The Mysterious Affair at Styles

‘I tell you it is not what you imagine. It does not concern you in the least.’

To which Mary Cavendish replied, with a rising bitterness: ‘Of course, I might have known you would shield him.’

Cynthia was waiting for me, and greeted me eagerly with:

‘I say! There’s been the most awful row! I’ve got it all out of Dorcas.’

‘What kind of row?’

‘Between Aunt Emily and him. I do hope she’s found him out at last!’

‘Was Dorcas there, then?’

‘Of course not. She “happened to be near the door”. It was a real old bust-up. I do wish I knew what it was all about.’

I thought of Mrs Raikes’s gipsy face, and Evelyn Howard’s warnings, but wisely decided to hold my peace, whilst Cynthia exhausted every possible hypothesis, and cheerfully hoped, ‘Aunt Emily will send him away, and will never speak to him again.’

I was anxious to get hold of John, but he was nowhere to be seen. Evidently something very momentous had occurred that afternoon. I tried to forget the few words I had overheard; but, do what I would, I could not dismiss them altogether from my mind. What was Mary Cavendish’s concern in the matter?

Mr Inglethorp was in the drawing room when I came down to supper. His face was impassive as ever, and the strange unreality of the man struck me afresh.

Mrs Inglethorp came down at last. She still looked agitated, and during the meal there was a somewhat constrained silence. Inglethorp was unusually quiet. As a rule, he surrounded his wife with little attentions, placing a cushion at her back, and altogether playing the part of the devoted husband. Immediately after supper, Mrs Inglethorp retired to her boudoir again.

‘Send my coffee in here, Mary,’ she called. ‘I’ve just five minutes to catch the post.’

Cynthia and I went and sat by the open window in the drawing room. Mary Cavendish brought our coffee to us. She seemed excited.

‘Do you young people want lights, or do you enjoy the twilight?’ she asked. ‘Will you take Mrs Inglethorp her coffee, Cynthia? I will pour it out.’

‘Do not trouble, Mary,’ said Inglethorp. ‘I will take it to Emily.’ He poured it out, and went out of the room carrying it carefully.

Lawrence followed him, and Mrs Cavendish sat down by us.

We three sat for some time in silence. It was a glorious night, hot and still. Mrs Cavendish fanned herself gently with a palm leaf.

‘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.

‘Dr Bauerstein!’ exclaimed Cynthia. ‘What a funny time to come.’

I glanced jealously at Mary Cavendish, but she seemed quite undisturbed, the delicate pallor of her cheeks did not vary.

In a few moments, Alfred Inglethorp had ushered the doctor in, the latter laughing, and protesting that he was in no fit state for a drawing room. In truth, he presented a sorry spectacle, being literally plastered with mud.

‘What have you been doing, doctor?’ cried Mrs Cavendish.

‘I must make my apologies,’ said the doctor. ‘I did not really mean to come in, but Mr Inglethorp insisted.’

‘Well, Bauerstein, you are in a plight,’ said John, strolling in from the hall. ‘Have some coffee, and tell us what you have been up to.’

‘Thank you, I will.’ He laughed rather ruefully, as he described how he had discovered a very rare species of fern in an inaccessible place, and in his efforts to obtain it had lost his footing, and slipped ignominiously into a neighbouring pond.

‘The sun soon dried me off,’ he added, ‘but I’m afraid my appearance is very disreputable.’

At this juncture, Mrs Inglethorp called to Cynthia from the hall, and the girl ran out.

‘Just carry up my dispatch case, will you, dear? I’m going to bed.’

The door into the hall was a wide one. I had risen when Cynthia did, John was close by me. There were therefore three witnesses who could swear that Mrs Inglethorp was carrying her coffee, as yet untasted, in her hand.

My evening was utterly and entirely spoilt by the presence of Dr Bauerstein. It seemed to me the man would never go. He rose at last, however, and I breathed a sigh of relief.

‘I’ll walk down to the village with you,’ said Mr Inglethorp. ‘I must see our agent over those estate accounts.’ He turned to John. ‘No one need sit up. I will take the latchkey.’

CHAPTER 3 (#ulink_9416dcbf-3b22-5e46-894c-875bf36732ac)

The Night of the Tragedy (#ulink_9416dcbf-3b22-5e46-894c-875bf36732ac)

To make this part of my story clear, I append the following plan of the first floor of Styles. The servants’ rooms are reached through the door B. They have no communication with the right wing, where the Inglethorps’ rooms were situated.

It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by Lawrence Cavendish. He had a candle in his hand, and the agitation of his face told me at once that something was seriously wrong.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to collect my scattered thoughts.

‘We are afraid my mother is very ill. She seems to be having some kind of fit. Unfortunately she has locked herself in.’

‘I’ll come at once.’

I sprang out of bed, and pulling on a dressing-gown, followed Lawrence along the passage and the gallery to the right wing of the house.

John Cavendish joined us, and one or two of the servants were standing round in a state of awe-stricken excitement. Lawrence turned to his brother.

‘What do you think we had better do?’

Never, I thought, had his indecision of character been more apparent.

John rattled the handle of Mrs Inglethorp’s door violently, but with no effect. It was obviously locked or bolted on the inside. The whole household was aroused by now. The most alarming sounds were audible from the interior of the room. Clearly something must be done.

‘Try going through Mr Inglethorp’s room, sir,’ cried Dorcas. ‘Oh, the poor mistress!’

Suddenly I realized that Alfred Inglethorp was not with us—that he alone had given no sign of his presence. John opened the door of his room. It was pitch dark, but Lawrence was following with the candle, and by its feeble light we saw that the bed had not been slept in, and that there was no sign of the room having been occupied.

We went straight to the connecting door. That, too, was locked or bolted on the inside. What was to be done?

‘Oh, dear, sir,’ cried Dorcas, wringing her hands, ‘whatever shall we do?’

‘We must try and break the door in, I suppose. It’ll be a tough job, though. Here, let one of the maids go down and wake Baily and tell him to go for Dr Wilkins at once. Now then, we’ll have a try at the door. Half a moment, though, isn’t there a door into Miss Cynthia’s room?’