“Well then,” I blurted out, “it’s absurd—but I suspect Miss Howard of not telling all she knows!”
“Miss Howard?”
“Yes—you’ll laugh at me——”
“Not at all. Why should I?”
“I can’t help feeling,” I continued blunderingly; “that we’ve rather left her out of the possible suspects, simply on the strength of her having been away from the place. But, after all, she was only fifteen miles away. A car would do it in half an hour. Can we say positively that she was away from Styles on the night of the murder?”
“Yes, my friend,” said Poirot unexpectedly, “we can. One of my first actions was to ring up the hospital where she was working.”
“Well?”
“Well, I learnt that Miss Howard had been on afternoon duty on Tuesday, and that—a convoy coming in unexpectedly—she had kindly offered to remain on night duty, which offer was gratefully accepted. That disposes of that.”
“Oh!” I said, rather nonplussed. “Really,” I continued, “it’s her extraordinary vehemence against Inglethorp that started me off suspecting her. I can’t help feeling she’d do anything against him. And I had an idea she might know something about the destroying of the will. She might have burnt the new one, mistaking it for the earlier one in his favour. She is so terribly bitter against him.”
“You consider her vehemence unnatural?”
“Y—es. She is so very violent. I wondered really whether she is quite sane on that point.”
Poirot shook his head energetically.
“No, no, you are on a wrong tack there. There is nothing weak-minded or degenerate about Miss Howard. She is an excellent specimen of well-balanced English beef and brawn. She is sanity itself.”
“Yet her hatred of Inglethorp seems almost a mania. My idea was—a very ridiculous one, no doubt—that she had intended to poison him—and that, in some way, Mrs. Inglethorp got hold of it by mistake. But I don’t at all see how it could have been done. The whole thing is absurd and ridiculous to the last degree.”
“Still you are right in one thing. It is always wise to suspect everybody until you can prove logically, and to your own satisfaction, that they are innocent. Now, what reasons are there against Miss Howard’s having deliberately poisoned Mrs. Inglethorp?”
“Why, she was devoted to her!” I exclaimed.
“Tcha! Tcha!” cried Poirot irritably. “You argue like a child. If Miss Howard were capable of poisoning the old lady, she would be quite equally capable of simulating devotion. No, we must look elsewhere. You are perfectly correct in your assumption that her vehemence against Alfred Inglethorp is too violent to be natural; but you are quite wrong in the deduction you draw from it. I have drawn my own deductions, which I believe to be correct, but I will not speak of them at present.” He paused a minute, then went on. “Now, to my way of thinking, there is one insuperable objection to Miss Howard’s being the murderess.”
“And that is?”
“That in no possible way could Mrs. Inglethorp’s death benefit Miss Howard. Now there is no murder without a motive.”
I reflected.
“Could not Mrs. Inglethorp have made a will in her favour?” Poirot shook his head.
“But you yourself suggested that possibility to Mr. Wells?”
Poirot smiled.
“That was for a reason. I did not want to mention the name of the person who was actually in my mind. Miss Howard occupied very much the same position, so I used her name instead.”
“Still, Mrs. Inglethorp might have done so. Why, that will, made on the afternoon of her death may——”
But Poirot’s shake of the head was so energetic that I stopped.
“No, my friend. I have certain little ideas of my own about that will. But I can tell you this much—it was not in Miss Howard’s favour.”
I accepted his assurance, though I did not really see how he could be so positive about the matter.
“Well,” I said, with a sigh, “we will acquit Miss Howard, then. It is partly your fault that I ever came to suspect her. It was what you said about her evidence at the inquest that set me off.”
Poirot looked puzzled.
“What did I say about her evidence at the inquest?”
“Don’t you remember? When I cited her and John Cavendish as being above suspicion?”
“Oh—ah—yes.” He seemed a little confused, but recovered himself. “By the way, Hastings, there is something I want you to do for me.”
“Certainly. What is it?”
“Next time you happen to be alone with Lawrence Cavendish, I want you to say this to him. ‘I have a message for you, from Poirot. He says: “Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace!” ‘ Nothing more. Nothing less.”
” ‘Find the extra coffee-cup, and you can rest in peace.’ Is that right?” I asked, much mystified.
“Excellent.”
“But what does it mean?”
“Ah, that I will leave you to find out. You have access to the facts. Just say that to him, and see what he says.”
“Very well—but it’s all extremely mysterious.”
We were running into Tadminster now, and Poirot directed the car to the “Analytical Chemist.”
Poirot hopped down briskly, and went inside. In a few minutes he was back again.
“There,” he said. “That is all my business.”
“What were you doing there?” I asked, in lively curiosity.
“I left something to be analysed.”
“Yes, but what?”
“The sample of coco I took from the saucepan in the bedroom.”
“But that has already been tested!” I cried, stupefied. “Dr. Bauerstein had it tested, and you yourself laughed at the possibility of there being strychnine in it.”
“I know Dr. Bauerstein had it tested,” replied Poirot quietly.
“Well, then?”
“Well, I have a fancy for having it analysed again, that is all.”
And not another word on the subject could I drag out of him.
This proceeding of Poirot’s, in respect of the coco, puzzled me intensely. I could see neither rhyme nor reason in it. However, my confidence in him, which at one time had rather waned, was fully restored since his belief in Alfred Inglethorp’s innocence had been so triumphantly vindicated.
The funeral of Mrs. Inglethorp took place the following day, and on Monday, as I came down to a late breakfast, John drew me aside, and informed me that Mr. Inglethorp was leaving that morning, to take up his quarters at the Stylites Arms until he should have completed his plans.
“And really it’s a great relief to think he’s going, Hastings,” continued my honest friend. “It was bad enough before, when we thought he’d done it, but I’m hanged if it isn’t worse now, when we all feel guilty for having been so down on the fellow. The fact is, we’ve treated him abominably. Of course, things did look black against him. I don’t see how anyone could blame us for jumping to the conclusions we did. Still, there it is, we were in the wrong, and now there’s a beastly feeling that one ought to make amends; which is difficult, when one doesn’t like the fellow