Reading Help The Mysterious Affair at Styles Ch.VII-XIII

Poirot bundled everything out on the floor with scant ceremony.
There were one or two green fabrics of varying shades; but Poirot
shook his head over them all. He seemed somewhat apathetic in
the search, as though he expected no great results from it.
Suddenly he gave an exclamation.

"What is it?"

"Look!"

The chest was nearly empty, and there, reposing right at the
bottom, was a magnificent black beard.

"Oho!" said Poirot. "Oho!" He turned it over in his hands,
examining it closely. "New," he remarked. "Yes, quite new."

After a moment's hesitation, he replaced it in the chest, heaped
all the other things on top of it as before, and made his way
briskly downstairs. He went straight to the pantry, where we
found Dorcas busily polishing her silver.

Poirot wished her good morning with Gallic politeness, and went
on:

"We have been looking through that chest, Dorcas. I am much
obliged to you for mentioning it. There is, indeed, a fine
collection there. Are they often used, may I ask?"

"Well, sir, not very often nowadays, though from time to time we
do have what the young gentlemen call 'a dress-up night.' And
very funny it is sometimes, sir. Mr. Lawrence, he's wonderful.
Most comic! I shall never forget the night he came down as the
Char of Persia, I think he called it--a sort of Eastern King it
was. He had the big paper knife in his hand, and 'Mind, Dorcas,'
he says, 'you'll have to be very respectful. This is my
specially sharpened scimitar, and it's off with your head if I'm
at all displeased with you!' Miss Cynthia, she was what they call
an Apache, or some such name--a Frenchified sort of cut-throat, I
take it to be. A real sight she looked. You'd never have
believed a pretty young lady like that could have made herself
into such a ruffian. Nobody would have known her."

"These evenings must have been great fun," said Poirot genially.
"I suppose Mr. Lawrence wore that fine black beard in the chest
upstairs, when he was Shah of Persia?"

"He did have a beard, sir," replied Dorcas, smiling. "And well I
know it, for he borrowed two skeins of my black wool to make it
with! And I'm sure it looked wonderfully natural at a distance.
I didn't know as there was a beard up there at all. It must have
been got quite lately, I think. There was a red wig, I know, but
nothing else in the way of hair. Burnt corks they use
mostly--though 'tis messy getting it off again. Miss Cynthia was
a nigger once, and, oh, the trouble she had."

"So Dorcas knows nothing about that black beard," said Poirot
thoughtfully, as we walked out into the hall again.

"Do you think it is _the_ one?" I whispered eagerly.

Poirot nodded.

"I do. You notice it had been trimmed?"

"No."

"Yes. It was cut exactly the shape of Mr. Inglethorp's, and I
found one or two snipped hairs. Hastings, this affair is very
deep."

"Who put it in the chest, I wonder?"

"Some one with a good deal of intelligence," remarked Poirot
dryly. "You realize that he chose the one place in the house to
hide it where its presence would not be remarked? Yes, he is
intelligent. But we must be more intelligent. We must be so
intelligent that he does not suspect us of being intelligent at
all."

I acquiesced.

"There, mon ami, you will be of great assistance to me."

I was pleased with the compliment. There had been times when I
hardly thought that Poirot appreciated me at my true worth.

"Yes," he continued, staring at me thoughtfully, "you will be
invaluable."

This was naturally gratifying, but Poirot's next words were not
so welcome.

"I must have an ally in the house," he observed reflectively.

"You have me," I protested.

"True, but you are not sufficient."

I was hurt, and showed it. Poirot hurried to explain himself.

"You do not quite take my meaning. You are known to be working
with me. I want somebody who is not associated with us in any
way."

"Oh, I see. How about John?"

"No, I think not."

"The dear fellow isn't perhaps very bright," I said thoughtfully.

"Here comes Miss Howard," said Poirot suddenly. "She is the very
person. But I am in her black books, since I cleared Mr.
Inglethorp. Still, we can but try."

With a nod that was barely civil, Miss Howard assented to
Poirot's request for a few minutes' conversation.

We went into the little morning-room, and Poirot closed the door.

"Well, Monsieur Poirot," said Miss Howard impatiently, "what is
it? Out with it. I'm busy."

"Do you remember, mademoiselle, that I once asked you to help
me?"

"Yes, I do." The lady nodded. "And I told you I'd help you with
pleasure--to hang Alfred Inglethorp."

"Ah!" Poirot studied her seriously. "Miss Howard, I will ask you
one question. I beg of you to reply to it truthfully."

"Never tell lies," replied Miss Howard.

"It is this. Do you still believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was
poisoned by her husband?"

"What do you mean?" she asked sharply. "You needn't think your
pretty explanations influence me in the slightest. I'll admit
that it wasn't he who bought strychnine at the chemist's shop.
What of that? I dare say he soaked fly paper, as I told you at
the beginning."

"That is arsenic--not strychnine," said Poirot mildly.

"What does that matter? Arsenic would put poor Emily out of the
way just as well as strychnine. If I'm convinced he did it, it
doesn't matter a jot to me _how_ he did it."

"Exactly. _If_ you are convinced he did it," said Poirot quietly.
"I will put my question in another form. Did you ever in your
heart of hearts believe that Mrs. Inglethorp was poisoned by her
husband?"

"Good heavens!" cried Miss Howard. "Haven't I always told you
the man is a villain? Haven't I always told you he would murder
her in her bed? Haven't I always hated him like poison?"

"Exactly," said Poirot. "That bears out my little idea
entirely."

"What little idea?"

"Miss Howard, do you remember a conversation that took place on
the day of my friend's arrival here? He repeated it to me, and
there is a sentence of yours that has impressed me very much. Do
you remember affirming that if a crime had been committed, and
anyone you loved had been murdered, you felt certain that you
would know by instinct who the criminal was, even if you were
quite unable to prove it?"

"Yes, I remember saying that. I believe it too. I suppose you
think it nonsense?"

"Not at all."

"And yet you will pay no attention to my instinct against Alfred
Inglethorp."

"No," said Poirot curtly. "Because your instinct is not against
Mr. Inglethorp."

"What?"

"No. You wish to believe he committed the crime. You believe
him capable of committing it. But your instinct tells you he did
not commit it. It tells you more--shall I go on?"

She was staring at him, fascinated, and made a slight affirmative
movement of the hand.

"Shall I tell you why you have been so vehement against Mr.
Inglethorp? It is because you have been trying to believe what
you wish to believe. It is because you are trying to drown and
stifle your instinct, which tells you another name----"

"No, no, no!" cried Miss Howard wildly, flinging up her hands.
"Don't say it! Oh, don't say it! It isn't true! It can't be true.
I don't know what put such a wild--such a dreadful--idea into my
head!"