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.

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