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heritage. Her family had nearly all died of drink, and she herself fell a victim to the same curse. Barely a
year after their marriage she had succumbed and had died a dipsomaniac's death. He did not blame her.
He realized that heredity had been too strong for her.
After her death he had settled down to lead a lonely life. He had determined, saddened by his
experience, not to marry again.
"One feels," he said simply, "safer alone."
"Yes, I can understand your feeling like that - at any rate at first."
"The whole thing was such a tragedy. It left me prematurely aged and embittered." He paused. "It's true
- I was once very much tempted. But she was so young - I didn't feel it would be fair to tie her to a
disillusioned man. I was too old for her - she was such a child - so pretty - so completely untouched."
He broke off, shaking his head.
"Wasn't that for her to judge?"
"I don't know, Hastings. I thought not. She - she seemed to like me. But then, as I say, she was so
young. I shall always remember her as I saw her the last day of that leave. Her head a little on one side -
that slightly bewildered look - her little hand -"
He stopped. The words conjured up a picture that seemed vaguely familiar, though I could not think
why.
Boyd Carrington's voice, suddenly harsh, broke into my thoughts.
"I was a fool," he said. "Any man is a fool who lets opportunity slip by him. Anyway, here I am, with a
great mansion of a house far too big for me, and no gracious presence to sit at the head of my table."
To me there was a charm in his slightly old-fashioned way of putting things. It conjured up a picture of
old-world charm and ease.
"Where is the lady now?" I asked.
"Oh - married." He turned it off briefly. "Fact is, Hastings, I'm cut out now for a bachelor existence. I've
got my little ways. Come and look at the gardens. They've been badly neglected, but they're very fine in
their way."
We walked round the place and I was much impressed with all I saw. Knatton was undoubtedly a very
fine estate and I did not wonder that Boyd Carrington was proud of it. He knew the neighbourhood well
and most of the people roundabout, though of course there had been newcomers since his time.
He had known Colonel Luttrell in the old days and expressed his earnest hope that the Styles venture
was going to pay.
"Poor old Toby Luttrell's very hard up, you know," he said. "Nice fellow. Good soldier too and a very
fine shot. Went on safari with him in Africa once. Ah, those were the days! He was married then, of
course, but his missus didn't come along, thank goodness. Pretty woman she was - but always a bit of a
Tartar. Funny the things a man will stand from a woman. Old Toby Luttrell who used to make subalterns
shake in their shoes, he was such a stern martinet! And there he is, henpecked and bullied and meek as
they make 'em! No doubt about it, that woman's got a tongue like vinegar. Still, she's got a head on her.
If anyone can make the place pay, she will. Luttrell never had much of a head for business - but Mrs
Toby would skin her grandmother!"
"She's so gushing with it all," I complained.
Boyd Carrington looked amused.
"I know. All sweetness. But have you played bridge with them?"
I replied feelingly that I had.
"On the whole I steer clear of women bridge players," said Boyd Carrington. "And if you take my tip,
you'll do the same."
I told him how uncomfortable Norton and myself had felt on the first evening of my arrival.
"Exactly. One doesn't know where to look!"
He added:
"Nice fellow, Norton. Very quiet though. Always looking at birds and things. Doesn't care for shooting
them, he told me. Extraordinary! No feeling for sport. I told him he missed a lot. Can't see myself what
excitement there can be stalking about through cold woods peering at birds through glasses."
How little we realized then that Norton's hobby might have an important part to play in the events that
were to come.
Chapter 8
The days passed. It was an unsatisfactory time - with its uneasy feeling of waiting for something.
Nothing, if I may put it in such a way, actually happened. Yet there were incidents, scraps of odd
conversations, sidelights upon the various inmates of Styles, elucidating remarks. They all mounted up
and, if properly pieced together, could have done a lot towards enlightening me.
It was Poirot who, with a few forceful words showed me something to which I had been criminally
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