The Mysterious Affair at Styles quotes

“

Don’t say it. Never does. Wish you hadn’t later.

”

“Of course I should. Mightn’t be able to prove it to a pack of lawyers.

But I’m certain I’d know. I’d feel it in my fingertips if he came near me.

”

“It’s almost too hot,” she murmured. “We shall have a thunderstorm.”

Alas, that these harmonious moments can never endure!

My paradise was rudely shattered by the sound of a well known, and heartily disliked, voice in the hall.

“Ah!” Poirot shook his forefinger so fiercely at me that I quailed before it. “Beware! Peril to the detective who says: ‘It is so small—it does not matter. It will not agree. I will forget it.’

That way lies confusion! Everything matters.

”

Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I saw that his face was working with suppressed excitement, and his eyes were as green as a cat’s. He had heard or seen something that had affected him strongly—but what was it?

I do not usually label myself as dense, but I must confess that nothing out of the ordinary had attracted my attention.

In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared.

“I’ll help you to hang Alfred with pleasure,” she replied gruffly. “

Hanging’s too good for him. Ought to be drawn and quartered, like in good old times.

”

“But I must ask you to trust me. Now your help may be very valuable to me. I will tell you why.

Because, in all this house of mourning, yours are the only eyes that have wept.

”

“No.” She was smiling in her quiet way. “I should like to see a good flare up.

It would clear the air. At present we are all thinking so much, and saying so little.

”

“Because it is true.

I am charming to my friends one day, and forget all about them the next.

”

“You gave too much rein to your imagination.

Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely.

”

“Yes, yes, too conclusive,” continued Poirot, almost to himself. “

Real evidence is usually vague and unsatisfactory.

It has to be examined—sifted. But here the whole thing is cut and dried. No, my friend, this evidence has been very cleverly manufactured—so cleverly that it has defeated its own ends.”

“Which is a very good, or a very bad explanation,” remarked Poirot. “

It covers everything, and explains nothing.

I shall keep my eye on our clever Dr. Bauerstein.”

“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?”

“

Two is enough for a secret.

”

The remark seemed so utterly irrelevant that I did not even take the trouble to answer it. But I decided that if I made any interesting and important discoveries—as no doubt I should—I would keep them to myself, and surprise Poirot with the ultimate result.

There are times when it is one’s duty to assert oneself.

“He told me to wait until I was alone with you,” I said, dropping my voice significantly, and watching him intently out of the corner of my eye.

I have always been rather good at what is called, I believe, creating an atmosphere.

There was no change of expression in the dark melancholic face. Had he any idea of what I was about to say?

“A tinge of Jewish blood is not a bad thing. It leavens the”—she looked at him—“stolid stupidity of the ordinary Englishman.”

Fire in her eyes, ice in her voice.

I did not wonder that the blood rose to John’s face in a crimson tide.

perhaps the sense of relief at encountering someone who so obviously could have no connection with the tragedy; perhaps honest pity for her youth and loneliness. Anyway, I leant forward, and taking her little hand, I said awkwardly:

Unwittingly, I had hit upon a sovereign remedy for her tears.

She sat up at once, drew her hand away, and said, with some asperity:

“Well, of course, that settles it,” I said stiffly. “But I don’t see anything to laugh at. There’s nothing funny about a proposal.”

“No, indeed,” said Cynthia. “Somebody might accept you next time. Goodbye, you’ve cheered me up very much.”

And, with a final uncontrollable burst of merriment, she vanished through the trees.

And, with a final uncontrollable burst of merriment, she vanished through the trees.

Thinking over the interview, it struck me as being profoundly unsatisfactory.

It occurred to me suddenly that I would go down to the village, and look up Bauerstein. Somebody ought to be keeping an eye on the fellow.

“What did she mean by ‘On the top of the wardrobe’?”

“She meant,” replied Poirot promptly, “that she found it on top of a wardrobe.”

“A funny place for a piece of brown paper,” I mused.

“Not at all.

The top of a wardrobe is an excellent place for brown paper and cardboard boxes. I have kept them there myself.

Neatly arranged, there is nothing to offend the eye.”

“I honestly don’t know.

Sometimes, I feel sure he is as mad as a hatter; and then, just as he is at his maddest, I find there is method in his madness.

”

Somehow, I was not quite as elated as I might have been. I remembered that Cynthia had begun her confidences in much the same way.

Besides, a father confessor should be elderly, it is not at all the role for a young man.

“My father was English,” said Mrs. Cavendish, “but my mother was a Russian.”

The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer.

The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing.

We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong.

“But John! My old friend John!”

“Every murderer is probably somebody’s old friend,” observed Poirot philosophically. “You cannot mix up sentiment and reason.”

“I must say I think you might have given me a hint.”

“Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along that I have no proofs.

It is one thing to know that a man is guilty, it is quite another matter to prove him so.

And, in this case, there is terribly little evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, Hercule Poirot, know, but I lack the last link in my chain. And unless I can find that missing link—” He shook his head gravely.

Inglethorp on the day before the murder. It would be for the jury to decide whether or not these damning facts constituted an overwhelming proof of the prisoner’s guilt.

And, subtly implying that a jury which did not so decide, was quite unthinkable, Mr. Philips sat down and wiped his forehead.

The first witnesses for the prosecution were mostly those who had been called at the inquest, the medical evidence being again taken first.

“No, but we were both angry, and, I think, said more than we meant. I paid very little attention to my mother’s actual words.”

Mr. Philips’ incredulous sniff was a triumph of forensic skill.

He passed on to the subject of the note.

Poirot did not answer me for a moment, but at last he said:

“I did not deceive you, mon ami. At most, I permitted you to deceive yourself.”

“Well, it is difficult to explain. You see, my friend, you have a nature so honest, and a countenance so transparent, that—enfin, to conceal your feelings is impossible! If I had told you my ideas, the very first time you saw Mr.