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The Cornish Mystery
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About This Book
In Agatha Christie's short story, "The Cornish Mystery, " Poirot is asked to help a Cornwall woman who believes she is being poisoned by her husband. When Poirot and Hastings visit her home, they are shocked to find she has died. But is it really her husband who did the poisoning? This short story originally appeared in the November 28, 1923 issue of The Sketch magazine.
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The Cornish Mystery
āMRS Pengelley,ā announced our landlady, and withdrew discreetly.
Many unlikely people came to consult Poirot, but to my mind, the woman who stood nervously just inside the door, fingering her feather neck-piece, was the most unlikely of all. She was so extraordinarily commonplaceāa thin, faded woman of about fifty, dressed in a braided coat and skirt, some gold jewellery at her neck, and with her grey hair surmounted by a singularly unbecoming hat. In a country town, you pass a hundred Mrs Pengelleys in the street every day.
Poirot came forward and greeted her pleasantly, perceiving her obvious embarrassment.
āMadame! Take a chair, I beg of you. My colleague, Captain Hastings.ā
The lady sat down, murmuring uncertainly: āYou are M. Poirot, the detective?ā
āAt your service, madame.ā
But our guest was still tongue-tied. She sighed, twisted her fingers, and grew steadily redder and redder.
āThere is something I can do for you, eh, madame?ā
āWell, I thoughtāthat isāyou seeāā
āProceed, madame, I beg of youāproceed.ā
Mrs Pengelley, thus encouraged, took a grip on herself.
āItās this way, M. PoirotāI donāt want to have anything to do with the police. No, I wouldnāt go to the police for anything! But all the same, Iām sorely troubled about something. And yet I donāt know if I oughtāā She stopped abruptly.
āMe, I have nothing to do with the police. My investigations are strictly private.ā
Mrs Pengelley caught at the word.
āPrivateāthatās what I want. I donāt want any talk or fuss, or things in the papers. Wicked it is, the way they write things, until the family could never hold up their heads again. And it isnāt as though I was even sureāitās just a dreadful idea thatās come to me, and put it out of my head I canāt.ā She paused for breath. āAnd all the time I may be wickedly wronging poor Edward. Itās a terrible thought for any wife to have. But you do read of such dreadful things nowadays.ā
āPermit meāit is of your husband you speak?ā
āYes.ā
āAnd you suspect him ofāwhat?ā
āI donāt like even to say it, M. Poirot. But you do read of such things happeningāand the poor souls suspecting nothing.ā
I was beginning to despair of the ladyās ever coming to the point, but Poirotās patience was equal to the demand made upon it.
āSpeak without fear, madame. Think what joy will be yours if we are able to prove your suspicions unfounded.ā
āThatās trueāanythingās better than this wearing uncertainty. Oh, M. Poirot, Iām dreadfully afraid Iām being poisoned.ā
āWhat makes you think so?ā
Mrs Pengelley, her reticence leaving her, plunged into a full recital more suited to the ears of her medical attendant.
āPain and sickness after food, eh?ā said Poirot thoughtfully. āYou have a doctor attending you...
Table of contents
- About Agatha Christie
- The Cornish Mystery