Hercule Poirot 3-Book Collection 1: The Mysterious Affair at Styles, The Murder on the Links, Poirot Investigates

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; 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! 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.’

‘Yes, I suppose so.’

‘Clever man, Bauerstein. Great authority on toxicology, I believe.’

‘Indeed,’ said John with a certain stiffness in his manner. Then he added rather hesitatingly: ‘Shall we have to appear as witnesses—all of us, I mean?’

‘You, of course—and ah—er—Mr—er—Inglethorp.’

A slight pause ensued before the lawyer went on in his soothing manner:

‘Any other evidence will be simply confirmatory, a mere matter of form.’

‘I see.’

A faint expression of relief swept over John’s face. It puzzled me, for I saw no occasion for it.

‘If you know of nothing to the contrary,’ pursued Mr Wells, ‘I had thought of Friday. That will give us plenty of time for the doctor’s report. The post-mortem is to take place tonight, I believe?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then the arrangement will suit you?’

‘Perfectly.’

‘I need not tell you, my dear Cavendish, how distressed I am at this most tragic affair.’

‘Can you give us no help in solving it, monsieur?’ interposed Poirot, speaking for the first time since we had entered the room.

‘I?’

‘Yes, we heard that Mrs Inglethorp wrote to you last night. You should have received the letter this morning.’

‘I did, but it contains no information. It is merely a note asking me to call upon her this morning, as she wanted my advice on a matter of great importance.’

‘She gave you no hint as to what that matter might be?’

‘Unfortunately, no.’

‘That is a pity,’ said John.

‘A great pity,’ agreed Poirot gravely.

There was a silence. Poirot remained lost in thought for a few minutes. Finally he turned to the lawyer again.

‘Mr Wells, there is one thing I should like to ask you—that is, if it is not against professional etiquette. In the event of Mrs Inglethorp’s death, who would inherit her money?’

The lawyer hesitated a moment, and then replied:

‘The knowledge will be public property very soon, so if Mr Cavendish does not object –’

‘Not at all,’ interpolated John.

‘I do not see any reason why I should not answer your question. By her last will, dated August of last year, after various unimportant legacies to servants, etc., she gave her entire fortune to her stepson, Mr John Cavendish.’

‘Was not that—pardon the question, Mr Cavendish—rather unfair to her other stepson, Mr Lawrence Cavendish?’

‘No, I do not think so. You see, under the terms of their father’s will, while John inherited the property, Lawrence, at his stepmother’s death, would come into a considerable sum of money. Mrs Inglethorp left her money to her elder stepson, knowing that he would have to keep up Styles. It was, to my mind, a very fair and equitable distribution.’

Poirot nodded thoughtfully.

‘I see. But I am right in saying, am I not, that by your English law that will was automatically revoked when Mrs Inglethorp remarried?’