinking of seventy! But, seriously, in spite of what I heard you say to the detectives, you surely cannot still believe in the possibility of Alfred Inglethorp's innocence?"
"Why not now as much as before? Nothing has changed."
"But the evidence is so conclusive."
"Yes, too conclusive."
We turned in at the gate of Leastways Cottage, and proceeded up the now familiar stairs.
"Yes, yes, too conclusive," continued Poirot, almost to himself. "Real evidence is usually vague and unsatisfactory. It has to be examined--sifted. But here the whole thing is cut and dried. No, my friend, this evidence has been very cleverly manufactured--so cleverly that it has defeated its own ends."
"How do you make that out?"
"Because, so long as the evidence against him was vague and intangible, it was very hard to disprove. But, in his anxiety, the criminal has drawn the net so closely that one cut will set Inglethorp free."

I was silent. And in a minute or two, Poirot continued:
"Let us look at the matter like this. Here is a man, let us say, who sets out to poison his wife. He has lived by his wits as the saying goes. Presumably, therefore, he has some wits. He is not altogether a fool. Well, how does he set about it? He goes boldly to the village chemist's and purchases strychnine under his own name, with a trumped up story about a dog which is bound to be proved absurd. He does not employ the poison that night. No, he waits until he has had a violent quarrel with her, of which the whole household is cognisant, and which naturally directs their suspicions upon him. He prepares no defence--no shadow of an alibi, yet he knows the chemist's assistant must necessarily come forward with the facts. Bah! do not ask me to believe that any man could be so idiotic! Only a lunatic, who wished to commit suicide by causing himself to be hanged, would act so!"
"Still--I do not see--" I began.
"Neither do I see. I tell you, mon ami, it puzzles me. Me --Hercule Poirot!"
"But if you believe him innocent, how do you explain his buying the strychnine?"
"Very simply. He did _not_ buy it."
"But Mace recognized him!"

"I beg your pardon, he saw a man with a black beard like Mr. Inglethorp's, and wearing glasses like Mr. Inglethorp, and dressed in Mr. Inglethorp's rather noticeable clothes. He could not recognize a man whom he had probably only seen in the distance, since, you remember, he himself had only been in the village a fortnight, and Mrs. Inglethorp dealt principally with Coot's in Tadminster."
"Then you think----"
"Mon ami, do you remember the two points I laid stress upon? Leave the first one for the moment, what was the second?"
"The important fact that Alfred Inglethorp wears peculiar clothes, has a black beard, and uses glasses," I quoted.
"Exactly. Now suppose anyone wished to pass himself off as John or Lawrence Cavendish. Would it be easy?"
"No," I said thoughtfully. "Of course an actor----"
But Poirot cut me short ruthlessly.

"And why would it not be easy? I will tell you, my friend: Because they are both clean-shaven men. To make up successfully as one of these two in broad daylight, it would need an actor of genius, and a certain initial facial resemblance. But in the case of Alfred Inglethorp, all that is changed. His clothes, his beard, the glasses which hide his eyes--those are the salient points about his personal appearance. Now, what is the first instinct of the criminal? To divert suspicion from himself, is it not so? And how can he best do that? By throwing it on some one else. In this instance, there was a man ready to his hand. Everybody was predisposed to believe in Mr. Inglethorp's guilt. It was a foregone conclusion that he would be suspected; but, to make it a sure thing there must be tangible proof--such as the actual buying of the poison, and that, with a man of the peculiar appearance of Mr. Inglethorp, was not difficult. Remember, this young Mace had never actually spoken to Mr. Inglethorp. How should he doubt that the man in his clothes, with his beard and his glasses, was not Alfred Inglethorp?"
"It may be so," I said, fascinated by Poirot's eloquence. "But, if that was the case, why does he not say where he was at six o'clock on Monday evening?"

"Ah, why indeed?" said Poirot, calming down. "If he were arrested, he probably would speak, but I do not want it to come to that. I must make him see the gravity of his position. There is, of course, something discreditable behind his silence. If he did not murder his wife, he is, nevertheless, a scoundrel, and has something of his own to conceal, quite apart from the murder."
"What can it be?" I mused, won over to Poirot's views for the moment, although still retaining a faint conviction that the obvious deduction was the correct one.
"Can you not guess?" asked Poirot, smiling.
"No, can you?"
"Oh, yes, I had a little idea sometime ago--and it has turned out to be correct."
"You never told me," I said reproachfully.
Poirot spread out his hands apologetically.
"Pardon me, mon ami, you were not precisely sympathique." He turned to me earnestly. "Tell me--you see now that he must not be arrested?"
"Perhaps," I said doubtfully, for I was really quite indifferent to the fate of Alfred Inglethorp, and thought that a good fright would do him no harm.
Poirot, who was watching me intently, gave a sigh.

"Come, my friend," he said, changing the subject, "apart from Mr. Inglethorp, how did the evidence at the inquest strike you?"
"Oh, pretty much what I expected."
"Did nothing strike you as peculiar about it?"
My thoughts flew to Mary Cavendish, and I hedged:
"In what way?"
"Well, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's evidence for instance?"
I was relieved.
"Oh, Lawrence! No, I don't think so. He's always a nervous chap."
"His suggestion that his mother might have been poisoned accidentally by means of the tonic she was taking, that did not strike you as strange--hein?"
"No, I can't say it did. The doctors ridiculed it of course. But it was quite a natural suggestion for a layman to make."
"But Monsieur Lawrence is not a layman. You told me yourself that he had started by studying medicine, and that he had taken his degree."
"Yes, that's true. I never thought of that." I was rather startled. "It _is_ odd."
Poirot nodded.

"From the first, his behaviour has been peculiar. Of all the household, he alone would be likely to recognize the symptoms of strychnine poisoning, and yet we find him the only member of the family to uphold strenuously the theory of death from natural causes. If it had been Monsieur John, I could have understood it. He has no technical knowledge, and is by nature unimaginative. But Monsieur Lawrence--no! And now, to-day, he puts forward a suggestion that he himself must have known was ridiculous. There is food for thought in this, mon ami!"
"It's very confusing," I agreed.

"Then there is Mrs. Cavendish," continued Poirot. "That's another who is not telling all she knows! What do you make of her attitude?"
"I don't know what to make of it. It seems inconceivable that she should be shielding Alfred Inglethorp. Yet that is what it looks like."
Poirot nodded reflectively.
"Yes, it is queer. One thing is certain, she overheard a good deal more of that 'private conversation' than she was willing to admit."
"And yet she is the last person one would accuse of stooping to eavesdrop!"
"Exactly. One thing her evidence _has_ shown me. I made a mistake. Dorcas was quite right. The quarrel did take place earlier in the afternoon, about four o'clock, as she said."

I looked at him curiously. I had never understood his insistence on that point.
"Yes, a good deal that was peculiar came out to-day," continued Poirot. "Dr. Bauerstein, now, what was _he_ doing up and dressed at that hour in the morning? It is astonishing to me that no one commented on the fact."
"He has insomnia, I believe," I said doubtfully.
"Which is a very good, or a very bad explanation," remarked Poirot. "It covers everything, and explains nothing. I shall keep my eye on our clever Dr. Bauerstein."
"Any more faults to find with the evidence?" I inquired satirically.

"Mon ami," replied Poirot gravely, "when you find that people are not telling you the truth--look out! Now, unless I am much mistaken, at the inquest to-day only one--at most, two persons were speaking the truth without reservation or subterfuge."
"Oh, come now, Poirot! I won't cite Lawrence, or Mrs. Cavendish. But there's John--and Miss Howard, surely they were speaking the truth?"
"Both of them, my friend? One, I grant you, but both----!"
His words gave me an unpleasant shock. Miss Howard's evidence, unimportant as it was, had been given in such a downright straightforward manner that it had never occurred to me to doubt her sincerity. Still, I had a great respect for Poirot's sagacity--except on the occasions when he was what I described to myself as "foolishly pig-headed."
"Do you really think so?" I asked. "Miss Howard had always seemed to me so essentially honest--almost uncomfortably so."
Poirot gave me a curious look, which I could not quite fathom. He seemed to speak, and then checked himself.
"Miss Murdoch too," I continued, "there's nothing untruthful about _her_."
"No. But it was strange that she never heard a sound, sleeping next door; whereas Mrs. Cavendish, in the other wing of the building, distinctly heard the table fall."

"Well, she's young. And she sleeps soundly."
"Ah, yes, indeed! She must be a famous sleeper, that one!"
I did not quite like the tone of his voice, but at that moment a smart knock reached our ears, and looking out of the window we perceived the two detectives waiting for us below.
Poirot seized his hat, gave a ferocious twist to his moustache, and, carefully brushing an imaginary speck of dust from his sleeve, motioned me to precede him down the stairs; there we joined the detectives and set out for Styles.

I think the appearance of the two Scotland Yard men was rather a shock--especially to John, though of course after the verdict, he had realized that it was only a matter of time. Still, the presence of the detectives brought the truth home to him more than anything else could have done.
Poirot had conferred with Japp in a low tone on the way up, and it was the latter functionary who requested that the household, with the exception of the servants, should be assembled together in the drawing-room. I realized the significance of this. It was up to Poirot to make his boast good.
Personally, I was not sanguine. Poirot might have excellent reasons for his belief in Inglethorp's innocence, but a man of the type of Summerhaye would require tangible proofs, and these I doubted if Poirot could supply.

Before very long we had all trooped into the drawing-room, the door of which Japp closed. Poirot politely set chairs for every one. The Scotland Yard men were the cynosure of all eyes. I think that for the first time we realized that the thing was not a bad dream, but a tangible reality. We had read of such things--now we ourselves were actors in the drama. To-morrow the daily papers, all over England, would blazon out the news in staring headlines:
"MYSTERIOUS TRAGEDY IN ESSEX"
"WEALTHY LADY POISONED"
There would be pictures of Styles, snap-shots of "The family leaving the Inquest"--the village photographer had not been idle! All the things that one had read a hundred times--things that happen to other people, not to oneself. And now, in this house, a murder had been committed. In front of us were "the detectives in charge of the case." The well-known glib phraseology passed rapidly through my mind in the interval before Poirot opened the proceedings.
I think every one was a little surprised that it should be he and not one of the official detectives who took the initiative.
"Mesdames and messieurs," said Poirot, bowing as though he were a celebrity about to deliver a lecture, "I have asked you to come here all together, for a certain object. That object, it concerns Mr. Alfred Inglethorp."

Inglethorp was sitting a little by himself--I think, unconsciously, every one had drawn his chair slightly away from him--and he gave a faint start as Poirot pronounced his name.
"Mr. Inglethorp," said Poirot, addressing him directly, "a very dark shadow is resting on this house--the shadow of murder."
Inglethorp shook his head sadly.
"My poor wife," he murmured. "Poor Emily! It is terrible."
"I do not think, monsieur," said Poirot pointedly, "that you quite realize how terrible it may be--for you." And as Inglethorp did not appear to understand, he added: "Mr. Inglethorp, you are standing in very grave danger."
The two detectives fidgeted. I saw the official caution "Anything you say will be used in evidence against you," actually hovering on Summerhaye's lips. Poirot went on.

"Do you understand now, monsieur?"
"No; What do you mean?"
"I mean," said Poirot deliberately, "that you are suspected of poisoning your wife."
A little gasp ran round the circle at this plain speaking.
"Good heavens!" cried Inglethorp, starting up. "What a monstrous idea! _I_--poison my dearest Emily!"
"I do not think"--Poirot watched him narrowly--"that you quite realize the unfavourable nature of your evidence at the inquest. Mr. Inglethorp, knowing what I have now told you, do you still refuse to say where you were at six o'clock on Monday afternoon?"

With a groan, Alfred Inglethorp sank down again and buried his face in his hands. Poirot approached and stood over him.
"Speak!" he cried menacingly.
With an effort, Inglethorp raised his face from his hands. Then, slowly and deliberately, he shook his head.
"You will not speak?"
"No. I do not believe that anyone could be so monstrous as to accuse me of what you say."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully, like a man whose mind is made up.
"Soit!" he said. "Then I must speak for you."

Alfred Inglethorp sprang up again.
"You? How can you speak? You do not know----" he broke off abruptly.
Poirot turned to face us. "Mesdames and messieurs! I speak! Listen! I, Hercule Poirot, affirm that the man who entered the chemist's shop, and purchased strychnine at six o'clock on Monday last was not Mr. Inglethorp, for at six o'clock on that day Mr. Inglethorp was escorting Mrs. Raikes back to her home from a neighbouring farm. I can produce no less than five witnesses to swear to having seen them together, either at six or just after and, as you may know, the Abbey Farm, Mrs. Raikes's home, is at least two and a half miles distant from the village. There is absolutely no question as to the alibi!"


当我们走出村民公堂时，波洛悄悄抓住我的手臂，把我拉到一旁。我知道他的目的。他是在等伦敦警察厅的人。
过了一会，他们出现了，波洛立刻走上前去，和两人中较矮的一个打招呼。
“我怕你已经不记得我了吧，贾普巡官。”
“嗨，原来是波洛先生！”巡官喊了起来。他转身朝向另一个人。“你听我说起过波洛先生吧？一九零四年，我们曾在一起工作过——阿伯克龙比伪造案——你总还记得，他被追捕到布鲁塞尔①。嗨，那些日子多美，先生。另外，你还记得阿尔塔拉‘男爵’吗？你那个漂亮的流氓！他巧妙地逃脱了欧洲半数警察的抓捕。可是我们在安特卫普②把他给逮住了——多亏这位波洛先生。”
在沉迷于对这些往事的友好缅怀中，我走上前去，并且鼓介绍给贾普巡官，他也向我们俩介绍了他的同事萨默海警长。
“看来我是没有必要问你到这儿来做什么了，先生，”波洛说。

注释：
①比利时首都。
②比利时城市。

贾普狡黠地闭上一只眼睛。
“确实没有必要了。我得说情况已经一清二楚。”
但是波洛却严肃地回答说：
“我可和你的看法不一样。”
“嗨，得啦，”萨默海说，他第一次开口。“这整个事情完全象大白天一样一清二楚，这家伙是当场查获，还想装蒜来欺骗我！”
可是贾普却注意地朝波洛看着。
“别激动，萨默海，”他打趣地说。“我以前和这位先生打过交道——我没有一件案子能判得比他快。如果我没大大弄错的话，他一定暗地里有了一套打算了。是这样吧，先生？”
波洛笑了。
“我作了一些推断——是的。”
萨默海仍然显出怀疑的样子，可是贾普却继续细看着波洛。

“情况是这样，”他说，“到目前为止，我们只看到这个案子的表面现象。这是警察厅在此类案子中处于不利的地方，而且还在于这一谋杀案的败露，可以说只是在验尸之后。事情往往取决于先到现场掌握第一手资料，这也就是波洛先生胜我们一筹之处，要不是当场有个机灵的医生通过验尸官给了我们提示，我们本来是不会马上就上这儿来的。可你是一开始就去了现场，你也许已经获得了一些细小的线索，从审讯的情况看，英格里桑先生谋杀妻子，就象我站立在这儿一样千真万确。除了你，不管什么暗示对此有相反意见的话，我都会当面嘲笑他，我必须说，我感到意外的是陪审团没有立即宣布对他的蓄意谋杀进行起诉的裁决。我认为，这是他们的主张，如果验尸官没有此意——那他看来是被他们给阻止住了。”
“也许，你的口袋里现在就有一张抓他的逮捕证吧，”波洛说。
一道官僚作风的木板窗扉垂落在贾普那富有表情的脸上。
“我也许有，也许没有，”他干巴巴地说。

波洛若有所思地朝他看着。
“我极力希望他不要被捕，先生。”
“我看有可能，”萨默海挖苦地说。
贾普困惑可笑地注视着波洛。
“你能说得详细一点吗，波洛先生？你的每一句话，都是举足轻重的。你是去过现场的——你知道，警察厅不想犯错误。
波洛严肃地点点头。
“我确实是这样想的。好吧，我来告诉你们。用你们的逮捕证，把英格里桑先生逮捕。可是这不会给你们带来好名声——对他的起诉立刻就会驳回！就是这样！”他意味深长地把手指捻得劈啪作响。
贾普的脸色变得阴沉了，而萨默海则发出表示怀疑的哼鼻声。
至于我呢，我简直只好目瞪口呆地一声不吭。我只能断定，波洛大概是疯了。
贾普掏出一块手帕，轻轻地擦着自己的前额。

“我可不敢做这样的事，波洛先生。我相信你的话，可是我上面那些人会问，我这究竟算什么意思呢？你能再给我多说一点吗？”
波洛考虑了一会。
“只能这样，”他终于说。“我承认，我不希望说。这是在逼我。在目前，我倒是宁愿在一无所知的清况下工作，不过怀说的话完全正确——一个黄金时代已经过去的比利时警察的话是不够的啊！但是阿弗雷德·英格里桑无论如何不能逮捕。这我已经发过誓，我这位朋友哈斯丁知道，哎，我亲爱的贾普，你立即去斯泰尔斯吗？”
“嗯，半个来小时以后吧，我们得先去看看那位验尸官和医生。”
“好吧。经过时顺便叫我一声——就是村子过去最后的那幢房子。我和你们一起去。到斯泰尔斯，英格里桑先生会给你们作证，或者要是他拒绝——这有可能——我会拿出使你们完全满意的证据，证明对他的起诉有可能不会批准。就这么敲定了吧？”
“好，就这么敲定，”贾普诚心诚意他说。“我要代表警察厅，向你深表谢意，虽然我得坦白承认，目前我还没能看出证词中可能有的最小的漏洞，可是你是个一直令人惊叹的奇才！那么，再见了！先生。”

两个侦探大步地走了，萨默海咧着嘴，脸上露出怀疑的嘲笑。
“喂，朋友，”还没等我开口，波洛就大声说，“你以为怎么样？我的老天！我在法庭上实在是急坏了；我原来没有想到这人会如此顽固，以至于什么都拒绝说出，显然，这是个十分愚蠢的策略。”
“哼！除了愚蠢的策略，还有一些别的解释哩，”我说。“因为，要是真的对他提出起诉的话，除了用沉默外，他能用什么为自己辩护呢？”
“什么？有上千种方法呢，”波洛叫了起来。“瞧你，要是说犯了谋杀罪的是我，我就能编出七个象煞最有理由的故事来！这要比英格里桑先生的矢口否认使人信服得多哩！”
我忍不住笑了起来。
“我亲爱的波洛，我确信你能编出七十个故事来！可是，认真地说，不管我听你和那两个侦探说些什么，现在你谅必不能再认为阿弗雷德·英格里桑也许是清白无辜的了吧？”

“为什么现在不和以前一样呢？我的看法毫无改变。”
“可是证据是如此确凿。”
“是呀，太确凿了。”
我们拐进李斯特韦思别墅的大门，开始登上现在已经熟悉的楼梯。
“是呀，是呀，太确凿了”，”波洛几乎象自言自语地继续说。“真正的证据往往是模糊不清，不能令人满意得。它得受到审查——详细地审查。可是这儿的整个事情早已准备好的。不，朋友，这些证据是巧妙地虚构的——巧妙得把自己的目的意图都给摧毁了。”
“你这是怎么说？”
“因为，只要对他起诉的证据是模糊不清的，那就很难反驳。可是，罪犯担心的是，他已经把网拉得这么紧，有一个破口就会让英格里桑溜掉。”

我默不作声。他停了一会，又继续说：
“就让我们象这样来看一看这问题吧。这儿有个人，我们假定说他打算毒死自己的妻子。而他，正如俗话所说，是个靠施展小聪明过日子的人。因此，他可能有些小聪明，并不完全是个傻瓜。于是，这事情他怎么个着手呢？他大胆地以自己的名义去村子的药店买了士的宁，还编造了一个保证会证明是荒谬可笑的一只狗的故事。他没有在当天晚上施放毒药。不，他一直等到和她发生一场全家人都知晓的激烈争吵之后，这样全家人自然也就一致地怀疑到他。他也不打算为自己辩护——连点辩解的影子都没有。而且他知道药房伙计必然会出来告发的，哼！我才不信，哪有这样的傻瓜！只有精神诸乱，希望自己能上绞架自杀的人才会这么干！”
“可我还是——不明白——”我刚开口。
“我也不明白。我告诉你，朋友，这把我也给搞糊涂了。把我——赫卡尔·波洛！”
“可是，要是你相信他是无辜的，那怎么解释他买士的宁的事呢？”
“很简单。他没有买。”

“可是梅司认出是他呀！”
“对不起，他看到的是一个象英格里桑先生那样有一大把黑胡子的人，是一个象英格里桑先生那样戴眼镜的人，是一个穿着英格里桑先生那种相当引人注目的衣着的人。他不可能认出一个也许只是从老远见过的人，因为，你总还记得，他本人是在两星期前才到这个村子来的，而且，英格里桑太太主要是在塔明斯特的库特药店购药的。”
“那么你认为——”
“我的朋友，你忘了我强调过的两点了吗？第一点暂时不说，第二点是什么？”
“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。”
“一点不错。现在假如有个人想要冒充约翰或者是劳伦斯，这容易吗？”
“不容易，”我想了想说。“当然，一个演员——”

“为什么不容易呢？我来告诉你吧，我的朋友，因为他们俩都是脸刮得光光的人。要想在光天化日之下化装成这两人中的一个，都得有演员的天才，而且脸型要基本上相似。可是阿弗雷特·英格里桑情况就完全不同了。他的衣着，他的胡子，蔽住他眼睛的眼镜——那些都是他的个人外表的特点。那末，这个犯罪分子的首要本能是什么呢？为了要从自己身上转移开怀疑，不是这样么？他怎么干最好呢？把这扔到另一个人身上。在这种情况下，手头就得有个人。要使每个人都倾向于相信英格里桑先生是有罪的。他被怀疑这是预料中的必然结果。但是，为了使这叫人相信，还得有确凿的证据——例如真的去买了毒药，而且化装成象英格里桑先生这样一个外表独特的人，并不困难。别忘记，这位年轻的梅司实际上以前从未和英格里桑先生交谈过。他怎么会怀疑这个穿着他的衣服，有着他的胡子和眼镜的人不是阿弗雷德·英格里桑呢？”
“也许是这样，”我说。被波洛的雄辩给迷住了。
“可是，要是情况是这样。为什么他不肯说出星期一傍晚六点钟他在哪儿呢？”
“哼，为什么？”波洛说，他平静了下来。“要是他被捕了，他多半就会说了。可是，我不希望事情发展到那一步，我必须让他看到他的处境的严重性。当然，在他的沉默的背后，一定有什么见不得人的东西。即使他没有谋杀他的妻子，他还是一个坏蛋，完全撇开谋杀不说，也有他自己的什么东西隐瞒着。”

“有可能是什么呢？”我思索着说，一时间折服于波洛的看法，虽然我还是不太相信这种显然是推论的意见是正确的。
“你猜不出？”波洛笑了起来，问道。
“猜不出。你呢？”
“嗯，是的，我不久前有了一个小小的想法——现在它已经证明是正确的了。”
“你从来没有对我说过，”我责备说。
波洛抱歉地摊开两手。
“请原谅，我的朋友，你一定不会赞同的。”他诚挚地对我说。”告诉我——你现在认为他应该逮捕吗？”
“大概是这样，”我含糊其词地回答，因为说实在，我对阿弗雷德·英格里桑的命运完全不感兴趣，而且我认为，好好吓唬他一下对他并无害处。
波洛目不转睛地注视着我，叹了一口气。

“得啦，朋友，”他改变了话题，“撇开英格里桑先生不说，对审讯的证词你有什么看法？”
“哦，几乎不出我之所料。”
“你没有觉得有什么特别的地方吗？”
我的思绪飞向了玛丽·卡文迪什，因而只是躲闪地说：
“在哪一方面？”
“就说，譬如劳伦斯·卡文迪什先生的证词吧？”
我放心了。
“哦，劳伦斯！不，我不这样想，他一直有点神经质。”
“他的看法是，他母亲可能是服用补药造成的偶然中毒。这你不觉得奇怪——啊？”
“不，我不能说这算奇怪。当然，医生们嘲笑这种看法。可是对一个外行来说，这种看法是很正常的。”
“可是劳伦斯先生不是外行呀。是你自己告诉我的，说他起初是学医的，已经取得学位。”
“对了，这倒是真的。我从来没有想到这一点，”我为此大吃一惊。“这确实奇怪。”

波洛点点头。
“首先，他的态度很特别。全家人当中，只有他能够认出士的宁的中毒症状，而且我们还发现他是这家人家唯一坚持自然死亡看法的人，要是这是约翰先生，我就能理解了，因为他没有这方面的专门知识，自然是想不到的。但是，劳伦斯先生——不一样！而今天，他提出的看法，他自己应该知道，是十分荒谬可笑的。其中大有值得思考的材料，朋友。”
“这确实很混乱，”我同意说。
“还有卡文迪什太太，”波洛继续说。“她是另一个没有说出她所了解的全部情况的人！你怎么解释她的态度？”
“我不知道怎么解释。似乎不可思议的是她想要包庇阿弗雷德·英格里桑。然而看起来象是这样。”
波洛沉思着点点头。

“是呀，这很奇怪，有一件事是确凿无疑的，她无意中听到的‘私下谈话’要比她愿意承认的多得多。”
“而且，她是最不可能俯身偷听的人”。
“确实如此。她的证词向我表明了一点。我错了。多卡斯完全对。那天下午的争吵确实发生得比较早，象她说的那样，在四点钟左右。”
我好奇地朝他打量着。我原来一直不知道他坚持这一点。
“是啊，今天出现了一大堆奇怪的事情，”波洛继续说。“象那位鲍斯坦医生，那天早上在那种时候，他怎么会穿戴停当，那么衣冠整齐的呢？使我惊讶的是没有一个人评论这一事实。”
“他有失眠症，我相信，”我含糊其词地说。
“一个非常善意的解释，或者是一个十分恶意的解释，”波洛指出。“都会掩盖事实真相，而且什么也解释不了。我可得对我们的机灵的鲍斯坦医生保持警惕。”
“证词中还挑出了什么毛病？”我挖苦地问道。

“我的朋友，”波洛严肃地回答，“当你发现人们没有告诉你真相的时候——就得当心！嗯，除非是我弄错了，在今天的审讯中，只有一个人，至多是两个人说了真话，没有保留或者是遁词。”
“哦，得啦，波洛！劳伦斯或者卡文迪什太太，我不去说了，可是约翰——还有霍华德小姐，他们俩说的谅必总是真话吧？”
他们两个吗，朋友？一个，我同意，可是两个——！”
他的话使我不愉快地震惊了一下。霍华德小姐的证词，尽管并不重要，但如此爽气坦率，对她的真诚，我从未产生过怀疑。不过，对于波洛的睿智我总是非常尊重的——除了在我自己把他看成是一个“傻瓜蛋”的场合之外。
“你真的这样想吗？”我问道。“霍华德小姐一直来对我似乎都是很诚实的——诚实得几乎使我有点不自在了。”
波洛那么奇怪地朝我瞥了一眼，我完全揣摩不出它的含义。他仿佛想说什么，可接着就忍往了。
“穆务契小姐也一样，”我继续说，“她也没有什么说谎的地方。”

“可是奇怪的是，她睡在隔壁，一点也没听到响声；住在房子另一侧的卡文迪什太太，却清楚地听到桌子翻倒。”
“咳，她年纪轻，睡得沉。”
“哼，不错，真是！如一定是个出名的瞌睡虫了，一个瞌睡虫！”
我很不喜欢他这种说话的腔调，可是就在这时候，我们听到了一阵响亮的敲门声，伸头到窗外一看，发现两位侦探已经在下面等我们了。
波洛抓起帽子，使劲地捻了捻自己的两撇翘胡子，又从袖子上拂去想象中的一点灰尘，然后才示意叫我走在前面，下了楼梯；我们和两位侦探一起，动身前往斯泰尔斯庄园。
我觉得这两位伦敦警察厅的人物的到来多少是一个震惊——特别是对约翰来说，当然，在陪审团裁决之后，他意识到这仅仅是时间问题。而且这两人的到场，比起别的来，会使他更多地看到事实真相。

路上，波洛和贾普低声作了商议，后者要求这一家人，除佣人外，都得集中到客厅里。我理解这个意思。波洛有责任实现自己夸下的海口。
就我个人而言，我是缺乏自信的。波洛也许有充分的理由相信英格里桑的无罪，可是象萨默海这样的人需要的是确凿的证据，而这样的证据波洛是否能提出，我仍表示怀疑。
一待我们成群地都走进客厅，贾普就把门给关上了。波洛殷勤地请大家就座。伦敦警察厅的两位人物是大家注意的目标。我认为，我们是第一次意识到这一事件并不是一场恶梦，而是活生生的现实。我们曾经读过不少这样的消息——现在，我们自己也成了这出戏中的演员了。明天，全英国的日报都会以下列显著的大字标题发表这一消息：
“埃塞克斯发生重大惨案有钱太太可怜中毒身亡”
还会刊出斯泰尔斯庄园的照片，“正在受到审讯的一家人”的快照——村子里的摄影师是不会闲着的！所有此类消息，每个人都曾读到过许多次——但都不是自己，而是发生在别人身上。而现在，在这幢房子里，发生了一件谋杀案。在我们面前的是“负责此案的侦探”。在波洛开始讲话之前的间歇里，各种熟悉、流利的措词从我的脑子里匆匆掠过。

我相信，所有人都有点感到意外，第一个说话的是他，而不是一位官方侦探。
“女士们，先生们，”波洛象一位马上要发表演说的名人似地鞠了个躬，然后说，“我请你们诸位一起到这儿来，是为了一件事情，就是有关阿弗雷德·英格里桑先生的问题。”
英格里桑差不多是独自一人坐在一边——我思忖，每个人都不自觉地把自己的椅子拖得离他稍远一点——当波洛提到他的名字时，他略微吃了一惊。
“英格里桑先生，”波洛径直对着他说，“这幢房子笼罩着一个十分黑暗的阴影——谋杀的阴影。”
英格里桑悲伤地摇摇头。
“我可怜的太太，”他喃喃地说。“可怜的埃米莉！这太可怕了。”
“我认为，先生，”波洛尖锐地说，“你还没有完全意识到这可能有多可怕——对你来说。”由于英格里桑看来还没理解，他又补充说：“英格里桑先生，你正处于非常严重的危险之中。”
两位侦探都显得坐立不安。我看到，那句公认的诫言“你说的每句话都会用在对你起诉的证词中”，如今一直逗留在萨默海的嘴唇上。波洛继续说：
“现在该懂了吧，先生？”
“不懂。你的意思是什么？”
“我的意思是，”波洛不慌不忙地说，“你被怀疑毒死了自己的妻子。”
由于这句坦率的话。使得周围的人几乎喘不过气来。

“天哪！”英格里桑喊道，蓦地站了起来。“多荒谬的念头！我——毒死我最亲爱的埃米莉！”
“我认为，”——波洛朝他仔细注视着——“你还没有完全意识到审讯时你的证词的不利之处，英格里桑先生，知道了我已经告诉你的话以后，你还拒绝说出星期一下午六点钟时你在哪儿吗？”
阿弗雷德·英格里桑呻吟了一声，重又坐了下来，同时把脸埋在自己的双手之中。波洛走向前去，站在他的身旁。
“说！”他大声威胁说。
英格里桑费力地从双手中抬起脸。接着缓慢地，不慌不忙的摇了摇头。
“你不愿说？”
“我不信人人部会这样荒谬，象你说的那样来控告我。”
波洛若有所思地点着头，象个决心已经下定的人一样。
“好罢！”他说。“那得我来给你说了。”
阿弗雷德·英格里桑又蓦地跳了起来。
“你？你怎么说？你又不知道——”他突然停住了。

波洛转身朝向我们。“女士们，先先们！我来说！请听着！我，赫卡尔·波洛，肯定地说，本星期一下午六点，到药店购买土的宁的人，决不是英格里桑先生，因为那天下午六点钟时，英格里桑先生正从邻近的一个农庄陪雷克斯太太回家。我可以提出不少于五个证人，都在六点钟或六点钟以后亲眼看到他们俩在一起，而且，正如你们所知道的，阿比农庄，即雷克斯太太的家，离村子至少有两英里半路。英格里桑先生不在犯罪现场，这是绝对不成问题的。”

引用

Chapter 6

In the interval before the inquest, Poirot was unfailing in his activity. Twice he was closeted with Mr. Wells. He also took long walks into the country. I rather resented his not taking me into his confidence, the more so as I could not in the least guess what he was driving at.
It occurred to me that he might have been making inquiries at Raikes's farm; so, finding him out when I called at Leastways Cottage on Wednesday evening, I walked over there by the fields, hoping to meet him. But there was no sign of him, and I hesitated to go right up to the farm itself. As I walked away, I met an aged rustic, who leered at me cunningly.

"You'm from the Hall, bain't you?" he asked.
"Yes. I'm looking for a friend of mine whom I thought might have walked this way."
"A little chap? As waves his hands when he talks? One of them Belgies from the village?"
"Yes," I said eagerly. "He has been here, then?"
"Oh, ay, he's been here, right enough. More'n once too. Friend of yours, is he? Ah, you gentlemen from the Hall--you'n a pretty lot!" And he leered more jocosely than ever.
"Why, do the gentlemen from the Hall come here often?" I asked, as carelessly as I could.
He winked at me knowingly.

"_One_ does, mister. Naming no names, mind. And a very liberal gentleman too! Oh, thank you, sir, I'm sure."
I walked on sharply. Evelyn Howard had been right then, and I experienced a sharp twinge of disgust, as I thought of Alfred Inglethorp's liberality with another woman's money. Had that piquant gipsy face been at the bottom of the crime, or was it the baser mainspring of money? Probably a judicious mixture of both.

On one point, Poirot seemed to have a curious obsession. He once or twice observed to me that he thought Dorcas must have made an error in fixing the time of the quarrel. He suggested to her repeatedly that it was 4.30, and not 4 o'clock when she had heard the voices.
But Dorcas was unshaken. Quite an hour, or even more, had elapsed between the time when she had heard the voices and 5 o'clock, when she had taken tea to her mistress.

The inquest was held on Friday at the Stylites Arms in the village. Poirot and I sat together, not being required to give evidence.
The preliminaries were gone through. The jury viewed the body, and John Cavendish gave evidence of identification.
Further questioned, he described his awakening in the early hours of the morning, and the circumstances of his mother's death.
The medical evidence was next taken. There was a breathless hush, and every eye was fixed on the famous London specialist, who was known to be one of the greatest authorities of the day on the subject of toxicology.

In a few brief words, he summed up the result of the post-mortem. Shorn of its medical phraseology and technicalities, it amounted to the fact that Mrs. Inglethorp had met her death as the result of strychnine poisoning. Judging from the quantity recovered, she must have taken not less than three-quarters of a grain of strychnine, but probably one grain or slightly over.
"Is it possible that she could have swallowed the poison by accident?" asked the Coroner.

"I should consider it very unlikely. Strychnine is not used for domestic purposes, as some poisons are, and there are restrictions placed on its sale."
"Does anything in your examination lead you to determine how the poison was administered?"
"No."
"You arrived at Styles before Dr. Wilkins, I believe?"
"That is so. The motor met me just outside the lodge gates, and I hurried there as fast as I could."
"Will you relate to us exactly what happened next?"
"I entered Mrs. Inglethorp's room. She was at that moment in a typical tetanic convulsion. She turned towards me, and gasped out: 'Alfred--Alfred----' "

"Could the strychnine have been administered in Mrs. Inglethorp's after-dinner coffee which was taken to her by her husband?"
"Possibly, but strychnine is a fairly rapid drug in its action. The symptoms appear from one to two hours after it has been swallowed. It is retarded under certain conditions, none of which, however, appear to have been present in this case. I presume Mrs. Inglethorp took the coffee after dinner about eight o'clock, whereas the symptoms did not manifest themselves until the early hours of the morning, which, on the face of it, points to the drug having been taken much later in the evening."

"Mrs. Inglethorp was in the habit of drinking a cup of coco in the middle of the night. Could the strychnine have been administered in that?"
"No, I myself took a sample of the coco remaining in the saucepan and had it analysed. There was no strychnine present."
I heard Poirot chuckle softly beside me.
"How did you know?" I whispered.
"Listen."
"I should say"--the doctor was continuing--"that I would have been considerably surprised at any other result."
"Why?"

"Simply because strychnine has an unusually bitter taste. It can be detected in a solution of 1 in 70,000, and can only be disguised by some strongly flavoured substance. Coco would be quite powerless to mask it."
One of the jury wanted to know if the same objection applied to coffee.
"No. Coffee has a bitter taste of its own which would probably cover the taste of strychnine."
"Then you consider it more likely that the drug was administered in the coffee, but that for some unknown reason its action was delayed."
"Yes, but, the cup being completely smashed, there is no possibility of analyzing its contents."
This concluded Dr. Bauerstein's evidence. Dr. Wilkins corroborated it on all points. Sounded as to the possibility of suicide, he repudiated it utterly. The deceased, he said, suffered from a weak heart, but otherwise enjoyed perfect health, and was of a cheerful and well-balanced disposition. She would be one of the last people to take her own life.

Lawrence Cavendish was next called. His evidence was quite unimportant, being a mere repetition of that of his brother. Just as he was about to step down, he paused, and said rather hesitatingly:
"I should like to make a suggestion if I may?"
He glanced deprecatingly at the Coroner, who replied briskly:
"Certainly, Mr. Cavendish, we are here to arrive at the truth of this matter, and welcome anything that may lead to further elucidation."
"It is just an idea of mine," explained Lawrence. "Of course I may be quite wrong, but it still seems to me that my mother's death might be accounted for by natural means."
"How do you make that out, Mr. Cavendish?"

"My mother, at the time of her death, and for some time before it, was taking a tonic containing strychnine."
"Ah!" said the Coroner.
The jury looked up, interested.
"I believe," continued Lawrence, "that there have been cases where the cumulative effect of a drug, administered for some time, has ended by causing death. Also, is it not possible that she may have taken an overdose of her medicine by accident?"
"This is the first we have heard of the deceased taking strychnine at the time of her death. We are much obliged to you, Mr. Cavendish."
Dr. Wilkins was recalled and ridiculed the idea.
"What Mr. Cavendish suggests is quite impossible. Any doctor would tell you the same. Strychnine is, in a certain sense, a cumulative poison, but it would be quite impossible for it to result in sudden death in this way. There would have to be a long period of chronic symptoms which would at once have attracted my attention. The whole thing is absurd."

"And the second suggestion? That Mrs. Inglethorp may have inadvertently taken an overdose?"
"Three, or even four doses, would not have resulted in death. Mrs. Inglethorp always had an extra large amount of medicine made up at a time, as she dealt with Coot's, the Cash Chemists in Tadminster. She would have had to take very nearly the whole bottle to account for the amount of strychnine found at the post-mortem."
"Then you consider that we may dismiss the tonic as not being in any way instrumental in causing her death?"
"Certainly. The supposition is ridiculous."
The same juryman who had interrupted before here suggested that the chemist who made up the medicine might have committed an error.
"That, of course, is always possible," replied the doctor.

But Dorcas, who was the next witness called, dispelled even that possibility. The medicine had not been newly made up. On the contrary, Mrs. Inglethorp had taken the last dose on the day of her death.
So the question of the tonic was finally abandoned, and the Coroner proceeded with his task. Having elicited from Dorcas how she had been awakened by the violent ringing of her mistress's bell, and had subsequently roused the household, he passed to the subject of the quarrel on the preceding afternoon.

Dorcas's evidence on this point was substantially what Poirot and I had already heard, so I will not repeat it here.
The next witness was Mary Cavendish. She stood very upright, and spoke in a low, clear, and perfectly composed voice. In answer to the Coroner's question, she told how, her alarm clock having aroused her at 4.30 as usual, she was dressing, when she was startled by the sound of something heavy falling.
"That would have been the table by the bed?" commented the Coroner.
"I opened my door," continued Mary, "and listened. In a few minutes a bell rang violently. Dorcas came running down and woke my husband, and we all went to my mother-in-law's room, but it was locked----"

The Coroner interrupted her.
"I really do not think we need trouble you further on that point. We know all that can be known of the subsequent happenings. But I should be obliged if you would tell us all you overheard of the quarrel the day before."
"I?"
There was a faint insolence in her voice. She raised her hand and adjusted the ruffle of lace at her neck, turning her head a little as she did so. And quite spontaneously the thought flashed across my mind: "She is gaining time!"
"Yes. I understand," continued the Coroner deliberately, "that you were sitting reading on the bench just outside the long window of the boudoir. That is so, is it not?"

This was news to me and glancing sideways at Poirot, I fancied that it was news to him as well.
There was the faintest pause, the mere hesitation of a moment, before she answered:
"Yes, that is so."
"And the boudoir window was open, was it not?"
Surely her face grew a little paler as she answered:
"Yes."

"Then you cannot have failed to hear the voices inside, especially as they were raised in anger. In fact, they would be more audible where you were than in the hall."
"Possibly."
"Will you repeat to us what you overheard of the quarrel?"
"I really do not remember hearing anything."
"Do you mean to say you did not hear voices?"
"Oh, yes, I heard the voices, but I did not hear what they said." A faint spot of colour came into her cheek. "I am not in the habit of listening to private conversations."

The Coroner persisted.
"And you remember nothing at all? _Nothing_, Mrs. Cavendish? Not one stray word or phrase to make you realize that it _was_ a private conversation?"
She paused, and seemed to reflect, still outwardly as calm as ever.
"Yes; I remember. Mrs. Inglethorp said something--I do not remember exactly what--about causing scandal between husband and wife."
"Ah!" the Coroner leant back satisfied. "That corresponds with what Dorcas heard. But excuse me, Mrs. Cavendish, although you realized it was a private conversation, you did not move away? You remained where you were?"
I caught the momentary gleam of her tawny eyes as she raised them. I felt certain that at that moment she would willingly have torn the little lawyer, with his insinuations, into pieces, but she replied quietly enough:
"No. I was very comfortable where I was. I fixed my mind on my book."

"And that is all you can tell us?"
"That is all."
The examination was over, though I doubted if the Coroner was entirely satisfied with it. I think he suspected that Mary Cavendish could tell more if she chose.
Amy Hill, shop assistant, was next called, and deposed to having sold a will form on the afternoon of the 17th to William Earl, under-gardener at Styles.
William Earl and Manning succeeded her, and testified to witnessing a document. Manning fixed the time at about 4.30, William was of the opinion that it was rather earlier.
Cynthia Murdoch came next. She had, however, little to tell. She had known nothing of the tragedy, until awakened by Mrs. Cavendish.
"You did not hear the table fall?"

"No. I was fast asleep."
The Coroner smiled.
"A good conscience makes a sound sleeper," he observed. "Thank you, Miss Murdoch, that is all."
"Miss Howard."
Miss Howard produced the letter written to her by Mrs. Inglethorp on the evening of the 17th. Poirot and I had, of course already seen it. It added nothing to our knowledge of the tragedy. The following is a facsimile:
STYLES COURT ESSEX hand written note: July 17th My dear Evelyn

Can we not bury the hachet? I have found it hard to forgive the things you said
against my dear husband but I am an old woman & very fond of you
Yours affectionately,
Emily Inglethorpe
It was handed to the jury who scrutinized it attentively.

"I fear it does not help us much," said the Coroner, with a sigh. "There is no mention of any of the events of that afternoon."
"Plain as a pikestaff to me," said Miss Howard shortly. "It shows clearly enough that my poor old friend had just found out she'd been made a fool of!"
"It says nothing of the kind in the letter," the Coroner pointed out.
"No, because Emily never could bear to put herself in the wrong. But I know her. She wanted me back. But she wasn't going to own that I'd been right. She went round about. Most people do. Don't believe in it myself."

Mr. Wells smiled faintly. So, I noticed, did several of the jury. Miss Howard was obviously quite a public character.
"Anyway, all this tomfoolery is a great waste of time," continued the lady, glancing up and down the jury disparagingly. "Talk--talk--talk! When all the time we know perfectly well----"
The Coroner interrupted her in an agony of apprehension:
"Thank you, Miss Howard, that is all."
I fancy he breathed a sigh of relief when she complied.

Then came the sensation of the day. The Coroner called Albert Mace, chemist's assistant.
It was our agitated young man of the pale face. In answer to the Coroner's questions, he explained that he was a qualified pharmacist, but had only recently come to this particular shop, as the assistant formerly there had just been called up for the army.
These preliminaries completed, the Coroner proceeded to business.
"Mr. Mace, have you lately sold strychnine to any unauthorized person?"

"Yes, sir."
"When was this?"
"Last Monday night."
"Monday? Not Tuesday?"
"No, sir, Monday, the 16th."
"Will you tell us to whom you sold it?"
You could have heard a pin drop.
"Yes, sir. It was to Mr. Inglethorp."
Every eye turned simultaneously to where Alfred Inglethorp was sitting, impassive and wooden. He started slightly, as the damning words fell from the young man's lips. I half thought he was going to rise from his chair, but he remained seated, although a remarkably well acted expression of astonishment rose on his face.

"You are sure of what you say?" asked the Coroner sternly.
"Quite sure, sir."
"Are you in the habit of selling strychnine indiscriminately over the counter?"
The wretched young man wilted visibly under the Coroner's frown.
"Oh, no, sir--of course not. But, seeing it was Mr. Inglethorp of the Hall, I thought there was no harm in it. He said it was to poison a dog."
Inwardly I sympathized. It was only human nature to endeavour to please "The Hall"--especially when it might result in custom being transferred from Coot's to the local establishment.
"Is it not customary for anyone purchasing poison to sign a book?"
"Yes, sir, Mr. Inglethorp did so."
"Have you got the book here?"

"Yes, sir."
It was produced; and, with a few words of stern censure, the Coroner dismissed the wretched Mr. Mace.
Then, amidst a breathless silence, Alfred Inglethorp was called. Did he realize, I wondered, how closely the halter was being drawn around his neck?
The Coroner went straight to the point.
"On Monday evening last, did you purchase strychnine for the purpose of poisoning a dog?"
Inglethorp replied with perfect calmness:
"No, I did not. There is no dog at Styles, except an outdoor sheepdog, which is in perfect health."

"You deny absolutely having purchased strychnine from Albert Mace on Monday last?"
"I do."
"Do you also deny _this_?"
The Coroner handed him the register in which his signature was inscribed.
"Certainly I do. The hand-writing is quite different from mine. I will show you."
He took an old envelope out of his pocket, and wrote his name on it, handing it to the jury. It was certainly utterly dissimilar.
"Then what is your explanation of Mr. Mace's statement?"
Alfred Inglethorp replied imperturbably:
"Mr. Mace must have been mistaken."

The Coroner hesitated for a moment, and then said:
"Mr. Inglethorp, as a mere matter of form, would you mind telling us where you were on the evening of Monday, July 16th?"
"Really--I can't remember."
"That is absurd, Mr. Inglethorp," said the Coroner sharply. "Think again."
Inglethorp shook his head.
"I cannot tell you. I have an idea that I was out walking."
"In what direction?"
"I really can't remember."
The Coroner's face grew graver.
"Were you in company with anyone?"
"No."
"Did you meet anyone on your walk?"
"No."

"That is a pity," said the Coroner dryly. "I am to take it then that you decline to say where you were at the time that Mr. Mace positively recognized you as entering the shop to purchase strychnine?"
"If you like to take it that way, yes."
"Be careful, Mr. Inglethorp."
Poirot was fidgeting nervously.
"Sacre!" he murmured. "Does this imbecile of a man _want_ to be arrested?"
Inglethorp was indeed creating a bad impression. His futile denials would not have convinced a child. The Coroner, however, passed briskly to the next point, and Poirot drew a deep breath of relief.

"You had a discussion with your wife on Tuesday afternoon?"
"Pardon me," interrupted Alfred Inglethorp, "you have been misinformed. I had no quarrel with my dear wife. The whole story is absolutely untrue. I was absent from the house the entire afternoon."
"Have you anyone who can testify to that?"
"You have my word," said Inglethorp haughtily.
The Coroner did not trouble to reply.
"There are two witnesses who will swear to having heard your disagreement with Mrs. Inglethorp."
"Those witnesses were mistaken."

I was puzzled. The man spoke with such quiet assurance that I was staggered. I looked at Poirot. There was an expression of exultation on his face which I could not understand. Was he at last convinced of Alfred Inglethorp's guilt?
"Mr. Inglethorp," said the Coroner, "you have heard your wife's dying words repeated here. Can you explain them in any way?"
"Certainly I can."
"You can?"
"It seems to me very simple. The room was dimly lighted. Dr. Bauerstein is much of my height and build, and, like me, wears a beard. In the dim light, and suffering as she was, my poor wife mistook him for me."
"Ah!" murmured Poirot to himself. "But it is an idea, that!"
"You think it is true?" I whispered.

"I do not say that. But it is truly an ingenious supposition."
"You read my wife's last words as an accusation"--Inglethorp was continuing--"they were, on the contrary, an appeal to me."
The Coroner reflected a moment, then he said:
"I believe, Mr. Inglethorp, that you yourself poured out the coffee, and took it to your wife that evening?"
"I poured it out, yes. But I did not take it to her. I meant to do so, but I was told that a friend was at the hall door, so I laid down the coffee on the hall table. When I came through the hall again a few minutes later, it was gone."
This statement might, or might not, be true, but it did not seem to me to improve matters much for Inglethorp. In any case, he had had ample time to introduce the poison.

At that point, Poirot nudged me gently, indicating two men who were sitting together near the door. One was a little, sharp, dark, ferret-faced man, the other was tall and fair.
I questioned Poirot mutely. He put his lips to my ear.
"Do you know who that little man is?"
I shook my head.

"That is Detective Inspector James Japp of Scotland Yard--Jimmy Japp. The other man is from Scotland Yard too. Things are moving quickly, my friend."
I stared at the two men intently. There was certainly nothing of the policeman about them. I should never have suspected them of being official personages.
I was still staring, when I was startled and recalled by the verdict being given:
"Wilful Murder against some person or persons unknown."

在审讯前的这段时间，波洛的活动很频繁。他两次和韦尔斯先生闭门密谈：还到野外作了几次长时间的散步。我对他没有把我当作他的知心人本已相当不满，再加上我丝毫也猜不透他正在搞点什么名堂，这就更使我愤慨了。
我想他也许正在雷克斯农庄搞调查；星期三傍晚我去李斯特韦思别墅看他，他不在家，于是我就穿过那边的田野走，希望能碰上他。然而，连他的影子也没有，我踌躇了一下后，就径直朝那个农庄走去。当我正在走着时，碰见了一个上了年纪的庄稼人，他狡黠地朝我斜倪了一眼。
“您是大庄园的，是不？”他问。

“是的。我在找个朋友，我想他也许在这条路上散步。”
“一个小个子？说起话来老挥着手的？村子里的一个比利时佬？”
“对了，”我急忙说。“那么，他来过这儿了？”
“嘿，来过这儿，一点不错，还不止一次哩，他是您的朋友？嗳，您们这些大庄园里的先生——来得真不少啊！”他比开始更加戏谑似地斜睨着。
“怎么，大庄园里的先生常来这儿吗？”我尽量漫不经心地问道。
他狡黠地朝我眨眨眼睛。

“有一位常来，先生。请原谅，名字叫不出。也是一位非常大方的先生！”啊，先生，对不起，真的。”
我继续急速地走着。这么说伊夫琳·霍华德没有说错，当我想到阿弗雷特·英格里桑拿另一个女人的钱来挥豁时，我感到一阵令人厌恶的剧烈刺痛。犯罪的起因是那张动人的吉普赛女人似的脸，还是更为卑鄙的是金钱的原因？也许是有见识地两者兼有吧。
有一点上，波洛似乎使人难以理解地着了迷。他曾三番两次地对我说，他认为多卡斯一定把吵架的时间弄错了。他曾再三向她提出，她听到吵架声的时候应该是四点半，而不是四点。

但是多卡斯一口咬定，她听到吵架的时间和五点钟她送茶给女主人时，两者之间足足有一个钟点，甚至还更长一点。
审讯于星期五在村子里的村民公堂里举行。波洛和我坐在一起，我们没有被要求作证。
已经通过了预审。陪审团查验了尸体，由约翰·卡文迪什作了认明作证。
在进一步的审讯中，他叙述了那天凌晨怎么被叫醒，以及他母亲临终时的情况。
接下去听取了医务人员的证词。这时全场鸦雀无声，大家的目光都盯在那位著名的伦敦专家身上，他是当时毒物学这门学科方面最知名的权威之一。

他简要地用几句话就概述了致死的原因。去掉那些医学木语和技术细节，他的话就是说明这么一个事实：英格里桑太太的死亡是由于士的宁中毒的结果。从其服量鉴定判断，她的士的宁服量不少于四分之三喱①，但也有可能为一喱或稍多一点。
“她是否有误服的可能呢？”验尸官问道。
“我认为这非常不可能。士的宁并不象有的毒药那样，可供作家用。它的出售是受到限制的。”
“在你的检查过程中，是不是有什么使你判定毒药是怎样服下的？”
“没有。”
“我想，你是在威尔金斯医生之前到达斯泰尔斯的吧？”
“是这样。汽车在庄园大门外遇见我，于是我就尽快地赶到了那儿。”
“你能确切地给我们讲一讲那以后的情况吗？”
“我走进英格里桑太太的房间。当时她正处于典型的强直性痉挛中。她对着我，气喘喘地说：‘阿弗雷德——阿弗雷德——’”
“士的宁是不是有可能下在她丈夫端给她的那杯饭后咖啡里？”

“有可能，但是士的宁是一种毒效极快的药物。服后一、两小时，症状即会出现。当然，在一定情况下它会有所延缓，然而在本案中并不存在其中的任何一种特殊情况。我敢断言，英格里桑太太是在晚饭后大约八点钟喝的咖啡，而症状是出现在第二天凌晨，从表面上来判断，这表明毒药应该是在第一天晚上很晚才服下的。”
“英格里桑太太有半夜里喝一杯可可的习惯。士的宁有可能下在这里面吗？”
“不可能。我亲自对平底锅里的残留可可作过采样分析，里面没含士的宁。”
我听到波洛在我旁边轻轻地笑了一声。
“你了解到什么了？”我低声问道。
“听。”
“我得说，”——医生继续说——“我对任何另外一个结果都会感到相当地惊诧。”
“为什么？”
“简而言之，因为士的宁有一种特别的苦味。其一比七万的溶液也能觉出，它只能用某种有味道的物质掩盖起来。要做到这一点，可可是完全无能为力的。”

有个陪审团成员想弄清楚是否咖啡也有同样的缺点。
“不，咖啡本身有一种苦味，这有可能可以用来掩盖士的宁的味道。”
“这么说，你认为毒药下在咖啡里的可能比较大，但是由于某种不明的原因，它的作用延缓了。”
“是的，可是，杯子已打得粉碎，不可能对其内容物进行采样分析。”
鲍斯坦医生的证词到此结束。对他的证词威尔金斯医生在各方面部作了证实。在讲到自杀的可能性时，他作了完全的否定。他说，死者虽然患有心力衰弱，但完全享有健康人的乐趣，而且她性格开朗，神志正常。她是个最不至于会自杀的那种人。
接下去传讯劳伦斯·卡文迪什。他的证词毫无价值，纯粹是他哥哥的证词的翻版。就在他将要走下来时，他踌躇了一下，相当含糊地说：
“要是可以的话，我想提个看法行吗？”
他不以为然地朝验尸官瞥了一眼，对方迅速回答说：
“当然可以，卡文迪什先生，我们到这儿来是为了弄清这件事情的真相，欢迎提出能导致进一步阐明问题的任何意见。”
“这只是我的一点想法，”劳伦斯解释说。“当然，有可能是非常错误的，可是我仍然觉得似乎我母亲的死可能是一种必然的结果。”
“你怎么来证明这一点呢，卡文迪什先生？”

“我母亲在临死时，以及在这之前一段时间，一直服用一种含士的宁的补药。”
“啊！”验尸官说道。
验尸陪审团的成员都感兴趣地朝他看着。
“我相信，”劳伦斯继续说，“原因是由于一段时间来她服用的药中毒药成份的积累，从而终于引起了死亡。而且，她会不会有可能误服了过量的补药呢？”
“这是我们第一次听到死者在死前一直服用士的宁的事。我们非常感谢你，卡文迪什先生。”
威尔金斯医生再次受到了传讯，他把劳伦斯的想法嘲笑了一番。
“劳伦斯先生的说法根本不可能，任何一个医生都会象我这样说的。土的宁在某种意义上说，是一种累积性的毒品，可是它决不可能因此而导致突然死亡。它一定会有一个长时期的慢性中毒症状，而那立刻就会引起我的注意。我认为这整个说法都是荒谬可笑的。”
“那么第二个意见呢？英格里桑太太会不会出于疏忽服用过量的补药呢？”

“三倍，甚至于四倍的剂量，也不可能导致死亡。由于英格里桑太太和塔明斯特的库特药店的那班药剂师们有交情，他总是一次能配到剂量格外多的补药，可是，从尸体解剖中发现士的宁的含量看，她得一次服下几乎整整一大瓶。”
“那未，你认为补药无论如何不会引起她的死亡，我们可以予以排除吗？”
“当然可以。这种推测本身是荒谬的。”
原先打断过他的话的那个陪审团成员提出，配药的药剂师是否有可能发生差错。
“当然，那总是有可能的，”医生回答说。
可是，接下去传来作证的多卡斯，连这一可能性也给排除掉了。最近，英格里桑太太并没有配过补药，而是恰恰相反，她在去世那天服的是最后一剂药。
这样，补药的问题最后被放弃了。于是验尸官继续进行自己的审讯。他从多卡斯处了解到她怎样被她的女主人剧烈的铃声惊醒，随后又唤醒全家人，他又转而问了那天下午吵架的情况。

多卡斯在这个问题上的证词，内容很多，波洛和我已经听过，因而我就不在这儿赘述。
接下去一个证人是玛丽·卡文迪什，她站得笔挺，说话的声音轻幽、清晰，非常镇静。在回答验尸官的问题时，她说，她的闹钟象往常一样在四点三十分时把她唤醒，当她正在穿衣服时，突然被一声什么重物落地的声音吓了一大跳。
“那可能是床边的桌子吧？”验尸官解释说。
“我打开自己的房门，”玛丽继续说，“听了听。过了一会，铃声剧烈地响了起来。多卡斯跑来叫醒我的丈夫，于是我们就赶往婆婆的房间，可是房门是闩住的——”
验尸宫打断了她的话。
“说实在，我想在这个问题上我们就不必再麻烦你了。那以后发生的情况我们都已了解。但是，要是你能告诉我们，在这之前一大你所偶然听到的吵架情况，我们将非常感激。”
“我？”

她的语气中带有一点傲慢。她抬起一只手，理了理领子上花边的皱槽。这时，她微微偏着头。我的脑子里本能地掠过一个想法：她在故意拖时间！
“是的。”验尸官不慌不忙地继续说，“我知道，当时你正坐在闺房落地长窗外面的长凳上看书。是这样么？”
这对我来说是个新闻，我朝波洛瞟了一眼，心想，这对他同样也是新闻。
停了一会儿，只是犹豫了片刻，她就回答说：
“是的，是这样。”
“闺房的窗子是开着的，是么？”
说真的，她的脸变得有点越来越苍白，她回答说：
“是的。”
“那你不可能没有听到里面的声音吧，特别是在发起火来声音提高的时候？事实上，你坐的地方比在过道里听得更清楚。”

“有可能。”
“你能给我们说一下你碰巧听到的吵架情况吗？”
“我真的想不起听到过什么了。”
“你的意思是说你没有听到声音吗？”
“哦，不，我听到声音了，”可是我没有听到他们说些什么。”她的面颊上出现了一小片颜色。“我不习惯偷听人家的私下谈话。”
验尸官仍然坚持着。
“这么说你完全想不起了？一点都想不起，卡文迪什太太？使你意识到这是私下谈话的一个零星的词、零星的短语都没有？”
她踌躇了一会，似乎在考虑，外表却仍象原先一样镇静。
“对了，我想起来了。英格里桑太太说了点什么——确切的话我已记不起了——有关夫妻之间引起反目的事。”

“啊！”验尸官满意地向后一靠，”这同多卡斯听到的完全符合。可是，请原谅，卡文迪什太太，虽然你意识到这是在作私下谈话，可你并没有离开？你仍留在原地吧？”
当她抬起那双黄褐色的眼睛时，我看到了它们瞬息间的闪光。我确信，此时此刻她真乐于把这个冷嘲热讽的矮小律师撕成碎片，可是她仍非常镇静地回答说：
“不，我在那儿非常舒但，我把注意力完全集中在我的书上了。”
“这就是你能告诉我们的全部内容吗？”
“就这些了。”

审问到此结束，虽然我不相信验尸官对此完全满意。我想，他一定认为要是玛丽·卡文迪什愿意的话，她是能说出更多情况的。
接下去传讯店员艾米·希尔，她宣誓作证，十七日下午曾卖过一份遗嘱格式纸给斯泰尔斯的下级花匠威廉·埃尔。
继她传讯的是威廉·埃尔和曼宁，他们证实曾在一份证件上连署作证。曼宁断定时间是在四点半左右，威廉则认为还要早一点。
下面轮到了辛西娅·穆多契。然而，她讲得很少。在她被卡文迪什太太叫醒之前，有关这一悲剧，她一点也不知道。
“你没有听到桌子翻倒吗？”
“没有，我睡得很沉。”
验尸官笑了起来。
“心正睡得沉，”他说。“谢谢，穆多契小姐，就这些了。”
“霍华德小姐。”

霍华德小姐出示了英格里桑太太十七日傍晚给她写的一封信。当然，波洛和我都已看过这封信。它对于了解这一惨案毫无补益。下面就是这封信的内容：埃塞克斯斯泰尔斯庄园亲爱的伊夫琳：
我们不能永远忘掉那件十分难堪的事么？我觉得，要我原谅你说的那些攻击我亲爱的丈夫的话，是困难的。不过，我是个上了年纪的人了，我非常爱你。你的亲爱的埃米莉·英格里桑7月17日
信被交给了陪审团，他们都仔细地作了传阅。
“我怕这对我们并无多大帮助，”验尸官叹了一口气，说。“一点都没有提到那天下午的事情。”
“在我看来事情一清二楚，”霍华德小姐唐突地说。“它非常清楚地说明，我那可怜的老朋友好容易才发现她成了个大傻瓜！”
“信里并没有这样说，”验尸官指出。
“不，因为要埃米莉承认自己错啦，她受不了。可是我了解她。她要我回来。可她又不打算承认我是对的。她象多数人那样在兜圈子。我才不相信这一套。”
韦尔斯先生微微一笑。我发现有几个陪审团成员也是这样。霍华德小姐显然是个性情非常外露的人。
“不管怎样，现在这一套全是蠢事，都是在大大浪费时间，”小姐轻视地朝陪审团上下瞥了一眼，继续说。“讲啊——讲啊——讲啊！我们一直就清清楚楚地知道——”
验尸官极其忧虑地打断了她的话。

“谢谢，霍华德小姐，就到这里吧。”
我相信在她照办时，验尸官一定大大松了一口气。
于是，这一天的高潮到了。验尸官传药店伙计阿伯特·梅司。
这就是我们那个面色苍白，焦虑不安的年轻人。在回答验尸官的问题时，他解释说，他是个合格的药剂师，是新近来这家药店的，因为最近这家店原来的药剂师应征入伍了。
这些开场白一结束，验尸官就转入了正题。

“梅司先生，你最近把土的宁卖给未经批准的人了吗？”
“是的，先生。”
“在什么时候？”
“这个星期一晚上。”
“星期一？不是星期二？”
“不，先生，是星期一，十六号。”
“你能告诉我们卖给了什么人吗？”
这时，静得连根针落下也能听见。
“好的，先生。卖给了英格里桑先生。”
所有的目光都一齐转向阿弗雷德·英格里桑。他木然地坐着，毫无表情。当这些会导致定罪的话从这年轻人的口中说出时，他略微吃了一惊。我本来有点以为他会从椅子上站起来的，可是他仍然坐着，虽然在他的脸上现出了一种奇怪的完全象是装出的惊讶表情。
“你说的话确实么？”验尸官严肃地问道。

“完全确实，先生。”
“你惯常都这样不分青红皂白地在柜台上把士的宁卖出去的么？”
在验尸官的表示不满之下，这个可怜的年轻人显得十分颓丧。
“哦，不，先生——当然不是这样，可是，我看到是大庄园的英格里桑先生，心里想，这不会有什么问题。他说是用来毒一只狗的。”
我暗自表示同情。这只不过是人们的一种品性。竭力想巴结“大庄园”——特别是在这有可能使顾客从库特药店转到当地企业的时候。
“买毒药的人通常不是都要在一本本子上签名的么？”
“是的，先生，英格里桑先生签了。”
“你有没有把本子带来。”
“带来了，先生。”

本子交出来了，验尸官严厉地申斥了几句，然后把可怜的梅司先生打发开了。
接着，在全场鸦雀无声中，阿弗雷德·英格里桑受到传讯。我猜想，他一定意识到套着的绞索抽得离开他的脖子已经有多近了吧？
验尸官的话开门见山。
“本星期一的傍晚，你为了要毒死一只狗去买过士的宁吗？”
英格里桑非常镇静地回答说：
“没有，我没有买过，除了一只室外的护羊狗之外，
斯泰尔斯庄园里没有狗，而那只狗现在仍安然无恙。”
“你绝对否认本星期一从阿伯特·梅司那里买过土的宁吗？”
“我绝对否认。”
“这个你也否认吗？”

验尸官把那本上面有他的签名的登记簿递给了他。
“我完全否认。这笔迹和我的有很大不同。我来签给你们着。”
他从口袋里掏出一只旧信封，在上面写了自己的名字，把它交给了陪审团。确实完全不同。
“那末对于梅司先生的陈述，你有什么解释呢？”
阿弗雷德·英格里桑沉着地回答说：
“梅司先生一定是搞错了。”
验尸官犹豫了一下，然后说：
“英格里桑先生，作为纯粹是形式问题，你可否告诉我们，星期一，即七月十六号傍晚你在哪里？”
“说真的——我记不得。”
“这很可笑，英格里桑先生，”验尸官尖锐地说。
“再考虑一下吧。”
英格里桑摇摇头。

“我没法告诉你们。我想我是在外面散步。”
“往哪个方向。”
“我真的记不得了。”
验尸官的脸色变阴沉了。
“有人作伴吗？”
“没有。”
“散步时碰到过什么人吗？”
“没有。”
“真遗憾，”验尸官冷冰冰地说。“如果你拒绝说出梅司先生肯定认为你到他药店里买土的宁的时间你在哪儿，那我就要相信这一点了。”

“要是你那么愿意相信它，那就请便吧，”
“注意，英格里桑先生。”
波洛显得紧张地坐立不安。
“该死！”他低声抱怨说。“这个笨蛋是想被捕吗？”
英格里桑确实在造成一个不好的印象。他这种无益的否认就连孩子也不会相信。然而，验尸官却迅速地转到了另一个问题，至此，波洛深深地松了一口气。
“本星期二下午，你和你的妻子有过一场争论么？”

“对不起，”阿弗雷德·英格里桑打断了对方的话，“你听到的情况不正确。我并没有和我亲爱的妻子吵过架。这整个故事完全是虚构的。”那天整个下午我都不在家。”
“有人能给你证明这一点吗？”
“你可以相信我的活，”英格里桑傲慢地说。
验尸官立即回答了。
“有两个证人宣誓证明听到过你和英洛里桑太太争执。”
“那些证人弄错了。”
我被搞糊涂了。此人说话居然如此从容自信，实在使我惊愕。我着看波洛。在他的脸上有一种我所不能理解的得意的神情。”他终于承认阿弗雷德·英格里桑有罪了么？

“英格里桑先生，”验尸官说：“你已经听到在这儿重复过的你妻子临死时说的话了，对此你能作任何解释么？”
“我当然能解释。”
“你能解释？”
“这在我看来似乎很简单。那间房间光线很暗。鲍斯坦医生的身材、体态都和我差不多，而且也象我一样，留着胡子。在昏暗的光线下，在她痛苦交加中，我的可怜的妻子错把他当成我了。”
“嗨！”波洛自言自语地嘟嚷着。“这倒是个怪念头！”
“你认为这说法对？”我低声问。

“我没这么说。不过这确是个有独创性的想象。”
“你们把我妻子临终时的话看作是对我的控诉，”——英洛里桑继续说——“恰恰相反，这是在对我求助。”
验尸官沉思了一下，然后说：
“英格里桑先生，我想，那天傍晚那杯咖啡是你亲自斟了端给你妻子的吧？”
“是我斟的，是的，但是我并没有端给她。我正打算端去，有人告诉我，有个朋友到大门口了，于是我就把咖啡放在过道的桌子上，当过了一会，我再次经过过道时。咖啡已经不在了。”
这一陈述也许是真的，也许不是真的，但看来并没有使我对英格里桑的看法有多大改善。不管怎样，他都是有充分的时间来放毒药的。
就在这时，波洛用时轻轻推了推我，指指一块儿坐在门边的两个人。一个个子矮小，瘦削，黑头发，脸孔象雪貂，另一个是高个子，白脸金发。
我默然地对波洛露出疑问的目光。他贴着我的耳朵低声说：
“你知道那小个子是谁？”

我摇摇头。
“他是伦敦警察厅的侦探巡官詹姆士·贾普——吉米·贾普②，另一个也是伦敦警察厅的，事情进展得很快啊，我的朋友。”
我目不转睛地朝那两人看着，他们完全看不出是警察的模样，我毫不怀疑他们一定是官方的人物。
我还在看着，突然被陪审团宣布的裁决吓了一跳，而唤醒过来：
“此谋杀案为某人或某些人所为，尚未查明。”

注释：
①英美最小的重量单位，1喱等于64.8毫克。
②吉米为詹姆士的昵称。

引用

Chapter 5

"It isn't strychnine, is it? "
"Where did you find this?" I asked Poirot, in lively curiosity.
"In the waste-paper basket. You recognise the handwriting?"
"Yes, it is Mrs. Inglethorp's. But what does it mean?"
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"I cannot say--but it is suggestive."

A wild idea flashed across me. Was it possible that Mrs. Inglethorp's mind was deranged? Had she some fantastic idea of demoniacal possession? And, if that were so, was it not also possible that she might have taken her own life?
I was about to expound these theories to Poirot, when his own words distracted me.
"Come," he said, "now to examine the coffee-cups!"
"My dear Poirot! What on earth is the good of that, now that we know about the coco?"
"Oh, la la! That miserable coco!" cried Poirot flippantly.
He laughed with apparent enjoyment, raising his arms to heaven in mock despair, in what I could not but consider the worst possible taste.

"And, anyway," I said, with increasing coldness, "as Mrs. Inglethorp took her coffee upstairs with her, I do not see what you expect to find, unless you consider it likely that we shall discover a packet of strychnine on the coffee tray!"
Poirot was sobered at once.
"Come, come, my friend," he said, slipping his arms through mine. "Ne vous fachez pas! Allow me to interest myself in my coffee-cups, and I will respect your coco. There! Is it a bargain?"
He was so quaintly humorous that I was forced to laugh; and we went together to the drawing-room, where the coffee-cups and tray remained undisturbed as we had left them.
Poirot made me recapitulate the scene of the night before, listening very carefully, and verifying the position of the various cups.

"So Mrs. Cavendish stood by the tray--and poured out. Yes. Then she came across to the window where you sat with Mademoiselle Cynthia. Yes. Here are the three cups. And the cup on the mantel-piece, half drunk, that would be Mr. Lawrence Cavendish's. And the one on the tray?"
"John Cavendish's. I saw him put it down there."
"Good. One, two, three, four, five--but where, then, is the cup of Mr. Inglethorp?"
"He does not take coffee."
"Then all are accounted for. One moment, my friend."
With infinite care, he took a drop or two from the grounds in each cup, sealing them up in separate test tubes, tasting each in turn as he did so. His physiognomy underwent a curious change. An expression gathered there that I can only describe as half puzzled, and half relieved.
"Bien!" he said at last. "It is evident! I had an idea--but clearly I was mistaken. Yes, altogether I was mistaken. Yet it is strange. But no matter!"
And, with a characteristic shrug, he dismissed whatever it was that was worrying him from his mind. I could have told him from the beginning that this obsession of his over the coffee was bound to end in a blind alley, but I restrained my tongue. After all, though he was old, Poirot had been a great man in his day.

"Breakfast is ready," said John Cavendish, coming in from the hall. "You will breakfast with us, Monsieur Poirot?"
Poirot acquiesced. I observed John. Already he was almost restored to his normal self. The shock of the events of the last night had upset him temporarily, but his equable poise soon swung back to the normal. He was a man of very little imagination, in sharp contrast with his brother, who had, perhaps, too much.

Ever since the early hours of the morning, John had been hard at work, sending telegrams--one of the first had gone to Evelyn Howard--writing notices for the papers, and generally occupying himself with the melancholy duties that a death entails.
"May I ask how things are proceeding?" he said. "Do your investigations point to my mother having died a natural death-- or--or must we prepare ourselves for the worst?"
"I think, Mr. Cavendish," said Poirot gravely, "that you would do well not to buoy yourself up with any false hopes. Can you tell me the views of the other members of the family?"
"My brother Lawrence is convinced that we are making a fuss over nothing. He says that everything points to its being a simple case of heart failure."
"He does, does he? That is very interesting--very interesting," murmured Poirot softly. "And Mrs. Cavendish?"
A faint cloud passed over John's face.
"I have not the least idea what my wife's views on the subject are."

The answer brought a momentary stiffness in its train. John broke the rather awkward silence by saying with a slight effort:
"I told you, didn't I, that Mr. Inglethorp has returned?"
Poirot bent his head.
"It's an awkward position for all of us. Of course one has to treat him as usual--but, hang it all, one's gorge does rise at sitting down to eat with a possible murderer!"
Poirot nodded sympathetically.
"I quite understand. It is a very difficult situation for you, Mr. Cavendish. I would like to ask you one question. Mr. Inglethorp's reason for not returning last night was, I believe, that he had forgotten the latch-key. Is not that so?"
"Yes."
"I suppose you are quite sure that the latch-key _was_ forgotten--that he did not take it after all?"
"I have no idea. I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall drawer. I'll go and see if it's there now."

Poirot held up his hand with a faint smile.
"No, no, Mr. Cavendish, it is too late now. I am certain that you would find it. If Mr. Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to replace it by now."
"But do you think----"
"I think nothing. If anyone had chanced to look this morning before his return, and seen it there, it would have been a valuable point in his favour. That is all."
John looked perplexed.
"Do not worry," said Poirot smoothly. "I assure you that you need not let it trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast."
Every one was assembled in the dining-room. Under the circumstances, we were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were all suffering from it. Decorum and good breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should be much as usual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really a matter of great difficulty. There were no red eyes, no signs of secretly indulged grief. I felt that I was right in my opinion that Dorcas was the person most affected by the personal side of the tragedy.

I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in a manner that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know that we suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not be unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring of fear, or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a marked man.
But did every one suspect him? What about Mrs. Cavendish? I watched her as she sat at the head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. In her soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she chose, however, her face could be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent, hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great strength of her personality was dominating us all.

And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, I thought. The heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. I asked her if she were feeling ill, and she answered frankly:
"Yes, I've got the most beastly headache."
"Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?" said Poirot solicitously. "It will revive you. It is unparalleled for the mal de tete." He jumped up and took her cup.
"No sugar," said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the sugar-tongs.
"No sugar? You abandon it in the war-time, eh?"
"No, I never take it in coffee."
"Sacre!" murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back the replenished cup.
Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I saw that his face was working with suppressed excitement, and his eyes were as green as a cat's. He had heard or seen something that had affected him strongly--but what was it? I do not usually label myself as dense, but I must confess that nothing out of the ordinary had attracted _my_ attention.
In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared.

"Mr. Wells to see you, sir," she said to John.
I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer to whom Mrs. Inglethorp had written the night before.
John rose immediately.
"Show him into my study." Then he turned to us. "My mother's lawyer," he explained. And in a lower voice: "He is also Coroner--you understand. Perhaps you would like to come with me?"
We acquiesced and followed him out of the room. John strode on ahead and I took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot:
"There will be an inquest then?"
Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so that my curiosity was aroused.

"What is it? You are not attending to what I say."
"It is true, my friend. I am much worried."
"Why?"
"Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee."
"What? You cannot be serious?"
"But I am most serious. Ah, there is something there that I do not understand. My instinct was right."
"What instinct?"
"The instinct that led me to insist on examining those coffee-cups. Chut! no more now!"
We followed John into his study, and he closed the door behind us.
Mr. Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with keen eyes, and the typical lawyer's mouth. John introduced us both, and explained the reason of our presence.
"You will understand, Wells," he added, "that this is all strictly private. We are still hoping that there will turn out to be no need for investigation of any kind."

"Quite so, quite so," said Mr. Wells soothingly. "I wish we could have spared you the pain and publicity of an inquest, but of course it's quite unavoidable in the absence of a doctor's certificate."
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe."
"Indeed," said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Then he added rather hesitatingly: "Shall we have to appear as witnesses--all of us, I mean?"
"You, of course--and ah--er--Mr.--er--Inglethorp."
A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner:
"Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form."
"I see."
A faint expression of relief swept over John's face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it.
"If you know of nothing to the contrary," pursued Mr. Wells, "I had thought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor's report. The post-mortem is to take place to-night, I believe?"
"Yes."
"Then that arrangement will suit you?"

"Perfectly."
"I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most tragic affair."
"Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?" interposed Poirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered the room.
"I?"
"Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning."
"I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great importance."
"She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?"
"Unfortunately, no."
"That is a pity," said John.
"A great pity," agreed Poirot gravely.
There was silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes. Finally he turned to the lawyer again.
"Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you--that is, if it is not against professional etiquette. In the event of Mrs. Inglethorp's death, who would inherit her money?"

The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied:
"The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr. Cavendish does not object----"
"Not at all," interpolated John.
"I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. By her last will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legacies to servants, etc., she gave her entire fortune to her stepson, Mr. John Cavendish."
"Was not that--pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish--rather unfair to her other stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?"
"No, I do not think so. You see, under the terms of their father's will, while John inherited the property, Lawrence, at his stepmother's death, would come into a considerable sum of money. Mrs. Inglethorp left her money to her elder stepson, knowing that he would have to keep up Styles. It was, to my mind, a very fair and equitable distribution."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

"I see. But I am right in saying, am I not, that by your English law that will was automatically revoked when Mrs. Inglethorp remarried?"
Mr. Wells bowed his head.
"As I was about to proceed, Monsieur Poirot, that document is now null and void."
"Hein!" said Poirot. He reflected for a moment, and then asked: "Was Mrs. Inglethorp herself aware of that fact?"
"I do not know. She may have been."
"She was," said John unexpectedly. "We were discussing the matter of wills being revoked by marriage only yesterday."
"Ah! One more question, Mr. Wells. You say 'her last will.' Had Mrs. Inglethorp, then, made several former wills?"
"On an average, she made a new will at least once a year," said Mr. Wells imperturbably. "She was given to changing her mind as to her testamentary dispositions, now benefiting one, now another member of her family."
"Suppose," suggested Poirot, "that, unknown to you, she had made a new will in favour of some one who was not, in any sense of the word, a member of the family--we will say Miss Howard, for instance--would you be surprised?"

"Not in the least."
"Ah!" Poirot seemed to have exhausted his questions.
I drew close to him, while John and the lawyer were debating the question of going through Mrs. Inglethorp's papers.
"Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp made a will leaving all her money to Miss Howard?" I asked in a low voice, with some curiosity.
Poirot smiled.
"No."
"Then why did you ask?"
"Hush!"
John Cavendish had turned to Poirot.
"Will you come with us, Monsieur Poirot? We are going through my mother's papers. Mr. Inglethorp is quite willing to leave it entirely to Mr. Wells and myself."
"Which simplifies matters very much," murmured the lawyer. "As technically, of course, he was entitled----" He did not finish the sentence.
"We will look through the desk in the boudoir first," explained John, "and go up to her bedroom afterwards. She kept her most important papers in a purple despatch-case, which we must look through carefully."

"Yes," said the lawyer, "it is quite possible that there may be a later will than the one in my possession."
"There _is_ a later will." It was Poirot who spoke.
"What?" John and the lawyer looked at him startled.
"Or, rather," pursued my friend imperturbably, "there _was_ one."
"What do you mean--there was one? Where is it now?"
"Burnt!"
"Burnt?"
"Yes. See here." He took out the charred fragment we had found in the grate in Mrs. Inglethorp's room, and handed it to the lawyer with a brief explanation of when and where he had found it.
"But possibly this is an old will?"
"I do not think so. In fact I am almost certain that it was made no earlier than yesterday afternoon."
"What?" "Impossible!" broke simultaneously from both men.
Poirot turned to John.

"If you will allow me to send for your gardener, I will prove it to you."
"Oh, of course--but I don't see----"
Poirot raised his hand.
"Do as I ask you. Afterwards you shall question as much as you please."
"Very well." He rang the bell.
Dorcas answered it in due course.
"Dorcas, will you tell Manning to come round and speak to me here."
"Yes, sir."
Dorcas withdrew.

We waited in a tense silence. Poirot alone seemed perfectly at his ease, and dusted a forgotten corner of the bookcase.
The clumping of hobnailed boots on the gravel outside proclaimed the approach of Manning. John looked questioningly at Poirot. The latter nodded.
"Come inside, Manning," said John, "I want to speak to you."
Manning came slowly and hesitatingly through the French window, and stood as near it as he could. He held his cap in his hands, twisting it very carefully round and round. His back was much bent, though he was probably not as old as he looked, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent, and belied his slow and rather cautious speech.
"Manning," said John, "this gentleman will put some questions to you which I want you to answer."
"Yes sir," mumbled Manning.

Poirot stepped forward briskly. Manning's eye swept over him with a faint contempt.
"You were planting a bed of begonias round by the south side of the house yesterday afternoon, were you not, Manning?"
"Yes, sir, me and Willum."
"And Mrs. Inglethorp came to the window and called you, did she not?"
"Yes, sir, she did."
"Tell me in your own words exactly what happened after that."
"Well, sir, nothing much. She just told Willum to go on his bicycle down to the village, and bring back a form of will, or such-like--I don't know what exactly--she wrote it down for him."
"Well?"
"Well, he did, sir."
"And what happened next?"
"We went on with the begonias, sir."
"Did not Mrs. Inglethorp call you again?"
"Yes, sir, both me and Willum, she called."
"And then?"

"She made us come right in, and sign our names at the bottom of a long paper--under where she'd signed."
"Did you see anything of what was written above her signature?" asked Poirot sharply.
"No, sir, there was a bit of blotting paper over that part."
"And you signed where she told you?"
"Yes, sir, first me and then Willum."
"What did she do with it afterwards?"
"Well, sir, she slipped it into a long envelope, and put it inside a sort of purple box that was standing on the desk."
"What time was it when she first called you?"
"About four, I should say, sir."
"Not earlier? Couldn't it have been about half-past three?"
"No, I shouldn't say so, sir. It would be more likely to be a bit after four--not before it."

"Thank you, Manning, that will do," said Poirot pleasantly.
The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manning lifted a finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backed cautiously out of the window.
We all looked at each other.
"Good heavens!" murmured John. "What an extraordinary coincidence."
"How--a coincidence?"
"That my mother should have made a will on the very day of her death!"
Mr. Wells cleared his throat and remarked drily:
"Are you so sure it is a coincidence, Cavendish?"
"What do you mean?"

"Your mother, you tell me, had a violent quarrel with--some one yesterday afternoon----"
"What do you mean?" cried John again. There was a tremor in his voice, and he had gone very pale.
"In consequence of that quarrel, your mother very suddenly and hurriedly makes a new will. The contents of that will we shall never know. She told no one of its provisions. This morning, no doubt, she would have consulted me on the subject--but she had no chance. The will disappears, and she takes its secret with her to her grave. Cavendish, I much fear there is no coincidence there. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that the facts are very suggestive."

"Suggestive, or not," interrupted John, "we are most grateful to Monsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we should never have known of this will. I suppose, I may not ask you, monsieur, what first led you to suspect the fact?"
Poirot smiled and answered:
"A scribbled over old envelope, and a freshly planted bed of begonias."
John, I think, would have pressed his questions further, but at that moment the loud purr of a motor was audible, and we all turned to the window as it swept past.
"Evie!" cried John. "Excuse me, Wells." He went hurriedly out into the hall.
Poirot looked inquiringly at me.
"Miss Howard," I explained.

"Ah, I am glad she has come. There is a woman with a head and a heart too, Hastings. Though the good God gave her no beauty!"
I followed John's example, and went out into the hall, where Miss Howard was endeavouring to extricate herself from the voluminous mass of veils that enveloped her head. As her eyes fell on me, a sudden pang of guilt shot through me. This was the woman who had warned me so earnestly, and to whose warning I had, alas, paid no heed! How soon, and how contemptuously, I had dismissed it from my mind. Now that she had been proved justified in so tragic a manner, I felt ashamed. She had known Alfred Inglethorp only too well. I wondered whether, if she had remained at Styles, the tragedy would have taken place, or would the man have feared her watchful eyes?
I was relieved when she shook me by the hand, with her well remembered painful grip. The eyes that met mine were sad, but not reproachful; that she had been crying bitterly, I could tell by the redness of her eyelids, but her manner was unchanged from its old gruffness.
"Started the moment I got the wire. Just come off night duty. Hired car. Quickest way to get here."
"Have you had anything to eat this morning, Evie?" asked John.
"No."

"I thought not. Come along, breakfast's not cleared away yet, and they'll make you some fresh tea." He turned to me. "Look after her, Hastings, will you? Wells is waiting for me. Oh, here's Monsieur Poirot. He's helping us, you know, Evie."
Miss Howard shook hands with Poirot, but glanced suspiciously over her shoulder at John.
"What do you mean--helping us?"
"Helping us to investigate."
"Nothing to investigate. Have they taken him to prison yet?"
"Taken who to prison?"
"Who? Alfred Inglethorp, of course!"
"My dear Evie, do be careful. Lawrence is of the opinion that my mother died from heart seizure."
"More fool, Lawrence!" retorted Miss Howard. "Of course Alfred Inglethorp murdered poor Emily--as I always told you he would."
"My dear Evie, don't shout so. Whatever we may think or suspect, it is better to say as little as possible for the present. The inquest isn't until Friday."
"Not until fiddlesticks!" The snort Miss Howard gave was truly magnificent. "You're all off your heads. The man will be out of the country by then. If he's any sense, he won't stay here tamely and wait to be hanged."
John Cavendish looked at her helplessly.

"I know what it is," she accused him, "you've been listening to the doctors. Never should. What do they know? Nothing at all--or just enough to make them dangerous. I ought to know--my own father was a doctor. That little Wilkins is about the greatest fool that even I have ever seen. Heart seizure! Sort of thing he would say. Anyone with any sense could see at once that her husband had poisoned her. I always said he'd murder her in her bed, poor soul. Now he's done it. And all you can do is to murmur silly things about 'heart seizure' and 'inquest on Friday.' You ought to be ashamed of yourself, John Cavendish."
"What do you want me to do?" asked John, unable to help a faint smile. "Dash it all, Evie, I can't haul him down to the local police station by the scruff of his neck."

"Well, you might do something. Find out how he did it. He's a crafty beggar. Dare say he soaked fly papers. Ask Cook if she's missed any."
It occurred to me very forcibly at that moment that to harbour Miss Howard and Alfred Inglethorp under the same roof, and keep the peace between them, was likely to prove a Herculean task, and I did not envy John. I could see by the expression of his face that he fully appreciated the difficulty of the position. For the moment, he sought refuge in retreat, and left the room precipitately.
Dorcas brought in fresh tea. As she left the room, Poirot came over from the window where he had been standing, and sat down facing Miss Howard.

"Mademoiselle," he said gravely, "I want to ask you something."
"Ask away," said the lady, eyeing him with some disfavour.
"I want to be able to count upon your help."
"I'll help you to hang Alfred with pleasure," she replied gruffly. "Hanging's too good for him. Ought to be drawn and quartered, like in good old times."
"We are at one then," said Poirot, "for I, too, want to hang the criminal."
"Alfred Inglethorp?"
"Him, or another."

"No question of another. Poor Emily was never murdered until _he_ came along. I don't say she wasn't surrounded by sharks--she was. But it was only her purse they were after. Her life was safe enough. But along comes Mr. Alfred Inglethorp--and within two months--hey presto!"
"Believe me, Miss Howard," said Poirot very earnestly, "if Mr. Inglethorp is the man, he shall not escape me. On my honour, I will hang him as high as Haman!"
"That's better," said Miss Howard more enthusiastically.
"But I must ask you to trust me. Now your help may be very valuable to me. I will tell you why. Because, in all this house of mourning, yours are the only eyes that have wept."

Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into the gruffness of her voice.
"If you mean that I was fond of her--yes, I was. You know, Emily was a selfish old woman in her way. She was very generous, but she always wanted a return. She never let people forget what she had done for them--and, that way she missed love. Don't think she ever realized it, though, or felt the lack of it. Hope not, anyway. I was on a different footing. I took my stand from the first. 'So many pounds a year I'm worth to you. Well and good. But not a penny piece besides--not a pair of gloves, nor a theatre ticket.' She didn't understand--was very offended sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasn't that--but I couldn't explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, out of the whole bunch, I was the only one who could allow myself to be fond of her. I watched over her. I guarded her from the lot of them, and then a glib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh! all my years of devotion go for nothing."
Poirot nodded sympathetically.

"I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It is most natural. You think that we are lukewarm--that we lack fire and energy--but trust me, it is not so."
John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both to come up to Mrs. Inglethorp's room, as he and Mr. Wells had finished looking through the desk in the boudoir.
As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining-room door, and lowered his voice confidentially:
"Look here, what's going to happen when these two meet?"
I shook my head helplessly.
"I've told Mary to keep them apart if she can."
"Will she be able to do so?"
"The Lord only knows. There's one thing, Inglethorp himself won't be too keen on meeting her."
"You've got the keys still, haven't you, Poirot?" I asked, as we reached the door of the locked room.
Taking the keys from Poirot, John unlocked it, and we all passed in. The lawyer went straight to the desk, and John followed him.
"My mother kept most of her important papers in this despatch-case, I believe," he said.
Poirot drew out the small bunch of keys.

"Permit me. I locked it, out of precaution, this morning."
"But it's not locked now."
"Impossible!"
"See." And John lifted the lid as he spoke.
"Milles tonnerres!" cried Poirot, dumfounded. "And I--who have both the keys in my pocket!" He flung himself upon the case. Suddenly he stiffened. "En voila une affaire! This lock has been forced."
"What?"
Poirot laid down the case again.
"But who forced it? Why should they? When? But the door was locked?" These exclamations burst from us disjointedly.
Poirot answered them categorically--almost mechanically.

"Who? That is the question. Why? Ah, if I only knew. When? Since I was here an hour ago. As to the door being locked, it is a very ordinary lock. Probably any other of the doorkeys in this passage would fit it."
We stared at one another blankly. Poirot had walked over to the mantel-piece. He was outwardly calm, but I noticed his hands, which from long force of habit were mechanically straightening the spill vases on the mantel-piece, were shaking violently.
"See here, it was like this," he said at last. "There was something in that case--some piece of evidence, slight in itself perhaps, but still enough of a clue to connect the murderer with the crime. It was vital to him that it should be destroyed before it was discovered and its significance appreciated. Therefore, he took the risk, the great risk, of coming in here. Finding the case locked, he was obliged to force it, thus betraying his presence. For him to take that risk, it must have been something of great importance."
"But what was it?"

"Ah!" cried Poirot, with a gesture of anger. "That, I do not know! A document of some kind, without doubt, possibly the scrap of paper Dorcas saw in her hand yesterday afternoon. And I--" his anger burst forth freely--"miserable animal that I am! I guessed nothing! I have behaved like an imbecile! I should never have left that case here. I should have carried it away with me. Ah, triple pig! And now it is gone. It is destroyed--but is it destroyed? Is there not yet a chance--we must leave no stone unturned--"
He rushed like a madman from the room, and I followed him as soon as I had sufficiently recovered my wits. But, by the time I had reached the top of the stairs, he was out of sight.
Mary Cavendish was standing where the staircase branched, staring down into the hall in the direction in which he had disappeared.
"What has happened to your extraordinary little friend, Mr. Hastings? He has just rushed past me like a mad bull."
"He's rather upset about something," I remarked feebly. I really did not know how much Poirot would wish me to disclose. As I saw a faint smile gather on Mrs. Cavendish's expressive mouth, I endeavoured to try and turn the conversation by saying: "They haven't met yet, have they?"

"Who?"
"Mr. Inglethorp and Miss Howard."
She looked at me in rather a disconcerting manner.
"Do you think it would be such a disaster if they did meet?"
"Well, don't you?" I said, rather taken aback.
"No." She was smiling in her quiet way. "I should like to see a good flare up. It would clear the air. At present we are all thinking so much, and saying so little."
"John doesn't think so," I remarked. "He's anxious to keep them apart."
"Oh, John!"
Something in her tone fired me, and I blurted out:
"Old John's an awfully good sort."
She studied me curiously for a minute or two, and then said, to my great surprise:
"You are loyal to your friend. I like you for that."
"Aren't you my friend too?"
"I am a very bad friend."
"Why do you say that?"
"Because it is true. I am charming to my friends one day, and forget all about them the next."
I don't know what impelled me, but I was nettled, and I said foolishly and not in the best of taste:
"Yet you seem to be invariably charming to Dr. Bauerstein!"

Instantly I regretted my words. Her face stiffened. I had the impression of a steel curtain coming down and blotting out the real woman. Without a word, she turned and went swiftly up the stairs, whilst I stood like an idiot gaping after her.
I was recalled to other matters by a frightful row going on below. I could hear Poirot shouting and expounding. I was vexed to think that my diplomacy had been in vain. The little man appeared to be taking the whole house into his confidence, a proceeding of which I, for one, doubted the wisdom. Once again I could not help regretting that my friend was so prone to lose his head in moments of excitement. I stepped briskly down the stairs. The sight of me calmed Poirot almost immediately. I drew him aside.

"My dear fellow," I said, "is this wise? Surely you don't want the whole house to know of this occurrence? You are actually playing into the criminal's hands."
"You think so, Hastings?"
"I am sure of it."
"Well, well, my friend, I will be guided by you."
"Good. Although, unfortunately, it is a little too late now."
"Sure."
He looked so crestfallen and abashed that I felt quite sorry, though I still thought my rebuke a just and wise one.
"Well," he said at last, "let us go, mon ami."
"You have finished here?"
"For the moment, yes. You will walk back with me to the village?"
"Willingly."

He picked up his little suit-case, and we went out through the open window in the drawing-room. Cynthia Murdoch was just coming in, and Poirot stood aside to let her pass.
"Excuse me, mademoiselle, one minute."
"Yes?" she turned inquiringly.
"Did you ever make up Mrs. Inglethorp's medicines?"
A slight flush rose in her face, as she answered rather constrainedly:
"No."
"Only her powders?"
The flush deepened as Cynthia replied:
"Oh, yes, I did make up some sleeping powders for her once."
"These?"
Poirot produced the empty box which had contained powders.
She nodded.
"Can you tell me what they were? Sulphonal? Veronal?"
"No, they were bromide powders."
"Ah! Thank you, mademoiselle; good morning."

As we walked briskly away from the house, I glanced at him more than once. I had often before noticed that, if anything excited him, his eyes turned green like a cat's. They were shining like emeralds now.
"My friend," he broke out at last, "I have a little idea, a very strange, and probably utterly impossible idea. And yet--it fits in."
I shrugged my shoulders. I privately thought that Poirot was rather too much given to these fantastic ideas. In this case, surely, the truth was only too plain and apparent.
"So that is the explanation of the blank label on the box," I remarked. "Very simple, as you said. I really wonder that I did not think of it myself."
Poirot did not appear to be listening to me.
"They have made one more discovery, la-bas," he observed, jerking his thumb over his shoulder in the direction of Styles. "Mr. Wells told me as we were going upstairs."
"What was it?"

"Locked up in the desk in the boudoir, they found a will of Mrs. Inglethorp's, dated before her marriage, leaving her fortune to Alfred Inglethorp. It must have been made just at the time they were engaged. It came quite as a surprise to Wells--and to John Cavendish also. It was written on one of those printed will forms, and witnessed by two of the servants--not Dorcas."
"Did Mr. Inglethorp know of it?"
"He says not."
"One might take that with a grain of salt," I remarked sceptically. "All these wills are very confusing. Tell me, how did those scribbled words on the envelope help you to discover that a will was made yesterday afternoon?"
Poirot smiled.
"Mon ami, have you ever, when writing a letter, been arrested by the fact that you did not know how to spell a certain word?"
"Yes, often. I suppose every one has."

"Exactly. And have you not, in such a case, tried the word once or twice on the edge of the blotting-paper, or a spare scrap of paper, to see if it looked right? Well, that is what Mrs. Inglethorp did. You will notice that the word 'possessed' is spelt first with one 's' and subsequently with two--correctly. To make sure, she had further tried it in a sentence, thus: 'I am possessed.' Now, what did that tell me? It told me that Mrs. Inglethorp had been writing the word 'possessed' that afternoon, and, having the fragment of paper found in the grate fresh in my mind, the possibility of a will--(a document almost certain to contain that word)--occurred to me at once. This possibility was confirmed by a further circumstance. In the general confusion, the boudoir had not been swept that morning, and near the desk were several traces of brown mould and earth. The weather had been perfectly fine for some days, and no ordinary boots would have left such a heavy deposit.

"I strolled to the window, and saw at once that the begonia beds had been newly planted. The mould in the beds was exactly similar to that on the floor of the boudoir, and also I learnt from you that they had been planted yesterday afternoon. I was now sure that one, or possibly both of the gardeners--for there were two sets of footprints in the bed--had entered the boudoir, for if Mrs. Inglethorp had merely wished to speak to them she would in all probability have stood at the window, and they would not have come into the room at all. I was now quite convinced that she had made a fresh will, and had called the two gardeners in to witness her signature. Events proved that I was right in my supposition."
"That was very ingenious," I could not help admitting. "I must confess that the conclusions I drew from those few scribbled words were quite erroneous."
He smiled.
"You gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely."

"Another point--how did you know that the key of the despatch-case had been lost?"
"I did not know it. It was a guess that turned out to be correct. You observed that it had a piece of twisted wire through the handle. That suggested to me at once that it had possibly been wrenched off a flimsy key-ring. Now, if it had been lost and recovered, Mrs. Inglethorp would at once have replaced it on her bunch; but on her bunch I found what was obviously the duplicate key, very new and bright, which led me to the hypothesis that somebody else had inserted the original key in the lock of the despatch-case."
"Yes," I said, "Alfred Inglethorp, without doubt."
Poirot looked at me curiously.
"You are very sure of his guilt?"
"Well, naturally. Every fresh circumstance seems to establish it more clearly."
"On the contrary," said Poirot quietly, "there are several points in his favour."
"Oh, come now!"
"Yes."
"I see only one."
"And that?"
"That he was not in the house last night."
" 'Bad shot!' as you English say! You have chosen the one point that to my mind tells against him."
"How is that?"
"Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisoned last night, he would certainly have arranged to be away from the house. His excuse was an obviously trumped up one. That leaves us two possibilities: either he knew what was going to happen or he had a reason of his own for his absence."

"And that reason?" I asked sceptically.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
"How should I know? Discreditable, without doubt. This Mr. Inglethorp, I should say, is somewhat of a scoundrel--but that does not of necessity make him a murderer."
I shook my head, unconvinced.
"We do not agree, eh?" said Poirot. "Well, let us leave it. Time will show which of us is right. Now let us turn to other aspects of the case. What do you make of the fact that all the doors of the bedroom were bolted on the inside?"
"Well----" I considered. "One must look at it logically."
"True."

"I should put it this way. The doors _were_ bolted--our own eyes have told us that--yet the presence of the candle grease on the floor, and the destruction of the will, prove that during the night some one entered the room. You agree so far?"
"Perfectly. Put with admirable clearness. Proceed."
"Well," I said, encouraged, "as the person who entered did not do so by the window, nor by miraculous means, it follows that the door must have been opened from inside by Mrs. Inglethorp herself. That strengthens the conviction that the person in question was her husband. She would naturally open the door to her own husband."

Poirot shook his head.
"Why should she? She had bolted the door leading into his room--a most unusual proceeding on her part--she had had a most violent quarrel with him that very afternoon. No, he was the last person she would admit."
"But you agree with me that the door must have been opened by Mrs. Inglethorp herself?"
"There is another possibility. She may have forgotten to bolt the door into the passage when she went to bed, and have got up later, towards morning, and bolted it then."
"Poirot, is that seriously your opinion?"
"No, I do not say it is so, but it might be. Now, to turn to another feature, what do you make of the scrap of conversation you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law?"

"I had forgotten that," I said thoughtfully. "That is as enigmatical as ever. It seems incredible that a woman like Mrs. Cavendish, proud and reticent to the last degree, should interfere so violently in what was certainly not her affair."
"Precisely. It was an astonishing thing for a woman of her breeding to do."
"It is certainly curious," I agreed. "Still, it is unimportant, and need not be taken into account."
A groan burst from Poirot.
"What have I always told you? Everything must be taken into account. If the fact will not fit the theory--let the theory go."
"Well, we shall see," I said, nettled.
"Yes, we shall see."
We had reached Leastways Cottage, and Poirot ushered me upstairs to his own room. He offered me one of the tiny Russian cigarettes he himself occasionally smoked. I was amused to notice that he stowed away the used matches most carefully in a little china pot. My momentary annoyance vanished.
Poirot had placed our two chairs in front of the open window which commanded a view of the village street. The fresh air blew in warm and pleasant. It was going to be a hot day.
Suddenly my attention was arrested by a weedy looking young man rushing down the street at a great pace. It was the expression on his face that was extraordinary--a curious mingling of terror and agitation.
"Look, Poirot!" I said.
He leant forward.

"Tiens!" he said. "It is Mr. Mace, from the chemist's shop. He is coming here."
The young man came to a halt before Leastways Cottage, and, after hesitating a moment, pounded vigorously at the door.
"A little minute," cried Poirot from the window. "I come."
Motioning to me to follow him, he ran swiftly down the stairs and opened the door. Mr. Mace began at once.
"Oh, Mr. Poirot, I'm sorry for the inconvenience, but I heard that you'd just come back from the Hall?"
"Yes, we have."
The young man moistened his dry lips. His face was working curiously.
"It's all over the village about old Mrs. Inglethorp dying so suddenly. They do say--" he lowered his voice cautiously--"that it's poison?"
Poirot's face remained quite impassive.
"Only the doctors can tell us that, Mr. Mace."
"Yes, exactly--of course----" The young man hesitated, and then his agitation was too much for him. He clutched Poirot by the arm, and sank his voice to a whisper: "Just tell me this, Mr. Poirot, it isn't--it isn't strychnine, is it?"
I hardly heard what Poirot replied. Something evidently of a non-committal nature. The young man departed, and as he closed the door Poirot's eyes met mine.

"Yes," he said, nodding gravely. "He will have evidence to give at the inquest."
We went slowly upstairs again. I was opening my lips, when Poirot stopped me with a gesture of his hand.
"Not now, not now, mon ami. I have need of reflection. My mind is in some disorder--which is not well."
For about ten minutes he sat in dead silence, perfectly still, except for several expressive motions of his eyebrows, and all the time his eyes grew steadily greener. At last he heaved a deep sigh.
"It is well. The bad moment has passed. Now all is arranged and classified. One must never permit confusion. The case is not clear yet--no. For it is of the most complicated! It puzzles _me_. _Me_, Hercule Poirot! There are two facts of significance."
"And what are they?"
"The first is the state of the weather yesterday. That is very important."
"But it was a glorious day!" I interrupted. "Poirot, you're pulling my leg!"
"Not at all. The thermometer registered 80 degrees in the shade. Do not forget that, my friend. It is the key to the whole riddle!"
"And the second point?" I asked.

"The important fact that Monsieur Inglethorp wears very peculiar clothes, has a black beard, and uses glasses."
"Poirot, I cannot believe you are serious."
"I am absolutely serious, my friend."
"But this is childish!"
"No, it is very momentous."
"And supposing the Coroner's jury returns a verdict of Wilful Murder against Alfred Inglethorp. What becomes of your theories, then?"
"They would not be shaken because twelve stupid men had happened to make a mistake! But that will not occur. For one thing, a country jury is not anxious to take responsibility upon itself, and Mr. Inglethorp stands practically in the position of local squire. Also," he added placidly, "I should not allow it!"

"_You_ would not allow it?"
"No."
I looked at the extraordinary little man, divided between annoyance and amusement. He was so tremendously sure of himself. As though he read my thoughts, he nodded gently.
"Oh, yes, mon ami, I would do what I say." He got up and laid his hand on my shoulder. His physiognomy underwent a complete change. Tears came into his eyes. "In all this, you see, I think of that poor Mrs. Inglethorp who is dead. She was not extravagantly loved--no. But she was very good to us Belgians--I owe her a debt."
I endeavoured to interrupt, but Poirot swept on.
"Let me tell you this, Hastings. She would never forgive me if I let Alfred Inglethorp, her husband, be arrested now--when a word from me could save him!"


“你在哪儿找到这东西的？”我问波洛，感到很奇怪。
“在废纸篓里。你认得这笔迹？”
“是的，这是英格里桑太大的笔迹。可是这是什么意思呢？”
波洛耸了耸自己的肩膀。
“我说不出——可是这是有启发的。”
我的脑子里闪过一个荒诞的念头。可能是英格里桑太太神经失常了吧？她是不是由于着了魔而有了某种古怪的念头？如果是这样，那是不是也有可能是她自己结果了自己的生命呢？
我正想对波洛说出这些推测，可是他的话又把我搞糊涂了。
“喂，”他说，“现在去检查那些咖啡杯吧！”
“亲爱的波洛，我们已知道可可的情况了，查那东西究竟有什么用处？”
“嗨！那倒霉的可可啊！”波洛轻浮地叫了起来。

他满脸高兴地笑着，伪装绝望地把双手举向天空。我当然不应该这样想，可我认为这种举止也许是最粗俗的了。
“可是，不管怎样，”我说道，语气更加冷淡了，“尽管英格里桑太大自己又把咖啡端到楼上去，可我看你别指望能发现什么了，除非你认为有可能我们会在咖啡托盘里发现一小包士的宁！”
波洛立刻变得严肃了。
“得啦，得啦，我的朋友，”他挽住我的手臂说道，“别生气了！你就允许我对我的咖啡怀发生兴趣吧。我也一定尊重你的可可。好！这下成交了吧？”
他如此风趣幽默，逗得我不得不笑了；于是我们一起走向客厅。咖啡杯和托盘仍象我们离开时那样静静地在那儿摆着。
波洛要我扼要叙述一下前一天晚上的情况，他听得很仔细，还核实了每只杯子的位置。

“这么说，卡文迪什太太站在那茶盘旁边——斟咖啡。嗯。后来，她走到窗口你同辛西娅小姐坐的地方。对了。这儿有三只杯子。壁炉台上那怀喝了一半的，是劳伦斯·卡文迪什先生的。那末茶盘里的一只呢？”
“是约翰·卡文迪什的。我看他放在那儿的。”
“好。一、二、三、四、五——那末英格里桑先生的杯子呢？”
“他没喝咖啡。”
“那就全弄清楚了。等一等，朋友。”
他小心翼翼地从每只杯底倒出一、两滴咖啡来，把它们分别封装在试管里，在做着这一切的时候，他还依次地每种都尝了尝。他的面容奇怪地在变化。那儿凝聚了这样一种表情，我只能说它一半是使人迷惑，一半是令人宽慰。
“好了！”他终于说道。“明白了！我原来有一个想法——可是显然我是错了。是的，我完全错了。然而这很奇怪，不过不要紧！”
他以他那独特的架式耸了耸肩膀，消除了不知是什么一直困扰着他的疑虑。打从一开始，我本想就告诉他，他对咖啡这样念念不忘，其结果必然会使他走进死胡同，可是我忍住没有说出口。尽管波洛现在老了，当年他毕竟是一位名人。

“早饭准备好了，”约翰·卡文迪什从过道里走了进来，说道。“你乐意和我们一起吃早饭吗，波洛先生？”
波洛默然同意。我朝约翰看了看。他差不多已经恢复了常态。昨晚上今人震惊的事件曾一度使他心烦意乱，可是他的平静沉着很快就又回复到正常。他是个极为缺少想象力的人，和他的弟弟形成鲜明的对照，而他弟弟，也许是想象力太丰富了。
这天早晨，从一大早开始，约翰就一直忙碌着，发电报——第一封就发给伊夫琳·霍华德——给报纸写讣告，以及通常在办丧事时得做的那些令人感伤的事务。
“我可以问一句吗？事情进行得怎么样？”他说。“你的调查表明，我母亲的去世是自然死亡呢——还是——还是我们必须对最坏的情况得有所准备？”
“我认为，卡文迪什先生，”波洛严肃地说，“你最好还是别让你自己产生任何虚假的希望。你能告诉我家里其它成员的看法吗？”
“我的弟弟劳伦斯确认我们是在无事自扰。他说一切都表明这完全是由于心力衰竭。”

“他是这样看的？那倒很有意思——很有意思，”波洛轻声咕哝着。“那末卡文迪什太太呢？”
约翰的脸上掠过一片薄薄的阴云。
“我一点不知道我妻子对这个问题的看法。”
这一回答接着形成了短暂的僵局。还是约翰打破了这相当尴尬的沉默，他稍微有点费力他说：
“英格里桑先生已经回来了。我告诉你了吧？”
波洛低了下头。
“这情况对我们大家来说都是很尴尬的。当然，本来应该象往常那样对待他，——可是，嘿，那怎么成，坐下来和一个有可能是杀人犯一起吃饭，怎能叫人不恶心！”
波洛同情地点点头。

“我非常理解，你们的处境是很为难，卡文迪什先生。我想问一个问题。英格里桑先生昨晚没有回来，我相信是因为他忘了带大门的钥匙。是这样吧？”
“是的。”
“我想你是完全相信他忘记带大门钥匙了——可是他到底带了没有呢？”
“我不知道。我从来没有想到要去看一下。我们总是把那钥匙放在门厅的抽屉里的。我去看看，现在是不是在那儿。”
波洛微笑着举起一只手。
“不，不，卡文迪什先生，现在太晚了。我确信你一定能找到它的。即使英格里桑先生真的带走过，现在他也已经有足够的时间把它放回去了。”
“那末你认为——”
“我没有任何想法。要是今天早上，在他回来之前，恰巧有人看过，看到它是在那儿，那才是一个对他有利的有价值的论据。如此而已。”
约翰显得茫然不知所措。
“别担忧，”波洛温和地说。“我要让你放心，你没有必要让它来烦扰你。由于你是如此好客，那就让我们去吃点早饭吧。”

所有人都聚集在餐室里。在这种情况下，我们自然不是一次令人愉快的聚会，一次令人震惊的事件以后反应总是难受的，因此我认为我们大家都在忍受着痛苦，但是礼貌和良好的教养告诫说我们的举止应该完全象往常一样。可我仍然没法消除惊讶的心情，如果说这种自制确实是一件极其困难的事的话。没有人眼红泪洒，也没有人暗自悲伤，我感到我的看法没有错，看上去多卡斯是个人方面受这一惨案影响最大的一个人。
我朝阿弗雷德扫了一眼，他多少有点装成是个失去妻子的鳏夫的样子，对于这种虚伪，我感到作呕。我真想知道，他是否了解我们任怀疑他。无疑，由于我们瞒着他，他是没法知道这一事实的。他已预感到有某种可怕的潜藏着的危险吗，还是自信他的罪行不会受到惩罚？空气中这种怀疑的气氛一定会对他提出警告：他已成了一个可疑的人。
可是，是不是所有人都怀疑他呢？卡文迪什太太怎么样？我朝她注视着，她坐在餐桌的头上，庄重，镇静，莫测高深。她上身穿着件光滑的灰色外衣，腕部的白色褶边披落在纤细的双手上，看上去十分美丽动人。然而，只要她愿意，她的脸可以变得象斯芬克斯①一样神秘莫测。她沉默寡言，很少开口，还有一点奇怪的是。我觉得她那品貌的强大力量在支配着我们每一个人。

还有年轻的辛西娅呢？她怀疑么？我感到她看上去疲倦不堪，象是病了。她的样子显得非常消沉，忧伤。我问她是不是觉得病了，她坦率地回答说：
“是的。我的头痛极了。”
“要不要再喝杯咖啡，小姐？”波洛关心地说。“它能使你恢复精神。用来治头痛，它是独一无二的。”他急忙跳起身来，拿了她的杯子。
“不要糖，”波洛刚拿起方糖钳子，辛西娅就看着他说道。
“不要糖？战争时期戒糖，呃？”
“不，我喝咖啡从来不放糖。”
“该死！”在把斟满的杯子端回来时，波洛自言自语地低声嘀咕说。
这话只有我听见，我好奇地朝他瞥了一眼，看到他的脸，由于抑制着的激动在抽搐，他的两眼也象猫眼似地发着绿光。想必他已听到或看到什么使他深为激动的东西了——可是那是什么呢？我一向认为自己是不算笨的，但是这次我得承认，没有一点不平常的迹象引起过我的注意。
过了一会，门打开了，出现了多卡斯。

“韦尔斯先生看您来了，先生，”她对约翰说。
我想起了这个名字，这就是头一天晚上英格里桑太太给他写过信的那位律师。
约翰立即站起身来。
“把他带到我的书房里丢。”然后他转向我们。“我母亲的律师，”他解释说。接着又放低了声音：“他也是验尸官——你们知道。你们也许想和我一起去一趟吧？”
我们默认了，于是就跟着他出了房间。约翰在前面大步走着，我趁此机会低声问波洛：
“要审讯么？”
波洛心不在焉地点点头。他似乎正在想什么，这一来引起了我的好奇心。
“这是怎么啦？你没有留意我说的。”
“确实如此，我的朋友。我很担心。”
“为什么？”

“因为辛西娅小姐喝咖啡不放糖。”
“什么？你不能严肃一点吗？”
“我这是最严肃的。嗳！那儿有件事情我不明白。我的直觉是对的。”
“什么直觉？”
“这直觉使我坚持要检查那些咖啡杯，嘘！现在不谈了！”
我们跟着约翰走进他的书房，他关上了我们身后的门。
韦尔斯先生是位风趣的中年人，两眼敏锐，一张典型的律师嘴巴。约翰为我们俩作了介绍，并说明了我们一起前来的原因。
“你得知道，韦尔斯，”他补充说，“这是严格保密的。我们还是希望将会证明不需要进行任何调查。”
“是啊！是啊！”韦尔斯先生安慰说。“我想我们本该使你免受审讯的痛楚和宣扬。可是没有医生的死亡证明，这样做当然是不得已的。”
“是呀，我也这样想。”

“鲍斯坦是个聪明人。我相信，他是毒物学方面的权威。”
“不错，”约翰说，态度显得有点不自然。随后他又相当含糊地补充说：“我们会不会都得出庭作证——我的意思是，我们大家？”
“你们，当然——还有——嗯——英格里桑——嗯——先生。”
略微停顿了一下，律师继续安慰悦，“任何一件旁的证据都能轻而易举地证实，这仅仅是形式问题。”
“我懂了。”
约翰的脸上掠过一丝宽慰的表情。这使我感到迷惑不解，因为我没看出他所以如此的理由。
“要是你没有相反的意见，”韦尔斯先生继续说，“那我想就在星期五吧。那样就会有充裕的时间给我们研究医生的报告了。我想，是今天晚上验尸吧？”
“是的。”
“这样安排对你合适么？”
“完全合适。”

“亲爱的卡文迪什，我不需要告诉你了，听到这一最不幸的事件，我有多么悲痛。”
“在搞清这件事方面，你能给我们大力帮助吗，先生？”波洛插嘴说，我们进房间以来，这是他第一次开口。
“我？”
“是的。我们听说英格里桑太太昨天晚上给你写过信。今天早上你一定收到这封信了。”
“是收到了，可是信上并没有什么消息，它只是封短信，要我今天早上来看她，因为她要和我商量一件十分重要的事情。”
“她没有给你暗示这可能是件什么事情吗？”
“很遗憾，没有。”
“真是遗憾。”约翰说。
“太遗憾了。”波洛认真地表示同意。
大家都沉默了。波洛出神地想了一会。最后又转头朝向律师。
“韦尔斯先生，有件事情我想请教请教你——这是说，要是这不违反你的职业规则的话。英格里桑太太去世了，谁将继承她的财产？”

引用

Chapter 4 Poirot Investigates

The house which the Belgians occupied in the village was quite close to the park gates. One could save time by taking a narrow path through the long grass, which cut off the detours of the winding drive. So I, accordingly, went that way. I had nearly reached the lodge, when my attention was arrested by the running figure of a man approaching me. It was Mr. Inglethorp. Where had he been? How did he intend to explain his absence?

He accosted me eagerly.
"My God! This is terrible! My poor wife! I have only just heard."
"Where have you been?" I asked.
"Denby kept me late last night. It was one o'clock before we'd finished. Then I found that I'd forgotten the latch-key after all. I didn't want to arouse the household, so Denby gave me a bed."
"How did you hear the news?" I asked.

"Wilkins knocked Denby up to tell him. My poor Emily! She was so self-sacrificing--such a noble character. She over-taxed her strength."
A wave of revulsion swept over me. What a consummate hypocrite the man was!
"I must hurry on," I said, thankful that he did not ask me whither I was bound.
In a few minutes I was knocking at the door of Leastways Cottage.
Getting no answer, I repeated my summons impatiently. A window above me was cautiously opened, and Poirot himself looked out.
He gave an exclamation of surprise at seeing me. In a few brief words, I explained the tragedy that had occurred, and that I wanted his help.
"Wait, my friend, I will let you in, and you shall recount to me the affair whilst I dress."

In a few moments he had unbarred the door, and I followed him up to his room. There he installed me in a chair, and I related the whole story, keeping back nothing, and omitting no circumstance, however insignificant, whilst he himself made a careful and deliberate toilet.
I told him of my awakening, of Mrs. Inglethorp's dying words, of her husband's absence, of the quarrel the day before, of the scrap of conversation between Mary and her mother-in-law that I had overheard, of the former quarrel between Mrs. Inglethorp and Evelyn Howard, and of the latter's innuendoes.
I was hardly as clear as I could wish. I repeated myself several times, and occasionally had to go back to some detail that I had forgotten. Poirot smiled kindly on me.

"The mind is confused? Is it not so? Take time, mon ami. You are agitated; you are excited--it is but natural. Presently, when we are calmer, we will arrange the facts, neatly, each in his proper place. We will examine--and reject. Those of importance we will put on one side; those of no importance, pouf!"--he screwed up his cherub-like face, and puffed comically enough--"blow them away!"
"That's all very well," I objected, "but how are you going to decide what is important, and what isn't? That always seems the difficulty to me."
Poirot shook his head energetically. He was now arranging his moustache with exquisite care.

"Not so. Voyons! One fact leads to another--so we continue. Does the next fit in with that? A merveille! Good! We can proceed. This next little fact--no! Ah, that is curious! There is something missing--a link in the chain that is not there. We examine. We search. And that little curious fact, that possibly paltry little detail that will not tally, we put it here!" He made an extravagant gesture with his hand. "It is significant! It is tremendous!"
"Y--es--"
"Ah!" Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely at me that I quailed before it. "Beware! Peril to the detective who says: 'It is so small--it does not matter. It will not agree. I will forget it.' That way lies confusion! Everything matters."

"I know. You always told me that. That's why I have gone into all the details of this thing whether they seemed to me relevant or not."
"And I am pleased with you. You have a good memory, and you have given me the facts faithfully. Of the order in which you present them, I say nothing--truly, it is deplorable! But I make allowances--you are upset. To that I attribute the circumstance that you have omitted one fact of paramount importance."
"What is that?" I asked.
"You have not told me if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night."
I stared at him. Surely the war had affected the little man's brain. He was carefully engaged in brushing his coat before putting it on, and seemed wholly engrossed in the task.
"I don't remember," I said. "And, anyway, I don't see----"
"You do not see? But it is of the first importance."
"I can't see why," I said, rather nettled. "As far as I can remember, she didn't eat much. She was obviously upset, and it had taken her appetite away. That was only natural."

"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully, "it was only natural."
He opened a drawer, and took out a small despatch-case, then turned to me.
"Now I am ready. We will proceed to the chateau, and study matters on the spot. Excuse me, mon ami, you dressed in haste, and your tie is on one side. Permit me." With a deft gesture, he rearranged it.
"Ca y est! Now, shall we start?"
We hurried up the village, and turned in at the lodge gates. Poirot stopped for a moment, and gazed sorrowfully over the beautiful expanse of park, still glittering with morning dew.

"So beautiful, so beautiful, and yet, the poor family, plunged in sorrow, prostrated with grief."
He looked at me keenly as he spoke, and I was aware that I reddened under his prolonged gaze.
Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs. Inglethorp's death so great? I realized that there was an emotional lack in the atmosphere. The dead woman had not the gift of commanding love. Her death was a shock and a distress, but she would not be passionately regretted.
Poirot seemed to follow my thoughts. He nodded his head gravely.
"No, you are right," he said, "it is not as though there was a blood tie. She has been kind and generous to these Cavendishes, but she was not their own mother. Blood tells--always remember that--blood tells."
"Poirot," I said, "I wish you would tell me why you wanted to know if Mrs. Inglethorp ate well last night? I have been turning it over in my mind, but I can't see how it has anything to do with the matter?"
He was silent for a minute or two as we walked along, but finally he said:
"I do not mind telling you--though, as you know, it is not my habit to explain until the end is reached. The present contention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably administered in her coffee."

"Yes?"
"Well, what time was the coffee served?"
"About eight o'clock."
"Therefore she drank it between then and half-past eight-- certainly not much later. Well, strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in about an hour. Yet, in Mrs. Inglethorp's case, the symptoms do not manifest themselves until five o'clock the next morning: nine hours! But a heavy meal, taken at about the same time as the poison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent. Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account. But, according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet the symptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it."
As we neared the house, John came out and met us. His face looked weary and haggard.

"This is a very dreadful business, Monsieur Poirot," he said. "Hastings has explained to you that we are anxious for no publicity?"
"I comprehend perfectly."
"You see, it is only suspicion so far. We have nothing to go upon."
"Precisely. It is a matter of precaution only."
John turned to me, taking out his cigarette-case, and lighting a cigarette as he did so.
"You know that fellow Inglethorp is back?"
"Yes. I met him."
John flung the match into an adjacent flower bed, a proceeding which was too much for Poirot's feelings. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly.
"It's jolly difficult to know how to treat him."
"That difficulty will not exist long," pronounced Poirot quietly.
John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me.
"Show Monsieur Poirot everything he wants to see."
"The rooms are locked?" asked Poirot.
"Dr. Bauerstein considered it advisable."
Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

"Then he is very sure. Well, that simplifies matters for us."
We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it.
Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper. I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance.
"What have you, my friend," he cried, "that you remain there like--how do you say it?--ah, yes, the stuck pig?"
I explained that I was afraid of obliterating any foot-marks.
"Foot-marks? But what an idea! There has already been practically an army in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I need it."

He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated the despatch-case on the floor.
"Eh voila une table!" cried Poirot. "Ah, my friend, one may live in a big house and yet have no comfort."
After which piece of moralizing, he resumed his search.
A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the writing-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took out the key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. I saw nothing peculiar, however. It was an ordinary key of the Yale type, with a bit of twisted wire through the handle.

Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in, assuring himself that the bolt had really been shot. Then he went to the door opposite leading into Cynthia's room. That door was also bolted, as I had stated. However, he went to the length of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it several times; this he did with the utmost precaution against making any noise. Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his attention. He examined it carefully, and then, nimbly whipping out a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out some minute particle which he carefully sealed up in a tiny envelope.
On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a spirit lamp and a small saucepan on it. A small quantity of a dark fluid remained in the saucepan, and an empty cup and saucer that had been drunk out of stood near it.
I wondered how I could have been so unobservant as to overlook this. Here was a clue worth having. Poirot delicately dipped his finger into liquid, and tasted it gingerly. He made a grimace.

"Coco--with--I think--rum in it."
He passed on to the debris on the floor, where the table by the bed had been overturned. A reading-lamp, some books, matches, a bunch of keys, and the crushed fragments of a coffee-cup lay scattered about.
"Ah, this is curious," said Poirot.
"I must confess that I see nothing particularly curious about it."
"You do not? Observe the lamp--the chimney is broken in two places; they lie there as they fell. But see, the coffee-cup is absolutely smashed to powder."
"Well," I said wearily, "I suppose some one must have stepped on it."
"Exactly," said Poirot, in an odd voice. "Some one stepped on it."
He rose from his knees, and walked slowly across to the mantelpiece, where he stood abstractedly fingering the ornaments, and straightening them--a trick of his when he was agitated.

"Mon ami," he said, turning to me, "somebody stepped on that cup, grinding it to powder, and the reason they did so was either because it contained strychnine or--which is far more serious--because it did not contain strychnine!"
I made no reply. I was bewildered, but I knew that it was no good asking him to explain. In a moment or two he roused himself, and went on with his investigations. He picked up the bunch of keys from the floor, and twirling them round in his fingers finally selected one, very bright and shining, which he tried in the lock of the purple despatch-case. It fitted, and he opened the box, but after a moment's hesitation, closed and relocked it, and slipped the bunch of keys, as well as the key that had originally stood in the lock, into his own pocket.
"I have no authority to go through these papers. But it should be done--at once!"

He then made a very careful examination of the drawers of the wash-stand. Crossing the room to the left-hand window, a round stain, hardly visible on the dark brown carpet, seemed to interest him particularly. He went down on his knees, examining it minutely--even going so far as to smell it.
Finally, he poured a few drops of the coco into a test tube, sealing it up carefully. His next proceeding was to take out a little notebook.
"We have found in this room," he said, writing busily, "six points of interest. Shall I enumerate them, or will you?"
"Oh, you," I replied hastily.

"Very well, then. One, a coffee-cup that has been ground into powder; two, a despatch-case with a key in the lock; three, a stain on the floor."
"That may have been done some time ago," I interrupted.
"No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric--only a thread or two, but recognizable."
"Ah!" I cried. "That was what you sealed up in the envelope."
"Yes. It may turn out to be a piece of one of Mrs. Inglethorp's own dresses, and quite unimportant. We shall see. Five, _this_!" With a dramatic gesture, he pointed to a large splash of candle grease on the floor by the writing-table. "It must have been done since yesterday, otherwise a good housemaid would have at once removed it with blotting-paper and a hot iron. One of my best hats once--but that is not to the point."
"It was very likely done last night. We were very agitated. Or perhaps Mrs. Inglethorp herself dropped her candle."
"You brought only one candle into the room?"

"Yes. Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he was very upset. He seemed to see something over here"--I indicated the mantelpiece--"that absolutely paralysed him."
"That is interesting," said Poirot quickly. "Yes, it is suggestive"--his eye sweeping the whole length of the wall--"but it was not his candle that made this great patch, for you perceive that this is white grease; whereas Monsieur Lawrence's candle, which is still on the dressing-table, is pink. On the other hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had no candlestick in the room, only a reading-lamp."
"Then," I said, "what do you deduce?"
To which my friend only made a rather irritating reply, urging me to use my own natural faculties.
"And the sixth point?" I asked. "I suppose it is the sample of coco."

"No," said Poirot thoughtfully. "I might have included that in the six, but I did not. No, the sixth point I will keep to myself for the present."
He looked quickly round the room. "There is nothing more to be done here, I think, unless"--he stared earnestly and long at the dead ashes in the grate. "The fire burns--and it destroys. But by chance--there might be--let us see!"
Deftly, on hands and knees, he began to sort the ashes from the grate into the fender, handling them with the greatest caution. Suddenly, he gave a faint exclamation.

"The forceps, Hastings!"
I quickly handed them to him, and with skill he extracted a small piece of half charred paper.
"There, mon ami!" he cried. "What do you think of that?"
I scrutinized the fragment. This is an exact reproduction of it:--
I was puzzled. It was unusually thick, quite unlike ordinary notepaper. Suddenly an idea struck me.
"Poirot!" I cried. "This is a fragment of a will!"
"Exactly."
I looked up at him sharply.
"You are not surprised?"
"No," he said gravely, "I expected it."

I relinquished the piece of paper, and watched him put it away in his case, with the same methodical care that he bestowed on everything. My brain was in a whirl. What was this complication of a will? Who had destroyed it? The person who had left the candle grease on the floor? Obviously. But how had anyone gained admission? All the doors had been bolted on the inside.
"Now, my friend," said Poirot briskly, "we will go. I should like to ask a few questions of the parlourmaid--Dorcas, her name is, is it not?"
We passed through Alfred Inglethorp's room, and Poirot delayed long enough to make a brief but fairly comprehensive examination of it. We went out through that door, locking both it and that of Mrs. Inglethorp's room as before.

I took him down to the boudoir which he had expressed a wish to see, and went myself in search of Dorcas.
When I returned with her, however, the boudoir was empty.
"Poirot," I cried, "where are you?"
"I am here, my friend."
He had stepped outside the French window, and was standing, apparently lost in admiration, before the various shaped flower beds.
"Admirable!" he murmured. "Admirable! What symmetry! Observe that crescent; and those diamonds--their neatness rejoices the eye. The spacing of the plants, also, is perfect. It has been recently done; is it not so?"
"Yes, I believe they were at it yesterday afternoon. But come in--Dorcas is here."
"Eh bien, eh bien! Do not grudge me a moment's satisfaction of the eye."
"Yes, but this affair is more important."

"And how do you know that these fine begonias are not of equal importance?"
I shrugged my shoulders. There was really no arguing with him if he chose to take that line.
"You do not agree? But such things have been. Well, we will come in and interview the brave Dorcas."
Dorcas was standing in the boudoir, her hands folded in front of her, and her grey hair rose in stiff waves under her white cap. She was the very model and picture of a good old-fashioned servant.
In her attitude towards Poirot, she was inclined to be suspicious, but he soon broke down her defences. He drew forward a chair.
"Pray be seated, mademoiselle."

"Thank you, sir."
"You have been with your mistress many years, is it not so?"
"Ten years, sir."
"That is a long time, and very faithful service. You were much attached to her, were you not?"
"She was a very good mistress to me, sir."
"Then you will not object to answering a few questions. I put them to you with Mr. Cavendish's full approval."
"Oh, certainly, sir."

"Then I will begin by asking you about the events of yesterday afternoon. Your mistress had a quarrel?"
"Yes, sir. But I don't know that I ought----" Dorcas hesitated. Poirot looked at her keenly.
"My good Dorcas, it is necessary that I should know every detail of that quarrel as fully as possible. Do not think that you are betraying your mistress's secrets. Your mistress lies dead, and it is necessary that we should know all--if we are to avenge her. Nothing can bring her back to life, but we do hope, if there has been foul play, to bring the murderer to justice."

"Amen to that," said Dorcas fiercely. "And, naming no names, there's _one_ in this house that none of us could ever abide! And an ill day it was when first _he_ darkened the threshold."
Poirot waited for her indignation to subside, and then, resuming his business-like tone, he asked:
"Now, as to this quarrel? What is the first you heard of it?"
"Well, sir, I happened to be going along the hall outside yesterday----"
"What time was that?"

"I couldn't say exactly, sir, but it wasn't tea-time by a long way. Perhaps four o'clock--or it may have been a bit later. Well, sir, as I said, I happened to be passing along, when I heard voices very loud and angry in here. I didn't exactly mean to listen, but--well, there it is. I stopped. The door was shut, but the mistress was speaking very sharp and clear, and I heard what she said quite plainly. 'You have lied to me, and deceived me,' she said. I didn't hear what Mr. Inglethorp replied. He spoke a good bit lower than she did--but she answered: 'How dare you? I have kept you and clothed you and fed you! You owe everything to me! And this is how you repay me! By bringing disgrace upon our name!' Again I didn't hear what he said, but she went on: 'Nothing that you can say will make any difference. I see my duty clearly. My mind is made up. You need not think that any fear of publicity, or scandal between husband and wife will deter me.' Then I thought I heard them coming out, so I went off quickly."
"You are sure it was Mr. Inglethorp's voice you heard?"
"Oh, yes, sir, whose else's could it be?"
"Well, what happened next?"

"Later, I came back to the hall; but it was all quiet. At five o'clock, Mrs. Inglethorp rang the bell and told me to bring her a cup of tea--nothing to eat--to the boudoir. She was looking dreadful--so white and upset. 'Dorcas,' she says, 'I've had a great shock.' 'I'm sorry for that, m'm,' I says. 'You'll feel better after a nice hot cup of tea, m'm.' She had something in her hand. I don't know if it was a letter, or just a piece of paper, but it had writing on it, and she kept staring at it, almost as if she couldn't believe what was written there. She whispered to herself, as though she had forgotten I was there: 'These few words--and everything's changed.' And then she says to me: 'Never trust a man, Dorcas, they're not worth it!' I hurried off, and got her a good strong cup of tea, and she thanked me, and said she'd feel better when she'd drunk it. 'I don't know what to do,' she says. 'Scandal between husband and wife is a dreadful thing, Dorcas. I'd rather hush it up if I could.' Mrs. Cavendish came in just then, so she didn't say any more."

"She still had the letter, or whatever it was, in her hand?" "Yes, sir."
"What would she be likely to do with it afterwards?"
"Well, I don't know, sir, I expect she would lock it up in that purple case of hers."
"Is that where she usually kept important papers?"
"Yes, sir. She brought it down with her every morning, and took it up every night."
"When did she lose the key of it?"
"She missed it yesterday at lunch-time, sir, and told me to look carefully for it. She was very much put out about it."
"But she had a duplicate key?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
Dorcas was looking very curiously at him and, to tell the truth, so was I. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled.
"Never mind, Dorcas, it is my business to know things. Is this the key that was lost?" He drew from his pocket the key that he had found in the lock of the despatch-case upstairs.

Dorcas's eyes looked as though they would pop out of her head.
"That's it, sir, right enough. But where did you find it? I looked everywhere for it."
"Ah, but you see it was not in the same place yesterday as it was to-day. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe?"

Dorcas was rather startled by the unexpected question.
"No, sir."
"Are you quite sure?"
"Oh, yes, sir."
"Has anyone else in the house got a green dress?"
Dorcas reflected.
"Miss Cynthia has a green evening dress."
"Light or dark green?"
"A light green, sir; a sort of chiffon, they call it."
"Ah, that is not what I want. And nobody else has anything green?"
"No, sir--not that I know of."
Poirot's face did not betray a trace of whether he was disappointed or otherwise. He merely remarked:
"Good, we will leave that and pass on. Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night?"
"Not _last_ night, sir, I know she didn't."

"Why do you know so positively?"
"Because the box was empty. She took the last one two days ago, and she didn't have any more made up."
"You are quite sure of that?"
"Positive, sir."
"Then that is cleared up! By the way, your mistress didn't ask you to sign any paper yesterday?"
"To sign a paper? No, sir."
"When Mr. Hastings and Mr. Lawrence came in yesterday evening, they found your mistress busy writing letters. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?"

"I'm afraid I couldn't, sir. I was out in the evening. Perhaps Annie could tell you, though she's a careless girl. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. That's what happens when I'm not here to look after things."
Poirot lifted his hand.
"Since they have been left, Dorcas, leave them a little longer, I pray you. I should like to examine them."
"Very well, sir."
"What time did you go out last evening?"
"About six o'clock, sir."

"Thank you, Dorcas, that is all I have to ask you." He rose and strolled to the window. "I have been admiring these flower beds. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way?"
"Only three now, sir. Five, we had, before the war, when it was kept as a gentleman's place should be. I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. But now there's only old Manning, and young William, and a new-fashioned woman gardener in breeches and such-like. Ah, these are dreadful times!"
"The good times will come again, Dorcas. At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here?"
"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir."
"How did you know that Mrs. Inglethorp took sleeping powders?" I asked, in lively curiosity, as Dorcas left the room. "And about the lost key and the duplicate?"
"One thing at a time. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this." He suddenly produced a small cardboard box, such as chemists use for powders.

"Where did you find it?"
"In the wash-stand drawer in Mrs. Inglethorp's bedroom. It was Number Six of my catalogue."
"But I suppose, as the last powder was taken two days ago, it is not of much importance?"
"Probably not, but do you notice anything that strikes you as peculiar about this box?"
I examined it closely.

"No, I can't say that I do."
"Look at the label."
I read the label carefully: " 'One powder to be taken at bedtime, if required. Mrs. Inglethorp.' No, I see nothing unusual."
"Not the fact that there is no chemist's name?"
"Ah!" I exclaimed. "To be sure, that is odd!"
"Have you ever known a chemist to send out a box like that, without his printed name?"
"No, I can't say that I have."

I was becoming quite excited, but Poirot damped my ardour by remarking:
"Yet the explanation is quite simple. So do not intrigue yourself, my friend."
An audible creaking proclaimed the approach of Annie, so I had no time to reply.
Annie was a fine, strapping girl, and was evidently labouring under intense excitement, mingled with a certain ghoulish enjoyment of the tragedy.
Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness.
"I sent for you, Annie, because I thought you might be able to tell me something about the letters Mrs. Inglethorp wrote last night. How many were there? And can you tell me any of the names and addresses?"
Annie considered.

"There were four letters, sir. One was to Miss Howard, and one was to Mr. Wells, the lawyer, and the other two I don't think I remember, sir--oh, yes, one was to Ross's, the caterers in Tadminster. The other one, I don't remember."
"Think," urged Poirot.
Annie racked her brains in vain.
"I'm sorry, sir, but it's clean gone. I don't think I can have noticed it."
"It does not matter," said Poirot, not betraying any sign of disappointment. "Now I want to ask you about something else. There is a saucepan in Mrs. Inglethorp's room with some coco in it. Did she have that every night?"

"Yes, sir, it was put in her room every evening, and she warmed it up in the night--whenever she fancied it."
"What was it? Plain coco?"
"Yes, sir, made with milk, with a teaspoonful of sugar, and two teaspoonfuls of rum in it."
"Who took it to her room?"
"I did, sir."
"Always?"
"Yes, sir."
"At what time?"
"When I went to draw the curtains, as a rule, sir."
"Did you bring it straight up from the kitchen then?"

"No, sir, you see there's not much room on the gas stove, so Cook used to make it early, before putting the vegetables on for supper. Then I used to bring it up, and put it on the table by the swing door, and take it into her room later."
"The swing door is in the left wing, is it not?"
"Yes, sir."
"And the table, is it on this side of the door, or on the farther--servants' side?"
"It's this side, sir."
"What time did you bring it up last night?"
"About quarter-past seven, I should say, sir."
"And when did you take it into Mrs. Inglethorp's room?"

"When I went to shut up, sir. About eight o'clock. Mrs. Inglethorp came up to bed before I'd finished."
"Then, between 7.15 and 8 o'clock, the coco was standing on the table in the left wing?"
"Yes, sir." Annie had been growing redder and redder in the face, and now she blurted out unexpectedly:
"And if there _was_ salt in it, sir, it wasn't me. I never took the salt near it."
"What makes you think there was salt in it?" asked Poirot.
"Seeing it on the tray, sir."
"You saw some salt on the tray?"
"Yes. Coarse kitchen salt, it looked. I never noticed it when I took the tray up, but when I came to take it into the mistress's room I saw it at once, and I suppose I ought to have taken it down again, and asked Cook to make some fresh. But I was in a hurry, because Dorcas was out, and I thought maybe the coco itself was all right, and the salt had only gone on the tray. So I dusted it off with my apron, and took it in."

I had the utmost difficulty in controlling my excitement. Unknown to herself, Annie had provided us with an important piece of evidence. How she would have gaped if she had realized that her "coarse kitchen salt" was strychnine, one of the most deadly poisons known to mankind. I marvelled at Poirot's calm. His self-control was astonishing. I awaited his next question with impatience, but it disappointed me.
"When you went into Mrs. Inglethorp's room, was the door leading into Miss Cynthia's room bolted?"
"Oh! Yes, sir; it always was. It had never been opened."
"And the door into Mr. Inglethorp's room? Did you notice if that was bolted too?"
Annie hesitated.

"I couldn't rightly say, sir; it was shut but I couldn't say whether it was bolted or not."
"When you finally left the room, did Mrs. Inglethorp bolt the door after you?"
"No, sir, not then, but I expect she did later. She usually did lock it at night. The door into the passage, that is."
"Did you notice any candle grease on the floor when you did the room yesterday?"
"Candle grease? Oh, no, sir. Mrs. Inglethorp didn't have a candle, only a reading-lamp."
"Then, if there had been a large patch of candle grease on the floor, you think you would have been sure to have seen it?"
"Yes, sir, and I would have taken it out with a piece of blotting-paper and a hot iron."

Then Poirot repeated the question he had put to Dorcas:
"Did your mistress ever have a green dress?"
"No, sir."
"Nor a mantle, nor a cape, nor a--how do you call it?--a sports coat?"
"Not green, sir."
"Nor anyone else in the house?"
Annie reflected.
"No, sir."
"You are sure of that?"
"Quite sure."
"Bien! That is all I want to know. Thank you very much."
With a nervous giggle, Annie took herself creakingly out of the room. My pent-up excitement burst forth.
"Poirot," I cried, "I congratulate you! This is a great discovery."
"What is a great discovery?"

"Why, that it was the coco and not the coffee that was poisoned. That explains everything! Of course it did not take effect until the early morning, since the coco was only drunk in the middle of the night."
"So you think that the coco--mark well what I say, Hastings, the coco--contained strychnine?"
"Of course! That salt on the tray, what else could it have been?"
"It might have been salt," replied Poirot placidly.
I shrugged my shoulders. If he was going to take the matter that way, it was no good arguing with him. The idea crossed my mind, not for the first time, that poor old Poirot was growing old. Privately I thought it lucky that he had associated with him some one of a more receptive type of mind.

Poirot was surveying me with quietly twinkling eyes.
"You are not pleased with me, mon ami?"
"My dear Poirot," I said coldly, "it is not for me to dictate to you. You have a right to your own opinion, just as I have to mine."
"A most admirable sentiment," remarked Poirot, rising briskly to his feet. "Now I have finished with this room. By the way, whose is the smaller desk in the corner?"
"Mr. Inglethorp's."
"Ah!" He tried the roll top tentatively. "Locked. But perhaps one of Mrs. Inglethorp's keys would open it." He tried several, twisting and turning them with a practiced hand, and finally uttering an ejaculation of satisfaction. "Viola! It is not the key, but it will open it at a pinch." He slid back the roll top, and ran a rapid eye over the neatly filed papers. To my surprise, he did not examine them, merely remarking approvingly as he relocked the desk: "Decidedly, he is a man of method, this Mr. Inglethorp!"

A "man of method" was, in Poirot's estimation, the highest praise that could be bestowed on any individual.
I felt that my friend was not what he had been as he rambled on disconnectedly:
"There were no stamps in his desk, but there might have been, eh, mon ami? There might have been? Yes"--his eyes wandered round the room--"this boudoir has nothing more to tell us. It did not yield much. Only this."
He pulled a crumpled envelope out of his pocket, and tossed it over to me. It was rather a curious document. A plain, dirty looking old envelope with a few words scrawled across it, apparently at random. The following is a facsimile of it.

比利时人在村子里住的房子，紧贴园子的大门。沿着一条狭窄的小径，穿过一片长长的草坪，不走那弯弯曲曲的车道，抄近路去，可以省下不少时间。因此，我就走这条路。当我快到门房时，一个步履匆匆迎面而来的男人的身影，引起了我的注意。原来是英格里桑先生。他一直在哪儿呀？他打算怎样来解释他的不在场呢？
他急切地朝我迎了上来。
“我的天哪！大可泊了！我可怜的妻子啊！我方才才听说。”
“你在哪儿呀？”我问道。

“昨晚上登拜留我耽晚了，我们一直谈到深夜一点钟。这时，我发现到底还是忘了带大门的钥匙。我不想唤醒家里人，所以登拜留我过了夜。”
“你怎么知道这个消息的？”我问。
“威尔金斯敲开登拜的门告诉我的。我可怜的埃米莉！她如此舍己为人——有着这样的高贵品质。她操劳过度了。”
一阵厌恶的心情直朝我袭来。这是个多老于此道的伪君子啊！
“我有事得赶紧去，”我说，感谢他没有问我到哪儿去。
几分钟后，我就在敲小别墅的门了。
没有回答，我急不可耐地反复敲着。我头顶的一扇窗户小心谨慎地打开了，波洛本人伸出头来朝下面看了看。他看到是我，惊叫了一声。我三言两语地对他讲了发生的悲剧，并希望能得到他的帮助。

“等一等，朋友，我让你进来。我穿衣服时，你详细给我讲一讲这事情的经过。”
过了一会，他打开了门，我跟着他走进他的房间。他让我在一张椅子上坐了下来，接着我毫无隐瞒地叙述了整个事情的经过，即使是极小的细节也不遗漏。而他则一直精心细致地给自己打扮着。
我给他讲了我怎样被唤醒，英格里桑太太临终时说的话，她的丈夫为什么不在场，前一天的吵架情况，我偶然听到的玛丽和她的婆婆之间的那次谈话的片断，在此之前英格里桑太太和伊夫琳·霍华德之间的争吵，还有后者的暗示。等等。

我讲得没能象我所希望的那样清楚。有几次我讲重复了。偶尔，我又不得不回头讲某个漏掉的细节。波洛和蔼地朝我笑笑。
“脑子搞湖了么？不是这样的？慢慢讲吧，我的朋友。你讲得太急。你太激动了——一激动就不自然。过一会，等我们镇静一点的时候，我们来把事实理一理，好好归归类，使它们各得其所。然后，检查一下，剔掉一些。那些不重要的，卟！”——他皱起那张小天使般的脸，十分滑稽地吹了一口——“把它们吹跑！”
“那样当然很好，”我表示反对，“可是你打算怎么来确定什么是重要的，什么又是不重要的呢？那样做，我着始终是有困难的。”
波洛使劲地摇了摇头。这时他正异常仔细地在摆弄他那一抹翘胡子。

“并非如此。得啦！事实是一个连接一个的——因此我们得以继续下去。下一个和这相符吗？好极了！好！我们可以进行下去。这下一个很少是事实——不行！嗨！那就难以理解！就是缺了什么了——这根链条上有一环不对头，我们就要检查，我们就要探究。小小的一件难以理解的事实，可能是一个微不足道的细节不相符，那我们就把它放在这儿！”他做了一个放肆的手势。“这就值得注意！这就是异常情况！”
“是——的——”
“嗨！”波洛使劲地朝我摇着食指，我都在这前面给吓住了。“要当心！一个侦探如果说，‘这是小事一桩，无关紧要。那一点不对路，可以忽略。’就危险了。那就糟糕！事无大小，都很重要。”

“我知道。你一直就这样告诉我。所以我了解了这桩案子的全部细节，不管它们是否与我有关。”
“我很为你高兴。你的记忆力很好。你已经如实地告诉了我全部事实经过。可是根据你的介绍，我可无话可说——真的，这是可悲的。不过，我估计——你会为此感到狼狈。问题是我认为你把一个最重要的事实给遗漏了。”
“什么事实？”我问道。
“你没有告诉我，昨天晚上，英格里桑太太胃口是否好。
我瞪眼直盯着他，想必是战争影响了这位小个子的脑子。他把外套穿到身上之前，小小心心地把它刷了又刷，仿佛全神都贯注到这件工作上了。
“我不记得了，“我说。“而且，我无论如何都不懂——”
“你不懂？可这是头等重要的。”

“我不懂为什么，”我颇为恼火地说。“我只记得，她吃得不多。她显然心烦意乱，这影响了她的食欲。那是很自然的。”
“是呀，”波洛若有所思地说，“那是很自然的。”
他拉开抽屉，取出一只小小的公文箱，然后转脸对我说：
“我已准备好了。我们出发去庄园吧，去仔细看着现场的情况。请别见怪，我的朋友，你是匆匆忙忙穿的衣服吧，瞧你领带都歪到一边了。让我来给你整一整。”他用灵巧的手势，重新给我结了领带。
“行了！出发吧。”

我们匆匆赶到庄子里，拐进庄园园林的大门。波洛停下站了一会，无限感慨地凝视着这一大片园林的美丽景色，朝露还在放射出灿烂的珠光。
“多美啊，有多美！然而，这家可怜的人家却陷入了痛苦，沉浸于悲伤。”
他说话时，目光锐利地朝我注视着，我感到，在他的长时间的注视下，我的脸红了。
这家人家被悲伤征服了么？英格里桑太太的死引起的痛苦是如此强烈么？我感到空气中缺乏这种感情。去世的女人没有博得家大的爱戴。她的死是打击和不幸，但是她将不会受到深深的哀悼。
波洛仿佛尾随着我的思想。他严肃地点点头。
“是呀，你说得对，”他说，“他们不象有血缘关系。她虽然对待卡文迪什家的人仁慈，慷慨，可是她毕竟不是他们的亲生母亲，血缘——你千万要记住这点——血缘。”

“波洛，”我说，“我希望你能告诉我，为什么你要了解英格里桑大太昨天晚上吃得是不是好呢？这问题一直在我脑子里祈腾，可我闹不清楚这和事情有什么关系。
他沉默了一两分钟。我们一直走着，后来，他终于开腔了：
“我不反对告诉你——虽然，你也知道，事情没有到达结局就作解释，这不是我的习惯。现在的问题是，英格里桑太大有可能是被下在她的咖啡里的士的宁毒死的。
“真的？“
“是呀，咖啡是什么时候送的？”
“八点左右。”

“这么说，她是在八点至八点半之间这段时间喝的了——一定不会太晚。嗯，士的宁是一种功效相当快的毒药。它的毒性很快就能感觉到，可能在一小时之内。然而，在英格里桑太太身上，中毒的症伏直到第二天早上五点钟才出现。整整九个小时！固然，要是吃得很饱，几乎在同时服下药，可以拖迟毒性发作的时间，可是不太可能拖得那么久。不过这种可能性还是得加以考虑。但是，据你所说，她晚饭吃得很少，而中毒的症状竟到第二天一早才出现！这是一个难以理解的情况，我的朋友。通过尸体解剖可能会得到某种解释。到时候，你记着这一点。”
当我们走近房子时，约翰出来迎接我们。他的脸色显得疲倦，憔悴。
“这是一件极不愉快的事情，波洛先生。”他说，“哈斯丁已经对你说明了吧？我们迫切希望不要把这事宣扬开。”
“我完全理解。”

“你知道，到目前为止这仅仅是怀疑。我们还没什么根据。”
“确实如此。这只是一种预防措施。”
约翰转脸朝向我，同时掏出烟盒，点燃了一支烟。
“你知道吗，英格里桑那家伙回来了？”
“知道。我碰到他了。”
“约翰把火柴梗扔到了近旁的花床上，这种行为实在使波洛感情上受不了。于是他把它拾了起来，顺手埋掉了。
“难哪，不知道怎么来对待他。”
“这种难处不会太久了。”波洛平静他说。
约翰显出迷惑不解的样子，不十分理解波洛说的隐晦的预言，他把鲍斯坦医生给他的两只钥匙交给了我。
“凡是波洛先生要看的，全部给他看着。”

“房间锁着的？”波洛问道。
“鲍斯坦医生认为这样为好。”
波洛若有所思地点点头。
“那他是很有把握了。哦，对我们来说这使事情简单多了。”
我们一起走向发生悲剧的那个房间。为了方便起见，我附上下面这一张房间和房间中主要家俱陈设的平面图。
波洛在里面锁上了门，对房间进行了仔细的检查。他象蚱蜢一样灵活地从一件物品蹦向另一件物品。我怕抹掉什么线索，一动不动地站在门边。然而，波洛对于我的克制态度，似乎并无感激之意。

“你怎么啦，朋友？”他大声嚷道，“你站在那儿象个——那叫什么来着？——啊，对了，干么象根木桩子呀？”
我解释说，我怕抹掉什么足迹之类的东西。
“足迹？亏你想得出！这房间实际上就象来过一支军队了！我们还能找出什么足迹来呀？别站在那儿了，来，帮我一起来搜查吧。在我要用它之前，得先放下我的小公文箱。
说着，他把小箱子往窗边的圆桌上一放，可是动作猛了一点，结果由于桌面是松动的，它一边向上翘了起来，猛地使公文箱摔落到地板上。
“瞧这桌子！”波洛叫了起来。“嗨，我的朋友，一个人有可能住一幢大房子，可是也可能并不舒适。”
在作了一番说教之后，他重又开始检查。

写字台上有一只紫红色的小公文箱，箱于的锁上插着一把钥匙，这一时引起了他的注意。他从锁孔中拨出钥匙，递给我作检查。可是我看着并无特别之处。这是一把普通弹簧锁的钥匙，捏手的地方扎着一段拧在一起的金属线。
接着，他又检查了已被我们推破的门框，弄清楚插销确实被毁坏了。然后他又走到对面的通向辛西娅房间的门边。正如我所说的那样，这扇门也是闩住的。可是，他却拉开了插销，把门打开又关上，试了好几次；试的时候，他十分小心，尽量避免发出任何声音。突然，插销上的什么东西似乎引起了他的注意。他仔细作了检查。于是，敏捷地从自己的箱子里取出一只镊子，夹起一点极小的东西，小心翼翼地把它放进一只小小的封袋。
五斗橱上搁着一只托盘，盘子里有一盏酒精灯，上面放着一只小小的长柄平底锅。锅子里还留有少量发黑的液体。一只已经喝尽的空怀子和茶托摆在它的旁边。

我自己也感到奇怪，我怎么会这样粗心，连这都给看漏了。这儿有这么一个有价值的线索。波洛灵巧地伸出一个指头往液体里蘸了一下，然后小心翼翼地尝了尝。他装出一副怪相。
“可可——里面还掺了——我想是——糖酒。”
床边的一张小桌已经翻倒在地，他走到掉落在地板上的那摊东西跟前。一盏台灯，几本书，一些火柴，一串钥匙，一只打破的咖啡怀的碎片，撒得满地都是。
“啊，这可怪了，”波洛说。

“我得承认，我看这没什么特别奇怪的地方。”
“你不感到奇怪？看这台灯——玻璃罩只跌破两处，它掉下来时，就跌成这样子。可是你看，这咖啡杯跌得完全粉碎了。”
“是呀，”我显得有点不耐烦他说，”我猜想一定是什么人踩上去过了。”
“确实如此，”波洛用一种奇怪的声音说。“有个人踩过它。”
他站起身来，缓步走到壁炉台眼前，站在那儿心不在焉地摆弄着上面的礼拜用品，把它们理整齐——这是他心中焦虑时的一种习惯。
“我的朋友，”他转身对我说，”有人踩过这只杯子，有意把它碾成了粉未，而他们这样干的理由不是因为杯子有士的宁，就是因为——那就严重得多了——杯子里没有士的宁！”

我没有搭腔，这可把我搞糊涂了，可是我知道现在不便要他解释。过了一会，他又振作起精神，继续进行侦查。他从地板上捡起那串钥匙，捏在手上迅速地转了几圈，最后终于选中了雪亮发光的一只。他想用它来打开紫红色公文箱上的锁。它刚好合适，于是他打开了箱子，可是犹豫了一下后，他又把它关了回去，重新锁上，同时，也把这串钥匙，如同原来插在锁上的那把一样，塞进自己的口袋。
“我无权检查这些文件，但是这必须马上进行！”

接着，他又非常仔细地检查了脸盆架的抽屉。在他穿过房间，走向左边的窗口时，深咖啡色地毯上圆圆一滩不十分明显的污渍似乎特别使他发生了兴趣。他蹲下来检查了一会——甚至还扑到近旁闻了闻。
最后，他又倒了几滴可可到试管里，仔细地封上管口，然后掏出一本小小的笔记本。
“在这个房间里，”他说道，一边匆忙地写着：“我们发现了六个值得注意的疑点。要我列举一下吗？还是你说？”
“哦，你来。”我急忙回答说。
“那好吧。第一，一只已被碾成粉未的咖啡杯；第二，一只锁上插着钥匙的公文箱；第三，地板上的一滩污渍。”
“那也许是一些时候以前弄的。”我打断了他的话。

“不，因为它着得出还是湿的，而且还有咖啡的香味。第四，一点深绿色织物——只有一两根纱，但可以认出。”
“啊！”我叫了起来。“就是你夹起放进小封袋那东西。”
“是的，结果也有可能是英格里桑太太自己的一件衣服上钩下来的，那就毫无价值。我们将会弄清楚的。第五，就是这个！”他用一种演剧般的姿势指着写字台旁的地板上一大片蜡烛油说。“这一定是昨天滴下的，要不，会有个好女仆马上用吸油纸和熨斗把它给去掉的，有一回我的一顶最好的帽子——但这和这事无关。”
“很可能是昨天晚上滴下的。当时我们都很焦急不安。不过也有可能是英格里桑太大自己滴的。”
“你们只拿了一支蜡烛到房里来吧？”

“是的。是劳伦斯·卡文迪什拿着的。当时他心神干分不定。象是看到那边有什么东西，”——我朝壁炉台方向指了指——“使他吓得目瞪口呆。”
“这倒有意思了，”波洛马上说，“是呀，这很有启发，”——他的目光扫视着整堵墙壁——“不过这一大片蜡烛油可不是他手上的那支蜡烛滴的，因为你看到了，这是白色的，而劳伦斯先生的那支，现在它还在梳妆台上，是粉红的。另一方面，英格里桑太太房里并没有蜡浊台，只有一盏台灯。”
“那未，”我问道，“你的推断呢？”
对此，我的朋友只给了一个使人有点恼火的回答，他劝我要多用用自己的天赋才能。
“还有第六点呢？”我问道。“我猜是可可的试样了。”

“不，”波洛若有所思地说。“我本来可以把那算作第六点，可是我不那么做。不，这第六点目前我还需要保密。”
他朝整个房间迅速地打量了一遍。”这儿没什么要做了，我想，”——他认真地朝壁炉的死灰看了很久——
“除非这炉火还红着——它灭了。不过说不定碰巧——还红着——让我们来看一看！”
他扒在地上，灵巧地开始把炉灰从炉于里扒到它的围栏里，他干得十分小心。突然，他轻声喊了一声。
“镊子，哈斯丁！”
我赶忙把镊子递给了他，他熟练地夹起了一小片尚未烧尽的纸片。
“瞧，我的朋友，”他大声说道。“你看这是什么？”

我仔细察看了这点纸片。下面就是完全照原样的复制品：
（译文：全部以及）
这可把我难住了。它特别厚，完全不象平常用的信签。突然，我有了一个想法。
“波洛！”我喊道。“这是遗嘱的碎片！”
“一点不错。”
我锐利地朝他看着。
“你没有感到意外？”
“没有，”他严肃他说，“我料到这一点。”

我把纸片递还给他，看着他在公文箱里放好。他象收藏一件宝贝一样地非常仔细，有条有理，我的脑子里一片混乱。这遗嘱的纠纷是什么呢？是谁把它烧毁的呢？是把烛油滴在地上的人吗？显然是的。可是此人是怎么进去的呢？所有门都是里面闩住的呀。
“行了，我的朋友，”波洛轻快他说，“我们得走了。我还要去问那个客厅女仆几个问题哩，她叫多卡斯，是吗？”
我们走进阿弗雷德·英格里桑的房间。在这儿耽搁了一阵子，波洛对它进行了一次短暂的，但是相当全面的搜查。我们就从这个门出来，把它和英格里桑大太的房门都照原先那样锁上。

波洛曾表示希望到楼下的闺房看看，于是我把他带到那儿，然后我去找多卡斯。
可是，当我带着多卡斯回来时，闺房里却空无一人。
“波洛！”我喊道，“你在哪儿呀？”
“我在这儿哪，我的朋友。”
他已走到落地长窗的外面，正站立在那儿，面对着那各种形状的花坛，他显然已沉浸在赞美之中。
“妙极了！”他喃喃地说。“妙极了！多匀称啊！瞧那月牙形；还有那些菱形——那么优美精巧，真使人赏心悦目。这花木的株距也安排得好极了。这是新近栽的吧，早吗？”

“是的，我相信是昨天下午栽的。可是，你进来吧——多卡斯来了。”
“行了，行了！你就让我饱一会儿眼福吧。”
“好的，可是这件事更重要呀。”
“你怎么知道这些美丽的秋海棠不是同等重要呢？”
我耸了耸肩膀。要是他决意采取这样一种态度的话，那实在没有什么好同他辩论的了。
“你不同意？可是这样的事情是有的。好吧，我们进去见见勇敢的多卡斯吧。”
多卡斯站在闺房里，她两手合拢，垂在腹部，她那灰色的头发在白色的帽子下象巨浪似地高高隆起。她是一个忠实的老式女仆的真正典型和化身。
对波洛，她一心抱着一种疑虑的心情，可是他很快就冲破了她的防线。他向前递过一把椅子。
“请坐，小姐。”
“谢谢，先生。”

“你已经跟你的女主人好多年了吧，是么？”
“十年了，先生。”
“时间很长了，而且十分忠于职守。你非常喜爱她，是吗？”
“她对我来说是个很好的女主人，先生。”
“那未你将不会反对回答几个问题了。我得到卡文迪什先生的完全许可，要问问你这几个问题。”
“噢，当然可以，先生。”
“那我就要开始问昨天下午的事情了。你的女主人吵架了吗？”
“是的，先生。可是我不知道我该不该——”多卡斯吞吞吐吐地说。
波洛敏锐地注视着她。

“我的好多卡斯，我需要尽可能详尽地了解那次吵架的每一个细节。你别认为你这是在泄漏怀女主人的秘密。你的女主人不明不白地死了，因此我们必须弄个水落石出——要是我们要为她报仇的话。人死不能复生，但是如果这确是一桩暴行的话，我们一定要把凶手缉拿归案。”
“但愿如此，”多卡斯忿然他说，“那我就不指名道姓了，哼，这幢房子里有了这么一个人，我们当中就没有一个人能受得了。打从他进门后，日子就不好过了。”
波洛等着她把愤慨平静下来，然后重又用他那有条不紊的语气问道：
“嗯，那次吵架怎么样？你最先听到了什么？”
“噢，先生，昨天我碰巧走过过道，在外面——”
“那是什么时候？”

“确切的时间我说不出，先生，不过远不是喝茶的时候。也许是四点钟——或者是还要迟一点。这个，先生，我刚才说了，我碰巧走过，听到房里有很响、很生气的吵闹声。我确实不是有意偷听，不过——嗯，就是这样我停了下来。房门虽然关着，可是女主人的说话声又尖，又清晰，所以她说的我听得很真切。‘你对我澈谎，欺骗我，’她说，可是没听清楚英格里桑先生回答点什么。他的声音比她轻得多——接着她又回答说：‘我养活了你，供你吃，供你穿，你竟敢这样！你一切都得感谢我！你得好好报答我才是！尽给我们丢脸！’他说了什么我又没有听清，可她继续说：‘你说这一套毫无用处。我对自己的义务很清楚。我的主意已经定了。你不要以为我怕公开出去，或者是夫妻间的反目能吓住我。’这时，我觉得我听到他们快要出来，于是我急忙走开了。”
“你能肯定你听到的是英格里桑先生的声音吗？”
“哦，肯定，先生。这会是别人的声音吗？”
“好吧，后来怎么样？”

“后来，我又回到过道里；可是这时已经完全平息了。五点钟时，英格里桑太太按铃要我给她送怀茶——她没有要吃的——到闺房里去。她看上去叫人害怕——脸色苍白，心烦意乱。‘多卡斯，’她说，‘我受了一个很大的打击。’‘我为这感到难过，太太，’我说，‘您喝怀新沏的热茶吧，那样会好一些，太太，”这时候她手中拿着一件东西。我弄不清这是一封信，还是只是一张纸什么的，不过上面写着字，她一直朝它目不转睛地看着，简直象是没法相信那上面写的东西。她仿佛忘掉了我在那儿，自言自语地唧咕着：‘有了这几句话——一切就都改变了。’接着她又对我说：‘决不要相信一个男人，多卡斯，他们不值得相信！’我急忙离开。接着为她送去一杯新沏的浓茶，她向我道了谢。她喝了茶以后对我说，她觉得好一些了。‘我不知道该怎么办，’她说，‘夫妻间的反目是一件可怕的事情，多卡斯。要是可能的话，我也就瞒着不说它了。’这时恰巧卡文迪什大太走了进来，于是她就不再说了。”

“她把那封信，或者是别的什么东西，一直拿在手中吗？”
“是的，先生。”
“后来，她可能把那张东西怎么处置了呢？”
“哦，那我不知道了，先生。我猜想，她把它锁进她的紫红色箱子了。”
“那是她通常用来放重要文件的箱子吗？”
“是的，先生。每天早上她都随身把它带下楼来，每天晚上带上楼去。”
“她什么时候丢失那箱子钥匙的？”

“她是在昨天吃午饭的时候发觉丢失的，她要我仔细找过。为这事她感到非常不安哩。”
“她另外还有一只钥匙吗？”
“哦，是的，先生。”
多卡斯十分好奇地朝波洛注视着，说老实话，我也是如此。老问一只丢失的钥匙是什么意思呢？波洛笑了起来。
“没什么，多卡斯，把事情弄清楚是我的职责。这就是那把丢失的钥匙吗？”他从自己的口袋里掏出从楼上那只公文箱的锁上拔下的钥匙。
多卡斯吃惊地看着，两眼仿佛都要瞪出来了。

“正是这把，先生，一点不错。可是您在哪儿找到它的呀？我到处都找遍了。”
“嗨，你看，那地方昨天没有，今天在了。好了，”我们谈点别的吧，你女主人的衣服里有一件深绿色的吗？’
多卡斯被这意想不到的问题问得有点怔住了。
“没有，先生。”
“你很有把握吗？”
“哦，是的，先生。

引用

Chapter 3 The Night Of The Tragedy

To make this part of my story clear, I append the following plan of the first floor of Styles. The servants' rooms are reached through the door B. They have no communication with the right wing, where the Inglethorps' rooms were situated.
It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by Lawrence Cavendish. He had a candle in his hand, and the agitation of his face told me at once that something was seriously wrong.

"What's the matter?" I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to collect my scattered thoughts.
"We are afraid my mother is very ill. She seems to be having some kind of fit. Unfortunately she has locked herself in."
"I'll come at once."
I sprang out of bed; and, pulling on a dressing-gown, followed Lawrence along the passage and the gallery to the right wing of the house.
John Cavendish joined us, and one or two of the servants were standing round in a state of awe-stricken excitement. Lawrence turned to his brother.
"What do you think we had better do?"
Never, I thought, had his indecision of character been more apparent.
John rattled the handle of Mrs. Inglethorp's door violently, but with no effect. It was obviously locked or bolted on the inside. The whole household was aroused by now. The most alarming sounds were audible from the interior of the room. Clearly something must be done.
"Try going through Mr. Inglethorp's room, sir," cried Dorcas. "Oh, the poor mistress!"

Suddenly I realized that Alfred Inglethorp was not with us--that he alone had given no sign of his presence. John opened the door of his room. It was pitch dark, but Lawrence was following with the candle, and by its feeble light we saw that the bed had not been slept in, and that there was no sign of the room having been occupied.

We went straight to the connecting door. That, too, was locked or bolted on the inside. What was to be done?
"Oh, dear, sir," cried Dorcas, wringing her hands, "what ever shall we do?"
"We must try and break the door in, I suppose. It'll be a tough job, though. Here, let one of the maids go down and wake Baily and tell him to go for Dr. Wilkins at once. Now then, we'll have a try at the door. Half a moment, though, isn't there a door into Miss Cynthia's rooms?"
"Yes, sir, but that's always bolted. It's never been undone."
"Well, we might just see."
He ran rapidly down the corridor to Cynthia's room. Mary Cavendish was there, shaking the girl--who must have been an unusually sound sleeper--and trying to wake her.
In a moment or two he was back.
"No good. That's bolted too. We must break in the door. I think this one is a shade less solid than the one in the passage."
We strained and heaved together. The framework of the door was solid, and for a long time it resisted our efforts, but at last we felt it give beneath our weight, and finally, with a resounding crash, it was burst open.

We stumbled in together, Lawrence still holding his candle. Mrs. Inglethorp was lying on the bed, her whole form agitated by violent convulsions, in one of which she must have overturned the table beside her. As we entered, however, her limbs relaxed, and she fell back upon the pillows.
John strode across the room, and lit the gas. Turning to Annie, one of the housemaids, he sent her downstairs to the dining-room for brandy. Then he went across to his mother whilst I unbolted the door that gave on the corridor.

I turned to Lawrence, to suggest that I had better leave them now that there was no further need of my services, but the words were frozen on my lips. Never have I seen such a ghastly look on any man's face. He was white as chalk, the candle he held in his shaking hand was sputtering onto the carpet, and his eyes, petrified with terror, or some such kindred emotion, stared fixedly over my head at a point on the further wall. It was as though he had seen something that turned him to stone. I instinctively followed the direction of his eyes, but I could see nothing unusual. The still feebly flickering ashes in the grate, and the row of prim ornaments on the mantelpiece, were surely harmless enough.

The violence of Mrs. Inglethorp's attack seemed to be passing. She was able to speak in short gasps.
"Better now--very sudden--stupid of me--to lock myself in."

A shadow fell on the bed and, looking up, I saw Mary Cavendish standing near the door with her arm around Cynthia. She seemed to be supporting the girl, who looked utterly dazed and unlike herself. Her face was heavily flushed, and she yawned repeatedly.
"Poor Cynthia is quite frightened," said Mrs. Cavendish in a low clear voice. She herself, I noticed, was dressed in her white land smock. Then it must be later than I thought. I saw that a faint streak of daylight was showing through the curtains of the windows, and that the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to close upon five o'clock.

A strangled cry from the bed startled me. A fresh access of pain seized the unfortunate old lady. The convulsions were of a violence terrible to behold. Everything was confusion. We thronged round her, powerless to help or alleviate. A final convulsion lifted her from the bed, until she appeared to rest upon her head and her heels, with her body arched in an extraordinary manner. In vain Mary and John tried to administer more brandy. The moments flew. Again the body arched itself in that peculiar fashion.
At that moment, Dr. Bauerstein pushed his way authoritatively into the room. For one instant he stopped dead, staring at the figure on the bed, and, at the same instant, Mrs. Inglethorp cried out in a strangled voice, her eyes fixed on the doctor:
"Alfred--Alfred----" Then she fell back motionless on the pillows.

With a stride, the doctor reached the bed, and seizing her arms worked them energetically, applying what I knew to be artificial respiration. He issued a few short sharp orders to the servants. An imperious wave of his hand drove us all to the door. We watched him, fascinated, though I think we all knew in our hearts that it was too late, and that nothing could be done now. I could see by the expression on his face that he himself had little hope.
Finally he abandoned his task, shaking his head gravely. At that moment, we heard footsteps outside, and Dr. Wilkins, Mrs. Inglethorp's own doctor, a portly, fussy little man, came bustling in.

In a few words Dr. Bauerstein explained how he had happened to be passing the lodge gates as the car came out, and had run up to the house as fast as he could, whilst the car went on to fetch Dr. Wilkins. With a faint gesture of the hand, he indicated the figure on the bed.
"Ve--ry sad. Ve--ry sad," murmured Dr. Wilkins. "Poor dear lady. Always did far too much--far too much--against my advice. I warned her. Her heart was far from strong. 'Take it easy,' I said to her, 'Take--it--easy'. But no--her zeal for good works was too great. Nature rebelled. Na--ture--re--belled."
Dr. Bauerstein, I noticed, was watching the local doctor narrowly. He still kept his eyes fixed on him as he spoke.
"The convulsions were of a peculiar violence, Dr. Wilkins. I am sorry you were not here in time to witness them. They were quite--tetanic in character."

"Ah!" said Dr. Wilkins wisely.
"I should like to speak to you in private," said Dr. Bauerstein. He turned to John. "You do not object?"
"Certainly not."
We all trooped out into the corridor, leaving the two doctors alone, and I heard the key turned in the lock behind us.
We went slowly down the stairs. I was violently excited. I have a certain talent for deduction, and Dr. Bauerstein's manner had started a flock of wild surmises in my mind. Mary Cavendish laid her hand upon my arm.

"What is it? Why did Dr. Bauerstein seem so--peculiar?"
I looked at her.
"Do you know what I think?"
"What?"
"Listen!" I looked round, the others were out of earshot. I lowered my voice to a whisper. "I believe she has been poisoned! I'm certain Dr. Bauerstein suspects it."
"_What_?" She shrank against the wall, the pupils of her eyes dilating wildly. Then, with a sudden cry that startled me, she cried out: "No, no--not that--not that!" And breaking from me, fled up the stairs. I followed her, afraid that she was going to faint. I found her leaning against the bannisters, deadly pale. She waved me away impatiently.

"No, no--leave me. I'd rather be alone. Let me just be quiet for a minute or two. Go down to the others."
I obeyed her reluctantly. John and Lawrence were in the dining-room. I joined them. We were all silent, but I suppose I voiced the thoughts of us all when I at last broke it by saying:
"Where is Mr. Inglethorp?"
John shook his head.
"He's not in the house."

Our eyes met. Where _was_ Alfred Inglethorp? His absence was strange and inexplicable. I remembered Mrs. Inglethorp's dying words. What lay beneath them? What more could she have told us, if she had had time?
At last we heard the doctors descending the stairs. Dr. Wilkins was looking important and excited, and trying to conceal an inward exultation under a manner of decorous calm. Dr. Bauerstein remained in the background, his grave bearded face unchanged. Dr. Wilkins was the spokesman for the two. He addressed himself to John:

"Mr. Cavendish, I should like your consent to a postmortem."
"Is that necessary?" asked John gravely. A spasm of pain crossed his face.
"Absolutely," said Dr. Bauerstein.
"You mean by that----?"
"That neither Dr. Wilkins nor myself could give a death certificate under the circumstances."
John bent his head.
"In that case, I have no alternative but to agree."

"Thank you," said Dr. Wilkins briskly. "We propose that it should take place to-morrow night--or rather to-night." And he glanced at the daylight. "Under the circumstances, I am afraid an inquest can hardly be avoided--these formalities are necessary, but I beg that you won't distress yourselves."
There was a pause, and then Dr. Bauerstein drew two keys from his pocket, and handed them to John.
"These are the keys of the two rooms. I have locked them and, in my opinion, they would be better kept locked for the present."
The doctors then departed.

I had been turning over an idea in my head, and I felt that the moment had now come to broach it. Yet I was a little chary of doing so. John, I knew, had a horror of any kind of publicity, and was an easygoing optimist, who preferred never to meet trouble half-way. It might be difficult to convince him of the soundness of my plan. Lawrence, on the other hand, being less conventional, and having more imagination, I felt I might count upon as an ally. There was no doubt that the moment had come for me to take the lead.

"John," I said, "I am going to ask you something."
"Well?"
"You remember my speaking of my friend Poirot? The Belgian who is here? He has been a most famous detective."
"Yes."
"I want you to let me call him in--to investigate this matter."
"What--now? Before the post-mortem?"
"Yes, time is an advantage if--if--there has been foul play."
"Rubbish!" cried Lawrence angrily. "In my opinion the whole thing is a mare's nest of Bauerstein's! Wilkins hadn't an idea of such a thing, until Bauerstein put it into his head. But, like all specialists, Bauerstein's got a bee in his bonnet. Poisons are his hobby, so of course he sees them everywhere."

I confess that I was surprised by Lawrence's attitude. He was so seldom vehement about anything.
John hesitated.
"I can't feel as you do, Lawrence," he said at last. "I'm inclined to give Hastings a free hand, though I should prefer to wait a bit. We don't want any unnecessary scandal."
"No, no," I cried eagerly, "you need have no fear of that. Poirot is discretion itself."
"Very well, then, have it your own way. I leave it in your hands. Though, if it is as we suspect, it seems a clear enough case. God forgive me if I am wronging him!"

I looked at my watch. It was six o'clock. I determined to lose no time.
Five minutes' delay, however, I allowed myself. I spent it in ransacking the library until I discovered a medical book which gave a description of strychnine poisoning.

为了使我这个故事的这部分清楚一点，我特地附上下面这张斯泰尔斯庄园二楼的平面图。经过B门通向佣人的房间。它们和英格里桑夫妇的房间所在的右侧屋并不相通。
糟糕的是她偏偏把自己锁在里面。”
“我马上就来。”
我急忙跳下床，套上晨衣，跟着劳伦斯沿过道和长廊直奔房子的右侧。
约翰·卡文迪什也来了，还有一两个佣人也又敬畏又激动地站在周围。劳伦斯转脸对他的哥哥说：
“你看我们怎么办好？”
我认为，他的那种优柔寡断的性格从来没有象现在这样更为明显。

约翰使劲地把英格里桑太大的房门把手弄得格格作响，可是毫无结果。显然，是在里面锁上或者闩住了。现在全家人都被唤醒了。可以听到从房里传出来的令人极为惊恐的声音。很清楚，一定出什么事了。
“通过英格里桑先生的房间试试，先生，”多卡斯大声嚷道。“哎呀，可怜的女主人啊！”
我突然想到阿弗雷德·英格里桑没有在场——只有他连个影子也看不见。约翰打开了他的房门。房里漆黑一团，劳伦斯举着蜡烛跟了进来，凭着那微弱的烛光，我们发现，他的床没有睡过人，房里也看不出有人待过的迹象。

我们迳直走近和隔壁房间相通的门。可是里面也是锁上或者闩住了。怎么办呢？
“哎呀，天哪，先生！”多卡斯喊了起来，使劲捏着自己的手。“这可怎么办呀？”
“我看，我们得设法撬开门进去，尽管这种方法粗暴。喂，去个侍女，下楼去把贝利叫醒，要他马上去把威尔金斯医生请来。来，我们想法把门弄开。不，等一等，通辛西娅小姐的房间不是有扇门的吗？”
“是的，先生，可是那扇门一直闩住的，从来没有开过。
“好吧，我们先去看看。”
他飞快地沿过道奔向辛西娅的房间。玛丽·卡文迪什已在那儿，她正在摇那姑娘，试图把她弄醒，这姑娘偏偏睡得这么沉。
过了一会，他回来了。
“糟糕。那扇门也闩住的。我们还是撬进去。我看这一扇比过道里那扇要稍微不牢一点。”
我们一起使劲猛撞。门框很牢，我们花了很长时间，费了很大的劲，也没能撞进。后来，我们发现在我们的猛撞下，它毕竟支持不住了，终于很响地嘎啦一声，被撞开了。

我们一块儿跌跌绊绊地走进房间，劳伦斯手中仍旧举着那支蜡烛。英格里桑太太躺在床上，由于剧烈的痉挛，她的整个身子都在颤动，有一次想必是把身旁的桌子都给翻倒了。可是，我们一进去，她的四肢就松弛了下来，倒回到枕头上。
约翰大步走过房间，点亮了汽灯。接着，他转向侍女安妮，要她立刻到餐室去把白兰地取来。然后他走到母亲床边，我则去打开了通向过道的那扇门的门闩。
我转脸朝向劳伦斯，本想提出，现在已不再需要我帮忙，我还是离开比较好。可是话到口边又止住了。我从来没有在什么人的脸上见到这样惨白的脸色，他白得就象白垩土，握在他那直打颤的手中的蜡烛，烛油都溅到了地毯上，而他的一双眼睛，由于惊恐，或者是由于某种与此类似的感情，定着神，越过我的头顶呆呆地盯着远处墙上的一点。他仿佛看到了使他变成石头的什么东西。我本能地朝他两眼注视的方向着丢，可是什么特别的东西也没看见。壁炉里仍在微微闪烁的灰烬，炉台上成排整洁的礼拜用品，看来是决不会有害的。
英格里桑太太发病的严重时刻似乎正在过去，她能够急促地喘着气说话了。

“现在好些了——十分突然——我真傻——把自己锁在房里。”
一道影子投落在床上，我抬头一看，只见玛丽·卡文迪什站在门边，一只手臂围着辛西娅的腰。她似乎正竭力扶住这姑娘。姑娘看上去完全迷迷糊糊的，不象她原来的样子。她的脸色通红，不断地打着哈欠。
“可怜的辛西娅吓坏了，”卡文迪什太太清晰地低声说。她自己，我发现，则穿着一件干活时穿的白色工作服。时间，比我所想象的迟了一点。我看到一道朦胧晨曦透过窗帷，壁炉台上的时钟已快指到五点。

床上发出的一声窒息住的惨叫使我大吃一惊。疼痛重又侵袭了这位不幸的老太太。她痉挛得十分厉害，看着实在骇人，什么都乱成一团。我们拥挤在她的周围，可是无能为力，没法帮助她，或者减轻她的痛苦，最后，痉挛使得她从床上抬起身，直到用头和脚跟把她顶了起来，使她的身子奇怪地弯成弓形。玛丽和约翰白费力气地试图给她灌进更多的白兰地。过了一会，她的身子重又弯成了那种奇怪的样子。
就在这时候，鲍斯坦医生权威地挤开众人，走进了房间。他突然一动不动地站住了，注视着床上躯体的形状，而就在这一刹那间，英格里桑太太两眼盯着医生，用一种窒息住的声音叫道：
“阿弗雷德——阿弗雷德——”接着就住后一头倒在枕头上，一动不动了。

医生猛地一步跨到床前，抓住她的两臂，使劲把它们牵动着，我知道，这是在施行人工呼吸。他对佣人们下了几道简短严厉的命令，专横地挥动着一只手，把我们大家都赶到了门口。我们呆呆地盯着他，尽管我想我们大家心里都明白，已经太迟了，现在已经毫无办法。我从他脸上的表情，也可以着出，他自己也认为希望已经很小。
最后，他终于放弃了自己的急救工作，心情沉重地摇了摇头。就在这时，我们听到了门外响起的脚步声，英格里桑太太的私人医生威尔金斯急匆匆地走了进来，这是个肥胖的爱唠叨的矮个子。
鲍斯坦医生解释了几句，说是汽车开出去时，他恰好经过庄园的大门，于是他就尽快地跑到这幢房子里来，而让汽车继续去接威尔金斯医生。他用一种无力的手势指了指躺在床上的人。

“实——在——令人悲痛。实——在——令人悲痛，”威尔金斯医生咕哝着说，“可怜的太太哟，老是得做那么多工作——实在大多了——不听我的劝告。我早就告诫过她。她的心脏远不是健康的。‘不能紧张，’我曾对她说，‘不——能——紧张’。可是她没有办到，——她对各项慈善事业的热情太高了。脾气又倔强。脾——气——倔——强——啊。”
我发觉，鲍斯坦医生一直严密地注视着这位本地医生。在他说话的时候，他仍两眼紧紧地盯着他。
“老太太痉挛时的剧烈程度实在罕见，威尔金斯医生。我感到很遗憾，你没能及时赶到来亲眼目睹一下。那在性质上完全是一种强直性的痉挛。”
“啊！”威尔金斯医生聪明地答应了一声。
“我想和你个别谈一谈，”鲍斯坦医生说。接着他转脸朝向约翰，问道：“你不反对吗？”
“当然不反对。”

我们全部走到过道里，单单留下两位医生，我听到房门在我们身后锁上了。
我们慢慢地走下楼梯。我感到非常激动。我具有一种推理的才能。鲍斯坦医生的态度引起了我脑子里一大堆漫无边际的猜测。玛丽·卡文迪什把她的一只手搭在了我的手臂上。
“这是怎么回事？为什么鲍斯坦医生的举动着上去这么——怪？”
我瞧着她。
“你知道我在想什么吗？”
“想什么呢？”
“听我说！”我朝四周看了看，别的入都离开一段距离，不会听见。我压低声音，悄声说：“我认为她是被毒死的！我确信鲍斯坦医生对此已经有怀疑了。”

“什么？”她畏缩地倚在墙上，两眼慌乱地睁着。接着，她使我大吃一惊地突然喊了起来，大声嚷道：”不，不——不是那么回事——不是那么回事！”并且从我身边跑开，逃上楼去。我紧跟着她，生怕她马上会昏倒。我发现她靠在栏杆上，面如死色。她不耐烦地挥手，要我马上走开。
“别来，别来——离开我。我宁愿一个人待在这儿。就让我安静一会儿吧。下去，到旁的人那儿去。”我勉强地听从了她的话。约翰和劳伦斯在餐室里，我也走了进去。我们都默不作声，可是当我终于打破了这种沉默开口说话时，我猜想我说出了我们大伙的想法。
“英格里桑先生在哪儿？”
约翰摇摇头。
“他不在家。”

我们的目光相遇了。阿弗雷德·英格里桑在哪儿？他的不在场是很奇怪的，也是令人费解的。我想起了英格里桑太太临终时的话。那下面是什么？要是她还有时间的话。他还要告诉我们什么呢？
终于，我们听到了医生走下楼来。威尔金斯医生看上去既沉重，又激动，可他还是试图把内心的激动隐藏在有教养的镇静的风度之下。鲍斯但医生跟随在背后，他那张阴沉的、长着胡子的脸没有汪河变化。威尔金斯医生是他们俩的发言人。他对约翰说：
“卡文迪什先生，我希望你同意进行尸体解剖。”
“有必要吗？”约翰严肃地问道，他的脸上掠过一阵痛苦的表情。
“绝对有必要，”鲍斯坦医生说。
“你们这样说的意思是——？”
“因为在这样的情况下，不管是威尔主斯医生还是我本人，都不能开给死亡证明。”
约翰屈服了。

“既然是那样，我除了同意之外别无选择了。”
“谢谢，”威尔金斯医生轻松地回答说。“我们建议应该在明天晚上——或者就在今天晚上进行。”他朝黎明的曙光瞥了一眼。“在这样的情况下，我看恐怕一场审讯几乎已经不可避免——这样的手续是需要的，只是请你自己不要因此而悲痛。”
停了一会，接着鲍斯坦医生从口袋掏出两只钥匙。交给了约翰。
“这是那个房间的钥匙。我已经把它们锁上了。我看，暂时还是锁上的好。”
两位医生接着都离开了。
我的脑子里翻腾着一个想法，我觉得此刻可以把提出来加以讨论。然而，我又有点伯这样做。我知道，约翰最怕的是把事情传开去。而且他是个悠闲惯了的乐天派，从来就不愿在半路上碰到麻烦事。要使他相信我的计划是完善的，困难也许就在这里。另一方面，劳伦斯又是个少循常规，多具幻想的人。我觉得，我可以算作是个助手。毫无疑问，现在得我来领这个头了。
“约翰，”我说，“我打算问你一下。”

“什么事？”
“你还记得我和你谈过我的朋友波洛吧？你记不记得这个比利时人就在这儿？他是一位最有名的侦探呢！”
“是啊。”
“我要你让我现在就去把他请来——请他来调查这件事情。”
“什么——现在？验尸以前？”
“是的，假如——假如——这确实是一桩暴行，时间上愈快愈好。”
“胡扯！”劳伦斯生气地大声嚷道。“依我看，这全是鲍斯坦骗人的鬼花样！威尔金斯并没有这种想法。是鲍斯坦把这塞进他的脑袋的。可是，象所有的专家一样，鲍斯但的神经也是有点不正常的。毒药是他的癖好。因此在他看来到处都是毒药。”
我承认，我对劳伦斯的这种态度感到诧异，他是个对任何事情都难得这么动感情的人呀。

约翰犹豫着。
“我的看法和你不一样，劳伦斯，”他终于说了。
“我赞成让哈斯丁放手处理这件事，不过我宁愿再等一等，我们不要为此招来不必要的流言蜚语。”
“不，不，”我急切地大声说，“这你用不着担心。波洛做事是非常谨慎的。”
“那很好，那就听你的便吧，我把这件事交托给你啦。不过，要是事情真象我们所怀疑的那样，这可是桩十分清楚的案件。要是我冤枉了他的话，上帝会宽恕我的！”
我看了着表，已经六点钟。我决定不再浪费时间。然而，我还是容许自己耽搁了五分钟。我用这时间在藏书室里仔细寻找，直到找到一本叙述士的宁①的毒性的书。

注释：
①或称马钱子碱，一种烈性毒药，用极微量可以刺激神经。

引用

Chapter 2 The 16th And 17th Of July

I had arrived at Styles on the 5th of July. I come now to the events of the 16th and 17th of that month. For the convenience of the reader I will recapitulate the incidents of those days in as exact a manner as possible. They were elicited subsequently at the trial by a process of long and tedious cross-examinations.

I received a letter from Evelyn Howard a couple of days after her departure, telling me she was working as a nurse at the big hospital in Middlingham, a manufacturing town some fifteen miles away, and begging me to let her know if Mrs. Inglethorp should show any wish to be reconciled.
The only fly in the ointment of my peaceful days was Mrs. Cavendish's extraordinary, and, for my part, unaccountable preference for the society of Dr. Bauerstein. What she saw in the man I cannot imagine, but she was always asking him up to the house, and often went off for long expeditions with him. I must confess that I was quite unable to see his attraction.

The 16th of July fell on a Monday. It was a day of turmoil. The famous bazaar had taken place on Saturday, and an entertainment, in connection with the same charity, at which Mrs. Inglethorp was to recite a War poem, was to be held that night. We were all busy during the morning arranging and decorating the Hall in the village where it was to take place. We had a late luncheon and spent the afternoon resting in the garden. I noticed that John's manner was somewhat unusual. He seemed very excited and restless.
After tea, Mrs. Inglethorp went to lie down to rest before her efforts in the evening and I challenged Mary Cavendish to a single at tennis.
About a quarter to seven, Mrs. Inglethorp called us that we should be late as supper was early that night. We had rather a scramble to get ready in time; and before the meal was over the motor was waiting at the door.
The entertainment was a great success, Mrs. Inglethorp's recitation receiving tremendous applause. There were also some tableaux in which Cynthia took part. She did not return with us, having been asked to a supper party, and to remain the night with some friends who had been acting with her in the tableaux.

The following morning, Mrs. Inglethorp stayed in bed to breakfast, as she was rather overtired; but she appeared in her briskest mood about 12.30, and swept Lawrence and myself off to a luncheon party.
"Such a charming invitation from Mrs. Rolleston. Lady Tadminster's sister, you know. The Rollestons came over with the Conqueror--one of our oldest families."
Mary had excused herself on the plea of an engagement with Dr. Bauerstein.
We had a pleasant luncheon, and as we drove away Lawrence suggested that we should return by Tadminster, which was barely a mile out of our way, and pay a visit to Cynthia in her dispensary. Mrs. Inglethorp replied that this was an excellent idea, but as she had several letters to write she would drop us there, and we could come back with Cynthia in the pony-trap.
We were detained under suspicion by the hospital porter, until Cynthia appeared to vouch for us, looking very cool and sweet in her long white overall. She took us up to her sanctum, and introduced us to her fellow dispenser, a rather awe-inspiring individual, whom Cynthia cheerily addressed as "Nibs."

"What a lot of bottles!" I exclaimed, as my eye travelled round the small room. "Do you really know what's in them all?"
"Say something original," groaned Cynthia. "Every single person who comes up here says that. We are really thinking of bestowing a prize on the first individual who does _not_ say: 'What a lot of bottles!' And I know the next thing you're going to say is: 'How many people have you poisoned?' "
I pleaded guilty with a laugh.
"If you people only knew how fatally easy it is to poison some one by mistake, you wouldn't joke about it. Come on, let's have tea. We've got all sorts of secret stories in that cupboard. No, Lawrence--that's the poison cupboard. The big cupboard--that's right."
We had a very cheery tea, and assisted Cynthia to wash up afterwards. We had just put away the last tea-spoon when a knock came at the door. The countenances of Cynthia and Nibs were suddenly petrified into a stern and forbidding expression.
"Come in," said Cynthia, in a sharp professional tone.

A young and rather scared looking nurse appeared with a bottle which she proffered to Nibs, who waved her towards Cynthia with the somewhat enigmatical remark:
"_I_'m not really here to-day."
Cynthia took the bottle and examined it with the severity of a judge.
"This should have been sent up this morning."
"Sister is very sorry. She forgot."
"Sister should read the rules outside the door."
I gathered from the little nurse's expression that there was not the least likelihood of her having the hardihood to retail this message to the dreaded "Sister".
"So now it can't be done until to-morrow," finished Cynthia.
"Don't you think you could possibly let us have it to-night?"
"Well," said Cynthia graciously, "we are very busy, but if we have time it shall be done."
The little nurse withdrew, and Cynthia promptly took a jar from the shelf, refilled the bottle, and placed it on the table outside the door.
I laughed.

"Discipline must be maintained?"
"Exactly. Come out on our little balcony. You can see all the outside wards there."
I followed Cynthia and her friend and they pointed out the different wards to me. Lawrence remained behind, but after a few moments Cynthia called to him over her shoulder to come and join us. Then she looked at her watch.
"Nothing more to do, Nibs?"
"No."
"All right. Then we can lock up and go."
I had seen Lawrence in quite a different light that afternoon. Compared to John, he was an astoundingly difficult person to get to know. He was the opposite of his brother in almost every respect, being unusually shy and reserved. Yet he had a certain charm of manner, and I fancied that, if one really knew him well, one could have a deep affection for him. I had always fancied that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that she on her side was inclined to be shy of him. But they were both gay enough this afternoon, and chatted together like a couple of children.

As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some stamps, so accordingly we pulled up at the post office.
As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just entering. I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly.
"Mon ami Hastings!" he cried. "It is indeed mon ami Hastings!"
"Poirot!" I exclaimed.
I turned to the pony-trap.
"This is a very pleasant meeting for me, Miss Cynthia. This is my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years."
"Oh, we know Monsieur Poirot," said Cynthia gaily. "But I had no idea he was a friend of yours."
"Yes, indeed," said Poirot seriously. "I know Mademoiselle Cynthia. It is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that I am here." Then, as I looked at him inquiringly: "Yes, my friend, she had kindly extended hospitality to seven of my countrypeople who, alas, are refugees from their native land. We Belgians will always remember her with gratitude."

Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man. He was hardly more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always perched it a little on one side. His moustache was very stiff and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible. I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a bullet wound. Yet this quaint dandyfied little man who, I was sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in his time one of the most celebrated members of the Belgian police. As a detective, his flair had been extraordinary, and he had achieved triumphs by unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day.
He pointed out to me the little house inhabited by him and his fellow Belgians, and I promised to go and see him at an early date. Then he raised his hat with a flourish to Cynthia, and we drove away.
"He's a dear little man," said Cynthia. "I'd no idea you knew him."
"You've been entertaining a celebrity unawares," I replied.
And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various exploits and triumphs of Hercule Poirot.
We arrived back in a very cheerful mood. As we entered the hall, Mrs. Inglethorp came out of her boudoir. She looked flushed and upset.
"Oh, it's you," she said.
"Is there anything the matter, Aunt Emily?" asked Cynthia.
"Certainly not," said Mrs. Inglethorp sharply. "What should there be?" Then catching sight of Dorcas, the parlourmaid, going into the dining-room, she called to her to bring some stamps into the boudoir.
"Yes, m'm." The old servant hesitated, then added diffidently: "Don't you think, m'm, you'd better get to bed? You're looking very tired."
"Perhaps you're right, Dorcas--yes--no--not now. I've some letters I must finish by post-time. Have you lighted the fire in my room as I told you?"
"Yes, m'm."
"Then I'll go to bed directly after supper."

She went into the boudoir again, and Cynthia stared after her.
"Goodness gracious! I wonder what's up?" she said to Lawrence.
He did not seem to have heard her, for without a word he turned on his heel and went out of the house.
I suggested a quick game of tennis before supper and, Cynthia agreeing, I ran upstairs to fetch my racquet.
Mrs. Cavendish was coming down the stairs. It may have been my fancy, but she, too, was looking odd and disturbed.
"Had a good walk with Dr. Bauerstein?" I asked, trying to appear as indifferent as I could.
"I didn't go," she replied abruptly. "Where is Mrs. Inglethorp?"

"In the boudoir."
Her hand clenched itself on the banisters, then she seemed to nerve herself for some encounter, and went rapidly past me down the stairs across the hall to the boudoir, the door of which she shut behind her.
As I ran out to the tennis court a few moments later, I had to pass the open boudoir window, and was unable to help overhearing the following scrap of dialogue. Mary Cavendish was saying in the voice of a woman desperately controlling herself:

"Then you won't show it to me?"
To which Mrs. Inglethorp replied:
"My dear Mary, it has nothing to do with that matter."
"Then show it to me."
"I tell you it is not what you imagine. It does not concern you in the least."
To which Mary Cavendish replied, with a rising bitterness:
"Of course, I might have known you would shield him."
Cynthia was waiting for me, and greeted me eagerly with:
"I say! There's been the most awful row! I've got it all out of Dorcas."
"What kind of a row?"
"Between Aunt Emily and _him_. I do hope she's found him out at last!"
"Was Dorcas there, then?"

"Of course not. She 'happened to be near the door'. It was a real old bust-up. I do wish I knew what it was all about."
I thought of Mrs. Raikes's gipsy face, and Evelyn Howard's warnings, but wisely decided to hold my peace, whilst Cynthia exhausted every possible hypothesis, and cheerfully hoped, "Aunt Emily will send him away, and will never speak to him again."
I was anxious to get hold of John, but he was nowhere to be seen. Evidently something very momentous had occurred that afternoon. I tried to forget the few words I had overheard; but, do what I would, I could not dismiss them altogether from my mind. What was Mary Cavendish's concern in the matter?
Mr. Inglethorp was in the drawing-room when I came down to supper. His face was impassive as ever, and the strange unreality of the man struck me afresh.

Mrs. Inglethorp came down last. She still looked agitated, and during the meal there was a somewhat constrained silence. Inglethorp was unusually quiet. As a rule, he surrounded his wife with little attentions, placing a cushion at her back, and altogether playing the part of the devoted husband. Immediately after supper, Mrs. Inglethorp retired to her boudoir again.
"Send my coffee in here, Mary," she called. "I've just five minutes to catch the post."
Cynthia and I went and sat by the open window in the drawing-room. Mary Cavendish brought our coffee to us. She seemed excited.

"Do you young people want lights, or do you enjoy the twilight?" she asked. "Will you take Mrs. Inglethorp her coffee, Cynthia? I will pour it out."
"Do not trouble, Mary," said Inglethorp. "I will take it to Emily." He poured it out, and went out of the room carrying it carefully.
Lawrence followed him, and Mrs. Cavendish sat down by us.
We three sat for some time in silence. It was a glorious night, hot and still. Mrs. Cavendish fanned herself gently with a palm leaf.
"It's almost too hot," she murmured. "We shall have a thunderstorm."
Alas, that these harmonious moments can never endure! My paradise was rudely shattered by the sound of a well known, and heartily disliked, voice in the hall.
"Dr. Bauerstein!" exclaimed Cynthia. "What a funny time to come."

I glanced jealously at Mary Cavendish, but she seemed quite undisturbed, the delicate pallor of her cheeks did not vary.
In a few moments, Alfred Inglethorp had ushered the doctor in, the latter laughing, and protesting that he was in no fit state for a drawing-room. In truth, he presented a sorry spectacle, being literally plastered with mud.
"What have you been doing, doctor?" cried Mrs. Cavendish.
"I must make my apologies," said the doctor. "I did not really mean to come in, but Mr. Inglethorp insisted."
"Well, Bauerstein, you are in a plight," said John, strolling in from the hall. "Have some coffee, and tell us what you have been up to."
"Thank you, I will." He laughed rather ruefully, as he described how he had discovered a very rare species of fern in an inaccessible place, and in his efforts to obtain it had lost his footing, and slipped ignominiously into a neighbouring pond.
"The sun soon dried me off," he added, "but I'm afraid my appearance is very disreputable."

At this juncture, Mrs. Inglethorp called to Cynthia from the hall, and the girl ran out.
"Just carry up my despatch-case, will you, dear? I'm going to bed."
The door into the hall was a wide one. I had risen when Cynthia did, John was close by me. There were therefore three witnesses who could swear that Mrs. Inglethorp was carrying her coffee, as yet untasted, in her hand.

My evening was utterly and entirely spoilt by the presence of Dr. Bauerstein. It seemed to me the man would never go. He rose at last, however, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
"I'll walk down to the village with you," said Mr. Inglethorp. "I must see our agent over those estate accounts." He turned to John. "No one need sit up. I will take the latch-key."

我是七月五日到达斯泰尔斯的。现在我要说的是那个月十六日和十七日的事。为了让读者方便，我将尽可能精确无误地把这几天来的事情扼要地重述一下。这些事情后来经过一系列冗长乏味的盘问才审讯清楚。
伊夫琳·霍华德走后两三天，我收到了她的一封信，信上告诉我，她已在米德林海姆的一家大医院里做护士，该地离这儿有十五、六英里，是个工业小城。她恳求我，要是英格里桑太太表示出有同她和好的愿望的话，就让她知道。

在我的宁静的日子里，唯一的美中不足是卡文迪什太太在和鲍斯坦医生的交往中那种特殊的、对我来说是不可理解的偏爱。她到底着中此人的哪一点，我没法想象，可是她老是邀请他到家里来，经常和他一块儿出去作长时间的旅游。我必须承认，我实在看不出他的吸引力究竟在哪里。
七月十六日是星期一，这一天整天乱糟糟的。一次著名的义卖已在上一个星期六开幕。这天晚上要举行一次和同一赈济有关的文娱晚会，英格里桑太太要在会上朗诵一首战争诗。上于我们大伙都忙着整理和布置开晚会的村子礼堂。中饭吃得很迟，下午就在花园里休息。我发觉约翰的神态有点异常。他好象十分焦躁不安。

喝好茶，英格里桑太大会躺下休息了，晚上她还得努力一番。而我则向玛丽·卡文迪什挑战，要和她作一次网球单打比赛。
六点三刻左右，英格里桑太太叫唤我们，说是我们要迟到了，因为这天的晚饭要提早。为了能及时准备好，我们只好草草收兵。晚饭还没吃完，汽车已经等在门口了。
晚会开得很成功。英格里桑太大的朗诵博得了一片热烈的掌声。还表演了一些舞台造型，辛西娅也在其中扮演了角色。她没有和我们一起回家，应邀参加一个晚餐会去了，这大晚上，她和那些和她一起演出的朋友在一起。
第二天早上，英格里桑太太是在床上吃的早饭，她有点疲劳过度了，但是，十二点半左右，她精神抖擞地出现了，硬要带劳伦斯和我也一起去参加一次午餐会。

“你知道，这是罗雷斯顿太太的盛情邀请，她就是塔明斯特夫人的妹妹。罗雷斯顿家和征服者①一起来到这儿，是我国最古老的家族之一。”
玛丽托词和鲍斯但有约在先，为自己不能同往表示了歉意。
我们吃了一顿非常适意的中饭，而当我们驱车离开时，劳伦斯提议，我们应该经由塔明斯特回来，那儿只离我们走的公路一英里，到辛西娅的药房去看看她。英格里桑太太回答说这是个好主意，可是由于她有几封信要写，她得把我们丢在那儿，我们可以和辛西娅一起乘轻便马车回来。
我们由于受到怀疑，一直被医院的看门人阻留着，直到辛西娅出来为我们证明才让进去。她穿着件白色的长外套，看上去既沉静又温柔。她带我们来到她的工作室，把我们介绍给和她一起的那位药剂师，一个有点使人害怕的人，辛西娅轻松地把他叫做“尼布斯”。
“瓶子真多！”当我的眼睛朝这个小小的房间巡视了一圈后，我惊呼说。“你真的都知道所有的瓶子里是什么吗？”
“说起来真怪，”辛西娅叹了口气说。“每个到这儿来的人都这么说。我们真想给第一个不讲‘瓶子真多’的人发笔奖金，我知道，你接下去打算问的一句话就是：‘你毒死多少人了呀？’”

我微笑着，感到很内疚。
“要是你们知道错毒死一个人是多么容易，你就不会说这样的笑话了。得啦！我们喝茶吧。那只橱里的各种内情真相我们都已掌握了。不，劳伦斯——那是毒药橱，是那只大橱子——对了。”
我们高高兴兴地喝了茶。后来还帮辛西娅洗了茶具。正当我们放好最后一只茶匙时，门外传来了一阵敲门声。
辛西娅和尼布斯突然板起了脸孔，露出了严肃的神情。
“进来，”辛西娅说，带着一种明显的职业性的语气。
一个显得有点惊慌模样的年轻护士，拿着一只瓶子出现了，她把瓶子递给了尼布斯，他示意她交给辛西娅，还说了句有点莫明其妙的话：
“今天我不是真正在这儿。”

辛西娅接过瓶子，象个法官一样严格地把它检查了一番。
“这应该是今天上午来领的。”
“护士长说很对不起。她忘了。”
“护士长应该来读读门外的规定。”
我从小护士的神色上猜出，她是不可能有这种胆量把这一口信带给那位使人害伯的“修女”的。
“这可得到明天才能领了。”
“你看今天晚上是不是有可能给我们？”

“好吧，”辛西娅宽厚地说。“我们很忙，不过，如果有时间的话，我们就装一装。”
小护士退出去了，辛西娅敏捷地从架子上取下一只大瓶，把那只瓶子灌满，然后把它放到门外的桌子上。
我笑了起来。
“纪律必须维持？”
“一点不错，到我们的小阳台上去吧。那儿外面的全部病房都能看到。”
我跟着辛西娅和她的朋友走到阳台上，他们指给我看各个不同的病房。劳伦斯仍留在房里。可是过了一会，辛西妞扭头叫了他一声，要他出来和我们一起来看。后来，她看了看表。
“没什么事情了吧，尼布斯？”
“没有了。”
“好吧。那我们可以锁门走了。”

那天下午，我对劳伦斯有了完全不同的看法。虽然和约翰相比，他是个使人吃惊地难以了解的人，几乎在每个方面部不同于他的哥哥，十分胆小，沉默寡言，可是，他还是有某些讨人喜欢的举止态度，因而我相信，要是一个人真正对他有很好的了解，是一定会深深地喜欢他的。我原来一直认为他对待辛西娅的态度相当不自然，她对他也羞答答。可是那天下午，他们俩都很快活，他们在一起谈得很起劲，仿佛象一对孩子。
当我们乘马车穿过林子时，我想起我要买几张邮票，于是我们就在邮局门口停了下来。
在我走出邮局时，我和一个正在进来的小个子男人撞了一个满怀。我急忙退到一边：向他道了歉，可那人突然大声惊叫了起来，把我紧紧地拥抱住，热情地吻我。

“亲爱的哈斯丁！”他喊道。“真的是亲爱的哈斯丁！”
“波洛！”我也喊了起来。
我们回到马车旁边。
“这是我一次非常愉快的会见，辛西娅小姐。这位是我的老朋友波洛先生，我已经有好几年没有见到他了。”
“噢，我们认识波洛先生，”辛西娅快活地说。“可是我没有想到他也是你的朋友。”
“不错，真的，”波洛一本正经地说。“我认识辛西娅小姐，我得以到这儿来是全仗好心的英格里桑太太的恩赐。”见我好奇地打量着他，他接着说：“是的，我的朋友，她友好地殷勤接待了我们七个同胞，唉，我们这几个都是从自己的祖国逃亡出来的人啊。我们比利时人将永远怀着感激的心情把她铭记在心里。”
波洛是个外表特别的小个子男人，身高只有五英尺四英寸，可是举止显得非常庄重。他的脑袋模样儿完全象只鸡蛋，而他总爱把它微微侧向一边。他的那一抹翘胡子又硬又挺，象个军人。他的衣着整洁得简直不可思议。我相信，在他身上落上一粒灰尘会使他感到比一颗子弹打伤他还要痛苦。这位漂亮的、打扮得象花花公子的小个子（看到他现在的精神这样沮丧，我感到很难过）原来一直是比利时警方最著名的工作人员之一，作为一个侦探，他有着非凡的天才，他曾经成功地侦破过当时的一些最最棘手的案件。

他指给我看了看他和他的比利时同胞栖身的小屋，我答应尽早去看望他。接着，他用一种戏剧性的动作，朝辛西娅扬了扬帽子。于是我们就上车离开了。
“他是个可爱的小个子，”辛西娅说。“我没有想到你认识他。”
“你们是在不知不觉地接待一位名人，”我回答说。
在回家的路上，我对他们讲述了赫卡尔·波洛的各种功绩和成就。
我们怀着欢乐的心情回到家里。当我们走进门厅时，英格里桑太太正从她的闺房②中出来。她看上去有些激动，心烦意乱。
“哦，是你们，”她说。
“出什么事了吗，埃米莉阿姨？”辛西娅问道。
“没有，”英格里桑太太警觉他说，“会出什么事呀？”这时她看到女佣人多卡斯走进餐室，就叫她拿点邮票到她房里去。
“好的，太太。”老女仆踌躇了一下，接着又胆怯地补充说：“大太，您不认为您最好还是上床去躺一会吗？您看来太疲劳了。”
“你也许说得对，多卡斯——是的——不——现在不行。我还有几封信，得赶在邮局收信之前写完。你已经按我告诉过你那样，在我房里生了火了吗？”

“生了，太太。”
“那我吃过晚饭就马上去睡。”
她又走进自己的房间，辛西娅凝视着她的背影。
“天啊！究竟出了什么事了？”她对劳伦斯说。
他仿佛没有听到她说的话，一声不吭地转身走出屋子去了。
我对辛西娅提议，在晚饭前来一场网球快速比赛，她同意了，于是我跑上楼去取球拍。
卡文迪什太太正下楼来。也许是我的一种错觉，可是她确实显得有点古怪，心神不定。
“去和鲍斯坦医生散步了吗？”我问道，尽可能表现出一种不在乎的样子。
“没去，”她仓猝地回答说。“英格里桑太太在哪儿？”
“在闺房里。”
她一只手紧握住栏杆，接着好象鼓起勇气去完成一件艰险的工作，匆匆地走过我的身旁，下了楼，穿过门厅，朝闺房走去，进去后，关上了身后的房门。

过了一会，我奔向网球场，我得从闺房的打开的窗下经过，这时我偶然地听到了下面这些谈话的片断。玛丽·卡文迪什以一个死命想控制住自己感情的妇女的声音在说：
“那你就不能给我看看吗？”
英格里桑太太对她回答说：
“亲爱的玛丽，这没有什么。”
“那就给我着看。”
“我告诉你了，事情不象你想的那样。这同你丝毫没有关系。”
玛丽·卡文迪什回答说，声音更加悲哀：
“当然罗，我早就知道你是会袒护他的。”
辛西娅正在等着我，她热切地迎着我说：
“嗨，大吵过一场啦！我从多卡斯那儿全部打听到了。”
“谁吵架呀？”
“埃米莉阿姨和他。我真希望她最终会看透他！”
“那么多卡斯在场吗？”

“当然不在。只是碰巧在房门口。这次可真是大破裂了。我真希望能把全部情况着；了解个一清二楚。”
我想起了雷克斯太太那张吉普赛人的脸蛋，以及伊夫琳·霍华德的警告，但是我明智地决心保持沉默，而辛西娅却千方百计地作了每一种可能的假设，兴奋地希望“埃米莉阿姨会把他撵走，会永远不再和他说话”。
我急于想见到约翰，可是到处都找不到他，显然，那天下午出了什么严重的事了。我竭力想忘掉我偶尔听到的那几句话，可是，不管我怎么着，我都没法把它们完全从我的脑子里抹去。玛丽·卡文迪什所关心的那件事是什么呢？
我下楼来吃饭时，英格里桑先生正坐在客厅里。他脸上的表情仍象往常一样冷淡，因而我重又感到此人的令人不快的虚伪。
英格里桑太太最后一个来，她看上去仍然焦躁不安。

吃饭期间餐桌上有着一种紧张的沉默。英格里桑异常平静，象往常一样，他给他的妻子时而献一点小殷勤，在她的背后放上一只背垫什么的，完全扮演着一个忠实丈夫的角色。饭后，英格里桑太太立即就回到自己的闺房去了。
“把我的咖啡拿来吧，玛丽，”她叫唤道。“要赶上邮班，只有五分钟了。”
我和辛西娅走到客厅的打开的窗户跟前，坐了下来。
玛丽·卡艾迪什给我们送来了咖啡。她显得有点激动。
“你们年轻人要开灯呢，”还是喜爱朦胧的黄昏？”她问道。“辛西娅，你把英格里桑太太的咖啡送去好吗？我来把它斟好。”
“你别麻烦了，玛丽，”英格里桑说：“我会给埃米莉送去的。”他斟了一杯咖啡，小心翼翼地端着它走出了房间。
劳伦斯也跟着出去了，于是卡文迪什太太在我们旁边坐了下来。

我们三人默默地坐了一会。这是个愉快的夜晚，四周一片静寂，天气很热，卡文迪什太太用一把棕榈叶扇轻轻地扇着凉。
“天气简直太热了，”她低声哺咕道，“要下雷雨了。””
唉，真是好景不长啊！我的良辰美景突然被门厅里的一阵熟识的非常讨厌的声音打破了。
“鲍斯坦医生！”辛西娅惊叫起来。“怪了，怎么这时候来。”
我偷偷地朝玛丽·卡文迪什瞥了一眼，可是她似乎十分泰然自若，她双颊上那娇白的脸色毫无变化。
过了一会，阿弗雷德·英格里桑把医生领进来了。后者大声笑着，坚决表示他这副样子去客厅是不适宜的。事实上，他真的出了洋相，他身上沾满了泥。

“你在忙什么呀，医生？”玛丽·卡文什迪大声问道。
“我得解释一下，”医生说。”我实在不打算进来，可是英格里桑先生定要我来。”
“哦，跑斯坦，你陷入窘境了。”约翰说着从过道里踱了进来。“喝点咖啡吧，和我们谈谈，你在忙点什么。”
“谢谢，我这就讲吧。”他苦笑着说。他说他在一个难攀登的地方发现了一种相当罕见的蕨类植物，而就在他千方百计想把它采到手的时候，他，实在丢人，竟失足掉进了近旁的一口池塘。

“太阳虽然很诀就把我的衣服晒干了，”他接着说，“可是我怕这一来我的面子都丢光了。”
就在这时候，英格里桑太太从过道里叫唤辛西娅了，于是，姑娘就跑出去了。
“请你把我的公文箱拿过来好吗，亲爱的？我打算睡觉了。”
通注过道的门开得很大。当辛西娅在拿箱子的时候，我已经站起身来，约翰就在我旁边。因此，有三个人可以证明，当时英格里桑太太还没喝咖啡，而是正端在手里。
我的那个傍晚，已被鲍斯坦医生的出现完全彻底地破坏了。看来此人好象不走了。然而，他终于站了起来，我才宽慰地舒了一口气。
“我走着陪你去村子吧，”英格里桑先生说。”我得去看看我们那个房地产代理人，”他又转身对着约翰说，“不需要人等我，我带大门钥匙去。”

注释：
①即一零六六年征服英国的英王威廉一世。
②系妇女的起居室或更衣室。

引用

Chapter 1 I Go To Styles

The intense interest aroused in the public by what was known at the time as "The Styles Case" has now somewhat subsided. Nevertheless, in view of the world-wide notoriety which attended it, I have been asked, both by my friend Poirot and the family themselves, to write an account of the whole story. This, we trust, will effectually silence the sensational rumours which still persist.
I will therefore briefly set down the circumstances which led to my being connected with the affair.

I had been invalided home from the Front; and, after spending some months in a rather depressing Convalescent Home, was given a month's sick leave. Having no near relations or friends, I was trying to make up my mind what to do, when I ran across John Cavendish. I had seen very little of him for some years. Indeed, I had never known him particularly well. He was a good fifteen years my senior, for one thing, though he hardly looked his forty-five years. As a boy, though, I had often stayed at Styles, his mother's place in Essex.
We had a good yarn about old times, and it ended in his inviting me down to Styles to spend my leave there.
"The mater will be delighted to see you again--after all those years," he added.
"Your mother keeps well?" I asked.
"Oh, yes. I suppose you know that she has married again?"

I am afraid I showed my surprise rather plainly. Mrs. Cavendish, who had married John's father when he was a widower with two sons, had been a handsome woman of middle-age as I remembered her. She certainly could not be a day less than seventy now. I recalled her as an energetic, autocratic personality, somewhat inclined to charitable and social notoriety, with a fondness for opening bazaars and playing the Lady Bountiful. She was a most generous woman, and possessed a considerable fortune of her own.
Their country-place, Styles Court, had been purchased by Mr. Cavendish early in their married life. He had been completely under his wife's ascendancy, so much so that, on dying, he left the place to her for her lifetime, as well as the larger part of his income; an arrangement that was distinctly unfair to his two sons. Their step-mother, however, had always been most generous to them; indeed, they were so young at the time of their father's remarriage that they always thought of her as their own mother.

Lawrence, the younger, had been a delicate youth. He had qualified as a doctor but early relinquished the profession of medicine, and lived at home while pursuing literary ambitions; though his verses never had any marked success.
John practiced for some time as a barrister, but had finally settled down to the more congenial life of a country squire. He had married two years ago, and had taken his wife to live at Styles, though I entertained a shrewd suspicion that he would have preferred his mother to increase his allowance, which would have enabled him to have a home of his own. Mrs. Cavendish, however, was a lady who liked to make her own plans, and expected other people to fall in with them, and in this case she certainly had the whip hand, namely: the purse strings.
John noticed my surprise at the news of his mother's remarriage and smiled rather ruefully.
"Rotten little bounder too!" he said savagely. "I can tell you, Hastings, it's making life jolly difficult for us. As for Evie--you remember Evie?"
"No."
"Oh, I suppose she was after your time. She's the mater's factotum, companion, Jack of all trades! A great sport--old Evie! Not precisely young and beautiful, but as game as they make them."
"You were going to say----?"

"Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of being a second cousin or something of Evie's, though she didn't seem particularly keen to acknowledge the relationship. The fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see that. He's got a great black beard, and wears patent leather boots in all weathers! But the mater cottoned to him at once, took him on as secretary--you know how she's always running a hundred societies?"
I nodded.
"Well, of course the war has turned the hundreds into thousands. No doubt the fellow was very useful to her. But you could have knocked us all down with a feather when, three months ago, she suddenly announced that she and Alfred were engaged! The fellow must be at least twenty years younger than she is! It's simply bare-faced fortune hunting; but there you are--she is her own mistress, and she's married him."
"It must be a difficult situation for you all."
"Difficult! It's damnable!"

Thus it came about that, three days later, I descended from the train at Styles St. Mary, an absurd little station, with no apparent reason for existence, perched up in the midst of green fields and country lanes. John Cavendish was waiting on the platform, and piloted me out to the car.
"Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see," he remarked. "Mainly owing to the mater's activities."
The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about two miles from the little station, and Styles Court lay a mile the other side of it. It was a still, warm day in early July. As one looked out over the flat Essex country, lying so green and peaceful under the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible to believe that, not so very far away, a great war was running its appointed course. I felt I had suddenly strayed into another world. As we turned in at the lodge gates, John said:
"I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet down here, Hastings."
"My dear fellow, that's just what I want."

"Oh, it's pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life. I drill with the volunteers twice a week, and lend a hand at the farms. My wife works regularly 'on the land'. She is up at five every morning to milk, and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime. It's a jolly good life taking it all round--if it weren't for that fellow Alfred Inglethorp!" He checked the car suddenly, and glanced at his watch. "I wonder if we've time to pick up Cynthia. No, she'll have started from the hospital by now."
"Cynthia! That's not your wife?"
"No, Cynthia is a protegee of my mother's, the daughter of an old schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor. He came a cropper, and the girl was left an orphan and penniless. My mother came to the rescue, and Cynthia has been with us nearly two years now. She works in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster, seven miles away."

As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old house. A lady in a stout tweed skirt, who was bending over a flower bed, straightened herself at our approach.
"Hullo, Evie, here's our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings--Miss Howard."
Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip. I had an impression of very blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, with a deep voice, almost manly in its stentorian tones, and had a large sensible square body, with feet to match--these last encased in good thick boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the telegraphic style.
"Weeds grow like house afire. Can't keep even with 'em. Shall press you in. Better be careful."
"I'm sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful," I responded.
"Don't say it. Never does. Wish you hadn't later."

"You're a cynic, Evie," said John, laughing. "Where's tea to-day--inside or out?"
"Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house."
"Come on then, you've done enough gardening for to-day. 'The labourer is worthy of his hire', you know. Come and be refreshed."
"Well," said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, "I'm inclined to agree with you."
She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the shade of a large sycamore.
A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps to meet us.
"My wife, Hastings," said John.
I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall, slender form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense of slumbering fire that seemed to find expression only in those wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any other woman's that I have ever known; the intense power of stillness she possessed, which nevertheless conveyed the impression of a wild untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilised body--all these things are burnt into my memory. I shall never forget them.

She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low clear voice, and I sank into a basket chair feeling distinctly glad that I had accepted John's invitation. Mrs. Cavendish gave me some tea, and her few quiet remarks heightened my first impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman. An appreciative listener is always stimulating, and I described, in a humorous manner, certain incidents of my Convalescent Home, in a way which, I flatter myself, greatly amused my hostess. John, of course, good fellow though he is, could hardly be called a brilliant conversationalist.
At that moment a well remembered voice floated through the open French window near at hand:
"Then you'll write to the Princess after tea, Alfred? I'll write to Lady Tadminster for the second day, myself. Or shall we wait until we hear from the Princess? In case of a refusal, Lady Tadminster might open it the first day, and Mrs. Crosbie the second. Then there's the Duchess--about the school fete."
There was the murmur of a man's voice, and then Mrs. Inglethorp's rose in reply:
"Yes, certainly. After tea will do quite well. You are so thoughtful, Alfred dear."
The French window swung open a little wider, and a handsome white-haired old lady, with a somewhat masterful cast of features, stepped out of it on to the lawn. A man followed her, a suggestion of deference in his manner.
Mrs. Inglethorp greeted me with effusion.

"Why, if it isn't too delightful to see you again, Mr. Hastings, after all these years. Alfred, darling, Mr. Hastings--my husband."
I looked with some curiosity at "Alfred darling". He certainly struck a rather alien note. I did not wonder at John objecting to his beard. It was one of the longest and blackest I have ever seen. He wore gold-rimmed pince-nez, and had a curious impassivity of feature. It struck me that he might look natural on a stage, but was strangely out of place in real life. His voice was rather deep and unctuous. He placed a wooden hand in mine and said:
"This is a pleasure, Mr. Hastings." Then, turning to his wife: "Emily dearest, I think that cushion is a little damp."
She beamed fondly on him, as he substituted another with every demonstration of the tenderest care. Strange infatuation of an otherwise sensible woman!
With the presence of Mr. Inglethorp, a sense of constraint and veiled hostility seemed to settle down upon the company. Miss Howard, in particular, took no pains to conceal her feelings. Mrs. Inglethorp, however, seemed to notice nothing unusual. Her volubility, which I remembered of old, had lost nothing in the intervening years, and she poured out a steady flood of conversation, mainly on the subject of the forthcoming bazaar which she was organizing and which was to take place shortly. Occasionally she referred to her husband over a question of days or dates. His watchful and attentive manner never varied. From the very first I took a firm and rooted dislike to him, and I flatter myself that my first judgments are usually fairly shrewd.
Presently Mrs. Inglethorp turned to give some instructions about letters to Evelyn Howard, and her husband addressed me in his painstaking voice:

"Is soldiering your regular profession, Mr. Hastings?"
"No, before the war I was in Lloyd's."
"And you will return there after it is over?"
"Perhaps. Either that or a fresh start altogether."
Mary Cavendish leant forward.
"What would you really choose as a profession, if you could just consult your inclination?"
"Well, that depends."
"No secret hobby?" she asked. "Tell me--you're drawn to something? Every one is--usually something absurd."
"You'll laugh at me."
She smiled.
"Perhaps."
"Well, I've always had a secret hankering to be a detective!"
"The real thing--Scotland Yard? Or Sherlock Holmes?"
"Oh, Sherlock Holmes by all means. But really, seriously, I am awfully drawn to it. I came across a man in Belgium once, a very famous detective, and he quite inflamed me. He was a marvellous little fellow. He used to say that all good detective work was a mere matter of method. My system is based on his--though of course I have progressed rather further. He was a funny little man, a great dandy, but wonderfully clever."
"Like a good detective story myself," remarked Miss Howard. "Lots of nonsense written, though. Criminal discovered in last chapter. Every one dumbfounded. Real crime--you'd know at once."
"There have been a great number of undiscovered crimes," I argued.

"Don't mean the police, but the people that are right in it. The family. You couldn't really hoodwink them. They'd know."
"Then," I said, much amused, "you think that if you were mixed up in a crime, say a murder, you'd be able to spot the murderer right off?"
"Of course I should. Mightn't be able to prove it to a pack of lawyers. But I'm certain I'd know. I'd feel it in my fingertips if he came near me."
"It might be a 'she,' " I suggested.
"Might. But murder's a violent crime. Associate it more with a man."
"Not in a case of poisoning." Mrs. Cavendish's clear voice startled me. "Dr. Bauerstein was saying yesterday that, owing to the general ignorance of the more uncommon poisons among the medical profession, there were probably countless cases of poisoning quite unsuspected."
"Why, Mary, what a gruesome conversation!" cried Mrs. Inglethorp. "It makes me feel as if a goose were walking over my grave. Oh, there's Cynthia!"
A young girl in V. A. D. uniform ran lightly across the lawn.
"Why, Cynthia, you are late to-day. This is Mr. Hastings--Miss Murdoch."

Cynthia Murdoch was a fresh-looking young creature, full of life and vigour. She tossed off her little V. A. D. cap, and I admired the great loose waves of her auburn hair, and the smallness and whiteness of the hand she held out to claim her tea. With dark eyes and eyelashes she would have been a beauty.
She flung herself down on the ground beside John, and as I handed her a plate of sandwiches she smiled up at me.
"Sit down here on the grass, do. It's ever so much nicer."
I dropped down obediently.
"You work at Tadminster, don't you, Miss Murdoch?"
She nodded.
"For my sins."
"Do they bully you, then?" I asked, smiling.
"I should like to see them!" cried Cynthia with dignity.
"I have got a cousin who is nursing," I remarked. "And she is terrified of 'Sisters'."
"I don't wonder. Sisters _are_, you know, Mr. Hastings. They simp--ly _are_! You've no idea! But I'm not a nurse, thank heaven, I work in the dispensary."
"How many people do you poison?" I asked, smiling.
Cynthia smiled too.
"Oh, hundreds!" she said.
"Cynthia," called Mrs. Inglethorp, "do you think you could write a few notes for me?"
"Certainly, Aunt Emily."

She jumped up promptly, and something in her manner reminded me that her position was a dependent one, and that Mrs. Inglethorp, kind as she might be in the main, did not allow her to forget it.
My hostess turned to me.
"John will show you your room. Supper is at half-past seven. We have given up late dinner for some time now. Lady Tadminster, our Member's wife--she was the late Lord Abbotsbury's daughter--does the same. She agrees with me that one must set an example of economy. We are quite a war household; nothing is wasted here--every scrap of waste paper, even, is saved and sent away in sacks."
I expressed my appreciation, and John took me into the house and up the broad staircase, which forked right and left half-way to different wings of the building. My room was in the left wing, and looked out over the park.

John left me, and a few minutes later I saw him from my window walking slowly across the grass arm in arm with Cynthia Murdoch. I heard Mrs. Inglethorp call "Cynthia" impatiently, and the girl started and ran back to the house. At the same moment, a man stepped out from the shadow of a tree and walked slowly in the same direction. He looked about forty, very dark with a melancholy clean-shaven face. Some violent emotion seemed to be mastering him. He looked up at my window as he passed, and I recognized him, though he had changed much in the fifteen years that had elapsed since we last met. It was John's younger brother, Lawrence Cavendish. I wondered what it was that had brought that singular expression to his face.

Then I dismissed him from my mind, and returned to the contemplation of my own affairs.
The evening passed pleasantly enough; and I dreamed that night of that enigmatical woman, Mary Cavendish.
The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and I was full of the anticipation of a delightful visit.
I did not see Mrs. Cavendish until lunch-time, when she volunteered to take me for a walk, and we spent a charming afternoon roaming in the woods, returning to the house about five.

As we entered the large hall, John beckoned us both into the smoking-room. I saw at once by his face that something disturbing had occurred. We followed him in, and he shut the door after us.
"Look here, Mary, there's the deuce of a mess. Evie's had a row with Alfred Inglethorp, and she's off."
"Evie? Off?"
John nodded gloomily.
"Yes; you see she went to the mater, and--Oh, here's Evie herself."
Miss Howard entered. Her lips were set grimly together, and she carried a small suit-case. She looked excited and determined, and slightly on the defensive.
"At any rate," she burst out, "I've spoken my mind!"
"My dear Evelyn," cried Mrs. Cavendish, "this can't be true!"
Miss Howard nodded grimly.
"True enough! Afraid I said some things to Emily she won't forget or forgive in a hurry. Don't mind if they've only sunk in a bit. Probably water off a duck's back, though. I said right out: 'You're an old woman, Emily, and there's no fool like an old fool. The man's twenty years younger than you, and don't you fool yourself as to what he married you for. Money! Well, don't let him have too much of it. Farmer Raikes has got a very pretty young wife. Just ask your Alfred how much time he spends over there.' She was very angry. Natural! I went on, 'I'm going to warn you, whether you like it or not. That man would as soon murder you in your bed as look at you. He's a bad lot. You can say what you like to me, but remember what I've told you. He's a bad lot!' "
"What did she say?"
Miss Howard made an extremely expressive grimace.
" 'Darling Alfred'--'dearest Alfred'--'wicked calumnies' --'wicked lies'--'wicked woman'--to accuse her 'dear husband'! The sooner I left her house the better. So I'm off."
"But not now?"
"This minute!"

For a moment we sat and stared at her. Finally John Cavendish, finding his persuasions of no avail, went off to look up the trains. His wife followed him, murmuring something about persuading Mrs. Inglethorp to think better of it.
As she left the room, Miss Howard's face changed. She leant towards me eagerly.
"Mr. Hastings, you're honest. I can trust you?"
I was a little startled. She laid her hand on my arm, and sank her voice to a whisper.
"Look after her, Mr. Hastings. My poor Emily. They're a lot of sharks--all of them. Oh, I know what I'm talking about. There isn't one of them that's not hard up and trying to get money out of her. I've protected her as much as I could. Now I'm out of the way, they'll impose upon her."
"Of course, Miss Howard," I said, "I'll do everything I can, but I'm sure you're excited and overwrought."
She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger.
"Young man, trust me. I've lived in the world rather longer than you have. All I ask you is to keep your eyes open. You'll see what I mean."
The throb of the motor came through the open window, and Miss Howard rose and moved to the door. John's voice sounded outside. With her hand on the handle, she turned her head over her shoulder, and beckoned to me.
"Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil--her husband!"
There was no time for more. Miss Howard was swallowed up in an eager chorus of protests and good-byes. The Inglethorps did not appear.
As the motor drove away, Mrs. Cavendish suddenly detached herself from the group, and moved across the drive to the lawn to meet a tall bearded man who had been evidently making for the house. The colour rose in her cheeks as she held out her hand to him.
"Who is that?" I asked sharply, for instinctively I distrusted the man.
"That's Dr. Bauerstein," said John shortly.
"And who is Dr. Bauerstein?"
"He's staying in the village doing a rest cure, after a bad nervous breakdown. He's a London specialist; a very clever man--one of the greatest living experts on poisons, I believe."

"And he's a great friend of Mary's," put in Cynthia, the irrepressible.
John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject.
"Come for a stroll, Hastings. This has been a most rotten business. She always had a rough tongue, but there is no stauncher friend in England than Evelyn Howard."
He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to the village through the woods which bordered one side of the estate.
As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again, a pretty young woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction bowed and smiled.
"That's a pretty girl," I remarked appreciatively.
John's face hardened.
"That is Mrs. Raikes."
"The one that Miss Howard----"

"Exactly," said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness.
I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside.
"Styles is really a glorious old place," I said to John.
He nodded rather gloomily.
"Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine some day--should be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now."
"Hard up, are you?"

"My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm at my wit's end for money."
"Couldn't your brother help you?"
"Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, we're an impecunious lot. My mother's always been awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up to now. Since her marriage, of course----" he broke off, frowning.
For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, something indefinable had gone from the atmosphere. Her presence had spelt security. Now that security was removed--and the air seemed rife with suspicion. The sinister face of Dr. Bauerstein recurred to me unpleasantly. A vague suspicion of every one and everything filled my mind. Just for a moment I had a premonition of approaching evil.
曾经轰动一时，在公众中引起强烈兴趣的“斯泰尔斯庄园案”，现在已经有点冷落下来了。然而，由于随之产生的种种流言蜚语广为流传，我的朋友波洛和那一家的人。都要求我把整个故事写出来。我们相信，这将有效地驳倒那些迄今为止仍在流传的耸人听闻的谣言。
因此，我决定把我和这一事件有关的一些情况简略地记下来。

我是作为伤病员从前线给遣送回家的；在一所令人相当沮丧的疗养院里挨过了几个月之后，总算给了我一个月的病假。我既无近亲也没有密友，当我正在考虑怎么来度过这一假期的时候，偶然遇见了约翰·卡文迪什，这些年来我很少见到他。说实在的，我并不十分了解他。首先，他比我足足大十五岁，虽然他根本着不出有四十五岁。虽说在做孩子的时候，我常在斯泰尔斯庄园逗留，那是他母亲在埃塞克期①的乡间邸宅。
我们经过了一番叙旧之后，接着他就邀我上斯泰尔斯去度过我的假期。
“隔了这么多年又见到你，母亲一定会很高兴的。”他补充说。
“你母亲好吗？”我问道。
“嗯，很好。她又结婚了，你大概知道了吧？”

我担心我已有点儿明显地流露出惊讶的神情。在我的记忆中，他的母亲是位端庄的中年妇女（她嫁给约翰父亲的时候，他是个鳏夫，已有两个儿子），现在，无疑至少有七十岁了。我记得她是个精力充沛、办事专断的人，有点喜欢慈善事业和社交活动，爱好搞搞义卖之类，扮演“帮得忙”大太②的角色。她是个非常慷慨的女人，她自己有相当可观的财产。
他们这幢乡问邸宅斯泰尔斯庄园，是早在他们结婚那年月，卡文迪什先生购置的。他本来已完全在他太太的控制之下，他一去世，这幢宅第也就留给她终生享用了，她的绝大部分收入也归了她；这样的安排，对他的两个儿子来无疑是不公正的。然而，他们的后母对他们倒是非常慷慨；实在是，他们的父亲再娶时。他们都还年幼，所以他们一向把她看成是自己的亲生母亲。
弟弟劳伦斯是个文雅的青年。他原已取得了当医生的资格，但他早就放弃了这个行医的职业，待在家里一心想实现文学上的抱负；虽然他的诗作从来没有任何显著的成就。
约翰当过一段时间开业律师，可是，他最终还是过起这种更为惬意的乡绅生活来了。他在两年前结了婚，带着妻子住在斯泰尔斯，不过，我总觉得，他是宁愿他的母亲多给他一点津贴，好让他能够有一个自己的家的。然而，那位老太太是个喜欢独断独行的人，希望别人听从她的安排，而在现在这样的情况下，她当然处于支配地应，就是说：财权在她手中。
约翰觉察到我听说他母亲再嫁的消息后所表现出来的惊讶，苦笑了一下。
“还是个卑鄙龌龊的粗俗汉子！”他粗鲁地说。“我可以告诉你，哈斯丁，这搞得我们的日子相当难过。至于哪个伊维③——你还记得伊维吗？”
“不记得了。”
“呵，我想她是在你那一次去过之后来的。她是母亲的管家，女伴，是个样样皆通的人物！那个老伊维，是个大玩物！既不年轻又不漂亮，大家都拿他们作为嘲弄的对象。
“你是打算说——？”

“哼，这家伙！谁知道他是打哪几钻出来的，借口是伊维的远房表兄弟什么的，虽说她似乎并不特别想承认这种关系。谁都能看出，这家伙完全是个粗俗汉子。一大把黑胡子，不管什么天气都穿双漆皮的长统靴！可母亲却立刻对他产生了好感，录用他当了秘书——你知道吗？她一直经营着上百个社会团体呢。”
我点点头。
“当然罗，战争已经把几百个这样的社团变成几千个了。这家伙对她来说无疑是很有用的。可是，三个月前，当她突然宣布她已和阿弗雷德订婚时，这可把我们都给惊呆了！这家伙至少比她要小二十岁呀！这简直是露骨的，追求有钱的女人；可是你知道，她是个独断独行的女主人，她就嫁给他啦。”
“这一定使你们大家处境都困难了吧。”
“困难！糟透了！”
就在这次谈话之后的第三天，我在斯泰尔斯站下了火车。这简直是个荒谬可笑的小站，四周全是碧绿的田野和乡间小道，看来毫无明显的存在理由。约翰·卡文迪什在站台上等着我，他把我领到汽车跟前。

“你瞧，总算还搞到了一、两滴汽油，”他说：“主要是由于我母亲的活动。”
斯泰尔斯村在离这个小站大约有两英里的地方，斯泰尔斯庄园则坐落在小站的另一方向，离它有一英里第。这是七月初一个宁静、暖和的日子。当你望着窗外掠过的这片埃塞克斯的平野时，它沐浴在午后的阳光中，显得如此青葱，如此宁静，简直使人不能相信，就在离这不很远的地方，一场大战正在按预定的过程进行。我感到自己已突然置身于另一个世界。当我们拐入庄园的大门时，约翰说道：
“我怕你在这儿会感到太冷清呢，哈斯丁。”
“老朋友，这正是我所需要的啊。”
“呵，你要是愿意过悠闲的生活，那这里可真舒适极了。我每星期去和志愿兵一起操练两次，在农庄上帮点忙。我的妻子按时去干点农活。她每天早上五点起身去挤牛奶，一直到吃中饭。要是没有阿弗雷德·英格里桑那家伙的话，这儿确实是一种快活似神仙的生活！”他突然煞住了车，看了着手表。“不知道我们是不是还来得及去接一下辛西娅。啊，不行啦，她可能已经从医院出来了。”
“辛西娅！就是你妻子吗？”

“不，辛西娅是我母亲的养女，她的一个老同学的女儿，这个老同学嫁给了一个律师，那人是个流氓，后来栽了大跟斗，弄得这姑娘身无分文，孤苦无依，结果是我母亲救了她。卒西碰往在我们家已经快两年了，她在塔明斯特的红十字医院工作，离这儿有七英里地。”
他说最后几句话时，我们已到了一幢高大的老式房子跟前。一个穿着宽大的花呢裙子的女人，正俯身在花床上，一见我们到来，连忙直起了身子。
“你好，伊维，这位就是我说的负伤的英雄！哈斯丁先生——这位是霍华德小姐。”
霍华德小姐握手很有劲，几乎都把我给握痛了，在她那被阳光晒黑的脸上有一对蓝莹莹的眼睛。她是个一眼看去挺讨人欢喜的女人，四十岁上下，嗓子深沉，洪亮的声音，几乎象个男人，生就一副显然很宽阔结实的身材，再配上一双合适的脚——它们被套在结实粗大的靴子里。我很快发现，她的谈吐语句十分简洁。
“杂草长起来就象房子着火，连赶都赶不上它们，我要抓你的夫的。最好当心一点。”
“我相信，能使自己成为一个有用的人，那我才高兴呐。”我回答说。
“别说这一套。决不要说，希望你以后也别说。”
“你真会挖苦人，伊维，”约翰笑了起来，说。“今天在哪儿喝茶呀——里面还是外面？”
“外面。这么好的天气还打算关在屋子里。”
“那就去吧，今天的园艺活你已经做够了。你要知道，‘雇工之劳动应与其雇金相符’。去吧，歇一歇，”
“好，”霍华德小姐答应说，脱掉自己的工作手套，“就听你的吧。”

她在前面带路，绕过房子，来到一棵大枫树的树荫下摆着茶点的地方。
有一个人从一张柳条椅上站起来。朝我们迎上来几步。
“我的妻子。这位是哈斯丁，”约翰介绍说。
我决不会忘掉第一次见到玛丽·卡文迪什的情景。她，高高的苗条的身材，在明朗的阳光下线条优美；那种欲露还藏的活泼表情。似乎只在那对神奇的褐色媚眼中才能找到。那双惊人的眼睛，和我所见过的所有女人的都不同；她拥有一种无声的非凡的魅力；然而，她那文静高雅的体态中仍然流露出一种狂热奔放的野性激情——所有这一切，都在我的记忆中熊熊燃烧。这是我永远不会忘记的。
她用一种轻柔、清晰的声音，说了几句热情的话，对我表示欢迎，随后我就在一张柳条椅上坐了下来，心中为自己接受约翰的邀请感到格外的高兴。卡文迪什太太给我斟了茶，她那寥寥数句文雅的话，更加深了我对她的最初印象，觉得她是个会使人完全神魂颠倒的女人。一个有欣赏力的听众总是提高人的兴致的，因而我用一种幽默的口吻叙述了一些疗养院中的趣闻轶事，我用这样的方式，引起了我的女主人很大的兴趣，我自己也感到很得意。当然，约翰虽是个大好人，但他不能被称作一个高明的对话者。

正在这时候，一个难以忘却的声音，从近处的一个开着的落地长窗中飘了出来：
“那末你喝了茶以后给公主写信吗，阿弗雷德？给第二天来的塔明斯特夫人的信我自己来写。或者我们还是等公主那边有了回答再说？要是她不答应，塔明斯特夫人就可以在第一天来，克罗斯贝太太第二天，再是公爵夫人——主持学校的开学典礼。”
传出一个男人的喃喃不清的声音，接着又响起英格里桑太大的答话声：
“对，当然可以。喝了茶以后就好好搞一搞，你考虑得真周到，亲爱的阿弗雷德。”
落地长窗又开大了一点，一位端庄的白发老太太，有着一副专横的面容，从里面走出来，来到草坪上，她的后面跟着一个男人，显得一副顺从的样儿。
英格里桑太太热情洋溢地对我表示欢迎。
“啊，隔了这么多年，现在又能见到你，真是太高兴了。
阿弗雷德，亲爱的，这是哈斯丁先生——这是我的丈夫。”

我有点好奇地打量着“亲爱的阿弗雷德”。此人确实有点几不含时宜。难怪约翰对他那脸络腮胡子那么反感。
这是我所见过的最长最黑的胡子之一。他戴一副金边的夹鼻眼镜，一脸难以理解的冷淡表情。这使我产生一个印象，他在舞台上也许倒是挺合适的，在现实生活中却怪不自然。他的声音颇为油滑，有点假殷勤的味道。他把一只木头般的手放到我的手中，说道：
“十分荣幸，哈斯丁先生，”接着他转身对他的妻子说：“亲爱的埃米莉，我觉得这椅垫儿有点潮湿呢。”
当他小心翼翼地调换了一个坐垫时，老太大多情地朝他微笑着。一个在各方面都很聪明的女人的奇怪的述恋！
由于英格里桑太大的在场，可以觉察出，在这家人的头上，似乎都蒙上了一层紧张的关系和隐藏着的敌意。霍毕德小姐尤其尽力掩饰住自己的感情。然而，英格里桑太太仿佛什么异常的情况都没有发现。我所记得的她昔日的那种多才善辩，经过这么些年来，依然不减当年，她滔滔不绝地说个不停，谈的话题主要是由她组织的、不久就要举行的义卖。她偶尔向她丈夫查问一下日子或日期方面的问题。他那殷勤小心的态度举上从不改变。打从一开始，我就厌恶他，这一想法在我脑子里一直根深蒂固，而且我自以为我的第一个印象通常都是相当准确的。
过了一会，英格里桑太太转向了伊夫琳·霍华德，对一些有关信件方面的事情吩咐了几句，于是她的文夫用他那煞费苦心的声音和我聊开了：
“你的固定职业就是军人吗，哈斯丁先生？”

“不，战前我在劳埃德商船协会。”
“战争结束后你还决定回去吗？”
“也许是。不外乎回那儿或者是找个新工作。”
玛丽·卡文迪什向前探过身来。
“要是你只是从你的爱好考虑的话，你愿意真正选择一个怎样的职业呢？”
“这个，那要看情况了。”
“没有秘密的癖好吧？”她问道。“告诉我——你被什么东西吸引来着？每个人通常都被某种可笑的东西吸引着的。”
“你会笑话我的。”
她笑了。
“也许是这样。”
“好吧，我一直暗地里渴望成为一个侦探！”
“真不赖——英格兰场④？还是谢洛克·福尔摩斯⑤呢？”

“噢，争取成为谢洛克·福尔摩斯。不过，事实上，认真说，我对此非常向往。我有一次在比利时遇到过一个人，是一位非常著名的侦探，是他激起了我对这一事业的热情。他是一个不可思议的小个子。他常说，一切优秀的侦探工作仅仅是一个方法问题。我的体系就是以他的这一说法为基础的——当然，虽然我已经有了更进一步的发展。他是个非常风趣的小个子，一个衣着时髦的花花公子，但是惊人地机敏。”
“我也喜欢优秀的侦探小说，”霍华德小姐议论说，“不过，总是写了那么多胡说八道的东西。到最后一章揭露了罪犯，弄得每个人都目瞪口呆。可是真正的犯罪行为——是很快就能发现的。”

“还有大量的犯罪行为没有被发现哩，”我表示不赞同。
“不是指警方，而是那些当事人。家里人。你没法真正能瞒过他们。他们一定会知道。”
“那么，”我十分感兴趣他说，“你认为假如你和一桩罪行，譬如说谋杀，牵连上的话，你一定能立刻认出罪犯的罗？”
“当然能认出。也许我不会去向一大群司法人员证实这一点，可是我确信我一定知道，如果他走近我，我凭手指尖就能感觉到。”
“也许是‘她’呢，”我提醒说。
“也许是。可是谋杀是一种暴力犯罪。干这的多半是男人。”
“放毒案就不是这样，”卡文迪什太太那清晰的嗓音使我大吃一惊。“鲍斯但医生昨天说过，由于医学界对多数罕有的毒药普遍无知，这就有可能使无数的放毒案完全不受怀疑。”，。

“唷，玛丽，你说得多可怕呀！”英格里桑太大喊了起来。“害得我都觉得毛骨悚然了。噢，辛西娅来了！”
一个穿着爱国护士会制服的年轻姑娘飘然地穿过草坪跑了过来。
“哦，辛西娅，你今天来晚了。这位是哈斯丁先生——这是穆多契小姐。”
辛西娅·穆多契小姐是个体格健美的年轻姑娘，充满生气和活力。她敏捷地摘下小小的护士帽，那一头疏松的栗色卷发真使我惊叹不已。她伸出一只又白又嫩的小手，接过了茶怀，要是再有乌黑的眼睛和睫毛，那就真是一个美人儿了。
她一下在约翰旁边的草地上坐了下来，当我把一盘三明冶朝她递过去时，她朝我笑了笑。
“来，坐到草地上来吧，这要舒服多了。”
我顺从地坐了下去。
“你是在塔明斯特工作吗，穆多契小姐？”
她点点头。
“活受罪。”
“怎么，他们欺负你了？”我笑着问道。
“我倒喜欢看到他们那样！”辛西娅神气十足地喊了起来。
“我有一个堂妹就是做护士的，”我说，“她也对那些‘修女们’⑥吓得要命。”
“这不奇怪。你知道，哈斯丁先生，护上长就是那样。她们的确是那样！你不知道！谢天谢地，我可不是护士，我在药房工作。”
“你毒死过多少人呀？”我笑着问道。

辛西姬也笑了起来。
“啊，好几百了！”她说。
“辛西娅，”英格里桑太太叫道，“你能给我写几封短信吗？”
“当然可以，埃来莉阿姨。”
她敏捷地一跃而起，她的一举一动中的某些东西，使我想到，她完全处于一个从属的地位；英格里桑太太总的来说可算是仁慈的，但她也不让她忘掉这一点。
我的女主人转向我。
“约翰会带你去你的房间。七点半吃晚饭。我们现在有时候已经不吃晚正餐了。塔明斯特夫人，就是我们的议员的太太——她是已故的阿博茨布雷勋爵的女儿——也是这样。她赞同我的意见，一个人必须成为节约的榜样。我们完全称得上是个战时家庭了；我们这儿一点东西都不浪费——即便是一小片废纸都要积起来，用麻袋装走。”

我表达了我的敬赏之意，接着约翰就带我进屋，上了楼梯，楼梯在半路上左右分开，通向这幢房子的两厢。我的房间在左侧，朝着庭园。
约翰走了，几分钟后，我从窗口看到他和辛西娅手挽手慢慢地从草坪上走了过去。接着，我听到了英格里桑大太急切地叫着“辛西娅”的声音，姑娘吃了一惊，立刻朝房子跑回去了。就在这时候，有个男人从树荫中踱了出来，慢慢地朝同一个方向走去。他看上去四十岁上下，皮肤黝黑，脸刮得光光的，表情忧郁，似乎正被一种强烈的感情所控制。当他经过我的窗下时，朝上看了看。啊，我认出了他，虽然从我们最后一次见面以来，在已经逝去的十五个年头中，他有了很大的变化。这是约翰的弟弟劳伦斯·卡文迪什。我感到纳闷，他脸上为什么会带上那样异常的表情。
后来，我就没有再会想他，回头考虑我自己的事情了。
这天傍晚过得十分愉快，晚上，我梦见了那个不可思议的女人——玛丽·卡文迪什。
第二天早晨，阳光灿烂，我满心期待着一次令人高兴的出游。
一直到吃中饭的时候，我才见到卡文迪什太太。她主动提出陪我去散步，于是我们在林子里漫游，度过了一个令人陶醉的下午，回家时已是五点左右。
我们一进门厅，约翰就招呼我们俩到吸烟室丢。从他脸上，我立刻看出一定出了什么乱子了。我们跟着他走进房间，等我们进去后，他关上了门。
“喂！玛丽，闹得一塌糊涂。伊维和阿弗雷德大吵了一场，她要走了。”
“伊维？要走？”
约翰阴郁地点点头。
“是的。现在她上母亲那儿丢了——哦，伊维来了。”
霍华德小姐走了进来。她冷冷地抿着嘴，手里拎着一只小提箱，看上去既激动又坚决，有点儿处于守势。
“不管怎么样，”她大声嚷道，“我已说出了我的想法！”
“亲爱的伊维，”卡文迪什太太说，“是真的？”
霍华德小姐冷冷地点点头。

千真万确！我对埃米莉说了一些事，恐怕她是不会忘记或者马上原谅我了。不管这些话是否只听进去了一点点，即使说了也可能是白说，我还是照直对她说了：“你是个上了年岁的老太太了，埃米莉，再没有一个人会象个老傻瓜一般傻的了。那男人比你年轻二十岁哩。别欺骗自己了，她娶你是为了什么？钱！行了，别给他那么多钱。那个农场主雷克斯可有个非常年轻美貌的老婆。你只要问问你的阿弗雷德看，他在那儿消磨掉多少时间。’她气坏了。傻瓜！可我还是说下去：‘我这是给你提出忠告，不管你爱听还是不爱听。那个男人看到你恨不得把你谋杀在你床上哩。他是一个坏蛋。你爱跟我怎么说就怎么说吧，但是请你记住我对你说过的话。他是一个坏蛋！’”
“她怎么说？”
霍华德小姐作了一个意味深长的怪相。
“什么‘亲爱的阿弗雷德’——还有‘最亲爱的阿弗雷德’——说什么这是‘恶意的诽谤’啦——‘无耻的谎言’啦——是‘刻毒的女人’——诬告她的‘亲爱的丈夫’！我还是早点离开她的家好。所以我这就走。”
“不是现在吧？”
“现在就走！”
我们坐在那儿盯着她看了一会。后来，约翰·卡文迪什发现他的劝说全然无济干事，就去查看火车时刻。跟着，他的妻子也走了，她嘴里咕哝着什么，大意是得劝英格里桑太太最好对此多想想。

她一离开房间，霍华德小姐的脸色就变了。她急切地朝我凑了过来。
“哈斯丁先生，你是一位正直的人。我可以信托你么？”
我微微一惊。她把一只手放到我的胳臂上，放低声音轻轻说：
“哈斯丁先生，请你对她多加照顾吧，我那可怜的埃米莉。他们是一伙骗子——所有人全是。哦，我知道我在说些什么。他们当中没有一个人不手头拮据，只想千方百计地从她那儿搞走钱。我已尽我所能地保护了她。现在，我让开了路，他们可以乘机欺弄她了。”
“当然，霍华德小姐，”我说道，“我将尽力而为，不过我认为你太激动了，也太过虑了。”
她缓缓接着一个食指打断了我的话。
“年轻人，相信我，我在这世界上好歹总算比你多活几年。我只要求你睁大眼睛时刻提防就是了。你会懂得我说这话的意思的。”
从打开的窗户外传来了汽车的震颠声，霍华德小姐站起身来，朝门口定去。外面响起约翰的声音，她一只字握着门把，扭过头来对我打了个招呼。
“主要的，哈斯丁先生，是要注意那个恶棍——她的文夫！”
没有时间再多说什么了。霍华德小姐已被淹没在一片热切的劝她别走的说话声和道别声中。英格里桑夫妇没有露面。
汽车刚一开走，卡文迪什太太就突然离开大家，穿过车道，往草坪那边向一个正朝这幢房子走来的蓄着胡子的高个子男人走了过去。当她对他伸出手去的时候，她的双颊泛起了两朵红晕。
“那是谁？”我锐声问道，因为我对此人有一种出于本能的怀疑。
“那是鲍斯坦医生。”约翰简单地回答说。
“鲍斯坦医生是谁？”

“他患过严重的神经衰弱症，现在正待在这个村子里进行安静疗法。他是伦敦的一位专家。我认为，是个很有才干的人——当今最出色的毒物学专家之一。”
“他是玛丽的要好朋友，”辛西娅忍不住插嘴说。
约翰·卡文迪什皱起了眉头，改变了话题。
“去散个步吧，哈斯丁。这是件糟糕透顶的事。她说话老是那么祖鲁，可是在英国没有比伊夫琳·霍华德这样更忠实可靠的朋友了。”
他带我走上种植园中间的小径，穿过在庄园一侧的林子，朝村子踱去。
当我们在回家的路上，再次穿过一座大门时，一个从对面过来的吉普赛型的漂亮年轻女人，微笑着向我们点头问好。
“是个漂亮姑娘，”我以鉴赏的口吻说。
约翰的脸色沉了下来。
“这是雷克斯太太。”
“就是霍华德小姐说的那个——”
“一点不差。”约翰说，带着一种毫无必要的粗鲁口吻。
我想起了大房子里的那位白发苍苍的老太太，以及方才对我们微笑来着的那张活泼淘气的小脸蛋，一种模模糊糊的预感象一阵寒风使得我全身毛骨悚然。我把它撇到了一边。
“斯泰尔斯真是一座光荣的古老邸宅。”我对约翰说。
约翰优郁地点点头。
“是呀，是一宗好资财啊。它将来总有一天会是我的——要是我父亲立下的是一份象样的遗嘱的话，按理现在就应该是我的了。而且。那样我手头也不会象现在这样拮据得要命了。”

“手头拮据，你？”，
“亲爱的哈斯丁，我不想告诉你，我为了搞钱真是智穷计尽了啊。”
“你弟弟不能助你一臂之力么？”
“劳伦斯？他用新奇花样的装帧印刷那些乱七八糟的诗，把他有的每一分钱都花光了。不，我们都是穷光蛋。
我必须说，我母亲一直来对我们还是很好的。这是说，到现在为止。当然，打她结婚以后——”他突然停住了，皱起了眉头。
我第一次感到，随着伊夫琳·霍华德的离去，某种难以确切表达的东西也从这环境中消失了。她的存在使安全有了保证。而现在，安全已经失去——空气中似乎都充满了猜疑。鲍斯坦医生那张阴险的脸又在我的眼前出现了，使我感到不快。我的脑子里充满了对每个人每件事的模模糊糊的怀疑。一时之间，我有了一种快要出事的预感。

注释：
①英格兰东海岸一郡。
②语处英国剧作家夸尔的喜剧（TheBeaux'Stratagem）中人物名。
③即伊夫琳的呢称。
④指伦敦警察厅，此处意为公家侦探。
⑤福尔摩斯为私家侦探。
⑥护士长。