The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie
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The intense interest aroused in the public by what was known at the time as âThe Styles Caseâ 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 monthâs 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 motherâs place in Essex.
We had a good yarn about old times, and it ended in his inviting me down to Styles to spend my leave there.
âThe mater will be delighted to see you againâafter all those years,â he added.
âYour mother keeps well?â I asked.
âOh, yes. I suppose you know that she has married again?â
I am afraid I showed my surprise rather plainly. Mrs. Cavendish, who had married Johnâs father when he was a widower with two sons, had been a handsome woman of middle-age as I remembered her. She certainly could not be a day less than seventy now. I recalled her as an energetic, autocratic personality, somewhat inclined to charitable and social notoriety, with a fondness for opening bazaars and playing the Lady Bountiful. She was a most generous woman, and possessed a considerable fortune of her own.
Their country-place, Styles Court, had been purchased by Mr. Cavendish early in their married life. He had been completely under his wifeâs ascendancy, so much so that, on dying, he left the place to her for her lifetime, as well as the larger part of his income; an arrangement that was distinctly unfair to his two sons. Their step-mother, however, had always been most generous to them; indeed, they were so young at the time of their fatherâs remarriage that they always thought of her as their own mother.
Lawrence, the younger, had been a delicate youth. He had qualified as a doctor but early relinquished the profession of medicine, and lived at home while pursuing literary ambitions; though his verses never had any marked success.
John practised for some time as a barrister, but had finally settled down to the more congenial life of a country squire. He had married two years ago, and had taken his wife to live at Styles, though I entertained a shrewd suspicion that he would have preferred his mother to increase his allowance, which would have enabled him to have a home of his own. Mrs. Cavendish, however, was a lady who liked to make her own plans, and expected other people to fall in with them, and in this case she certainly had the whip hand, namely: the purse strings.
John noticed my surprise at the news of his motherâs remarriage and smiled rather ruefully.
âRotten little bounder too!â he said savagely. âI can tell you, Hastings, itâs making life jolly difficult for us. As for Evieâyou remember Evie?â
âNo.â
âOh, I suppose she was after your time. Sheâs the materâs factotum, companion, Jack of all trades! A great sportâold Evie! Not precisely young and beautiful, but as game as they make them.â
âYou were going to sayââ?â
âOh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of being a second cousin or something of Evieâs, though she didnât seem particularly keen to acknowledge the relationship. The fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see that. Heâs got a great black beard, and wears patent leather boots in all weathers! But the mater cottoned to him at once, took him on as secretaryâyou know how sheâs always running a hundred societies?â
I nodded.
âWell, of course the war has turned the hundreds into thousands. No doubt the fellow was very useful to her. But you could have knocked us all down with a feather when, three months ago, she suddenly announced that she and Alfred were engaged! The fellow must be at least twenty years younger than she is! Itâs simply bare-faced fortune hunting; but there you areâshe is her own mistress, and sheâs married him.â
âIt must be a difficult situation for you all.â
âDifficult! Itâs damnable!â
Thus it came about that, three days later, I descended from the train at Styles St. Mary, an absurd little station, with no apparent reason for existence, perched up in the midst of green fields and country lanes. John Cavendish was waiting on the platform, and piloted me out to the car.
âGot a drop or two of petrol still, you see,â he remarked. âMainly owing to the materâs activities.â
The village of Styles St. Mary was situated about two miles from the little station, and Styles Court lay a mile the other side of it. It was a still, warm day in early July. As one looked out over the flat Essex country, lying so green and peaceful under the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible to believe that, not so very far away, a great war was running its appointed course. I felt I had suddenly strayed into another world. As we turned in at the lodge gates, John said:
âIâm afraid youâll find it very quiet down here, Hastings.â
âMy dear fellow, thatâs just what I want.â
âOh, itâs pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life. I drill with the volunteers twice a week, and lend a hand at the farms. My wife works regularly âon the landâ. She is up at five every morning to milk, and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime. Itâs a jolly good life taking it all roundâif it werenât for that fellow Alfred Inglethorp!â He checked the car suddenly, and glanced at his watch. âI wonder if weâve time to pick up Cynthia. No, sheâll have started from the hospital by now.â
âCynthia! Thatâs not your wife?â
âNo, Cynthia is a protĂ©gĂ©e of my motherâs, the daughter of an old schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor. He came a cropper, and the girl was left an orphan and penniless. My mother came to the rescue, and Cynthia has been with us nearly two years now. She works in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster, seven miles away.â
As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old house. A lady in a stout tweed skirt, who was bending over a flower bed, straightened herself at our approach.
âHullo, Evie, hereâs our wounded hero! Mr. HastingsâMiss Howard.â
Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful, grip. I had an impression of very blue eyes in a sunburnt face. She was a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, with a deep voice, almost manly in its stentorian tones, and had a large sensible square body, with feet to matchâthese last encased in good thick boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the telegraphic style.
âWeeds grow like house afire. Canât keep even with âem. Shall press you in. Better be careful.â
âIâm sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful,â I responded.
âDonât say it. Never does. Wish you hadnât later.â
âYouâre a cynic, Evie,â said John, laughing. âWhereâs tea to-dayâinside or out?â
âOut. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house.â
âCome on then, youâve done enough gardening for to-day. âThe labourer is worthy of his hireâ, you know. Come and be refreshed.â
âWell,â said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, âIâm inclined to agree with you.â
She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the shade of a large sycamore.
A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps to meet us.
âMy wife, Hastings,â said John.
I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall, slender form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense of slumbering fire that seemed to find expression only in those wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any other womanâs that I have ever known; the intense power of stillness she possessed, which nevertheless conveyed the impression of a wild untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilised bodyâall these things are burnt into my memory. I shall never forget them.
She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low clear voice, and I sank into a basket chair feeling distinctly glad that I had accepted Johnâs invitation. Mrs. Cavendish gave me some tea, and her few quiet remarks heightened my first impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman. An appreciative listener is always stimulating, and I described, in a humorous manner, certain incidents of my Convalescent Home, in a way which, I flatter myself, greatly amused my hostess. John, of course, good fellow though he is, could hardly be called a brilliant conversationalist.
At that moment a well remembered voice floated through the open French window near at hand:
âThen youâll write to the Princess after tea, Alfred? Iâll write to Lady Tadminster for the second day, myself. Or shall we wait until we hear from the Princess? In case of a refusal, Lady Tadminster might open it the first day, and Mrs. Crosbie the second. Then thereâs the Duchessâabout the school fĂȘte.â
There was the murmur of a manâs voice, and then Mrs. Inglethorpâs rose in reply:
âYes, certainly. After tea will do quite well. You are so thoughtful, Alfred dear.â
The French window swung open a little wider, and a handsome white-haired old lady, with a somewhat masterful cast of features, stepped out of it on to the lawn. A man followed her, a suggestion of deference in his manner.
Mrs. Inglethorp greeted me with effusion.
âWhy, if it isnât too delightful to see you again, Mr. Hastings, after all these years. Alfred, darling, Mr. Hastingsâmy husband.â
I looked with some curiosity at âAlfred darlingâ. He certainly struck a rather alien note. I did not wonder at John objecting to his beard. It was one of the longest and blackest I have ever seen. He wore gold-rimmed pince-nez, and had a curious impassivity of feature. It struck me that he might look natural on a stage, but was strangely out of place in real life. His voice was rather deep and unctuous. He placed a wooden hand in mine and said:
âThis is a pleasure, Mr. Hastings.â Then, turning to his wife: âEmily dearest, I think that cushion is a little damp.â
She beamed fondly on him, as he substituted another with every demonstration of the tenderest care. Strange infatuation of an otherwise sensible woman!
With the presence of Mr. Inglethorp, a sense of constraint and veiled hostility seemed to settle down upon the company. Miss Howard, in particular, took no pains to conceal her feelings. Mrs. Inglethorp, however, seemed to notice nothing unusual. Her volubility, which I remembered of old, had lost nothing in the intervening years, and she poured out a steady flood of conversation, mainly on the subject of the forthcoming bazaar which she was organizing and which was to take place shortly. Occasionally she referred to her husband over a question of days or dates. His watchful and attentive manner never varied. From the very first I took a firm and rooted dislike to him, and I flatter myself that my first judgments are usually fairly shrewd.
Presently Mrs. Inglethorp turned to give some instructions about letters to Evelyn Howard, and her husband addressed me in his painstaking voice:
âIs soldiering your regular profession, Mr. Hastings?â
âNo, before the war I was in Lloydâs.â
âAnd you will return there after it is over?â
âPerhaps. Either that or a fresh start altogether.â
Mary Cavendish leant forward.
âWhat would you really choose as a profession, if you could just consult your inclination?â
âWell, that depends.â
âNo secret hobby?â she asked. âTell meâyouâre drawn to something? Everyone isâusually something absurd.â
âYouâll laugh at me.â
She smiled.
âPerhaps.â
âWell, Iâve always had a secret hankering to be a detective!â
âThe real thingâScotland Yard? Or Sherlock Holmes?â
âOh, Sherlock Holmes by all means. But really, seriously, I am awfully drawn to it. I came across a man in Belgium once, a very famous detective, and he quite inflamed me. He was a marvellous little fellow. He used to say that all good detective work was a mere matter of method. My system is based on hisâthough of course I have progressed rather further. He was a funny little man, a great dandy, but wonderfully clever.â
âLike a good detective story myself,â remarked Miss Howard. âLots of nonsense written, though. Criminal discovered in last chapter. Everyone dumbfounded. Real crimeâyouâd know at once.â
âThere have been a great number of undiscovered crimes,â I argued.
âDonât mean the police, but the people that are right in it. The family. You couldnât really hoodwink them. Theyâd know.â
âThen,â I said, much amused, âyou think that if you were mixed up in a crime, say a murder, youâd be able to spot the murderer right off?â
âOf course I should. Mightnât be able to prove it to a pack of lawyers. But Iâm certain Iâd know. Iâd feel it in my fingertips if he came near me.â
âIt might be a âsheâ,â I suggested.
âMight. But murderâs a violent crime. Associate it more with a man.â
âNot in a case of poisoning.â Mrs. Cavendishâs clear voice startled me. âDr. Bauerstein was saying yesterday that, owing to the general ignorance of the more uncommon poisons among the medical profession, there were probably countless cases of poisoning quite unsuspected.â
âWhy, Mary, what a gruesome conversation!â cried Mrs. Inglethorp. âIt makes me feel as if a goose were walking over my grave. Oh, thereâs Cynthia!â
A young girl in V.A.D. uniform ran lightly across the lawn.
âWhy, Cynthia, you are late to-day. This is Mr. HastingsâMiss Murdoch.â
Cynthia Murdoch was a fresh-looking young creature, full of life and vigour. She tossed off her little V.A.D. cap, and I admired the great loose waves of her auburn hair, and the smallness and whiteness of the hand she held out to claim her tea. With dark eyes and eyelashes she would have been a beauty.
She flung herself down on the ground beside John, and as I handed her a plate of sandwiches she smiled up at me.
âSit down here on the grass, do. Itâs ever so much nicer.â
I dropped down obediently.
âYou work at Tadminster, donât you, Miss Murdoch?â
She nodded.
âFor my sins.â
âDo they bully you, then?â I asked, smiling.
âI should like to see them!â cried Cynthia with dignity.
âI have got a cousin who is nursing,â I remarked. âAnd she is terrified of âSistersâ.â
âI donât wonder. Sisters are, you know, Mr. Hastings. They simp-ly are! Youâve no idea! But Iâm not a nurse, thank heaven, I work in the dispensary.â
âHow many people do you poison?â I asked, smiling.
Cynthia smiled too.
âOh, hundreds!â she said.
âCynthia,â called Mrs. Inglethorp, âdo you think you could write a few notes for me?â
âCertainly, Aunt Emily.â
She jumped up promptly, and something in her manner reminded me that her position was a dependent one, and that Mrs. Inglethorp, kind as she might be in the main, did not allow her to forget it.
My hostess turned to me.
âJohn will show you your room. Supper is at half-past seven. We have given up late dinner for some time now. Lady Tadminster, our Memberâs wifeâshe was the late Lord Abbotsburyâs daughterâdoes the same. She agrees with me that one must set an example of economy. We are quite a war household; nothing is wasted hereâevery scrap of waste paper, even, is saved and sent away in sacks.â
I expressed my appreciation, and John took me into the house and up the broad staircase, which forked right and left half-way to different wings of the building. My room was in the left wing, and looked out over the park.
John left me, and a few minutes later I saw him from my window walking slowly across the grass arm in arm with Cynthia Murdoch. I heard Mrs. Inglethorp call âCynthiaâ impatiently, and the girl started and ran back to the house. At the same moment, a man stepped out from the shadow of a tree and walked slowly in the same direction. He looked about forty, very dark with a melancholy clean-shaven face. Some violent emotion seemed to be mastering him. He looked up at my window as he passed, and I recognized him, though he had changed much in the fifteen years that had elapsed since we last met. It was Johnâs younger brother, Lawrence Cavendish. I wondered what it was that had brought that singular expression to his face.
Then I dismissed him from my mind, and returned to the contemplation of my own affairs.
The evening passed pleasantly enough; and I dreamed that night of that enigmatical woman, Mary Cavendish.
The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and I was full of the anticipation of a delightful visit.
I did not see Mrs. Cavendish until lunch-time, when she volunteered to take me for a walk, and we spent a charming afternoon roaming in the woods, returning to the house about five.
As we entered the large hall, John beckoned us both into the smoking-room. I saw at once by his face that something disturbing had occurred. We followed him in, and he shut the door after us.
âLook here, Mary, thereâs the deuce of a mess. Evieâs had a row with Alfred Inglethorp, and sheâs off.â
âEvie? Off?â
John nodded gloomily.
âYes; you see she went to the mater, andâOh,âhereâs Evie herself.â
Miss Howard entered. Her lips were set grimly together, and she carried a small suit-case. She looked excited and determined, and slightly on the defensive.
âAt any rate,â she burst out, âIâve spoken my mind!â
âMy dear Evelyn,â cried Mrs. Cavendish, âthis canât be true!â
Miss Howard nodded grimly.
âTrue enough! Afraid I said some things to Emily she wonât forget or forgive in a hurry. Donât mind if theyâve only sunk in a bit. Probably water off a duckâs back, though. I said right out: âYouâre an old woman, Emily, and thereâs no fool like an old fool. The manâs twenty years younger than you, and donât you fool yourself as to what he married you for. Money! Well, donât let him have too much of it. Farmer Raikes has got a very pretty young wife. Just ask your Alfred how much time he spends over there.â She was very angry. Natural! I went on, âIâm going to warn you, whether you like it or not. That man would as soon murder you in your bed as look at you. Heâs a bad lot. You can say what you like to me, but remember what Iâve told you. Heâs a bad lot!ââ
âWhat did she say?â
Miss Howard made an extremely expressive grimace.
ââDarling Alfredâââdearest Alfredâââwicked calumniesâ ââwicked liesâââwicked womanââto accuse her âdear husband!â The sooner I left her house the better. So Iâm off.â
âBut not now?â
âThis minute!â
For a moment we sat and stared at her. Finally John Cavendish, finding his persuasions of no avail, went off to look up the trains. His wife followed him, murmuring something about persuading Mrs. Inglethorp to think better of it.
As she left the room, Miss Howardâs face changed. She leant towards me eagerly.
âMr. Hastings, youâre honest. I can trust you?â
I was a little startled. She laid her hand on my arm, and sank her voice to a whisper.
âLook after her, Mr. Hastings. My poor Emily. Theyâre a lot of sharksâall of them. Oh, I know what Iâm talking about. There isnât one of them thatâs not hard up and trying to get money out of her. Iâve protected her as much as I could. Now Iâm out of the way, theyâll impose upon her.â
âOf course, Miss Howard,â I said, âIâll do everything I can, but Iâm sure youâre excited and overwrought.â
She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger.
âYoung man, trust me. Iâve lived in the world rather longer than you have. All I ask you is to keep your eyes open. Youâll see what I mean.â
The throb of the motor came through the open window, and Miss Howard rose and moved to the door. Johnâs voice sounded outside. With her hand on the handle, she turned her head over her shoulder, and beckoned to me.
âAbove all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devilâher husband!â
There was no time for more. Miss Howard was swallowed up in an eager chorus of protests and good-byes. The Inglethorps did not appear.
As the motor drove away, Mrs. Cavendish suddenly detached herself from the group, and moved across the drive to the lawn to meet a tall bearded man who had been evidently making for the house. The colour rose in her cheeks as she held out her hand to him.
âWho is that?â I asked sharply, for instinctively I distrusted the man.
âThatâs Dr. Bauerstein,â said John shortly.
âAnd who is Dr. Bauerstein?â
âHeâs staying in the village doing a rest cure, after a bad nervous breakdown. Heâs a London specialist; a very clever manâone of the greatest living experts on poisons, I believe.â
âAnd heâs a great friend of Maryâs,â put in Cynthia, the irrepressible.
John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject.
âCome for a stroll, Hastings. This has been a most rotten business. She always had a rough tongue, but there is no stauncher friend in England than Evelyn Howard.â
He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to the village through the woods which bordered one side of the estate.
As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again, a pretty young woman of gipsy type coming in the opposite direction bowed and smiled.
âThatâs a pretty girl,â I remarked appreciatively.
Johnâs face hardened.
âThat is Mrs. Raikes.â
âThe one that Miss Howardâââ
âExactly,â said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness.
I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house, and that vivid wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside.
âStyles is really a glorious old place,â I said to John.
He nodded rather gloomily.
âYes, itâs a fine property. Itâll be mine some dayâshould be mine now by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I shouldnât be so damned hard up as I am now.â
âHard up, are you?â
âMy dear Hastings, I donât mind telling you that Iâm at my witsâ end for money.â
âCouldnât your brother help you?â
âLawrence? Heâs gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, weâre an impecunious lot. My motherâs always been awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up to now. Since her marriage, of courseâââ he broke off, frowning.
For the first time I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, something indefinable had gone from the atmosphere. Her presence had spelt security. Now that security was removedâand the air seemed rife with suspicion. The sinister face of Dr. Bauerstein recurred to me unpleasantly. A vague suspicion of everyone and everything filled my mind. Just for a moment I had a premonition of approaching evil.
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Is it ok if I read ahead đ
Too good to stop now đ
I READ THE WHOLE THING!!! I couldn’t help myself. But I do not feel bad because I assume most of you have already read it 2 or 3 times. But, coming back to this first chapter to figure out what drew me in, it was that lovable doofus, Hastings.
I wish I could read it all in one sitting but I am reading several books at once so sticking to weekly chapters is best for me right now. While I have never read the book I have watched the David Suchet episode several times.
I promise to not give any spoilers.