Download murder at styles pdf

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.

By the way, whose is the smaller desk in the corner? It is not the key, but it will open it at a pinch. There might have been? It did not yield much.

Only this. It was rather a curious document. A plain, dirty-looking old envelope with a few words scrawled across it, apparently at random. You recognize the hand- writing? But what does it mean?

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. What on earth is the good of that, now that we know about the cocoa?

That miserable cocoa! He laughed with apparent enjoyment, raising his arms to heaven in mock despair, in what I could not but consider the worst possible taste.

Allow me to interest myself in my coffee cups, and I will respect your cocoa. Is it a bargain? Poirot made me recapitulate the scene of the night before, listening very carefully, and verifying the pos- ition of the various cups.

Then she came across to the window where you sat with Mademoiselle Cynthia. Here are the three cups. And the one on the tray? I saw him put it down there. One moment, my friend. His physi- ognomy underwent a curious change. An expression gathered there that I can only describe as half puzzled, and half relieved.

I had an idea — but clearly I was mistaken. Yes, altogether I was mistaken. Yet it is strange. But no matter! 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. 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. Can you tell me the views of the other members of the family? He says that everything points to its being a simple case of heart failure. I would like to ask you one question. Is not that so? I never thought of looking. We always keep it in the hall drawer.

If Mr Inglethorp did take it, he has had ample time to replace it by now. 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. Since you are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast.

Under the circumstances, we were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were suffering from it. 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. Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a marked man. But did everyone suspect him? What about Mrs Cavendish? I watched her as she sat at the head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. 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. You abandon it in the war-time, eh? 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 atten- tion. In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared.

John rose immediately. Perhaps you would like to come with me? He seemed absorbed in thought; so much so that my curiosity was aroused. You are not attending to what I say. I am much worried. You cannot be serious? Ah, there is something there that I do not understand. My instinct was right.

John intro- duced us both, and explained the reason of our presence. We are still hoping that there will turn out to be no need for investigation of any kind. Great authority on toxi- cology, I believe.

It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it. The post-mortem is to take place tonight, I believe? You should have received the letter this morning. It is merely a note asking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great importance. There was a silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes.

Finally he turned to the lawyer again. By her last will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legacies to servants, etc. 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. But I am right in saying, am I not, that by your English law that will was automatically revoked when Mrs Inglethorp remarried?

She may have been. One more question, Mr Wells. Had Mrs Inglethorp, then, made several former wills? Mr Inglethorp is quite willing to leave it entirely to Mr Wells and myself. She kept her most important papers in a purple despatch-case, which we must look through carefully. Where is it now? See here. In fact I am almost certain that it was made no earlier than yesterday afternoon. Poirot turned to John. The book was published in multiple languages including English, consists of pages and is available in Paperback format.

The main characters of this mystery, fiction story are Inspector Japp, Arthur Hastings. The book has been awarded with Audie Award for Mystery , and many others. Please note that the tricks or techniques listed in this pdf are either fictional or claimed to work by its creator. We do not guarantee that these techniques will work for you. Some of the techniques listed in The Mysterious Affair at Styles may require a sound knowledge of Hypnosis, users are advised to either leave those sections or must have a basic understanding of the subject before practicing them.

DMCA and Copyright : The book is not hosted on our servers, to remove the file please contact the source url. Director Ross Devenish. Agatha Christie by Clive Exton dramatized by.

Top credits Director Ross Devenish. See more at IMDbPro. Photos Top cast Edit. Gillian Barge Mrs. Inglethorp as Mrs. Lala Lloyd Dorcas as Dorcas. Michael Godley Dr. Wilkins as Dr. Morris Perry Mr. Wells as Mr. Penelope Beaumont Mrs. Raikes as Mrs. David Savile Summerhaye as Summerhaye. Tim Preece Philips K. Merelina Kendall Mrs. Dainty as Mrs.