スタイルズの怪事件　第三章　悲劇の夜

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.

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.

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?

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.

We stumbled in together, Lawrence still holding his candle.
Mrs. Inglethorp was lying on the bed, her whole form agitated by violent convulsions, in one of which she must have overturned the table beside her.
As we entered, however, her limbs relaxed, and she fell back upon the pillows.

John strode across the room, and lit the gas.
Turning to Annie, one of the housemaids, he sent her downstairs to the dining-room for brandy.
Then he went across to his mother whilst I unbolted the door that gave on the corridor.

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.

The violence of Mrs. Inglethorp’s attack seemed to be passing. She was able to speak in short gasps.

A shadow fell on the bed and, looking up, I saw Mary Cavendish standing near the door with her arm around Cynthia.
She seemed to be supporting the girl, who looked utterly dazed and unlike herself. Her face was heavily flushed, and she yawned repeatedly.

She herself, I noticed, was dressed in her white land smock.

Then it must be later than I thought.
I saw that a faint streak of daylight was showing through the curtains of the windows, and that the clock on the mantelpiece pointed to close upon five o’clock.

A strangled cry from the bed startled me.
A fresh access of pain seized the unfortunate old lady.
The convulsions were of a violence terrible to behold.
Everything was confusion.
We thronged round her, powerless to help or alleviate.
A final convulsion lifted her from the bed, until she appeared to rest upon her head and her heels, with her body arched in an extraordinary manner.
In vain Mary and John tried to administer more brandy.
The moments flew.
Again the body arched itself in that peculiar fashion.

At that moment, Dr. Bauerstein pushed his way authoritatively into the room. For one instant he stopped dead, staring at the figure on the bed, and, at the same instant, Mrs. Inglethorp cried out in a strangled voice, her eyes fixed on the doctor:

“Alfred—Alfred——” Then she fell back motionless on the pillows.

With a stride, the doctor reached the bed, and seizing her arms worked them energetically, applying what I knew to be artificial respiration.
He issued a few short sharp orders to the servants.
An imperious wave of his hand drove us all to the door.
We watched him, fascinated, though I think we all knew in our hearts that it was too late, and that nothing could be done now.
I could see by the expression on his face that he himself had little hope.
Finally he abandoned his task, shaking his head gravely.

At that moment, we heard footsteps outside, and Dr. Wilkins, Mrs. Inglethorp’s own doctor, a portly, fussy little man, came bustling in.

In a few words Dr. Bauerstein explained how he had happened to be passing the lodge gates as the car came out, and had run up to the house as fast as he could, whilst the car went on to fetch Dr. Wilkins.
With a faint gesture of the hand, he indicated the figure on the bed.

Dr. Bauerstein, I noticed, was watching the local doctor narrowly. He still kept his eyes fixed on him as he spoke.

He turned to John.

We all trooped out into the corridor, leaving the two doctors alone, and I heard the key turned in the lock behind us.
We went slowly down the stairs.
I was violently excited.
I have a certain talent for deduction, and Dr. Bauerstein’s manner had started a flock of wild surmises in my mind.
Mary Cavendish laid her hand upon my arm.

I looked round, the others were out of earshot.
I lowered my voice to a whisper.

And breaking from me, fled up the stairs.
I followed her, afraid that she was going to faint.
I found her leaning against the bannisters, deadly pale.
She waved me away impatiently.