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Kitchari SevenCooks. Dieses Rezept ist ein Suppen Traum mit Porree! The Telltale Mind August 19, Reid Vanier Post author August 23, The Telltale Mind August 23, Jyger85 August 20, Chris Evans August 21, This sounds like a brilliant story, will have to check this out. Excellent review! Lee Salmonsen September 2, Reid Vanier Post author September 8, Leave a Reply Cancel reply Enter your comment here Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:.
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Email Address: Subscribe. Retro Review: Detective Comics - "Slayride". The Meaning of Anti-Life. Follow Following. Inglethorp called us that we should be late as supper was early that night. We had rather a scramble to get ready in time; and before the meal was over the motor was waiting at the door. The entertainment was a great success, Mrs. There were also some tableaux in which Cynthia took part. She did not return with us, having been asked to a supper party, and to remain the night with some friends who had been acting with her in the tableaux.
The following morning, Mrs. Inglethorp stayed in bed to breakfast, as she was rather overtired; but she appeared in her briskest mood about The Rollestons came over with the Conqueror—one of our oldest families.
We had a pleasant luncheon, and as we drove away Lawrence suggested that we should return by Tadminster, which was barely a mile out of our way, and pay a visit to Cynthia in her dispensary. Inglethorp replied that this was an excellent idea, but as she had several letters to write she would drop us there, and we could come back with Cynthia in the pony-trap.
We were detained under suspicion by the hospital porter, until Cynthia appeared to vouch for us, looking very cool and sweet in her long white overall. We had a very cheery tea, and assisted Cynthia to wash up afterwards. We had just put away the last tea-spoon when a knock came at the door. The countenances of Cynthia and Nibs were suddenly petrified into a stern and forbidding expression. A young and rather scared looking nurse appeared with a bottle which she proffered to Nibs, who waved her towards Cynthia with the somewhat enigmatical remark:.
The little nurse withdrew, and Cynthia promptly took a jar from the shelf, refilled the bottle, and placed it on the table outside the door. Come out on our little balcony. You can see all the outside wards there. I followed Cynthia and her friend and they pointed out the different wards to me.
Lawrence remained behind, but after a few moments Cynthia called to him over her shoulder to come and join us. Then she looked at her watch. I had seen Lawrence in quite a different light that afternoon.
Compared to John, he was an astoundingly difficult person to get to know. He was the opposite of his brother in almost every respect, being unusually shy and reserved. Yet he had a certain charm of manner, and I fancied that, if one really knew him well, one could have a deep affection for him. I had always fancied that his manner to Cynthia was rather constrained, and that she on her side was inclined to be shy of him.
But they were both gay enough this afternoon, and chatted together like a couple of children. As we drove through the village, I remembered that I wanted some stamps, so accordingly we pulled up at the post office.
As I came out again, I cannoned into a little man who was just entering. I drew aside and apologised, when suddenly, with a loud exclamation, he clasped me in his arms and kissed me warmly. This is my old friend, Monsieur Poirot, whom I have not seen for years. It is by the charity of that good Mrs. Inglethorp that I am here. We Belgians will always remember her with gratitude. Poirot was an extraordinary looking little man.
He was hardly more than five feet, four inches, but carried himself with great dignity. His head was exactly the shape of an egg, and he always perched it a little on one side. His moustache was very stiff and military. The neatness of his attire was almost incredible. I believe a speck of dust would have caused him more pain than a bullet wound. Yet this quaint dandified little man who, I was sorry to see, now limped badly, had been in his time one of the most celebrated members of the Belgian police.
As a detective, his flair had been extraordinary, and he had achieved triumphs by unravelling some of the most baffling cases of the day. He pointed out to me the little house inhabited by him and his fellow Belgians, and I promised to go and see him at an early date. Then he raised his hat with a flourish to Cynthia, and we drove away.
And, for the rest of the way home, I recited to them the various exploits and triumphs of Hercule Poirot. We arrived back in a very cheerful mood. As we entered the hall, Mrs. Inglethorp came out of her boudoir. She looked flushed and upset. Inglethorp sharply. Have you lighted the fire in my room as I told you? He did not seem to have heard her, for without a word he turned on his heel and went out of the house.
I suggested a quick game of tennis before supper and, Cynthia agreeing, I ran upstairs to fetch my racquet. Cavendish was coming down the stairs. It may have been my fancy, but she, too, was looking odd and disturbed. Her hand clenched itself on the banisters, then she seemed to nerve herself for some encounter, and went rapidly past me down the stairs across the hall to the boudoir, the door of which she shut behind her.
As I ran out to the tennis court a few moments later, I had to pass the open boudoir window, and was unable to help overhearing the following scrap of dialogue. Mary Cavendish was saying in the voice of a woman desperately controlling herself:. It was a real old bust-up. I do wish I knew what it was all about. I thought of Mrs. I was anxious to get hold of John, but he was nowhere to be seen.
Evidently something very momentous had occurred that afternoon. I tried to forget the few words I had overheard; but, do what I would, I could not dismiss them altogether from my mind. Inglethorp was in the drawing-room when I came down to supper. His face was impassive as ever, and the strange unreality of the man struck me afresh. Inglethorp came down last. She still looked agitated, and during the meal there was a somewhat constrained silence.
Inglethorp was unusually quiet. As a rule, he surrounded his wife with little attentions, placing a cushion at her back, and altogether playing the part of the devoted husband. Immediately after supper, Mrs. Inglethorp retired to her boudoir again.
Cynthia and I went and sat by the open window in the drawing-room. Mary Cavendish brought our coffee to us. She seemed excited. Inglethorp her coffee, Cynthia? I will pour it out. We three sat for some time in silence. It was a glorious night, hot and still. Cavendish fanned herself gently with a palm leaf. Alas, that these harmonious moments can never endure! My paradise was rudely shattered by the sound of a well known, and heartily disliked, voice in the hall.
I glanced jealously at Mary Cavendish, but she seemed quite undisturbed, the delicate pallor of her cheeks did not vary. In a few moments, Alfred Inglethorp had ushered the doctor in, the latter laughing, and protesting that he was in no fit state for a drawing-room. In truth, he presented a sorry spectacle, being literally plastered with mud. Inglethorp insisted. The door into the hall was a wide one. I had risen when Cynthia did, John was close by me.
There were therefore three witnesses who could swear that Mrs. Inglethorp was carrying her coffee, as yet untasted, in her hand. My evening was utterly and entirely spoilt by the presence of Dr. It seemed to me the man would never go. He rose at last, however, and I breathed a sigh of relief. I will take the latch-key. To make this part of my story clear, I append the following plan of the first floor of Styles.
It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by Lawrence Cavendish. He had a candle in his hand, and the agitation of his face told me at once that something was seriously wrong. She seems to be having some kind of fit. Unfortunately she has locked herself in. I sprang out of bed; and, pulling on a dressing-gown, followed Lawrence along the passage and the gallery to the right wing of the house.
John Cavendish joined us, and one or two of the servants were standing round in a state of awe-stricken excitement. Lawrence turned to his brother. John rattled the handle of Mrs. It was obviously locked or bolted on the inside. The whole household was aroused by now. The most alarming sounds were audible from the interior of the room.
Clearly something must be done. Suddenly I realized that Alfred Inglethorp was not with us—that he alone had given no sign of his presence. John opened the door of his room.
It was pitch dark, but Lawrence was following with the candle, and by its feeble light we saw that the bed had not been slept in, and that there was no sign of the room having been occupied. We went straight to the connecting door. That, too, was locked or bolted on the inside. What was to be done? Here, let one of the maids go down and wake Baily and tell him to go for Dr.
Wilkins at once. Mary Cavendish was there, shaking the girl—who must have been an unusually sound sleeper—and trying to wake her. We must break in the door. I think this one is a shade less solid than the one in the passage. We strained and heaved together. The framework of the door was solid, and for a long time it resisted our efforts, but at last we felt it give beneath our weight, and finally, with a resounding crash, it was burst open.
We stumbled in together, Lawrence still holding his candle. Inglethorp was lying on the bed, her whole form agitated by violent convulsions, in one of which she must have overturned the table beside her. As we entered, however, her limbs relaxed, and she fell back upon the pillows. John strode across the room, and lit the gas. Turning to Annie, one of the housemaids, he sent her downstairs to the dining-room for brandy. Then he went across to his mother whilst I unbolted the door that gave on the corridor.
I turned to Lawrence, to suggest that I had better leave them now that there was no further need of my services, but the words were frozen on my lips. He was white as chalk, the candle he held in his shaking hand was sputtering onto the carpet, and his eyes, petrified with terror, or some such kindred emotion, stared fixedly over my head at a point on the further wall. It was as though he had seen something that turned him to stone.
I instinctively followed the direction of his eyes, but I could see nothing unusual. The still feebly flickering ashes in the grate, and the row of prim ornaments on the mantelpiece, were surely harmless enough.
The violence of Mrs. She was able to speak in short gasps. A shadow fell on the bed and, looking up, I saw Mary Cavendish standing near the door with her arm around Cynthia. She seemed to be supporting the girl, who looked utterly dazed and unlike herself. Her face was heavily flushed, and she yawned repeatedly.
Cavendish in a low clear voice. She herself, I noticed, was dressed in her white land smock. Then it must be later than I thought. A strangled cry from the bed startled me. A fresh access of pain seized the unfortunate old lady. The convulsions were of a violence terrible to behold. Everything was confusion. We thronged round her, powerless to help or alleviate. A final convulsion lifted her from the bed, until she appeared to rest upon her head and her heels, with her body arched in an extraordinary manner.
In vain Mary and John tried to administer more brandy. The moments flew. Again the body arched itself in that peculiar fashion. At that moment, Dr. Bauerstein pushed his way authoritatively into the room. For one instant he stopped dead, staring at the figure on the bed, and, at the same instant, Mrs. Inglethorp cried out in a strangled voice, her eyes fixed on the doctor:.
With a stride, the doctor reached the bed, and seizing her arms worked them energetically, applying what I knew to be artificial respiration. He issued a few short sharp orders to the servants. An imperious wave of his hand drove us all to the door. We watched him, fascinated, though I think we all knew in our hearts that it was too late, and that nothing could be done now. I could see by the expression on his face that he himself had little hope.
Finally he abandoned his task, shaking his head gravely. At that moment, we heard footsteps outside, and Dr. Wilkins, Mrs. In a few words Dr. Bauerstein explained how he had happened to be passing the lodge gates as the car came out, and had run up to the house as fast as he could, whilst the car went on to fetch Dr.
With a faint gesture of the hand, he indicated the figure on the bed. Always did far too much—far too much—against my advice. I warned her. Her heart was far from strong.
But no—her zeal for good works was too great. Nature rebelled. Bauerstein, I noticed, was watching the local doctor narrowly. He still kept his eyes fixed on him as he spoke. I am sorry you were not here in time to witness them.
They were quite—tetanic in character. He turned to John. We all trooped out into the corridor, leaving the two doctors alone, and I heard the key turned in the lock behind us. We went slowly down the stairs. I was violently excited. I have a certain talent for deduction, and Dr. Mary Cavendish laid her hand upon my arm. I lowered my voice to a whisper. Bauerstein suspects it. I followed her, afraid that she was going to faint. I found her leaning against the bannisters, deadly pale. She waved me away impatiently.
Let me just be quiet for a minute or two. Go down to the others. I obeyed her reluctantly. John and Lawrence were in the dining-room. I joined them. We were all silent, but I suppose I voiced the thoughts of us all when I at last broke it by saying:. Our eyes met. Where was Alfred Inglethorp? His absence was strange and inexplicable. I remembered Mrs. What lay beneath them? What more could she have told us, if she had had time?
At last we heard the doctors descending the stairs. Wilkins was looking important and excited, and trying to conceal an inward exultation under a manner of decorous calm. Bauerstein remained in the background, his grave bearded face unchanged. Wilkins was the spokesman for the two. He addressed himself to John:. Wilkins nor myself could give a death certificate under the circumstances. Wilkins briskly. There was a pause, and then Dr. Bauerstein drew two keys from his pocket, and handed them to John.
I have locked them and, in my opinion, they would be better kept locked for the present. I had been turning over an idea in my head, and I felt that the moment had now come to broach it.
Yet I was a little chary of doing so. John, I knew, had a horror of any kind of publicity, and was an easygoing optimist, who preferred never to meet trouble half-way. It might be difficult to convince him of the soundness of my plan. Lawrence, on the other hand, being less conventional, and having more imagination, I felt I might count upon as an ally.
There was no doubt that the moment had come for me to take the lead. The Belgian who is here? He has been a most famous detective. Poisons are his hobby, so of course he sees them everywhere. He was so seldom vehement about anything.
Poirot is discretion itself. I leave it in your hands. Though, if it is as we suspect, it seems a clear enough case. God forgive me if I am wronging him! I spent it in ransacking the library until I discovered a medical book which gave a description of strychnine poisoning. The house which the Belgians occupied in the village was quite close to the park gates.
One could save time by taking a narrow path through the long grass, which cut off the detours of the winding drive. So I, accordingly, went that way. I had nearly reached the lodge, when my attention was arrested by the running figure of a man approaching me. It was Mr. Where had he been? How did he intend to explain his absence?
My poor Emily! She was so self-sacrificing—such a noble character. She over-taxed her strength. Getting no answer, I repeated my summons impatiently. A window above me was cautiously opened, and Poirot himself looked out. He gave an exclamation of surprise at seeing me. In a few brief words, I explained the tragedy that had occurred, and that I wanted his help.
In a few moments he had unbarred the door, and I followed him up to his room. There he installed me in a chair, and I related the whole story, keeping back nothing, and omitting no circumstance, however insignificant, whilst he himself made a careful and deliberate toilet.
I told him of my awakening, of Mrs. I was hardly as clear as I could wish. I repeated myself several times, and occasionally had to go back to some detail that I had forgotten. Poirot smiled kindly on me. Is it not so? Take time, mon ami. You are agitated; you are excited—it is but natural. Presently, when we are calmer, we will arrange the facts, neatly, each in his proper place. We will examine—and reject.
Those of importance we will put on one side; those of no importance, pouf! That always seems the difficulty to me. One fact leads to another—so we continue. Does the next fit in with that? A merveille! We can proceed. This next little fact—no!
Ah, that is curious! There is something missing—a link in the chain that is not there. We examine. We search. And that little curious fact, that possibly paltry little detail that will not tally, we put it here!
It is tremendous! It will not agree. I will forget it. Everything matters. You always told me that. You have a good memory, and you have given me the facts faithfully.
Of the order in which you present them, I say nothing—truly, it is deplorable! But I make allowances—you are upset. To that I attribute the circumstance that you have omitted one fact of paramount importance. I stared at him. He was carefully engaged in brushing his coat before putting it on, and seemed wholly engrossed in the task. She was obviously upset, and it had taken her appetite away.
That was only natural. Excuse me, mon ami , you dressed in haste, and your tie is on one side. Permit me. We hurried up the village, and turned in at the lodge gates. Poirot stopped for a moment, and gazed sorrowfully over the beautiful expanse of park, still glittering with morning dew. Was the family prostrated by grief? Was the sorrow at Mrs. I realized that there was an emotional lack in the atmosphere.
The dead woman had not the gift of commanding love. Her death was a shock and a distress, but she would not be passionately regretted. She has been kind and generous to these Cavendishes, but she was not their own mother. Blood tells—always remember that—blood tells. Inglethorp ate well last night? The present contention is that Mrs. Inglethorp died of strychnine poisoning, presumably administered in her coffee. Well, strychnine is a fairly rapid poison. Its effects would be felt very soon, probably in about an hour.
Yet, in Mrs. But a heavy meal, taken at about the same time as the poison, might retard its effects, though hardly to that extent. Still, it is a possibility to be taken into account.
But, according to you, she ate very little for supper, and yet the symptoms do not develop until early the next morning! Now that is a curious circumstance, my friend. Something may arise at the autopsy to explain it. In the meantime, remember it. He retrieved it, and buried it neatly. John looked puzzled, not quite understanding the portent of this cryptic saying. He handed the two keys which Dr. Bauerstein had given him to me. We went up together to the room of the tragedy. For convenience I append a plan of the room and the principal articles of furniture in it.
Poirot locked the door on the inside, and proceeded to a minute inspection of the room. He darted from one object to the other with the agility of a grasshopper.
I remained by the door, fearing to obliterate any clues. Poirot, however, did not seem grateful to me for my forbearance. But what an idea! There has already been practically an army in the room! What foot-marks are we likely to find? No, come here and aid me in my search. I will put down my little case until I need it.
He did so, on the round table by the window, but it was an ill-advised proceeding; for, the top of it being loose, it tilted up, and precipitated the despatch-case on the floor. A small purple despatch-case, with a key in the lock, on the writing-table, engaged his attention for some time. He took out the key from the lock, and passed it to me to inspect. I saw nothing peculiar, however. It was an ordinary key of the Yale type, with a bit of twisted wire through the handle.
Next, he examined the framework of the door we had broken in, assuring himself that the bolt had really been shot. That door was also bolted, as I had stated. However, he went to the length of unbolting it, and opening and shutting it several times; this he did with the utmost precaution against making any noise. Suddenly something in the bolt itself seemed to rivet his attention.
He examined it carefully, and then, nimbly whipping out a pair of small forceps from his case, he drew out some minute particle which he carefully sealed up in a tiny envelope.
On the chest of drawers there was a tray with a spirit lamp and a small saucepan on it. A small quantity of a dark fluid remained in the saucepan, and an empty cup and saucer that had been drunk out of stood near it. I wondered how I could have been so unobservant as to overlook this. Here was a clue worth having. Poirot delicately dipped his finger into liquid, and tasted it gingerly. He made a grimace. He passed on to the debris on the floor, where the table by the bed had been overturned.
A reading-lamp, some books, matches, a bunch of keys, and the crushed fragments of a coffee-cup lay scattered about. 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. 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.
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.
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