Загадочное происшествие в Стайлзе
Chapter V. “It Isn’t Strychnine, Is It?”
Alreadyhewasalmostrestoredtohisnormalself.Theshockoftheeventsofthelastnighthadupsethimtemporarily,buthisequablepoisesoonswungbacktothenormal.Hewasamanofverylittleimagination,insharpcontrastwithhisbrother,whohad,perhaps,toomuch.
Eversincetheearlyhoursofthemorning,Johnhadbeenhardatwork,sendingtelegrams—oneofthefirsthadgonetoEvelynHoward—writingnoticesforthepapers,andgenerallyoccupyinghimselfwiththemelancholydutiesthatadeathentails.
“MayIaskhowthingsareproceeding?”hesaid.“Doyourinvestigationspointtomymotherhavingdiedanaturaldeath—or—ormustweprepareourselvesfortheworst?”
“Ithink,Mr.Cavendish,”saidPoirotgravely,“thatyouwoulddowellnottobuoyyourselfupwithanyfalsehopes.Canyoutellmetheviewsoftheothermembersofthefamily?”
“MybrotherLawrenceisconvincedthatwearemakingafussovernothing.Hesaysthateverythingpointstoitsbeingasimplecaseofheartfailure.”
“Hedoes,doeshe?Thatisveryinteresting—veryinteresting,”murmuredPoirotsoftly.“AndMrs.Cavendish?”
AfaintcloudpassedoverJohn’sface.
“Ihavenottheleastideawhatmywife’sviewsonthesubjectare.”
Theanswerbroughtamomentarystiffnessinitstrain.Johnbroketheratherawkwardsilencebysayingwithaslighteffort:
“Itoldyou,didn’tI,thatMr.Inglethorphasreturned?”
Poirotbenthishead.
“It’sanawkwardpositionforallofus.
