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 mother’s 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.

　　“The mater will be delighted to see you again—after all those years,”

　　he added.

　　“Your mother keeps well?” I asked.

　　“Oh, yes. I suppose you know that she has married again?”

　　I am afraid I showed my surprise rather plainly. Mrs. Cavendish, who

　　had married John’s 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 wife’s

　　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 father’s 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 mother’s remarriage and

　　smiled rather ruefully.

　　“Rotten little bounder too!” he said savagely. “I can tell you,

　　Hastings, it’s making life jolly difficult for us. As for Evie—you

　　remember Evie?”

　　“No.”

　　“Oh, I suppose she was after your time. She’s the mater’s factotum,

　　companion, Jack of all trades! A great sport—old Evie! Not precisely

　　young and beautiful, but as game as they make them.”

　　“You were going to say——?”

　　“Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of being a

　　second cousin or something of Evie’s, though she didn’t seem

　　particularly keen to acknowledge the relationship. The fellow is an

　　absolute outsider, anyone can see that. He’s 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 secretary—you know how she’s always

　　running a hundred societies?”

　　I nodded.

　　“Well, 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! It’s simply bare-faced fortune hunting; but

　　there you are—she is her own mistress, and she’s married him.”

　　“It must be a difficult situation for you all.”

　　“Difficult! It’s damnable!”

　　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.

　　“Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see,” he remarked. “Mainly

　　owing to the mater’s activities.”

　　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:

　　“I’m afraid you’ll find it very quiet down here, Hastings.”

　　“My dear fellow, that’s just what I want.”

　　“Oh, it’s 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 ‘on the land’. She is up at five every morning to milk,

　　and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime. It’s a jolly good life taking

　　it all round—if it weren’t for that fellow Alfred Inglethorp!” He

　　checked the car suddenly, and glanced at his watch. “I wonder if we’ve

　　time to pick up Cynthia. No, she’ll have started from the hospital by

　　now.”

　　“Cynthia! That’s not your wife?”

　　“No, Cynthia is a protégée of my mother’s, 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.”

　　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.

　　“Hullo, Evie, here’s our wounded hero! Mr. Hastings—Miss Howard.”

　　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 match—these last encased in good thick boots. Her conversation,

　　I soon found, was couched in the telegraphic style.

　　“Weeds grow like house afire. Can’t keep even with ’em. Shall press you

　　in. Better be careful.”

　　“I’m sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful,” I

　　responded.

　　“Don’t say it. Never does. Wish you hadn’t later.”

　　“You’re a cynic, Evie,” said John, laughing. “Where’s tea to-day—inside

　　or out?”

　　“Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house.”

　　“Come on then, you’ve done enough gardening for to-day. ‘The labourer

　　is worthy of his hire’, you know. Come and be refreshed.”

　　“Well,” said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, “I’m

　　inclined to agree with you.”

　　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.

　　“My wife, Hastings,” 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 woman’s

　　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 body—all 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 John’s 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:

　　“Then you’ll write to the Princess after tea, Alfred? I’ll 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 there’s the

　　Duchess—about the school fête.”

　　There was the murmur of a man’s voice, and then Mrs. Inglethorp’s rose

　　in reply:

　　“Yes, certainly. After tea will do quite well. You are so thoughtful,

　　Alfred dear.”

　　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.

　　“Why, if it isn’t too delightful to see you again, Mr. Hastings, after

　　all these years. Alfred, darling, Mr. Hastings—my husband.”

　　I looked with some curiosity at “Alfred darling”. 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:

　　“This is a pleasure, Mr. Hastings.” Then, turning to his wife: “Emily

　　dearest, I think that cushion is a little damp.”

　　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:

　　“Is soldiering your regular profession, Mr. Hastings?”

　　“No, before the war I was in Lloyd’s.”

　　“And you will return there after it is over?”

　　“Perhaps. Either that or a fresh start altogether.”

　　Mary Cavendish leant forward.

　　“What would you really choose as a profession, if you could just

　　consult your inclination?”

　　“Well, that depends.”

　　“No secret hobby?” she asked. “Tell me—you’re drawn to something?

　　Everyone is—usually something absurd.”

　　“You’ll laugh at me.”

　　She smiled.

　　“Perhaps.”

　　“Well, I’ve always had a secret hankering to be a detective!”

　　“The real thing—Scotland Yard? Or Sherlock Holmes?”

　　“Oh, 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 his—though of course I have progressed

　　rather further. He was a funny little man, a great dandy, but

　　wonderfully clever.”

　　“Like a good detective story myself,” remarked Miss Howard. “Lots of

　　nonsense written, though. Criminal discovered in last chapter. Everyone

　　dumbfounded. Real crime—you’d know at once.”

　　“There have been a great number of undiscovered crimes,” I argued.

　　“Don’t mean the police, but the people that are right in it. The

　　family. You couldn’t really hoodwink them. They’d know.”

　　“Then,” I said, much amused, “you think that if you were mixed up in a

　　crime, say a murder, you’d be able to spot the murderer right off?”

　　“Of course I should. Mightn’t be able to prove it to a pack of lawyers.

　　But I’m certain I’d know. I’d feel it in my fingertips if he came near

　　me.”

　　“It might be a ‘she’,” I suggested.

　　“Might. But murder’s a violent crime. Associate it more with a man.”

　　“Not in a case of poisoning.” Mrs. Cavendish’s clear voice startled me.

　　“Dr. 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.”

　　“Why, Mary, what a gruesome conversation!” cried Mrs. Inglethorp. “It

　　makes me feel as if a goose were walking over my grave. Oh, there’s

　　Cynthia!”

　　A young girl in V.A.D. uniform ran lightly across the lawn.

　　“Why, Cynthia, you are late to-day. This is Mr. Hastings—Miss Murdoch.”

　　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.

　　“Sit down here on the grass, do. It’s ever so much nicer.”

　　I dropped down obediently.

　　“You work at Tadminster, don’t you, Miss Murdoch?”

　　She nodded.

　　“For my sins.”

　　“Do they bully you, then?” I asked, smiling.

　　“I should like to see them!” cried Cynthia with dignity.

　　“I have got a cousin who is nursing,” I remarked. “And she is terrified

　　of ‘Sisters’.”

　　“I don’t wonder. Sisters _are_, you know, Mr. Hastings. They simp-ly

　　_are_! You’ve no idea! But I’m not a nurse, thank heaven, I work in the

　　dispensary.”

　　“How many people do you poison?” I asked, smiling.

　　Cynthia smiled too.

　　“Oh, hundreds!” she said.

　　“Cynthia,” called Mrs. Inglethorp, “do you think you could write a few

　　notes for me?”

　　“Certainly, Aunt Emily.”

　　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.

　　“John will show you your room. Supper is at half-past seven. We have

　　given up late dinner for some time now. Lady Tadminster, our Member’s

　　wife—she was the late Lord Abbotsbury’s daughter—does the same. She

　　agrees with me that one must set an example of economy. We are quite a

　　war household; nothing is wasted here—every scrap of waste paper, even,

　　is saved and sent away in sacks.”

　　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 “Cynthia” 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 John’s 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.

　　“Look here, Mary, there’s the deuce of a mess. Evie’s had a row with

　　Alfred Inglethorp, and she’s off.”

　　“Evie? Off?”

　　John nodded gloomily.

　　“Yes; you see she went to the mater, and—Oh,—here’s Evie herself.”

　　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.

　　“At any rate,” she burst out, “I’ve spoken my mind!”

　　“My dear Evelyn,” cried Mrs. Cavendish, “this can’t be true!”

　　Miss Howard nodded grimly.

　　“True enough! Afraid I said some things to Emily she won’t forget or

　　forgive in a hurry. Don’t mind if they’ve only sunk in a bit. Probably

　　water off a duck’s back, though. I said right out: ‘You’re an old

　　woman, Emily, and there’s no fool like an old fool. The man’s twenty

　　years younger than you, and don’t you fool yourself as to what he

　　married you for. Money! Well, don’t 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.’ She was very angry. Natural! I went on,

　　‘I’m going to warn you, whether you like it or not. That man would as

　　soon murder you in your bed as look at you. He’s a bad lot. You can say

　　what you like to me, but remember what I’ve told you. He’s a bad lot!’”

　　“What did she say?”

　　Miss Howard made an extremely expressive grimace.

　　“‘Darling Alfred’—‘dearest Alfred’—‘wicked calumnies’ —‘wicked

　　lies’—‘wicked woman’—to accuse her ‘dear husband!’ The sooner I left

　　her house the better. So I’m off.”

　　“But not now?”

　　“This minute!”

　　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 Howard’s face changed. She leant towards me

　　eagerly.

　　“Mr. Hastings, you’re honest. I can trust you?”

　　I was a little startled. She laid her hand on my arm, and sank her

　　voice to a whisper.

　　“Look after her, Mr. Hastings. My poor Emily. They’re a lot of

　　sharks—all of them. Oh, I know what I’m talking about. There isn’t one

　　of them that’s not hard up and trying to get money out of her. I’ve

　　protected her as much as I could. Now I’m out of the way, they’ll

　　impose upon her.”

　　“Of course, Miss Howard,” I said, “I’ll do everything I can, but I’m

　　sure you’re excited and overwrought.”

　　She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger.

　　“Young man, trust me. I’ve lived in the world rather longer than you

　　have. All I ask you is to keep your eyes open. You’ll see what I mean.”

　　The throb of the motor came through the open window, and Miss Howard

　　rose and moved to the door. John’s voice sounded outside. With her hand

　　on the handle, she turned her head over her shoulder, and beckoned to

　　me.

　　“Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil—her husband!”

　　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.

　　“Who is that?” I asked sharply, for instinctively I distrusted the man.

　　“That’s Dr. Bauerstein,” said John shortly.

　　“And who is Dr. Bauerstein?”

　　“He’s staying in the village doing a rest cure, after a bad nervous

　　breakdown. He’s a London specialist; a very clever man—one of the

　　greatest living experts on poisons, I believe.”

　　“And he’s a great friend of Mary’s,” put in Cynthia, the irrepressible.

　　John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject.

　　“Come 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.”

　　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.

　　“That’s a pretty girl,” I remarked appreciatively.

　　John’s face hardened.

　　“That is Mrs. Raikes.”

　　“The one that Miss Howard——”

　　“Exactly,” 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.

　　“Styles is really a glorious old place,” I said to John.

　　He nodded rather gloomily.

　　“Yes, it’s a fine property. It’ll be mine some day—should be mine now

　　by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then I

　　shouldn’t be so damned hard up as I am now.”

　　“Hard up, are you?”

　　“My dear Hastings, I don’t mind telling you that I’m at my wits’ end

　　for money.”

　　“Couldn’t your brother help you?”

　　“Lawrence? He’s gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten

　　verses in fancy bindings. No, we’re an impecunious lot. My mother’s

　　always been awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up to now. Since

　　her marriage, of course——” 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 removed—and 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.