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‘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[29 - he had a certain charm of manner – он определенно обладал обаянием], 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 apologized, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly.
‘Mon ami[30 - Mon ami! – (фр.) Дружище!] 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[31 - monsieur – (фр.) месье, господин] 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[32 - mademoiselle – (фр.) мадемуазель (обращение к незамужней женщине)] 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 country-people 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 dandified 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[33 - You’ve been entertaining a celebrity unawares. – Вы, не сознавая того, приняли у себя знаменитость.],’ 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[34 - boudoir – (фр.) будуар (комната, принадлежащая женщине, обычно спальня и/или гардеробная).]. 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[35 - m’m = madam].’ 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 her 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 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[36 - whilst = while] 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[37 - the strange unreality of the man struck me afresh – странная чужеродность этого человека заново меня поразила].
Mrs Inglethorp came down at 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[38 - fanned herself gently with a palm leaf – тихо обмахивалась веером из пальмового листа].
‘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[39 - what you have been up to – что с вами стряслось].’
‘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[40 - lost his footing – оступился, споткнулся], 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[41 - аt this juncture – в этот момент], Mrs Inglethorp called to Cynthia from the hall, and the girl ran out.
‘Just carry up my dispatch case[42 - dispatch case – бювар, чемоданчик или папка для бумаг из кожи или дерева], 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 latchkey.’
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[43 - What do you think we had better do? – Что же нам оставалось делать?]?’
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, ‘whatever 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 room?’
‘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[44 - this one is a shade less solid – эта чуть менее прочная (речь о двери)] 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[45 - we felt it give beneath our weight – мы почувствовали, что она поддается нашему весу], 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[46 - in vain – напрасно, тщетно] Mary and John tried to administer more brandy. The moments flew. Again the body arched itself in that peculiar fashion.
