The Greatest Murder Mysteries - Agatha Christie Edition. Agatha Christie

      “Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form.”

      “I see.”

      A faint expression of relief swept over John’s face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it.

      “If you know of nothing to the contrary,” pursued Mr. Wells, “I had thought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor’s report. The post-mortem is to take place to-night, I believe?”

      “Yes.”

      “Then that arrangement will suit you?”

      “Perfectly.”

      “I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most tragic affair.”

      “Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?” interposed Poirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered the room.

      “I?”

      “Yes, we heard that Mrs. Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning.”

      “I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great importance.”

      “She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?”

      “Unfortunately, no.”

      “That is a pity,” said John.

      “A great pity,” agreed Poirot gravely.

      There was silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes. Finally he turned to the lawyer again.

      “Mr. Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you—that is, if it is not against professional etiquette. In the event of Mrs. Inglethorp’s death, who would inherit her money?”

      The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied:

      “The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr. Cavendish does not object——”

      “Not at all,” interpolated John.

      “I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. By her last will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legacies to servants, etc., she gave her entire fortune to her stepson, Mr. John Cavendish.”

      “Was not that—pardon the question, Mr. Cavendish—rather unfair to her other stepson, Mr. Lawrence Cavendish?”

      “No, I do not think so. You see, under the terms of their father’s will, while John inherited the property, Lawrence, at his stepmother’s death, would come into a considerable sum of money. Mrs. Inglethorp left her money to her elder stepson, knowing that he would have to keep up Styles. It was, to my mind, a very fair and equitable distribution.”

      Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

      “I see. But I am right in saying, am I not, that by your English law that will was automatically revoked when Mrs. Inglethorp remarried?”

      Mr. Wells bowed his head.

      “As I was about to proceed, Monsieur Poirot, that document is now null and void.”

      “Hein!” said Poirot. He reflected for a moment, and then asked: “Was Mrs. Inglethorp herself aware of that fact?”

      “I do not know. She may have been.”

      “She was,” said John unexpectedly. “We were discussing the matter of wills being revoked by marriage only yesterday.”

      “Ah! One more question, Mr. Wells. You say ‘her last will.’ Had Mrs. Inglethorp, then, made several former wills?”

      “On an average, she made a new will at least once a year,” said Mr. Wells imperturbably. “She was given to changing her mind as to her testamentary dispositions, now benefiting one, now another member of her family.”

      “Suppose,” suggested Poirot, “that, unknown to you, she had made a new will in favour of some one who was not, in any sense of the word, a member of the family—we will say Miss Howard, for instance—would you be surprised?”

      “Not in the least.”

      “Ah!” Poirot seemed to have exhausted his questions.

      I drew close to him, while John and the lawyer were debating the question of going through Mrs. Inglethorp’s papers.

      “Do you think Mrs. Inglethorp made a will leaving all her money to Miss Howard?” I asked in a low voice, with some curiosity.

      Poirot smiled.

      “No.”

      “Then why did you ask?”

      “Hush!”

      John Cavendish had turned to Poirot.

      “Will you come with us, Monsieur Poirot? We are going through my mother’s papers. Mr. Inglethorp is quite willing to leave it entirely to Mr. Wells and myself.”

      “Which simplifies matters very much,” murmured the lawyer. “As technically, of course, he was entitled——” He did not finish the sentence.

      “We will look through the desk in the boudoir first,” explained John, “and go up to her bedroom afterwards. She kept her most important papers in a purple despatch-case, which we must look through carefully.”

      “Yes,” said the lawyer, “it is quite possible that there may be a later will than the one in my possession.”

      “There is a later will.” It was Poirot who spoke.

      “What?” John and the lawyer looked at him startled.

      “Or, rather,” pursued my friend imperturbably, “there was one.”

      “What do you mean—there was one? Where is it now?”

      “Burnt!”

      “Burnt?”

      “Yes. See here.” He took out the charred fragment we had found in the grate in Mrs. Inglethorp’s room, and handed it to the lawyer with a brief explanation of when and where he had found it.

      “But possibly this is an old will?”

      “I do not think so. In fact I am almost certain that it was made no earlier than yesterday afternoon.”

      “What?” “Impossible!” broke simultaneously from both men.

      Poirot turned to John.

      “If you will allow me to send for your gardener, I will prove it to you.”

      “Oh, of course—but I don’t see——”

      Poirot raised his hand.

      “Do as I ask you. Afterwards you shall question as much as you please.”

      “Very well.” He rang the bell.

      Dorcas answered it in due course.

      “Dorcas, will you tell Manning to come round and speak to me here.”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Dorcas withdrew.

      We waited in a tense silence. Poirot alone seemed perfectly at his ease, and dusted a forgotten corner of the bookcase.

      The clumping of hobnailed boots on the gravel outside proclaimed the approach of Manning. John looked questioningly at Poirot. The latter nodded.

      “Come inside, Manning,” said John, “I want to speak to you.”

      Manning came slowly and hesitatingly through the French window, and stood as near it as he could. He held his cap in his hands, twisting it very carefully round and round. His back was much bent, though he was probably not as old as he looked, but his eyes were sharp and intelligent, and belied his slow