Agatha Christie Collection - 3 Novels And 25 Short Stories. Agatha Christie

want to ask your advice. What shall I do?”

      “Do?”

      “Yes. You see, Aunt Emily always told me I should be provided for. I suppose she forgot, or didn’t think she was likely to die--anyway, I am not provided for! And I don’t know what to do. Do you think I ought to go away from here at once?”

      “Good heavens, no! They don’t want to part with you, I’m sure.”

      Cynthia hesitated a moment, plucking up the grass with her tiny hands. Then she said: “Mrs. Cavendish does. She hates me.”

      “Hates you?” I cried, astonished.

      Cynthia nodded.

      “Yes. I don’t know why, but she can’t bear me; and he can’t, either.”

      “There I know you’re wrong,” I said warmly. “On the contrary, John is very fond of you.”

      “Oh, yes--John. I meant Lawrence. Not, of course, that I care whether Lawrence hates me or not. Still, it’s rather horrid when no one loves you, isn’t it?”

      “But they do, Cynthia dear,” I said earnestly. “I’m sure you are mistaken. Look, there is John--and Miss Howard--”

      Cynthia nodded rather gloomily. “Yes, John likes me, I think, and of course Evie, for all her gruff ways, wouldn’t be unkind to a fly. But Lawrence never speaks to me if he can help it, and Mary can hardly bring herself to be civil to me. She wants Evie to stay on, is begging her to, but she doesn’t want me, and--and--I don’t know what to do.” Suddenly the poor child burst out crying.

      I don’t know what possessed me. Her beauty, perhaps, as she sat there, with the sunlight glinting down on her head; perhaps the sense of relief at encountering someone who so obviously could have no connection with the tragedy; perhaps honest pity for her youth and loneliness. Anyway, I leant forward, and taking her little hand, I said awkwardly:

      “Marry me, Cynthia.”

      Unwittingly, I had hit upon a sovereign remedy for her tears. She sat up at once, drew her hand away, and said, with some asperity:

      “Don’t be silly!”

      I was a little annoyed.

      “I’m not being silly. I am asking you to do me the honour of becoming my wife.”

      To my intense surprise, Cynthia burst out laughing, and called me a “funny dear.”

      “It’s perfectly sweet of you,” she said, “but you know you don’t want to!”

      “Yes, I do. I’ve got--”

      “Never mind what you’ve got. You don’t really want to--and I don’t either.”

      “Well, of course, that settles it,” I said stiffly. “But I don’t see anything to laugh at. There’s nothing funny about a proposal.”

      “No, indeed,” said Cynthia. “Somebody might accept you next time. Good-bye, you’ve cheered me up very much.”

      And, with a final uncontrollable burst of merriment, she vanished through the trees.

      Thinking over the interview, it struck me as being profoundly unsatisfactory.

      It occurred to me suddenly that I would go down to the village, and look up Bauerstein. Somebody ought to be keeping an eye on the fellow. At the same time, it would be wise to allay any suspicions he might have as to his being suspected. I remembered how Poirot had relied on my diplomacy. Accordingly, I went to the little house with the “Apartments” card inserted in the window, where I knew he lodged, and tapped on the door.

      An old woman came and opened it.

      “Good afternoon,” I said pleasantly. “Is Dr. Bauerstein in?”

      She stared at me.

      “Haven’t you heard?”

      “Heard what?”

      “About him.”

      “What about him?”

      “He’s took.”

      “Took? Dead?”

      “No, took by the perlice.”

      “By the police!” I gasped. “Do you mean they’ve arrested him?”

      “Yes, that’s it, and--”

      I waited to hear no more, but tore up the village to find Poirot.

      CHAPTER X - The Arrest

      To my extreme annoyance, Poirot was not in, and the old Belgian who answered my knock informed me that he believed he had gone to London.

      I was dumbfounded. What on earth could Poirot be doing in London! Was it a sudden decision on his part, or had he already made up his mind when he parted from me a few hours earlier?

      I retraced my steps to Styles in some annoyance. With Poirot away, I was uncertain how to act. Had he foreseen this arrest? Had he not, in all probability, been the cause of it? Those questions I could not resolve. But in the meantime what was I to do? Should I announce the arrest openly at Styles, or not? Though I did not acknowledge it to myself, the thought of Mary Cavendish was weighing on me. Would it not be a terrible shock to her? For the moment, I set aside utterly any suspicions of her. She could not be implicated--otherwise I should have heard some hint of it.

      Of course, there was no possibility of being able permanently to conceal Dr. Bauerstein’s arrest from her. It would be announced in every newspaper on the morrow. Still, I shrank from blurting it out. If only Poirot had been accessible, I could have asked his advice. What possessed him to go posting off to London in this unaccountable way?

      In spite of myself, my opinion of his sagacity was immeasurably heightened. I would never have dreamt of suspecting the doctor, had not Poirot put it into my head. Yes, decidedly, the little man was clever.

      After some reflecting, I decided to take John into my confidence, and leave him to make the matter public or not, as he thought fit.

      He gave vent to a prodigious whistle, as I imparted the news.

      “Great Scot! You were right, then. I couldn’t believe it at the time.”

      “No, it is astonishing until you get used to the idea, and see how it makes everything fit in. Now, what are we to do? Of course, it will be generally known tomorrow.”

      John reflected.

      “Never mind,” he said at last, “we won’t say anything at present. There is no need. As you say, it will be known soon enough.”

      But to my intense surprise, on getting down early the next morning, and eagerly opening the newspapers, there was not a word about the arrest! There was a column of mere padding about “The Styles Poisoning Case,” but nothing further. It was rather inexplicable, but I supposed that, for some reason or other, Japp wished to keep it out of the papers. It worried me just a little, for it suggested the possibility that there might be further arrests to come.

      After breakfast, I decided to go down to the village, and see if Poirot had returned yet; but, before I could start, a well-known face blocked one of the windows, and the well-known voice said:

      “Bon jour, mon ami!”

      “Poirot,” I exclaimed, with relief, and seizing him by both hands, I dragged him into the room. “I was never so glad to see anyone. Listen, I have said nothing to anybody but