THE MYSTERIOUS AFFAIR AT STYLES 
AGATHA CHRISTIE

CONTENTS

I.     I GO TO STYLES
II.    THE 16TH AND 17TH OF JULY
III.   THE NIGHT OF THE TRAGEDY
IV.    POIROT INVESTIGATES
V.     "IT ISN'T STRYCHNINE, IS IT?"
VI.    THE INQUEST
VII.   POIROT PAYS HIS DEBTS
VIII.  FRESH SUSPICIONS
IX.    DR. BAUERSTEIN
X.     THE ARREST
XI.    THE CASE FOR THE PROSECUTION
XII.   THE LAST LINK
XIII.  POIROT EXPLAINS

CHAPTER I.  I GO TO STYLES

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 practiced 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----?"

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 protegee 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.