Detective Poirot: The Mysterious Affair At Styles. Agatha Christie

you understand now, monsieur?”

      “No; What do you mean?”

      “I mean,” said Poirot deliberately, “that you are suspected of poisoning your wife.”

      A little gasp ran round the circle at this plain speaking.

      “Good heavens!” cried Inglethorp, starting up. “What a monstrous idea! I—poison my dearest Emily!”

      “I do not think”—Poirot watched him narrowly—“that you quite realize the unfavourable nature of your evidence at the inquest. Mr. Inglethorp, knowing what I have now told you, do you still refuse to say where you were at six o’clock on Monday afternoon?”

      With a groan, Alfred Inglethorp sank down again and buried his face in his hands. Poirot approached and stood over him.

      “Speak!” he cried menacingly.

      With an effort, Inglethorp raised his face from his hands. Then, slowly and deliberately, he shook his head.

      “You will not speak?”

      “No. I do not believe that anyone could be so monstrous as to accuse me of what you say.”

      Poirot nodded thoughtfully, like a man whose mind is made up.

      “Soit!” he said. “Then I must speak for you.”

      Alfred Inglethorp sprang up again.

      “You? How can you speak? You do not know——” he broke off abruptly.

      Poirot turned to face us. “Mesdames and messieurs! I speak! Listen! I, Hercule Poirot, affirm that the man who entered the chemist’s shop, and purchased strychnine at six o’clock on Monday last was not Mr. Inglethorp, for at six o’clock on that day Mr. Inglethorp was escorting Mrs. Raikes back to her home from a neighbouring farm. I can produce no less than five witnesses to swear to having seen them together, either at six or just after and, as you may know, the Abbey Farm, Mrs. Raikes’s home, is at least two and a half miles distant from the village. There is absolutely no question as to the alibi!”