The Greatest Murder Mysteries - Agatha Christie Edition. Agatha Christie
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Howard shortly. “It shows clearly enough that my poor old friend had just found out she’d been made a fool of!”
“It says nothing of the kind in the letter,” the Coroner pointed out.
“No, because Emily never could bear to put herself in the wrong. But I know her. She wanted me back. But she wasn’t going to own that I’d been right. She went round about. Most people do. Don’t believe in it myself.”
Mr. Wells smiled faintly. So, I noticed, did several of the jury. Miss Howard was obviously quite a public character.
“Anyway, all this tomfoolery is a great waste of time,” continued the lady, glancing up and down the jury disparagingly. “Talk—talk—talk! When all the time we know perfectly well——”
The Coroner interrupted her in an agony of apprehension:
“Thank you, Miss Howard, that is all.”
I fancy he breathed a sigh of relief when she complied.
Then came the sensation of the day. The Coroner called Albert Mace, chemist’s assistant.
It was our agitated young man of the pale face. In answer to the Coroner’s questions, he explained that he was a qualified pharmacist, but had only recently come to this particular shop, as the assistant formerly there had just been called up for the army.
These preliminaries completed, the Coroner proceeded to business.
“Mr. Mace, have you lately sold strychnine to any unauthorized person?”
“Yes, sir.”
“When was this?”
“Last Monday night.”
“Monday? Not Tuesday?”
“No, sir, Monday, the 16th.”
“Will you tell us to whom you sold it?”
You could have heard a pin drop.
“Yes, sir. It was to Mr. Inglethorp.”
Every eye turned simultaneously to where Alfred Inglethorp was sitting, impassive and wooden. He started slightly, as the damning words fell from the young man’s lips. I half thought he was going to rise from his chair, but he remained seated, although a remarkably well acted expression of astonishment rose on his face.
“You are sure of what you say?” asked the Coroner sternly.
“Quite sure, sir.”
“Are you in the habit of selling strychnine indiscriminately over the counter?”
The wretched young man wilted visibly under the Coroner’s frown.
“Oh, no, sir—of course not. But, seeing it was Mr. Inglethorp of the Hall, I thought there was no harm in it. He said it was to poison a dog.”
Inwardly I sympathized. It was only human nature to endeavour to please “The Hall”—especially when it might result in custom being transferred from Coot’s to the local establishment.
“Is it not customary for anyone purchasing poison to sign a book?”
“Yes, sir, Mr. Inglethorp did so.”
“Have you got the book here?”
“Yes, sir.”
It was produced; and, with a few words of stern censure, the Coroner dismissed the wretched Mr. Mace.
Then, amidst a breathless silence, Alfred Inglethorp was called. Did he realize, I wondered, how closely the halter was being drawn around his neck?
The Coroner went straight to the point.
“On Monday evening last, did you purchase strychnine for the purpose of poisoning a dog?”
Inglethorp replied with perfect calmness:
“No, I did not. There is no dog at Styles, except an outdoor sheepdog, which is in perfect health.”
“You deny absolutely having purchased strychnine from Albert Mace on Monday last?”
“I do.”
“Do you also deny this?”
The Coroner handed him the register in which his signature was inscribed.
“Certainly I do. The hand-writing is quite different from mine. I will show you.”
He took an old envelope out of his pocket, and wrote his name on it, handing it to the jury. It was certainly utterly dissimilar.
“Then what is your explanation of Mr. Mace’s statement?”
Alfred Inglethorp replied imperturbably:
“Mr. Mace must have been mistaken.”
The Coroner hesitated for a moment, and then said:
“Mr. Inglethorp, as a mere matter of form, would you mind telling us where you were on the evening of Monday, July 16th?”
“Really—I can’t remember.”
“That is absurd, Mr. Inglethorp,” said the Coroner sharply. “Think again.”
Inglethorp shook his head.
“I cannot tell you. I have an idea that I was out walking.”
“In what direction?”
“I really can’t remember.”
The Coroner’s face grew graver.
“Were you in company with anyone?”
“No.”
“Did you meet anyone on your walk?”
“No.”
“That is a pity,” said the Coroner dryly. “I am to take it then that you decline to say where you were at the time that Mr. Mace positively recognized you as entering the shop to purchase strychnine?”
“If you like to take it that way, yes.”
“Be careful, Mr. Inglethorp.”
Poirot was fidgeting nervously.
“Sacre!” he murmured. “Does this imbecile of a man want to be arrested?”
Inglethorp was indeed creating a bad impression. His futile denials would not have convinced a child. The Coroner, however, passed briskly to the next point, and Poirot drew a deep breath of relief.
“You had a discussion with your wife on Tuesday afternoon?”
“Pardon me,” interrupted Alfred Inglethorp, “you have been misinformed. I had no quarrel with my dear wife. The whole story is absolutely untrue. I was absent from the house the entire afternoon.”
“Have you anyone who can testify to that?”
“You have my word,” said Inglethorp haughtily.
The Coroner did not trouble to reply.
“There are two witnesses who will swear to having heard your disagreement with Mrs. Inglethorp.”
“Those witnesses were mistaken.”
I was puzzled. The man spoke with such quiet assurance that I was staggered. I looked at Poirot. There was an expression of exultation on his face which I could not understand. Was he at last convinced of Alfred Inglethorp’s guilt?
“Mr. Inglethorp,” said the Coroner, “you have heard your wife’s dying words repeated here. Can you explain them in any way?”
“Certainly I can.”
“You can?”
“It seems to me very simple. The room was dimly lighted. Dr. Bauerstein is much of my height and build, and, like me, wears a beard. In the dim light, and suffering as she was, my poor wife mistook him for me.”