Agatha Christie: The Collection. Agatha Christie

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 cannot 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.

      “Sacré!” 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.”

      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