“I strolled to the window, and saw at once that the begonia beds had been newly planted. The mould in the beds was exactly similar to that on the floor of the boudoir, and also I learnt from you that they had been planted yesterday afternoon. I was now sure that one, or possibly both of the gardeners– for there were two sets of footprints in the bed–had entered the boudoir, for if Mrs. Inglethorp had merely wished to speak to them she would in all probability have stood at the window, and they would not have come into the room at all. I was now quite convinced that she had made a fresh will, and had called the two gardeners in to witness her signature. Events proved that I was right in my supposition.”
“That was very ingenious,” I could not help admitting. “I must confess that the conclusions I drew from those few scribbled words were quite erroneous.”
He smiled.
“You gave too much rein to your imagination. Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master. The simplest explanation is always the most likely.”
“Another point–how did you know that the key of the despatch-case had been lost?”
“I did not know it. It was a guess that turned out to be correct. You observed that it had a piece of twisted wire through the handle. That suggested to me at once that it had possibly been wrenched off a flimsy key-ring. Now, if it had been lost and recovered, Mrs. Inglethorp would at once have replaced it on her bunch; but on her bunch I found what was obviously the duplicate key, very new and bright, which led me to the hypothesis that somebody else had inserted the original key in the lock of the despatch-case.”
“Yes,” I said, “Alfred Inglethorp, without doubt.”
Poirot looked at me curiously.
“You are very sure of his guilt?”
“Well, naturally. Every fresh circumstance seems to establish it more clearly.”
“On the contrary,” said Poirot quietly, “there are several points in his favour.”
“Oh, come now!”
“Yes.”
“I see only one.”
“And that?”
“That he was not in the house last night.”
” ‘Bad shot!’ as you English say! You have chosen the one point that to my mind tells against him.”
“How is that?”
“Because if Mr. Inglethorp knew that his wife would be poisoned last night, he would certainly have arranged to be away from the house. His excuse was an obviously trumped up one. That leaves us two possibilities: either he knew what was going to happen or he had a reason of his own for his absence.”
“And that reason?” I asked sceptically.
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“How should I know? Discreditable, without doubt. This Mr. Inglethorp, I should say, is somewhat of a scoundrel–but that does not of necessity make him a murderer.”
I shook my head, unconvinced.
“We do not agree, eh?” said Poirot. “Well, let us leave it. Time will show which of us is right. Now let us turn to other aspects of the case. What do you make of the fact that all the doors of the bedroom were bolted on the inside?”
“Well—-” I considered. “One must look at it logically.”
“True.”
“I should put it this way. The doors *WERE bolted–our own eyes have told us that–yet the presence of the candle grease on the floor, and the destruction of the will, prove that during the night some one entered the room. You agree so far?”
“Perfectly. Put with admirable clearness. Proceed.”
“Well,” I said, encouraged, “as the person who entered did not do so by the window, nor by miraculous means, it follows that the door must have been opened from inside by Mrs. Inglethorp herself. That strengthens the conviction that the person in question was her husband. She would naturally open the door to her own husband.”
Poirot shook his head.
“Why should she? She had bolted the door leading into his room–a most unusual proceeding on her part–she had had a most violent quarrel with him that very afternoon. No, he was the last person she would admit.”
“But you agree with me that the door must have been opened by Mrs. Inglethorp herself?”