The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The intense interest aroused in the public by what was known at the time as “The Styles Case” has now somewhat subsided. Nevertheless, in view of the world-wide notoriety which attended it, I have been asked, both by my friend Poirot and the family themselves, to write an account of the whole story. This, we trust, will effectually silence the sensational rumours which still persist.I will therefore briefly set down the circumstances which led to my being connected with the affair.I had been invalided home from the Front; and, after spending some months in a rather depressing Convalescent Home, was given a month’s sick leave. Having no near relations or friends, I was trying to make up my mind what to do, when I ran across John Cavendish. I had seen very little of him for some years. Indeed, I had never known him particularly well. He was a good fifteen years my senior, for one thing, though he hardly looked his forty-five years. As a boy, though, I had often stayed at Styles, his

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.01It 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 d

“Where did you find this?” I asked Poirot, in lively curiosity.“In the waste-paper basket. You recognise the handwriting?”“Yes, it is Mrs. Inglethorp’s. But what does it mean?”Poirot shrugged his shoulders.“I cannot say—but it is suggestive.”A wild idea flashed across me. Was it possible that Mrs. Inglethorp’s mind was deranged? Had she some fantastic idea of demoniacal possession? And, if that were so, was it not also possible that she might have taken her own life?I was about to expound these theories to Poirot, when his own words distracted me.“Come,” he said, “now to examine the coffee-cups!”“My dear Poirot! What on earth is the good of that, now that we know about the cocoa?”“Oh, là là! That miserable cocoa!” cried Poirot flippantly.He laughed with apparent enjoyment, raising his arms to heaven in mock despair, in what I could not but consider the worst possible taste.“And, anyway,” I said, with increasing coldness, “as Mrs. Inglethorp took her coffee upstair

As we came out of the Stylites Arms, Poirot drew me aside by a gentle pressure of the arm. I understood his object. He was waiting for the Scotland Yard men.In a few moments, they emerged, and Poirot at once stepped forward, and accosted the shorter of the two.“I fear you do not remember me, Inspector Japp.”“Why, if it isn’t Mr. Poirot!” cried the Inspector. He turned to the other man. “You’ve heard me speak of Mr. Poirot? It was in 1904 he and I worked together—the Abercrombie forgery case—you remember, he was run down in Brussels. Ah, those were great days, moosier. Then, do you remember ‘Baron’ Altara? There was a pretty rogue for you! He eluded the clutches of half the police in Europe. But we nailed him in Antwerp—thanks to Mr. Poirot here.”As these friendly reminiscences were being indulged in, I drew nearer, and was introduced to Detective-Inspector Japp, who, in his turn, introduced us both to his companion, Superintendent Summerhaye.“I need hardly ask what you are do

I had had no opportunity as yet of passing on Poirot’s message to Lawrence. But now, as I strolled out on the lawn, still nursing a grudge against my friend’s high-handedness, I saw Lawrence on the croquet lawn, aimlessly knocking a couple of very ancient balls about, with a still more ancient mallet.It struck me that it would be a good opportunity to deliver my message. Otherwise, Poirot himself might relieve me of it. It was true that I did not quite gather its purport, but I flattered myself that by Lawrence’s reply, and perhaps a little skillful cross-examination on my part, I should soon perceive its significance. Accordingly I accosted him.“I’ve been looking for you,” I remarked untruthfully.“Have you?”“Yes. The truth is, I’ve got a message for you—from Poirot.”“Yes?”“He told me to wait until I was alone with you,” I said, dropping my voice significantly, and watching him intently out of the corner of my eye. I have always been rather good at what is called, I believe