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

their contention that it was the prisoner who ordered the black beard from Parkson’s. The quarrel which had taken place between prisoner and his stepmother was freely admitted, but both it and his financial embarrassments had been grossly exaggerated.

      His learned friend--Sir Ernest nodded carelessly at Mr. Philips--had stated that if the prisoner were an innocent man, he would have come forward at the inquest to explain that it was he, and not Mr. Inglethorp, who had been the participator in the quarrel. He thought the facts had been misrepresented. What had actually occurred was this. The prisoner, returning to the house on Tuesday evening, had been authoritatively told that there had been a violent quarrel between Mr. and Mrs. Inglethorp. No suspicion had entered the prisoner’s head that anyone could possibly have mistaken his voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. He naturally concluded that his stepmother had had two quarrels.

      The prosecution averred that on Monday, July 16th, the prisoner had entered the chemist’s shop in the village, disguised as Mr. Inglethorp. The prisoner, on the contrary, was at that time at a lonely spot called Marston’s Spinney, where he had been summoned by an anonymous note, couched in blackmailing terms, and threatening to reveal certain matters to his wife unless he complied with its demands. The prisoner had, accordingly, gone to the appointed spot, and after waiting there vainly for half an hour had returned home. Unfortunately, he had met with no one on the way there or back who could vouch for the truth of his story, but luckily he had kept the note, and it would be produced as evidence.

      As for the statement relating to the destruction of the will, the prisoner had formerly practiced at the Bar, and was perfectly well aware that the will made in his favour a year before was automatically revoked by his stepmother’s remarriage. He would call evidence to show who did destroy the will, and it was possible that that might open up quite a new view of the case.

      Finally, he would point out to the jury that there was evidence against other people besides John Cavendish. He would direct their attention to the fact that the evidence against Mr. Lawrence Cavendish was quite as strong, if not stronger than that against his brother.

      He would now call the prisoner.

      John acquitted himself well in the witness-box. Under Sir Ernest’s skilful handling, he told his tale credibly and well. The anonymous note received by him was produced, and handed to the jury to examine. The readiness with which he admitted his financial difficulties, and the disagreement with his stepmother, lent value to his denials.

      At the close of his examination, he paused, and said:

      “I should like to make one thing clear. I utterly reject and disapprove of Sir Ernest Heavywether’s insinuations against my brother. My brother, I am convinced, had no more to do with the crime than I have.”

      Sir Ernest merely smiled, and noted with a sharp eye that John’s protest had produced a very favourable impression on the jury.

      Then the cross-examination began.

      “I understand you to say that it never entered your head that the witnesses at the inquest could possibly have mistaken your voice for that of Mr. Inglethorp. Is not that very surprising?”

      “No, I don’t think so. I was told there had been a quarrel between my mother and Mr. Inglethorp, and it never occurred to me that such was not really the case.”

      “Not when the servant Dorcas repeated certain fragments of the conversation--fragments which you must have recognized?”

      “I did not recognize them.”

      “Your memory must be unusually short!”

      “No, but we were both angry, and, I think, said more than we meant. I paid very little attention to my mother’s actual words.”

      Mr. Philips’ incredulous sniff was a triumph of forensic skill. He passed on to the subject of the note.

      “You have produced this note very opportunely. Tell me, is there nothing familiar about the hand-writing of it?”

      “Not that I know of.”

      “Do you not think that it bears a marked resemblance to your own hand-writing--carelessly disguised?”

      “No, I do not think so.”

      “I put it to you that it is your own hand-writing!”

      “No.”

      “I put it to you that, anxious to prove an alibi, you conceived the idea of a fictitious and rather incredible appointment, and wrote this note yourself in order to bear out your statement!”

      “No.”

      “Is it not a fact that, at the time you claim to have been waiting about at a solitary and unfrequented spot, you were really in the chemist’s shop in Styles St. Mary, where you purchased strychnine in the name of Alfred Inglethorp?”

      “No, that is a lie.”

      “I put it to you that, wearing a suit of Mr. Inglethorp’s clothes, with a black beard trimmed to resemble his, you were there--and signed the register in his name!”

      “That is absolutely untrue.”

      “Then I will leave the remarkable similarity of hand-writing between the note, the register, and your own, to the consideration of the jury,” said Mr. Philips, and sat down with the air of a man who has done his duty, but who was nevertheless horrified by such deliberate perjury.

      After this, as it was growing late, the case was adjourned till Monday.

      Poirot, I noticed, was looking profoundly discouraged. He had that little frown between the eyes that I knew so well.

      “What is it, Poirot?” I inquired.

      “Ah, mon ami, things are going badly, badly.”

      In spite of myself, my heart gave a leap of relief. Evidently there was a likelihood of John Cavendish being acquitted.

      When we reached the house, my little friend waved aside Mary’s offer of tea.

      “No, I thank you, madame. I will mount to my room.”

      I followed him. Still frowning, he went across to the desk and took out a small pack of patience cards. Then he drew up a chair to the table, and, to my utter amazement, began solemnly to build card houses!

      My jaw dropped involuntarily, and he said at once:

      “No, mon ami, I am not in my second childhood! I steady my nerves, that is all. This employment requires precision of the fingers. With precision of the fingers goes precision of the brain. And never have I needed that more than now!”

      “What is the trouble?” I asked.

      With a great thump on the table, Poirot demolished his carefully built up edifice.

      “It is this, mon ami! That I can build card houses seven stories high, but I cannot”--thump--”find”--thump--”that last link of which I spoke to you.”

      I could not quite tell what to say, so I held my peace, and he began slowly building up the cards again, speaking in jerks as he did so.

      “It is done--so! By placing--one card--on another--with mathematical--precision!”

      I watched the card house rising under his hands, story by story. He never hesitated or faltered. It was really almost like a conjuring trick.

      “What a steady hand you’ve got,” I remarked. “I believe I’ve only seen your hand shake once.”

      “On an occasion when I was enraged, without doubt,” observed Poirot, with great placidity.

      “Yes