The Mysterious Affair at Styles

Imagination is a good servant, and a bad master.

Nevertheless, in view of the world-wide notoriety which attended it, I have 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 rumours which still persist.
I will therefore briefly set down the circumstances which led to my being connected with the affair.

We had a good yarn about old times, and it ended in his inviting me down to Styles to spend my leave there.

vous fâchez pas!

beau­ti­ful, so beau­ti­ful, and yet, the poor fam­ily, plunged in sor­row, pros­trated with grief.

I turned to Lawrence, to sug­gest that I had bet­ter leave them now that there was no fur­ther need of my ser­vices, but the words were frozen on my lips. Never have I seen such a ghastly look on any man’s face. He was white as chalk, the candle he held in his shak­ing hand was sput­ter­ing onto the car­pet, and his eyes, pet­ri­fied with ter­ror, or some such kindred emo­tion, stared fix­edly over my head at a point on the fur­ther wall. It was as though he had seen some­thing that turned him to stone. I in­stinct­ively fol­lowed the dir­ec­tion of his eyes, but I could see noth­ing un­usual. The still feebly flick­er­ing ashes in the grate, and the row of prim or­na­ments on the man­tel­piece, were surely harm­less enough.

. Rolle­ston. Lady Tad­min­ster’s sis­ter,

Mary Cav­endish

John Cav­endish.

John Cav­endish.