The Vintage Mysteries for the Holidays. Эдгар Аллан По

have heard of the deceased taking strychnine at the time of her death. We are much obliged to you, Mr. Cavendish.”

      Dr. Wilkins was recalled and ridiculed the idea.

      “What Mr. Cavendish suggests is quite impossible. Any doctor would tell you the same. Strychnine is, in a certain sense, a cumulative poison, but it would be quite impossible for it to result in sudden death in this way. There would have to be a long period of chronic symptoms which would at once have attracted my attention. The whole thing is absurd.”

      “And the second suggestion? That Mrs. Inglethorp may have inadvertently taken an overdose?”

      “Three, or even four doses, would not have resulted in death. Mrs. Inglethorp always had an extra large amount of medicine made up at a time, as she dealt with Coot’s, the Cash Chemists in Tadminster. She would have had to take very nearly the whole bottle to account for the amount of strychnine found at the post-mortem.”

      “Then you consider that we may dismiss the tonic as not being in any way instrumental in causing her death?”

      “Certainly. The supposition is ridiculous.”

      The same juryman who had interrupted before here suggested that the chemist who made up the medicine might have committed an error.

      “That, of course, is always possible,” replied the doctor.

      But Dorcas, who was the next witness called, dispelled even that possibility. The medicine had not been newly made up. On the contrary, Mrs. Inglethorp had taken the last dose on the day of her death.

      So the question of the tonic was finally abandoned, and the Coroner proceeded with his task. Having elicited from Dorcas how she had been awakened by the violent ringing of her mistress’s bell, and had subsequently roused the household, he passed to the subject of the quarrel on the preceding afternoon.

      Dorcas’s evidence on this point was substantially what Poirot and I had already heard, so I will not repeat it here.

      The next witness was Mary Cavendish. She stood very upright, and spoke in a low, clear, and perfectly composed voice. In answer to the Coroner’s question, she told how, her alarm clock having aroused her at 4.30 as usual, she was dressing, when she was startled by the sound of something heavy falling.

      “That would have been the table by the bed?” commented the Coroner.

      “I opened my door,” continued Mary, “and listened. In a few minutes a bell rang violently. Dorcas came running down and woke my husband, and we all went to my mother-in-law’s room, but it was locked——”

      The Coroner interrupted her.

      “I really do not think we need trouble you further on that point. We know all that can be known of the subsequent happenings. But I should be obliged if you would tell us all you overheard of the quarrel the day before.”

      “I?”

      There was a faint insolence in her voice. She raised her hand and adjusted the ruffle of lace at her neck, turning her head a little as she did so. And quite spontaneously the thought flashed across my mind: “She is gaining time!”

      “Yes. I understand,” continued the Coroner deliberately, “that you were sitting reading on the bench just outside the long window of the boudoir. That is so, is it not?”

      This was news to me and glancing sideways at Poirot, I fancied that it was news to him as well.

      There was the faintest pause, the mere hesitation of a moment, before she answered: “Yes, that is so.”

      “And the boudoir window was open, was it not?”

      Surely her face grew a little paler as she answered:

      “Yes.”

      “Then you cannot have failed to hear the voices inside, especially as they were raised in anger. In fact, they would be more audible where you were than in the hall.”

      “Possibly.”

      “Will you repeat to us what you overheard of the quarrel?”

      “I really do not remember hearing anything.”

      “Do you mean to say you did not hear voices?”

      “Oh, yes, I heard the voices, but I did not hear what they said.” A faint spot of colour came into her cheek. “I am not in the habit of listening to private conversations.”

      The Coroner persisted.

      “And you remember nothing at all? Nothing, Mrs. Cavendish? Not one stray word or phrase to make you realize that it was a private conversation?”

      She paused, and seemed to reflect, still outwardly as calm as ever.

      “Yes; I remember. Mrs. Inglethorp said something—I do not remember exactly what—about causing scandal between husband and wife.”

      “Ah!” the Coroner leant back satisfied. “That corresponds with what Dorcas heard. But excuse me, Mrs. Cavendish, although you realized it was a private conversation, you did not move away? You remained where you were?”

      I caught the momentary gleam of her tawny eyes as she raised them. I felt certain that at that moment she would willingly have torn the little lawyer, with his insinuations, into pieces, but she replied quietly enough: “No. I was very comfortable where I was. I fixed my mind on my book.”

      “And that is all you can tell us?”

      “That is all.”

      The examination was over, though I doubted if the Coroner was entirely satisfied with it. I think he suspected that Mary Cavendish could tell more if she chose.

      Amy Hill, shop assistant, was next called, and deposed to having sold a will form on the afternoon of the 17th to William Earl, under-gardener at Styles.

      William Earl and Manning succeeded her, and testified to witnessing a document. Manning fixed the time at about 4.30, William was of the opinion that it was rather earlier.

      Cynthia Murdoch came next. She had, however, little to tell. She had known nothing of the tragedy, until awakened by Mrs. Cavendish.

      “You did not hear the table fall?”

      “No. I was fast asleep.”

      The Coroner smiled.

      “A good conscience makes a sound sleeper,” he observed. “Thank you, Miss Murdoch, that is all.”

      “Miss Howard.”

      Miss Howard produced the letter written to her by Mrs. Inglethorp on the evening of the 17th. Poirot and I had, of course already seen it. It added nothing to our knowledge of the tragedy. The following is a facsimile: STYLES COURT ESSEX hand written note: July 17th My dear Evelyn Can we not bury the hachet? I have found it hard to forgive the things you said against my dear husband but I am an old woman & very fond of you Yours affectionately,

      Emily Inglethorpe

      It was handed to the jury who scrutinized it attentively.

      “I fear it does not help us much,” said the Coroner, with a sigh. “There is no mention of any of the events of that afternoon.”

      “Plain as a pikestaff to me,” said Miss Howard shortly. “It shows clearly enough that my poor old friend had just found out she’d been made a fool of!”

      “It says nothing of the kind in the letter,” the Coroner pointed out.

      “No, because Emily never could bear to put herself in the wrong. But I know her. She wanted me back. But she wasn’t going to own that I’d been right. She went round about. Most people do. Don’t believe in it myself.”

      Mr. Wells smiled faintly. So, I noticed, did several of the jury. Miss Howard was obviously quite a public character.

      “Anyway, all this tomfoolery is a great waste of time,” continued