THE SECRET ADVERSARY. Agatha Christie

he said, nodding gravely. “He will have evidence to give at the inquest.”

      We went slowly upstairs again. I was opening my lips, when Poirot stopped me with a gesture of his hand.

      “Not now, not now, mon ami. I have need of reflection. My mind is in some disorder—which is not well.”

      For about ten minutes he sat in dead silence, perfectly still, except for several expressive motions of his eyebrows, and all the time his eyes grew steadily greener. At last he heaved a deep sigh.

      “It is well. The bad moment has passed. Now all is arranged and classified. One must never permit confusion. The case is not clear yet—no. For it is of the most complicated! It puzzles me. Me, Hercule Poirot! There are two facts of significance.”

      “And what are they?”

      “The first is the state of the weather yesterday. That is very important.”

      “But it was a glorious day!” I interrupted. “Poirot, you’re pulling my leg!”

      “Not at all. The thermometer registered 80 degrees in the shade. Do not forget that, my friend. It is the key to the whole riddle!”

      “And the second point?” I asked.

      “The important fact that Monsieur Inglethorp wears very peculiar clothes, has a black beard, and uses glasses.”

      “Poirot, I cannot believe you are serious.”

      “I am absolutely serious, my friend.”

      “But this is childish!”

      “No, it is very momentous.”

      “And supposing the Coroner’s jury returns a verdict of Wilful Murder against Alfred Inglethorp. What becomes of your theories, then?”

      “They would not be shaken because twelve stupid men had happened to make a mistake! But that will not occur. For one thing, a country jury is not anxious to take responsibility upon itself, and Mr. Inglethorp stands practically in the position of local squire. Also,” he added placidly, “I should not allow it!”

      “You would not allow it?”

      “No.”

      I looked at the extraordinary little man, divided between annoyance and amusement. He was so tremendously sure of himself. As though he read my thoughts, he nodded gently.

      “Oh, yes, mon ami, I would do what I say.” He got up and laid his hand on my shoulder. His physiognomy underwent a complete change. Tears came into his eyes. “In all this, you see, I think of that poor Mrs. Inglethorp who is dead. She was not extravagantly loved—no. But she was very good to us Belgians—I owe her a debt.”

      I endeavoured to interrupt, but Poirot swept on.

      “Let me tell you this, Hastings. She would never forgive me if I let Alfred Inglethorp, her husband, be arrested now—when a word from me could save him!”

      Chapter 6 THE INQUEST

       Table of Contents

      In the interval before the inquest, Poirot was unfailing in his activity. Twice he was closeted with Mr. Wells. He also took long walks into the country. I rather resented his not taking me into his confidence, the more so as I could not in the least guess what he was driving at.

      It occurred to me that he might have been making inquiries at Raikes’s farm; so, finding him out when I called at Leastways Cottage on Wednesday evening, I walked over there by the fields, hoping to meet him. But there was no sign of him, and I hesitated to go right up to the farm itself. As I walked away, I met an aged rustic, who leered at me cunningly.

      “You’m from the Hall, bain’t you?” he asked.

      “Yes. I’m looking for a friend of mine whom I thought might have walked this way.”

      “A little chap? As waves his hands when he talks? One of them Belgies from the village?”

      “Yes,” I said eagerly. “He has been here, then?”

      “Oh, ay, he’s been here, right enough. More’n once too. Friend of yours, is he? Ah, you gentlemen from the Hall—you’n a pretty lot!” And he leered more jocosely than ever.

      “Why, do the gentlemen from the Hall come here often?” I asked, as carelessly as I could.

      He winked at me knowingly.

      “One does, mister. Naming no names, mind. And a very liberal gentleman too! Oh, thank you, sir, I’m sure.”

      I walked on sharply. Evelyn Howard had been right then, and I experienced a sharp twinge of disgust, as I thought of Alfred Inglethorp’s liberality with another woman’s money. Had that piquant gipsy face been at the bottom of the crime, or was it the baser mainspring of money? Probably a judicious mixture of both.

      On one point, Poirot seemed to have a curious obsession. He once or twice observed to me that he thought Dorcas must have made an error in fixing the time of the quarrel. He suggested to her repeatedly that it was 4.30, and not 4 o’clock when she had heard the voices.

      But Dorcas was unshaken. Quite an hour, or even more, had elapsed between the time when she had heard the voices and 5 o’clock, when she had taken tea to her mistress.

      The inquest was held on Friday at the Stylites Arms in the village. Poirot and I sat together, not being required to give evidence.

      The preliminaries were gone through. The jury viewed the body, and John Cavendish gave evidence of identification.

      Further questioned, he described his awakening in the early hours of the morning, and the circumstances of his mother’s death.

      The medical evidence was next taken. There was a breathless hush, and every eye was fixed on the famous London specialist, who was known to be one of the greatest authorities of the day on the subject of toxicology.

      In a few brief words, he summed up the result of the post-mortem. Shorn of its medical phraseology and technicalities, it amounted to the fact that Mrs. Inglethorp had met her death as the result of strychnine poisoning. Judging from the quantity recovered, she must have taken not less than three-quarters of a grain of strychnine, but probably one grain or slightly over.

      “Is it possible that she could have swallowed the poison by accident?” asked the Coroner.

      “I should consider it very unlikely. Strychnine is not used for domestic purposes, as some poisons are, and there are restrictions placed on its sale.”

      “Does anything in your examination lead you to determine how the poison was administered?”

      “No.”

      “You arrived at Styles before Dr. Wilkins, I believe?”

      “That is so. The motor met me just outside the lodge gates, and I hurried there as fast as I could.”

      “Will you relate to us exactly what happened next?”

      “I entered Mrs. Inglethorp’s room. She was at that moment in a typical tetanic convulsion. She turned towards me, and gasped out: ‘Alfred—Alfred——’ “

      “Could the strychnine have been administered in Mrs. Inglethorp’s after-dinner coffee which was taken to her by her husband?”

      “Possibly, but strychnine is a fairly rapid drug in its action. The symptoms appear from one to two hours after it has been swallowed. It is retarded under certain conditions, none of which, however, appear to have been present in this case. I presume Mrs. Inglethorp took the coffee after dinner about eight o’clock, whereas the symptoms did not manifest themselves until the early hours of the morning, which, on the face of it, points to the drug having been taken much later in the evening.”