The Mysterious Affair at Styles | Page 9

ushered the doctor in, the
latter laughing, and protesting that he was in no fit state for a
drawing-room. In truth, he presented a sorry spectacle, being literally
plastered with mud.
"What have you been doing, doctor?" cried Mrs. Cavendish.

"I must make my apologies," said the doctor. "I did not really mean to
come in, but Mr. Inglethorp insisted."
"Well, Bauerstein, you are in a plight," said John, strolling in from the
hall. "Have some coffee, and tell us what you have been up to."
"Thank you, I will." He laughed rather ruefully, as he described how he
had discovered a very rare species of fern in an inaccessible place, and
in his efforts to obtain it had lost his footing, and slipped ignominiously
into a neighbouring pond.
"The sun soon dried me off," he added, "but I'm afraid my appearance
is very disreputable."
At this juncture, Mrs. Inglethorp called to Cynthia from the hall, and
the girl ran out.
"Just carry up my despatch-case, will you, dear? I'm going to bed."
The door into the hall was a wide one. I had risen when Cynthia did,
John was close by me. There were therefore three witnesses who could
swear that Mrs. Inglethorp was carrying her coffee, as yet untasted, in
her hand.
My evening was utterly and entirely spoilt by the presence of Dr.
Bauerstein. It seemed to me the man would never go. He rose at last,
however, and I breathed a sigh of relief.
"I'll walk down to the village with you," said Mr. Inglethorp. "I must
see our agent over those estate accounts." He turned to John. "No one
need sit up. I will take the latch-key."
CHAPTER III.
THE NIGHT OF THE TRAGEDY
To make this part of my story clear, I append the following plan of the
first floor of Styles. The servants' rooms are reached through the door B.

They have no communication with the right wing, where the
Inglethorps' rooms were situated.
It seemed to be the middle of the night when I was awakened by
Lawrence Cavendish. He had a candle in his hand, and the agitation of
his face told me at once that something was seriously wrong.
"What's the matter?" I asked, sitting up in bed, and trying to collect my
scattered thoughts.
"We are afraid my mother is very ill. She seems to be having some kind
of fit. Unfortunately she has locked herself in."
"I'll come at once."
I sprang out of bed; and, pulling on a dressing-gown, followed
Lawrence along the passage and the gallery to the right wing of the
house.
John Cavendish joined us, and one or two of the servants were standing
round in a state of awe-stricken excitement. Lawrence turned to his
brother.
"What do you think we had better do?"
Never, I thought, had his indecision of character been more apparent.
John rattled the handle of Mrs. Inglethorp's door violently, but with no
effect. It was obviously locked or bolted on the inside. The whole
household was aroused by now. The most alarming sounds were
audible from the interior of the room. Clearly something must be done.
"Try going through Mr. Inglethorp's room, sir," cried Dorcas. "Oh, the
poor mistress!"
Suddenly I realized that Alfred Inglethorp was not with us--that he
alone had given no sign of his presence. John opened the door of his
room. It was pitch dark, but Lawrence was following with the candle,
and by its feeble light we saw that the bed had not been slept in, and

that there was no sign of the room having been occupied.
We went straight to the connecting door. That, too, was locked or
bolted on the inside. What was to be done?
"Oh, dear, sir," cried Dorcas, wringing her hands, "what ever shall we
do?"
"We must try and break the door in, I suppose. It'll be a tough job,
though. Here, let one of the maids go down and wake Baily and tell
him to go for Dr. Wilkins at once. Now then, we'll have a try at the
door. Half a moment, though, isn't there a door into Miss Cynthia's
rooms?"
"Yes, sir, but that's always bolted. It's never been undone."
"Well, we might just see."
He ran rapidly down the corridor to Cynthia's room. Mary Cavendish
was there, shaking the girl--who must have been an unusually sound
sleeper--and trying to wake her.
In a moment or two he was back.
"No good. That's bolted too. We must break in the door. I think this one
is a shade less solid than the one in the passage."
We strained and heaved together. The framework of the door was solid,
and for a long time it resisted our efforts, but at last we felt it give
beneath our weight,