The Mysterious Affair at Styles by Agatha Christie

that her husband had poisoned her. I always said he'd murder her in her bed, poor
     soul. Now he's done it. And all you can do is to murmur silly things about 'heart seizure'
     and 'inquest on Friday.' You ought to be ashamed of yourself, John Cavendish.”
    “What do you want me to do?” asked John, unable to help a faint smile. “Dash it all, Evie,
     I can't haul him down to the local police station by the scruff of his neck.”
    “Well, you might do something. Find out how he did it. He's a crafty beggar. Dare say he
     soaked fly papers. Ask Cook if she's missed any.”
    It occurred to me very forcibly at that moment that to harbour Miss Howard and Alfred
     Inglethorp under the same roof, and keep the peace between them, was likely to prove a
     Herculean task, and I did not envy John. I could see by the expression of his face that he
     fully appreciated the difficulty of the position. For the moment, he sought refuge in
     retreat, and left the room precipitately.
    Dorcas brought in fresh tea. As she left the room, Poirot came over from the window where
     he had been standing, and sat down facing Miss Howard.
    “Mademoiselle,” he said gravely, “I want to ask you something.”
    “Ask away,” said the lady, eyeing him with some disfavour.
    “I want to be able to count upon your help.”
    “I'll help you to hang Alfred with pleasure,” she replied gruffly. “Hanging's too good for
     him. Ought to be drawn and quartered, like in good old times.”
    “We are at one then,” said Poirot, “for I, too, want to hang the criminal.”
    “Alfred Inglethorp?”
    “Him, or another.”
    “No question of another. Poor Emily was never murdered until
    
    
     he
    
    
     came along. I don't say she wasn't surrounded by sharks - she was. But it was only her
     purse they were after. Her life was safe enough. But along comes Mr. Alfred Inglethorp -
     and within two months - hey presto!”
    “Believe me, Miss Howard,” said Poirot very earnestly, “if Mr. Inglethorp is the man, he
     shall not escape me. On my honour, I will hang him as high as Haman!”
    “That's better,” said Miss Howard more enthusiastically.
    “But I must ask you to trust me. Now your help may be very valuable to me. I will tell you
     why. Because, in all this house of mourning, yours are the only eyes that have wept.”
    Miss Howard blinked, and a new note crept into the gruffness of her voice. “If you mean
     that I was fond of her - yes, I was. You know, Emily was a selfish old woman in her way.
     She was very generous, but she always wanted a return. She never let people forget what
     she had done for them - and, that way she missed love. Don't think she ever realized it,
     though, or felt the lack of it. Hope not, anyway. I was on a different footing. I took my
     stand from the first. 'So many pounds a year I'm worth to you. Well and good. But not a
     penny piece besides - not a pair of gloves, nor a theatre ticket.' She didn't understand -
     was very offended sometimes. Said I was foolishly proud. It wasn't that - but I couldn't
     explain. Anyway, I kept my self-respect. And so, out of the whole bunch, I was the only
     one who could allow myself to be fond of her. I watched over her. I guarded her from the
     lot of them, and then a glib-tongued scoundrel comes along, and pooh! all my years of
     devotion go for nothing.”
    Poirot nodded sympathetically. “I understand, mademoiselle, I understand all you feel. It
     is most natural. You think that we are lukewarm - that we lack fire and energy - but trust
     me, it is not so.”
    John stuck his head in at this juncture, and invited us both to come up to Mrs.
     Inglethorp's room, as he and Mr. Wells had finished looking through the desk in the
     boudoir.
    As we went up the stairs, John looked back to the dining room door, and lowered his voice
     confidentially: “Look here, what's going to happen when these two meet?”
    I shook my head helplessly.
    “I've told