Загадочное происшествие в Стайлзе / The Mysterious Affair at Styles. Книга для чтения на английском языке.

In her soft grey frock, with white ruffles at the wrists falling over her slender hands, she looked very beautiful. When she chose, however, her face could be sphinx-like in its inscrutability. She was very silent, hardly opening her lips, and yet in some queer way I felt that the great strength of her personality was dominating us all.

And little Cynthia? Did she suspect? She looked very tired and ill, I thought. The heaviness and languor of her manner were very marked. I asked her if she were feeling ill, and she answered frankly:

‘Yes, I’ve got the most beastly headache.

‘Have another cup of coffee, mademoiselle?’ said Poirot solicitously. ‘It will revive you. It is unparalleled for the mal de t?te[94 - mal de t?te – (фр.) мигрень, головная боль].’ He jumped up and took her cup.

‘No sugar,’ said Cynthia, watching him, as he picked up the sugar tongs.

‘No sugar? You abandon it in the wartime, eh?’

‘No, I never take it in coffee.’

‘Sacrе![95 - Sacrе! – (фр.) зд. Господи!]’ murmured Poirot to himself, as he brought back the replenished cup.

Only I heard him, and glancing up curiously at the little man I saw that his face was working with suppressed excitement, and his eyes were as green as a cat’s. He had heard or seen something that had affected him strongly—but what was it? I do not usually label myself as dense, but I must confess that nothing out of the ordinary had attracted my attention.

In another moment, the door opened and Dorcas appeared.

‘Mr Wells to see you, sir,’ she said to John.

I remembered the name as being that of the lawyer to whom Mrs Inglethorp had written the night before.

John rose immediately.

‘Show him into my study.’ Then he turned to us. ‘My mother’s lawyer,’ he explained. And in a lower voice: ‘He is also Coroner—you understand. Perhaps you would like to come with me?’

We acquiesced and followed him out of the room. John strode on ahead and I took the opportunity of whispering to Poirot:

‘There will be an inquest then?’

Poirot nodded absently.

‘What is it? You are not attending to what I say.’

‘It is true, my friend. I am much worried.’

‘Why?’

‘Because Mademoiselle Cynthia does not take sugar in her coffee.’

‘What? You cannot be serious?’

‘But I am most serious. Ah, there is something there that I do not understand.