The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online

confess that I see nothing particularly curious about it.”
    “You do not? Observe the lamp - the chimney is broken in two places; they lie there as
     they fell. But see, the coffee cup is absolutely smashed to powder.”
    “Well,” I said wearily, “I suppose someone must have stepped on it.”
    “Exactly,” said Poirot, in an odd voice. “Someone stepped on it.”
    He rose from his knees, and walked slowly across to the mantelpiece, where he stood
     abstractedly fingering the ornaments, and straightening them - a trick of his when he was
     agitated.
    “Mon ami,” he said, turning to me, “somebody stepped on that cup, grinding it to powder,
     and the reason they did so was either because it contained strychnine or - which is far
     more serious - because it did not contain strychnine!”
    I made no reply. I was bewildered, but I knew that it was no good asking him to explain.
     In a moment or two he roused himself, and went on with his investigations. He picked up
     the bunch of keys from the floor, and twirling them round in his fingers finally selected
     one, very bright and shining, which he tried in the lock of the purple despatch-case. It
     fitted, and he opened the box, but after a moment's hesitation, closed and relocked it,
     and slipped the bunch of keys, as well as the key that had originally stood in the lock,
     into his own pocket.
    “I have no authority to go through these papers. But it should be done - at once!”
    He then made a very careful examination of the drawers of the washstand. Crossing the room
     to the left-hand window, a round stain, hardly visible on the dark-brown carpet, seemed to
     interest him particularly. He went down on his knees, examining it minutely - even going
     so far as to smell it.
    Finally, he poured a few drops of the coco into a test tube, sealing it up carefully. His
     next proceeding was to take out a little notebook.
    “We have found in this room,” he said, writing busily, “six points of interest. Shall I
     enumerate them, or will you?”
    “Oh, you,” I replied hastily.
    “Very well, then. One, a coffee cup that has been ground into powder; two, a despatch-case
     with a key in the lock; three, a stain on the floor.”
    “That may have been done some time ago,” I interrupted.
    “No, for it is still perceptibly damp and smells of coffee. Four, a fragment of some
     dark-green fabric - only a thread or two, but recognizable.”
    “Ah!” I cried. “That was what you sealed up in the envelope.”
    “Yes. It may turn out to be a piece of one of Mrs. Inglethorp's own dresses, and quite
     unimportant. We shall see. Five,
    
    
     this
    
    
     !” With a dramatic gesture, he pointed to a large splash of candle grease on the floor by
     the writing table. “It must have been done since yesterday, otherwise a good housemaid
     would have at once removed it with blotting paper and a hot iron. One of my best hats once
     - but that is not to the point.”
    “It was very likely done last night. We were very agitated. Or perhaps Mrs. Inglethorp
     herself dropped her candle.”
    “You brought only one candle into the room?”
    “Yes. Lawrence Cavendish was carrying it. But he was very upset. He seemed to see
     something over here” - I indicated the mantelpiece - “that absolutely paralysed him.”
    “That is interesting,” said Poirot quickly. “Yes, it is suggestive” - his eye sweeping the
     whole length of the wall - “but it was not his candle that made this great patch, for you
     perceive that this is white grease; whereas Monsieur Lawrence's candle, which is still on
     the dressing table, is pink. On the other hand, Mrs. Inglethorp had no candlestick in the
     room, only a reading-lamp.”
    “Then,” I said, “what do you deduce?”
    To which my friend only made a rather irritating reply, urging me to use my own natural
     faculties.
    “And the sixth point?” I asked. “I suppose it is the sample of