Загадочное происшествие в Стайлзе / The Mysterious Affair at Styles

‘Do not worry,’ said Poirot smoothly. ‘I assure you that you need not let it trouble you. Since you are so kind, let us go and have some breakfast.’

Everyone was assembled in the dining room. Under the circumstances, we were naturally not a cheerful party. The reaction after a shock is always trying, and I think we were all suffering from it. Decorum and good breeding naturally enjoined that our demeanour should be much as usual, yet I could not help wondering if this self-control were really a matter of great difficulty. There were no red eyes, no signs of secretly indulged grief. I felt that I was right in my opinion that Dorcas was the person most affected by the personal side of the tragedy.

I pass over Alfred Inglethorp, who acted the bereaved widower in a manner that I felt to be disgusting in its hypocrisy. Did he know that we suspected him, I wondered. Surely he could not be unaware of the fact, conceal it as we would. Did he feel some secret stirring of fear, or was he confident that his crime would go unpunished? Surely the suspicion in the atmosphere must warn him that he was already a marked man.

But did everyone suspect him? What about Mrs Cavendish? I watched her as she sat at the head of the table, graceful, composed, enigmatic. In her soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she chose, however, her face could be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent, hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great strength of her personality was dominating us all.

And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, I thought. The heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. I asked her if she were feeling ill, and she answered frankly:

‘Yes, I’ve got the most beastly headache.’

‘Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?’ said Poirot solicitously. ‘It will revive you. It is unparalleled for the mal de t?te[94 - mal de t?te – (фр.) мигрень, головная боль].’ He jumped up and took her cup.

‘No sugar,’ said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the sugar tongs.

‘No sugar? You abandon it in the wartime, eh?’

‘No, I never take it in coffee.’

‘Sacrе![95 - Sacrе! – (фр.) зд. Господи!]’ murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back the replenished cup.

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.

‘Mr Wells to see you, sir,’ she said to John.

I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer to whom Mrs Inglethorp had written the night before.

John rose immediately.

‘Show him into my study.’ Then he turned to us. ‘My mother’s lawyer,’ he explained. And in a lower voice: ‘He is also Coroner—you understand. Perhaps you would like to come with me?’

We acquiesced and followed him out of the room. John strode on ahead and I took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot:

‘There will be an inquest then?’

Poirot nodded absently. He seemed absorbed in thought[96 - absorbed in thought – поглощенный размышлениями]; so much so that my curiosity was aroused.

‘What is it? You are not attending to what I say.’

‘It is true, my friend. I am much worried.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee.’

‘What? You cannot be serious?’

‘But I am most serious. Ah, there is something there that I do not understand. My instinct was right.’

‘What instinct?’

‘The instinct that led me to insist on examining those coffee cups. Chut![97 - Chut! – (фр.) Тише!] no more now!’

We followed John into his study, and he closed the door behind us.

Mr Wells was a pleasant man of middle-age, with keen eyes, and the typical lawyer’s mouth. John introduced us both, and explained the reason of our presence.

‘You will understand, Wells,’ he added, ‘that this is all strictly private. We are still hoping that there will turn out to be no need for investigation of any kind.’

‘Quite so, quite so,’ said Mr Wells soothingly. ‘I wish we could have spared you the pain and publicity of an inquest, but, of course, it’s quite unavoidable in the absence of a doctor’s certificate.’