Agatha Christie: The Collection. Agatha Christie

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ the boudoir window was open, was it not?”

      Surely her face grew a little paler as she answered:

      “Yes.”

      “Then you cannot have failed to hear the voices inside, especially as they were raised in anger. In fact, they would be more audible where you were than in the hall.”

      “Possibly.”

      “Will you repeat to us what you overheard of the quarrel?”

      “I really do not remember hearing anything.”

      “Do you mean to say you did not hear voices?”

      “Oh, yes, I heard the voices, but I did not hear what they said.” A faint spot of colour came into her cheek. “I am not in the habit of listening to private conversations.”

      The Coroner persisted.

      “And you remember nothing at all? Nothing, Mrs. Cavendish? Not one stray word or phrase to make you realize that it was a private conversation?”

      She paused, and seemed to reflect, still outwardly as calm as ever.

      “Yes; I remember. Mrs. Inglethorp said something – I do not remember exactly what – about causing scandal between husband and wife.”

      “Ah!” the Coroner leant back satisfied. “That corresponds with what Dorcas heard. But excuse me, Mrs. Cavendish, although you realized it was a private conversation, you did not move away? You remained where you were?”

      I caught the momentary gleam of her tawny eyes as she raised them. I felt certain that at that moment she would willingly have torn the little lawyer, with his insinuations, into pieces, but she replied quietly enough:

      “No. I was very comfortable where I was. I fixed my mind on my book.”

      “And that is all you can tell us?”

      “That is all.”

      The examination was over, though I doubted if the Coroner was entirely satisfied with it. I think he suspected that Mary Cavendish could tell more if she chose.

      Amy Hill, shop assistant, was next called, and deposed to having sold a will form on the afternoon of the 17th to William Earl, under-gardener at Styles.

      William Earl and Manning succeeded her, and testified to witnessing a document. Manning fixed the time at about four-thirty, William was of the opinion that it was rather earlier.

      Cynthia Murdoch came next. She had, however, little to tell. She had known nothing of the tragedy, until awakened by Mrs. Cavendish.

      “You did not hear the table fall?”

      “No. I was fast asleep.”

      The Coroner smiled.

      “A good conscience makes a sound sleeper,” he observed. “Thank you, Miss Murdoch, that is all.”

      “Miss Howard.”

      Miss Howard produced the letter written to her by Mrs. Inglethorp on the evening of the 17th. Poirot and I had, of course already seen it. It added nothing to our knowledge of the tragedy. The following is a facsimile:

      STYLES COURT ESSEX

      hand written note:

      July 17^th

      My dear Evelyn

      Can we not bury the hachet? I have found it hard to forgive the things you said against my dear husband but I am an old woman & very fond of you

      Yours affectionately,

Emily Inglethorpe

      It was handed to the jury who scrutinized it attentively.

      “I fear it does not help us much,” said the Coroner, with a sigh. “There is no mention of any of the events of that afternoon.”

      “Plain as a pikestaff to me,” said Miss Howard shortly. “It shows clearly enough that my poor old friend had just found out she’d been made a fool of!”

      “It says nothing of the kind in the letter,” the Coroner pointed out.

      “No, because Emily never could bear to put herself in the wrong. But I know her. She wanted me back. But she wasn’t going to own that I’d been right. She went round about. Most people do. Don’t believe in it myself.”

      Mr. Wells smiled faintly. So, I noticed, did several of the jury. Miss Howard was obviously quite a public character.

      “Anyway, all this tomfoolery is a great waste of time,” continued the lady, glancing up and down the jury disparagingly. “Talk – talk – talk! When all the time we know perfectly well –”

      The Coroner interrupted her in an agony of apprehension:

      “Thank you, Miss Howard, that is all.”

      I fancy he breathed a sigh of relief when she complied.

      Then came the sensation of the day. The Coroner called Albert Mace, chemist’s assistant.

      It was our agitated young man of the pale face. In answer to the Coroner’s questions, he explained that he was a qualified pharmacist, but had only recently come to this particular shop, as the assistant formerly there had just been called up for the army.

      These preliminaries completed, the Coroner proceeded to business.

      “Mr. Mace, have you lately sold strychnine to any unauthorized person?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      “When was this?”

      “Last Monday night.”

      “Monday? Not Tuesday?”

      “No, sir, Monday, the 16th.”

      “Will you tell us to whom you sold it?”

      You could have heard a pin drop.

      “Yes, sir. It was to Mr. Inglethorp.”

      Every eye turned simultaneously to where Alfred Inglethorp was sitting, impassive and wooden. He started slightly, as the damning words fell from the young man’s lips. I half thought he was going to rise from his chair, but he remained seated, although a remarkably well acted expression of astonishment rose on his face.

      “You are sure of what you say?” asked the Coroner sternly.

      “Quite sure, sir.”

      “Are you in the habit of selling strychnine indiscriminately over the counter?”

      The wretched young man wilted visibly under the Coroner’s frown.

      “Oh, no, sir – of course not. But, seeing it was Mr. Inglethorp of the Hall, I thought there was no harm in it. He said it was to poison a dog.”

      Inwardly I sympathized. СКАЧАТЬ