The Mysterious Affair at Styles | Page 3

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:
"Then you'll write to the Princess after tea, Alfred? I'll 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 there's the
Duchess--about the school fete."
There was the murmur of a man's voice, and then Mrs. Inglethorp's rose
in reply:
"Yes, certainly. After tea will do quite well. You are so thoughtful,
Alfred dear."
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.
"Why, if it isn't too delightful to see you again, Mr. Hastings, after all
these years. Alfred, darling, Mr. Hastings--my husband."
I looked with some curiosity at "Alfred darling". He certainly struck a
rather alien note. I did not wonder at John objecting to his beard. It was
one of the longest and blackest I have ever seen. He wore gold-rimmed
pince-nez, and had a curious impassivity of feature. It struck me that he
might look natural on a stage, but was strangely out of place in real life.
His voice was rather deep and unctuous. He placed a wooden hand in
mine and said:
"This is a pleasure, Mr. Hastings." Then, turning to his wife: "Emily
dearest, I think that cushion is a little damp."
She beamed fondly on him, as he substituted another with every
demonstration of the tenderest care. Strange infatuation of an otherwise

sensible woman!
With the presence of Mr. Inglethorp, a sense of constraint and veiled
hostility seemed to settle down upon the company. Miss Howard, in
particular, took no pains to conceal her feelings. Mrs. Inglethorp,
however, seemed to notice nothing unusual. Her volubility, which I
remembered of old, had lost nothing in the intervening years, and she
poured out a steady flood of conversation, mainly on the subject of the
forthcoming bazaar which she was organizing and which was to take
place shortly. Occasionally she referred to her husband over a question
of days or dates. His watchful and attentive manner never varied. From
the very first I took a firm and rooted dislike to him, and I flatter myself
that my first judgments are usually fairly shrewd.
Presently Mrs. Inglethorp turned to give some instructions about letters
to Evelyn Howard, and her husband addressed me in his painstaking
voice:
"Is soldiering your regular profession, Mr. Hastings?"
"No, before the war I was in Lloyd's."
"And you will return there after it is over?"
"Perhaps. Either that or a fresh start altogether."
Mary Cavendish leant forward.
"What would you really choose as a profession, if you could just
consult your inclination?"
"Well, that depends."
"No secret hobby?" she asked. "Tell me--you're drawn to something?
Every one is--usually something absurd."
"You'll laugh at me."
She smiled.

"Perhaps."
"Well, I've always had a secret hankering to be a detective!"
"The real thing--Scotland Yard? Or Sherlock Holmes?"
"Oh, Sherlock Holmes by all means. But really, seriously, I am awfully
drawn to it. I came across a man in Belgium once, a very famous
detective, and he quite inflamed me. He was a marvellous little fellow.
He used to say that all good detective work was a mere matter of
method. My system is based on his--though of course I have progressed
rather further. He was a funny little man, a great dandy, but
wonderfully clever."
"Like a good detective story myself," remarked Miss Howard. "Lots of
nonsense written, though. Criminal discovered in last chapter. Every
one dumbfounded. Real crime--you'd know at once."
"There have been a great number of undiscovered crimes," I argued.
"Don't mean the police, but the people that are right in it. The family.
You couldn't really hoodwink them. They'd know."
"Then," I said, much amused, "you think that if you were mixed up in a
crime, say a murder, you'd be able to spot the murderer right off?"
"Of course I should. Mightn't be able to prove it to a pack of lawyers.
But I'm certain I'd know. I'd feel it in my fingertips if he came near
me."
"It might be a 'she,' " I suggested.
"Might. But murder's a violent crime. Associate it more with a man."
"Not in a case of poisoning." Mrs. Cavendish's clear voice startled me.
"Dr. Bauerstein was saying yesterday that,