Criminal - Phoebe Reads a Mystery

Episode Date: March 24, 2020

Phoebe reads Agatha Christie’s first novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles. For more, visit Phoebe Reads a Mystery on its own feed. Apple: https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/phoebe-reads-a-mystery/id1503921457 Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/show/4aqOirMxxorVMFcVRvDusi RSS: http://feeds.feedburner.com/PhoebeReadsAMystery Learn more about your ad choices. Visit podcastchoices.com/adchoices

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That's BotoxCosmetic.com. That's BotoxCosmetic.com. Hi, it's Phoebe. Criminal is working from home these days, probably just like you. Nothing will change about our episode release schedule and our other show, This Is Love, is coming back April 1st. Season four of This Is Love is all about animals. I, for one, would rather think about wild animals than just about anything else right now. I'm already becoming one of those people who spends a lot of time staring at the bird feeder. One thing that's been making me feel a little more at ease has been reading fiction. I started reading Agatha Christie's first published novel, The Mysterious Affair at Stiles,

and I thought, maybe I could read it to you. A chapter a day, until we get to the end. No ads, just a good mystery. We have chapter one here, and chapter two is waiting for you over in its own feed. Just search for Phoebe Reads a Mystery, and we'll have a link in the show notes. So, here we go. The Mysterious Affair at Stiles by Agatha Christie was known at the time as the Stiles case has now somewhat subsided. Nevertheless, in view of the worldwide notoriety which attended it,

I've been asked, both by my friend Poirot and the family themselves, to write an account of the whole story. This, we trust, will effectually silence the sensational rumors which still persist. I will therefore briefly set down the circumstances which led to me being connected with the affair. I'd been invalided home from the front, and after spending some months in a rather depressing convalescent home, was given a month's sick leave. Having no near relations or friends, I was trying to make up my mind what to do

when I ran across John Cavendish. I'd seen very little of him for some years. Indeed, I'd never known him particularly well. He was a good fifteen years my senior, for one thing, though he hardly looked his forty-five years. As a boy, though, I'd often stayed at Stiles, his mother's place in Essex. We'd a good yarn about old times, and it ended in his inviting me down to Stiles, his mother's place in Essex. We'd a good yarn about old times,

and it ended in his inviting me down to Stiles to spend my leave there. The mater will be delighted to see you again after all these years, he added. Your mother keeps well, I asked. Oh, yes, I suppose you know that she's married again. I'm afraid I showed my surprise rather plainly. Mrs. Cavendish, who had married John's father when he was a widower with two sons, had been a handsome woman of middle age as I remembered her. She certainly could not be a day less than seventy now.

I recalled her as an energetic, autocratic personality, somewhat inclined to charitable and social notoriety, with a fondness for opening bazaars and playing the lady bountiful. She was a most generous woman, and possessed a considerable fortune of her own. Their country place, Stiles Court, had been purchased by Mr. Cavendish early in their married life. He'd been completely under his wife's ascendancy, so much so that, on dying, he left the place to her for her lifetime, as well as the larger part of his income, an arrangement that was distinctly unfair to his two sons. Their stepmother, however, had always been most generous to them. They were so young at the time of their father's

remarriage that they always thought of her as their own mother. Lawrence, the younger, had been a delicate youth. He'd qualified as a doctor, but early relinquished the profession of medicine and lived at home while pursuing literary ambitions, though his verses never had any marked success. John practiced for some time as a barrister, but had finally settled down to the more congenial life of a country squire. He had married two years ago, and had taken his wife to live at Stiles, though I entertained a shrewd suspicion that he would have preferred his mother to increase his allowance,

which would have enabled him to have a home of his own. Mrs. Cavendish, however, was a lady who liked to make her own plans, and expected other people to fall in with them, and in this case, she certainly had the whip hand, namely, the purse strings. John noticed my surprise at the news of his mother's remarriage, and smiled rather ruefully. Rotten little bounder, too, he said savagely. I can tell you, Hastings, it's making life jolly difficult for us. As for Evie, you remember Evie?

No? Oh, I suppose she was after your time. She's the mater's factotum, companion, jack-of-all-trades. A great sport, old Evie. Not precisely young and beautiful, but as game as they make them. You were going to say? Oh, this fellow. He turned up from nowhere

on the pretext of being a second cousin or something of Evie's, though she didn't seem particularly keen to acknowledge the relationship. The fellow is an absolute outsider. Anyone can see that. He's got a great black beard and wears patent leather boots in all weathers.

But the mater caught into him at once, took him on as secretary. You know how she's always running a hundred societies. I nodded. Well, of course, the war has turned the hundreds into thousands. "'No doubt the fellow was very useful to her. "'But you could have knocked us all down with a feather "'when three months ago she suddenly announced

"'that she and Alfred were engaged. "'The fellow must be at least twenty years younger than she is. "'It's simply bare-faced fortune-hunting. But there you are. She's her own mistress, and she's married him. It must be a difficult situation for you all. Difficult? It's damnable. Thus it came about that three days later

I descended from the train at Stiles St. Mary, an absurd little station with no apparent reason for existence, perched up in the midst of green fields and country lanes. John Cavendish was waiting on the platform and piloted me out to the car. Got a drop or two of petrol still, you see, he remarked, mainly owing to the mater's activities. The village of Stiles St. Mary was situated about two miles from the little station, and Stiles Court lay a mile the other side of it. It was a still, warm day in early July. As one looked out over the flat Essex country, lying so

green and peaceful under the afternoon sun, it seemed almost impossible to believe that not so very far away, a great war was running its appointed course. I felt I had suddenly strayed into another world. As we turned in at the lodge gates, John said, I'm afraid you'll find it very quiet down here, Hastings. My dear fellow, that's just what I want. Oh, it's pleasant enough if you want to lead the idle life. I drill with the volunteers twice a week and lend a hand at the farms. My wife works regularly on the land. She's up at five every morning to milk

and keeps at it steadily until lunchtime. It's a jolly good life taking it all around, if it weren't for that fellow, Alfred Inglethorpe. He checked the car suddenly and glanced at his watch. I wonder if we've time to pick up Cynthia. No, she'll have started from the hospital by now. Cynthia, that's not your wife. No, Cynthia's a protege of my mother's,

the daughter of an old schoolfellow of hers, who married a rascally solicitor. He came a cropper, and the girl was left an orphan and penniless. My mother came to the rescue, and Cynthia has been with us nearly two years now. She works in the Red Cross Hospital at Tadminster, seven miles away. As he spoke the last words, we drew up in front of the fine old house.

A lady in a stout tweed skirt who was bending over a flower bed straightened herself at our approach. Hello, Evie. Here's our wounded hero, Mr. Hastings. Miss Howard. Miss Howard shook hands with a hearty, almost painful grip. I had an impression of very blue eyes and a sunburnt face.

She was a pleasant-looking woman of about forty, with a deep voice, almost manly in its centaurian tones, and had a large, sensible, square body, with feet to match, these last encased in good thick boots. Her conversation, I soon found, was couched in the telegraphic style. Weeds grow like house afire, can't keep even with them, she'll press you in, better be careful. I'm sure I shall only be too delighted "'to make myself useful,' I responded.

"'Don't say it. Never does. "'Wish you hadn't later.' "'You're a cynic, Evie,' said John, laughing. "'What's tea today, inside or out?' "'Out. Too fine a day to be cooped up in the house.' "'Come on, then. "'You've done enough gardening for today. "'The laborer is

worthy of his hire, you know. Come and be refreshed. Well, said Miss Howard, drawing off her gardening gloves, I'm inclined to agree with you. She led the way round the house to where tea was spread under the shade of a large sycamore. A figure rose from one of the basket chairs and came a few steps to meet us. My wife, Hastings, said John. I shall never forget my first sight of Mary Cavendish. Her tall, slender form outlined against the bright light. The vivid sense of slumbering fire that seemed to find expression only in those wonderful tawny eyes of hers, remarkable eyes, different from any other woman's that I've ever known, the intense power of stillness she possessed, which nevertheless

conveyed the impression of a wild, untamed spirit in an exquisitely civilized body. All these things are burnt into my memory. I shall never forget them. She greeted me with a few words of pleasant welcome in a low, clear voice, and I sank into a basket chair feeling distinctly glad that I had accepted John's invitation. Mrs. Cavendish gave me some tea, and her few quiet remarks heightened my first impression of her as a thoroughly fascinating woman. An appreciative listener is always stimulating.

As I described in a humorous manner certain incidents of my convalescent home in a way which, I flatter myself, greatly amused my hostess. John, of course good fellow though he is, could hardly be called a brilliant conversationalist. At that moment, a well-remembered voice floated through the open French window, near at hand. Then you'll write to the princess after tea, Alfred. I'll write to Lady Tadminster for the second day myself.

Or shall we wait until we hear from the princess? In case of a refusal, Lady Tadminster might open it the first day, and Mrs. Crosby the second, then there's the duchess about the school fete. There was the murmur of a man's voice, and then Mrs. Inglethorpe rose in reply, Yes, certainly, after tea will do quite well. You're so thoughtful, Alfred dear.

The French window swung open a little wider, and a handsome white-haired old lady with a somewhat masterful cast of features stepped out of it onto the lawn. A man followed her, a suggestion of deference in his manner. "'Mrs. Inglethorpe greeted me with effusion. "'Why, if it isn't too delightful to see you again, Mr. Hastings, "'after all these years. "'Alfred, darling, Mr. Hastings, my husband.' "'I look with some curiosity at Alfred, darling. "'He certainly struck a rather alien note.

I did not wonder at John objecting to his beard. It was one of the longest and blackest I've ever seen. He wore gold-rimmed pince-nez and had a curious impassivity of feature. It struck me that he might look natural on a stage, but was strangely out of place in real life. His voice was rather deep and unctuous. He placed a wooden hand in mine and said, This is a pleasure, Mr. Hastings. Then turning to his wife, Emily, dearest, I think that cushion is a little damp. She beamed fondly on him as he substituted another with every demonstration of the tenderest care. Strange infatuation of an otherwise sensible woman.

With the presence of Mr. Inglethorpe, a sense of constraint and veiled hostility seemed to settle down upon the company. Miss Howard, in particular, took no pains to conceal her feelings. Mrs. Inglethorpe, however, seemed to notice nothing unusual. Her volubility, which I remembered of old, had lost nothing in the intervening years, and she poured out a steady flood of conversation, mainly on the subject of the forthcoming bazaar, which she was organizing and which was to take place shortly.

Occasionally she referred to her husband over a question of days or dates. His watchful and attentive manner never varied. From the very first I took a firm and rooted dislike to him, and I flatter myself that my first judgments are usually fairly shrewd. Presently Mrs. Inglethorpe turned to give some instructions about letters to Evelyn Howard, and her husband addressed me in his painstaking voice. Is soldiering your regular profession, Mr. Hastings? No. Before the war, I was in Lloyd's. And you'll return there after it's over? Perhaps. Either that or a fresh start altogether.

Mary Cavendish leant forward. What would you really choose as a profession if you could just consult your inclination? Well, that depends. No secret hobby, she asked. Tell me, you're drawn to something. Everyone is. Usually something absurd.

You'll laugh at me. She smiled. Perhaps. Well, I've always had a secret hankering to be a detective. The real thing, Scotland Yard, or Sherlock Holmes? Oh, Sherlock Holmes by all means. But really, seriously, I'm awfully drawn to it. I came across a man in Belgium once, a very famous detective, and he quite inflamed me. He was a marvelous little fellow. He used to say that all good detective work was a mere matter of method.

My system is based on his, though, of course, I've progressed rather further. He was a funny little man, a great dandy, but wonderfully clever. Like a good detective story myself, remarked Miss Howard. Lots of nonsense written, though. Criminal discovered in last chapter. Everyone dumbfounded. Real crime.

You'd know at once. There have been a great number of undiscovered crimes, I argued. Don't mean the police, but the people that are right in it. The family. You couldn't really hoodwink them. They'd know. Then, I said much amused, you think that if you were mixed up in a crime, say a murder, you'd be able to spot the murderer right off? Of course I should. Mightn't be able to spot the murderer right off? Of course I should.

Mightn't be able to prove it to a pack of lawyers. But I'm certain I'd know. I'd feel it in my fingertips if he came near me. It might be a she, I suggested. Might. But murder's a violent crime. Associate it more with a man. Not in a case of poisoning, Mrs. Cavendish's clear voice startled

me. Dr. Bowerstein was saying yesterday that, owing to the general ignorance of the more uncommon poisons among the medical profession, there were probably countless cases of poisoning, quite unsuspected. Why, Mary, what a gruesome conversation, cried Mrs. Inglethorpe. It makes me feel as if a goose were walking over my grave. Oh, there's Cynthia. A young girl in a V.A.D. uniform ran lightly across the lawn. Why, Cynthia, you're late today. This is Mr. Hastings, Miss Murdoch.

Cynthia Murdoch was a fresh-looking young creature, full of life and vigor. She tossed off her little V.A.D. cap, and I admired the great loose waves of her auburn hair, and the smallness and whiteness of the hand she held out to claim her tea. With dark eyes and eyelashes, she would have been a beauty. She flung herself down on the ground beside John, and as I handed her a plate of sandwiches, she smiled up at me. Sit down here on the grass. It's ever so much nicer. I dropped down obediently.

You work at Tadminster, don't you, Miss Murdoch? She nodded. For my sins. Do they bully you then? I asked, smiling. I should like to see them, cried Cynthia with dignity. I've got a cousin who is nursing, I remarked, and she's terrified of sisters. I don't wonder. Sisters are, you know, Mr. Hastings. They simply are. You've no idea. But I'm not a nurse, thank heaven.

I work in the dispensary. How many people do you poison? I asked, smiling. Cynthia smiled, too. Oh, hundreds, she said. Cynthia, called Mrs. Inglethorpe, do you think you could write a few notes for me? Certainly, Aunt Emily.

She jumped up promptly, and something in her manner reminded me that her position was a dependent one, and that Mrs. Inglethorpe, kind as she might be in the main, did not allow her to forget it. My hostess turned to me. John, we'll show you up to your room. Supper is at half-past seven.

We've given up late dinner for some time now. Lady Tadminster, our member's wife, she was the late Lord Abertsbury's daughter, does the same. She agrees with me that one must set up an example of economy. We are quite a war household. Nothing is wasted here. Every scrap of waste paper, even, is saved and sent away in sacks. I express my appreciation, and John took me into the house and up the broad staircase,

which forked right and left halfway to different wings of the building. My room was in the left wing and looked out over the park. John left me, and a few minutes later I saw him from my window walking slowly across the grass, arm in arm with Cynthia Murdoch. I heard Mrs. Inglethorpe call Cynthia impatiently, and the girl started and ran back to the house. At the same moment, a man stepped out from the shadow of a tree and walked slowly in the same direction. He looked about 40, very dark, with a melancholy, clean-shaven face. Some violent emotion seemed to be mastering him.

He looked up at my window as he passed, and I recognized him, though he had changed much in the 15 years that had elapsed since we last met. It was John's younger brother, Lawrence Cavendish. I wondered what it was that had brought that singular expression to his face. Then I dismissed him from my mind and returned to the contemplation of my own affairs. The evening passed pleasantly enough, and I dreamed that night of the ignomodical woman, Mary Cavendish.

The next morning dawned bright and sunny, and I was full of the anticipation of a delightful visit. I did not see Mrs. Cavendish until lunchtime, when she volunteered to take me for a walk, and we spent a charming afternoon roaming in the woods, returning to the house about five. As we entered the large hall, John beckoned us both into the smoking room. I saw at once by his face that something disturbing had occurred.

We followed him in, and he shut the door after us. Look here, Mary, there's the deuce of a mess. Evie's had a row with Alfred Inglethorpe, and she's off. Evie, off? John nodded gloomily. Yes, you see, she went to the modder and, oh, here's Evie herself. Mrs. Howard entered.

Her lips were set grimly together and she carried a small suitcase. She looked excited and determined and slightly on the defensive. At any rate, she burst out, I've spoken my mind. My dear Evelyn, cried Mrs. At any rate, she burst out, I've spoken my mind. My dear Evelyn, cried Mrs. Cavendish, this can't be true.

Miss Howard nodded grimly. True enough. Afraid I said some things to Emily she won't forget or forgive in a hurry. Don't mind if they've only sunk in a bit. Probably water off a duck's back, though. I said right out, you're an old woman,

Emily, and there's no fool like an old fool. The man's twenty years younger than you, and don't you fool yourself as to what he married you for. Money. Well, don't let him have too much of it. Farmer Rakes has got a very pretty young wife. Just ask your Alfred how much time he spends over there. She was very angry, natural. I went on, I'm going to warn you, whether you like it or not, that man when he soon murder you in your bed is look at you. He's a bad lot. You can say what you like to me, but remember what I've told you. He's a bad lot. What did she say? Miss Howard made an extremely expressive grimace. Darling Alfred, dearest Alfred, wicked lies, wicked woman, to accuse her dear husband.

The sooner I left her house, the better. So I'm off. But not now. This minute. For a moment, we sat and stared at her. Finally, John Cavendish, finding his persuasions of no avail, went off to look up the trains.

His wife followed him, murmuring something about persuading finding his persuasions of no avail, went off to look up the trains. His wife followed him, murmuring something about persuading Mrs. Inglethorpe to think better of it. As she left the room, Miss Howard's face changed. Mr. Hastings, you're honest. I can trust you. I was a little startled. She laid her hand on my arm and sank her voice to a whisper. "'Look after her, Mr. Hastings, my poor Emily.

"'There are a lot of sharks, all of them. "'Oh, I know what I'm talking about. "'There isn't one of them that's not hard up "'and trying to get money out of her. "'I've protected her as much as I could. "'Now I'm out of the way, they'll impose upon her.' "'Of course, Miss Howard,' I said, "'I'll do everything I can.

"'But I'm sure you're excited and overwrought.' "'She interrupted me by slowly shaking her forefinger. "'Young man, trust me, "'I've lived in the world rather longer than you have. "'All I ask you is to keep your eyes open. "'You'll see what I mean.' "'The throb of the motor came through the open window, "'and Miss Howard rose and moved to the door.

"'John's voice sounded outside. "'With her hand on the handle, "'she turned her head over her shoulder and beckoned to me. Above all, Mr. Hastings, watch that devil, her husband. There was no time for more. Miss Howard was swallowed up in an eager chorus of protests and goodbyes. The Inglethorpes did not appear. As the motor drove away,

Mrs. Cavendish suddenly detached herself from the group and moved across the drive to the lawn to meet a tall bearded man who'd been evidently making for the house. The color rose in her cheeks as she held out her hand to him. Who was that? I asked sharply, for instinctively I distrusted the man.

That's Dr. Bowerstein, said John shortly. And who is Dr. Bowerstein? He's staying in the village doing a rest cure after a bad nervous breakdown. He's a London specialist, a very clever man, one of the greatest living experts on poisons, I believe. And he's a great friend of Mary's, put in Cynthia, the irrepressible. John Cavendish frowned and changed the subject.

Come for a stroll, Hastings. This has been most rotten business. She's always had a rough tongue, but there's no stauncher friend in England than Evelyn Howard. He took the path through the plantation, and we walked down to the village through the woods which bordered one side of the estate. As we passed through one of the gates on our way home again,

a pretty young woman came in the opposite direction, bowed and smiled. That's a pretty girl, I remarked. John's face hardened. That is Mrs. Rakes. The one that Miss Howard... Exactly, said John, with rather unnecessary abruptness. I thought of the white-haired old lady in the big house

and that vivid, wicked little face that had just smiled into ours, and a vague chill of foreboding crept over me. I brushed it aside. Stiles is really a glorious old place, I said to John. He nodded rather gloomily. Yes, it's a fine property. It'll be mine someday. Should be mine, now, by rights, if my father had only made a decent will. And then, I shouldn't be so damned hard up as I am now. Hard up, are you? My dear Hastings, I don't mind telling you that I'm at my wit's end for money. Couldn't your brother help you?

Lawrence? He's gone through every penny he ever had, publishing rotten verses in fancy bindings. No, we're an impecunious lot. My mother's always been awfully good to us, I must say. That is, up until now, since her marriage, of course. He broke off frowning. For the first time, I felt that, with Evelyn Howard, "'something indefinable had gone from the atmosphere.

"'Her presence had spelt security. "'Now that security was removed, "'and the air seemed rife with suspicion. "'The sinister face of Dr. Bowersteinowerstein recurred to me unpleasantly. A vague suspicion of everyone and everything filled my mind. Just for a moment, I had a premonition of approaching evil. The number one selling product of its kind with over 20 years of research and innovation. Botox Cosmetic, Adabotulinum Toxin A, is a prescription medicine used to temporarily make moderate to severe frown lines, crow's feet, and forehead lines look better in adults. Effects of Botox Cosmetic may spread hours to weeks after injection causing serious symptoms.

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