will some day, if you ask me,” she promised him, smiling.
“That is well. If you should need a father confessor, madame” —she started ever so slightly—“remember, Papa Poirot is always at your service.”
She stared at him for a few minutes, as though seeking to read some deeper meaning into his words. Then she turned abruptly away.
“Come, will you not walk back with us too, Monsieur Poirot?”
“Enchanted, madame.”
All the way to Styles, Mary talked fast and feverishly. It struck me that in some way she was nervous of Poirot’s eyes.
The weather had broken, and the sharp wind was almost autumnal in its shrewishness. Mary shivered a little, and buttoned her black sports coat closer. The wind through the trees made a mournful noise, like some great giant sighing.
We walked up to the great door of Styles, and at once the knowledge came to us that something was wrong.
Dorcas came running out to meet us. She was crying and wringing her hands. I was aware of other servants huddled together in the background, all eyes and ears.
“Oh, m’am! Oh, m’am! I don’t know how to tell you—”
“What is it, Dorcas?” I asked impatiently. “Tell us at once.”
“It’s those wicked detectives. They’ve arrested him—they’ve arrested Mr. Cavendish!”
“Arrested Lawrence?” I gasped.
I saw a strange look come into Dorcas’s eyes.
“No, sir. Not Mr. Lawrence—Mr. John.”
Behind me, with a wild cry, Mary Cavendish fell heavily against me, and as I turned to catch her I met the quiet triumph in Poirot’s eyes.
Chapter 11
THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION
The trial of John Cavendish for the murder of his stepmother took place two months later.
Of the intervening weeks I will say little, but my admiration and sympathy went out unfeignedly to Mary Cavendish. She ranged herself passionately on her husband’s side, scorning the mere idea of his guilt, and fought for him tooth and nail.
I expressed my admiration to Poirot, and he nodded thoughtfully.
“Yes, she is of those women who show at their best in adversity. It brings out all that is sweetest and truest in them. Her pride and her jealousy have—”
“Jealousy?” I queried.
“Yes. Have you not realized that she is an unusually jealous woman? As I was saying, her pride and jealousy have been laid aside. She thinks of nothing but her husband, and the terrible fate that is hanging over him.”
He spoke very feelingly, and I looked at him earnestly, remembering that last afternoon, when he had been deliberating whether or not to speak. With his tenderness for “a woman’s happiness,” I felt glad that the decision had been taken out of his hands.
“Even now,” I said, “I can hardly believe it. You see, up to the very last minute, I thought it was Lawrence!”
Poirot grinned.
“I know you did.”
“But John! My old friend John!”
“Every murderer is probably somebody’s old friend,” observed Poirot philosophically. “You cannot mix up sentiment and reason.”
“I must say I think you might have given me a hint.”
“Perhaps, mon ami, I did not do so, just because he was your old friend.”
I was rather disconcerted by this, remembering how I had busily passed on to John what I believed to be Poirot’s views concerning Bauerstein. He, by the way, had been acquitted of the charge brought against him. Nevertheless, although he had been too clever for them this time, and the charge of espionage could not be brought home to him, his wings were pretty well clipped for the future.
I asked Poirot whether he thought John would be condemned. To my intense surprise, he replied that, on the contrary, he was extremely likely to be acquitted.
“But, Poirot—” I protested.
“Oh, my friend, have I not said to you all along that I have no proofs. It is one thing to know that a man is guilty, it is quite another matter to prove him so. And, in this case, there is terribly little evidence. That is the whole trouble. I, Hercule Poirot, know, but I lack the last link in my chain. And unless I can find that missing link—” He shook his head gravely.
“When did you first suspect John Cavendish?” I asked, after a minute or two.
“Did you not suspect him at all?”
“No, indeed.”
“Not after that fragment of conversation you overheard between Mrs. Cavendish and her mother-in-law, and her subsequent lack of frankness at the inquest?”
“No.”
“Did you not put two and two together, and reflect that if it was not Alfred Inglethorp who was quarrelling with his wife—and you remember, he strenuously denied it at the inquest—it must be either Lawrence or John. Now, if it was Lawrence, Mary Cavendish’s conduct was just as inexplicable. But if, on the other hand, it was John, the whole thing was explained quite naturally.”
“So,” I cried, a light breaking in upon me, “it was John who quarrelled with his mother that afternoon?”
“Exactly.”
“And you have known this all along?”
“Certainly. Mrs. Cavendish’s behaviour could only be explained that way.”
“And yet you say he may be acquitted?”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Certainly I do. At the police court proceedings, we shall hear the case for the prosecution, but in all probability his solicitors will advise him to reserve his defence. That will be sprung upon us at the trial. And—ah, by the way, I have a word of caution to give you, my friend. I must not appear in the case.”
“What?”
“No. Officially, I have nothing to do with it. Until I have found that last link in my chain, I must remain behind the scenes. Mrs. Cavendish must think I am working for her husband, not against him.”
“I say, that’s playing it a bit low down,” I protested.
“Not at all. We have to deal with a most clever and unscrupulous man, and we must use any means in our power—otherwise he will slip through our fingers. That is why I have been careful to remain in the background. All the discoveries have been made by Japp, and Japp will take all the credit. If I am called upon to give evidence at all”—he smiled broadly—“it will probably be as a witness for the defence.”
I could hardly believe my ears.
“It is quite en regle,” continued Poirot. “Strangely enough, I can give evidence that will demolish one contention of the prosecution.”
“Which one?”
“The one that relates to the destruction of the will. John Cavendish did not destroy that will.”
Poirot was a true prophet. I will not go into the details of the police court proceedings, as it involves many tiresome repetitions. I will merely state baldly that John Cavendish reserved his defence, and was duly committed for trial.
September found us all in London. Mary took a house in Kensington,