On the day she was killed, Emily Inglethorp was overheard arguing with someone, either her husband Alfred or her stepson John. Afterwards, she seemed quite distressed and, apparently, made a new will — which no one can find.
She ate little at dinner and retired early to her room with her document case. The case was later forced open by someone and a document removed. Alfred Inglethorp left Styles earlier in the evening and stayed overnight in the nearby village, so was not present when the poisoning occurred.
Nobody can explain how or when the strychnine was administered to Mrs. Many of the books in our collection have not been published for decades and are therefore not broadly available to the readers. Our goal is to access the very large literary repository of general public books.
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Agatha Christie's debut novel was the first to feature Hercule Poirot, her famously eccentric Belgian detective. A refugee of the Great War, Poirot is settling in England near Styles Court, the country estate of his wealthy benefactor, the elderly Emily Inglethorp. When Emily is poisoned and the authorities are baffled, Poirot puts his prodigious sleuthing skills to work. Suspects are plentiful, including the victim's much younger husband, her resentful stepsons, her longtime hired companion, a young family friend working as a nurse, and a London specialist on poisons who just happens to be visiting the nearby village.
All of them have secrets they are desperate to keep, but none can outwit Poirot as he navigates the ingenious red herrings and plot twists that earned Agatha Christie her well-deserved reputation as the queen of mystery.
Mary, from the heiress's fawning new husband to her two stepsons, her volatile housekeeper, and a pretty nurse who works in a hospital dispensary. Yet there is little academic work on her writing. And there are plenty who would gain from her death: the financially strapped stepson, the gold digging younger husband, and an embittered daughter-in-law.
Agatha Christie's eccentric and hugely popular detective, Hercule Poirot, was introduced to the world in this book, which launched her career as the most famous and best loved of all mystery writers. We are delighted to publish this classic book as part of our extensive Classic Library collection. Many of the books in our collection have been out of print for decades, and therefore have not been accessible to the general public.
We Belgians will always remember her with gratitude. 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.
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. And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various exploits and triumphs of Hercule Poirot. As we entered the hall, Mrs Inglethorp came out of her boud- oir.
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. It may have been my fancy, but she, too, was looking odd and disturbed.
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. It does not concern you in the least.
It was a real old bust-up. I do wish I knew what it was all about. 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.
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 at last.
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. Mary Cavendish brought our coffee to us. She seemed excited. I will pour it out. 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.
My paradise was rudely shattered by the sound of a well-known, and heartily disliked, voice in the hall. In truth, he presented a sorry spectacle, being literally plastered with mud. 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 will take the latch-key. He had a candle in his hand, and the agitation of his face told me at once that something was seriously wrong. Unfortunately she has locked herself in.
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. It was obviously locked or bolted on the inside.
The whole household was aroused by now. The most alarming sounds were aud- ible from the interior of the room. Clearly something must be done. 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? Here, let one of the maids go down and wake Baily and tell him to go for Dr Wilkins at once. 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. I think this one is a shade less solid than the one in the passage.
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. It was as though he had seen something that turned him to stone.
She was able to speak in short gasps. She seemed to be supporting the girl, who looked utterly dazed and unlike herself. She herself, I noticed, was dressed in her white land smock. Then it must be later than I thought. 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.
Every- thing was confusion. We thronged round her, power- less to help or alleviate. In vain Mary and John tried to administer more brandy. Again the body arched itself in that peculiar fashion. At that moment, Dr Bauerstein pushed his way auth- oritatively into the room. 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.
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.
Always did far too much — far too much — against my advice. Nature rebelled. Na — ture — re — belled. I am sorry you were not here in time to witness them.
They were quite — tetanic in character. He turned to John. We went slowly down the stairs. I was violently excited. Mary Cavendish laid her hand upon my arm.
Why did Dr Bauerstein seem so — pecu- liar? I lowered my voice to a whisper. I followed her, afraid that she was going to faint. I found her leaning against the banisters, deadly pale. She waved me away impatiently. Let me just be quiet for a minute or two. Go down to the others. John and Lawrence were in the dining-room.
I joined them. Where was Alfred Inglethorp? His absence was strange and inexplicable. What lay beneath them? What more could she have told us, if she had had time? Dr Wilkins was looking important and excited, and trying to conceal an inward exulation under a manner of deco- rous calm. Dr Bauerstein remained in the background, his grave bearded face unchanged.
Dr Wilkins was the spokesman for the two. A spasm of pain crossed his face. I have locked them and, in my opinion, they would be better kept locked for the present. 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 easy- going optimist, who preferred never to meet trouble half-way.
Lawrence, on the other hand, being less conventional, and having more imagina- tion, I felt I might count upon as an ally. There was no doubt that the moment had come for me to take the lead. The Belgian who is here? He has been a most famous detective. Before the post-mortem? Poisons are his hobby, so, of course, he sees them everywhere. He was so seldom vehement about anything.
John hesitated. Poirot is discretion itself. 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 determined to lose no time.
I spent it in ransacking the library until I discovered a medical book which gave a description of strychnine poisoning. 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. It was Mr Inglethorp. Where had he been? How did he intend to explain his absence? He accosted me eagerly. This is terrible!
My poor wife! I have only just heard. My poor Emily! She overtaxed her strength. What a con- summate hypocrite the man was! In a few minutes I was knocking at the door of Leastways Cottage. Getting no answer, I repeated my summons impa- tiently. 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.
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. 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 was now arranging his moustache with exquisite care. One fact leads to another — so we continue. A merveille! 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! It is tremendous! It will not agree. I will forget it.
Everything matters. You always told me that. 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 or paramount importance. He was carefully engaged in brushing his coat before putting it on, and seemed wholly engrossed in the task.
She was obviously upset, and it had taken her appetite away. That was only natural. Excuse me, mon ami, you dressed in haste, and your tie is on one side. Permit me. Now, shall we start? Poirot stopped for a moment, and gazed sorrowfully over the beautiful expanse of park, still glittering with morning dew. Was the family prostrated by grief? 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. She has been kind and gen- erous to these Cavendishes, but she was not their own mother. Blood tells — always remember that — blood tells. The present contention is that Mrs Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably administered in her coffee.
Well, strych- nine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in about an hour. 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. His face looked weary and haggard.
We have nothing to go upon. It is a matter of precaution only. I met him. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly. He handed the two keys which Dr Bauerstein had given him to me. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it. 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.
But what an idea! There has already been practically an army in the room! No, come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I need it.
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. Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in, assuring himself that the bolt had really been shot. 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. I wondered how I could have been so unobservant as to overlook this.
Here was a clue worth having. He made a grimace. 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. 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. But it should be done — at once! Crossing the room to the left-hand window, a round stain, hardly visible on the dark brown carpet, seemed to interest him par- ticularly. 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 cocoa into a test tube, sealing it up carefully. His next proceeding was to take out a little notebook. Shall I enumerate them, or will you? Four, a fragment of some dark green fabric — only a thread or two, but recognizable.
We shall see. Five, this! One of my best hats once — but that is not to the point. We were very agitated. Or perhaps Mrs Inglethorp herself dropped her candle.
Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he was very upset. On the other hand, Mrs Inglethorp had no candlestick in the room, only a reading lamp. No, the sixth point I will keep to myself for the present. But by chance — there might be — let us see! Suddenly, he gave a faint exclamation.
It was unusually thick, quite unlike ordinary notepaper. Suddenly an idea struck me. My brain was in a whirl. What was this complication of a will? Who had destroyed it? But how had anyone gained admission? All the doors had been bolted on the inside. I should like to ask a few questions of the parlourmaid — Dorcas, her name is, is it not? 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. What sym- metry! 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? But come in — Dorcas is here. There was really no argu- ing with him if he chose to take that line.
But such things have been. Well, we will come in and interview the brave Dorcas. 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. You were much attached to her, were you not? Your mistress had a quarrel? Poirot looked at her keenly. 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. Well, sir, as I said, I hap- pened to be passing along, when I heard voices very loud and angry in here.
I stopped. The door was shut, but the mistress was speaking very sharp and clear, and I heard what she said quite plainly. 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! 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.
She was looking dreadful — so white and upset. She brought it down with her every morn- ing, and took it up every night. She was very much put out about it. What was all this about a lost key? Poirot smiled. Is this the key that was lost? I looked everywhere for it. Now, to pass to another subject, had your mistress a dark green dress in her wardrobe? And nobody else has anything green? Have you any reason to believe that your mistress was likely to take a sleeping powder last night? No, sir. I suppose you can give me no idea to whom these letters were addressed?
I was out in the evening. Never cleared the coffee-cups away last night. I should like to examine them. How many gardeners are employed here, by the way? I wish you could have seen it then, sir. A fair sight it was. Ah, these are dreadful times! At least, we hope so. Now, will you send Annie to me here? Thank you, sir. As to the sleeping powders, I knew by this. It was Number Six of my catalogue. Mrs Inglethorp. So do not intrigue yourself, my friend. Poirot came to the point at once, with a business-like briskness.
How many were there? Annie racked her brains in vain. Did she have that every night? Plain cocoa? Then I used to bring it up, and put it on the table by the swing door, and take it into her room later. I never took the salt near it. Coarse kitchen salt, it looked. But I was in a hurry, because Dorcas was out, and I thought maybe the cocoa 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.
Unknown to herself, Annie had provided us with an important piece of evidence. His self-control was astonishing. I awaited his next question with impatience, but it disappointed me. Yes, sir; it always was. It had never been opened. Did you notice if that was bolted too?
She usually did lock it at night. The door into the passage, that is. Oh, no, sir. That is all I want to know. Thank you very much. My pent-up excitement burst forth. This is a great discovery. That explains everything! Of course, it did not take effect until the early morning, since the cocoa was only drunk in the middle of the night.
That salt on the tray, what else could it have been? I shrugged my shoulders. If he was going to take the matter that way, it was no good arguing with him. Privately I thought it lucky that he had associated with him someone of a more receptive type of mind. Poirot was surveying me with quietly twinkling eyes.
You have a right to your own opinion, just as I have to mine. For all the details of the puzzle formed one to one, but it would not have happened in the mystical universe of output, Christy had to string up the theory of probability and give each other some extremely rare events.
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