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    The Mysterious Affair at Styles
    The Mysterious Affair at Styles
    The Mysterious Affair at Styles
    Ebook230 pages4 hours

    The Mysterious Affair at Styles

    By Agatha Christie

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    Christie's first published novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles is notable for introducing many of the character types, plot twists, and red herrings that would become commonplace during the Golden Age of Detective Fiction. Set in a remote country manor with a small handful of suspects, The Mysterious Affair at Styles is the quintessential detective story and remains one of the most significant literary works in the mystery genre.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherStart Publishing LLC
    Release dateApr 8, 2013
    ISBN9781627930376
    Author

    Agatha Christie

    Agatha Christie is known throughout the world as the Queen of Crime. Her books have sold over a billion copies in English with another billion in over 70 foreign languages. She is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. She is the author of 80 crime novels and short story collections, 20 plays, and six novels written under the name of Mary Westmacott.

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    Reviews for The Mysterious Affair at Styles

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    • 4/5
      A poisoning at Styles brings in the clueless Cpt. Hastings and HP to solve the murder.
    • 4/5
      The Mysterious Mr. Quin (1930) (Harley Quin) by Agatha Christie. This character, Harley Quin, is reported to have been Dame Agatha’s favorite as she only had to write about him when she wished to. Quin, along with his puppet, the good Mr. Satterthwaite, set out to right wrongs, solve vexing problems of the heart, and occasionally solve a murder.Satterthwaite is in his sixties, an English gentleman who has no wish for sport or romance or business. He is from that class of people Christie liked to populate her books with, the idle rich who know everyone of importance and in hand, are known to all, and beloved by them in return. He has an interest in people and they seem to trust and open up to this benign older gent. But it is Mr. Quin who is the driving force here. He appears and disappears like a spector, arriving in a time of need, appearing to Mr. Satterthwaite when there is a problem, merely talking with the kind gentleman, asking questions that Mr. Satterthwaite is surprised to find he knows the answers to, and helping the latter solve the puzzle.This book contains an even dozen tales of the pair, each a tie plum of deliciousness ready to be devoted. Help yourself.
    • 4/5
      Although this novel is a Hurcule Poirot, it is told through the viewpoint of a friend of Poirot, Mr. Hastings. The viewpoint character is effective, since he basically has no detective instincts whatsoever, therefore not giving away what Poirot is thinking, which would ruin the mystery. The novel starts off with the death of Emily Cavendish. There are a handful of characters who are in the house at the time, and like with most good mysteries, there are various clues lying about. Half the time, I felt like Hastings, not being able to figure out who did what and always playing catch up with Poirot. About two thirds of the way through, I had a guess as to who committed the murder, and it turns out I was half right.I like Christie’s story telling style, but there were some problematic elements of the way the story unfolded, and a couple of elements that defied logic. Poirot comes off as enigmatic and charming. Because of the gap in time from when the story was written until now, some of the aspects of the plot were a bit hard to grasp, but for the most part the plot was strong, and the reveal was logical. This was a strong mystery novel that I would recommend.Carl Alves – author of Conjesero
    • 4/5
      Agatha Christie's first Poirot mystery. What else is there to say?
    • 4/5
      Apparently, Agatha Christie - who had never written a book before - wrote this book in response to a complaint that there were no crime novels where all the facts were known to the reader, as well as the detective, before the denouement which weren't solvable in the first few chapters. This is the book, narrated by Hastings, that introduces us to Hercule Poirot.Hastings has been invalided out of the war, and while convalescing, is invited back to Styles, the country home of an old acquaintance, John Cavendish. While there, a crime occurs, and on wishing out loud that a great detective he met in Europe was here to help them, Hastings discovers that Poirot is, in fact, living in the nearby village, as a Belgian refugee from the war. And so Poirot gets involved in the case, and finally brings the criminal to justice.I've read many books by Christie in the past, but I can't remember if I've read this one before. So earnest was I (previously) in reading the clues to solve the crime (which I never did) that I hadn't realised before that Christie is quite funny; written at the same period as P.G. Wodehouse was writing, while not being as uproariously funny, it has a similar sense of humour.Poirot (speaking of the criminal) : "... 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, ...Poor old Hastings would like to think of himself as the romantic lead, or at least the great detective (since he often thinks that Poirot is no longer on his game), but is usually seen by the other cast members as a sympathetic shoulder to lean on.Christie (and occasionally Poirot) misdirects us gaily until the last moment, when Poirot explains all. There are, of course, the odd coincidence, and a few instances of great good luck. I might have docked stars for my not being able to solve the crime (*sour grapes*), but I'll give them back for the unexpected humour. And the hint of romance doesn't hurt; there's nothing so sweet as requited love.I must say that, while reading Poirot's dialogue, I kept thinking of David Suchet playing the part (though admittedly his eyes aren't green). Kudos to him for getting the part down.
    • 4/5
      Very enjoyable debut of both Christie and Poirot.
    • 4/5
      Another of the great early Christie offerings.
    • 4/5
      This is the first Hercule Poirot novel. A childhood friend of Hastings, John Cavendish, invites him to re-coup from a recent war injury at his step-mother's estate, Styles. The wealthy Mrs. Inglethorp is soon found murdered in her locked bedroom. Suspicion is thrown everwhere. An expected ending achieved in a crazy twist. I realized, in thumbing back through the book that the "clues" were present throughout the story but I still found the ending surprising.
    • 5/5
      I was curious to read Agatha Christie’s first Poirot novel, which was published in 1920. And I was not disappointed. Midway through the book I was surprised to remember that this was one of her first novels… I think Mrs. Christie was born a writer: there is nothing in this book that betrays the novice. She worked as a dispenser in a hospital during WWI, hence, I believe, her knowledge of poisons and the presence of the young nurse’s character in the book. Here you will find the first description of Hercule Poirot, the “little man” with a gigantic intellect and an even larger (if possible!) ego. Inspector James Japp is also first presented to the reader, “a little sharp, dark, ferret-faced man”—physically different from Philip Jackson of the Agatha Christie’s Poirot series, Japp also does not present any of the irritating and almost unintelligible cockney accent the Jackson of the movies sported. Most definitely this is a must read for any Agatha Christie fan.
    • 4/5
      This is the novel that introduces Poirot to the world. he's called in to investigate the poisoning of the lady of Styles Hall. And there are a host of suspects to wade through. We also meet Hastings, who's convalescing after a war wound of some description. This is one of the few Poirot books that i can think of that is set in a particular time period. Most of them seem to be set in some fuzzy period between the two wars, whereas this is clearly set during WW1. It has its twists & turns and at times Poirot is more concerned with playing the role of Cupid than detective, but it's non the worse for that. Not a book I've read before (I always preferred Miss Marple as a teenager), but there's not much wrong with it.
    • 3/5
      I downloaded this onto my Kindle from Project Gutenberg free of charge. Set in Essex in WW1, this is Christie’s first published novel – it introduces the famous Belgium detective Hercule Poirot and also features Inspector Japp and Captain Hastings, who narrates the story.

      Mrs. Inglethorpe is found early in the morning suffering convulsions and dies from suspected poisoning. She was alone in her room and the doors opening onto her room are all locked from the inside. Suspects include her much younger and universally disliked, second husband and her two step-sons who stand to benefit from her will in the event of her death. Her ward, a nurse and her daughter-in-law and even the doctor are also under suspicion.

      Using his ‘little grey cells’ and clues in the form of a fake beard, a crushed cup and the remains of a will found burned in the fireplace, Poirot investigates and despite the seemingly impossible nature of the crime (the famous locked door syndrome) it isn’t long before he has the answer.

      I found this rather slow. I’m glad I didn’t start my reading of Christie’s novels with this one as I’m certain I wouldn’t want to read any more had I not already read the far superior The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.
    • 3/5
      Hastings is an idiot.

      Other than that, this was a pretty good book!
    • 5/5
      As usual, Hercule solves the crime! I adore all things Agatha and Hercule is my favorite sleuth.
    • 5/5
      There isn't much to say that hasn't been said about Christie or monsieur Poirot. Again, at Styles, the chance meeting of Poirot and a friend from the continent in England is a bit contrived, but there wouldn't be much of a story if he hadn't been invited to investigate the murder of Mrs. Inglethorp.
    • 4/5
      In this book, Christie introduces us to who is her arguably most memorable character - Hercule Poirot. Those familiar with Christie's books and their television and movie adaptations should be interested in reading the establishment of Poirot, Hastings, and Japp and discovering how their relationships evolved from their beginnings in this book to the much warmer friendships, especially between Poirot and Hastings, depicted in later books. The mystery itself is typical Christie, complete with red herrings and twists and turns.
    • 2/5
      I liked the book, but I made a serious mistake when I first approached it: I underestimated Agatha Christie. The last time I read Agatha Christie was in high school (The ABC Murders and Murder on the Orient Express) and now I had thought her dated and perhaps even less-than- sophisticated! I was struck by the density of the cast list, the plot, the motives and the subterfuges. I anticipate returning to this book again and being able to appreciate it more with each re-reading or re-telling.

      As much as I love Nadia May, she was miscast for this book. The narrator is a 45 year-old male Captain coming in from the Front. Despite Nadia May's versatility, there was no way to ignore that she wasn't a 45 year-old male Captain coming in from the Front! There is a scene early on wherein Captain Hastings looks out the window to see Lawrence Cavendish walking with Cynthia Murdoch. In my mind's eye, I saw Miss Marple peering out the window! Later, as Captain Hastings expresses his crush on Mary Cavendish or even later, proposes to Cynthia Murdoch, it took me aback.

      Redacted from the original blog review at dog eared copy, Hercule Poirot Mysteries (1-4): Mini Op-Ed Reviews, 10/10/2011 and; The Msyterious Affair at Styles, 10/14/2011
    • 4/5
      This is Agatha Christie's 1st novel, and the first Agatha Christie novel I have read. I've long been a viewer of the movies made from her books, and I can never decide who is my favourite detective, Hercule Poirot or Jane Marple. Not knowing this story, I thoroughly enjoyed reading and trying to solve this mystery. Being a 1st novel it has a slightly 'simple' feel to it, but I have no doubt that the next one I read, and I will definitely be reading more, will prove to me that Agatha Christie's skill as a mystery/crime writer will get better and better!
    • 4/5
      It was interesting reading this again after my reread of the classic Arthur Conan Doyle Sherlock Holmes stories. This isn't just the first Hercule Poirot novel, it's Agatha Christie's first novel, and when it was published in 1920, Arthur Conan Doyle was still alive and still publishing Holmes stories (the last one was written in 1927). There are a lot of aspects of the plot and narrative of The Mysterious Affair at Styles that are strongly reminiscent of the Holmes stories--Sherlock Holmes is even mentioned early on. Given how Poirot went on to forge his own claim to be a great fictional detective, I felt here almost as if I was witnessing the passing of the baton, and that held a lot of fascination for me, even if I don't feel this first outing matches the best of Holmes--or of Christie. For one, the first person narrator through which we see Hercule Poirot is no Doctor Watson. In a lot of filmed adaptions and Holmes pastiches, Watson is depicted as dim--which I think unfair to the character. Watson for me stands in for the intelligent reader--if he seems dim, it's only in contrast to Holmes' dazzling brilliance, and I didn't often feel ahead of Watson. Captain Arthur Hastings, on the other hand, our narrator, is a complete dolt in this novel. And of the worst kind. Watson, as a bright and competent man, is capable of giving Holmes his due, and always speaks of him with obvious admiration. Hastings, however, often speaks of Poirot in a condescending way. From comments of Poirot, in contrast, he realizes Hastings isn't all that bright. Comments said right to Hastings' face that pass right over him. I don't know if Hastings continues in this vein in the other novels, fortunately the character appears in only eight of the thirty-three Poirot novels.Nevertheless, this is an entertaining novel--often witty and humorous. And Christie even in this first outing displays an extraordinary skill in plotting. This is one of those classic "locked room" mysteries set in an English country manor that is seen as the very epitome of the British mystery. The clues, the red herrings--all this Christie brings off like clockwork. And in Poirot you can already see the makings of a great character, the "Great Detective" in the Sherlock Holmes tradition to which he has no real successor. Oh, on the outside there can't be a bigger contrast to Holmes in this "funny little man, a great dandy," this Belgian with his diminutive stature and egg-shaped head and prissy manner. Ah, but those "little grey cells" of Poirot are pure Holmes. If I mark this novel down a couple of notches, well, this just isn't to my mind as impressive as other Christie mysteries and I don't think the cast of secondary characters are as sharp and memorable as you find in Christie at her best, and the resolution doesn't have my jaw dropping such as with Christie's And Then There Were None. Just to limit myself to the Poirot mysteries, I don't think The Mysterious Affair at Styles is as good as The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Murder on the Orient Express, The ABC Murders, Death on the Nile or Five Little Pigs. But the good news is, if this is your introduction to Christie and you like this novel, well, even better awaits you!
    • 4/5
      I have loved Agatha Christie's mysteries for as long as I can remember. It's good to know that her books were excellent from the beginning. The Mysterious Affair at Styles was her first published work.

      If you use the Wake County public library, you can borrow this recording from the Download library - I've just returned it :) The narration was excellent, the story and the characters delightful.
    • 3/5
      First outing for Hercule Poirot narrated by Hastings, his side-kick. This has all the classic Christie characters with taut plotting but the unpalatable nature of class and race relations did not leave me wanting to pick up another Agatha Christie in a hurry.
    • 4/5
      This is the first of Christie’s books featuring Hercule Poirot. The plot is about a family living in a country home, with guests invited - including the narrator, Hastings.

      A murder happens, and nearly all the household come under suspicion for various good reasons. It’s really a very clever plot; even as the clues gradually unravelled I could not recall who the murderer was, despite having read the book about thirteen years previously, and I was taken in by several red herrings, even while realising that the narrator must inevitably be on the wrong track, one way or another.

      When the perpetrator was finally revealed, it all made sense, and the clues fell into place perfectly; Agatha Christie was brilliant at plotting, filling in all the details and leading her readers astray without ever making them feel cheated.

      While the characterisation isn’t great - it’s my one gripe about this author - I did appreciate good writing and tight plotting, a pleasant contrast to some of the more contemporary books I have been reading recently.
    • 3/5
      I was occasionally impatient with the silliness of the narrator, but it kept me awake on a long drive home without a lot of boredom.
    • 4/5
      When a family matriarch is poisoned, Hercule Poirot must discover who committed the crime.Again, a reread for me (I think I've read Christie's entire bibliography, but I may have missed one or two, as I was not scientific about keeping track of my reading at the time). This is the first Poirot novel, told from the point of view of Hastings. I was struck, on this reread, with just how stupid Hastings is. This never bothered me originally, so I'm not sure if it's because I'm older than I was on my initial readings, or if it's because of the audiobook narration, or if that aspect of Hastings' character was softened in later books (I always liked Hastings, so I was surprised to be so impatient with him during this reading). This was read by a different narrator than my last two Christie books, and I did not like him at all -- partly because he gave Poirot such a strong accent that I had a hard time understanding what he was saying at times. Also, the denouement of this story seemed to take forever. All in all, though I love Christie, and Poirot particularly, I don't think I'd recommend this as a starting point.
    • 4/5
      First Agatha Christie in which a device she is to use frequently is introduced into the novel of unusual complexity for her usual plotting. See _Evil Under the Sun_, _Death on the Nile_, for other examples.
    • 4/5
      Invalided home from the Great War, Arthur Hastings is pleased to bump into his old friend, John Cavendish, and be invited to spend time at Cavendish's family estate, Styles. In a happy coincidence, Hastings long acquaintance, Hercule Poirot, is also in the neighbourhood as he has refugeed from Belgium. Poirot's proximity is particularly advantageous as shortly after Hastings's arrival, John Cavendish's stepmother dies suddenly and from apparent poisoning. But with the astute Belgian detective about, no murderer is safe.It was fascinating to read Agatha Christie's first novel and see just how well her mystery crafting skills were already developed in this first foray. I found Hastings to be a bit pretentious but having a somewhat unlikeable narrator didn't diminish the joy of the book. It's interesting to see here that while there is some humour, it's not quite as pervasive as in some of Christie's other novels, which often leave me chorting. While I was not as misled as the narrator, I still was in the dark about whodunnit until the final reveal, always a bonus in a mystery novel.
    • 4/5
      This is the very first Agatha Christie novel, written and set during the First World War, though not published until 1921. It is also the first Hercule Poirot novel, with the famous Belgian detective being a refugee in England having fled the invasion and subjugation of his country by the Kaiser's army. He is first described as follows:"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."Even on his first appearance, he is regarded by several characters as an old eccentric who is already past his prime). Nevertheless, he of course sees through a tortuous set of clues to solve a murder, the final resolution of which seemed even more than usually convoluted and, frankly, absurdly risky from the murderer's point of view. The narrative did not feel particularly dated to me, unlike the last Christie novel I read, the Tommy and Tuppence novel The Secret Adversary, set in the 1920s. One interesting touch in this edition is the inclusion as an appendix of an alternative penultimate chapter where the plot threads are resolved, discovered in one of Christie's notebooks decades later; though the essential difference rests only in its taking place in a courtroom where Poirot is being cross-examined, rather than in the Styles House with the detective doing his standard presentation in the drawing room in front of all the principal actors.
    • 3/5
      Although I liked the brisk narrative pace and quality of the author's writing, the actual story did little to enthrall me. The plotting was clever in its way but it didn't leave me in any great suspense like you'd expect from such a book.This was my first sample of Poirot. He reminds me of Mason's French Inspector Hanuad, though Hanuad is a much more absorbing character. That's not to say I dislike Poirot, however, as he was the best actor in this tale.
    • 3/5
      This is the debut novel for Ms Christie and the first appearance of Hercule Poirot, the Belgian detective. Arthur Hastings is recovering from a war wound and travels to Styles to see his friend, John. During this visit, John’s step mother is killed. Poirot uses his skills as a detective to solve the mystery. Hastings who likens himself a detective is an annoying character but against his dullness, Poirot is able to shine in his craft. The list of characters and twists and turns does make this a mystery that is not easy to guess the villain. The story was good, not her best but a debut novel and often the first in the series is a character building story. The reader did a good job. Not the best nor the worst.
    • 3/5
      Poirot's first case is a quick and entertaining read and it kept my interest. The clues were not obvious enough for me to solve the mystery before hand, and there were plenty of red herrings, but it was still a fun read. I would read more of this series if only for the challenge of exercising my deductive powers. The characters are believable and I enjoyed the relationship between Hastings and Poirot. It was not one of troubled genius and everyman simpleton (ala Holmes and Watson), but rather more dispassionate experienced Poirot and passionate young Hastings. It's more egalitarian. Also, as a side note, its also interesting to catch and observe some of the vocabulary used by Christie from the 1920's that you would never hear anyone using today. My favorite was the liberal use of the verb "ejaculate". Our book club had a good laugh about where we would be able to inject that word into modern conversations. Sadly, we couldn't find a acceptable example.
    • 3/5
      Audio book narrated by Penelope Delaporta3*** / 1.5* narrationThis is Agatha Christie’s debut mystery, in which she introduces the famous Hercule Poirot. It’s a traditional “locked room” mystery.Mrs. Inglethorpe is stricken in the early morning hours with horrific convulsions, clearly the result of strychnine poisoning. But who poisoned her and how was it done. She was alone in her room with all three doors leading into the room bolted from the inside. There is no shortage of suspects: her second husband (a much younger man everyone seems to dislike), her two step sons (who stand to inherit upon her death), her step-daughter-in-law, her young ward (a nurse in the local hospital, specializing in pharmaceutical compounds), even the mysterious doctor who just happens to be passing by, full dressed, at 4:30 a.m. on the morning she is stricken (and who pronounces her dead). And there are plenty of clues – including no less than 3 different supplies of strychnine, a fake beard, a fragment of a will found in the fireplace ashes, a crushed coffee cup, and mysterious crystals left on the tray holding the cocoa. The time frame is during WW I … so there are issues of rationing and espionage to contend with, which makes the story a bit dated. And, it’s also more slowly paced than contemporary mysteries, but you cannot fault Christie’s skill at plotting the set-up. Delaporta’s narration is not very good. Her voice is high (though the narrator of the story is a man), and her efforts at Poirot’s Belgian accent became annoying pretty quickly. But the story itself kept me listening.

    Book preview

    The Mysterious Affair at Styles - Agatha Christie

    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—?

    Oh, this fellow! He turned up from nowhere, on the pretext of 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.

    A figure rose from one of the basket chairs, and came a few steps to meet us.

    My wife, Hastings, 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 woman’s 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 body—all 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 John’s 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:

    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, owing to the general ignorance of the more uncommon poisons among the medical profession, there were probably countless cases of poisoning quite unsuspected.

    Why, Mary, what a gruesome conversation! cried Mrs. Inglethorp. It makes me feel as if a goose were walking over my grave. Oh, there’s Cynthia!

    A young girl in V. A. D. uniform ran lightly across the lawn.

    Why, Cynthia, you are late to-day. This is Mr. Hastings—Miss Murdoch.

    Cynthia Murdoch was a fresh-looking young creature, full of life and vigour. She tossed off her little V. A. D. cap, and I admired the great loose waves of her auburn hair, and the smallness and whiteness of the hand she held out to claim her tea. With dark eyes and eyelashes she would have been a beauty.

    She flung herself down on the ground beside John, and as I handed her a plate of sandwiches she smiled up at me.

    Sit down here on the grass, do. It’s ever so much nicer.

    I dropped down obediently.

    You work at Tadminster, don’t you, Miss Murdoch?

    She nodded.

    For my sins.

    Do they bully you, then? I asked, smiling.

    I should like to see them! cried Cynthia with dignity.

    I have got a cousin who is nursing, I remarked. And she is terrified of ‘Sisters’.

    "I don’t wonder. Sisters are, you know, Mr. Hastings. They simp—ly are! You’ve no idea! But I’m not a nurse, thank heaven, I work in the dispensary."

    How many people do you poison? I asked, smiling.

    Cynthia smiled too.

    Oh, hundreds! she said.

    Cynthia, called Mrs. Inglethorp, do you think you could write a few notes for me?

    Certainly, Aunt Emily.

    She jumped up promptly, and something in her manner reminded me that her position was a dependent one, and that Mrs. Inglethorp, kind as she might be in the main, did not allow her to forget it.

    My hostess turned to me.

    John will show you your room. Supper is at half-past seven. We have given up late dinner for some time now. Lady Tadminster, our Member’s wife—she was the late Lord Abbotsbury’s daughter—does the same. She agrees with me that one must set an example of economy. We are quite a war household; nothing is wasted here—every scrap of waste paper, even, is saved and sent away in sacks.

    I expressed my appreciation, and John took me into the house and up the broad staircase, which forked right and left half-way to different wings of the building. My room was in the left wing, and looked out over the park.

    John left me, and a few minutes later I saw him from my window walking slowly across the grass arm in arm with Cynthia Murdoch. I heard Mrs. Inglethorp call Cynthia impatiently, and the girl started and ran back to the house. At the same moment, a man stepped out from the shadow of a tree and walked slowly in the same

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