π΅ββοΈ "The Mysterious Affair at Styles" - by Agatha Christie
In a quintessentially English setting, renowned detective Hercule Poirot investigates the perplexing poisoning of his benefactor, Emily Inglethorp, at her lavish estate.
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In this week's edition, you will read the first chapter of Agatha Christiesβ debut novel where she introduces Hercule Poirot.
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π The Stats
After finding refuge in England post-Great War, Poirot resides near Styles Court, the estate of his benefactor Emily Inglethorp.
When Emily is poisoned and the authorities are puzzled, Poirot's sleuthing skills come to the fore.
Suspects abound, including Emily's husband, stepsons, companion, nurse, and a visiting poison expert.
As secrets unravel, Poirot expertly navigates the twists and turns, solidifying Agatha Christie's status as the queen of mystery.
ποΈ Quote from the Book:
βYou gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely.β
π Chapter 1: I Go to Styles
Reading time: 9 minutes
The intense interest aroused in the public by what was known at the time as βThe Styles Caseβ 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 monthβs 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 motherβs 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.
βThe mater will be delighted to see you againβafter all those years,β he added.
βYour mother keeps well?β I asked.
βOh, yes. I suppose you know that she has married again?β
I am afraid I showed my surprise rather plainly. Mrs. Cavendish, who had married Johnβs 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 wifeβs 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 fatherβs 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 practised 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 motherβs remarriage and smiled rather ruefully.
βRotten little bounder too!β he said savagely. βI can tell you, Hastings, itβs making life jolly difficult for us. As for Evieβyou remember Evie?β
βNo.β
βOh, I suppose she was after your time. Sheβs the materβs factotum, companion, Jack of all trades! A great sportβold Evie! Not precisely young and beautiful, but as game as they make them.β
βYou were going to sayββ?β
βOh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of being a second cousin or something of Evieβs, though she didnβt seem particularly keen to acknowledge the relationship. The fellow is an absolute outsider, anyone can see that. Heβs 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 secretaryβyou know how sheβs always running a hundred societies?β
I nodded.
βWell, 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! Itβs simply bare-faced fortune hunting; but there you areβshe is her own mistress, and sheβs married him.β
βIt must be a difficult situation for you all.β
βDifficult! Itβs damnable!β
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.
βGot a drop or two of petrol still, you see,β he remarked. βMainly owing to the materβs activities.β
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:
βIβm afraid youβll find it very quiet down here, Hastings.β
βMy dear fellow, thatβs just what I want.β
βOh, itβs 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 βon the landβ. She is up at five every morning to milk, and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime. Itβs a jolly good life taking it all roundβif it werenβt for that fellow Alfred Inglethorp!β He checked the car suddenly, and glanced at his watch. βI wonder if weβve time to pick up Cynthia. No, sheβll have started from the hospital by now.β
βCynthia! Thatβs not your wife?β
βNo, Cynthia is a protΓ©gΓ©e of my motherβs, 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.β
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.
βHullo, Evie, hereβs our wounded hero! Mr. HastingsβMiss Howard.β
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 matchβthese last encased in good thick boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the telegraphic style.
βWeeds grow like house afire. Canβt keep even with βem. Shall press you in. Better be careful.β
βIβm sure I shall be only too delighted to make myself useful,β I responded.
βDonβt say it. Never does. Wish you hadnβt later.β
βYouβre a cynic, Evie,β said John, laughing. βWhereβs tea to-dayβinside or out?β
βOut. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house.β
βCome on then, youβve done enough gardening for to-day. βThe labourer is worthy of his hireβ, you know. Come and be refreshed.β
βWell,β said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, βIβm inclined to agree with you.β
She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the shade of a large sycamore.
A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps to meet us.
βMy wife, Hastings,β said John.
I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall, slender form, outlined against the bright light; the vivid sense of slumbering fire that seemed to find expression only in those wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any other womanβs that I have ever known; the intense power of stillness she possessed, which nevertheless conveyed the impression of a wild untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilised bodyβall these things are burnt into my memory. I shall never forget them.
She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low clear voice, and I sank into a basket chair feeling distinctly glad that I had accepted Johnβs invitation. Mrs. Cavendish gave me some tea, and her few quiet remarks heightened my first impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman. An appreciative listener is always stimulating, and I described, in a humorous manner, certain incidents of my Convalescent Home, in a way which, I flatter myself, greatly amused my hostess. John, of course, good fellow though he is, could hardly be called a brilliant conversationalist.
At that moment a well remembered voice floated through the open French window near at hand:
βThen youβll write to the Princess after tea, Alfred? Iβll write to Lady Tadminster for the second day, myself. Or shall we wait until we hear from the Princess? In case of a refusal, Lady Tadminster might open it the first day, and Mrs. Crosbie the second. Then thereβs the Duchessβabout the school fΓͺte.β
There was the murmur of a manβs voice, and then Mrs. Inglethorpβs rose in reply:
βYes, certainly. After tea will do quite well. You are so thoughtful, Alfred dear.β
The French window swung open a little wider, and a handsome white-haired old lady, with a somewhat masterful cast of features, stepped out of it on to the lawn. A man followed her, a suggestion of deference in his manner.
Mrs. Inglethorp greeted me with effusion.
βWhy, if it isnβt too delightful to see you again, Mr. Hastings, after all these years. Alfred, darling, Mr. Hastingsβmy husband.β
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