The Greatest Murder Mysteries - Agatha Christie Edition. Agatha Christie

briskly. Manning’s eye swept over him with a faint contempt.

      “You were planting a bed of begonias round by the south side of the house yesterday afternoon, were you not, Manning?”

      “Yes, sir, me and Willum.”

      “And Mrs. Inglethorp came to the window and called you, did she not?”

      “Yes, sir, she did.”

      “Tell me in your own words exactly what happened after that.”

      “Well, sir, nothing much. She just told Willum to go on his bicycle down to the village, and bring back a form of will, or such-like—I don’t know what exactly—she wrote it down for him.”

      “Well?”

      “Well, he did, sir.”

      “And what happened next?”

      “We went on with the begonias, sir.”

      “Did not Mrs. Inglethorp call you again?”

      “Yes, sir, both me and Willum, she called.”

      “And then?”

      “She made us come right in, and sign our names at the bottom of a long paper—under where she’d signed.”

      “Did you see anything of what was written above her signature?” asked Poirot sharply.

      “No, sir, there was a bit of blotting paper over that part.”

      “And you signed where she told you?”

      “Yes, sir, first me and then Willum.”

      “What did she do with it afterwards?”

      “Well, sir, she slipped it into a long envelope, and put it inside a sort of purple box that was standing on the desk.”

      “What time was it when she first called you?”

      “About four, I should say, sir.”

      “Not earlier? Couldn’t it have been about half-past three?”

      “No, I shouldn’t say so, sir. It would be more likely to be a bit after four—not before it.”

      “Thank you, Manning, that will do,” said Poirot pleasantly.

      The gardener glanced at his master, who nodded, whereupon Manning lifted a finger to his forehead with a low mumble, and backed cautiously out of the window.

      We all looked at each other.

      “Good heavens!” murmured John. “What an extraordinary coincidence.”

      “How—a coincidence?”

      “That my mother should have made a will on the very day of her death!”

      Mr. Wells cleared his throat and remarked drily:

      “Are you so sure it is a coincidence, Cavendish?”

      “What do you mean?”

      “Your mother, you tell me, had a violent quarrel with—some one yesterday afternoon——”

      “What do you mean?” cried John again. There was a tremor in his voice, and he had gone very pale.

      “In consequence of that quarrel, your mother very suddenly and hurriedly makes a new will. The contents of that will we shall never know. She told no one of its provisions. This morning, no doubt, she would have consulted me on the subject—but she had no chance. The will disappears, and she takes its secret with her to her grave. Cavendish, I much fear there is no coincidence there. Monsieur Poirot, I am sure you agree with me that the facts are very suggestive.”

      “Suggestive, or not,” interrupted John, “we are most grateful to Monsieur Poirot for elucidating the matter. But for him, we should never have known of this will. I suppose, I may not ask you, monsieur, what first led you to suspect the fact?”

      Poirot smiled and answered:

      “A scribbled over old envelope, and a freshly planted bed of begonias.”

      John, I think, would have pressed his questions further, but at that moment the loud purr of a motor was audible, and we all turned to the window as it swept past.

      “Evie!” cried John. “Excuse me, Wells.” He went hurriedly out into the hall.

      Poirot looked inquiringly at me.

      “Miss Howard,” I explained.

      “Ah, I am glad she has come. There is a woman with a head and a heart too, Hastings. Though the good God gave her no beauty!”

      I followed John’s example, and went out into the hall, where Miss Howard was endeavouring to extricate herself from the voluminous mass of veils that enveloped her head. As her eyes fell on me, a sudden pang of guilt shot through me. This was the woman who had warned me so earnestly, and to whose warning I had, alas, paid no heed! How soon, and how contemptuously, I had dismissed it from my mind. Now that she had been proved justified in so tragic a manner, I felt ashamed. She had known Alfred Inglethorp only too well. I wondered whether, if she had remained at Styles, the tragedy would have taken place, or would the man have feared her watchful eyes?

      I was relieved when she shook me by the hand, with her well remembered painful grip. The eyes that met mine were sad, but not reproachful; that she had been crying bitterly, I could tell by the redness of her eyelids, but her manner was unchanged from its old gruffness.

      “Started the moment I got the wire. Just come off night duty. Hired car. Quickest way to get here.”

      “Have you had anything to eat this morning, Evie?” asked John.

      “No.”

      “I thought not. Come along, breakfast’s not cleared away yet, and they’ll make you some fresh tea.” He turned to me. “Look after her, Hastings, will you? Wells is waiting for me. Oh, here’s Monsieur Poirot. He’s helping us, you know, Evie.”

      Miss Howard shook hands with Poirot, but glanced suspiciously over her shoulder at John.

      “What do you mean—helping us?”

      “Helping us to investigate.”

      “Nothing to investigate. Have they taken him to prison yet?”

      “Taken who to prison?”

      “Who? Alfred Inglethorp, of course!”

      “My dear Evie, do be careful. Lawrence is of the opinion that my mother died from heart seizure.”

      “More fool, Lawrence!” retorted Miss Howard. “Of course Alfred Inglethorp murdered poor Emily—as I always told you he would.”

      “My dear Evie, don’t shout so. Whatever we may think or suspect, it is better to say as little as possible for the present. The inquest isn’t until Friday.”

      “Not until fiddlesticks!” The snort Miss Howard gave was truly magnificent. “You’re all off your heads. The man will be out of the country by then. If he’s any sense, he won’t stay here tamely and wait to be hanged.”

      John Cavendish looked at her helplessly.

      “I know what it is,” she accused him, “you’ve been listening to the doctors. Never should. What do they know? Nothing at all—or just enough to make them dangerous. I ought to know—my own father was a doctor. That little Wilkins is about the greatest fool that even I have ever seen. Heart seizure! Sort of thing he would say. Anyone with any sense could see at once that her husband had poisoned her. I always said he’d murder her in her bed, poor soul. Now he’s done it. And all you can do is to murmur silly things about ‘heart seizure’ and ‘inquest on Friday.’ You ought to be ashamed of yourself, John Cavendish.”

      “What do you want me to do?” asked John, unable to help a faint smile. “Dash it all, Evie, I can’t haul him down to the local