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

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: 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 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. It was only human nature to endeavour to please ‘The Hall’—especially when it might result in custom being transferred from Coot’s to the local establishment.

‘Is it not customary for anyone purchasing poison to sign a book?’

‘Yes, sir, Mr Inglethorp did so.’

‘Have you got the book here?’

‘Yes, sir.’

It was produced; and, with a few words of stern censure, the Coroner dismissed the wretched Mr Mace.

Then, amidst a breathless silence, Alfred Inglethorp was called. Did he realize, I wondered, how closely the halter was being drawn around his neck?

The Coroner went straight to the point.

‘On Monday evening last, did you purchase strychnine for the purpose of poisoning a dog?’

Inglethorp replied with perfect calmness:

‘No, I did not. There is no dog at Styles, except an outdoor sheepdog, which is in perfect health.’

‘You deny absolutely having purchased strychnine from Albert Mace on Monday last?’

‘I do.’

‘Do you also deny this?’

The Coroner handed him the register in which his signature was inscribed.

‘Certainly I do. The handwriting is quite different from mine. I will show you.’

He took an old envelope out of his pocket, and wrote his name on it, handing it to the jury. It was certainly utterly dissimilar.

‘Then what is your explanation of Mr Mace’s statement?’

Alfred Inglethorp replied imperturbably: