THE MURDER OF
                             ROGER ACKROYD

                                   BY

                            AGATHA CHRISTIE

                               AUTHOR OF
                        THE SECRET OF CHIMNEYS,
                     THE MURDER ON THE LINKS, Etc.

                             [Illustration]

                            GROSSET & DUNLAP
                         PUBLISHERS    NEW YORK


                            Copyright, 1926,
                    By DODD, MEAD AND COMPANY, Inc.


                               To Punkie,
                    who likes an orthodox detective
                 story, murder, inquest, and suspicion
                     falling on every one in turn!







                               CONTENTS


  CHAPTER                                                           PAGE

      I  DR. SHEPPARD AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE                           1

     II  WHO’S WHO IN KING’S ABBOT                                     7

    III  THE MAN WHO GREW VEGETABLE MARROWS                           17

     IV  DINNER AT FERNLY                                             31

      V  MURDER                                                       49

     VI  THE TUNISIAN DAGGER                                          65

    VII  I LEARN MY NEIGHBOR’S PROFESSION                             75

   VIII  INSPECTOR RAGLAN IS CONFIDENT                                92

     IX  THE GOLDFISH POND                                           106

      X  THE PARLORMAID                                              118

     XI  POIROT PAYS A CALL                                          136

    XII  ROUND THE TABLE                                             145

   XIII  THE GOOSE QUILL                                             156

    XIV  MRS. ACKROYD                                                165

     XV  GEOFFREY RAYMOND                                            178

    XVI  AN EVENING AT MAH JONG                                      190

   XVII  PARKER                                                      202

  XVIII  CHARLES KENT                                                218

    XIX  FLORA ACKROYD                                               226

     XX  MISS RUSSELL                                                238

    XXI  THE PARAGRAPH IN THE PAPER                                  251

   XXII  URSULA’S STORY                                              260

  XXIII  POIROT’S LITTLE REUNION                                     269

   XXIV  RALPH PATON’S STORY                                         284

    XXV  THE WHOLE TRUTH                                             289

   XXVI  AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH                                   298

  XXVII  APOLOGIA                                                    303




                             THE MURDER OF
                             ROGER ACKROYD




                               CHAPTER I

                  DR. SHEPPARD AT THE BREAKFAST TABLE


Mrs. Ferrars died on the night of the 16th–17th September—a Thursday. I
was sent for at eight o’clock on the morning of Friday the 17th. There
was nothing to be done. She had been dead some hours.

It was just a few minutes after nine when I reached home once more. I
opened the front door with my latch-key, and purposely delayed a few
moments in the hall, hanging up my hat and the light overcoat that
I had deemed a wise precaution against the chill of an early autumn
morning. To tell the truth, I was considerably upset and worried. I am
not going to pretend that at that moment I foresaw the events of the
next few weeks. I emphatically did not do so. But my instinct told me
that there were stirring times ahead.

From the dining-room on my left there came the rattle of tea-cups and
the short, dry cough of my sister Caroline.

“Is that you, James?” she called.

An unnecessary question, since who else could it be? To tell the
truth, it was precisely my sister Caroline who was the cause of my few
minutes’ delay. The motto of the mongoose family, so Mr. Kipling tells
us, is: “Go and find out.” If Caroline ever adopts a crest, I should
certainly suggest a mongoose rampant. One might omit the first part
of the motto. Caroline can do any amount of finding out by sitting
placidly at home. I don’t know how she manages it, but there it is. I
suspect that the servants and the tradesmen constitute her Intelligence
Corps. When she goes out, it is not to gather in information, but to
spread it. At that, too, she is amazingly expert.

It was really this last named trait of hers which was causing me these
pangs of indecision. Whatever I told Caroline now concerning the demise
of Mrs. Ferrars would be common knowledge all over the village within
the space of an hour and a half. As a professional man, I naturally
aim at discretion. Therefore I have got into the habit of continually
withholding all information possible from my sister. She usually finds
out just the same, but I have the moral satisfaction of knowing that I
am in no way to blame.

Mrs. Ferrars’ husband died just over a year ago, and Caroline has
constantly asserted, without the least foundation for the assertion,
that his wife poisoned him.

She scorns my invariable rejoinder that Mr. Ferrars died of acute
gastritis, helped on by habitual over-indulgence in alcoholic
beverages. The symptoms of gastritis and arsenical poisoning are not,
I agree, unlike, but Caroline bases her accusation on quite different
lines.

“You’ve only got to look at her,” I have heard her say.

Mrs. Ferrars, though not in her first youth, was a very attractive
woman, and her clothes, though simple, always seemed to fit her very
well, but all the same, lots of women buy their clothes in Paris and
have not, on that account, necessarily poisoned their husbands.

As I stood hesitating in the hall, with all this passing through my
mind, Caroline’s voice came again, with a sharper note in it.

“What on earth are you doing out there, James? Why don’t you come and
get your breakfast?”

“Just coming, my dear,” I said hastily. “I’ve been hanging up my
overcoat.”

“You could have hung up half a dozen overcoats in this time.”

She was quite right. I could have.

I walked into the dining-room, gave Caroline the accustomed peck on the
cheek, and sat down to eggs and bacon. The bacon was rather cold.

“You’ve had an early call,” remarked Caroline.

“Yes,” I said. “King’s Paddock. Mrs. Ferrars.”

“I know,” said my sister.

“How did you know?”

“Annie told me.”

Annie is the house parlormaid. A nice girl, but an inveterate talker.

There was a pause. I continued to eat eggs and bacon. My sister’s nose,
which is long and thin, quivered a little at the tip, as it always does
when she is interested or excited over anything.

“Well?” she demanded.

“A bad business. Nothing to be done. Must have died in her sleep.”

“I know,” said my sister again.

This time I was annoyed.

“You can’t know,” I snapped. “I didn’t know myself until I got there,
and I haven’t mentioned it to a soul yet. If that girl Annie knows, she
must be a clairvoyant.”

“It wasn’t Annie who told me. It was the milkman. He had it from the
Ferrars’ cook.”

As I say, there is no need for Caroline to go out to get information.
She sits at home, and it comes to her.

My sister continued:

“What did she die of? Heart failure?”

“Didn’t the milkman tell you that?” I inquired sarcastically.

Sarcasm is wasted on Caroline. She takes it seriously and answers
accordingly.

“He didn’t know,” she explained.

After all, Caroline was bound to hear sooner or later. She might as
well hear from me.

“She died of an overdose of veronal. She’s been taking it lately for
sleeplessness. Must have taken too much.”

“Nonsense,” said Caroline immediately. “She took it on purpose. Don’t
tell me!”

It is odd how, when you have a secret belief of your own which you do
not wish to acknowledge, the voicing of it by some one else will rouse
you to a fury of denial. I burst immediately into indignant speech.

“There you go again,” I said. “Rushing along without rhyme or reason.
Why on earth should Mrs. Ferrars wish to commit suicide? A widow,
fairly young still, very well off, good health, and nothing to do but
enjoy life. It’s absurd.”

“Not at all. Even you must have noticed how different she has been
looking lately. It’s been coming on for the last six months. She’s
looked positively hag-ridden. And you have just admitted that she
hasn’t been able to sleep.”

“What is your diagnosis?” I demanded coldly. “An unfortunate love
affair, I suppose?”

My sister shook her head.

“_Remorse_,” she said, with great gusto.

“Remorse?”

“Yes. You never would believe me when I told you she poisoned her
husband. I’m more than ever convinced of it now.”

“I don’t think you’re very logical,” I objected. “Surely if a woman
committed a crime like murder, she’d be sufficiently cold-blooded to
enjoy the fruits of it without any weak-minded sentimentality such as
repentance.”

Caroline shook her head.

“There probably are women like that—but Mrs. Ferrars wasn’t one of
them. She was a mass of nerves. An overmastering impulse drove her on
to get rid of her husband because she was the sort of person who simply
can’t endure suffering of any kind, and there’s no doubt that the wife
of a man like Ashley Ferrars must have had to suffer a good deal——”

I nodded.

“And ever since she’s been haunted by what she did. I can’t help
feeling sorry for her.”

I don’t think Caroline ever felt sorry for Mrs. Ferrars whilst she was
alive. Now that she has gone where (presumably) Paris frocks can no
longer be worn, Caroline is prepared to indulge in the softer emotions
of pity and comprehension.

I told her firmly that her whole idea was nonsense. I was all the more
firm because I secretly agreed with some part, at least, of what she
had said. But it is all wrong that Caroline should arrive at the truth
simply by a kind of inspired guesswork. I wasn’t going to encourage
that sort of thing. She will go round the village airing her views, and
every one will think that she is doing so on medical data supplied by
me. Life is very trying.

“Nonsense,” said Caroline, in reply to my strictures. “You’ll see. Ten
to one she’s left a letter confessing everything.”

“She didn’t leave a letter of any kind,” I said sharply, and not seeing
where the admission was going to land me.

“Oh!” said Caroline. “So you _did_ inquire about that, did you? I
believe, James, that in your heart of hearts, you think very much as I
do. You’re a precious old humbug.”

“One always has to take the possibility of suicide into consideration,”
I said repressively.

“Will there be an inquest?”

“There may be. It all depends. If I am able to declare myself
absolutely satisfied that the overdose was taken accidentally, an
inquest might be dispensed with.”

“And are you absolutely satisfied?” asked my sister shrewdly.

I did not answer, but got up from table.




                              CHAPTER II

                       WHO’S WHO IN KING’S ABBOT


Before I proceed further with what I said to Caroline and what Caroline
said to me, it might be as well to give some idea of what I should
describe as our local geography. Our village, King’s Abbot, is, I
imagine, very much like any other village. Our big town is Cranchester,
nine miles away. We have a large railway station, a small post office,
and two rival “General Stores.” Able-bodied men are apt to leave the
place early in life, but we are rich in unmarried ladies and retired
military officers. Our hobbies and recreations can be summed up in the
one word, “gossip.”

There are only two houses of any importance in King’s Abbot. One
is King’s Paddock, left to Mrs. Ferrars by her late husband. The
other, Fernly Park, is owned by Roger Ackroyd. Ackroyd has always
interested me by being a man more impossibly like a country squire
than any country squire could really be. He reminds one of the
red-faced sportsmen who always appeared early in the first act of an
old-fashioned musical comedy, the setting being the village green. They
usually sang a song about going up to London. Nowadays we have revues,
and the country squire has died out of musical fashion.

Of course, Ackroyd is not really a country squire. He is an immensely
successful manufacturer of (I think) wagon wheels. He is a man of
nearly fifty years of age, rubicund of face and genial of manner.
He is hand and glove with the vicar, subscribes liberally to parish
funds (though rumor has it that he is extremely mean in personal
expenditure), encourages cricket matches, Lads’ Clubs, and Disabled
Soldiers’ Institutes. He is, in fact, the life and soul of our peaceful
village of King’s Abbot.

Now when Roger Ackroyd was a lad of twenty-one, he fell in love with,
and married, a beautiful woman some five or six years his senior. Her
name was Paton, and she was a widow with one child. The history of the
marriage was short and painful. To put it bluntly, Mrs. Ackroyd was
a dipsomaniac. She succeeded in drinking herself into her grave four
years after her marriage.

In the years that followed, Ackroyd showed no disposition to make a
second matrimonial adventure. His wife’s child by her first marriage
was only seven years old when his mother died. He is now twenty-five.
Ackroyd has always regarded him as his own son, and has brought him up
accordingly, but he has been a wild lad and a continual source of worry
and trouble to his stepfather. Nevertheless we are all very fond of
Ralph Paton in King’s Abbot. He is such a good-looking youngster for
one thing.

As I said before, we are ready enough to gossip in our village.
Everybody noticed from the first that Ackroyd and Mrs. Ferrars got on
very well together. After her husband’s death, the intimacy became
more marked. They were always seen about together, and it was freely
conjectured that at the end of her period of mourning, Mrs. Ferrars
would become Mrs. Roger Ackroyd. It was felt, indeed, that there was a
certain fitness in the thing. Roger Ackroyd’s wife had admittedly died
of drink. Ashley Ferrars had been a drunkard for many years before his
death. It was only fitting that these two victims of alcoholic excess
should make up to each other for all that they had previously endured
at the hands of their former spouses.

The Ferrars only came to live here just over a year ago, but a halo of
gossip has surrounded Ackroyd for many years past. All the time that
Ralph Paton was growing up to manhood, a series of lady housekeepers
presided over Ackroyd’s establishment, and each in turn was regarded
with lively suspicion by Caroline and her cronies. It is not too
much to say that for at least fifteen years the whole village has
confidently expected Ackroyd to marry one of his housekeepers. The last
of them, a redoubtable lady called Miss Russell, has reigned undisputed
for five years, twice as long as any of her predecessors. It is felt
that but for the advent of Mrs. Ferrars, Ackroyd could hardly have
escaped. That—and one other factor—the unexpected arrival of a widowed
sister-in-law with her daughter from Canada. Mrs. Cecil Ackroyd, widow
of Ackroyd’s ne’er-do-well younger brother, has taken up her residence
at Fernly Park, and has succeeded, according to Caroline, in putting
Miss Russell in her proper place.

I don’t know exactly what a “proper place” constitutes—it sounds chilly
and unpleasant—but I know that Miss Russell goes about with pinched
lips, and what I can only describe as an acid smile, and that she
professes the utmost sympathy for “poor Mrs. Ackroyd—dependent on the
charity of her husband’s brother. The bread of charity is so bitter, is
it not? _I_ should be quite miserable if I did not work for my living.”

I don’t know what Mrs. Cecil Ackroyd thought of the Ferrars affair when
it came on the tapis. It was clearly to her advantage that Ackroyd
should remain unmarried. She was always very charming—not to say
gushing—to Mrs. Ferrars when they met. Caroline says that proves less
than nothing.

Such have been our preoccupations in King’s Abbot for the last few
years. We have discussed Ackroyd and his affairs from every standpoint.
Mrs. Ferrars has fitted into her place in the scheme.

Now there has been a rearrangement of the kaleidoscope. From a mild
discussion of probable wedding presents, we have been jerked into the
midst of tragedy.

Revolving these and sundry other matters in my mind, I went
mechanically on my round. I had no cases of special interest to attend,
which was, perhaps, as well, for my thoughts returned again and again
to the mystery of Mrs. Ferrars’s death. Had she taken her own life?
Surely, if she had done so, she would have left some word behind to
say what she contemplated doing? Women, in my experience, if they once
reach the determination to commit suicide, usually wish to reveal the
state of mind that led to the fatal action. They covet the limelight.

When had I last seen her? Not for over a week. Her manner then had been
normal enough considering—well—considering everything.

Then I suddenly remembered that I had seen her, though not to speak
to, only yesterday. She had been walking with Ralph Paton, and I had
been surprised because I had had no idea that he was likely to be in
King’s Abbot. I thought, indeed, that he had quarreled finally with
his stepfather. Nothing had been seen of him down here for nearly six
months. They had been walking along, side by side, their heads close
together, and she had been talking very earnestly.

I think I can safely say that it was at this moment that a foreboding
of the future first swept over me. Nothing tangible as yet—but a vague
premonition of the way things were setting. That earnest _tête-à-tête_
between Ralph Paton and Mrs. Ferrars the day before struck me
disagreeably.

I was still thinking of it when I came face to face with Roger Ackroyd.

“Sheppard!” he exclaimed. “Just the man I wanted to get hold of. This
is a terrible business.”

“You’ve heard then?”

He nodded. He had felt the blow keenly, I could see. His big red cheeks
seemed to have fallen in, and he looked a positive wreck of his usual
jolly, healthy self.

“It’s worse than you know,” he said quietly. “Look here, Sheppard, I’ve
got to talk to you. Can you come back with me now?”

“Hardly. I’ve got three patients to see still, and I must be back by
twelve to see my surgery patients.”

“Then this afternoon—no, better still, dine to-night. At 7.30? Will
that suit you?”

“Yes—I can manage that all right. What’s wrong? Is it Ralph?”

I hardly knew why I said that—except, perhaps, that it had so often
been Ralph.

Ackroyd stared blankly at me as though he hardly understood. I began to
realize that there must be something very wrong indeed somewhere. I had
never seen Ackroyd so upset before.

“Ralph?” he said vaguely. “Oh! no, it’s not Ralph. Ralph’s in
London——Damn! Here’s old Miss Ganett coming. I don’t want to have to
talk to her about this ghastly business. See you to-night, Sheppard.
Seven-thirty.”

I nodded, and he hurried away, leaving me wondering. Ralph in London?
But he had certainly been in King’s Abbot the preceding afternoon. He
must have gone back to town last night or early this morning, and yet
Ackroyd’s manner had conveyed quite a different impression. He had
spoken as though Ralph had not been near the place for months.

I had no time to puzzle the matter out further. Miss Ganett was upon
me, thirsting for information. Miss Ganett has all the characteristics
of my sister Caroline, but she lacks that unerring aim in jumping to
conclusions which lends a touch of greatness to Caroline’s maneuvers.
Miss Ganett was breathless and interrogatory.

Wasn’t it sad about poor dear Mrs. Ferrars? A lot of people were saying
she had been a confirmed drug-taker for years. So wicked the way
people went about saying things. And yet, the worst of it was, there
was usually a grain of truth somewhere in these wild statements. No
smoke without fire! They were saying too that Mr. Ackroyd had found
out about it, and had broken off the engagement—because there _was_ an
engagement. She, Miss Ganett, had proof positive of that. Of course _I_
must know all about it—doctors always did—but they never tell?

And all this with a sharp beady eye on me to see how I reacted to
these suggestions. Fortunately long association with Caroline has led
me to preserve an impassive countenance, and to be ready with small
non-committal remarks.

On this occasion I congratulated Miss Ganett on not joining in
ill-natured gossip. Rather a neat counterattack, I thought. It left
her in difficulties, and before she could pull herself together, I had
passed on.

I went home thoughtful, to find several patients waiting for me in the
surgery.

I had dismissed the last of them, as I thought, and was just
contemplating a few minutes in the garden before lunch when I perceived
one more patient waiting for me. She rose and came towards me as I
stood somewhat surprised.

I don’t know why I should have been, except that there is a suggestion
of cast iron about Miss Russell, a something that is above the ills of
the flesh.

Ackroyd’s housekeeper is a tall woman, handsome but forbidding in
appearance. She has a stern eye, and lips that shut tightly, and I feel
that if I were an under housemaid or a kitchenmaid I should run for my
life whenever I heard her coming.

“Good morning, Dr. Sheppard,” said Miss Russell. “I should be much
obliged if you would take a look at my knee.”

I took a look, but, truth to tell, I was very little wiser when I had
done so. Miss Russell’s account of vague pains was so unconvincing that
with a woman of less integrity of character I should have suspected a
trumped-up tale. It did cross my mind for one moment that Miss Russell
might have deliberately invented this affection of the knee in order
to pump me on the subject of Mrs. Ferrars’s death, but I soon saw that
there, at least, I had misjudged her. She made a brief reference to the
tragedy, nothing more. Yet she certainly seemed disposed to linger and
chat.

“Well, thank you very much for this bottle of liniment, doctor,” she
said at last. “Not that I believe it will do the least good.”

I didn’t think it would either, but I protested in duty bound. After
all, it couldn’t do any harm, and one must stick up for the tools of
one’s trade.

“I don’t believe in all these drugs,” said Miss Russell, her eyes
sweeping over my array of bottles disparagingly. “Drugs do a lot of
harm. Look at the cocaine habit.”

“Well, as far as that goes——”

“It’s very prevalent in high society.”

I’m sure Miss Russell knows far more about high society than I do. I
didn’t attempt to argue with her.

“Just tell me this, doctor,” said Miss Russell. “Suppose you are really
a slave of the drug habit. Is there any cure?”

One cannot answer a question like that offhand. I gave her a short
lecture on the subject, and she listened with close attention. I still
suspected her of seeking information about Mrs. Ferrars.

“Now, veronal, for instance——” I proceeded.

But, strangely enough, she didn’t seem interested in veronal. Instead
she changed the subject, and asked me if it was true that there were
certain poisons so rare as to baffle detection.

“Ah!” I said. “You’ve been reading detective stories.”

She admitted that she had.

“The essence of a detective story,” I said, “is to have a rare
poison—if possible something from South America, that nobody has ever
heard of—something that one obscure tribe of savages use to poison
their arrows with. Death is instantaneous, and Western science is
powerless to detect it. That is the kind of thing you mean?”

“Yes. Is there really such a thing?”

I shook my head regretfully.

“I’m afraid there isn’t. There’s _curare_, of course.”

I told her a good deal about curare, but she seemed to have lost
interest once more. She asked me if I had any in my poison cupboard,
and when I replied in the negative I fancy I fell in her estimation.

She said she must be getting back, and I saw her out at the surgery
door just as the luncheon gong went.

I should never have suspected Miss Russell of a fondness for detective
stories. It pleases me very much to think of her stepping out of the
housekeeper’s room to rebuke a delinquent housemaid, and then returning
to a comfortable perusal of _The Mystery of the Seventh Death_, or
something of the kind.




                              CHAPTER III

                  THE MAN WHO GREW VEGETABLE MARROWS


I told Caroline at lunch time that I should be dining at Fernly. She
expressed no objection—on the contrary——

“Excellent,” she said. “You’ll hear all about it. By the way, what is
the trouble with Ralph?”

“With Ralph?” I said, surprised; “there’s isn’t any.”

“Then why is he staying at the Three Boars instead of at Fernly Park?”

I did not for a minute question Caroline’s statement that Ralph Paton
was staying at the local inn. That Caroline said so was enough for me.

“Ackroyd told me he was in London,” I said. In the surprise of
the moment I departed from my valuable rule of never parting with
information.

“Oh!” said Caroline. I could see her nose twitching as she worked on
this.

“He arrived at the Three Boars yesterday morning,” she said. “And he’s
still there. Last night he was out with a girl.”

That did not surprise me in the least. Ralph, I should say, is out
with a girl most nights of his life. But I did rather wonder that he
chose to indulge in the pastime in King’s Abbot instead of in the gay
metropolis.

“One of the barmaids?” I asked.

“No. That’s just it. He went out to meet her. I don’t know who she is.”

(Bitter for Caroline to have to admit such a thing.)

“But I can guess,” continued my indefatigable sister.

I waited patiently.

“His cousin.”

“Flora Ackroyd?” I exclaimed in surprise.

Flora Ackroyd is, of course, no relation whatever really to Ralph
Paton, but Ralph has been looked upon for so long as practically
Ackroyd’s own son, that cousinship is taken for granted.

“Flora Ackroyd,” said my sister.

“But why not go to Fernly if he wanted to see her?”

“Secretly engaged,” said Caroline, with immense enjoyment. “Old Ackroyd
won’t hear of it, and they have to meet this way.”

I saw a good many flaws in Caroline’s theory, but I forbore to point
them out to her. An innocent remark about our new neighbor created a
diversion.

The house next door, The Larches, has recently been taken by a
stranger. To Caroline’s extreme annoyance, she has not been able
to find out anything about him, except that he is a foreigner. The
Intelligence Corps has proved a broken reed. Presumably the man has
milk and vegetables and joints of meat and occasional whitings just
like everybody else, but none of the people who make it their business
to supply these things seem to have acquired any information. His name,
apparently, is Mr. Porrott—a name which conveys an odd feeling of
unreality. The one thing we do know about him is that he is interested
in the growing of vegetable marrows.

But that is certainly not the sort of information that Caroline is
after. She wants to know where he comes from, what he does, whether he
is married, what his wife was, or is, like, whether he has children,
what his mother’s maiden name was—and so on. Somebody very like
Caroline must have invented the questions on passports, I think.

“My dear Caroline,” I said. “There’s no doubt at all about what the
man’s profession has been. He’s a retired hairdresser. Look at that
mustache of his.”

Caroline dissented. She said that if the man was a hairdresser, he
would have wavy hair—not straight. All hairdressers did.

I cited several hairdressers personally known to me who had straight
hair, but Caroline refused to be convinced.

“I can’t make him out at all,” she said in an aggrieved voice. “I
borrowed some garden tools the other day, and he was most polite, but
I couldn’t get anything out of him. I asked him point blank at last
whether he was a Frenchman, and he said he wasn’t—and somehow I didn’t
like to ask him any more.”

I began to be more interested in our mysterious neighbor. A man who
is capable of shutting up Caroline and sending her, like the Queen of
Sheba, empty away must be something of a personality.

“I believe,” said Caroline, “that he’s got one of those new vacuum
cleaners——”

I saw a meditated loan and the opportunity of further questioning
gleaming from her eye. I seized the chance to escape into the garden.
I am rather fond of gardening. I was busily exterminating dandelion
roots when a shout of warning sounded from close by and a heavy body
whizzed by my ear and fell at my feet with a repellant squelch. It was
a vegetable marrow!

I looked up angrily. Over the wall, to my left, there appeared a face.
An egg-shaped head, partially covered with suspiciously black hair, two
immense mustaches, and a pair of watchful eyes. It was our mysterious
neighbor, Mr. Porrott.

He broke at once into fluent apologies.

“I demand of you a thousand pardons, monsieur. I am without defense.
For some months now I cultivate the marrows. This morning suddenly
I enrage myself with these marrows. I send them to promenade
themselves—alas! not only mentally but physically. I seize the biggest.
I hurl him over the wall. Monsieur, I am ashamed. I prostrate myself.”

Before such profuse apologies, my anger was forced to melt. After
all, the wretched vegetable hadn’t hit me. But I sincerely hoped that
throwing large vegetables over walls was not our new friend’s hobby.
Such a habit could hardly endear him to us as a neighbor.

The strange little man seemed to read my thoughts.

“Ah! no,” he exclaimed. “Do not disquiet yourself. It is not with me a
habit. But can you figure to yourself, monsieur, that a man may work
towards a certain object, may labor and toil to attain a certain kind
of leisure and occupation, and then find that, after all, he yearns
for the old busy days, and the old occupations that he thought himself
so glad to leave?”

“Yes,” I said slowly. “I fancy that that is a common enough occurrence.
I myself am perhaps an instance. A year ago I came into a legacy—enough
to enable me to realize a dream. I have always wanted to travel, to see
the world. Well, that was a year ago, as I said, and—I am still here.”

My little neighbor nodded.

“The chains of habit. We work to attain an object, and the object
gained, we find that what we miss is the daily toil. And mark you,
monsieur, my work was interesting work. The most interesting work there
is in the world.”

“Yes?” I said encouragingly. For the moment the spirit of Caroline was
strong within me.

“The study of human nature, monsieur!”

“Just so,” I said kindly.

Clearly a retired hairdresser. Who knows the secrets of human nature
better than a hairdresser?

“Also, I had a friend—a friend who for many years never left my side.
Occasionally of an imbecility to make one afraid, nevertheless he was
very dear to me. Figure to yourself that I miss even his stupidity.
His _naïveté_, his honest outlook, the pleasure of delighting and
surprising him by my superior gifts—all these I miss more than I can
tell you.”

“He died?” I asked sympathetically.

“Not so. He lives and flourishes—but on the other side of the world. He
is now in the Argentine.”

“In the Argentine,” I said enviously.

I have always wanted to go to South America. I sighed, and then
looked up to find Mr. Porrott eyeing me sympathetically. He seemed an
understanding little man.

“You will go there, yes?” he asked.

I shook my head with a sigh.

“I could have gone,” I said, “a year ago. But I was foolish—and worse
than foolish—greedy. I risked the substance for the shadow.”

“I comprehend,” said Mr. Porrott. “You speculated?”

I nodded mournfully, but in spite of myself I felt secretly
entertained. This ridiculous little man was so portentously solemn.

“Not the Porcupine Oilfields?” he asked suddenly.

I stared.

“I thought of them, as a matter of fact, but in the end I plumped for a
gold mine in Western Australia.”

My neighbor was regarding me with a strange expression which I could
not fathom.

“It is Fate,” he said at last.

“What is Fate?” I asked irritably.

“That I should live next to a man who seriously considers Porcupine
Oilfields, and also West Australian Gold Mines. Tell me, have you also
a penchant for auburn hair?”

I stared at him open-mouthed, and he burst out laughing.

“No, no, it is not the insanity that I suffer from. Make your mind
easy. It was a foolish question that I put to you there, for, see you,
my friend of whom I spoke was a young man, a man who thought all women
good, and most of them beautiful. But you are a man of middle age, a
doctor, a man who knows the folly and the vanity of most things in this
life of ours. Well, well, we are neighbors. I beg of you to accept and
present to your excellent sister my best marrow.”

He stooped, and with a flourish produced an immense specimen of the
tribe, which I duly accepted in the spirit in which it was offered.

“Indeed,” said the little man cheerfully, “this has not been a wasted
morning. I have made the acquaintance of a man who in some ways
resembles my far-off friend. By the way, I should like to ask you a
question. You doubtless know every one in this tiny village. Who is the
young man with the very dark hair and eyes, and the handsome face. He
walks with his head flung back, and an easy smile on his lips?”

The description left me in no doubt.

“That must be Captain Ralph Paton,” I said slowly.

“I have not seen him about here before?”

“No, he has not been here for some time. But he is the son—adopted son,
rather—of Mr. Ackroyd of Fernly Park.”

My neighbor made a slight gesture of impatience.

“Of course, I should have guessed. Mr. Ackroyd spoke of him many times.”

“You know Mr. Ackroyd?” I said, slightly surprised.

“Mr. Ackroyd knew me in London—when I was at work there. I have asked
him to say nothing of my profession down here.”

“I see,” I said, rather amused by this patent snobbery, as I thought it.

But the little man went on with an almost grandiloquent smirk.

“One prefers to remain incognito. I am not anxious for notoriety. I
have not even troubled to correct the local version of my name.”

“Indeed,” I said, not knowing quite what to say.

“Captain Ralph Paton,” mused Mr. Porrott. “And so he is engaged to Mr.
Ackroyd’s niece, the charming Miss Flora.”

“Who told you so?” I asked, very much surprised.

“Mr. Ackroyd. About a week ago. He is very pleased about it—has long
desired that such a thing should come to pass, or so I understood
from him. I even believe that he brought some pressure to bear upon
the young man. That is never wise. A young man should marry to please
himself—not to please a stepfather from whom he has expectations.”

My ideas were completely upset. I could not see Ackroyd taking a
hairdresser into his confidence, and discussing the marriage of his
niece and stepson with him. Ackroyd extends a genial patronage to the
lower orders, but he has a very great sense of his own dignity. I began
to think that Porrott couldn’t be a hairdresser after all.

To hide my confusion, I said the first thing that came into my head.

“What made you notice Ralph Paton? His good looks?”

“No, not that alone—though he is unusually good-looking for an
Englishman—what your lady novelists would call a Greek God. No, there
was something about that young man that I did not understand.”

He said the last sentence in a musing tone of voice which made an
indefinable impression upon me. It was as though he was summing up the
boy by the light of some inner knowledge that I did not share. It was
that impression that was left with me, for at that moment my sister’s
voice called me from the house.

I went in. Caroline had her hat on, and had evidently just come in from
the village. She began without preamble.

“I met Mr. Ackroyd.”

“Yes?” I said.

“I stopped him, of course, but he seemed in a great hurry, and anxious
to get away.”

I have no doubt but that that was the case. He would feel towards
Caroline much as he had felt towards Miss Ganett earlier in the
day—perhaps more so. Caroline is less easy to shake off.

“I asked him at once about Ralph. He was absolutely astonished. Had no
idea the boy was down here. He actually said he thought I must have
made a mistake. I! A mistake!”

“Ridiculous,” I said. “He ought to have known you better.”

“Then he went on to tell me that Ralph and Flora are engaged.”

“I know that too,” I interrupted, with modest pride.

“Who told you?”

“Our new neighbor.”

Caroline visibly wavered for a second or two, much as a roulette ball
might coyly hover between two numbers. Then she declined the tempting
red herring.

“I told Mr. Ackroyd that Ralph was staying at the Three Boars.”

“Caroline,” I said, “do you never reflect that you might do a lot of
harm with this habit of yours of repeating everything indiscriminately?”

“Nonsense,” said my sister. “People ought to know things. I consider it
my duty to tell them. Mr. Ackroyd was very grateful to me.”

“Well?” I said, for there was clearly more to come.

“I think he went straight off to the Three Boars, but if so he didn’t
find Ralph there.”

“No?”

“No. Because as I was coming back through the wood——”

“Coming back through the wood?” I interrupted.

Caroline had the grace to blush.

“It was such a lovely day,” she exclaimed. “I thought I would make a
little round. The woods with their autumnal tints are so perfect at
this time of year.”

Caroline does not care a hang for woods at any time of year. Normally
she regards them as places where you get your feet damp, and where all
kinds of unpleasant things may drop on your head. No, it was good sound
mongoose instinct which took her to our local wood. It is the only
place adjacent to the village of King’s Abbot where you can talk with
a young woman unseen by the whole of the village. It adjoins the Park
of Fernly.

“Well,” I said, “go on.”

“As I say, I was just coming back through the wood when I heard voices.”

Caroline paused.

“Yes?”

“One was Ralph Paton’s—I knew it at once. The other was a girl’s. Of
course I didn’t mean to listen——”

“Of course not,” I interjected, with patent sarcasm—which was, however,
wasted on Caroline.

“But I simply couldn’t help overhearing. The girl said something—I
didn’t quite catch what it was, and Ralph answered. He sounded very
angry. ‘My dear girl,’ he said. ‘Don’t you realize that it is quite
on the cards the old man will cut me off with a shilling? He’s been
pretty fed up with me for the last few years. A little more would do
it. And we need the dibs, my dear. I shall be a very rich man when
the old fellow pops off. He’s mean as they make ’em, but he’s rolling
in money really. I don’t want him to go altering his will. You leave
it to me, and don’t worry.’ Those were his exact words. I remember
them perfectly. Unfortunately, just then I stepped on a dry twig or
something, and they lowered their voices and moved away. I couldn’t, of
course, go rushing after them, so wasn’t able to see who the girl was.”

“That must have been most vexing,” I said. “I suppose, though, you
hurried on to the Three Boars, felt faint, and went into the bar for a
glass of brandy, and so were able to see if both the barmaids were on
duty?”

“It wasn’t a barmaid,” said Caroline unhesitatingly. “In fact, I’m
almost sure that it was Flora Ackroyd, only——”

“Only it doesn’t seem to make sense,” I agreed.

“But if it wasn’t Flora, who could it have been?”

Rapidly my sister ran over a list of maidens living in the
neighborhood, with profuse reasons for and against.

When she paused for breath, I murmured something about a patient, and
slipped out.

I proposed to make my way to the Three Boars. It seemed likely that
Ralph Paton would have returned there by now.

I knew Ralph very well—better, perhaps, than any one else in King’s
Abbot, for I had known his mother before him, and therefore I
understood much in him that puzzled others. He was, to a certain
extent, the victim of heredity. He had not inherited his mother’s
fatal propensity for drink, but nevertheless he had in him a strain
of weakness. As my new friend of this morning had declared, he was
extraordinarily handsome. Just on six feet, perfectly proportioned,
with the easy grace of an athlete, he was dark, like his mother,
with a handsome, sunburnt face always ready to break into a smile.
Ralph Paton was of those born to charm easily and without effort. He
was self-indulgent and extravagant, with no veneration for anything
on earth, but he was lovable nevertheless, and his friends were all
devoted to him.

Could I do anything with the boy? I thought I could.

On inquiry at the Three Boars I found that Captain Paton had just come
in. I went up to his room and entered unannounced.

For a moment, remembering what I had heard and seen, I was doubtful of
my reception, but I need have had no misgivings.

“Why, it’s Sheppard! Glad to see you.”

He came forward to meet me, hand outstretched, a sunny smile lighting
up his face.

“The one person I am glad to see in this infernal place.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“What’s the place been doing?”

He gave a vexed laugh.

“It’s a long story. Things haven’t been going well with me, doctor. But
have a drink, won’t you?”

“Thanks,” I said, “I will.”

He pressed the bell, then, coming back, threw himself into a chair.

“Not to mince matters,” he said gloomily, “I’m in the devil of a mess.
In fact, I haven’t the least idea what to do next.”

“What’s the matter?” I asked sympathetically.

“It’s my confounded stepfather.”

“What has he done?”

“It isn’t what he’s done yet, but what he’s likely to do.”

The bell was answered, and Ralph ordered the drinks. When the man had
gone again, he sat hunched in the arm-chair, frowning to himself.

“Is it really—serious?” I asked.

He nodded.

“I’m fairly up against it this time,” he said soberly.

The unusual ring of gravity in his voice told me that he spoke the
truth. It took a good deal to make Ralph grave.

“In fact,” he continued, “I can’t see my way ahead.... I’m damned if I
can.”

“If I could help——” I suggested diffidently.

But he shook his head very decidedly.

“Good of you, doctor. But I can’t let you in on this. I’ve got to play
a lone hand.”

He was silent a minute and then repeated in a slightly different tone
of voice:—

“Yes—I’ve got to play a lone hand....”




                              CHAPTER IV

                           DINNER AT FERNLY


It was just a few minutes before half-past seven when I rang the
front door bell of Fernly Park. The door was opened with admirable
promptitude by Parker, the butler.

The night was such a fine one that I had preferred to come on foot. I
stepped into the big square hall and Parker relieved me of my overcoat.
Just then Ackroyd’s secretary, a pleasant young fellow by the name of
Raymond, passed through the hall on his way to Ackroyd’s study, his
hands full of papers.

“Good-evening, doctor. Coming to dine? Or is this a professional call?”

The last was in allusion to my black bag, which I had laid down on the
oak chest.

I explained that I expected a summons to a confinement case at any
moment, and so had come out prepared for an emergency call. Raymond
nodded, and went on his way, calling over his shoulder:—

“Go into the drawing-room. You know the way. The ladies will be down in
a minute. I must just take these papers to Mr. Ackroyd, and I’ll tell
him you’re here.”

On Raymond’s appearance Parker had withdrawn, so I was alone in the
hall. I settled my tie, glanced in a large mirror which hung there, and
crossed to the door directly facing me, which was, as I knew, the door
of the drawing-room.

I noticed, just as I was turning the handle, a sound from within—the
shutting down of a window, I took it to be. I noted it, I may say,
quite mechanically, without attaching any importance to it at the time.

I opened the door and walked in. As I did so, I almost collided with
Miss Russell, who was just coming out. We both apologized.

For the first time I found myself appraising the housekeeper and
thinking what a handsome woman she must once have been—indeed, as far
as that goes, still was. Her dark hair was unstreaked with gray, and
when she had a color, as she had at this minute, the stern quality of
her looks was not so apparent.

Quite subconsciously I wondered whether she had been out, for she was
breathing hard, as though she had been running.

“I’m afraid I’m a few minutes early,” I said.

“Oh! I don’t think so. It’s gone half-past seven, Dr. Sheppard.” She
paused a minute before saying, “I—didn’t know you were expected to
dinner to-night. Mr. Ackroyd didn’t mention it.”

I received a vague impression that my dining there displeased her in
some way, but I couldn’t imagine why.

“How’s the knee?” I inquired.

“Much the same, thank you, doctor. I must be going now. Mrs. Ackroyd
will be down in a moment. I—I only came in here to see if the flowers
were all right.”

She passed quickly out of the room. I strolled to the window,
wondering at her evident desire to justify her presence in the room. As
I did so, I saw what, of course, I might have known all the time had
I troubled to give my mind to it, namely, that the windows were long
French ones opening on the terrace. The sound I had heard, therefore,
could not have been that of a window being shut down.

Quite idly, and more to distract my mind from painful thoughts than for
any other reason, I amused myself by trying to guess what could have
caused the sound in question.

Coals on the fire? No, that was not the kind of noise at all. A drawer
of the bureau pushed in? No, not that.

Then my eye was caught by what, I believe, is called a silver table,
the lid of which lifts, and through the glass of which you can see the
contents. I crossed over to it, studying the things. There were one
or two pieces of old silver, a baby shoe belonging to King Charles
the First, some Chinese jade figures, and quite a number of African
implements and curios. Wanting to examine one of the jade figures more
closely, I lifted the lid. It slipped through my fingers and fell.

At once I recognized the sound I had heard. It was this same table lid
being shut down gently and carefully. I repeated the action once or
twice for my own satisfaction. Then I lifted the lid to scrutinize the
contents more closely.

I was still bending over the open silver table when Flora Ackroyd came
into the room.

Quite a lot of people do not like Flora Ackroyd, but nobody can help
admiring her. And to her friends she can be very charming. The first
thing that strikes you about her is her extraordinary fairness. She has
the real Scandinavian pale gold hair. Her eyes are blue—blue as the
waters of a Norwegian fiord, and her skin is cream and roses. She has
square, boyish shoulders and slight hips. And to a jaded medical man it
is very refreshing to come across such perfect health.

A simple straight-forward English girl—I may be old-fashioned, but I
think the genuine article takes a lot of beating.

Flora joined me by the silver table, and expressed heretical doubts as
to King Charles I ever having worn the baby shoe.

“And anyway,” continued Miss Flora, “all this making a fuss about
things because some one wore or used them seems to me all nonsense.
They’re not wearing or using them now. The pen that George Eliot wrote
_The Mill on the Floss_ with—that sort of thing—well, it’s only just a
pen after all. If you’re really keen on George Eliot, why not get _The
Mill on the Floss_ in a cheap edition and read it.”

“I suppose you never read such old out-of-date stuff, Miss Flora?”

“You’re wrong, Dr. Sheppard. I love _The Mill on the Floss_.”

I was rather pleased to hear it. The things young women read nowadays
and profess to enjoy positively frighten me.

“You haven’t congratulated me yet, Dr. Sheppard,” said Flora. “Haven’t
you heard?”

She held out her left hand. On the third finger of it was an
exquisitely set single pearl.

“I’m going to marry Ralph, you know,” she went on. “Uncle is very
pleased. It keeps me in the family, you see.”

I took both her hands in mine.

“My dear,” I said, “I hope you’ll be very happy.”

“We’ve been engaged for about a month,” continued Flora in her cool
voice, “but it was only announced yesterday. Uncle is going to do up
Cross-stones, and give it to us to live in, and we’re going to pretend
to farm. Really, we shall hunt all the winter, town for the season, and
then go yachting. I love the sea. And, of course, I shall take a great
interest in the parish affairs, and attend all the Mothers’ Meetings.”

Just then Mrs. Ackroyd rustled in, full of apologies for being late.

I am sorry to say I detest Mrs. Ackroyd. She is all chains and teeth
and bones. A most unpleasant woman. She has small pale flinty blue
eyes, and however gushing her words may be, those eyes of hers always
remain coldly speculative.

I went across to her, leaving Flora by the window. She gave me a
handful of assorted knuckles and rings to squeeze, and began talking
volubly.

Had I heard about Flora’s engagement? So suitable in every way. The
dear young things had fallen in love at first sight. Such a perfect
pair, he so dark and she so fair.

“I can’t tell you, my dear Dr. Sheppard, the relief to a mother’s
heart.”

Mrs. Ackroyd sighed—a tribute to her mother’s heart, whilst her eyes
remained shrewdly observant of me.

“I was wondering. You are such an old friend of dear Roger’s. We
know how much he trusts to your judgment. So difficult for me—in
my position, as poor Cecil’s widow. But there are so many tiresome
things—settlements, you know—all that. I fully believe that Roger
intends to make settlements upon dear Flora, but, as you know, he is
just a _leetle_ peculiar about money. Very usual, I’ve heard, amongst
men who are captains of industry. I wondered, you know, if you could
just _sound_ him on the subject? Flora is so fond of you. We feel you
are quite an old friend, although we have only really known you just
over two years.”

Mrs. Ackroyd’s eloquence was cut short as the drawing-room door opened
once more. I was pleased at the interruption. I hate interfering in
other people’s affairs, and I had not the least intention of tackling
Ackroyd on the subject of Flora’s settlements. In another moment I
should have been forced to tell Mrs. Ackroyd as much.

“You know Major Blunt, don’t you, doctor?”

“Yes, indeed,” I said.

A lot of people know Hector Blunt—at least by repute. He has shot more
wild animals in unlikely places than any man living, I suppose. When
you mention him, people say: “Blunt—you don’t mean the big game man, do
you?”

His friendship with Ackroyd has always puzzled me a little. The two men
are so totally dissimilar. Hector Blunt is perhaps five years Ackroyd’s
junior. They made friends early in life, and though their ways have
diverged, the friendship still holds. About once in two years Blunt
spends a fortnight at Fernly, and an immense animal’s head, with an
amazing number of horns which fixes you with a glazed stare as soon
as you come inside the front door, is a permanent reminder of the
friendship.

Blunt had entered the room now with his own peculiar, deliberate, yet
soft-footed tread. He is a man of medium height, sturdily and rather
stockily built. His face is almost mahogany-colored, and is peculiarly
expressionless. He has gray eyes that give the impression of always
watching something that is happening very far away. He talks little,
and what he does say is said jerkily, as though the words were forced
out of him unwillingly.

He said now: “How are you, Sheppard?” in his usual abrupt fashion, and
then stood squarely in front of the fireplace looking over our heads as
though he saw something very interesting happening in Timbuctoo.

“Major Blunt,” said Flora, “I wish you’d tell me about these African
things. I’m sure you know what they all are.”

I have heard Hector Blunt described as a woman hater, but I noticed
that he joined Flora at the silver table with what might be described
as alacrity. They bent over it together.

I was afraid Mrs. Ackroyd would begin talking about settlements again,
so I made a few hurried remarks about the new sweet pea. I knew there
was a new sweet pea because the _Daily Mail_ had told me so that
morning. Mrs. Ackroyd knows nothing about horticulture, but she is the
kind of woman who likes to appear well-informed about the topics of the
day, and she, too, reads the _Daily Mail_. We were able to converse
quite intelligently until Ackroyd and his secretary joined us, and
immediately afterwards Parker announced dinner.

My place at table was between Mrs. Ackroyd and Flora. Blunt was on Mrs.
Ackroyd’s other side, and Geoffrey Raymond next to him.

Dinner was not a cheerful affair. Ackroyd was visibly preoccupied. He
looked wretched, and ate next to nothing. Mrs. Ackroyd, Raymond, and
I kept the conversation going. Flora seemed affected by her uncle’s
depression, and Blunt relapsed into his usual taciturnity.

Immediately after dinner Ackroyd slipped his arm through mine and led
me off to his study.

“Once we’ve had coffee, we shan’t be disturbed again,” he explained. “I
told Raymond to see to it that we shouldn’t be interrupted.”

I studied him quietly without appearing to do so. He was clearly under
the influence of some strong excitement. For a minute or two he paced
up and down the room, then, as Parker entered with the coffee tray, he
sank into an arm-chair in front of the fire.

The study was a comfortable apartment. Book-shelves lined one wall of
it. The chairs were big and covered in dark blue leather. A large desk
stood by the window and was covered with papers neatly docketed and
filed. On a round table were various magazines and sporting papers.

“I’ve had a return of that pain after food lately,” remarked Ackroyd
casually, as he helped himself to coffee. “You must give me some more
of those tablets of yours.”

It struck me that he was anxious to convey the impression that our
conference was a medical one. I played up accordingly.

“I thought as much. I brought some up with me.”

“Good man. Hand them over now.”

“They’re in my bag in the hall. I’ll get them.”

Ackroyd arrested me.

“Don’t you trouble. Parker will get them. Bring in the doctor’s bag,
will you, Parker?”

“Very good, sir.”

Parker withdrew. As I was about to speak, Ackroyd threw up his hand.

“Not yet. Wait. Don’t you see I’m in such a state of nerves that I can
hardly contain myself?”

I saw that plainly enough. And I was very uneasy. All sorts of
forebodings assailed me.

Ackroyd spoke again almost immediately.

“Make certain that window’s closed, will you?” he asked.

Somewhat surprised, I got up and went to it. It was not a French
window, but one of the ordinary sash type. The heavy blue velvet
curtains were drawn in front of it, but the window itself was open at
the top.

Parker reëntered the room with my bag while I was still at the window.

“That’s all right,” I said, emerging again into the room.

“You’ve put the latch across?”

“Yes, yes. What’s the matter with you, Ackroyd?”

The door had just closed behind Parker, or I would not have put the
question.

Ackroyd waited just a minute before replying.

“I’m in hell,” he said slowly, after a minute. “No, don’t bother with
those damned tablets. I only said that for Parker. Servants are so
curious. Come here and sit down. The door’s closed too, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Nobody can overhear; don’t be uneasy.”

“Sheppard, nobody knows what I’ve gone through in the last twenty-four
hours. If a man’s house ever fell in ruins about him, mine has about
me. This business of Ralph’s is the last straw. But we won’t talk about
that now. It’s the other—the other——! I don’t know what to do about it.
And I’ve got to make up my mind soon.”

“What’s the trouble?”

Ackroyd remained silent for a minute or two. He seemed curiously averse
to begin. When he did speak, the question he asked came as a complete
surprise. It was the last thing I expected.

“Sheppard, you attended Ashley Ferrars in his last illness, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

He seemed to find even greater difficulty in framing his next question.

“Did you never suspect—did it ever enter your head—that—well, that he
might have been poisoned?”

I was silent for a minute or two. Then I made up my mind what to say.
Roger Ackroyd was not Caroline.

“I’ll tell you the truth,” I said. “At the time I had no suspicion
whatever, but since—well, it was mere idle talk on my sister’s part
that first put the idea into my head. Since then I haven’t been able to
get it out again. But, mind you, I’ve no foundation whatever for that
suspicion.”

“He _was_ poisoned,” said Ackroyd.

He spoke in a dull heavy voice.

“Who by?” I asked sharply.

“His wife.”

“How do you know that?”

“She told me so herself.”

“When?”

“Yesterday! My God! yesterday! It seems ten years ago.”

I waited a minute, and then he went on.

“You understand, Sheppard, I’m telling you this in confidence. It’s to
go no further. I want your advice—I can’t carry the whole weight by
myself. As I said just now, I don’t know what to do.”

“Can you tell me the whole story?” I said. “I’m still in the dark. How
did Mrs. Ferrars come to make this confession to you?”

“It’s like this. Three months ago I asked Mrs. Ferrars to marry me.
She refused. I asked her again and she consented, but she refused to
allow me to make the engagement public until her year of mourning was
up. Yesterday I called upon her, pointed out that a year and three
weeks had now elapsed since her husband’s death, and that there could
be no further objection to making the engagement public property. I
had noticed that she had been very strange in her manner for some days.
Now, suddenly, without the least warning, she broke down completely.
She—she told me everything. Her hatred of her brute of a husband, her
growing love for me, and the—the dreadful means she had taken. Poison!
My God! It was murder in cold blood.”

I saw the repulsion, the horror, in Ackroyd’s face. So Mrs. Ferrars
must have seen it. Ackroyd is not the type of the great lover who can
forgive all for love’s sake. He is fundamentally a good citizen. All
that was sound and wholesome and law-abiding in him must have turned
from her utterly in that moment of revelation.

“Yes,” he went on, in a low, monotonous voice, “she confessed
everything. It seems that there is one person who has known all
along—who has been blackmailing her for huge sums. It was the strain of
that that drove her nearly mad.”

“Who was the man?”

Suddenly before my eyes there arose the picture of Ralph Paton and Mrs.
Ferrars side by side. Their heads so close together. I felt a momentary
throb of anxiety. Supposing—oh! but surely that was impossible. I
remembered the frankness of Ralph’s greeting that very afternoon.
Absurd!

“She wouldn’t tell me his name,” said Ackroyd slowly. “As a matter of
fact, she didn’t actually say that it was a man. But of course——”

“Of course,” I agreed. “It must have been a man. And you’ve no
suspicion at all?”

For answer Ackroyd groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

“It can’t be,” he said. “I’m mad even to think of such a thing. No, I
won’t even admit to you the wild suspicion that crossed my mind. I’ll
tell you this much, though. Something she said made me think that the
person in question might be actually among my household—but that can’t
be so. I must have misunderstood her.”

“What did you say to her?” I asked.

“What could I say? She saw, of course, the awful shock it had been to
me. And then there was the question, what was my duty in the matter?
She had made me, you see, an accessory after the fact. She saw all
that, I think, quicker than I did. I was stunned, you know. She asked
me for twenty-four hours—made me promise to do nothing till the end
of that time. And she steadfastly refused to give me the name of the
scoundrel who had been blackmailing her. I suppose she was afraid that
I might go straight off and hammer him, and then the fat would have
been in the fire as far as she was concerned. She told me that I should
hear from her before twenty-four hours had passed. My God! I swear to
you, Sheppard, that it never entered my head what she meant to do.
Suicide! And I drove her to it.”

“No, no,” I said. “Don’t take an exaggerated view of things. The
responsibility for her death doesn’t lie at your door.”

“The question is, what am I to do now? The poor lady is dead. Why rake
up past trouble?”

“I rather agree with you,” I said.

“But there’s another point. How am I to get hold of that scoundrel who
drove her to death as surely as if he’d killed her. He knew of the
first crime, and he fastened on to it like some obscene vulture. She’s
paid the penalty. Is he to go scot-free?”

“I see,” I said slowly. “You want to hunt him down? It will mean a lot
of publicity, you know.”

“Yes, I’ve thought of that. I’ve zigzagged to and fro in my mind.”

“I agree with you that the villain ought to be punished, but the cost
has got to be reckoned.”

Ackroyd rose and walked up and down. Presently he sank into the chair
again.

“Look here, Sheppard, suppose we leave it like this. If no word comes
from her, we’ll let the dead things lie.”

“What do you mean by word coming from her?” I asked curiously.

“I have the strongest impression that somewhere or somehow she must
have left a message for me—before she went. I can’t argue about it, but
there it is.”

I shook my head.

“She left no letter or word of any kind. I asked.”

“Sheppard, I’m convinced that she did. And more, I’ve a feeling that by
deliberately choosing death, she wanted the whole thing to come out, if
only to be revenged on the man who drove her to desperation. I believe
that if I could have seen her then, she would have told me his name and
bid me go for him for all I was worth.”

He looked at me.

“You don’t believe in impressions?”

“Oh, yes, I do, in a sense. If, as you put it, word should come from
her——”

I broke off. The door opened noiselessly and Parker entered with a
salver on which were some letters.

“The evening post, sir,” he said, handing the salver to Ackroyd.

Then he collected the coffee cups and withdrew.

My attention, diverted for a moment, came back to Ackroyd. He was
staring like a man turned to stone at a long blue envelope. The other
letters he had let drop to the ground.

“_Her writing_,” he said in a whisper. “She must have gone out and
posted it last night, just before—before——”

He ripped open the envelope and drew out a thick enclosure. Then he
looked up sharply.

“You’re sure you shut the window?” he said.

“Quite sure,” I said, surprised. “Why?”

“All this evening I’ve had a queer feeling of being watched, spied
upon. What’s that——?”

He turned sharply. So did I. We both had the impression of hearing the
latch of the door give ever so slightly. I went across to it and opened
it. There was no one there.

“Nerves,” murmured Ackroyd to himself.

He unfolded the thick sheets of paper, and read aloud in a low voice.

  “_My dear, my very dear Roger,—A life calls for a life. I see
  that—I saw it in your face this afternoon. So I am taking the only
  road open to me. I leave to you the punishment of the person who
  has made my life a hell upon earth for the last year. I would not
  tell you the name this afternoon, but I propose to write it to you
  now. I have no children or near relations to be spared, so do not
  fear publicity. If you can, Roger, my very dear Roger, forgive me
  the wrong I meant to do you, since when the time came, I could not
  do it after all...._”

Ackroyd, his finger on the sheet to turn it over, paused.

“Sheppard, forgive me, but I must read this alone,” he said unsteadily.
“It was meant for my eyes, and my eyes only.”

He put the letter in the envelope and laid it on the table.

“Later, when I am alone.”

“No,” I cried impulsively, “read it now.”

Ackroyd stared at me in some surprise.

“I beg your pardon,” I said, reddening. “I do not mean read it aloud to
me. But read it through whilst I am still here.”

Ackroyd shook his head.

“No, I’d rather wait.”

But for some reason, obscure to myself, I continued to urge him.

“At least, read the name of the man,” I said.

Now Ackroyd is essentially pig-headed. The more you urge him to do a
thing, the more determined he is not to do it. All my arguments were in
vain.

The letter had been brought in at twenty minutes to nine. It was just
on ten minutes to nine when I left him, the letter still unread. I
hesitated with my hand on the door handle, looking back and wondering
if there was anything I had left undone. I could think of nothing. With
a shake of the head I passed out and closed the door behind me.

I was startled by seeing the figure of Parker close at hand. He looked
embarrassed, and it occurred to me that he might have been listening at
the door.

What a fat, smug, oily face the man had, and surely there was something
decidedly shifty in his eye.

“Mr. Ackroyd particularly does not want to be disturbed,” I said
coldly. “He told me to tell you so.”

“Quite so, sir. I—I fancied I heard the bell ring.”

This was such a palpable untruth that I did not trouble to reply.
Preceding me to the hall, Parker helped me on with my overcoat, and I
stepped out into the night. The moon was overcast and everything seemed
very dark and still. The village church clock chimed nine o’clock
as I passed through the lodge gates. I turned to the left towards
the village, and almost cannoned into a man coming in the opposite
direction.

“This the way to Fernly Park, mister?” asked the stranger in a hoarse
voice.

I looked at him. He was wearing a hat pulled down over his eyes, and
his coat collar turned up. I could see little or nothing of his face,
but he seemed a young fellow. The voice was rough and uneducated.

“These are the lodge gates here,” I said.

“Thank you, mister.” He paused, and then added, quite unnecessarily,
“I’m a stranger in these parts, you see.”

He went on, passing through the gates as I turned to look after him.

The odd thing was that his voice reminded me of some one’s voice that I
knew, but whose it was I could not think.

Ten minutes later I was at home once more. Caroline was full of
curiosity to know why I had returned so early. I had to make up a
slightly fictitious account of the evening in order to satisfy her, and
I had an uneasy feeling that she saw through the transparent device.

At ten o’clock I rose, yawned, and suggested bed. Caroline acquiesced.

It was Friday night, and on Friday night I wind the clocks. I did it as
usual, whilst Caroline satisfied herself that the servants had locked
up the kitchen properly.

It was a quarter past ten as we went up the stairs. I had just reached
the top when the telephone rang in the hall below.

“Mrs. Bates,” said Caroline immediately.

“I’m afraid so,” I said ruefully.

I ran down the stairs and took up the receiver.

“What?” I said. “_What?_ Certainly, I’ll come at once.”

I ran upstairs, caught up my bag, and stuffed a few extra dressings
into it.

“Parker telephoning,” I shouted to Caroline, “from Fernly. They’ve just
found Roger Ackroyd murdered.”




                               CHAPTER V

                                MURDER


I got out the car in next to no time, and drove rapidly to Fernly.
Jumping out, I pulled the bell impatiently. There was some delay in
answering, and I rang again.

Then I heard the rattle of the chain and Parker, his impassivity of
countenance quite unmoved, stood in the open doorway.

I pushed past him into the hall.

“Where is he?” I demanded sharply.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Your master. Mr. Ackroyd. Don’t stand there staring at me, man. Have
you notified the police?”

“The police, sir? Did you say the police?” Parker stared at me as
though I were a ghost.

“What’s the matter with you, Parker? If, as you say, your master has
been murdered——”

A gasp broke from Parker.

“The master? Murdered? Impossible, sir!”

It was my turn to stare.

“Didn’t you telephone to me, not five minutes ago, and tell me that Mr.
Ackroyd had been found murdered?”

“Me, sir? Oh! no indeed, sir. I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.”

“Do you mean to say it’s all a hoax? That there’s nothing the matter
with Mr. Ackroyd?”

“Excuse me, sir, did the person telephoning use my name?”

“I’ll give you the exact words I heard. ‘_Is that Dr. Sheppard? Parker,
the butler at Fernly, speaking. Will you please come at once, sir. Mr.
Ackroyd has been murdered._’”

Parker and I stared at each other blankly.

“A very wicked joke to play, sir,” he said at last, in a shocked tone.
“Fancy saying a thing like that.”

“Where is Mr. Ackroyd?” I asked suddenly.

“Still in the study, I fancy, sir. The ladies have gone to bed, and
Major Blunt and Mr. Raymond are in the billiard room.”

“I think I’ll just look in and see him for a minute,” I said. “I know
he didn’t want to be disturbed again, but this odd practical joke has
made me uneasy. I’d just like to satisfy myself that he’s all right.”

“Quite so, sir. It makes me feel quite uneasy myself. If you don’t
object to my accompanying you as far as the door, sir——?”

“Not at all,” I said. “Come along.”

I passed through the door on the right, Parker on my heels, traversed
the little lobby where a small flight of stairs led upstairs to
Ackroyd’s bedroom, and tapped on the study door.

There was no answer. I turned the handle, but the door was locked.

“Allow me, sir,” said Parker.

Very nimbly, for a man of his build, he dropped on one knee and applied
his eye to the keyhole.

“Key is in the lock all right, sir,” he said, rising. “On the inside.
Mr. Ackroyd must have locked himself in and possibly just dropped off
to sleep.”

I bent down and verified Parker’s statement.

“It seems all right,” I said, “but, all the same, Parker, I’m going
to wake your master up. I shouldn’t be satisfied to go home without
hearing from his own lips that he’s quite all right.”

So saying, I rattled the handle and called out, “Ackroyd, Ackroyd, just
a minute.”

But still there was no answer. I glanced over my shoulder.

“I don’t want to alarm the household,” I said hesitatingly.

Parker went across and shut the door from the big hall through which we
had come.

“I think that will be all right now, sir. The billiard room is at
the other side of the house, and so are the kitchen quarters and the
ladies’ bedrooms.”

I nodded comprehendingly. Then I banged once more frantically on the
door, and stooping down, fairly bawled through the keyhole:—

“Ackroyd, Ackroyd! It’s Sheppard. Let me in.”

And still—silence. Not a sign of life from within the locked room.
Parker and I glanced at each other.

“Look here, Parker,” I said, “I’m going to break this door in—or
rather, we are. I’ll take the responsibility.”

“If you say so, sir,” said Parker, rather doubtfully.

“I do say so. I’m seriously alarmed about Mr. Ackroyd.”

I looked round the small lobby and picked up a heavy oak chair. Parker
and I held it between us and advanced to the assault. Once, twice, and
three times we hurled it against the lock. At the third blow it gave,
and we staggered into the room.

Ackroyd was sitting as I had left him in the arm-chair before the fire.
His head had fallen sideways, and clearly visible, just below the
collar of his coat, was a shining piece of twisted metalwork.

Parker and I advanced till we stood over the recumbent figure. I heard
the butler draw in his breath with a sharp hiss.

“Stabbed from be’ind,” he murmured. “’Orrible!”

He wiped his moist brow with his handkerchief, then stretched out a
hand gingerly towards the hilt of the dagger.

“You mustn’t touch that,” I said sharply. “Go at once to the telephone
and ring up the police station. Inform them of what has happened. Then
tell Mr. Raymond and Major Blunt.”

“Very good, sir.”

Parker hurried away, still wiping his perspiring brow.

I did what little had to be done. I was careful not to disturb the
position of the body, and not to handle the dagger at all. No object
was to be attained by moving it. Ackroyd had clearly been dead some
little time.

Then I heard young Raymond’s voice, horror-stricken and incredulous,
outside.

“What do you say? Oh! impossible! Where’s the doctor?”

He appeared impetuously in the doorway, then stopped dead, his face
very white. A hand put him aside, and Hector Blunt came past him into
the room.

“My God!” said Raymond from behind him; “it’s true, then.”

Blunt came straight on till he reached the chair. He bent over the
body, and I thought that, like Parker, he was going to lay hold of the
dagger hilt. I drew him back with one hand.

“Nothing must be moved,” I explained. “The police must see him exactly
as he is now.”

Blunt nodded in instant comprehension. His face was expressionless as
ever, but I thought I detected signs of emotion beneath the stolid
mask. Geoffrey Raymond had joined us now, and stood peering over
Blunt’s shoulder at the body.

“This is terrible,” he said in a low voice.

He had regained his composure, but as he took off the pince-nez he
habitually wore and polished them I observed that his hand was shaking.

“Robbery, I suppose,” he said. “How did the fellow get in? Through the
window? Has anything been taken?”

He went towards the desk.

“You think it’s burglary?” I said slowly.

“What else could it be? There’s no question of suicide, I suppose?”

“No man could stab himself in such a way,” I said confidently. “It’s
murder right enough. But with what motive?”

“Roger hadn’t an enemy in the world,” said Blunt quietly. “Must have
been burglars. But what was the thief after? Nothing seems to be
disarranged?”

He looked round the room. Raymond was still sorting the papers on the
desk.

“There seems nothing missing, and none of the drawers show signs of
having been tampered with,” the secretary observed at last. “It’s very
mysterious.”

Blunt made a slight motion with his head.

“There are some letters on the floor here,” he said.

I looked down. Three or four letters still lay where Ackroyd had
dropped them earlier in the evening.

But the blue envelope containing Mrs. Ferrars’s letter had disappeared.
I half opened my mouth to speak, but at that moment the sound of a bell
pealed through the house. There was a confused murmur of voices in the
hall, and then Parker appeared with our local inspector and a police
constable.

“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the inspector. “I’m terribly sorry for
this! A good kind gentleman like Mr. Ackroyd. The butler says it is
murder. No possibility of accident or suicide, doctor?”

“None whatever,” I said.

“Ah! A bad business.”

He came and stood over the body.

“Been moved at all?” he asked sharply.

“Beyond making certain that life was extinct—an easy matter—I have not
disturbed the body in any way.”

“Ah! And everything points to the murderer having got clear away—for
the moment, that is. Now then, let me hear all about it. Who found the
body?”

I explained the circumstances carefully.

“A telephone message, you say? From the butler?”

“A message that I never sent,” declared Parker earnestly. “I’ve not
been near the telephone the whole evening. The others can bear me out
that I haven’t.”

“Very odd, that. Did it sound like Parker’s voice, doctor?”

“Well—I can’t say I noticed. I took it for granted, you see.”

“Naturally. Well, you got up here, broke in the door, and found poor
Mr. Ackroyd like this. How long should you say he had been dead,
doctor?”

“Half an hour at least—perhaps longer,” I said.

“The door was locked on the inside, you say? What about the window?”

“I myself closed and bolted it earlier in the evening at Mr. Ackroyd’s
request.”

The inspector strode across to it and threw back the curtains.

“Well, it’s open now anyway,” he remarked.

True enough, the window was open, the lower sash being raised to its
fullest extent.

The inspector produced a pocket torch and flashed it along the sill
outside.

“This is the way he went all right,” he remarked, “_and_ got in. See
here.”

In the light of the powerful torch, several clearly defined footmarks
could be seen. They seemed to be those of shoes with rubber studs
in the soles. One particularly clear one pointed inwards, another,
slightly overlapping it, pointed outwards.

“Plain as a pikestaff,” said the inspector. “Any valuables missing?”

Geoffrey Raymond shook his head.

“Not so that we can discover. Mr. Ackroyd never kept anything of
particular value in this room.”

“H’m,” said the inspector. “Man found an open window. Climbed in, saw
Mr. Ackroyd sitting there—maybe he’d fallen asleep. Man stabbed him
from behind, then lost his nerve and made off. But he’s left his tracks
pretty clearly. We ought to get hold of _him_ without much difficulty.
No suspicious strangers been hanging about anywhere?”

“Oh!” I said suddenly.

“What is it, doctor?”

“I met a man this evening—just as I was turning out of the gate. He
asked me the way to Fernly Park.”

“What time would that be?”

“Just nine o’clock. I heard it chime the hour as I was turning out of
the gate.”

“Can you describe him?”

I did so to the best of my ability.

The inspector turned to the butler.

“Any one answering that description come to the front door?”

“No, sir. No one has been to the house at all this evening.”

“What about the back?”

“I don’t think so, sir, but I’ll make inquiries.”

He moved towards the door, but the inspector held up a large hand.

“No, thanks. I’ll do my own inquiring. But first of all I want to fix
the time a little more clearly. When was Mr. Ackroyd last seen alive?”

“Probably by me,” I said, “when I left at—let me see—about ten minutes
to nine. He told me that he didn’t wish to be disturbed, and I repeated
the order to Parker.”

“Just so, sir,” said Parker respectfully.

“Mr. Ackroyd was certainly alive at half-past nine,” put in Raymond,
“for I heard his voice in here talking.”

“Who was he talking to?”

“That I don’t know. Of course, at the time I took it for granted that
it was Dr. Sheppard who was with him. I wanted to ask him a question
about some papers I was engaged upon, but when I heard the voices I
remembered that he had said he wanted to talk to Dr. Sheppard without
being disturbed, and I went away again. But now it seems that the
doctor had already left?”

I nodded.

“I was at home by a quarter-past nine,” I said. “I didn’t go out again
until I received the telephone call.”

“Who could have been with him at half-past nine?” queried the
inspector. “It wasn’t you, Mr.—er——”

“Major Blunt,” I said.

“Major Hector Blunt?” asked the inspector, a respectful tone creeping
into his voice.

Blunt merely jerked his head affirmatively.

“I think we’ve seen you down here before, sir,” said the inspector.
“I didn’t recognize you for the moment, but you were staying with Mr.
Ackroyd a year ago last May.”

“June,” corrected Blunt.

“Just so, June it was. Now, as I was saying, it wasn’t you with Mr.
Ackroyd at nine-thirty this evening?”

Blunt shook his head.

“Never saw him after dinner,” he volunteered.

The inspector turned once more to Raymond.

“You didn’t overhear any of the conversation going on, did you, sir?”

“I did catch just a fragment of it,” said the secretary, “and,
supposing as I did that it was Dr. Sheppard who was with Mr. Ackroyd,
that fragment struck me as distinctly odd. As far as I can remember,
the exact words were these. Mr. Ackroyd was speaking. ‘The calls
on my purse have been so frequent of late’—that is what he was
saying—‘of late, that I fear it is impossible for me to accede to your
request....’ I went away again at once, of course, so did not hear any
more. But I rather wondered because Dr. Sheppard——”

“——Does not ask for loans for himself or subscriptions for others,” I
finished.

“A demand for money,” said the inspector musingly. “It may be that here
we have a very important clew.” He turned to the butler. “You say,
Parker, that nobody was admitted by the front door this evening?”

“That’s what I say, sir.”

“Then it seems almost certain that Mr. Ackroyd himself must have
admitted this stranger. But I don’t quite see——”

The inspector went into a kind of day-dream for some minutes.

“One thing’s clear,” he said at length, rousing himself from his
absorption. “Mr. Ackroyd was alive and well at nine-thirty. That is the
last moment at which he is known to have been alive.”

Parker gave vent to an apologetic cough which brought the inspector’s
eyes on him at once.

“Well?” he said sharply.

“If you’ll excuse me, sir, Miss Flora saw him after that.”

“Miss Flora?”

“Yes, sir. About a quarter to ten that would be. It was after that that
she told me Mr. Ackroyd wasn’t to be disturbed again to-night.”

“Did he send her to you with that message?”

“Not exactly, sir. I was bringing a tray with soda and whisky when Miss
Flora, who was just coming out of this room, stopped me and said her
uncle didn’t want to be disturbed.”

The inspector looked at the butler with rather closer attention than he
had bestowed on him up to now.

“You’d already been told that Mr. Ackroyd didn’t want to be disturbed,
hadn’t you?”

Parker began to stammer. His hands shook.

“Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Quite so, sir.”

“And yet you were proposing to do so?”

“I’d forgotten, sir. At least I mean, I always bring the whisky and
soda about that time, sir, and ask if there’s anything more, and I
thought—well, I was doing as usual without thinking.”

It was at this moment that it began to dawn upon me that Parker was
most suspiciously flustered. The man was shaking and twitching all over.

“H’m,” said the inspector. “I must see Miss Ackroyd at once. For the
moment we’ll leave this room exactly as it is. I can return here after
I’ve heard what Miss Ackroyd has to tell me. I shall just take the
precaution of shutting and bolting the window.”

This precaution accomplished, he led the way into the hall and we
followed him. He paused a moment, as he glanced up at the little
staircase, then spoke over his shoulder to the constable.

“Jones, you’d better stay here. Don’t let any one go into that room.”

Parker interposed deferentially.

“If you’ll excuse me, sir. If you were to lock the door into the main
hall, nobody could gain access to this part. That staircase leads only
to Mr. Ackroyd’s bedroom and bathroom. There is no communication with
the other part of the house. There once was a door through, but Mr.
Ackroyd had it blocked up. He liked to feel that his suite was entirely
private.”

To make things clear and explain the position, I have appended a rough
sketch of the right-hand wing of the house. The small staircase leads,
as Parker explained, to a big bedroom (made by two being knocked into
one) and an adjoining bathroom and lavatory.

[Illustration:

  +------------------------------------.
  |             TERRACE                 .
  |--==--+--==---==--+---==---==----+    .
  |PANTRY|   DINING  |    DRAWING   |    .
  |      |    ROOM   |     ROOM     |    .
  |      |           |              |    .
  |___/ _+___/ __/  _+_/ +__________+    .
  |                      |          |    .
  |___  ___+____+         \STAIRS‖‖‖|    .
  |   \    |====|        +-- /------+    .
  |        |====|        |          |    .
  |BILLIARD|====|  HALL  |          |    .
  |  ROOM  |====|        |  STUDY   ‖    .
  |        +----+        |          ‖    .
  |        |STAIRCASE    |          |    .
  |        |             |          |    .
  |       \              |          |    .
  +-==-==--+-------+  +--+----------+-  -+
                   |  |              .  .
                FRONT DOOR          .  .
                 .      .          .  .
                 .      .         .  .
                  .    .         .  .
                   .  .     PATH  .
                   .  .      .  .    ..
           LAWN    .  .     .  .   .    .
                   .  .   .  .     .    .
                   .  . .  .         ..
                   .  . . .       SUMMER
                   .  +---+       HOUSE
                   .  |   |LODGE
  -----------------+  +---+--------------
]

The inspector took in the position at a glance. We went through into
the large hall and he locked the door behind him, slipping the key into
his pocket. Then he gave the constable some low-voiced instructions,
and the latter prepared to depart.

“We must get busy on those shoe tracks,” explained the inspector. “But
first of all, I must have a word with Miss Ackroyd. She was the last
person to see her uncle alive. Does she know yet?”

Raymond shook his head.

“Well, no need to tell her for another five minutes. She can answer my
questions better without being upset by knowing the truth about her
uncle. Tell her there’s been a burglary, and ask her if she would mind
dressing and coming down to answer a few questions.”

It was Raymond who went upstairs on this errand.

“Miss Ackroyd will be down in a minute,” he said, when he returned. “I
told her just what you suggested.”

In less than five minutes Flora descended the staircase. She was
wrapped in a pale pink silk kimono. She looked anxious and excited.

The inspector stepped forward.

“Good-evening, Miss Ackroyd,” he said civilly. “We’re afraid there’s
been an attempt at robbery, and we want you to help us. What’s this
room—the billiard room? Come in here and sit down.”

Flora sat down composedly on the wide divan which ran the length of the
wall, and looked up at the inspector.

“I don’t quite understand. What has been stolen? What do you want me to
tell you?”

“It’s just this, Miss Ackroyd. Parker here says you came out of your
uncle’s study at about a quarter to ten. Is that right?”

“Quite right. I had been to say good-night to him.”

“And the time is correct?”

“Well, it must have been about then. I can’t say exactly. It might have
been later.”

“Was your uncle alone, or was there any one with him?”

“He was alone. Dr. Sheppard had gone.”

“Did you happen to notice whether the window was open or shut?”

Flora shook her head.

“I can’t say. The curtains were drawn.”

“Exactly. And your uncle seemed quite as usual?”

“I think so.”

“Do you mind telling us exactly what passed between you?”

Flora paused a minute, as though to collect her recollections.

“I went in and said, ‘Good-night, uncle, I’m going to bed now. I’m
tired to-night.’ He gave a sort of grunt, and—I went over and kissed
him, and he said something about my looking nice in the frock I had on,
and then he told me to run away as he was busy. So I went.”

“Did he ask specially not to be disturbed?”

“Oh! yes, I forgot. He said: ‘Tell Parker I don’t want anything more
to-night, and that he’s not to disturb me.’ I met Parker just outside
the door and gave him uncle’s message.”

“Just so,” said the inspector.

“Won’t you tell me what it is that has been stolen?”

“We’re not quite—certain,” said the inspector hesitatingly.

A wide look of alarm came into the girl’s eyes. She started up.

“What is it? You’re hiding something from me?”

Moving in his usual unobtrusive manner, Hector Blunt came between her
and the inspector. She half stretched out her hand, and he took it in
both of his, patting it as though she were a very small child, and she
turned to him as though something in his stolid, rocklike demeanor
promised comfort and safety.

“It’s bad news, Flora,” he said quietly. “Bad news for all of us. Your
Uncle Roger——”

“Yes?”

“It will be a shock to you. Bound to be. Poor Roger’s dead.”

Flora drew away from him, her eyes dilating with horror.

“When?” she whispered. “When?”

“Very soon after you left him, I’m afraid,” said Blunt gravely.

Flora raised her hand to her throat, gave a little cry, and I hurried
to catch her as she fell. She had fainted, and Blunt and I carried her
upstairs and laid her on her bed. Then I got him to wake Mrs. Ackroyd
and tell her the news. Flora soon revived, and I brought her mother to
her, telling her what to do for the girl. Then I hurried downstairs
again.




                              CHAPTER VI

                          THE TUNISIAN DAGGER


I met the inspector just coming from the door which led into the
kitchen quarters.

“How’s the young lady, doctor?”

“Coming round nicely. Her mother’s with her.”

“That’s good. I’ve been questioning the servants. They all declare that
no one has been to the back door to-night. Your description of that
stranger was rather vague. Can’t you give us something more definite to
go upon?”

“I’m afraid not,” I said regretfully. “It was a dark night, you see,
and the fellow had his coat collar well pulled up and his hat squashed
down over his eyes.”

“H’m,” said the inspector. “Looked as though he wanted to conceal his
face. Sure it was no one you know?”

I replied in the negative, but not as decidedly as I might have done. I
remembered my impression that the stranger’s voice was not unfamiliar
to me. I explained this rather haltingly to the inspector.

“It was a rough, uneducated voice, you say?”

I agreed, but it occurred to me that the roughness had been of an
almost exaggerated quality. If, as the inspector thought, the man had
wished to hide his face, he might equally well have tried to disguise
his voice.

“Do you mind coming into the study with me again, doctor? There are one
or two things I want to ask you.”

I acquiesced. Inspector Davis unlocked the door of the lobby, we passed
through, and he locked the door again behind him.

“We don’t want to be disturbed,” he said grimly. “And we don’t want any
eavesdropping either. What’s all this about blackmail?”

“Blackmail!” I exclaimed, very much startled.

“Is it an effort of Parker’s imagination? Or is there something in it?”

“If Parker heard anything about blackmail,” I said slowly, “he must
have been listening outside this door with his ear glued against the
keyhole.”

Davis nodded.

“Nothing more likely. You see, I’ve been instituting a few inquiries as
to what Parker has been doing with himself this evening. To tell the
truth, I didn’t like his manner. The man knows something. When I began
to question him, he got the wind up, and plumped out some garbled story
of blackmail.”

I took an instant decision.

“I’m rather glad you’ve brought the matter up,” I said. “I’ve been
trying to decide whether to make a clean breast of things or not. I’d
already practically decided to tell you everything, but I was going to
wait for a favorable opportunity. You might as well have it now.”

And then and there I narrated the whole events of the evening as I
have set them down here. The inspector listened keenly, occasionally
interjecting a question.

“Most extraordinary story I ever heard,” he said, when I had finished.
“And you say that letter has completely disappeared? It looks bad—it
looks very bad indeed. It gives us what we’ve been looking for—a motive
for the murder.”

I nodded.

“I realize that.”

“You say that Mr. Ackroyd hinted at a suspicion he had that some member
of his household was involved? Household’s rather an elastic term.”

“You don’t think that Parker himself might be the man we’re after?” I
suggested.

“It looks very like it. He was obviously listening at the door when
you came out. Then Miss Ackroyd came across him later bent on entering
the study. Say he tried again when she was safely out of the way. He
stabbed Ackroyd, locked the door on the inside, opened the window, and
got out that way, and went round to a side door which he had previously
left open. How’s that?”

“There’s only one thing against it,” I said slowly. “If Ackroyd went on
reading that letter as soon as I left, as he intended to do, I don’t
see him continuing to sit on here and turn things over in his mind for
another hour. He’d have had Parker in at once, accused him then and
there, and there would have been a fine old uproar. Remember, Ackroyd
was a man of choleric temper.”

“Mightn’t have had time to go on with the letter just then,” suggested
the inspector. “We know some one was with him at half-past nine. If
that visitor turned up as soon as you left, and after he went, Miss
Ackroyd came in to say good-night—well, he wouldn’t be able to go on
with the letter until close upon ten o’clock.”

“And the telephone call?”

“Parker sent that all right—perhaps before he thought of the locked
door and open window. Then he changed his mind—or got in a panic—and
decided to deny all knowledge of it. That was it, depend upon it.”

“Ye-es,” I said rather doubtfully.

“Anyway, we can find out the truth about the telephone call from the
exchange. If it was put through from here, I don’t see how any one
else but Parker could have sent it. Depend upon it, he’s our man.
But keep it dark—we don’t want to alarm him just yet, till we’ve got
all the evidence. I’ll see to it he doesn’t give us the slip. To all
appearances we’ll be concentrating on your mysterious stranger.”

He rose from where he had been sitting astride the chair belonging to
the desk, and crossed over to the still form in the arm-chair.

“The weapon ought to give us a clew,” he remarked, looking up. “It’s
something quite unique—a curio, I should think, by the look of it.”

He bent down, surveying the handle attentively, and I heard him give a
grunt of satisfaction. Then, very gingerly, he pressed his hands down
below the hilt and drew the blade out from the wound. Still carrying it
so as not to touch the handle, he placed it in a wide china mug which
adorned the mantelpiece.

“Yes,” he said, nodding at it. “Quite a work of art. There can’t be
many of them about.”

It was indeed a beautiful object. A narrow, tapering blade, and a hilt
of elaborately intertwined metals of curious and careful workmanship.
He touched the blade gingerly with his finger, testing its sharpness,
and made an appreciative grimace.

“Lord, what an edge,” he exclaimed. “A child could drive that into a
man—as easy as cutting butter. A dangerous sort of toy to have about.”

“May I examine the body properly now?” I asked.

He nodded.

“Go ahead.”

I made a thorough examination.

“Well?” said the inspector, when I had finished.

“I’ll spare you the technical language,” I said. “We’ll keep that
for the inquest. The blow was delivered by a right-handed man
standing behind him, and death must have been instantaneous. By the
expression on the dead man’s face, I should say that the blow was quite
unexpected. He probably died without knowing who his assailant was.”

“Butlers can creep about as soft-footed as cats,” said Inspector Davis.
“There’s not going to be much mystery about this crime. Take a look at
the hilt of that dagger.”

I took the look.

“I dare say they’re not apparent to you, but I can see them clearly
enough.” He lowered his voice. “_Fingerprints!_”

He stood off a few steps to judge of his effect.

“Yes,” I said mildly. “I guessed that.”

I do not see why I should be supposed to be totally devoid of
intelligence. After all, I read detective stories, and the newspapers,
and am a man of quite average ability. If there had been toe marks on
the dagger handle, now, that would have been quite a different thing. I
would then have registered any amount of surprise and awe.

I think the inspector was annoyed with me for declining to get
thrilled. He picked up the china mug and invited me to accompany him to
the billiard room.

“I want to see if Mr. Raymond can tell us anything about this dagger,”
he explained.

Locking the outer door behind us again, we made our way to the billiard
room, where we found Geoffrey Raymond. The inspector held up his
exhibit.

“Ever seen this before, Mr. Raymond?”

“Why—I believe—I’m almost sure that is a curio given to Mr. Ackroyd
by Major Blunt. It comes from Morocco—no, Tunis. So the crime was
committed with that? What an extraordinary thing. It seems almost
impossible, and yet there could hardly be two daggers the same. May I
fetch Major Blunt?”

Without waiting for an answer, he hurried off.

“Nice young fellow that,” said the inspector. “Something honest and
ingenuous about him.”

I agreed. In the two years that Geoffrey Raymond has been secretary to
Ackroyd, I have never seen him ruffled or out of temper. And he has
been, I know, a most efficient secretary.

In a minute or two Raymond returned, accompanied by Blunt.

“I was right,” said Raymond excitedly. “It _is_ the Tunisian dagger.”

“Major Blunt hasn’t looked at it yet,” objected the inspector.

“Saw it the moment I came into the study,” said the quiet man.

“You recognized it then?”

Blunt nodded.

“You said nothing about it,” said the inspector suspiciously.

“Wrong moment,” said Blunt. “Lot of harm done by blurting out things at
the wrong time.”

He returned the inspector’s stare placidly enough.

The latter grunted at last and turned away. He brought the dagger over
to Blunt.

“You’re quite sure about it, sir. You identify it positively?”

“Absolutely. No doubt whatever.”

“Where was this—er—curio usually kept? Can you tell me that, sir?”

It was the secretary who answered.

“In the silver table in the drawing-room.”

“What?” I exclaimed.

The others looked at me.

“Yes, doctor?” said the inspector encouragingly.

“It’s nothing.”

“Yes, doctor?” said the inspector again, still more encouragingly.

“It’s so trivial,” I explained apologetically. “Only that when I
arrived last night for dinner I heard the lid of the silver table being
shut down in the drawing-room.”

I saw profound skepticism and a trace of suspicion on the inspector’s
countenance.

“How did you know it was the silver table lid?”

I was forced to explain in detail—a long, tedious explanation which I
would infinitely rather not have had to make.

The inspector heard me to the end.

“Was the dagger in its place when you were looking over the contents?”
he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I can’t say I remember noticing it—but, of
course, it may have been there all the time.”

“We’d better get hold of the housekeeper,” remarked the inspector, and
pulled the bell.

A few minutes later Miss Russell, summoned by Parker, entered the room.

“I don’t think I went near the silver table,” she said, when the
inspector had posed his question. “I was looking to see that all the
flowers were fresh. Oh! yes, I remember now. The silver table was
open—which it had no business to be, and I shut the lid down as I
passed.”

She looked at him aggressively.

“I see,” said the inspector. “Can you tell me if this dagger was in its
place then?”

Miss Russell looked at the weapon composedly.

“I can’t say, I’m sure,” she replied. “I didn’t stop to look. I knew
the family would be down any minute, and I wanted to get away.”

“Thank you,” said the inspector.

There was just a trace of hesitation in his manner, as though he would
have liked to question her further, but Miss Russell clearly accepted
the words as a dismissal, and glided from the room.

“Rather a Tartar, I should fancy, eh?” said the inspector, looking
after her. “Let me see. This silver table is in front of one of the
windows, I think you said, doctor?”

Raymond answered for me.

“Yes, the left-hand window.”

“And the window was open?”

“They were both ajar.”

“Well, I don’t think we need go into the question much further.
Somebody—I’ll just say somebody—could get that dagger any time he
liked, and exactly when he got it doesn’t matter in the least. I’ll be
coming up in the morning with the chief constable, Mr. Raymond. Until
then, I’ll keep the key of that door. I want Colonel Melrose to see
everything exactly as it is. I happen to know that he’s dining out the
other side of the county, and, I believe, staying the night....”

We watched the inspector take up the jar.

“I shall have to pack this carefully,” he observed. “It’s going to be
an important piece of evidence in more ways than one.”

A few minutes later as I came out of the billiard room with Raymond,
the latter gave a low chuckle of amusement.

I felt the pressure of his hand on my arm, and followed the direction
of his eyes. Inspector Davis seemed to be inviting Parker’s opinion of
a small pocket diary.

“A little obvious,” murmured my companion. “So Parker is the suspect,
is he? Shall we oblige Inspector Davis with a set of our fingerprints
also?”

He took two cards from the card tray, wiped them with his silk
handkerchief, then handed one to me and took the other himself. Then,
with a grin, he handed them to the police inspector.

“Souvenirs,” he said. “No. 1, Dr. Sheppard; No. 2, my humble self. One
from Major Blunt will be forthcoming in the morning.”

Youth is very buoyant. Even the brutal murder of his friend and
employer could not dim Geoffrey Raymond’s spirits for long. Perhaps
that is as it should be. I do not know. I have lost the quality of
resilience long since myself.

It was very late when I got back, and I hoped that Caroline would have
gone to bed. I might have known better.

She had hot cocoa waiting for me, and whilst I drank it, she extracted
the whole history of the evening from me. I said nothing of the
blackmailing business, but contented myself with giving her the facts
of the murder.

“The police suspect Parker,” I said, as I rose to my feet and prepared
to ascend to bed. “There seems a fairly clear case against him.”

“Parker!” said my sister. “Fiddlesticks! That inspector must be a
perfect fool. Parker indeed! Don’t tell me.”

With which obscure pronouncement we went up to bed.




                              CHAPTER VII

                   I LEARN MY NEIGHBOR’S PROFESSION


On the following morning I hurried unforgivably over my round. My
excuse can be that I had no very serious cases to attend. On my return
Caroline came into the hall to greet me.

“Flora Ackroyd is here,” she announced in an excited whisper.

“What?”

I concealed my surprise as best I could.

“She’s very anxious to see you. She’s been here half an hour.”

Caroline led the way into our small sitting-room, and I followed.

Flora was sitting on the sofa by the window. She was in black and she
sat nervously twisting her hands together. I was shocked by the sight
of her face. All the color had faded away from it. But when she spoke
her manner was as composed and resolute as possible.

“Dr. Sheppard, I have come to ask you to help me.”

“Of course he’ll help you, my dear,” said Caroline.

I don’t think Flora really wished Caroline to be present at the
interview. She would, I am sure, have infinitely preferred to speak to
me privately. But she also wanted to waste no time, so she made the
best of it.

“I want you to come to The Larches with me.”

“The Larches?” I queried, surprised.

“To see that funny little man?” exclaimed Caroline.

“Yes. You know who he is, don’t you?”

“We fancied,” I said, “that he might be a retired hairdresser.”

Flora’s blue eyes opened very wide.

“Why, he’s Hercule Poirot! You know who I mean—the private detective.
They say he’s done the most wonderful things—just like detectives do in
books. A year ago he retired and came to live down here. Uncle knew who
he was, but he promised not to tell any one, because M. Poirot wanted
to live quietly without being bothered by people.”

“So that’s who he is,” I said slowly.

“You’ve heard of him, of course?”

“I’m rather an old fogey, as Caroline tells me,” I said, “but I _have_
just heard of him.”

“Extraordinary!” commented Caroline.

I don’t know what she was referring to—possibly her own failure to
discover the truth.

“You want to go and see him?” I asked slowly. “Now why?”

“To get him to investigate this murder, of course,” said Caroline
sharply. “Don’t be so stupid, James.”

I was not really being stupid. Caroline does not always understand what
I am driving at.

“You haven’t got confidence in Inspector Davis?” I went on.

“Of course she hasn’t,” said Caroline. “I haven’t either.”

Any one would have thought it was Caroline’s uncle who had been
murdered.

“And how do you know he would take up the case?” I asked. “Remember he
has retired from active work.”

“That’s just it,” said Flora simply. “I’ve got to persuade him.”

“You are sure you are doing wisely?” I asked gravely.

“Of course she is,” said Caroline. “I’ll go with her myself if she
likes.”

“I’d rather the doctor came with me if you don’t mind, Miss Sheppard,”
said Flora.

She knows the value of being direct on certain occasions. Any hints
would certainly have been wasted on Caroline.

“You see,” she explained, following directness with tact, “Dr. Sheppard
being the doctor, and having found the body, he would be able to give
all the details to M. Poirot.”

“Yes,” said Caroline grudgingly, “I see that.”

I took a turn or two up and down the room.

“Flora,” I said gravely, “be guided by me. I advise you not to drag
this detective into the case.”

Flora sprang to her feet. The color rushed into her cheeks.

“I know why you say that,” she cried. “But it’s exactly for that reason
I’m so anxious to go. You’re afraid! But I’m not. I know Ralph better
than you do.”

“Ralph,” said Caroline. “What has Ralph got to do with it?”

Neither of us heeded her.

“Ralph may be weak,” continued Flora. “He may have done foolish things
in the past—wicked things even—but he wouldn’t murder any one.”

“No, no,” I exclaimed. “I never thought it of him.”

“Then why did you go to the Three Boars last night?” demanded Flora,
“on your way home—after uncle’s body was found?”

I was momentarily silenced. I had hoped that that visit of mine would
remain unnoticed.

“How did you know about that?” I countered.

“I went there this morning,” said Flora. “I heard from the servants
that Ralph was staying there——”

I interrupted her.

“You had no idea that he was in King’s Abbot?”

“No. I was astounded. I couldn’t understand it. I went there and asked
for him. They told me, what I suppose they told you last night, that
he went out at about nine o’clock yesterday evening—and—and never came
back.”

Her eyes met mine defiantly, and as though answering something in my
look, she burst out:—

“Well, why shouldn’t he? He might have gone—anywhere. He may even have
gone back to London.”

“Leaving his luggage behind?” I asked gently.

Flora stamped her foot.

“I don’t care. There must be a simple explanation.”

“And that’s why you want to go to Hercule Poirot? Isn’t it better to
leave things as they are? The police don’t suspect Ralph in the least,
remember. They’re working on quite another tack.”

“But that’s just _it_,” cried the girl. “They _do_ suspect him. A man
from Cranchester turned up this morning—Inspector Raglan, a horrid,
weaselly little man. I found he had been to the Three Boars this
morning before me. They told me all about his having been there, and
the questions he had asked. He must think Ralph did it.”

“That’s a change of mind from last night, if so,” I said slowly. “He
doesn’t believe in Davis’s theory that it was Parker then?”

“Parker indeed,” said my sister, and snorted.

Flora came forward and laid her hand on my arm.

“Oh! Dr. Sheppard, let us go at once to this M. Poirot. He will find
out the truth.”

“My dear Flora,” I said gently, laying my hand on hers. “Are you quite
sure it is the truth we want?”

She looked at me, nodding her head gravely.

“You’re not sure,” she said. “I am. I know Ralph better than you do.”

“Of course he didn’t do it,” said Caroline, who had been keeping silent
with great difficulty. “Ralph may be extravagant, but he’s a dear boy,
and has the nicest manners.”

I wanted to tell Caroline that large numbers of murderers have had
nice manners, but the presence of Flora restrained me. Since the
girl was determined, I was forced to give in to her and we started
at once, getting away before my sister was able to fire off any more
pronouncements beginning with her favorite words, “Of course.”

An old woman with an immense Breton cap opened the door of The Larches
to us. M. Poirot was at home, it seemed.

We were ushered into a little sitting-room arranged with formal
precision, and there, after the lapse of a minute or so, my friend of
yesterday came to us.

“Monsieur le docteur,” he said, smiling. “Mademoiselle.”

He bowed to Flora.

“Perhaps,” I began, “you have heard of the tragedy which occurred last
night.”

His face grew grave.

“But certainly I have heard. It is horrible. I offer mademoiselle all
my sympathy. In what way can I serve you?”

“Miss Ackroyd,” I said, “wants you to—to——”

“To find the murderer,” said Flora in a clear voice.

“I see,” said the little man. “But the police will do that, will they
not?”

“They might make a mistake,” said Flora. “They are on their way to make
a mistake now, I think. Please, M. Poirot, won’t you help us? If—if it
is a question of money——”

Poirot held up his hand.

“Not that, I beg of you, mademoiselle. Not that I do not care for
money.” His eyes showed a momentary twinkle. “Money, it means much to
me and always has done. No, if I go into this, you must understand one
thing clearly. _I shall go through with it to the end._ The good dog,
he does not leave the scent, remember! You may wish that, after all,
you had left it to the local police.”

“I want the truth,” said Flora, looking him straight in the eyes.

“All the truth?”

“All the truth.”

“Then I accept,” said the little man quietly. “And I hope you will not
regret those words. Now, tell me all the circumstances.”

“Dr. Sheppard had better tell you,” said Flora. “He knows more than I
do.”

Thus enjoined, I plunged into a careful narrative, embodying all the
facts I have previously set down. Poirot listened carefully, inserting
a question here and there, but for the most part sitting in silence,
his eyes on the ceiling.

I brought my story to a close with the departure of the inspector and
myself from Fernly Park the previous night.

“And now,” said Flora, as I finished, “tell him all about Ralph.”

I hesitated, but her imperious glance drove me on.

“You went to this inn—this Three Boars—last night on your way home?”
asked Poirot, as I brought my tale to a close. “Now exactly why was
that?”

I paused a moment to choose my words carefully.

“I thought some one ought to inform the young man of his uncle’s death.
It occurred to me after I had left Fernly that possibly no one but
myself and Mr. Ackroyd were aware that he was staying in the village.”

Poirot nodded.

“Quite so. That was your only motive in going there, eh?”

“That was my only motive,” I said stiffly.

“It was not to—shall we say—reassure yourself about _ce jeune homme_?”

“Reassure myself?”

“I think, M. le docteur, that you know very well what I mean, though
you pretend not to do so. I suggest that it would have been a relief
to you if you had found that Captain Paton had been at home all the
evening.”

“Not at all,” I said sharply.

The little detective shook his head at me gravely.

“You have not the trust in me of Miss Flora,” he said. “But no matter.
What we have to look at is this—Captain Paton is missing, under
circumstances which call for an explanation. I will not hide from you
that the matter looks grave. Still, it may admit of a perfectly simple
explanation.”

“That’s just what I keep saying,” cried Flora eagerly.

Poirot touched no more upon that theme. Instead he suggested an
immediate visit to the local police. He thought it better for Flora
to return home, and for me to be the one to accompany him there and
introduce him to the officer in charge of the case.

We carried out this plan forthwith. We found Inspector Davis outside
the police station looking very glum indeed. With him was Colonel
Melrose, the Chief Constable, and another man whom, from Flora’s
description of “weaselly,” I had no difficulty in recognizing as
Inspector Raglan from Cranchester.

I know Melrose fairly well, and I introduced Poirot to him and
explained the situation. The chief constable was clearly vexed, and
Inspector Raglan looked as black as thunder. Davis, however, seemed
slightly exhilarated by the sight of his superior officer’s annoyance.

“The case is going to be plain as a pikestaff,” said Raglan. “Not the
least need for amateurs to come butting in. You’d think any fool would
have seen the way things were last night, and then we shouldn’t have
lost twelve hours.”

He directed a vengeful glance at poor Davis, who received it with
perfect stolidity.

“Mr. Ackroyd’s family must, of course, do what they see fit,” said
Colonel Melrose. “But we cannot have the official investigation
hampered in any way. I know M. Poirot’s great reputation, of course,”
he added courteously.

“The police can’t advertise themselves, worse luck,” said Raglan.

It was Poirot who saved the situation.

“It is true that I have retired from the world,” he said. “I never
intended to take up a case again. Above all things, I have a horror of
publicity. I must beg, that in the case of my being able to contribute
something to the solution of the mystery, my name may not be mentioned.”

Inspector Raglan’s face lightened a little.

“I’ve heard of some very remarkable successes of yours,” observed the
colonel, thawing.

“I have had much experience,” said Poirot quietly. “But most of my
successes have been obtained by the aid of the police. I admire
enormously your English police. If Inspector Raglan permits me to
assist him, I shall be both honored and flattered.”

The inspector’s countenance became still more gracious.

Colonel Melrose drew me aside.

“From all I hear, this little fellow’s done some really remarkable
things,” he murmured. “We’re naturally anxious not to have to call in
Scotland Yard. Raglan seems very sure of himself, but I’m not quite
certain that I agree with him. You see, I—er—know the parties concerned
better than he does. This fellow doesn’t seem out after kudos, does he?
Would work in with us unobtrusively, eh?”

“To the greater glory of Inspector Raglan,” I said solemnly.

“Well, well,” said Colonel Melrose breezily in a louder voice, “we must
put you wise to the latest developments, M. Poirot.”

“I thank you,” said Poirot. “My friend, Dr. Sheppard, said something of
the butler being suspected?”

“That’s all bunkum,” said Raglan instantly. “These high-class servants
get in such a funk that they act suspiciously for nothing at all.”

“The fingerprints?” I hinted.

“Nothing like Parker’s.” He gave a faint smile, and added: “And yours
and Mr. Raymond’s don’t fit either, doctor.”

“What about those of Captain Ralph Paton?” asked Poirot quietly.

I felt a secret admiration for the way he took the bull by the horns. I
saw a look of respect creep into the inspector’s eye.

“I see you don’t let the grass grow under your feet, Mr. Poirot. It
will be a pleasure to work with you, I’m sure. We’re going to take that
young gentleman’s fingerprints as soon as we can lay hands upon him.”

“I can’t help thinking you’re mistaken, inspector,” said Colonel
Melrose warmly. “I’ve known Ralph Paton from a boy upward. He’d never
stoop to murder.”

“Maybe not,” said the inspector tonelessly.

“What have you got against him?” I asked.

“Went out just on nine o’clock last night. Was seen in neighborhood of
Fernly Park somewhere about nine-thirty. Not been seen since. Believed
to be in serious money difficulties. I’ve got a pair of his shoes
here—shoes with rubber studs in them. He had two pairs, almost exactly
alike. I’m going up now to compare them with those footmarks. The
constable is up there seeing that no one tampers with them.”

“We’ll go at once,” said Colonel Melrose. “You and M. Poirot will
accompany us, will you not?”

We assented, and all drove up in the colonel’s car. The inspector was
anxious to get at once to the footmarks, and asked to be put down at
the lodge. About half-way up the drive, on the right, a path branched
off which led round to the terrace and the window of Ackroyd’s study.

“Would you like to go with the inspector, M. Poirot?” asked the chief
constable, “or would you prefer to examine the study?”

Poirot chose the latter alternative. Parker opened the door to us. His
manner was smug and deferential, and he seemed to have recovered from
his panic of the night before.

Colonel Melrose took a key from his pocket, and unlocking the door
which led into the lobby, he ushered us through into the study.

“Except for the removal of the body, M. Poirot, this room is exactly as
it was last night.”

“And the body was found—where?”

As precisely as possible, I described Ackroyd’s position. The arm-chair
still stood in front of the fire.

Poirot went and sat down in it.

“The blue letter you speak of, where was it when you left the room?”

“Mr. Ackroyd had laid it down on this little table at his right hand.”

Poirot nodded.

“Except for that, everything was in its place?”

“Yes, I think so.”

“Colonel Melrose, would you be so extremely obliging as to sit down in
this chair a minute. I thank you. Now, M. le docteur, will you kindly
indicate to me the exact position of the dagger?”

I did so, whilst the little man stood in the doorway.

“The hilt of the dagger was plainly visible from the door then. Both
you and Parker could see it at once?”

“Yes.”

Poirot went next to the window.

“The electric light was on, of course, when you discovered the body?”
he asked over his shoulder.

I assented, and joined him where he was studying the marks on the
window-sill.

“The rubber studs are the same pattern as those in Captain Paton’s
shoes,” he said quietly.

Then he came back once more to the middle of the room. His eye traveled
round, searching everything in the room with a quick, trained glance.

“Are you a man of good observation, Dr. Sheppard?” he asked at last.

“I think so,” I said, surprised.

“There was a fire in the grate, I see. When you broke the door down and
found Mr. Ackroyd dead, how was the fire? Was it low?”

I gave a vexed laugh.

“I—I really can’t say. I didn’t notice. Perhaps Mr. Raymond or Major
Blunt——”

The little man opposite me shook his head with a faint smile.

“One must always proceed with method. I made an error of judgment in
asking you that question. To each man his own knowledge. You could tell
me the details of the patient’s appearance—nothing there would escape
you. If I wanted information about the papers on that desk, Mr. Raymond
would have noticed anything there was to see. To find out about the
fire, I must ask the man whose business it is to observe such things.
You permit——”

He moved swiftly to the fireplace and rang the bell.

After a lapse of a minute or two Parker appeared.

“The bell rang, sir,” he said hesitatingly.

“Come in, Parker,” said Colonel Melrose. “This gentleman wants to ask
you something.”

Parker transferred a respectful attention to Poirot.

“Parker,” said the little man, “when you broke down the door with Dr.
Sheppard last night, and found your master dead, what was the state of
the fire?”

Parker replied without a pause.

“It had burned very low, sir. It was almost out.”

“Ah!” said Poirot. The exclamation sounded almost triumphant. He went
on:—

“Look round you, my good Parker. Is this room exactly as it was then?”

The butler’s eye swept round. It came to rest on the windows.

“The curtains were drawn, sir, and the electric light was on.”

Poirot nodded approval.

“Anything else?”

“Yes, sir, this chair was drawn out a little more.”

He indicated a big grandfather chair to the left of the door between it
and the window. I append a plan of the room with the chair in question
marked with an X.

“Just show me,” said Poirot.

[Illustration:

  +----------------      +-----------------+
  |    +           DOOR /  GRANDFATHER     |
  |   / \              /   CHAIR   +---+   |
  |  /   +                          ]  |   |
  | +   / SMALL                  X  ]  |   |
  |  \ /  TABLE                    +---+   |
  |   +                                    |
  +++                                      |
  |||  +---+ CHAIR IN WHICH          ___   |
  |||   ]  | ACKROYD WAS            /   \  |
  |||  +---+ FOUND           TABLE |     | |
  |||                               \___/  |
  |||                                      |
  |||                                      |
  +++  +---+                           +   |
  | ^   ]  | CHAIR IN WHICH           / \  |
  | |  +---+ SHEPPARD SAT          / /   + |
  | |                               /   /  |
  | |                       DESK & +   /   |
  | |   FIREPLACE           CHAIR   \ /    |
  | +------------                    +     |
  +----------------------------------------+
]

The butler drew the chair in question out a good two feet from the
wall, turning it so that the seat faced the door.

“_Voilà ce qui est curieux_,” murmured Poirot. “No one would want to
sit in a chair in such a position, I fancy. Now who pushed it back into
place again, I wonder? Did you, my friend?”

“No, sir,” said Parker. “I was too upset with seeing the master and
all.”

Poirot looked across at me.

“Did you, doctor?”

I shook my head.

“It was back in position when I arrived with the police, sir,” put in
Parker. “I’m sure of that.”

“Curious,” said Poirot again.

“Raymond or Blunt must have pushed it back,” I suggested. “Surely it
isn’t important?”

“It is completely unimportant,” said Poirot. “That is why it is so
interesting,” he added softly.

“Excuse me a minute,” said Colonel Melrose. He left the room with
Parker.

“Do you think Parker is speaking the truth?” I asked.

“About the chair, yes. Otherwise I do not know. You will find, M. le
docteur, if you have much to do with cases of this kind, that they all
resemble each other in one thing.”

“What is that?” I asked curiously.

“Every one concerned in them has something to hide.”

“Have I?” I asked, smiling.

Poirot looked at me attentively.

“I think you have,” he said quietly.

“But——”

“Have you told me everything known to you about this young man Paton?”
He smiled as I grew red. “Oh! do not fear. I will not press you. I
shall learn it in good time.”

“I wish you’d tell me something of your methods,” I said hastily, to
cover my confusion. “The point about the fire, for instance?”

“Oh! that was very simple. You leave Mr. Ackroyd at—ten minutes to
nine, was it not?”

“Yes, exactly, I should say.”

“The window is then closed and bolted and the door unlocked. At a
quarter past ten when the body is discovered, the door is locked and
the window is open. Who opened it? Clearly only Mr. Ackroyd himself
could have done so, and for one of two reasons. Either because the room
became unbearably hot (but since the fire was nearly out and there was
a sharp drop in temperature last night, that cannot be the reason),
or because he admitted some one that way. And if he admitted some one
that way, it must have been some one well known to him, since he had
previously shown himself uneasy on the subject of that same window.”

“It sounds very simple,” I said.

“Everything is simple, if you arrange the facts methodically. We are
concerned now with the personality of the person who was with him at
nine-thirty last night. Everything goes to show that that was the
individual admitted by the window, and though Mr. Ackroyd was seen
alive later by Miss Flora, we cannot approach a solution of the mystery
until we know who that visitor was. The window may have been left open
after his departure and so afforded entrance to the murderer, or the
same person may have returned a second time. Ah! here is the colonel
who returns.”

Colonel Melrose entered with an animated manner.

“That telephone call has been traced at last,” he said. “It did not
come from here. It was put through to Dr. Sheppard at 10.15 last night
from a public call office at King’s Abbot station. And at 10.23 the
night mail leaves for Liverpool.”




                             CHAPTER VIII

                     INSPECTOR RAGLAN IS CONFIDENT


We looked at each other.

“You’ll have inquiries made at the station, of course?” I said.

“Naturally, but I’m not over sanguine as to the result. You know what
that station is like.”

I did. King’s Abbot is a mere village, but its station happens to
be an important junction. Most of the big expresses stop there, and
trains are shunted, re-sorted, and made up. It has two or three public
telephone boxes. At that time of night three local trains come in
close upon each other, to catch the connection with the express for
the north which comes in at 10.19 and leaves at 10.23. The whole place
is in a bustle, and the chances of one particular person being noticed
telephoning or getting into the express are very small indeed.

“But why telephone at all?” demanded Melrose. “That is what I find so
extraordinary. There seems no rhyme or reason in the thing.”

Poirot carefully straightened a china ornament on one of the bookcases.

“Be sure there was a reason,” he said over his shoulder.

“But what reason could it be?”

“When we know that, we shall know everything. This case is very curious
and very interesting.”

There was something almost indescribable in the way he said those last
words. I felt that he was looking at the case from some peculiar angle
of his own, and what he saw I could not tell.

He went to the window and stood there, looking out.

“You say it was nine o’clock, Dr. Sheppard, when you met this stranger
outside the gate?”

He asked the question without turning round.

“Yes,” I replied. “I heard the church clock chime the hour.”

“How long would it take him to reach the house—to reach this window,
for instance?”

“Five minutes at the outside. Two or three minutes only if he took the
path at the right of the drive and came straight here.”

“But to do that he would have to know the way. How can I explain
myself?—it would mean that he had been here before—that he knew his
surroundings.”

“That is true,” replied Colonel Melrose.

“We could find out, doubtless, if Mr. Ackroyd had received any
strangers during the past week?”

“Young Raymond could tell us that,” I said.

“Or Parker,” suggested Colonel Melrose.

“_Ou tous les deux_,” suggested Poirot, smiling.

Colonel Melrose went in search of Raymond, and I rang the bell once
more for Parker.

Colonel Melrose returned almost immediately, accompanied by the young
secretary, whom he introduced to Poirot. Geoffrey Raymond was fresh and
debonair as ever. He seemed surprised and delighted to make Poirot’s
acquaintance.

“No idea you’d been living among us incognito, M. Poirot,” he said. “It
will be a great privilege to watch you at work——Hallo, what’s this?”

Poirot had been standing just to the left of the door. Now he moved
aside suddenly, and I saw that while my back was turned he must have
swiftly drawn out the arm-chair till it stood in the position Parker
had indicated.

“Want me to sit in the chair whilst you take a blood test?” asked
Raymond good-humoredly. “What’s the idea?”

“M. Raymond, this chair was pulled out—so—last night when Mr. Ackroyd
was found killed. Some one moved it back again into place. Did you do
so?”

The secretary’s reply came without a second’s hesitation.

“No, indeed I didn’t. I don’t even remember that it was in that
position, but it must have been if you say so. Anyway, somebody else
must have moved it back to its proper place. Have they destroyed a clew
in doing so? Too bad!”

“It is of no consequence,” said the detective. “Of no consequence
whatever. What I really want to ask you is this, M. Raymond: Did any
stranger come to see Mr. Ackroyd during this past week?”

The secretary reflected for a minute or two, knitting his brows, and
during the pause Parker appeared in answer to the bell.

“No,” said Raymond at last. “I can’t remember any one. Can you, Parker?”

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“Any stranger coming to see Mr. Ackroyd this week?”

The butler reflected for a minute or two.

“There was the young man who came on Wednesday, sir,” he said at last.
“From Curtis and Troute, I understood he was.”

Raymond moved this aside with an impatient hand.

“Oh! yes, I remember, but that is not the kind of stranger this
gentleman means.” He turned to Poirot. “Mr. Ackroyd had some idea of
purchasing a dictaphone,” he explained. “It would have enabled us to
get through a lot more work in a limited time. The firm in question
sent down their representative, but nothing came of it. Mr. Ackroyd did
not make up his mind to purchase.”

Poirot turned to the butler.

“Can you describe this young man to me, my good Parker?”

“He was fair-haired, sir, and short. Very neatly dressed in a blue
serge suit. A very presentable young man, sir, for his station in life.”

Poirot turned to me.

“The man you met outside the gate, doctor, was tall, was he not?”

“Yes,” I said. “Somewhere about six feet, I should say.”

“There is nothing in that, then,” declared the Belgian. “I thank you,
Parker.”

The butler spoke to Raymond.

“Mr. Hammond has just arrived, sir,” he said. “He is anxious to know if
he can be of any service, and he would be glad to have a word with you.”

“I’ll come at once,” said the young man. He hurried out. Poirot looked
inquiringly at the chief constable.

“The family solicitor, M. Poirot,” said the latter.

“It is a busy time for this young M. Raymond,” murmured M. Poirot. “He
has the air efficient, that one.”

“I believe Mr. Ackroyd considered him a most able secretary.”

“He has been here—how long?”

“Just on two years, I fancy.”

“His duties he fulfills punctiliously. Of that I am sure. In what
manner does he amuse himself? Does he go in for _le sport_?”

“Private secretaries haven’t much time for that sort of thing,” said
Colonel Melrose, smiling. “Raymond plays golf, I believe. And tennis in
the summer time.”

“He does not attend the courses—I should say the running of the horses?”

“Race meetings? No, I don’t think he’s interested in racing.”

Poirot nodded and seemed to lose interest. He glanced slowly round the
study.

“I have seen, I think, all that there is to be seen here.”

I, too, looked round.

“If those walls could speak,” I murmured.

Poirot shook his head.

“A tongue is not enough,” he said. “They would have to have also eyes
and ears. But do not be too sure that these dead things”—he touched
the top of the bookcase as he spoke—“are always dumb. To me they speak
sometimes—chairs, tables—they have their message!”

He turned away towards the door.

“What message?” I cried. “What have they said to you to-day?”

He looked over his shoulder and raised one eyebrow quizzically.

“An opened window,” he said. “A locked door. A chair that apparently
moved itself. To all three I say, ‘Why?’ and I find no answer.”

He shook his head, puffed out his chest, and stood blinking at us. He
looked ridiculously full of his own importance. It crossed my mind
to wonder whether he was really any good as a detective. Had his big
reputation been built up on a series of lucky chances?

I think the same thought must have occurred to Colonel Melrose, for he
frowned.

“Anything more you want to see, M. Poirot?” he inquired brusquely.

“You would perhaps be so kind as to show me the silver table from which
the weapon was taken? After that, I will trespass on your kindness no
longer.”

We went to the drawing-room, but on the way the constable waylaid the
colonel, and after a muttered conversation the latter excused himself
and left us together. I showed Poirot the silver table, and after
raising the lid once or twice and letting it fall, he pushed open the
window and stepped out on the terrace. I followed him.

Inspector Raglan had just turned the corner of the house, and was
coming towards us. His face looked grim and satisfied.

“So there you are, M. Poirot,” he said. “Well, this isn’t going to be
much of a case. I’m sorry, too. A nice enough young fellow gone wrong.”

Poirot’s face fell, and he spoke very mildly.

“I’m afraid I shall not be able to be of much aid to you, then?”

“Next time, perhaps,” said the inspector soothingly. “Though we don’t
have murders every day in this quiet little corner of the world.”

Poirot’s gaze took on an admiring quality.

“You have been of a marvelous promptness,” he observed. “How exactly
did you go to work, if I may ask?”

“Certainly,” said the inspector. “To begin with—method. That’s what I
always say—method!”

“Ah!” cried the other. “That, too, is my watchword. Method, order, and
the little gray cells.”

“The cells?” said the inspector, staring.

“The little gray cells of the brain,” explained the Belgian.

“Oh, of course; well, we all use them, I suppose.”

“In a greater or lesser degree,” murmured Poirot. “And there are, too,
differences in quality. Then there is the psychology of a crime. One
must study that.”

“Ah!” said the inspector, “you’ve been bitten with all this
psychoanalysis stuff? Now, I’m a plain man——”

“Mrs. Raglan would not agree, I am sure, to that,” said Poirot, making
him a little bow.

Inspector Raglan, a little taken aback, bowed.

“You don’t understand,” he said, grinning broadly. “Lord, what a lot of
difference language makes. I’m telling you how I set to work. First of
all, method. Mr. Ackroyd was last seen alive at a quarter to ten by his
niece, Miss Flora Ackroyd. That’s fact number one, isn’t it?”

“If you say so.”

“Well, it is. At half-past ten, the doctor here says that Mr. Ackroyd
has been dead at least half an hour. You stick to that, doctor?”

“Certainly,” I said. “Half an hour or longer.”

“Very good. That gives us exactly a quarter of an hour in which the
crime must have been committed. I make a list of every one in the
house, and work through it, setting down opposite their names where
they were and what they were doing between the hour of 9.45 and 10 p.m.”

He handed a sheet of paper to Poirot. I read it over his shoulder. It
ran as follows, written in a neat script:—

  _Major Blunt.—In billiard room with Mr. Raymond. (Latter confirms.)_

  _Mr. Raymond.—Billiard room. (See above.)_

  _Mrs. Ackroyd.—9.45 watching billiard match. Went up to bed 9.55.
      (Raymond and Blunt watched her up staircase.)_

  _Miss Ackroyd.—Went straight from her uncle’s room upstairs.
      (Confirmed by Parker, also housemaid, Elsie Dale.)_

  _Servants_:—

    _Parker.—Went straight to butler’s pantry. (Confirmed by
      housekeeper, Miss Russell, who came down to speak to him about
      something at 9.47, and remained at least ten minutes.)_

    _Miss Russell.—As above. Spoke to housemaid, Elsie Dale, upstairs
      at 9.45._

    _Ursula Bourne (parlormaid).—In her own room until 9.55. Then in
      Servants’ Hall._

    _Mrs. Cooper (cook).—In Servants’ Hall._

    _Gladys Jones (second housemaid).—In Servants’ Hall._

    _Elsie Dale.—Upstairs in bedroom. Seen there by Miss Russell and
      Miss Flora Ackroyd._

    _Mary Thripp (kitchenmaid).—Servants’ Hall._

“The cook has been here seven years, the parlormaid eighteen months,
and Parker just over a year. The others are new. Except for something
fishy about Parker, they all seem quite all right.”

“A very complete list,” said Poirot, handing it back to him. “I am
quite sure that Parker did not do the murder,” he added gravely.

“So is my sister,” I struck in. “And she’s usually right.” Nobody paid
any attention to my interpolation.

“That disposes pretty effectually of the household,” continued the
inspector. “Now we come to a very grave point. The woman at the
lodge—Mary Black—was pulling the curtains last night when she saw
Ralph Paton turn in at the gate and go up towards the house.”

“She is sure of that?” I asked sharply.

“Quite sure. She knows him well by sight. He went past very quickly
and turned off by the path to the right, which is a short cut to the
terrace.”

“And what time was that?” asked Poirot, who had sat with an immovable
face.

“Exactly twenty-five minutes past nine,” said the inspector gravely.

There was a silence. Then the inspector spoke again.

“It’s all clear enough. It fits in without a flaw. At twenty-five
minutes past nine, Captain Paton is seen passing the lodge; at
nine-thirty or thereabouts, Mr. Geoffrey Raymond hears some one in here
asking for money and Mr. Ackroyd refusing. What happens next? Captain
Paton leaves the same way—through the window. He walks along the
terrace, angry and baffled. He comes to the open drawing-room window.
Say it’s now a quarter to ten. Miss Flora Ackroyd is saying good-night
to her uncle. Major Blunt, Mr. Raymond, and Mrs. Ackroyd are in the
billiard room. The drawing-room is empty. He steals in, takes the
dagger from the silver table, and returns to the study window. He slips
off his shoes, climbs in, and—well, I don’t need to go into details.
Then he slips out again and goes off. Hadn’t the nerve to go back to
the inn. He makes for the station, rings up from there——”

“Why?” said Poirot softly.

I jumped at the interruption. The little man was leaning forward. His
eyes shone with a queer green light.

For a moment Inspector Raglan was taken aback by the question.

“It’s difficult to say exactly why he did that,” he said at last. “But
murderers do funny things. You’d know that if you were in the police
force. The cleverest of them make stupid mistakes sometimes. But come
along and I’ll show you those footprints.”

We followed him round the corner of the terrace to the study window. At
a word from Raglan a police constable produced the shoes which had been
obtained from the local inn.

The inspector laid them over the marks.

“They’re the same,” he said confidently. “That is to say, they’re not
the same pair that actually made these prints. He went away in those.
This is a pair just like them, but older—see how the studs are worn
down.”

“Surely a great many people wear shoes with rubber studs in them?”
asked Poirot.

“That’s so, of course,” said the inspector. “I shouldn’t put so much
stress on the footmarks if it wasn’t for everything else.”

“A very foolish young man, Captain Ralph Paton,” said Poirot
thoughtfully. “To leave so much evidence of his presence.”

“Ah! well,” said the inspector, “it was a dry, fine night, you know. He
left no prints on the terrace or on the graveled path. But, unluckily
for him, a spring must have welled up just lately at the end of the
path from the drive. See here.”

A small graveled path joined the terrace a few feet away. In one
spot, a few yards from its termination, the ground was wet and boggy.
Crossing this wet place there were again the marks of footsteps, and
amongst them the shoes with rubber studs.

Poirot followed the path on a little way, the inspector by his side.

“You noticed the women’s footprints?” he said suddenly.

The inspector laughed.

“Naturally. But several different women have walked this way—and men
as well. It’s a regular short cut to the house, you see. It would be
impossible to sort out all the footsteps. After all, it’s the ones on
the window-sill that are really important.”

Poirot nodded.

“It’s no good going farther,” said the inspector, as we came in view of
the drive. “It’s all graveled again here, and hard as it can be.”

Again Poirot nodded, but his eyes were fixed on a small garden house—a
kind of superior summer-house. It was a little to the left of the path
ahead of us, and a graveled walk ran up to it.

Poirot lingered about until the inspector had gone back towards the
house. Then he looked at me.

“You must have indeed been sent from the good God to replace my
friend Hastings,” he said, with a twinkle. “I observe that you do not
quit my side. How say you, Dr. Sheppard, shall we investigate that
summer-house? It interests me.”

He went up to the door and opened it. Inside, the place was almost
dark. There were one or two rustic seats, a croquet set, and some
folded deck-chairs.

I was startled to observe my new friend. He had dropped to his hands
and knees and was crawling about the floor. Every now and then he shook
his head as though not satisfied. Finally, he sat back on his heels.

“Nothing,” he murmured. “Well, perhaps it was not to be expected. But
it would have meant so much——”

He broke off, stiffening all over. Then he stretched out his hand to
one of the rustic chairs. He detached something from one side of it.

“What is it?” I cried. “What have you found?”

He smiled, unclosing his hand so that I should see what lay in the palm
of it. A scrap of stiff white cambric.

I took it from him, looked at it curiously, and then handed it back.

“What do you make of it, eh, my friend?” he asked, eyeing me keenly.

“A scrap torn from a handkerchief,” I suggested, shrugging my shoulders.

He made another dart and picked up a small quill—a goose quill by the
look of it.

“And that?” he cried triumphantly. “What do you make of that?”

I only stared.

He slipped the quill into his pocket, and looked again at the scrap of
white stuff.

“A fragment of a handkerchief?” he mused. “Perhaps you are right. But
remember this—_a good laundry does not starch a handkerchief_.”

He nodded at me triumphantly, then he put away the scrap carefully in
his pocket-book.




                              CHAPTER IX

                           THE GOLDFISH POND


We walked back to the house together. There was no sign of the
inspector. Poirot paused on the terrace and stood with his back to the
house, slowly turning his head from side to side.

“_Une belle propriété_,” he said at last appreciatively. “Who inherits
it?”

His words gave me almost a shock. It is an odd thing, but until that
moment the question of inheritance had never come into my head. Poirot
watched me keenly.

“It is a new idea to you, that,” he said at last. “You had not thought
of it before—eh?”

“No,” I said truthfully. “I wish I had.”

He looked at me again curiously.

“I wonder just what you mean by that,” he said thoughtfully. “Ah! no,”
as I was about to speak. “_Inutile!_ You would not tell me your real
thought.”

“Every one has something to hide,” I quoted, smiling.

“Exactly.”

“You still believe that?”

“More than ever, my friend. But it is not easy to hide things from
Hercule Poirot. He has a knack of finding out.”

He descended the steps of the Dutch garden as he spoke.

“Let us walk a little,” he said over his shoulder. “The air is pleasant
to-day.”

I followed him. He led me down a path to the left enclosed in yew
hedges. A walk led down the middle, bordered each side with formal
flower beds, and at the end was a round paved recess with a seat and
a pond of goldfish. Instead of pursuing the path to the end, Poirot
took another which wound up the side of a wooded slope. In one spot the
trees had been cleared away, and a seat had been put. Sitting there one
had a splendid view over the countryside, and one looked right down on
the paved recess and the goldfish pond.

“England is very beautiful,” said Poirot, his eyes straying over the
prospect. Then he smiled. “And so are English girls,” he said in a
lower tone. “Hush, my friend, and look at the pretty picture below us.”

It was then that I saw Flora. She was moving along the path we had
just left and she was humming a little snatch of song. Her step was
more dancing than walking, and in spite of her black dress, there was
nothing but joy in her whole attitude. She gave a sudden pirouette on
her toes, and her black draperies swung out. At the same time she flung
her head back and laughed outright.

As she did so a man stepped out from the trees. It was Hector Blunt.

The girl started. Her expression changed a little.

“How you startled me—I didn’t see you.”

Blunt said nothing, but stood looking at her for a minute or two in
silence.

“What I like about you,” said Flora, with a touch of malice, “is your
cheery conversation.”

I fancy that at that Blunt reddened under his tan. His voice, when he
spoke, sounded different—it had a curious sort of humility in it.

“Never was much of a fellow for talking. Not even when I was young.”

“That was a very long time ago, I suppose,” said Flora gravely.

I caught the undercurrent of laughter in her voice, but I don’t think
Blunt did.

“Yes,” he said simply, “it was.”

“How does it feel to be Methuselah?” asked Flora.

This time the laughter was more apparent, but Blunt was following out
an idea of his own.

“Remember the Johnny who sold his soul to the devil? In return for
being made young again? There’s an opera about it.”

“Faust, you mean?”

“That’s the beggar. Rum story. Some of us would do it if we could.”

“Any one would think you were creaking at the joints to hear you talk,”
cried Flora, half vexed, half amused.

Blunt said nothing for a minute or two. Then he looked away from Flora
into the middle distance and observed to an adjacent tree trunk that it
was about time he got back to Africa.

“Are you going on another expedition—shooting things?”

“Expect so. Usually do, you know—shoot things, I mean.”

“You shot that head in the hall, didn’t you?”

Blunt nodded. Then he jerked out, going rather red, as he did so:—

“Care for some decent skins any time? If so, I could get ’em for you.”

“Oh! please do,” cried Flora. “Will you really? You won’t forget?”

“I shan’t forget,” said Hector Blunt.

He added, in a sudden burst of communicativeness:—

“Time I went. I’m no good in this sort of life. Haven’t got the manners
for it. I’m a rough fellow, no use in society. Never remember the
things one’s expected to say. Yes, time I went.”

“But you’re not going at once,” cried Flora. “Not—not while we’re in
all this trouble. Oh! please. If you go——”

She turned away a little.

“You want me to stay?” asked Blunt.

He spoke deliberately but quite simply.

“We all——”

“I meant you personally,” said Blunt, with directness.

Flora turned slowly back again and met his eyes.

“I want you to stay,” she said, “if—if that makes any difference.”

“It makes all the difference,” said Blunt.

There was a moment’s silence. They sat down on the stone seat by the
goldfish pond. It seemed as though neither of them knew quite what to
say next.

“It—it’s such a lovely morning,” said Flora at last. “You know, I can’t
help feeling happy, in spite—in spite of everything. That’s awful, I
suppose?”

“Quite natural,” said Blunt. “Never saw your uncle until two years ago,
did you? Can’t be expected to grieve very much. Much better to have no
humbug about it.”

“There’s something awfully consoling about you,” said Flora. “You make
things so simple.”

“Things are simple as a rule,” said the big game hunter.

“Not always,” said Flora.

Her voice had lowered itself, and I saw Blunt turn and look at her,
bringing his eyes back from (apparently) the coast of Africa to do so.
He evidently put his own construction on her change of tone, for he
said, after a minute or two, in rather an abrupt manner:—

“I say, you know, you mustn’t worry. About that young chap, I mean.
Inspector’s an ass. Everybody knows—utterly absurd to think he could
have done it. Man from outside. Burglar chap. That’s the only possible
solution.”

Flora turned to look at him.

“You really think so?”

“Don’t you?” said Blunt quickly.

“I—oh, yes, of course.”

Another silence, and then Flora burst out:—

“I’m—I’ll tell you why I felt so happy this morning. However heartless
you think me, I’d rather tell you. It’s because the lawyer has been—Mr.
Hammond. He told us about the will. Uncle Roger has left me twenty
thousand pounds. Think of it—twenty thousand beautiful pounds.”

Blunt looked surprised.

“Does it mean so much to you?”

“Mean much to me? Why, it’s everything. Freedom—life—no more scheming
and scraping and lying——”

“Lying?” said Blunt, sharply interrupting.

Flora seemed taken aback for a minute.

“You know what I mean,” she said uncertainly. “Pretending to be
thankful for all the nasty castoff things rich relations give you. Last
year’s coats and skirts and hats.”

“Don’t know much about ladies’ clothes; should have said you were
always very well turned out.”

“It’s cost me something, though,” said Flora in a low voice. “Don’t
let’s talk of horrid things. I’m so happy. I’m free. Free to do what I
like. Free not to——”

She stopped suddenly.

“Not to what?” asked Blunt quickly.

“I forget now. Nothing important.”

Blunt had a stick in his hand, and he thrust it into the pond, poking
at something.

“What are you doing, Major Blunt?”

“There’s something bright down there. Wondered what it was—looks like a
gold brooch. Now I’ve stirred up the mud and it’s gone.”

“Perhaps it’s a crown,” suggested Flora. “Like the one Mélisande saw in
the water.”

“Mélisande,” said Blunt reflectively—“she’s in an opera, isn’t she?”

“Yes, you seem to know a lot about operas.”

“People take me sometimes,” said Blunt sadly. “Funny idea of
pleasure—worse racket than the natives make with their tom-toms.”

Flora laughed.

“I remember Mélisande,” continued Blunt, “married an old chap old
enough to be her father.”

He threw a small piece of flint into the goldfish pond. Then, with a
change of manner, he turned to Flora.

“Miss Ackroyd, can I do anything? About Paton, I mean. I know how
dreadfully anxious you must be.”

“Thank you,” said Flora in a cold voice. “There is really nothing to
be done. Ralph will be all right. I’ve got hold of the most wonderful
detective in the world, and he’s going to find out all about it.”

For some time I had felt uneasy as to our position. We were not exactly
eavesdropping, since the two in the garden below had only to lift their
heads to see us. Nevertheless, I should have drawn attention to our
presence before now, had not my companion put a warning pressure on my
arm. Clearly he wished me to remain silent.

But now he rose briskly to his feet, clearing his throat.

“I demand pardon,” he cried. “I cannot allow mademoiselle thus
extravagantly to compliment me, and not draw attention to my presence.
They say the listener hears no good of himself, but that is not the
case this time. To spare my blushes, I must join you and apologize.”

He hurried down the path with me close behind him, and joined the
others by the pond.

“This is M. Hercule Poirot,” said Flora. “I expect you’ve heard of him.”

Poirot bowed.

“I know Major Blunt by reputation,” he said politely. “I am glad to
have encountered you, monsieur. I am in need of some information that
you can give me.”

Blunt looked at him inquiringly.

“When did you last see M. Ackroyd alive?”

“At dinner.”

“And you neither saw nor heard anything of him after that?”

“Didn’t see him. Heard his voice.”

“How was that?”

“I strolled out on the terrace——”

“Pardon me, what time was this?”

“About half-past nine. I was walking up and down smoking in front of
the drawing-room window. I heard Ackroyd talking in his study——”

Poirot stooped and removed a microscopic weed.

“Surely you couldn’t hear voices in the study from that part of the
terrace,” he murmured.

He was not looking at Blunt, but I was, and to my intense surprise, I
saw the latter flush.

“Went as far as the corner,” he explained unwillingly.

“Ah! indeed?” said Poirot.

In the mildest manner he conveyed an impression that more was wanted.

“Thought I saw—a woman disappearing into the bushes. Just a gleam of
white, you know. Must have been mistaken. It was while I was standing
at the corner of the terrace that I heard Ackroyd’s voice speaking to
that secretary of his.”

“Speaking to Mr. Geoffrey Raymond?”

“Yes—that’s what I supposed at the time. Seems I was wrong.”

“Mr. Ackroyd didn’t address him by name?”

“Oh, no.”

“Then, if I may ask, why did you think——?”

Blunt explained laboriously.

“Took it for granted that it _would_ be Raymond, because he had said
just before I came out that he was taking some papers to Ackroyd. Never
thought of it being anybody else.”

“Can you remember what the words you heard were?”

“Afraid I can’t. Something quite ordinary and unimportant. Only caught
a scrap of it. I was thinking of something else at the time.”

“It is of no importance,” murmured Poirot. “Did you move a chair back
against the wall when you went into the study after the body was
discovered?”

“Chair? No—why should I?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders but did not answer. He turned to Flora.

“There is one thing I should like to know from you, mademoiselle. When
you were examining the things in the silver table with Dr. Sheppard,
was the dagger in its place, or was it not?”

Flora’s chin shot up.

“Inspector Raglan has been asking me that,” she said resentfully. “I’ve
told him, and I’ll tell you. I’m perfectly certain the dagger was _not_
there. He thinks it was and that Ralph sneaked it later in the evening.
And—and he doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’m saying it to—to shield
Ralph.”

“And aren’t you?” I asked gravely.

Flora stamped her foot.

“You, too, Dr. Sheppard! Oh! it’s too bad.”

Poirot tactfully made a diversion.

“It is true what I heard you say, Major Blunt. There is something that
glitters in this pond. Let us see if I can reach it.”

He knelt down by the pond, baring his arm to the elbow, and lowered it
in very slowly, so as not to disturb the bottom of the pond. But in
spite of all his precautions the mud eddied and swirled, and he was
forced to draw his arm out again empty-handed.

He gazed ruefully at the mud upon his arm. I offered him my
handkerchief, which he accepted with fervent protestations of thanks.
Blunt looked at his watch.

“Nearly lunch time,” he said. “We’d better be getting back to the
house.”

“You will lunch with us, M. Poirot?” asked Flora. “I should like you to
meet my mother. She is—very fond of Ralph.”

The little man bowed.

“I shall be delighted, mademoiselle.”

“And you will stay, too, won’t you, Dr. Sheppard?”

I hesitated.

“Oh, do!”

I wanted to, so I accepted the invitation without further ceremony.

We set out towards the house, Flora and Blunt walking ahead.

“What hair,” said Poirot to me in a low tone, nodding towards Flora.
“The real gold! They will make a pretty couple. She and the dark,
handsome Captain Paton. Will they not?”

I looked at him inquiringly, but he began to fuss about a few
microscopic drops of water on his coat sleeve. The man reminded me in
some ways of a cat. His green eyes and his finicking habits.

“And all for nothing, too,” I said sympathetically. “I wonder what it
was in the pond?”

“Would you like to see?” asked Poirot.

I stared at him. He nodded.

“My good friend,” he said gently and reproachfully, “Hercule Poirot
does not run the risk of disarranging his costume without being sure
of attaining his object. To do so would be ridiculous and absurd. I am
never ridiculous.”

“But you brought your hand out empty,” I objected.

“There are times when it is necessary to have discretion. Do you tell
your patients everything—everything, doctor? I think not. Nor do you
tell your excellent sister everything either, is it not so? Before
showing my empty hand, I dropped what it contained into my other hand.
You shall see what that was.”

He held out his left hand, palm open. On it lay a little circlet of
gold. A woman’s wedding ring.

I took it from him.

“Look inside,” commanded Poirot.

I did so. Inside was an inscription in fine writing:—

                         _From R., March 13th._

I looked at Poirot, but he was busy inspecting his appearance in a tiny
pocket glass. He paid particular attention to his mustaches, and none
at all to me. I saw that he did not intend to be communicative.




                               CHAPTER X

                            THE PARLORMAID


We found Mrs. Ackroyd in the hall. With her was a small dried-up little
man, with an aggressive chin and sharp gray eyes, and “lawyer” written
all over him.

“Mr. Hammond is staying to lunch with us,” said Mrs. Ackroyd. “You know
Major Blunt, Mr. Hammond? And dear Dr. Sheppard—also a close friend of
poor Roger’s. And, let me see——”

She paused, surveying Hercule Poirot in some perplexity.

“This is M. Poirot, mother,” said Flora. “I told you about him this
morning.”

“Oh! yes,” said Mrs. Ackroyd vaguely. “Of course, my dear, of course.
He is to find Ralph, is he not?”

“He is to find out who killed uncle,” said Flora.

“Oh! my dear,” cried her mother. “Please! My poor nerves. I am a wreck
this morning, a positive wreck. Such a dreadful thing to happen. I
can’t help feeling that it must have been an accident of some kind.
Roger was so fond of handling queer curios. His hand must have slipped,
or something.”

This theory was received in polite silence. I saw Poirot edge up to the
lawyer, and speak to him in a confidential undertone. They moved aside
into the embrasure of the window. I joined them—then hesitated.

“Perhaps I’m intruding,” I said.

“Not at all,” cried Poirot heartily. “You and I, M. le docteur, we
investigate this affair side by side. Without you I should be lost. I
desire a little information from the good Mr. Hammond.”

“You are acting on behalf of Captain Ralph Paton, I understand,” said
the lawyer cautiously.

Poirot shook his head.

“Not so. I am acting in the interests of justice. Miss Ackroyd has
asked me to investigate the death of her uncle.”

Mr. Hammond seemed slightly taken aback.

“I cannot seriously believe that Captain Paton can be concerned in this
crime,” he said, “however strong the circumstantial evidence against
him may be. The mere fact that he was hard pressed for money——”

“Was he hard pressed for money?” interpolated Poirot quickly.

The lawyer shrugged his shoulders.

“It was a chronic condition with Ralph Paton,” he said dryly. “Money
went through his hands like water. He was always applying to his
stepfather.”

“Had he done so of late? During the last year, for instance?”

“I cannot say. Mr. Ackroyd did not mention the fact to me.”

“I comprehend. Mr. Hammond, I take it that you are acquainted with the
provisions of Mr. Ackroyd’s will?”

“Certainly. That is my principal business here to-day.”

“Then, seeing that I am acting for Miss Ackroyd, you will not object to
telling me the terms of that will?”

“They are quite simple. Shorn of legal phraseology, and after paying
certain legacies and bequests——”

“Such as——?” interrupted Poirot.

Mr. Hammond seemed a little surprised.

“A thousand pounds to his housekeeper, Miss Russell; fifty pounds
to the cook, Emma Cooper; five hundred pounds to his secretary, Mr.
Geoffrey Raymond. Then to various hospitals——”

Poirot held up his hand.

“Ah! the charitable bequests, they interest me not.”

“Quite so. The income on ten thousand pounds’ worth of shares to be
paid to Mrs. Cecil Ackroyd during her lifetime. Miss Flora Ackroyd
inherits twenty thousand pounds outright. The residue—including this
property, and the shares in Ackroyd and Son—to his adopted son, Ralph
Paton.”

“Mr. Ackroyd possessed a large fortune?”

“A very large fortune. Captain Paton will be an exceedingly wealthy
young man.”

There was a silence. Poirot and the lawyer looked at each other.

“Mr. Hammond,” came Mrs. Ackroyd’s voice plaintively from the fireplace.

The lawyer answered the summons. Poirot took my arm and drew me right
into the window.

“Regard the irises,” he remarked in rather a loud voice. “Magnificent,
are they not? A straight and pleasing effect.”

At the same time I felt the pressure of his hand on my arm, and he
added in a low tone:—

“Do you really wish to aid me? To take part in this investigation?”

“Yes, indeed,” I said eagerly. “There’s nothing I should like better.
You don’t know what a dull old fogey’s life I lead. Never anything out
of the ordinary.”

“Good, we will be colleagues then. In a minute or two I fancy Major
Blunt will join us. He is not happy with the good mamma. Now there are
some things I want to know—but I do not wish to seem to want to know
them. You comprehend? So it will be your part to ask the questions.”

“What questions do you want me to ask?” I asked apprehensively.

“I want you to introduce the name of Mrs. Ferrars.”

“Yes?”

“Speak of her in a natural fashion. Ask him if he was down here when
her husband died. You understand the kind of thing I mean. And while he
replies, watch his face without seeming to watch it. _C’est compris?_”

There was no time for more, for at that minute, as Poirot had
prophesied, Blunt left the others in his abrupt fashion and came over
to us.

I suggested strolling on the terrace, and he acquiesced. Poirot stayed
behind.

I stopped to examine a late rose.

“How things change in the course of a day or so,” I observed. “I was
up here last Wednesday, I remember, walking up and down this same
terrace. Ackroyd was with me—full of spirits. And now—three days
later—Ackroyd’s dead, poor fellow, Mrs. Ferrars’s dead—you knew her,
didn’t you? But of course you did.”

Blunt nodded his head.

“Had you seen her since you’d been down this time?”

“Went with Ackroyd to call. Last Tuesday, think it was. Fascinating
woman—but something queer about her. Deep—one would never know what she
was up to.”

I looked into his steady gray eyes. Nothing there surely. I went on:—

“I suppose you’d met her before.”

“Last time I was here—she and her husband had just come here to live.”
He paused a minute and then added: “Rum thing, she had changed a lot
between then and now.”

“How—changed?” I asked.

“Looked ten years older.”

“Were you down here when her husband died?” I asked, trying to make the
question sound as casual as possible.

“No. From all I heard it would be a good riddance. Uncharitable,
perhaps, but the truth.”

I agreed.

“Ashley Ferrars was by no means a pattern husband,” I said cautiously.

“Blackguard, I thought,” said Blunt.

“No,” I said, “only a man with more money than was good for him.”

“Oh! money! All the troubles in the world can be put down to money—or
the lack of it.”

“Which has been your particular trouble?” I asked.

“I’ve enough for what I want. I’m one of the lucky ones.”

“Indeed.”

“I’m not too flush just now, as a matter of fact. Came into a legacy a
year ago, and like a fool let myself be persuaded into putting it into
some wild-cat scheme.”

I sympathized, and narrated my own similar trouble.

Then the gong pealed out, and we all went in to lunch. Poirot drew me
back a little.

“_Eh! bien?_”

“He’s all right,” I said. “I’m sure of it.”

“Nothing—disturbing?”

“He had a legacy just a year ago,” I said. “But why not? Why shouldn’t
he? I’ll swear the man is perfectly square and aboveboard.”

“Without doubt, without doubt,” said Poirot soothingly. “Do not upset
yourself.”

He spoke as though to a fractious child.

We all trooped into the dining-room. It seemed incredible that less
than twenty-four hours had passed since I last sat at that table.

Afterwards, Mrs. Ackroyd took me aside and sat down with me on a sofa.

“I can’t help feeling a little hurt,” she murmured, producing a
handkerchief of the kind obviously not meant to be cried into. “Hurt,
I mean, by Roger’s lack of confidence in me. That twenty thousand
pounds ought to have been left to _me_—not to Flora. A mother could be
trusted to safeguard the interests of her child. A lack of trust, I
call it.”

“You forget, Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said, “Flora was Ackroyd’s own niece, a
blood relation. It would have been different had you been his sister
instead of his sister-in-law.”

“As poor Cecil’s widow, I think my feelings ought to have been
considered,” said the lady, touching her eye-lashes gingerly with
the handkerchief. “But Roger was always most peculiar—not to say
_mean_—about money matters. It has been a most difficult position
for both Flora and myself. He did not even give the poor child an
allowance. He would pay her bills, you know, and even that with a good
deal of reluctance and asking what she wanted all those fal-lals for—so
like a man—but—now I’ve forgotten what it was I was going to say!
Oh, yes, not a penny we could call our own, you know. Flora resented
it—yes, I must say she resented it—very strongly. Though devoted to
her uncle, of course. But any girl would have resented it. Yes, I must
say Roger had very strange ideas about money. He wouldn’t even buy new
face towels, though I told him the old ones were in holes. And then,”
proceeded Mrs. Ackroyd, with a sudden leap highly characteristic of
her conversation, “to leave all that money—a thousand pounds—fancy, a
thousand pounds!—to that woman.”

“What woman?”

“That Russell woman. Something very queer about her, and so I’ve always
said. But Roger wouldn’t hear a word against her. Said she was a woman
of great force of character, and that he admired and respected her.
He was always going on about her rectitude and independence and moral
worth. _I_ think there’s something fishy about her. She was certainly
doing her best to marry Roger. But I soon put a stop to that. She’s
always hated me. Naturally. _I_ saw through her.”

I began to wonder if there was any chance of stemming Mrs. Ackroyd’s
eloquence, and getting away.

Mr. Hammond provided the necessary diversion by coming up to say
good-by. I seized my chance and rose also.

“About the inquest,” I said. “Where would you prefer it to be held.
Here, or at the Three Boars?”

Mrs. Ackroyd stared at me with a dropped jaw.

“The inquest?” she asked, the picture of consternation. “But surely
there won’t have to be an inquest?”

Mr. Hammond gave a dry little cough and murmured, “Inevitable. Under
the circumstances,” in two short little barks.

“But surely Dr. Sheppard can arrange——”

“There are limits to my powers of arrangement,” I said dryly.

“If his death was an accident——”

“He was murdered, Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said brutally.

She gave a little cry.

“No theory of accident will hold water for a minute.”

Mrs. Ackroyd looked at me in distress. I had no patience with what I
thought was her silly fear of unpleasantness.

“If there’s an inquest, I—I shan’t have to answer questions and all
that, shall I?” she asked.

“I don’t know what will be necessary,” I answered. “I imagine
Mr. Raymond will take the brunt of it off you. He knows all the
circumstances, and can give formal evidence of identification.”

The lawyer assented with a little bow.

“I really don’t think there is anything to dread, Mrs. Ackroyd,” he
said. “You will be spared all unpleasantness. Now, as to the question
of money, have you all you need for the present? I mean,” he added, as
she looked at him inquiringly, “ready money. Cash, you know. If not, I
can arrange to let you have whatever you require.”

“That ought to be all right,” said Raymond, who was standing by. “Mr.
Ackroyd cashed a cheque for a hundred pounds yesterday.”

“A hundred pounds?”

“Yes. For wages and other expenses due to-day. At the moment it is
still intact.”

“Where is this money? In his desk?”

“No, he always kept his cash in his bedroom. In an old collar-box, to
be accurate. Funny idea, wasn’t it?”

“I think,” said the lawyer, “we ought to make sure the money is there
before I leave.”

“Certainly,” agreed the secretary. “I’ll take you up now.... Oh! I
forgot. The door’s locked.”

Inquiry from Parker elicited the information that Inspector Raglan was
in the housekeeper’s room asking a few supplementary questions. A few
minutes later the inspector joined the party in the hall, bringing the
key with him. He unlocked the door and we passed into the lobby and up
the small staircase. At the top of the stairs the door into Ackroyd’s
bedroom stood open. Inside the room it was dark, the curtains were
drawn, and the bed was turned down just as it had been last night. The
inspector drew the curtains, letting in the sunlight, and Geoffrey
Raymond went to the top drawer of a rosewood bureau.

“He kept his money like that, in an unlocked drawer. Just fancy,”
commented the inspector.

The secretary flushed a little.

“Mr. Ackroyd had perfect faith in the honesty of all the servants,” he
said hotly.

“Oh! quite so,” said the inspector hastily.

Raymond opened the drawer, took out a round leather collar-box from the
back of it, and opening it, drew out a thick wallet.

“Here is the money,” he said, taking out a fat roll of notes. “You
will find the hundred intact, I know, for Mr. Ackroyd put it in the
collar-box in my presence last night when he was dressing for dinner,
and of course it has not been touched since.”

Mr. Hammond took the roll from him and counted it. He looked up sharply.

“A hundred pounds, you said. But there is only sixty here.”

Raymond stared at him.

“Impossible,” he cried, springing forward. Taking the notes from the
other’s hand, he counted them aloud.

Mr. Hammond had been right. The total amounted to sixty pounds.

“But—I can’t understand it,” cried the secretary, bewildered.

Poirot asked a question.

“You saw Mr. Ackroyd put this money away last night when he was
dressing for dinner? You are sure he had not paid away any of it
already?”

“I’m sure he hadn’t. He even said, ‘I don’t want to take a hundred
pounds down to dinner with me. Too bulgy.’”

“Then the affair is very simple,” remarked Poirot. “Either he paid out
that forty pounds sometime last evening, or else it has been stolen.”

“That’s the matter in a nutshell,” agreed the inspector. He turned
to Mrs. Ackroyd. “Which of the servants would come in here yesterday
evening?”

“I suppose the housemaid would turn down the bed.”

“Who is she? What do you know about her?”

“She’s not been here very long,” said Mrs. Ackroyd. “But she’s a nice
ordinary country girl.”

“I think we ought to clear this matter up,” said the inspector. “If
Mr. Ackroyd paid that money away himself, it may have a bearing on the
mystery of the crime. The other servants all right, as far as you know?”

“Oh, I think so.”

“Not missed anything before?”

“No.”

“None of them leaving, or anything like that?”

“The parlormaid is leaving.”

“When?”

“She gave notice yesterday, I believe.”

“To you?”

“Oh, no. _I_ have nothing to do with the servants. Miss Russell attends
to the household matters.”

The inspector remained lost in thought for a minute or two. Then he
nodded his head and remarked, “I think I’d better have a word with Miss
Russell, and I’ll see the girl Dale as well.”

Poirot and I accompanied him to the housekeeper’s room. Miss Russell
received us with her usual sang-froid.

Elsie Dale had been at Fernly five months. A nice girl, quick at her
duties, and most respectable. Good references. The last girl in the
world to take anything not belonging to her.

What about the parlormaid?

“She, too, was a most superior girl. Very quiet and ladylike. An
excellent worker.”

“Then why is she leaving?” asked the inspector.

Miss Russell pursed up her lips.

“It was none of my doing. I understand Mr. Ackroyd found fault with
her yesterday afternoon. It was her duty to do the study, and she
disarranged some of the papers on his desk, I believe. He was very
annoyed about it, and she gave notice. At least, that is what I
understood from her, but perhaps you’d like to see her yourselves?”

The inspector assented. I had already noticed the girl when she was
waiting on us at lunch. A tall girl, with a lot of brown hair rolled
tightly away at the back of her neck, and very steady gray eyes. She
came in answer to the housekeeper’s summons, and stood very straight
with those same gray eyes fixed on us.

“You are Ursula Bourne?” asked the inspector.

“Yes, sir.”

“I understand you are leaving?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Why is that?”

“I disarranged some papers on Mr. Ackroyd’s desk. He was very angry
about it, and I said I had better leave. He told me to go as soon as
possible.”

“Were you in Mr. Ackroyd’s bedroom at all last night? Tidying up or
anything?”

“No, sir. That is Elsie’s work. I never went near that part of the
house.”

“I must tell you, my girl, that a large sum of money is missing from
Mr. Ackroyd’s room.”

At last I saw her roused. A wave of color swept over her face.

“I know nothing about any money. If you think I took it, and that that
is why Mr. Ackroyd dismissed me, you are wrong.”

“I’m not accusing you of taking it, my girl,” said the inspector.
“Don’t flare up so.”

The girl looked at him coldly.

“You can search my things if you like,” she said disdainfully. “But you
won’t find anything.”

Poirot suddenly interposed.

“It was yesterday afternoon that Mr. Ackroyd dismissed you—or you
dismissed yourself, was it not?” he asked.

The girl nodded.

“How long did the interview last?”

“The interview?”

“Yes, the interview between you and Mr. Ackroyd in the study?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Twenty minutes? Half an hour?”

“Something like that.”

“Not longer?”

“Not longer than half an hour, certainly.”

“Thank you, mademoiselle.”

I looked curiously at him. He was rearranging a few objects on the
table, setting them straight with precise fingers. His eyes were
shining.

“That’ll do,” said the inspector.

Ursula Bourne disappeared. The inspector turned to Miss Russell.

“How long has she been here? Have you got a copy of the reference you
had with her?”

Without answering the first question, Miss Russell moved to an adjacent
bureau, opened one of the drawers, and took out a handful of letters
clipped together with a patent fastener. She selected one and handed it
to the inspector.

“H’m,” said he. “Reads all right. Mrs. Richard Folliott, Marby Grange,
Marby. Who’s this woman?”

“Quite good county people,” said Miss Russell.

“Well,” said the inspector, handing it back, “let’s have a look at the
other one, Elsie Dale.”

Elsie Dale was a big fair girl, with a pleasant but slightly stupid
face. She answered our questions readily enough, and showed much
distress and concern at the loss of the money.

“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with her,” observed the
inspector, after he had dismissed her.

“What about Parker?”

Miss Russell pursed her lips together and made no reply.

“I’ve a feeling there’s something wrong about that man,” the inspector
continued thoughtfully. “The trouble is that I don’t quite see when he
got his opportunity. He’d be busy with his duties immediately after
dinner, and he’s got a pretty good alibi all through the evening. I
know, for I’ve been devoting particular attention to it. Well, thank
you very much, Miss Russell. We’ll leave things as they are for the
present. It’s highly probable Mr. Ackroyd paid that money away himself.”

The housekeeper bade us a dry good-afternoon, and we took our leave.

I left the house with Poirot.

“I wonder,” I said, breaking the silence, “what the papers the girl
disarranged could have been for Ackroyd to have got into such a state
about them? I wonder if there is any clew there to the mystery.”

“The secretary said there were no papers of particular importance on
the desk,” said Poirot quietly.

“Yes, but——” I paused.

“It strikes you as odd that Ackroyd should have flown into a rage about
so trivial a matter?”

“Yes, it does rather.”

“But was it a trivial matter?”

“Of course,” I admitted, “we don’t know what those papers may have
been. But Raymond certainly said——”

“Leave M. Raymond out of it for a minute. What did you think of that
girl?”

“Which girl? The parlormaid?”

“Yes, the parlormaid. Ursula Bourne.”

“She seemed a nice girl,” I said hesitatingly.

Poirot repeated my words, but whereas I had laid a slight stress on the
fourth word, he put it on the second.

“She _seemed_ a nice girl—yes.”

Then, after a minute’s silence, he took something from his pocket and
handed it to me.

“See, my friend, I will show you something. Look there.”

The paper he had handed me was that compiled by the inspector and given
by him to Poirot that morning. Following the pointing finger, I saw a
small cross marked in pencil opposite the name Ursula Bourne.

“You may not have noticed it at the time, my good friend, but there was
one person on this list whose alibi had no kind of confirmation. Ursula
Bourne.”

“You don’t think——”

“Dr. Sheppard, I dare to think anything. Ursula Bourne may have killed
Mr. Ackroyd, but I confess I can see no motive for her doing so. Can
you?”

He looked at me very hard—so hard that I felt uncomfortable.

“Can you?” he repeated.

“No motive whatsoever,” I said firmly.

His gaze relaxed. He frowned and murmured to himself:—

“Since the blackmailer was a man, it follows that she cannot be the
blackmailer, then——”

I coughed.

“As far as that goes——” I began doubtfully.

He spun round on me.

“What? What are you going to say?”

“Nothing. Nothing. Only that, strictly speaking, Mrs. Ferrars in her
letter mentioned a _person_—she didn’t actually specify a man. But we
took it for granted, Ackroyd and I, that it _was_ a man.”

Poirot did not seem to be listening to me. He was muttering to himself
again.

“But then it is possible after all—yes, certainly it is possible—but
then—ah! I must rearrange my ideas. Method, order; never have I needed
them more. Everything must fit in—in its appointed place—otherwise I am
on the wrong tack.”

He broke off, and whirled round upon me again.

“Where is Marby?”

“It’s on the other side of Cranchester.”

“How far away?”

“Oh!—fourteen miles, perhaps.”

“Would it be possible for you to go there? To-morrow, say?”

“To-morrow? Let me see, that’s Sunday. Yes, I could arrange it. What do
you want me to do there?”

“See this Mrs. Folliott. Find out all you can about Ursula Bourne.”

“Very well. But—I don’t much care for the job.”

“It is not the time to make difficulties. A man’s life may hang on
this.”

“Poor Ralph,” I said with a sigh. “You believe him to be innocent,
though?”

Poirot looked at me very gravely.

“Do you want to know the truth?”

“Of course.”

“Then you shall have it. My friend, everything points to the assumption
that he is guilty.”

“What!” I exclaimed.

Poirot nodded.

“Yes, that stupid inspector—for he is stupid—has everything pointing
his way. I seek for the truth—and the truth leads me every time to
Ralph Paton. Motive, opportunity, means. But I will leave no stone
unturned. I promised Mademoiselle Flora. And she was very sure, that
little one. But very sure indeed.”




                              CHAPTER XI

                          POIROT PAYS A CALL


I was slightly nervous when I rang the bell at Marby Grange the
following afternoon. I wondered very much what Poirot expected to
find out. He had entrusted the job to me. Why? Was it because, as
in the case of questioning Major Blunt, he wished to remain in the
background? The wish, intelligible in the first case, seemed to me
quite meaningless here.

My meditations were interrupted by the advent of a smart parlormaid.

Yes, Mrs. Folliott was at home. I was ushered into a big drawing-room,
and looked round me curiously as I waited for the mistress of the
house. A large bare room, some good bits of old china, and some
beautiful etchings, shabby covers and curtains. A lady’s room in every
sense of the term.

I turned from the inspection of a Bartolozzi on the wall as Mrs.
Folliott came into the room. She was a tall woman, with untidy brown
hair, and a very winning smile.

“Dr. Sheppard,” she said hesitatingly.

“That is my name,” I replied. “I must apologize for calling upon you
like this, but I wanted some information about a parlormaid previously
employed by you, Ursula Bourne.”

With the utterance of the name the smile vanished from her face, and
all the cordiality froze out of her manner. She looked uncomfortable
and ill at ease.

“Ursula Bourne?” she said hesitatingly.

“Yes,” I said. “Perhaps you don’t remember the name?”

“Oh, yes, of course. I—I remember perfectly.”

“She left you just over a year ago, I understand?”

“Yes. Yes, she did. That is quite right.”

“And you were satisfied with her whilst she was with you? How long was
she with you, by the way?”

“Oh! a year or two—I can’t remember exactly how long. She—she is very
capable. I’m sure you will find her quite satisfactory. I didn’t know
she was leaving Fernly. I hadn’t the least idea of it.”

“Can you tell me anything about her?” I asked.

“Anything about her?”

“Yes, where she comes from, who her people are—that sort of thing?”

Mrs. Folliott’s face wore more than ever its frozen look.

“I don’t know at all.”

“Who was she with before she came to you?”

“I’m afraid I don’t remember.”

There was a spark of anger now underlying her nervousness. She flung up
her head in a gesture that was vaguely familiar.

“Is it really necessary to ask all these questions?”

“Not at all,” I said, with an air of surprise and a tinge of apology
in my manner. “I had no idea you would mind answering them. I am very
sorry.”

Her anger left her and she became confused again.

“Oh! I don’t mind answering them. I assure you I don’t. Why should I?
It—it just seemed a little odd, you know. That’s all. A little odd.”

One advantage of being a medical practitioner is that you can usually
tell when people are lying to you. I should have known from Mrs.
Folliott’s manner, if from nothing else, that she did mind answering my
questions—minded intensely. She was thoroughly uncomfortable and upset,
and there was plainly some mystery in the background. I judged her to
be a woman quite unused to deception of any kind, and consequently
rendered acutely uneasy when forced to practice it. A child could have
seen through her.

But it was also clear that she had no intention of telling me anything
further. Whatever the mystery centering around Ursula Bourne might be,
I was not going to learn it through Mrs. Folliott.

Defeated, I apologized once more for disturbing her, took my hat and
departed.

I went to see a couple of patients and arrived home about six o’clock.
Caroline was sitting beside the wreck of tea things. She had that
look of suppressed exultation on her face which I know only too well.
It is a sure sign with her, of either the getting or the giving of
information. I wondered which it had been.

“I’ve had a very interesting afternoon,” began Caroline as I dropped
into my own particular easy chair, and stretched out my feet to the
inviting blaze in the fireplace.

“Have you?” I asked. “Miss Ganett drop in to tea?”

Miss Ganett is one of the chief of our newsmongers.

“Guess again,” said Caroline with intense complacency.

I guessed several times, working slowly through all the members of
Caroline’s Intelligence Corps. My sister received each guess with
a triumphant shake of the head. In the end she volunteered the
information herself.

“M. Poirot!” she said. “Now what do you think of that?”

I thought a good many things of it, but I was careful not to say them
to Caroline.

“Why did he come?” I asked.

“To see me, of course. He said that knowing my brother so well, he
hoped he might be permitted to make the acquaintance of his charming
sister—your charming sister, I’ve got mixed up, but you know what I
mean.”

“What did he talk about?” I asked.

“He told me a lot about himself and his cases. You know that Prince
Paul of Mauretania—the one who’s just married a dancer?”

“Yes?”

“I saw a most intriguing paragraph about her in Society Snippets the
other day, hinting that she was really a Russian Grand Duchess—one
of the Czar’s daughters who managed to escape from the Bolsheviks.
Well, it seems that M. Poirot solved a baffling murder mystery that
threatened to involve them both. Prince Paul was beside himself with
gratitude.”

“Did he give him an emerald tie pin the size of a plover’s egg?” I
inquired sarcastically.

“He didn’t mention it. Why?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I thought it was always done. It is in detective
fiction anyway. The super detective always has his rooms littered with
rubies and pearls and emeralds from grateful Royal clients.”

“It’s very interesting to hear about these things from the inside,”
said my sister complacently.

It would be—to Caroline. I could not but admire the ingenuity of M.
Hercule Poirot, who had selected unerringly the case of all others that
would most appeal to an elderly maiden lady living in a small village.

“Did he tell you if the dancer was really a Grand Duchess?” I inquired.

“He was not at liberty to speak,” said Caroline importantly.

I wondered how far Poirot had strained the truth in talking to
Caroline—probably not at all. He had conveyed his innuendoes by means
of his eyebrows and his shoulders.

“And after all this,” I remarked, “I suppose you were ready to eat out
of his hand.”

“Don’t be coarse, James. I don’t know where you get these vulgar
expressions from.”

“Probably from my only link with the outside world—my patients.
Unfortunately my practice does not lie amongst Royal princes and
interesting Russian émigrés.”

Caroline pushed her spectacles up and looked at me.

“You seem very grumpy, James. It must be your liver. A blue pill, I
think, to-night.”

To see me in my own home, you would never imagine that I was a doctor
of medicine. Caroline does the home prescribing both for herself and me.

“Damn my liver,” I said irritably. “Did you talk about the murder at
all?”

“Well, naturally, James. What else is there to talk about locally?
I was able to set M. Poirot right upon several points. He was very
grateful to me. He said I had the makings of a born detective in me—and
a wonderful psychological insight into human nature.”

Caroline was exactly like a cat that is full to overflowing with rich
cream. She was positively purring.

“He talked a lot about the little gray cells of the brain, and of their
functions. His own, he says, are of the first quality.”

“He would say so,” I remarked bitterly. “Modesty is certainly not his
middle name.”

“I wish you would not be so horribly American, James. He thought it
very important that Ralph should be found as soon as possible, and
induced to come forward and give an account of himself. He says that
his disappearance will produce a very unfortunate impression at the
inquest.”

“And what did you say to that?”

“I agreed with him,” said Caroline importantly. “And I was able to tell
him the way people were already talking about it.”

“Caroline,” I said sharply, “did you tell M. Poirot what you overheard
in the wood that day?”

“I did,” said Caroline complacently.

I got up and began to walk about.

“You realize what you’re doing, I hope,” I jerked out. “You’re putting
a halter round Ralph Paton’s neck as surely as you’re sitting in that
chair.”

“Not at all,” said Caroline, quite unruffled. “I was surprised _you_
hadn’t told him.”

“I took very good care not to,” I said. “I’m fond of that boy.”

“So am I. That’s why I say you’re talking nonsense. I don’t believe
Ralph did it, and so the truth can’t hurt him, and we ought to give M.
Poirot all the help we can. Why, think, very likely Ralph was out with
that identical girl on the night of the murder, and if so, he’s got a
perfect alibi.”

“If he’s got a perfect alibi,” I retorted, “why doesn’t he come forward
and say so?”

“Might get the girl into trouble,” said Caroline sapiently. “But if M.
Poirot gets hold of her, and puts it to her as her duty, she’ll come
forward of her own accord and clear Ralph.”

“You seem to have invented a romantic fairy story of your own,” I said.
“You read too many trashy novels, Caroline. I’ve always told you so.”

I dropped into my chair again.

“Did Poirot ask you any more questions?” I inquired.

“Only about the patients you had that morning.”

“The patients?” I demanded, unbelievingly.

“Yes, your surgery patients. How many and who they were?”

“Do you mean to say you were able to tell him that?” I demanded.

Caroline is really amazing.

“Why not?” asked my sister triumphantly. “I can see the path up to the
surgery door perfectly from this window. And I’ve got an excellent
memory, James. Much better than yours, let me tell you.”

“I’m sure you have,” I murmured mechanically.

My sister went on, checking the names on her fingers.

“There was old Mrs. Bennett, and that boy from the farm with the bad
finger, Dolly Grice to have a needle out of her finger; that American
steward off the liner. Let me see—that’s four. Yes, and old George
Evans with his ulcer. And lastly——”

She paused significantly.

“Well?”

Caroline brought out her climax triumphantly. She hissed in the most
approved style—aided by the fortunate number of s’s at her disposal.

“_Miss Russell!_”

She sat back in her chair and looked at me meaningly, and when Caroline
looks at you meaningly, it is impossible to miss it.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, quite untruthfully. “Why
shouldn’t Miss Russell consult me about her bad knee?”

“Bad knee,” said Caroline. “Fiddlesticks! No more bad knee than you and
I. She was after something else.”

“What?” I asked.

Caroline had to admit that she didn’t know.

“But depend upon it, that was what he was trying to get at, M. Poirot,
I mean. There’s something fishy about that woman, and he knows it.”

“Precisely the remark Mrs. Ackroyd made to me yesterday,” I said. “That
there was something fishy about Miss Russell.”

“Ah!” said Caroline darkly, “Mrs. Ackroyd! There’s another!”

“Another what?”

Caroline refused to explain her remarks. She merely nodded her head
several times, rolled up her knitting, and went upstairs to don the
high mauve silk blouse and the gold locket which she calls dressing for
dinner.

I stayed there staring into the fire and thinking over Caroline’s
words. Had Poirot really come to gain information about Miss Russell,
or was it only Caroline’s tortuous mind that interpreted everything
according to her own ideas?

There had certainly been nothing in Miss Russell’s manner that morning
to arouse suspicion. At least——

I remembered her persistent conversation on the subject of drug-taking
and from that she had led the conversation to poisons and poisoning.
But there was nothing in that. Ackroyd had not been poisoned. Still, it
was odd....

I heard Caroline’s voice, rather acid in note, calling from the top of
the stairs.

“James, you will be late for dinner.”

I put some coal on the fire and went upstairs obediently.

It is well at any price to have peace in the home.




                              CHAPTER XII

                            ROUND THE TABLE


A joint inquest was held on Monday.

I do not propose to give the proceedings in detail. To do so would only
be to go over the same ground again and again. By arrangement with the
police, very little was allowed to come out. I gave evidence as to the
cause of Ackroyd’s death and the probable time. The absence of Ralph
Paton was commented on by the coroner, but not unduly stressed.

Afterwards, Poirot and I had a few words with Inspector Raglan. The
inspector was very grave.

“It looks bad, Mr. Poirot,” he said. “I’m trying to judge the thing
fair and square. I’m a local man, and I’ve seen Captain Paton many
times in Cranchester. I’m not wanting him to be the guilty one—but it’s
bad whichever way you look at it. If he’s innocent, why doesn’t he come
forward? We’ve got evidence against him, but it’s just possible that
that evidence could be explained away. Then why doesn’t he give an
explanation?”

A lot more lay behind the inspector’s words than I knew at the time.
Ralph’s description had been wired to every port and railway station
in England. The police everywhere were on the alert. His rooms in town
were watched, and any houses he had been known to be in the habit
of frequenting. With such a _cordon_ it seemed impossible that Ralph
should be able to evade detection. He had no luggage, and, as far as
any one knew, no money.

“I can’t find any one who saw him at the station that night,” continued
the inspector. “And yet he’s well known down here, and you’d think
somebody would have noticed him. There’s no news from Liverpool either.”

“You think he went to Liverpool?” queried Poirot.

“Well, it’s on the cards. That telephone message from the station,
just three minutes before the Liverpool express left—there ought to be
something in that.”

“Unless it was deliberately intended to throw you off the scent. That
might just possibly be the point of the telephone message.”

“That’s an idea,” said the inspector eagerly. “Do you really think
that’s the explanation of the telephone call?”

“My friend,” said Poirot gravely, “I do not know. But I will tell you
this: I believe that when we find the explanation of that telephone
call we shall find the explanation of the murder.”

“You said something like that before, I remember,” I observed, looking
at him curiously.

Poirot nodded.

“I always come back to it,” he said seriously.

“It seems to me utterly irrelevant,” I declared.

“I wouldn’t say that,” demurred the inspector. “But I must confess I
think Mr. Poirot here harps on it a little too much. We’ve better clews
than that. The fingerprints on the dagger, for instance.”

Poirot became suddenly very foreign in manner, as he often did when
excited over anything.

“M. l’Inspecteur,” he said, “beware of the blind—the blind—_comment
dire?_—the little street that has no end to it.”

Inspector Raglan stared, but I was quicker.

“You mean a blind alley?” I said.

“That is it—the blind street that leads nowhere. So it may be with
those fingerprints—they may lead you nowhere.”

“I don’t see how that can well be,” said the police officer. “I suppose
you’re hinting that they’re faked? I’ve read of such things being done,
though I can’t say I’ve ever come across it in my experience. But fake
or true—they’re bound to lead _somewhere_.”

Poirot merely shrugged his shoulders, flinging out his arms wide.

The inspector then showed us various enlarged photographs of the
fingerprints, and proceeded to become technical on the subject of loops
and whorls.

“Come now,” he said at last, annoyed by Poirot’s detached manner,
“you’ve got to admit that those prints were made by some one who was in
the house that night?”

“_Bien entendu_,” said Poirot, nodding his head.

“Well, I’ve taken the prints of every member of the household, every
one, mind you, from the old lady down to the kitchenmaid.”

I don’t think Mrs. Ackroyd would enjoy being referred to as the old
lady. She must spend a considerable amount on cosmetics.

“Every one’s,” repeated the inspector fussily.

“Including mine,” I said dryly.

“Very well. None of them correspond. That leaves us two alternatives.
Ralph Paton, or the mysterious stranger the doctor here tells us about.
When we get hold of those two——”

“Much valuable time may have been lost,” broke in Poirot.

“I don’t quite get you, Mr. Poirot?”

“You have taken the prints of every one in the house, you say,”
murmured Poirot. “Is that the exact truth you are telling me there, M.
l’Inspecteur?”

“Certainly.”

“Without overlooking any one?”

“Without overlooking any one.”

“The quick or the dead?”

For a moment the inspector looked bewildered at what he took to be a
religious observation. Then he reacted slowly.

“You mean——”

“The dead, M. l’Inspecteur.”

The inspector still took a minute or two to understand.

“I am suggesting,” said Poirot placidly, “that the fingerprints on the
dagger handle are those of Mr. Ackroyd himself. It is an easy matter to
verify. His body is still available.”

“But why? What would be the point of it? You’re surely not suggesting
suicide, Mr. Poirot?”

“Ah! no. My theory is that the murderer wore gloves or wrapped
something round his hand. After the blow was struck, he picked up the
victim’s hand and closed it round the dagger handle.”

“But why?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders again.

“To make a confusing case even more confusing.”

“Well,” said the inspector, “I’ll look into it. What gave you the idea
in the first place?”

“When you were so kind as to show me the dagger and draw attention to
the fingerprints. I know very little of loops and whorls—see, I confess
my ignorance frankly. But it did occur to me that the position of the
prints was somewhat awkward. Not so would I have held a dagger in order
to strike. Naturally, with the right hand brought up over the shoulder
backwards, it would have been difficult to put it in exactly the right
position.”

Inspector Raglan stared at the little man. Poirot, with an air of great
unconcern, flecked a speck of dust from his coat sleeve.

“Well,” said the inspector, “it’s an idea. I’ll look into it all right,
but don’t you be disappointed if nothing comes of it.”

He endeavored to make his tone kindly and patronizing. Poirot watched
him go off. Then he turned to me with twinkling eyes.

“Another time,” he observed, “I must be more careful of his _amour
propre_. And now that we are left to our own devices, what do you
think, my good friend, of a little reunion of the family?”

The “little reunion,” as Poirot called it, took place about half an
hour later. We sat round the table in the dining-room at Fernly—Poirot
at the head of the table, like the chairman of some ghastly board
meeting. The servants were not present, so we were six in all. Mrs.
Ackroyd, Flora, Major Blunt, young Raymond, Poirot, and myself.

When every one was assembled, Poirot rose and bowed.

“Messieurs, mesdames, I have called you together for a certain
purpose.” He paused. “To begin with, I want to make a very special plea
to mademoiselle.”

“To me?” said Flora.

“Mademoiselle, you are engaged to Captain Ralph Paton. If any one
is in his confidence, you are. I beg you, most earnestly, if you
know of his whereabouts, to persuade him to come forward. One little
minute”—as Flora raised her head to speak—“say nothing till you have
well reflected. Mademoiselle, his position grows daily more dangerous.
If he had come forward at once, no matter how damning the facts, he
might have had a chance of explaining them away. But this silence—this
flight—what can it mean? Surely only one thing, knowledge of guilt.
Mademoiselle, if you really believe in his innocence, persuade him to
come forward before it is too late.”

Flora’s face had gone very white.

“Too late!” she repeated, very low.

Poirot leant forward, looking at her.

“See now, mademoiselle,” he said very gently, “it is Papa Poirot who
asks you this. The old Papa Poirot who has much knowledge and much
experience. I would not seek to entrap you, mademoiselle. Will you not
trust me—and tell me where Ralph Paton is hiding?”

The girl rose, and stood facing him.

“M. Poirot,” she said in a clear voice, “I swear to you—swear
solemnly—that I have no idea where Ralph is, and that I have neither
seen him nor heard from him either on the day of—of the murder, or
since.”

She sat down again. Poirot gazed at her in silence for a minute or two,
then he brought his hand down on the table with a sharp rap.

“_Bien!_ That is that,” he said. His face hardened. “Now I appeal to
these others who sit round this table, Mrs. Ackroyd, Major Blunt, Dr.
Sheppard, Mr. Raymond. You are all friends and intimates of the missing
man. If you know where Ralph Paton is hiding, speak out.”

There was a long silence. Poirot looked to each in turn.

“I beg of you,” he said in a low voice, “speak out.”

But still there was silence, broken at last by Mrs. Ackroyd.

“I must say,” she observed in a plaintive voice, “that Ralph’s absence
is most peculiar—most peculiar indeed. Not to come forward at such a
time. It looks, you know, as though there were something _behind_ it.
I can’t help thinking, Flora dear, that it was a very fortunate thing
your engagement was never formally announced.”

“Mother!” cried Flora angrily.

“Providence,” declared Mrs. Ackroyd. “I have a devout belief in
Providence—a divinity that shapes our ends, as Shakespeare’s beautiful
line runs.”

“Surely you don’t make the Almighty directly responsible for
thick ankles, Mrs. Ackroyd, do you?” asked Geoffrey Raymond, his
irresponsible laugh ringing out.

His idea was, I think, to loosen the tension, but Mrs. Ackroyd threw
him a glance of reproach and took out her handkerchief.

“Flora has been saved a terrible amount of notoriety and
unpleasantness. Not for a moment that I think dear Ralph had anything
to do with poor Roger’s death. I _don’t_ think so. But then I have a
trusting heart—I always have had, ever since a child. I am loath to
believe the worst of any one. But, of course, one must remember that
Ralph was in several air raids as a young boy. The results are apparent
long after, sometimes, they say. People are not responsible for their
actions in the least. They lose control, you know, without being able
to help it.”

“Mother,” cried Flora, “you don’t think Ralph did it?”

“Come, Mrs. Ackroyd,” said Blunt.

“I don’t know what to think,” said Mrs. Ackroyd tearfully. “It’s all
very upsetting. What would happen to the estate, I wonder, if Ralph
were found guilty?”

Raymond pushed his chair away from the table violently. Major Blunt
remained very quiet, looking thoughtfully at her. “Like shell-shock,
you know,” said Mrs. Ackroyd obstinately, “and I dare say Roger kept
him very short of money—with the best intentions, of course. I can see
you are all against me, but I do think it is very odd that Ralph has
not come forward, and I must say I am thankful Flora’s engagement was
never announced formally.”

“It will be to-morrow,” said Flora in a clear voice.

“Flora!” cried her mother, aghast.

Flora had turned to the secretary.

“Will you send the announcement to the _Morning Post_ and the _Times_,
please, Mr. Raymond.”

“If you are sure that it is wise, Miss Ackroyd,” he replied gravely.

She turned impulsively to Blunt.

“You understand,” she said. “What else can I do? As things are, I must
stand by Ralph. Don’t you see that I must?”

She looked very searchingly at him, and after a long pause he nodded
abruptly.

Mrs. Ackroyd burst out into shrill protests. Flora remained unmoved.
Then Raymond spoke.

“I appreciate your motives, Miss Ackroyd. But don’t you think you’re
being rather precipitate? Wait a day or two.”

“To-morrow,” said Flora, in a clear voice. “It’s no good, mother, going
on like this. Whatever else I am, I’m not disloyal to my friends.”

“M. Poirot,” Mrs. Ackroyd appealed tearfully, “can’t you say anything
at all?”

“Nothing to be said,” interpolated Blunt. “She’s doing the right thing.
I’ll stand by her through thick and thin.”

Flora held out her hand to him.

“Thank you, Major Blunt,” she said.

“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, “will you let an old man congratulate you
on your courage and your loyalty? And will you not misunderstand me if
I ask you—ask you most solemnly—to postpone the announcement you speak
of for at least two days more?”

Flora hesitated.

“I ask it in Ralph Paton’s interests as much as in yours, mademoiselle.
You frown. You do not see how that can be. But I assure you that it
is so. _Pas de blagues_. You put the case into my hands—you must not
hamper me now.”

Flora paused a few minutes before replying.

“I do not like it,” she said at last, “but I will do what you say.”

She sat down again at the table.

“And now, messieurs et mesdames,” said Poirot rapidly, “I will continue
with what I was about to say. Understand this, I mean to arrive at
the truth. The truth, however ugly in itself, is always curious and
beautiful to the seeker after it. I am much aged, my powers may not
be what they were.” Here he clearly expected a contradiction. “In all
probability this is the last case I shall ever investigate. But Hercule
Poirot does not end with a failure. Messieurs et mesdames, I tell you,
I mean to _know_. And I shall know—in spite of you all.”

He brought out the last words provocatively, hurling them in our face
as it were. I think we all flinched back a little, excepting Geoffrey
Raymond, who remained good humored and imperturbable as usual.

“How do you mean—in spite of us all?” he asked, with slightly raised
eyebrows.

“But—just that, monsieur. Every one of you in this room is concealing
something from me.” He raised his hand as a faint murmur of protest
arose. “Yes, yes, I know what I am saying. It may be something
unimportant—trivial—which is supposed to have no bearing on the case,
but there it is. _Each one of you has something to hide._ Come, now, am
I right?”

His glance, challenging and accusing, swept round the table. And every
pair of eyes dropped before his. Yes, mine as well.

“I am answered,” said Poirot, with a curious laugh. He got up from his
seat. “I appeal to you all. Tell me the truth—the whole truth.” There
was a silence. “Will no one speak?”

He gave the same short laugh again.

“_C’est dommage_,” he said, and went out.




                             CHAPTER XIII

                            THE GOOSE QUILL


That evening, at Poirot’s request, I went over to his house after
dinner. Caroline saw me depart with visible reluctance. I think she
would have liked to have accompanied me.

Poirot greeted me hospitably. He had placed a bottle of Irish whisky
(which I detest) on a small table, with a soda water siphon and a
glass. He himself was engaged in brewing hot chocolate. It was a
favorite beverage of his, I discovered later.

He inquired politely after my sister, whom he declared to be a most
interesting woman.

“I’m afraid you’ve been giving her a swelled head,” I said dryly. “What
about Sunday afternoon?”

He laughed and twinkled.

“I always like to employ the expert,” he remarked obscurely, but he
refused to explain the remark.

“You got all the local gossip anyway,” I remarked. “True, and untrue.”

“And a great deal of valuable information,” he added quietly.

“Such as——?”

He shook his head.

“Why not have told me the truth?” he countered. “In a place like this,
all Ralph Paton’s doings were bound to be known. If your sister had not
happened to pass through the wood that day somebody else would have
done so.”

“I suppose they would,” I said grumpily. “What about this interest of
yours in my patients?”

Again he twinkled.

“Only one of them, doctor. Only one of them.”

“The last?” I hazarded.

“I find Miss Russell a study of the most interesting,” he said
evasively.

“Do you agree with my sister and Mrs. Ackroyd that there is something
fishy about her?” I asked.

“Eh? What do you say—fishy?”

I explained to the best of my ability.

“And they say that, do they?”

“Didn’t my sister convey as much to you yesterday afternoon?”

“_C’est possible._”

“For no reason whatever,” I declared.

“_Les femmes_,” generalized Poirot. “They are marvelous! They invent
haphazard—and by miracle they are right. Not that it is that, really.
Women observe subconsciously a thousand little details, without knowing
that they are doing so. Their subconscious mind adds these little
things together—and they call the result intuition. Me, I am very
skilled in psychology. I know these things.”

He swelled his chest out importantly, looking so ridiculous, that I
found it difficult not to burst out laughing. Then he took a small sip
of his chocolate, and carefully wiped his mustache.

“I wish you’d tell me,” I burst out, “what you really think of it all?”

He put down his cup.

“You wish that?”

“I do.”

“You have seen what I have seen. Should not our ideas be the same?”

“I’m afraid you’re laughing at me,” I said stiffly. “Of course, I’ve no
experience of matters of this kind.”

Poirot smiled at me indulgently.

“You are like the little child who wants to know the way the engine
works. You wish to see the affair, not as the family doctor sees it,
but with the eye of a detective who knows and cares for no one—to whom
they are all strangers and all equally liable to suspicion.”

“You put it very well,” I said.

“So I give you then, a little lecture. The first thing is to get a
clear history of what happened that evening—always bearing in mind that
the person who speaks may be lying.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Rather a suspicious attitude.”

“But necessary—I assure you, necessary. Now first—Dr. Sheppard leaves
the house at ten minutes to nine. How do I know that?”

“Because I told you so.”

“But you might not be speaking the truth—or the watch you went by might
be wrong. But Parker also says that you left the house at ten minutes
to nine. So we accept that statement and pass on. At nine o’clock you
run into a man—and here we come to what we will call the Romance of the
Mysterious Stranger—just outside the Park gates. How do I know that
that is so?”

“I told you so,” I began again, but Poirot interrupted me with a
gesture of impatience.

“Ah! but it is that you are a little stupid to-night, my friend. _You_
know that it is so—but how am _I_ to know? _Eh bien_, I am able to
tell you that the Mysterious Stranger was not a hallucination on your
part, because the maid of a Miss Ganett met him a few minutes before
you did, and of her too he inquired the way to Fernly Park. We accept
his presence, therefore, and we can be fairly sure of two things about
him—that he was a stranger to the neighborhood, and that whatever his
object in going to Fernly, there was no great secrecy about it, since
he twice asked the way there.”

“Yes,” I said, “I see that.”

“Now I have made it my business to find out more about this man. He had
a drink at the Three Boars, I learn, and the barmaid there says that he
spoke with an American accent and mentioned having just come over from
the States. Did it strike you that he had an American accent?”

“Yes, I think he had,” I said, after a minute or two, during which I
cast my mind back; “but a very slight one.”

“_Précisément._ There is also this which, you will remember, I picked
up in the summer-house?”

He held out to me the little quill. I looked at it curiously. Then a
memory of something I had read stirred in me.

Poirot, who had been watching my face, nodded.

“Yes, heroin ‘snow.’ Drug-takers carry it like this, and sniff it up
the nose.”

“Diamorphine hydrochloride,” I murmured mechanically.

“This method of taking the drug is very common on the other side.
Another proof, if we wanted one, that the man came from Canada or the
States.”

“What first attracted your attention to that summer-house?” I asked
curiously.

“My friend the inspector took it for granted that any one using that
path did so as a short cut to the house, but as soon as I saw the
summer-house, I realized that the same path would be taken by any one
using the summer-house as a rendezvous. Now it seems fairly certain
that the stranger came neither to the front nor to the back door. Then
did some one from the house go out and meet him? If so, what could be a
more convenient place than that little summer-house? I searched it with
the hope that I might find some clew inside. I found two, the scrap of
cambric and the quill.”

“And the scrap of cambric?” I asked curiously. “What about that?”

Poirot raised his eyebrows.

“You do not use your little gray cells,” he remarked dryly. “The scrap
of starched cambric should be obvious.”

“Not very obvious to me.” I changed the subject. “Anyway,” I said,
“this man went to the summer-house to meet somebody. Who was that
somebody?”

“Exactly the question,” said Poirot. “You will remember that Mrs.
Ackroyd and her daughter came over from Canada to live here?”

“Is that what you meant to-day when you accused them of hiding the
truth?”

“Perhaps. Now another point. What did you think of the parlormaid’s
story?”

“What story?”

“The story of her dismissal. Does it take half an hour to dismiss a
servant? Was the story of those important papers a likely one? And
remember, though she says she was in her bedroom from nine-thirty until
ten o’clock, there is no one to confirm her statement.”

“You bewilder me,” I said.

“To me it grows clearer. But tell me now your own ideas and theories.”

I drew a piece of paper from my pocket.

“I just scribbled down a few suggestions,” I said apologetically.

“But excellent—you have method. Let us hear them.”

I read out in a somewhat embarrassed voice.

“To begin with, one must look at the thing logically——”

“Just what my poor Hastings used to say,” interrupted Poirot, “but
alas! he never did so.”

“_Point No. 1._—Mr. Ackroyd was heard talking to some one at half-past
nine.

“_Point No. 2._—At some time during the evening Ralph Paton must have
come in through the window, as evidenced by the prints of his shoes.

“_Point No. 3._—Mr. Ackroyd was nervous that evening, and would only
have admitted some one he knew.

“_Point No. 4._—The person with Mr. Ackroyd at nine-thirty was asking
for money. We know Ralph Paton was in a scrape.

“_These four points go to show that the person with Mr. Ackroyd at
nine-thirty was Ralph Paton. But we know that Mr. Ackroyd was alive at
a quarter to ten, therefore it was not Ralph who killed him. Ralph left
the window open. Afterwards the murderer came in that way._”

“And who was the murderer?” inquired Poirot.

“The American stranger. He may have been in league with Parker, and
possibly in Parker we have the man who blackmailed Mrs. Ferrars. If
so, Parker may have heard enough to realize the game was up, have told
his accomplice so, and the latter did the crime with the dagger which
Parker gave him.”

“It is a theory that,” admitted Poirot. “Decidedly you have cells of a
kind. But it leaves a good deal unaccounted for.”

“Such as——?”

“The telephone call, the pushed-out chair——”

“Do you really think the latter important?” I interrupted.

“Perhaps not,” admitted my friend. “It may have been pulled out
by accident, and Raymond or Blunt may have shoved it into place
unconsciously under the stress of emotion. Then there is the missing
forty pounds.”

“Given by Ackroyd to Ralph,” I suggested. “He may have reconsidered his
first refusal.”

“That still leaves one thing unexplained?”

“What?”

“Why was Blunt so certain in his own mind that it was Raymond with Mr.
Ackroyd at nine-thirty?”

“He explained that,” I said.

“You think so? I will not press the point. Tell me instead, what were
Ralph Paton’s reasons for disappearing?”

“That’s rather more difficult,” I said slowly. “I shall have to speak
as a medical man. Ralph’s nerves must have gone phut! If he suddenly
found out that his uncle had been murdered within a few minutes of his
leaving him—after, perhaps, a rather stormy interview—well, he might
get the wind up and clear right out. Men have been known to do that—act
guiltily when they’re perfectly innocent.”

“Yes, that is true,” said Poirot. “But we must not lose sight of one
thing.”

“I know what you’re going to say,” I remarked: “motive. Ralph Paton
inherits a great fortune by his uncle’s death.”

“That is one motive,” agreed Poirot.

“One?”

“_Mais oui._ Do you realize that there are three separate motives
staring us in the face. Somebody certainly stole the blue envelope and
its contents. That is one motive. Blackmail! Ralph Paton may have been
the man who blackmailed Mrs. Ferrars. Remember, as far as Hammond
knew, Ralph Paton had not applied to his uncle for help of late. That
looks as though he were being supplied with money elsewhere. Then there
is the fact that he was in some—how do you say—scrape?—which he feared
might get to his uncle’s ears. And finally there is the one you have
just mentioned.”

“Dear me,” I said, rather taken aback. “The case does seem black
against him.”

“Does it?” said Poirot. “That is where we disagree, you and I. Three
motives—it is almost too much. I am inclined to believe that, after
all, Ralph Paton is innocent.”




                              CHAPTER XIV

                             MRS. ACKROYD


After the evening talk I have just chronicled, the affair seemed to
me to enter on a different phase. The whole thing can be divided into
two parts, each clear and distinct from the other. Part I. ranges from
Ackroyd’s death on the Friday evening to the following Monday night.
It is the straight-forward narrative of what occurred, as presented
to Hercule Poirot. I was at Poirot’s elbow the whole time. I saw what
he saw. I tried my best to read his mind. As I know now, I failed in
this latter task. Though Poirot showed me all his discoveries—as, for
instance, the gold wedding-ring—he held back the vital and yet logical
impressions that he formed. As I came to know later, this secrecy was
characteristic of him. He would throw out hints and suggestions, but
beyond that he would not go.

As I say, up till the Monday evening, my narrative might have been that
of Poirot himself. I played Watson to his Sherlock. But after Monday
our ways diverged. Poirot was busy on his own account. I got to hear
of what he was doing, because, in King’s Abbot, you get to hear of
everything, but he did not take me into his confidence beforehand. And
I, too, had my own preoccupations.

On looking back, the thing that strikes me most is the piecemeal
character of this period. Every one had a hand in the elucidation of
the mystery. It was rather like a jig-saw puzzle to which every one
contributed their own little piece of knowledge or discovery. But their
task ended there. To Poirot alone belongs the renown of fitting those
pieces into their correct place.

Some of the incidents seemed at the time irrelevant and unmeaning.
There was, for instance, the question of the black boots. But that
comes later.... To take things strictly in chronological order, I must
begin with the summons from Mrs. Ackroyd.

She sent for me early on Tuesday morning, and since the summons sounded
an urgent one, I hastened there, expecting to find her _in extremis_.

The lady was in bed. So much did she concede to the etiquette of the
situation. She gave me her bony hand, and indicated a chair drawn up to
the bedside.

“Well, Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said, “and what’s the matter with you?”

I spoke with that kind of spurious geniality which seems to be expected
of general practitioners.

“I’m prostrated,” said Mrs. Ackroyd in a faint voice. “Absolutely
prostrated. It’s the shock of poor Roger’s death. They say these
things often aren’t felt at the _time_, you know. It’s the reaction
afterwards.”

It is a pity that a doctor is precluded by his profession from being
able sometimes to say what he really thinks.

I would have given anything to be able to answer “Bunkum!”

Instead, I suggested a tonic. Mrs. Ackroyd accepted the tonic. One
move in the game seemed now to be concluded. Not for a moment did I
imagine that I had been sent for because of the shock occasioned by
Ackroyd’s death. But Mrs. Ackroyd is totally incapable of pursuing
a straight-forward course on any subject. She always approaches her
object by tortuous means. I wondered very much why it was she had sent
for me.

“And then that scene—yesterday,” continued my patient.

She paused as though expecting me to take up a cue.

“What scene?”

“Doctor, how can you? Have you forgotten? That dreadful little
Frenchman—or Belgian—or whatever he is. Bullying us all like he did. It
has quite upset me. Coming on top of Roger’s death.”

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said.

“I don’t know what he meant—shouting at us like he did. I should hope I
know my duty too well to _dream_ of concealing anything. I have given
the police _every_ assistance in my power.”

Mrs. Ackroyd paused, and I said, “Quite so.” I was beginning to have a
glimmering of what all the trouble was about.

“No one can say that I have failed in my duty,” continued Mrs. Ackroyd.
“I am sure Inspector Raglan is perfectly satisfied. Why should this
little upstart of a foreigner make a fuss? A most ridiculous-looking
creature he is too—just like a comic Frenchman in a revue. I can’t
think why Flora insisted on bringing him into the case. She never said
a word to me about it. Just went off and did it on her own. Flora is
too independent. I am a woman of the world and her mother. She should
have come to me for advice first.”

I listened to all this in silence.

“What does he think? That’s what I want to know. Does he actually
imagine I’m hiding something? He—he—positively _accused_ me yesterday.”

I shrugged my shoulders.

“It is surely of no consequence, Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said. “Since you are
not concealing anything, any remarks he may have made do not apply to
you.”

Mrs. Ackroyd went off at a tangent, after her usual fashion.

“Servants are so tiresome,” she said. “They gossip, and talk amongst
themselves. And then it gets round—and all the time there’s probably
nothing in it at all.”

“Have the servants been talking?” I asked. “What about?”

Mrs. Ackroyd cast a very shrewd glance at me. It quite threw me off my
balance.

“I was sure _you’d_ know, doctor, if any one did. You were with M.
Poirot all the time, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“Then of course you know. It was that girl, Ursula Bourne, wasn’t it?
Naturally—she’s leaving. She _would_ want to make all the trouble
she could. Spiteful, that’s what they are. They’re all alike. Now,
you being there, doctor, you must know exactly what she did say? I’m
most anxious that no wrong impression should get about. After all,
you don’t repeat every little detail to the police, do you? There are
family matters sometimes—nothing to do with the question of the murder.
But if the girl was spiteful, she may have made out all sorts of
things.”

I was shrewd enough to see that a very real anxiety lay behind these
outpourings. Poirot had been justified in his premises. Of the six
people round the table yesterday, Mrs. Ackroyd at least had had
something to hide. It was for me to discover what that something might
be.

“If I were you, Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said brusquely, “I should make a clean
breast of things.”

She gave a little scream.

“Oh! doctor, how can you be so abrupt. It sounds as though—as
though——And I can explain everything so simply.”

“Then why not do so,” I suggested.

Mrs. Ackroyd took out a frilled handkerchief, and became tearful.

“I thought, doctor, that you might put it to M. Poirot—explain it, you
know—because it’s so difficult for a foreigner to see our point of
view. And you don’t know—nobody could know—what I’ve had to contend
with. A martyrdom—a long martyrdom. That’s what my life has been. I
don’t like to speak ill of the dead—but there it is. Not the smallest
bill, but it had all to be gone over—just as though Roger had had a
few miserly hundreds a year instead of being (as Mr. Hammond told me
yesterday) one of the wealthiest men in these parts.”

Mrs. Ackroyd paused to dab her eyes with the frilled handkerchief.

“Yes,” I said encouragingly. “You were talking about bills?”

“Those dreadful bills. And some I didn’t like to show Roger at all.
They were things a man wouldn’t understand. He would have said the
things weren’t necessary. And of course they mounted up, you know, and
they kept coming in——”

She looked at me appealingly, as though asking me to condole with her
on this striking peculiarity.

“It’s a habit they have,” I agreed.

“And the tone altered—became quite abusive. I assure you, doctor,
I was becoming a nervous wreck. I couldn’t sleep at nights. And a
dreadful fluttering round the heart. And then I got a letter from a
Scotch gentleman—as a matter of fact there were two letters—both Scotch
gentlemen. Mr. Bruce MacPherson was one, and the other were Colin
MacDonald. Quite a coincidence.”

“Hardly that,” I said dryly. “They are usually Scotch gentlemen, but I
suspect a Semitic strain in their ancestry.”

“Ten pounds to ten thousand on note of hand alone,” murmured Mrs.
Ackroyd reminiscently. “I wrote to one of them, but it seemed there
were difficulties.”

She paused.

I gathered that we were just coming to delicate ground. I have never
known any one more difficult to bring to the point.

“You see,” murmured Mrs. Ackroyd, “it’s all a question of expectations,
isn’t it? Testamentary expectations. And though, of course, I expected
that Roger would provide for me, I didn’t _know_. I thought that if
only I could glance over a copy of his will—not in any sense of vulgar
prying—but just so that I could make my own arrangements.”

She glanced sideways at me. The position was now very delicate indeed.
Fortunately words, ingeniously used, will serve to mask the ugliness of
naked facts.

“I could only tell this to you, dear Dr. Sheppard,” said Mrs. Ackroyd
rapidly. “I can trust you not to misjudge me, and to represent the
matter in the right light to M. Poirot. It was on Friday afternoon——”

She came to a stop and swallowed uncertainly.

“Yes,” I repeated encouragingly. “On Friday afternoon. Well?”

“Every one was out, or so I thought. And I went into Roger’s study—I
had some real reason for going there—I mean, there was nothing
underhand about it. And as I saw all the papers heaped on the desk, it
just came to me, like a flash: ‘I wonder if Roger keeps his will in
one of the drawers of the desk.’ I’m so impulsive, always was, from a
child. I do things on the spur of the moment. He’d left his keys—very
careless of him—in the lock of the top drawer.”

“I see,” I said helpfully. “So you searched the desk. Did you find the
will?”

Mrs. Ackroyd gave a little scream, and I realized that I had not been
sufficiently diplomatic.

“How dreadful it sounds. But it wasn’t at all like that really.”

“Of course it wasn’t,” I said hastily. “You must forgive my unfortunate
way of putting things.”

“You see, men are so peculiar. In dear Roger’s place, I should not
have objected to revealing the provisions of my will. But men are so
secretive. One is forced to adopt little subterfuges in self-defence.”

“And the result of the little subterfuge?” I asked.

“That’s just what I’m telling you. As I got to the bottom drawer,
Bourne came in. Most awkward. Of course I shut the drawer and stood
up, and I called her attention to a few specks of dust on the surface.
But I didn’t like the way she looked—quite respectful in manner, but a
very nasty light in her eyes. Almost contemptuous, if you know what I
mean. I never have liked that girl very much. She’s a good servant, and
she says Ma’am, and doesn’t object to wearing caps and aprons (which
I declare to you a lot of them do nowadays), and she can say ‘Not at
home’ without scruples if she has to answer the door instead of Parker,
and she doesn’t have those peculiar gurgling noises inside which so
many parlormaids seem to have when they wait at table——Let me see,
where was I?”

“You were saying, that in spite of several valuable qualities, you
never liked Bourne.”

“No more I do. She’s—odd. There’s something different about her from
the others. Too well educated, that’s my opinion. You can’t tell who
are ladies and who aren’t nowadays.”

“And what happened next?” I asked.

“Nothing. At least, Roger came in. And I thought he was out for a
walk. And he said: ‘What’s all this?’ and I said, ‘Nothing. I just came
in to fetch _Punch_.’ And I took _Punch_ and went out with it. Bourne
stayed behind. I heard her asking Roger if she could speak to him for a
minute. I went straight up to my room, to lie down. I was very upset.”

There was a pause.

“You will explain to M. Poirot, won’t you? You can see for yourself
what a trivial matter the whole thing was. But, of course, when he was
so stern about concealing things, I thought of this at once. Bourne
may have made some extraordinary story out of it, but you can explain,
can’t you?”

“That is all?” I said. “You have told me everything?”

“Ye-es,” said Mrs. Ackroyd. “Oh! yes,” she added firmly.

But I had noted the momentary hesitation, and I knew that there was
still something she was keeping back. It was nothing less than a flash
of sheer genius that prompted me to ask the question I did.

“Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said, “was it you who left the silver table open?”

I had my answer in the blush of guilt that even rouge and powder could
not conceal.

“How did you know?” she whispered.

“It was you, then?”

“Yes—I—you see—there were one or two pieces of old silver—very
interesting. I had been reading up the subject and there was an
illustration of quite a small piece which had fetched an immense
sum at Christy’s. It looked to me just the same as the one in the
silver table. I thought I would take it up to London with me when I
went—and—and have it valued. Then if it really was a valuable piece,
just think what a charming surprise it would have been for Roger?”

I refrained from comments, accepting Mrs. Ackroyd’s story on its
merits. I even forbore to ask her why it was necessary to abstract what
she wanted in such a surreptitious manner.

“Why did you leave the lid open?” I asked. “Did you forget?”

“I was startled,” said Mrs. Ackroyd. “I heard footsteps coming along
the terrace outside. I hastened out of the room and just got up the
stairs before Parker opened the front door to you.”

“That must have been Miss Russell,” I said thoughtfully. Mrs. Ackroyd
had revealed to me one fact that was extremely interesting. Whether her
designs upon Ackroyd’s silver had been strictly honorable I neither
knew nor cared. What did interest me was the fact that Miss Russell
must have entered the drawing-room by the window, and that I had not
been wrong when I judged her to be out of breath with running. Where
had she been? I thought of the summer-house and the scrap of cambric.

“I wonder if Miss Russell has her handkerchiefs starched!” I exclaimed
on the spur of the moment.

Mrs. Ackroyd’s start recalled me to myself, and I rose.

“You think you can explain to M. Poirot?” she asked anxiously.

“Oh, certainly. Absolutely.”

I got away at last, after being forced to listen to more justifications
of her conduct.

The parlormaid was in the hall, and it was she who helped me on with my
overcoat. I observed her more closely than I had done heretofore. It
was clear that she had been crying.

“How is it,” I asked, “that you told us that Mr. Ackroyd sent for you
on Friday to his study? I hear now that it was _you_ who asked to speak
to _him_?”

For a minute the girl’s eyes dropped before mine.

Then she spoke.

“I meant to leave in any case,” she said uncertainly.

I said no more. She opened the front door for me. Just as I was passing
out, she said suddenly in a low voice:—

“Excuse me, sir, is there any news of Captain Paton?”

I shook my head, looking at her inquiringly.

“He ought to come back,” she said. “Indeed—indeed he ought to come
back.”

She was looking at me with appealing eyes.

“Does no one know where he is?” she asked.

“Do you?” I said sharply.

She shook her head.

“No, indeed. I know nothing. But any one who was a friend to him would
tell him this: he ought to come back.”

I lingered, thinking that perhaps the girl would say more. Her next
question surprised me.

“When do they think the murder was done? Just before ten o’clock?”

“That is the idea,” I said. “Between a quarter to ten and the hour.”

“Not earlier? Not before a quarter to ten?”

I looked at her attentively. She was so clearly eager for a reply in
the affirmative.

“That’s out of the question,” I said. “Miss Ackroyd saw her uncle alive
at a quarter to ten.”

She turned away, and her whole figure seemed to droop.

“A handsome girl,” I said to myself as I drove off. “An exceedingly
handsome girl.”

Caroline was at home. She had had a visit from Poirot and was very
pleased and important about it.

“I am helping him with the case,” she explained.

I felt rather uneasy. Caroline is bad enough as it is. What will she be
like with her detective instincts encouraged?

“Are you going round the neighborhood looking for Ralph Paton’s
mysterious girl?” I inquired.

“I might do that on my own account,” said Caroline. “No, this is a
special thing M. Poirot wants me to find out for him.”

“What is it?” I asked.

“He wants to know whether Ralph Paton’s boots were black or brown,”
said Caroline with tremendous solemnity.

I stared at her. I see now that I was unbelievably stupid about these
boots. I failed altogether to grasp the point.

“They were brown shoes,” I said. “I saw them.”

“Not shoes, James, boots. M. Poirot wants to know whether a pair of
boots Ralph had with him at the hotel were brown or black. A lot hangs
on it.”

Call me dense if you like. I didn’t see.

“And how are you going to find out?” I asked.

Caroline said there would be no difficulty about that. Our Annie’s
dearest friend was Miss Ganett’s maid, Clara. And Clara was walking
out with the boots at the Three Boars. The whole thing was simplicity
itself, and by the aid of Miss Ganett, who coöperated loyally, at once
giving Clara leave of absence, the matter was rushed through at express
speed.

It was when we were sitting down to lunch that Caroline remarked, with
would-be unconcern:—

“About those boots of Ralph Paton’s.”

“Well,” I said, “what about them?”

“M. Poirot thought they were probably brown. He was wrong. They’re
black.”

And Caroline nodded her head several times. She evidently felt that she
had scored a point over Poirot.

I did not answer. I was puzzling over what the color of a pair of Ralph
Paton’s boots had to do with the case.




                              CHAPTER XV

                           GEOFFREY RAYMOND


I was to have a further proof that day of the success of Poirot’s
tactics. That challenge of his had been a subtle touch born of his
knowledge of human nature. A mixture of fear and guilt had wrung the
truth from Mrs. Ackroyd. She was the first to react.

That afternoon when I returned from seeing my patients, Caroline told
me that Geoffrey Raymond had just left.

“Did he want to see me?” I asked, as I hung up my coat in the hall.

Caroline was hovering by my elbow.

“It was M. Poirot he wanted to see,” she said. “He’d just come from The
Larches. M. Poirot was out. Mr. Raymond thought that he might be here,
or that you might know where he was.”

“I haven’t the least idea.”

“I tried to make him wait,” said Caroline, “but he said he would call
back at The Larches in half an hour, and went away down the village. A
great pity, because M. Poirot came in practically the minute after he
left.”

“Came in here?”

“No, to his own house.”

“How do you know?”

“The side window,” said Caroline briefly.

It seemed to me that we had now exhausted the topic. Caroline thought
otherwise.

“Aren’t you going across?”

“Across where?”

“To The Larches, of course.”

“My dear Caroline,” I said, “what for?”

“Mr. Raymond wanted to see him very particularly,” said Caroline. “You
might hear what it’s all about.”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Curiosity is not my besetting sin,” I remarked coldly. “I can exist
comfortably without knowing exactly what my neighbors are doing and
thinking.”

“Stuff and nonsense, James,” said my sister. “You want to know just
as much as I do. You’re not so honest, that’s all. You always have to
pretend.”

“Really, Caroline,” I said, and retired into my surgery.

Ten minutes later Caroline tapped at the door and entered. In her hand
she held what seemed to be a pot of jam.

“I wonder, James,” she said, “if you would mind taking this pot of
medlar jelly across to M. Poirot? I promised it to him. He has never
tasted any home-made medlar jelly.”

“Why can’t Annie go?” I asked coldly.

“She’s doing some mending. I can’t spare her.”

Caroline and I looked at each other.

“Very well,” I said, rising. “But if I take the beastly thing, I shall
just leave it at the door. You understand that?”

My sister raised her eyebrows.

“Naturally,” she said. “Who suggested you should do anything else?”

The honors were with Caroline.

“If you _do_ happen to see M. Poirot,” she said, as I opened the front
door, “you might tell him about the boots.”

It was a most subtle parting shot. I wanted dreadfully to understand
the enigma of the boots. When the old lady with the Breton cap opened
the door to me, I found myself asking if M. Poirot was in, quite
automatically.

Poirot sprang up to meet me, with every appearance of pleasure.

“Sit down, my good friend,” he said. “The big chair? This small one?
The room is not too hot, no?”

I thought it was stifling, but refrained from saying so. The windows
were closed, and a large fire burned in the grate.

“The English people, they have a mania for the fresh air,” declared
Poirot. “The big air, it is all very well outside, where it belongs.
Why admit it to the house? But let us not discuss such banalities. You
have something for me, yes?”

“Two things,” I said. “First—this—from my sister.”

I handed over the pot of medlar jelly.

“How kind of Mademoiselle Caroline. She has remembered her promise. And
the second thing?”

“Information—of a kind.”

And I told him of my interview with Mrs. Ackroyd. He listened with
interest, but not much excitement.

“It clears the ground,” he said thoughtfully. “And it has a certain
value as confirming the evidence of the housekeeper. She said, you
remember, that she found the silver table lid open and closed it down
in passing.”

“What about her statement that she went into the drawing-room to see if
the flowers were fresh?”

“Ah! we never took that very seriously, did we, my friend? It was
patently an excuse, trumped up in a hurry, by a woman who felt it
urgent to explain her presence—which, by the way, you would probably
never have thought of questioning. I considered it possible that her
agitation might arise from the fact that she had been tampering with
the silver table, but I think now that we must look for another cause.”

“Yes,” I said. “Whom did she go out to meet? And why?”

“You think she went to meet some one?”

“I do.”

Poirot nodded.

“So do I,” he said thoughtfully.

There was a pause.

“By the way,” I said, “I’ve got a message for you from my sister. Ralph
Paton’s boots were black, not brown.”

I was watching him closely as I gave the message, and I fancied that
I saw a momentary flicker of discomposure. If so, it passed almost
immediately.

“She is absolutely positive they are not brown?”

“Absolutely.”

“Ah!” said Poirot regretfully. “That is a pity.”

And he seemed quite crestfallen.

He entered into no explanations, but at once started a new subject of
conversation.

“The housekeeper, Miss Russell, who came to consult you on that Friday
morning—is it indiscreet to ask what passed at the interview—apart from
the medical details, I mean?”

“Not at all,” I said. “When the professional part of the conversation
was over, we talked for a few minutes about poisons, and the ease or
difficulty of detecting them, and about drug-taking and drug-takers.”

“With special reference to cocaine?” asked Poirot.

“How did you know?” I asked, somewhat surprised.

For answer, the little man rose and crossed the room to where
newspapers were filed. He brought me a copy of the _Daily Budget_,
dated Friday, 16th September, and showed me an article dealing with the
smuggling of cocaine. It was a somewhat lurid article, written with an
eye to picturesque effect.

“That is what put cocaine into her head, my friend,” he said.

I would have catechized him further, for I did not quite understand his
meaning, but at that moment the door opened and Geoffrey Raymond was
announced.

He came in fresh and debonair as ever, and greeted us both.

“How are you, doctor? M. Poirot, this is the second time I’ve been here
this morning. I was anxious to catch you.”

“Perhaps I’d better be off,” I suggested rather awkwardly.

“Not on my account, doctor. No, it’s just this,” he went on, seating
himself at a wave of invitation from Poirot, “I’ve got a confession to
make.”

“_En verité_?” said Poirot, with an air of polite interest.

“Oh, it’s of no consequence, really. But, as a matter of fact, my
conscience has been pricking me ever since yesterday afternoon. You
accused us all of keeping back something, M. Poirot. I plead guilty.
I’ve had something up my sleeve.”

“And what is that, M. Raymond?”

“As I say, it’s nothing of consequence—just this. I was in debt—badly,
and that legacy came in the nick of time. Five hundred pounds puts me
on my feet again with a little to spare.”

He smiled at us both with that engaging frankness that made him such a
likable youngster.

“You know how it is. Suspicious looking policeman—don’t like to admit
you were hard up for money—think it will look bad to them. But I was
a fool, really, because Blunt and I were in the billiard room from a
quarter to ten onwards, so I’ve got a watertight alibi and nothing to
fear. Still, when you thundered out that stuff about concealing things,
I felt a nasty prick of conscience, and I thought I’d like to get it
off my mind.”

He got up again and stood smiling at us.

“You are a very wise young man,” said Poirot, nodding at him with
approval. “See you, when I know that any one is hiding things from me,
I suspect that the thing hidden may be something very bad indeed. You
have done well.”

“I’m glad I’m cleared from suspicion,” laughed Raymond. “I’ll be off
now.”

“So that is that,” I remarked, as the door closed behind the young
secretary.

“Yes,” agreed Poirot. “A mere bagatelle—but if he had not been in the
billiard room—who knows? After all, many crimes have been committed for
the sake of less than five hundred pounds. It all depends on what sum
is sufficient to break a man. A question of the relativity, is it not
so? Have you reflected, my friend, that many people in that house stood
to benefit by Mr. Ackroyd’s death? Mrs. Ackroyd, Miss Flora, young Mr.
Raymond, the housekeeper, Miss Russell. Only one, in fact, does not,
Major Blunt.”

His tone in uttering that name was so peculiar that I looked up,
puzzled.

“I don’t quite understand you?” I said.

“Two of the people I accused have given me the truth.”

“You think Major Blunt has something to conceal also?”

“As for that,” remarked Poirot nonchalantly, “there is a saying, is
there not, that Englishmen conceal only one thing—their love? And Major
Blunt, I should say, is not good at concealments.”

“Sometimes,” I said, “I wonder if we haven’t rather jumped to
conclusions on one point.”

“What is that?”

“We’ve assumed that the blackmailer of Mrs. Ferrars is necessarily the
murderer of Mr. Ackroyd. Mightn’t we be mistaken?”

Poirot nodded energetically.

“Very good. Very good indeed. I wondered if that idea would come to
you. Of course it is possible. But we must remember one point. The
letter disappeared. Still, that, as you say, may not necessarily mean
that the murderer took it. When you first found the body, Parker may
have abstracted the letter unnoticed by you.”

“Parker?”

“Yes, Parker. I always come back to Parker—not as the murderer—no, he
did not commit the murder; but who is more suitable than he as the
mysterious scoundrel who terrorized Mrs. Ferrars? He may have got his
information about Mr. Ferrars’s death from one of the King’s Paddock
servants. At any rate, he is more likely to have come upon it than a
casual guest such as Blunt, for instance.”

“Parker might have taken the letter,” I admitted. “It wasn’t till later
that I noticed it was gone.”

“How much later? After Blunt and Raymond were in the room, or before?”

“I can’t remember,” I said slowly. “I think it was before—no,
afterwards. Yes, I’m almost sure it was afterwards.”

“That widens the field to three,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “But Parker
is the most likely. It is in my mind to try a little experiment with
Parker. How say you, my friend, will you accompany me to Fernly?”

I acquiesced, and we set out at once. Poirot asked to see Miss Ackroyd,
and presently Flora came to us.

“Mademoiselle Flora,” said Poirot, “I have to confide in you a little
secret. I am not yet satisfied of the innocence of Parker. I propose to
make a little experiment with your assistance. I want to reconstruct
some of his actions on that night. But we must think of something to
tell him—ah! I have it. I wish to satisfy myself as to whether voices
in the little lobby could have been heard outside on the terrace. Now,
ring for Parker, if you will be so good.”

I did so, and presently the butler appeared, suave as ever.

“You rang, sir?”

“Yes, my good Parker. I have in mind a little experiment. I have placed
Major Blunt on the terrace outside the study window. I want to see if
any one there could have heard the voices of Miss Ackroyd and yourself
in the lobby that night. I want to enact that little scene over again.
Perhaps you would fetch the tray or whatever it was you were carrying?”

Parker vanished, and we repaired to the lobby outside the study door.
Presently we heard a chink in the outer hall, and Parker appeared in
the doorway carrying a tray with a siphon, a decanter of whisky, and
two glasses on it.

“One moment,” cried Poirot, raising his hand and seemingly very
excited. “We must have everything in order. Just as it occurred. It is
a little method of mine.”

“A foreign custom, sir,” said Parker. “Reconstruction of the crime they
call it, do they not?”

He was quite imperturbable as he stood there politely waiting on
Poirot’s orders.

“Ah! he knows something, the good Parker,” cried Poirot. “He has read
of these things. Now, I beg you, let us have everything of the most
exact. You came from the outer hall—so. Mademoiselle was—where?”

“Here,” said Flora, taking up her stand just outside the study door.

“Quite right, sir,” said Parker.

“I had just closed the door,” continued Flora.

“Yes, miss,” agreed Parker. “Your hand was still on the handle as it is
now.”

“Then _allez_,” said Poirot. “Play me the little comedy.”

Flora stood with her hand on the door handle, and Parker came stepping
through the door from the hall, bearing the tray.

He stopped just inside the door. Flora spoke.

“Oh! Parker. Mr. Ackroyd doesn’t want to be disturbed again to-night.”

“Is that right?” she added in an undertone.

“To the best of my recollection, Miss Flora,” said Parker, “but I fancy
you used the word evening instead of night.” Then, raising his voice
in a somewhat theatrical fashion: “Very good, miss. Shall I lock up as
usual?”

“Yes, please.”

Parker retired through the door, Flora followed him, and started to
ascend the main staircase.

“Is that enough?” she asked over her shoulder.

“Admirable,” declared the little man, rubbing his hands. “By the way,
Parker, are you sure there were two glasses on the tray that evening?
Who was the second one for?”

“I always bring two glasses, sir,” said Parker. “Is there anything
further?”

“Nothing. I thank you.”

Parker withdrew, dignified to the last.

Poirot stood in the middle of the hall frowning. Flora came down and
joined us.

“Has your experiment been successful?” she asked. “I don’t quite
understand, you know——”

Poirot smiled admiringly at her.

“It is not necessary that you should,” he said. “But tell me, were
there indeed two glasses on Parker’s tray that night?”

Flora wrinkled her brows a minute.

“I really can’t remember,” she said. “I think there were. Is—is that
the object of your experiment?”

Poirot took her hand and patted it.

“Put it this way,” he said. “I am always interested to see if people
will speak the truth.”

“And did Parker speak the truth?”

“I rather think he did,” said Poirot thoughtfully.

A few minutes later saw us retracing our steps to the village.

“What was the point of that question about the glasses?” I asked
curiously.

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“One must say something,” he remarked. “That particular question did as
well as any other.”

I stared at him.

“At any rate, my friend,” he said more seriously, “I know now something
I wanted to know. Let us leave it at that.”




                              CHAPTER XVI

                        AN EVENING AT MAH JONG


That night we had a little Mah Jong party. This kind of simple
entertainment is very popular in King’s Abbot. The guests arrive in
goloshes and waterproofs after dinner. They partake of coffee and later
of cake, sandwiches, and tea.

On this particular night our guests were Miss Ganett and Colonel
Carter, who lives near the church. A good deal of gossip is handed
round at these evenings, sometimes seriously interfering with the
game in progress. We used to play bridge—chatty bridge of the worst
description. We find Mah Jong much more peaceful. The irritated demand
as to why on earth your partner did not lead a certain card is entirely
done away with, and though we still express criticisms frankly, there
is not the same acrimonious spirit.

“Very cold evening, eh, Sheppard?” said Colonel Carter, standing with
his back to the fire. Caroline had taken Miss Ganett to her own room,
and was there assisting her to disentangle herself from her many wraps.
“Reminds me of the Afghan passes.”

“Indeed?” I said politely.

“Very mysterious business this about poor Ackroyd,” continued the
colonel, accepting a cup of coffee. “A deuce of a lot behind it—that’s
what I say. Between you and me, Sheppard, I’ve heard the word blackmail
mentioned!”

The colonel gave me the look which might be tabulated “one man of the
world to another.”

“A woman in it, no doubt,” he said. “Depend upon it, a woman in it.”

Caroline and Miss Ganett joined us at this minute. Miss Ganett drank
coffee whilst Caroline got out the Mah Jong box and poured out the
tiles upon the table.

“Washing the tiles,” said the colonel facetiously. “That’s
right—washing the tiles, as we used to say in the Shanghai Club.”

It is the private opinion of both Caroline and myself that Colonel
Carter has never been in the Shanghai Club in his life. More, that he
has never been farther east than India, where he juggled with tins of
bully beef and plum and apple jam during the Great War. But the colonel
is determinedly military, and in King’s Abbot we permit people to
indulge their little idiosyncrasies freely.

“Shall we begin?” said Caroline.

We sat round the table. For some five minutes there was complete
silence, owing to the fact that there is tremendous secret competition
amongst us as to who can build their wall quickest.

“Go on, James,” said Caroline at last. “You’re East Wind.”

I discarded a tile. A round or two proceeded, broken by the monotonous
remarks of “Three Bamboos,” “Two Circles,” “Pung,” and frequently
from Miss Ganett “Unpung,” owing to that lady’s habit of too hastily
claiming tiles to which she had no right.

“I saw Flora Ackroyd this morning,” said Miss Ganett. “Pung—no—Unpung.
I made a mistake.”

“Four Circles,” said Caroline. “Where did you see her?”

“She didn’t see _me_,” said Miss Ganett, with that tremendous
significance only to be met with in small villages.

“Ah!” said Caroline interestedly. “Chow.”

“I believe,” said Miss Ganett, temporarily diverted, “that it’s the
right thing nowadays to say ‘Chee’ not ‘Chow.’”

“Nonsense,” said Caroline. “I have always said ‘_Chow_.’”

“In the Shanghai Club,” said Colonel Carter, “they say ‘_Chow_.’”

Miss Ganett retired, crushed.

“What were you saying about Flora Ackroyd?” asked Caroline, after a
moment or two devoted to the game. “Was she with any one?”

“Very much so,” said Miss Ganett.

The eyes of the two ladies met, and seemed to exchange information.

“Really,” said Caroline interestedly. “Is that it? Well, it doesn’t
surprise me in the least.”

“We’re waiting for you to discard, Miss Caroline,” said the colonel. He
sometimes affects the pose of the bluff male, intent on the game and
indifferent to gossip. But nobody is deceived.

“If you ask me,” said Miss Ganett. (“Was that a Bamboo you discarded,
dear? Oh! no, I see now—it was a Circle.) As I was saying, if you ask
me, Flora’s been exceedingly lucky. Exceedingly lucky she’s been.”

“How’s that, Miss Ganett?” asked the colonel. “I’ll Pung that Green
Dragon. How do you make out that Miss Flora’s been lucky? Very charming
girl and all that, I know.”

“I mayn’t know very much about crime,” said Miss Ganett, with the air
of one who knows everything there is to know, “but I can tell you one
thing. The first question that’s always asked is ‘Who last saw the
deceased alive?’ And the person who did is regarded with suspicion.
Now, Flora Ackroyd last saw her uncle alive. It might have looked very
nasty for her—very nasty indeed. It’s my opinion—and I give it for what
it’s worth, that Ralph Paton is staying away on her account, to draw
suspicion away from her.”

“Come, now,” I protested mildly, “you surely can’t suggest that a young
girl like Flora Ackroyd is capable of stabbing her uncle in cold blood?”

“Well, I don’t know,” said Miss Ganett. “I’ve just been reading a book
from the library about the underworld of Paris, and it says that some
of the worst women criminals are young girls with the faces of angels.”

“That’s in France,” said Caroline instantly.

“Just so,” said the colonel. “Now, I’ll tell you a very curious thing—a
story that was going round the Bazaars in India....”

The colonel’s story was one of interminable length, and of curiously
little interest. A thing that happened in India many years ago cannot
compare for a moment with an event that took place in King’s Abbot the
day before yesterday.

It was Caroline who brought the colonel’s story to a close by
fortunately going Mah Jong. After the slight unpleasantness always
occasioned by my corrections of Caroline’s somewhat faulty arithmetic,
we started a new hand.

“East Wind passes,” said Caroline. “I’ve got an idea of my own about
Ralph Paton. Three Characters. But I’m keeping it to myself for the
present.”

“Are you, dear?” said Miss Ganett. “Chow—I mean Pung.”

“Yes,” said Caroline firmly.

“Was it all right about the boots?” asked Miss Ganett. “Their being
black, I mean?”

“Quite all right,” said Caroline.

“What was the point, do you think?” asked Miss Ganett.

Caroline pursed up her lips, and shook her head with an air of knowing
all about it.

“Pung,” said Miss Ganett. “No—Unpung. I suppose that now the doctor’s
in with M. Poirot he knows all the secrets?”

“Far from it,” I said.

“James is so modest,” said Caroline. “Ah! a concealed Kong.”

The colonel gave vent to a whistle. For the moment gossip was
forgotten.

“Your own wind, too,” he said. “_And_ you’ve got two Pungs of Dragons.
We must be careful. Miss Caroline’s out for a big hand.”

We played for some minutes with no irrelevant conversation.

“This M. Poirot now,” said Colonel Carter, “is he really such a great
detective?”

“The greatest the world has ever known,” said Caroline solemnly. “He
had to come here incognito to avoid publicity.”

“Chow,” said Miss Ganett. “Quite wonderful for our little village, I’m
sure. By the way, Clara—my maid, you know—is great friends with Elsie,
the housemaid at Fernly, and what do you think Elsie told her? That
there’s been a lot of money stolen, and it’s her opinion—Elsie’s—I
mean, that the parlormaid had something to do with it. She’s leaving
at the month, and she’s crying a good deal at night. If you ask me,
the girl is very likely in league with a _gang_. She’s always been a
queer girl—she’s not friends with any of the girls round here. She
goes off by herself on her days out—very unnatural, I call it, and
most suspicious. I asked her once to come to our Girls’ Friendly
Evenings, but she refused, and then I asked her a few questions about
her home and her family—all that sort of thing, and I’m bound to say I
considered her manner most impertinent. Outwardly very respectful—but
she shut me up in the most barefaced way.”

Miss Ganett stopped for breath, and the colonel, who was totally
uninterested in the servant question, remarked that in the Shanghai
Club brisk play was the invariable rule.

We had a round of brisk play.

“That Miss Russell,” said Caroline. “She came here pretending to
consult James on Friday morning. It’s my opinion she wanted to see
where the poisons were kept. Five Characters.”

“Chow,” said Miss Ganett. “What an extraordinary idea? I wonder if you
can be right.”

“Talking of poisons,” said the colonel. “Eh—what? Haven’t I discarded?
Oh! Eight Bamboos.”

“Mah Jong!” said Miss Ganett.

Caroline was very much annoyed.

“One Red Dragon,” she said regretfully, “and I should have had a hand
of three doubles.”

“I’ve had two Red Dragons all the time,” I mentioned.

“So exactly like you, James,” said Caroline reproachfully. “You’ve no
conception of the spirit of the game.”

I myself thought I had played rather cleverly. I should have had to pay
Caroline an enormous amount if she had gone Mah Jong. Miss Ganett’s Mah
Jong was of the poorest variety possible, as Caroline did not fail to
point out to her.

East Wind passed, and we started a new hand in silence.

“What I was going to tell you just now was this,” said Caroline.

“Yes?” said Miss Ganett encouragingly.

“My idea about Ralph Paton, I mean.”

“Yes, dear,” said Miss Ganett, still more encouragingly. “Chow!”

“It’s a sign of weakness to Chow so early,” said Caroline severely.
“You should go for a big hand.”

“I know,” said Miss Ganett. “You were saying—about Ralph Paton, you
know?”

“Yes. Well, I’ve a pretty shrewd idea where he is.”

We all stopped to stare at her.

“This is very interesting, Miss Caroline,” said Colonel Carter. “All
your own idea, eh?”

“Well, not exactly. I’ll tell you about it. You know that big map of
the county we have in the hall?”

We all said Yes.

“As M. Poirot was going out the other day, he stopped and looked at it,
and he made some remark—I can’t remember exactly what it was. Something
about Cranchester being the only big town anywhere near us—which is
true, of course. But after he had gone—it came to me suddenly.”

“What came to you?”

“His meaning. Of course Ralph is in Cranchester.”

It was at that moment that I knocked down the rack that held my pieces.
My sister immediately reproved me for clumsiness, but half-heartedly.
She was intent on her theory.

“Cranchester, Miss Caroline?” said Colonel Carter. “Surely not
Cranchester! It’s so near.”

“That’s exactly it,” cried Caroline triumphantly. “It seems quite clear
by now that he didn’t get away from here by train. He must simply have
walked into Cranchester. And I believe he’s there still. No one would
dream of his being so near at hand.”

I pointed out several objections to the theory, but when once Caroline
has got something firmly into her head, nothing dislodges it.

“And you think M. Poirot has the same idea,” said Miss Ganett
thoughtfully. “It’s a curious coincidence, but I was out for a walk
this afternoon on the Cranchester road, and he passed me in a car
coming from that direction.”

We all looked at each other.

“Why, dear me,” said Miss Ganett suddenly, “I’m Mah Jong all the time,
and I never noticed it.”

Caroline’s attention was distracted from her own inventive exercises.
She pointed out to Miss Ganett that a hand consisting of mixed suits
and too many Chows was hardly worth going Mah Jong on. Miss Ganett
listened imperturbably and collected her counters.

“Yes, dear, I know what you mean,” she said. “But it rather depends on
what kind of a hand you have to start with, doesn’t it?”

“You’ll never get the big hands if you don’t go for them,” urged
Caroline.

“Well, we must all play our own way, mustn’t we?” said Miss Ganett. She
looked down at her counters. “After all, I’m up, so far.”

Caroline, who was considerably down, said nothing.

East Wind passed, and we set to once more. Annie brought in the tea
things. Caroline and Miss Ganett were both slightly ruffled as is
often the case during one of these festive evenings.

“If you would only play a leetle quicker, dear,” said Caroline, as Miss
Ganett hesitated over her discard. “The Chinese put down the tiles so
quickly it sounds like little birds pattering.”

For some few minutes we played like the Chinese.

“You haven’t contributed much to the sum of information, Sheppard,”
said Colonel Carter genially. “You’re a sly dog. Hand in glove with the
great detective, and not a hint as to the way things are going.”

“James is an extraordinary creature,” said Caroline. “He can _not_
bring himself to part with information.”

She looked at me with some disfavor.

“I assure you,” I said, “that I don’t know anything. Poirot keeps his
own counsel.”

“Wise man,” said the colonel with a chuckle. “He doesn’t give himself
away. But they’re wonderful fellows, these foreign detectives. Up to
all sorts of dodges, I believe.”

“Pung,” said Miss Ganett, in a tone of quiet triumph. “And Mah Jong.”

The situation became more strained. It was annoyance at Miss Ganett’s
going Mah Jong for the third time running which prompted Caroline to
say to me as we built a fresh wall:—

“You are too tiresome, James. You sit there like a dead head, and say
nothing at all!”

“But, my dear,” I protested, “I have really nothing to say—that is, of
the kind you mean.”

“Nonsense,” said Caroline, as she sorted her hand. “You _must_ know
something interesting.”

I did not answer for a moment. I was overwhelmed and intoxicated. I had
read of there being such a thing as the Perfect Winning—going Mah Jong
on one’s original hand. I had never hoped to hold the hand myself.

With suppressed triumph I laid my hand face upwards on the table.

“As they say in the Shanghai Club,” I remarked, “Tin-ho—the Perfect
Winning!”

The colonel’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

“Upon my soul,” he said. “What an extraordinary thing. I never saw that
happen before!”

It was then that I went on, goaded by Caroline’s gibes, and rendered
reckless by my triumph.

“And as to anything interesting,” I said. “What about a gold wedding
ring with a date and ‘From R.’ inside.”

I pass over the scene that followed. I was made to say exactly where
this treasure was found. I was made to reveal the date.

“March 13th,” said Caroline. “Just six months ago. Ah!”

Out of the babel of excited suggestions and suppositions three theories
were evolved:—

1. That of Colonel Carter: that Ralph was secretly married to Flora.
The first or most simple solution.

2. That of Miss Ganett: that Roger Ackroyd had been secretly married to
Mrs. Ferrars.

3. That of my sister: that Roger Ackroyd had married his housekeeper,
Miss Russell.

A fourth or super-theory was propounded by Caroline later as we went up
to bed.

“Mark my words,” she said suddenly, “I shouldn’t be at all surprised if
Geoffrey Raymond and Flora weren’t married.”

“Surely it would be ‘From G,’ not ‘From R’ then,” I suggested.

“You never know. Some girls call men by their surnames. And you heard
what Miss Ganett said this evening—about Flora’s carryings on.”

Strictly speaking, I had not heard Miss Ganett say anything of the
kind, but I respected Caroline’s knowledge of innuendoes.

“How about Hector Blunt,” I hinted. “If it’s anybody——”

“Nonsense,” said Caroline. “I dare say he admires her—may even be in
love with her. But depend upon it a girl isn’t going to fall in love
with a man old enough to be her father when there’s a good-looking
young secretary about. She may encourage Major Blunt just as a blind.
Girls are very artful. But there’s one thing I _do_ tell you, James
Sheppard. Flora Ackroyd does not care a penny piece for Ralph Paton,
and never has. You can take it from me.”

I took it from her meekly.




                             CHAPTER XVII

                                PARKER


It occurred to me the next morning that under the exhilaration
produced by Tin-ho, or the Perfect Winning, I might have been slightly
indiscreet. True, Poirot had not asked me to keep the discovery of
the ring to myself. On the other hand, he had said nothing about it
whilst at Fernly, and as far as I knew, I was the only person aware
that it had been found. I felt distinctly guilty. The fact was by now
spreading through King’s Abbot like wildfire. I was expecting wholesale
reproaches from Poirot any minute.

The joint funeral of Mrs. Ferrars and Roger Ackroyd was fixed for
eleven o’clock. It was a melancholy and impressive ceremony. All the
party from Fernly were there.

After it was over, Poirot, who had also been present, took me by the
arm, and invited me to accompany him back to The Larches. He was
looking very grave, and I feared that my indiscretion of the night
before had got round to his ears. But it soon transpired that his
thoughts were occupied by something of a totally different nature.

“See you,” he said. “We must act. With your help I propose to examine a
witness. We will question him, we will put such fear into him that the
truth is bound to come out.”

“What witness are you talking of?” I asked, very much surprised.

“Parker!” said Poirot. “I asked him to be at my house this morning at
twelve o’clock. He should await us there at this very minute.”

“What do you think,” I ventured, glancing sideways at his face.

“I know this—that I am not satisfied.”

“You think that it was he who blackmailed Mrs. Ferrars?”

“Either that, or——”

“Well?” I said, after waiting a minute or two.

“My friend, I will say this to you—I hope it was he.”

The gravity of his manner, and something indefinable that tinged it,
reduced me to silence.

On arrival at The Larches, we were informed that Parker was already
there awaiting our return. As we entered the room, the butler rose
respectfully.

“Good morning, Parker,” said Poirot pleasantly. “One instant, I pray of
you.”

He removed his overcoat and gloves.

“Allow me, sir,” said Parker, and sprang forward to assist him. He
deposited the articles neatly on a chair by the door. Poirot watched
him with approval.

“Thank you, my good Parker,” he said. “Take a seat, will you not? What
I have to say may take some time.”

Parker seated himself with an apologetic bend of the head.

“Now what do you think I asked you to come here for this morning—eh?”

Parker coughed.

“I understood, sir, that you wished to ask me a few questions about my
late master—private like.”

“_Précisément_,” said Poirot, beaming. “Have you made many experiments
in blackmail?”

“Sir!”

The butler sprang to his feet.

“Do not excite yourself,” said Poirot placidly. “Do not play the farce
of the honest, injured man. You know all there is to know about the
blackmail, is it not so?”

“Sir, I—I’ve never—never been——”

“Insulted,” suggested Poirot, “in such a way before. Then why, my
excellent Parker, were you so anxious to overhear the conversation in
Mr. Ackroyd’s study the other evening, after you had caught the word
blackmail?”

“I wasn’t—I——”

“Who was your last master?” rapped out Poirot suddenly.

“My last master?”

“Yes, the master you were with before you came to Mr. Ackroyd.”

“A Major Ellerby, sir——”

Poirot took the words out of his mouth.

“Just so, Major Ellerby. Major Ellerby was addicted to drugs, was he
not? You traveled about with him. When he was in Bermuda there was some
trouble—a man was killed. Major Ellerby was partly responsible. It was
hushed up. But you knew about it. How much did Major Ellerby pay you to
keep your mouth shut?”

Parker was staring at him open-mouthed. The man had gone to pieces, his
cheeks shook flabbily.

“You see, me, I have made inquiries,” said Poirot pleasantly. “It is
as I say. You got a good sum then as blackmail, and Major Ellerby went
on paying you until he died. Now I want to hear about your latest
experiment.”

Parker still stared.

“It is useless to deny. Hercule Poirot _knows_. It is so, what I have
said about Major Ellerby, is it not?”

As though against his will, Parker nodded reluctantly once. His face
was ashen pale.

“But I never hurt a hair of Mr. Ackroyd’s head,” he moaned. “Honest to
God, sir, I didn’t. I’ve been afraid of this coming all the time. And I
tell you I didn’t—I didn’t kill him.”

His voice rose almost to a scream.

“I am inclined to believe you, my friend,” said Poirot. “You have not
the nerve—the courage. But I must have the truth.”

“I’ll tell you anything, sir, anything you want to know. It’s true that
I tried to listen that night. A word or two I heard made me curious.
And Mr. Ackroyd’s wanting not to be disturbed, and shutting himself up
with the doctor the way he did. It’s God’s own truth what I told the
police. I heard the word blackmail, sir, and well——”

He paused.

“You thought there might be something in it for you?” suggested Poirot
smoothly.

“Well—well, yes, I did, sir. I thought that if Mr. Ackroyd was being
blackmailed, why shouldn’t I have a share of the pickings?”

A very curious expression passed over Poirot’s face. He leaned forward.

“Had you any reason to suppose before that night that Mr. Ackroyd was
being blackmailed?”

“No, indeed, sir. It was a great surprise to me. Such a regular
gentleman in all his habits.”

“How much did you overhear?”

“Not very much, sir. There seemed what I might call a spite against me.
Of course I had to attend to my duties in the pantry. And when I did
creep along once or twice to the study it was no use. The first time
Dr. Sheppard came out and almost caught me in the act, and another time
Mr. Raymond passed me in the big hall and went that way, so I knew it
was no use; and when I went with the tray, Miss Flora headed me off.”

Poirot stared for a long time at the man, as if to test his sincerity.
Parker returned his gaze earnestly.

“I hope you believe me, sir. I’ve been afraid all along the police
would rake up that old business with Major Ellerby and be suspicious of
me in consequence.”

“_Eh bien_,” said Poirot at last. “I am disposed to believe you. But
there is one thing I must request of you—to show me your bank-book. You
have a bank-book, I presume?”

“Yes, sir, as a matter of fact, I have it with me now.”

With no sign of confusion, he produced it from his pocket. Poirot took
the slim, green-covered book and perused the entries.

“Ah! I perceive you have purchased £500 of National Savings
Certificates this year?”

“Yes, sir. I have already over a thousand pounds saved—the result of
my connection with—er—my late master, Major Ellerby. And I have had
quite a little flutter on some horses this year—very successful. If you
remember, sir, a rank outsider won the Jubilee. I was fortunate enough
to back it—£20.”

Poirot handed him back the book.

“I will wish you good-morning. I believe that you have told me the
truth. If you have not—so much the worse for you, my friend.”

When Parker had departed, Poirot picked up his overcoat once more.

“Going out again?” I asked.

“Yes, we will pay a little visit to the good M. Hammond.”

“You believe Parker’s story?”

“It is credible enough on the face of it. It seems clear that—unless
he is a very good actor indeed—he genuinely believes it was Ackroyd
himself who was the victim of blackmail. If so, he knows nothing at all
about the Mrs. Ferrars business.”

“Then in that case—who——”

“_Précisément!_ Who? But our visit to M. Hammond will accomplish one
purpose. It will either clear Parker completely or else——”

“Well?”

“I fall into the bad habit of leaving my sentences unfinished this
morning,” said Poirot apologetically. “You must bear with me.”

“By the way,” I said, rather sheepishly, “I’ve got a confession to
make. I’m afraid I have inadvertently let out something about that
ring.”

“What ring?”

“The ring you found in the goldfish pond.”

“Ah! yes,” said Poirot, smiling broadly.

“I hope you’re not annoyed? It was very careless of me.”

“But not at all, my good friend, not at all. I laid no commands upon
you. You were at liberty to speak of it if you so wished. She was
interested, your sister?”

“She was indeed. It created a sensation. All sorts of theories are
flying about.”

“Ah! And yet it is so simple. The true explanation leapt to the eye,
did it not?”

“Did it?” I said dryly.

Poirot laughed.

“The wise man does not commit himself,” he observed. “Is not that so?
But here we are at Mr. Hammond’s.”

The lawyer was in his office, and we were ushered in without any delay.
He rose and greeted us in his dry, precise manner.

Poirot came at once to the point.

“Monsieur, I desire from you certain information, that is, if you will
be so good as to give it to me. You acted, I understand, for the late
Mrs. Ferrars of King’s Paddock?”

I noticed the swift gleam of surprise which showed in the lawyer’s
eyes, before his professional reserve came down once more like a mask
over his face.

“Certainly. All her affairs passed through our hands.”

“Very good. Now, before I ask you to tell me anything, I should like
you to listen to the story Dr. Sheppard will relate to you. You have no
objection, have you, my friend, to repeating the conversation you had
with Mr. Ackroyd last Friday night?”

“Not in the least,” I said, and straightway began the recital of that
strange evening.

Hammond listened with close attention.

“That is all,” I said, when I had finished.

“Blackmail,” said the lawyer thoughtfully.

“You are surprised?” asked Poirot.

The lawyer took off his pince-nez and polished them with his
handkerchief.

“No,” he replied, “I can hardly say that I am surprised. I have
suspected something of the kind for some time.”

“That brings us,” said Poirot, “to the information for which I am
asking. If any one can give us an idea of the actual sums paid, you are
the man, monsieur.”

“I see no object in withholding the information,” said Hammond, after
a moment or two. “During the past year, Mrs. Ferrars has sold out
certain securities, and the money for them was paid into her account
and not reinvested. As her income was a large one, and she lived very
quietly after her husband’s death, it seems certain that these sums of
money were paid away for some special purpose. I once sounded her on
the subject, and she said that she was obliged to support several of
her husband’s poor relations. I let the matter drop, of course. Until
now, I have always imagined that the money was paid to some woman who
had had a claim on Ashley Ferrars. I never dreamed that Mrs. Ferrars
herself was involved.”

“And the amount?” asked Poirot.

“In all, I should say the various sums totaled at least twenty thousand
pounds.”

“Twenty thousand pounds!” I exclaimed. “In one year!”

“Mrs. Ferrars was a very wealthy woman,” said Poirot dryly. “And the
penalty for murder is not a pleasant one.”

“Is there anything else that I can tell you?” inquired Mr. Hammond.

“I thank you, no,” said Poirot, rising. “All my excuses for having
deranged you.”

“Not at all, not at all.”

“The word derange,” I remarked, when we were outside again, “is
applicable to mental disorder only.”

“Ah!” cried Poirot, “never will my English be quite perfect. A curious
language. I should then have said disarranged, _n’est-ce pas_?”

“Disturbed is the word you had in mind.”

“I thank you, my friend. The word exact, you are zealous for it. _Eh
bien_, what about our friend Parker now? With twenty thousand pounds
in hand, would he have continued being a butler? _Je ne pense pas._ It
is, of course, possible that he banked the money under another name,
but I am disposed to believe he spoke the truth to us. If he is a
scoundrel, he is a scoundrel on a mean scale. He has not the big ideas.
That leaves us as a possibility, Raymond, or—well—Major Blunt.”

“Surely not Raymond,” I objected. “Since we know that he was
desperately hard up for a matter of five hundred pounds.”

“That is what he says, yes.”

“And as to Hector Blunt——”

“I will tell you something as to the good Major Blunt,” interrupted
Poirot. “It is my business to make inquiries. I make them. _Eh
bien_—that legacy of which he speaks, I have discovered that the amount
of it was close upon twenty thousand pounds. What do you think of that?”

I was so taken aback that I could hardly speak.

“It’s impossible,” I said at last. “A well-known man like Hector Blunt.”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“Who knows? At least he is a man with big ideas. I confess that I
hardly see him as a blackmailer, but there is another possibility that
you have not even considered.”

“What is that?”

“The fire, my friend. Ackroyd himself may have destroyed that letter,
blue envelope and all, after you left him.”

“I hardly think that likely,” I said slowly. “And yet—of course, it
may be so. He might have changed his mind.”

We had just arrived at my house, and on the spur of the moment I
invited Poirot to come in and take pot luck.

I thought Caroline would be pleased with me, but it is hard to satisfy
one’s women folk. It appears that we were eating chops for lunch—the
kitchen staff being regaled on tripe and onions. And two chops set
before three people are productive of embarrassment.

But Caroline is seldom daunted for long. With magnificent mendacity,
she explained to Poirot that although James laughed at her for
doing so, she adhered strictly to a vegetarian diet. She descanted
ecstatically on the delights of nut cutlets (which I am quite sure
she has never tasted) and ate a Welsh rarebit with gusto and frequent
cutting remarks as to the dangers of “flesh” foods.

Afterwards, when we were sitting in front of the fire and smoking,
Caroline attacked Poirot directly.

“Not found Ralph Paton yet?” she asked.

“Where should I find him, mademoiselle?”

“I thought, perhaps, you’d found him in Cranchester,” said Caroline,
with intense meaning in her tone.

Poirot looked merely bewildered.

“In Cranchester? But why in Cranchester?”

I enlightened him with a touch of malice.

“One of our ample staff of private detectives happened to see you in a
car on the Cranchester road yesterday,” I explained.

Poirot’s bewilderment vanished. He laughed heartily.

“Ah, that! A simple visit to the dentist, _c’est tout_. My tooth, it
aches. I go there. My tooth, it is at once better. I think to return
quickly. The dentist, he says No. Better to have it out. I argue. He
insists. He has his way! That particular tooth, it will never ache
again.”

Caroline collapsed rather like a pricked balloon.

We fell to discussing Ralph Paton.

“A weak nature,” I insisted. “But not a vicious one.”

“Ah!” said Poirot. “But weakness, where does it end?”

“Exactly,” said Caroline. “Take James here—weak as water, if I weren’t
about to look after him.”

“My dear Caroline,” I said irritably, “can’t you talk without dragging
in personalities?”

“You _are_ weak, James,” said Caroline, quite unmoved. “I’m eight years
older than you are—oh! I don’t mind M. Poirot knowing that——”

“I should never have guessed it, mademoiselle,” said Poirot, with a
gallant little bow.

“Eight years older. But I’ve always considered it my duty to look after
you. With a bad bringing up, Heaven knows what mischief you might have
got into by now.”

“I might have married a beautiful adventuress,” I murmured, gazing at
the ceiling, and blowing smoke rings.

“Adventuress!” said Caroline, with a snort. “If we’re talking of
adventuresses——”

She left the sentence unfinished.

“Well?” I said, with some curiosity.

“Nothing. But I can think of some one not a hundred miles away.”

Then she turned to Poirot suddenly.

“James sticks to it that you believe some one in the house committed
the murder. All I can say is, you’re wrong.”

“I should not like to be wrong,” said Poirot. “It is not—how do you
say—my _métier_?”

“I’ve got the facts pretty clearly,” continued Caroline, taking no
notice of Poirot’s remark, “from James and others. As far as I can see,
of the people in the house, only two _could_ have had the chance of
doing it. Ralph Paton and Flora Ackroyd.”

“My dear Caroline——”

“Now, James, don’t interrupt me. I know what I’m talking about. Parker
met her _outside_ the door, didn’t he? He didn’t hear her uncle saying
good-night to her. She could have killed him then and there.”

“Caroline.”

“I’m not saying she _did_, James. I’m saying she _could_ have done. As
a matter of fact, though Flora is like all these young girls nowadays,
with no veneration for their betters and thinking they know best on
every subject under the sun, I don’t for a minute believe she’d kill
even a chicken. But there it is. Mr. Raymond and Major Blunt have
alibis. Mrs. Ackroyd’s got an alibi. Even that Russell woman seems to
have one—and a good job for her it is she has. Who is left? Only Ralph
and Flora! And say what you will, I don’t believe Ralph Paton is a
murderer. A boy we’ve known all our lives.”

Poirot was silent for a minute, watching the curling smoke rise from
his cigarette. When at last he spoke, it was in a gentle far-away voice
that produced a curious impression. It was totally unlike his usual
manner.

“Let us take a man—a very ordinary man. A man with no idea of murder
in his heart. There is in him somewhere a strain of weakness—deep
down. It has so far never been called into play. Perhaps it never will
be—and if so he will go to his grave honored and respected by every
one. But let us suppose that something occurs. He is in difficulties—or
perhaps not that even. He may stumble by accident on a secret—a secret
involving life or death to some one. And his first impulse will be to
speak out—to do his duty as an honest citizen. And then the strain of
weakness tells. Here is a chance of money—a great amount of money.
He wants money—he desires it—and it is so easy. He has to do nothing
for it—just keep silence. That is the beginning. The desire for money
grows. He must have more—and more! He is intoxicated by the gold mine
which has opened at his feet. He becomes greedy. And in his greed he
overreaches himself. One can press a man as far as one likes—but with
a woman one must not press too far. For a woman has at heart a great
desire to speak the truth. How many husbands who have deceived their
wives go comfortably to their graves, carrying their secret with them!
How many wives who have deceived their husbands wreck their lives by
throwing the fact in those same husbands’ teeth! They have been pressed
too far. In a reckless moment (which they will afterwards regret, _bien
entendu_) they fling safety to the winds and turn at bay, proclaiming
the truth with great momentary satisfaction to themselves. So it was, I
think, in this case. The strain was too great. And so there came your
proverb, the death of the goose that laid the golden eggs. But that is
not the end. Exposure faced the man of whom we are speaking. And he is
not the same man he was—say, a year ago. His moral fiber is blunted.
He is desperate. He is fighting a losing battle, and he is prepared to
take any means that come to his hand, for exposure means ruin to him.
And so—the dagger strikes!”

He was silent for a moment. It was as though he had laid a spell upon
the room. I cannot try to describe the impression his words produced.
There was something in the merciless analysis, and the ruthless power
of vision which struck fear into both of us.

“Afterwards,” he went on softly, “the danger removed, he will be
himself again, normal, kindly. But if the need again arises, then once
more he will strike.”

Caroline roused herself at last.

“You are speaking of Ralph Paton,” she said. “You may be right, you may
not, but you have no business to condemn a man unheard.”

The telephone bell rang sharply. I went out into the hall, and took off
the receiver.

“What?” I said. “Yes. Dr. Sheppard speaking.”

I listened for a minute or two, then replied briefly. Replacing the
receiver, I went back into the drawing-room.

“Poirot,” I said, “they have detained a man at Liverpool. His name is
Charles Kent, and he is believed to be the stranger who visited Fernly
that night. They want me to go to Liverpool at once and identify him.”




                             CHAPTER XVIII

                             CHARLES KENT


Half an hour later saw Poirot, myself, and Inspector Raglan in the
train on the way to Liverpool. The inspector was clearly very excited.

“We may get a line on the blackmailing part of the business, if on
nothing else,” he declared jubilantly. “He’s a rough customer, this
fellow, by what I heard over the phone. Takes dope, too. We ought to
find it easy to get what we want out of him. If there was the shadow of
a motive, nothing’s more likely than that he killed Mr. Ackroyd. But in
that case, why is young Paton keeping out of the way? The whole thing’s
a muddle—that’s what it is. By the way, M. Poirot, you were quite right
about those fingerprints. They were Mr. Ackroyd’s own. I had rather the
same idea myself, but I dismissed it as hardly feasible.”

I smiled to myself. Inspector Raglan was so very plainly saving his
face.

“As regards this man,” said Poirot, “he is not yet arrested, eh?”

“No, detained under suspicion.”

“And what account does he give of himself?”

“Precious little,” said the inspector, with a grin. “He’s a wary bird,
I gather. A lot of abuse, but very little more.”

On arrival at Liverpool I was surprised to find that Poirot was
welcomed with acclamation. Superintendent Hayes, who met us, had worked
with Poirot over some case long ago, and had evidently an exaggerated
opinion of his powers.

“Now we’ve got M. Poirot here we shan’t be long,” he said cheerfully.
“I thought you’d retired, moosior?”

“So I had, my good Hayes, so I had. But how tedious is retirement! You
cannot imagine to yourself the monotony with which day comes after day.”

“Very likely. So you’ve come to have a look at our own particular find?
Is this Dr. Sheppard? Think you’ll be able to identify him, sir?”

“I’m not very sure,” I said doubtfully.

“How did you get hold of him?” inquired Poirot.

“Description was circulated, as you know. In the press and privately.
Not much to go on, I admit. This fellow has an American accent all
right, and he doesn’t deny that he was near King’s Abbot that night.
Just asks what the hell it is to do with us, and that he’ll see us in
—— before he answers any questions.”

“Is it permitted that I, too, see him?” asked Poirot.

The superintendent closed one eye knowingly.

“Very glad to have you, sir. You’ve got permission to do anything you
please. Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard was asking after you the other
day. Said he’d heard you were connected unofficially with this case.
Where’s Captain Paton hiding, sir, can you tell me that?”

“I doubt if it would be wise at the present juncture,” said Poirot
primly, and I bit my lips to prevent a smile.

The little man really did it very well.

After some further parley, we were taken to interview the prisoner.

He was a young fellow, I should say not more than twenty-two or
three. Tall, thin, with slightly shaking hands, and the evidences of
considerable physical strength somewhat run to seed. His hair was dark,
but his eyes were blue and shifty, seldom meeting a glance squarely. I
had all along cherished the illusion that there was something familiar
about the figure I had met that night, but if this were indeed he, I
was completely mistaken. He did not remind me in the least of any one I
knew.

“Now then, Kent,” said the superintendent, “stand up. Here are some
visitors come to see you. Recognize any of them.”

Kent glared at us sullenly, but did not reply. I saw his glance waver
over the three of us, and come back to rest on me.

“Well, sir,” said the superintendent to me, “what do you say?”

“The height’s the same,” I said, “and as far as general appearance goes
it might well be the man in question. Beyond that, I couldn’t go.”

“What the hell’s the meaning of all this?” asked Kent. “What have you
got against me? Come on, out with it! What am I supposed to have done?”

I nodded my head.

“It’s the man,” I said. “I recognize the voice.”

“Recognize my voice, do you? Where do you think you heard it before?”

“On Friday evening last, outside the gates of Fernly Park. You asked me
the way there.”

“I did, did I?”

“Do you admit it?” asked the inspector.

“I don’t admit anything. Not till I know what you’ve got on me.”

“Have you not read the papers in the last few days?” asked Poirot,
speaking for the first time.

The man’s eyes narrowed.

“So that’s it, is it? I saw an old gent had been croaked at Fernly.
Trying to make out I did the job, are you?”

“You were there that night,” said Poirot quietly.

“How do you know, mister?”

“By this.” Poirot took something from his pocket and held it out.

It was the goose quill we had found in the summer-house.

At the sight of it the man’s face changed. He half held out his hand.

“Snow,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “No, my friend, it is empty. It lay
where you dropped it in the summer-house that night.”

Charles Kent looked at him uncertainly.

“You seem to know a hell of a lot about everything, you little foreign
cock duck. Perhaps you remember this: the papers say that the old gent
was croaked between a quarter to ten and ten o’clock?”

“That is so,” agreed Poirot.

“Yes, but is it really so? That’s what I’m getting at.”

“This gentleman will tell you,” said Poirot.

He indicated Inspector Raglan. The latter hesitated, glanced at
Superintendent Hayes, then at Poirot, and finally, as though receiving
sanction, he said:—

“That’s right. Between a quarter to ten and ten o’clock.”

“Then you’ve nothing to keep me here for,” said Kent. “I was away from
Fernly Park by twenty-five minutes past nine. You can ask at the Dog
and Whistle. That’s a saloon about a mile out of Fernly on the road to
Cranchester. I kicked up a bit of a row there, I remember. As near as
nothing to quarter to ten, it was. How about that?”

Inspector Raglan wrote down something in his notebook.

“Well?” demanded Kent.

“Inquiries will be made,” said the inspector. “If you’ve spoken the
truth, you won’t have anything to complain about. What were you doing
at Fernly Park anyway?”

“Went there to meet some one.”

“Who?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You’d better keep a civil tongue in your head, my man,” the
superintendent warned him.

“To hell with a civil tongue. I went there on my own business, and
that’s all there is to it. If I was clear away before the murder was
done, that’s all that concerns the cops.”

“Your name, it is Charles Kent,” said Poirot. “Where were you born?”

The man stared at him, then he grinned.

“I’m a full-blown Britisher all right,” he said.

“Yes,” said Poirot meditatively, “I think you are. I fancy you were
born in Kent.”

The man stared.

“Why’s that? Because of my name? What’s that to do with it? Is a man
whose name is Kent bound to be born in that particular county?”

“Under certain circumstances, I can imagine he might be,” said Poirot
very deliberately. “Under certain circumstances, you comprehend.”

There was so much meaning in his voice as to surprise the two police
officers. As for Charles Kent, he flushed a brick red, and for a moment
I thought he was going to spring at Poirot. He thought better of it,
however, and turned away with a kind of laugh.

Poirot nodded as though satisfied, and made his way out through the
door. He was joined presently by the two officers.

“We’ll verify that statement,” remarked Raglan. “I don’t think he’s
lying, though. But he’s got to come clear with a statement as to
what he was doing at Fernly. It looks to me as though we’d got our
blackmailer all right. On the other hand, granted his story’s correct,
he couldn’t have had anything to do with the actual murder. He’d got
ten pounds on him when he was arrested—rather a large sum. I fancy that
forty pounds went to him—the numbers of the notes didn’t correspond,
but of course he’d have changed them first thing. Mr. Ackroyd must
have given him the money, and he made off with it as fast as possible.
What was that about Kent being his birthplace? What’s that got to do
with it?”

“Nothing whatever,” said Poirot mildly. “A little idea of mine, that
was all. Me, I am famous for my little ideas.”

“Are you really?” said Raglan, studying him with a puzzled expression.

The superintendent went into a roar of laughter.

“Many’s the time I’ve heard Inspector Japp say that. M. Poirot and his
little ideas! Too fanciful for me, he’d say, but always something in
them.”

“You mock yourself at me,” said Poirot, smiling; “but never mind. The
old ones they laugh last sometimes, when the young, clever ones do not
laugh at all.”

And nodding his head at them in a sage manner, he walked out into the
street.

He and I lunched together at an hotel. I know now that the whole thing
lay clearly unravelled before him. He had got the last thread he needed
to lead him to the truth.

But at the time I had no suspicion of the fact. I overestimated his
general self-confidence, and I took it for granted that the things
which puzzled me must be equally puzzling to him.

My chief puzzle was what the man Charles Kent could have been doing at
Fernly. Again and again I put the question to myself and could get no
satisfactory reply.

At last I ventured a tentative query to Poirot. His reply was immediate.

“_Mon ami_, I do not think; I know.”

“Really?” I said incredulously.

“Yes, indeed. I suppose now that to you it would not make sense if I
said that he went to Fernly that night because he was born in Kent?”

I stared at him.

“It certainly doesn’t seem to make sense to me,” I said dryly.

“Ah!” said Poirot pityingly. “Well, no matter. I have still my little
idea.”




                              CHAPTER XIX

                             FLORA ACKROYD


As I was returning from my round the following morning, I was hailed by
Inspector Raglan. I pulled up, and the inspector mounted on the step.

“Good-morning, Dr. Sheppard,” he said. “Well, that alibi is all right
enough.”

“Charles Kent’s?”

“Charles Kent’s. The barmaid at the Dog and Whistle, Sally Jones, she
remembers him perfectly. Picked out his photograph from among five
others. It was just a quarter to ten when he came into the bar, and the
Dog and Whistle is well over a mile from Fernly Park. The girl mentions
that he had a lot of money on him—she saw him take a handful of notes
out of his pocket. Rather surprised her, it did, seeing the class of
fellow he was, with a pair of boots clean dropping off him. That’s
where that forty pounds went right enough.”

“The man still refuses to give an account of his visit to Fernly?”

“Obstinate as a mule he is. I had a chat with Hayes at Liverpool over
the wire this morning.”

“Hercule Poirot says he knows the reason the man went there that
night,” I observed.

“Does he?” cried the inspector eagerly.

“Yes,” I said maliciously. “He says he went there because he was born
in Kent.”

I felt a distinct pleasure in passing on my own discomfiture.

Raglan stared at me for a moment or two uncomprehendingly. Then a
grin overspread his weaselly countenance and he tapped his forehead
significantly.

“Bit gone here,” he said. “I’ve thought so for some time. Poor old
chap, so that’s why he had to give up and come down here. In the
family, very likely. He’s got a nephew who’s quite off his crumpet.”

“Poirot has?” I said, very surprised.

“Yes. Hasn’t he ever mentioned him to you? Quite docile, I believe, and
all that, but mad as a hatter, poor lad.”

“Who told you that?”

Again a grin showed itself on Inspector Raglan’s face.

“Your sister, Miss Sheppard, she told me all about it.”

Really, Caroline is amazing. She never rests until she knows the last
details of everybody’s family secrets. Unfortunately, I have never been
able to instill into her the decency of keeping them to herself.

“Jump in, inspector,” I said, opening the door of the car. “We’ll go
up to The Larches together, and acquaint our Belgian friend with the
latest news.”

“Might as well, I suppose. After all, even if he is a bit balmy, it was
a useful tip he gave me about those fingerprints. He’s got a bee in his
bonnet about the man Kent, but who knows—there may be something useful
behind it.”

Poirot received us with his usual smiling courtesy.

He listened to the information we had brought him, nodding his head now
and then.

“Seems quite O.K., doesn’t it?” said the inspector rather gloomily. “A
chap can’t be murdering some one in one place when he’s drinking in the
bar in another place a mile away.”

“Are you going to release him?”

“Don’t see what else we can do. We can’t very well hold him for
obtaining money on false pretences. Can’t prove a ruddy thing.”

The inspector tossed a match into the grate in a disgruntled fashion.
Poirot retrieved it and put it neatly in a little receptacle designed
for the purpose. His action was purely mechanical. I could see that his
thoughts were on something very different.

“If I were you,” he said at last, “I should not release the man Charles
Kent yet.”

“What do you mean?”

Raglan stared at him.

“What I say. I should not release him yet.”

“You don’t think he can have had anything to do with the murder, do
you?”

“I think probably not—but one cannot be certain yet.”

“But haven’t I just told you——”

Poirot raised a hand protestingly.

“_Mais oui, mais oui._ I heard. I am not deaf—nor stupid, thank the
good God! But see you, you approach the matter from the wrong—the
wrong—premises, is not that the word?”

The inspector stared at him heavily.

“I don’t see how you make that out. Look here, we know Mr. Ackroyd was
alive at a quarter to ten. You admit that, don’t you?”

Poirot looked at him for a moment, then shook his head with a quick
smile.

“I admit nothing that is not—_proved_!”

“Well, we’ve got proof enough of that. We’ve got Miss Flora Ackroyd’s
evidence.”

“That she said good-night to her uncle? But me—I do not always believe
what a young lady tells me—no, not even when she is charming and
beautiful.”

“But hang it all, man, Parker saw her coming out of the door.”

“No.” Poirot’s voice rang out with sudden sharpness. “That is just what
he did not see. I satisfied myself of that by a little experiment the
other day—you remember, doctor? Parker saw her _outside_ the door, with
her hand on the handle. He did not see her come out of the room.”

“But—where else could she have been?”

“Perhaps on the stairs.”

“The stairs?”

“That is my little idea—yes.”

“But those stairs only lead to Mr. Ackroyd’s bedroom.”

“Precisely.”

And still the inspector stared.

“You think she’d been up to her uncle’s bedroom? Well, why not? Why
should she lie about it?”

“Ah! that is just the question. It depends on what she was doing there,
does it not?”

“You mean—the money? Hang it all, you don’t suggest that it was Miss
Ackroyd who took that forty pounds?”

“I suggest nothing,” said Poirot. “But I will remind you of this. Life
was not very easy for that mother and daughter. There were bills—there
was constant trouble over small sums of money. Roger Ackroyd was a
peculiar man over money matters. The girl might be at her wit’s end for
a comparatively small sum. Figure to yourself then what happens. She
has taken the money, she descends the little staircase. When she is
half-way down she hears the chink of glass from the hall. She has not a
doubt of what it is—Parker coming to the study. At all costs she must
not be found on the stairs—Parker will not forget it, he will think it
odd. If the money is missed, Parker is sure to remember having seen her
come down those stairs. She has just time to rush down to the study
door—with her hand on the handle to show that she has just come out,
when Parker appears in the doorway. She says the first thing that comes
into her head, a repetition of Roger Ackroyd’s orders earlier in the
evening, and then goes upstairs to her own room.”

“Yes, but later,” persisted the inspector, “she must have realized the
vital importance of speaking the truth? Why, the whole case hinges on
it!”

“Afterwards,” said Poirot dryly, “it was a little difficult for
Mademoiselle Flora. She is told simply that the police are here and
that there has been a robbery. Naturally she jumps to the conclusion
that the theft of the money has been discovered. Her one idea is to
stick to her story. When she learns that her uncle is dead she is
panic-stricken. Young women do not faint nowadays, monsieur, without
considerable provocation. _Eh bien!_ there it is. She is bound to stick
to her story, or else confess everything. And a young and pretty girl
does not like to admit that she is a thief—especially before those
whose esteem she is anxious to retain.”

Raglan brought his fist down with a thump on the table.

“I’ll not believe it,” he said. “It’s—it’s not credible. And you—you’ve
known this all along?”

“The possibility has been in my mind from the first,” admitted Poirot.
“I was always convinced that Mademoiselle Flora was hiding something
from us. To satisfy myself, I made the little experiment I told you of.
Dr. Sheppard accompanied me.”

“A test for Parker, you said it was,” I remarked bitterly.

“_Mon ami_,” said Poirot apologetically, “as I told you at the time,
one must say something.”

The inspector rose.

“There’s only one thing for it,” he declared. “We must tackle the young
lady right away. You’ll come up to Fernly with me, M. Poirot?”

“Certainly. Dr. Sheppard will drive us up in his car.”

I acquiesced willingly.

On inquiry for Miss Ackroyd, we were shown into the billiard room.
Flora and Major Hector Blunt were sitting on the long window seat.

“Good-morning, Miss Ackroyd,” said the inspector. “Can we have a word
or two alone with you?”

Blunt got up at once and moved to the door.

“What is it?” asked Flora nervously. “Don’t go, Major Blunt. He can
stay, can’t he?” she asked, turning to the inspector.

“That’s as you like,” said the inspector dryly. “There’s a question
or two it’s my duty to put to you, miss, but I’d prefer to do so
privately, and I dare say you’d prefer it also.”

Flora looked keenly at him. I saw her face grow whiter. Then she turned
and spoke to Blunt.

“I want you to stay—please—yes, I mean it. Whatever the inspector has
to say to me, I’d rather you heard it.”

Raglan shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, if you will have it so, that’s all there is to it. Now, Miss
Ackroyd, M. Poirot here has made a certain suggestion to me. He
suggests that you weren’t in the study at all last Friday night, that
you never saw Mr. Ackroyd to say good-night to him, that instead of
being in the study you were on the stairs leading down from your
uncle’s bedroom when you heard Parker coming across the hall.”

Flora’s gaze shifted to Poirot. He nodded back at her.

“Mademoiselle, the other day, when we sat round the table, I implored
you to be frank with me. What one does not tell to Papa Poirot he finds
out. It was that, was it not? See, I will make it easy for you. You
took the money, did you not?”

“The money,” said Blunt sharply.

There was a silence which lasted for at least a minute.

Then Flora drew herself up and spoke.

“M. Poirot is right. I took that money. I stole. I am a thief—yes, a
common, vulgar little thief. Now you know! I am glad it has come out.
It’s been a nightmare, these last few days!” She sat down suddenly and
buried her face in her hands. She spoke huskily through her fingers.
“You don’t know what my life has been since I came here. Wanting
things, scheming for them, lying, cheating, running up bills, promising
to pay—oh! I hate myself when I think of it all! That’s what brought us
together, Ralph and I. We were both weak! I understood him, and I was
sorry—because I’m the same underneath. We’re not strong enough to stand
alone, either of us. We’re weak, miserable, despicable things.”

She looked at Blunt and suddenly stamped her foot.

“Why do you look at me like that—as though you couldn’t believe? I may
be a thief—but at any rate I’m real now. I’m not lying any more. I’m
not pretending to be the kind of girl you like, young and innocent and
simple. I don’t care if you never want to see me again. I hate myself,
despise myself—but you’ve got to believe one thing, if speaking the
truth would have made things better for Ralph, I would have spoken out.
But I’ve seen all along that it wouldn’t be better for Ralph—it makes
the case against him blacker than ever. I was not doing him any harm by
sticking to my lie.”

“Ralph,” said Blunt. “I see—always Ralph.”

“You don’t understand,” said Flora hopelessly. “You never will.”

She turned to the inspector.

“I admit everything; I was at my wit’s end for money. I never saw my
uncle that evening after he left the dinner-table. As to the money, you
can take what steps you please. Nothing could be worse than it is now!”

Suddenly she broke down again, hid her face in her hands, and rushed
from the room.

“Well,” said the inspector in a flat tone, “so that’s that.”

He seemed rather at a loss what to do next.

Blunt came forward.

“Inspector Raglan,” he said quietly, “that money was given to me by Mr.
Ackroyd for a special purpose. Miss Ackroyd never touched it. When she
says she did, she is lying with the idea of shielding Captain Paton.
The truth is as I said, and I am prepared to go into the witness box
and swear to it.”

He made a kind of jerky bow, then turning abruptly, he left the room.

Poirot was after him in a flash. He caught the other up in the hall.

“Monsieur—a moment, I beg of you, if you will be so good.”

“Well, sir?”

Blunt was obviously impatient. He stood frowning down on Poirot.

“It is this,” said Poirot rapidly: “I am not deceived by your little
fantasy. No, indeed. It was truly Miss Flora who took the money. All
the same it is well imagined what you say—it pleases me. It is very
good what you have done there. You are a man quick to think and to act.”

“I’m not in the least anxious for your opinion, thank you,” said Blunt
coldly.

He made once more as though to pass on, but Poirot, not at all
offended, laid a detaining hand on his arm.

“Ah! but you are to listen to me. I have more to say. The other day I
spoke of concealments. Very well, all along have I seen what you are
concealing. Mademoiselle Flora, you love her with all your heart. From
the first moment you saw her, is it not so? Oh! let us not mind saying
these things—why must one in England think it necessary to mention
love as though it were some disgraceful secret? You love Mademoiselle
Flora. You seek to conceal that fact from all the world. That is very
good—that is as it should be. But take the advice of Hercule Poirot—do
not conceal it from mademoiselle herself.”

Blunt had shown several signs of restlessness whilst Poirot was
speaking, but the closing words seemed to rivet his attention.

“What d’you mean by that?” he said sharply.

“You think that she loves the Capitaine Ralph Paton—but I, Hercule
Poirot, tell you that that is not so. Mademoiselle Flora accepted
Captain Paton to please her uncle, and because she saw in the marriage
a way of escape from her life here which was becoming frankly
insupportable to her. She liked him, and there was much sympathy
and understanding between them. But love—no! It is not Captain Paton
Mademoiselle Flora loves.”

“What the devil do you mean?” asked Blunt.

I saw the dark flush under his tan.

“You have been blind, monsieur. Blind! She is loyal, the little one.
Ralph Paton is under a cloud, she is bound in honor to stick by him.”

I felt it was time I put in a word to help on the good work.

“My sister told me the other night,” I said encouragingly, “that Flora
had never cared a penny piece for Ralph Paton, and never would. My
sister is always right about these things.”

Blunt ignored my well-meant efforts. He spoke to Poirot.

“D’you really think——” he began, and stopped.

He is one of those inarticulate men who find it hard to put things into
words.

Poirot knows no such disability.

“If you doubt me, ask her yourself, monsieur. But perhaps you no longer
care to—the affair of the money——”

Blunt gave a sound like an angry laugh.

“Think I’d hold that against her? Roger was always a queer chap about
money. She got in a mess and didn’t dare tell him. Poor kid. Poor
lonely kid.”

Poirot looked thoughtfully at the side door.

“Mademoiselle Flora went into the garden, I think,” he murmured.

“I’ve been every kind of a fool,” said Blunt abruptly. “Rum
conversation we’ve been having. Like one of those Danish plays. But
you’re a sound fellow, M. Poirot. Thank you.”

He took Poirot’s hand and gave it a grip which caused the other to
wince in anguish. Then he strode to the side door and passed out into
the garden.

“Not every kind of a fool,” murmured Poirot, tenderly nursing the
injured member. “Only one kind—the fool in love.”




                              CHAPTER XX

                             MISS RUSSELL


Inspector Raglan had received a bad jolt. He was not deceived by
Blunt’s valiant lie any more than we had been. Our way back to the
village was punctuated by his complaints.

“This alters everything, this does. I don’t know whether you’ve
realized it, Monsieur Poirot?”

“I think so, yes, I think so,” said Poirot. “You see, me, I have been
familiar with the idea for some time.”

Inspector Raglan, who had only had the idea presented to him a short
half-hour ago, looked at Poirot unhappily, and went on with his
discoveries.

“Those alibis now. Worthless! Absolutely worthless. Got to start
again. Find out what every one was doing from nine-thirty onwards.
Nine-thirty—that’s the time we’ve got to hang on to. You were quite
right about the man Kent—we don’t release _him_ yet awhile. Let me see
now—nine-forty-five at the Dog and Whistle. He might have got there
in a quarter of an hour if he ran. It’s just possible that it was
_his_ voice Mr. Raymond heard talking to Mr. Ackroyd—asking for money
which Mr. Ackroyd refused. But one thing’s clear—it wasn’t he who
sent the telephone message. The station is half a mile in the other
direction—over a mile and a half from the Dog and Whistle, and he was
at the Dog and Whistle until about ten minutes past ten. Dang that
telephone call! We always come up against it.”

“We do indeed,” agreed Poirot. “It is curious.”

“It’s just possible that if Captain Paton climbed into his uncle’s room
and found him there murdered, _he_ may have sent it. Got the wind up,
thought he’d be accused, and cleared out. That’s possible, isn’t it?”

“Why should he have telephoned?”

“May have had doubts if the old man was really dead. Thought he’d
get the doctor up there as soon as possible, but didn’t want to give
himself away. Yes, I say now, how’s that for a theory? Something in
that, I should say.”

The inspector swelled his chest out importantly. He was so plainly
delighted with himself that any words of ours would have been quite
superfluous.

We arrived back at my house at this minute, and I hurried in to my
surgery patients, who had all been waiting a considerable time, leaving
Poirot to walk to the police station with the inspector.

Having dismissed the last patient, I strolled into the little room at
the back of the house which I call my workshop—I am rather proud of the
home-made wireless set I turned out. Caroline hates my workroom. I keep
my tools there, and Annie is not allowed to wreak havoc with a dustpan
and brush. I was just adjusting the interior of an alarm clock which
had been denounced as wholly unreliable by the household, when the door
opened and Caroline put her head in.

“Oh! there you are, James,” she said, with deep disapproval. “M. Poirot
wants to see you.”

“Well,” I said, rather irritably, for her sudden entrance had startled
me and I had let go of a piece of delicate mechanism, “if he wants to
see me, he can come in here.”

“In here?” said Caroline.

“That’s what I said—in here.”

Caroline gave a sniff of disapproval and retired. She returned in a
moment or two, ushering in Poirot, and then retired again, shutting the
door with a bang.

“Aha! my friend,” said Poirot, coming forward and rubbing his hands.
“You have not got rid of me so easily, you see!”

“Finished with the inspector?” I asked.

“For the moment, yes. And you, you have seen all the patients?”

“Yes.”

Poirot sat down and looked at me, tilting his egg-shaped head on one
side, with the air of one who savors a very delicious joke.

“You are in error,” he said at last. “You have still one patient to
see.”

“Not you?” I exclaimed in surprise.

“Ah, not me, _bien entendu_. Me, I have the health magnificent. No, to
tell you the truth, it is a little _complot_ of mine. There is some one
I wish to see, you understand—and at the same time it is not necessary
that the whole village should intrigue itself about the matter—which is
what would happen if the lady were seen to come to my house—for it is
a lady. But to you she has already come as a patient before.”

“Miss Russell!” I exclaimed.

“_Précisément._ I wish much to speak with her, so I send her the little
note and make the appointment in your surgery. You are not annoyed with
me?”

“On the contrary,” I said. “That is, presuming I am allowed to be
present at the interview?”

“But naturally! In your own surgery!”

“You know,” I said, throwing down the pincers I was holding, “it’s
extraordinarily intriguing, the whole thing. Every new development that
arises is like the shake you give to a kaleidoscope—the thing changes
entirely in aspect. Now, why are you so anxious to see Miss Russell?”

Poirot raised his eyebrows.

“Surely it is obvious?” he murmured.

“There you go again,” I grumbled. “According to you everything is
obvious. But you leave me walking about in a fog.”

Poirot shook his head genially at me.

“You mock yourself at me. Take the matter of Mademoiselle Flora. The
inspector was surprised—but you—you were not.”

“I never dreamed of her being the thief,” I expostulated.

“That—perhaps no. But I was watching your face and you were not—like
Inspector Raglan—startled and incredulous.”

I thought for a minute or two.

“Perhaps you are right,” I said at last. “All along I’ve felt that
Flora was keeping back something—so the truth, when it came, was
subconsciously expected. It upset Inspector Raglan very much indeed,
poor man.”

“Ah! _pour ça, oui_! The poor man must rearrange all his ideas. I
profited by his state of mental chaos to induce him to grant me a
little favor.”

“What was that?”

Poirot took a sheet of notepaper from his pocket. Some words were
written on it, and he read them aloud.

“The police have, for some days, been seeking for Captain Ralph Paton,
the nephew of Mr. Ackroyd of Fernly Park, whose death occurred under
such tragic circumstances last Friday. Captain Paton has been found at
Liverpool, where he was on the point of embarking for America.”

He folded up the piece of paper again.

“That, my friend, will be in the newspapers to-morrow morning.”

I stared at him, dumbfounded.

“But—but it isn’t true! He’s not at Liverpool!”

Poirot beamed on me.

“You have the intelligence so quick! No, he has not been found at
Liverpool. Inspector Raglan was very loath to let me send this
paragraph to the press, especially as I could not take him into my
confidence. But I assured him most solemnly that very interesting
results would follow its appearance in print, so he gave in, after
stipulating that he was, on no account, to bear the responsibility.”

I stared at Poirot. He smiled back at me.

“It beats me,” I said at last, “what you expect to get out of that.”

“You should employ your little gray cells,” said Poirot gravely.

He rose and came across to the bench.

“It is that you have really the love of the machinery,” he said, after
inspecting the débris of my labors.

Every man has his hobby. I immediately drew Poirot’s attention to my
home-made wireless. Finding him sympathetic, I showed him one or two
little inventions of my own—trifling things, but useful in the house.

“Decidedly,” said Poirot, “you should be an inventor by trade, not a
doctor. But I hear the bell—that is your patient. Let us go into the
surgery.”

Once before I had been struck by the remnants of beauty in the
housekeeper’s face. This morning I was struck anew. Very simply dressed
in black, tall, upright and independent as ever, with her big dark eyes
and an unwonted flush of color in her usually pale cheeks, I realized
that as a girl she must have been startlingly handsome.

“Good-morning, mademoiselle,” said Poirot. “Will you be seated? Dr.
Sheppard is so kind as to permit me the use of his surgery for a little
conversation I am anxious to have with you.”

Miss Russell sat down with her usual composure. If she felt any inward
agitation, it did not display itself in any outward manifestation.

“It seems a queer way of doing things, if you’ll allow me to say so,”
she remarked.

“Miss Russell—I have news to give you.”

“Indeed!”

“Charles Kent has been arrested at Liverpool.”

Not a muscle of her face moved. She merely opened her eyes a trifle
wider, and asked, with a tinge of defiance:

“Well, what of it?”

But at that moment it came to me—the resemblance that had haunted me
all along, something familiar in the defiance of Charles Kent’s manner.
The two voices, one rough and coarse, the other painfully ladylike—were
strangely the same in timbre. It was of Miss Russell that I had been
reminded that night outside the gates of Fernly Park.

I looked at Poirot, full of my discovery, and he gave me an
imperceptible nod.

In answer to Miss Russell’s question, he threw out his hands in a
thoroughly French gesture.

“I thought you might be interested, that is all,” he said mildly.

“Well, I’m not particularly,” said Miss Russell. “Who is this Charles
Kent anyway?”

“He is a man, mademoiselle, who was at Fernly on the night of the
murder.”

“Really?”

“Fortunately for him, he has an alibi. At a quarter to ten he was at a
public-house a mile from here.”

“Lucky for him,” commented Miss Russell.

“But we still do not know what he was doing at Fernly—who it was he
went to meet, for instance.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you at all,” said the housekeeper politely.
“Nothing came to _my_ ears. If that is all——”

She made a tentative movement as though to rise. Poirot stopped her.

“It is not quite all,” he said smoothly. “This morning fresh
developments have arisen. It seems now that Mr. Ackroyd was murdered,
not at a quarter to ten, but _before_. Between ten minutes to nine,
when Dr. Sheppard left, and a quarter to ten.”

I saw the color drain from the housekeeper’s face, leaving it dead
white. She leaned forward, her figure swaying.

“But Miss Ackroyd said—Miss Ackroyd said——”

“Miss Ackroyd has admitted that she was lying. She was never in the
study at all that evening.”

“Then——?”

“Then it would seem that in this Charles Kent we have the man we are
looking for. He came to Fernly, can give no account of what he was
doing there——”

“I can tell you what he was doing there. He never touched a hair of old
Ackroyd’s head—he never went near the study. He didn’t do it, I tell
you.”

She was leaning forward. That iron self-control was broken through at
last. Terror and desperation were in her face.

“M. Poirot! M. Poirot! Oh, do believe me.”

Poirot got up and came to her. He patted her reassuringly on the
shoulder.

“But yes—but yes, I will believe. I had to make you speak, you know.”

For an instant suspicion flared up in her.

“Is what you said true?”

“That Charles Kent is suspected of the crime? Yes, that is true. You
alone can save him, by telling the reason for his being at Fernly.”

“He came to see me.” She spoke in a low, hurried voice. “I went out to
meet him——”

“In the summer-house, yes, I know.”

“How do you know?”

“Mademoiselle, it is the business of Hercule Poirot to know things. I
know that you went out earlier in the evening, that you left a message
in the summer-house to say what time you would be there.”

“Yes, I did. I had heard from him—saying he was coming. I dared not
let him come to the house. I wrote to the address he gave me and said
I would meet him in the summer-house, and described it to him so that
he would be able to find it. Then I was afraid he might not wait there
patiently, and I ran out and left a piece of paper to say I would be
there about ten minutes past nine. I didn’t want the servants to see
me, so I slipped out through the drawing-room window. As I came back, I
met Dr. Sheppard, and I fancied that he would think it queer. I was out
of breath, for I had been running. I had no idea that he was expected
to dinner that night.”

She paused.

“Go on,” said Poirot. “You went out to meet him at ten minutes past
nine. What did you say to each other?”

“It’s difficult. You see——”

“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, interrupting her, “in this matter I must
have the whole truth. What you tell us need never go beyond these four
walls. Dr. Sheppard will be discreet, and so shall I. See, I will help
you. This Charles Kent, he is your son, is he not?”

She nodded. The color had flamed into her cheeks.

“No one has ever known. It was long ago—long ago—down in Kent. I was
not married....”

“So you took the name of the county as a surname for him. I understand.”

“I got work. I managed to pay for his board and lodging. I never told
him that I was his mother. But he turned out badly, he drank, then took
to drugs. I managed to pay his passage out to Canada. I didn’t hear of
him for a year or two. Then, somehow or other, he found out that I was
his mother. He wrote asking me for money. Finally, I heard from him
back in this country again. He was coming to see me at Fernly, he said.
I dared not let him come to the house. I have always been considered
so—so very respectable. If any one got an inkling—it would have been
all up with my post as housekeeper. So I wrote to him in the way I have
just told you.”

“And in the morning you came to see Dr. Sheppard?”

“Yes. I wondered if something could be done. He was not a bad
boy—before he took to drugs.”

“I see,” said Poirot. “Now let us go on with the story. He came that
night to the summer-house?”

“Yes, he was waiting for me when I got there. He was very rough and
abusive. I had brought with me all the money I had, and I gave it to
him. We talked a little, and then he went away.”

“What time was that?”

“It must have been between twenty and twenty-five minutes past nine. It
was not yet half-past when I got back to the house.”

“Which way did he go?”

“Straight out the same way he came, by the path that joined the drive
just inside the lodge gates.”

Poirot nodded.

“And you, what did you do?”

“I went back to the house. Major Blunt was walking up and down the
terrace smoking, so I made a detour to get round to the side door. It
was then just on half-past nine, as I tell you.”

Poirot nodded again. He made a note or two in a microscopic pocket-book.

“I think that is all,” he said thoughtfully.

“Ought I——” she hesitated. “Ought I to tell all this to Inspector
Raglan?”

“It may come to that. But let us not be in a hurry. Let us proceed
slowly, with due order and method. Charles Kent is not yet formally
charged with murder. Circumstances may arise which will render your
story unnecessary.”

Miss Russell rose.

“Thank you very much, M. Poirot,” she said. “You have been very
kind—very kind indeed. You—you do believe me, don’t you? That Charles
had nothing to do with this wicked murder!”

“There seems no doubt that the man who was talking to Mr. Ackroyd in
the library at nine-thirty could not possibly have been your son. Be of
good courage, mademoiselle. All will yet be well.”

Miss Russell departed. Poirot and I were left together.

“So that’s that,” I said. “Every time we come back to Ralph Paton. How
did you manage to spot Miss Russell as the person Charles Kent came to
meet? Did you notice the resemblance?”

“I had connected her with the unknown man long before we actually
came face to face with him. As soon as we found that quill. The quill
suggested dope, and I remembered your account of Miss Russell’s visit
to you. Then I found the article on cocaine in that morning’s paper. It
all seemed very clear. She had heard from some one that morning—some
one addicted to drugs, she read the article in the paper, and she came
to you to ask a few tentative questions. She mentioned cocaine, since
the article in question was on cocaine. Then, when you seemed too
interested, she switched hurriedly to the subject of detective stories
and untraceable poisons. I suspected a son or a brother, or some other
undesirable male relation. Ah! but I must go. It is the time of the
lunch.”

“Stay and lunch with us,” I suggested.

Poirot shook his head. A faint twinkle came into his eye.

“Not again to-day. I should not like to force Mademoiselle Caroline to
adopt a vegetarian diet two days in succession.”

It occurred to me that there was not much which escaped Hercule Poirot.




                              CHAPTER XXI

                      THE PARAGRAPH IN THE PAPER


Caroline, of course, had not failed to see Miss Russell come
to the surgery door. I had anticipated this, and had ready an
elaborate account of the lady’s bad knee. But Caroline was not in a
cross-questioning mood. Her point of view was that she knew what Miss
Russell had really come for and that _I_ didn’t.

“Pumping you, James,” said Caroline. “Pumping you in the most shameless
manner, I’ve not a doubt. It’s no good interrupting. I dare say you
hadn’t the least idea she was doing it even. Men _are_ so simple. She
knows that you are in M. Poirot’s confidence, and she wants to find out
things. Do you know what I think, James?”

“I couldn’t begin to imagine. You think so many extraordinary things.”

“It’s no good being sarcastic. I think Miss Russell knows more about
Mr. Ackroyd’s death than she is prepared to admit.”

Caroline leaned back triumphantly in her chair.

“Do you really think so?” I said absently.

“You are very dull to-day, James. No animation about you. It’s that
liver of yours.”

Our conversation then dealt with purely personal matters.

The paragraph inspired by Poirot duly appeared in our daily paper the
next morning. I was in the dark as to its purpose, but its effect on
Caroline was immense.

She began by stating, most untruly, that she had said as much all
along. I raised my eyebrows, but did not argue. Caroline, however, must
have felt a prick of conscience, for she went on:—

“I mayn’t have actually mentioned Liverpool, but I knew he’d try to get
away to America. That’s what Crippen did.”

“Without much success,” I reminded her.

“Poor boy, and so they’ve caught him. I consider, James, that it’s your
duty to see that he isn’t hung.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Why, you’re a medical man, aren’t you? You’ve known him from a boy
upwards. Not mentally responsible. That’s the line to take, clearly. I
read only the other day that they’re very happy in Broadmoor—it’s quite
like a high-class club.”

But Caroline’s words had reminded me of something.

“I never knew that Poirot had an imbecile nephew?” I said curiously.

“Didn’t you? Oh, he told me all about it. Poor lad. It’s a great grief
to all the family. They’ve kept him at home so far, but it’s getting
to such a pitch that they’re afraid he’ll have to go into some kind of
institution.”

“I suppose you know pretty well everything there is to know about
Poirot’s family by this time,” I said, exasperated.

“Pretty well,” said Caroline complacently. “It’s a great relief to
people to be able to tell all their troubles to some one.”

“It might be,” I said, “if they were ever allowed to do so
spontaneously. Whether they enjoy having confidences screwed out of
them by force is another matter.”

Caroline merely looked at me with the air of a Christian martyr
enjoying martyrdom.

“You are so self-contained, James,” she said. “You hate speaking out,
or parting with any information yourself, and you think everybody else
must be just like you. I should hope that I never screw confidences out
of anybody. For instance, if M. Poirot comes in this afternoon, as he
said he might do, I shall not dream of asking him who it was arrived at
his house early this morning.”

“Early this morning?” I queried.

“Very early,” said Caroline. “Before the milk came. I just happened
to be looking out of the window—the blind was flapping. It was a man.
He came in a closed car, and he was all muffled up. I couldn’t get a
glimpse of his face. But I will tell you _my_ idea, and you’ll see that
I’m right.”

“What’s your idea?”

Caroline dropped her voice mysteriously.

“A Home Office expert,” she breathed.

“A Home Office expert,” I said, amazed. “My dear Caroline!”

“Mark my words, James, you’ll see that I’m right. That Russell woman
was here that morning after your poisons. Roger Ackroyd might easily
have been poisoned in his food that night.”

I laughed out loud.

“Nonsense,” I cried. “He was stabbed in the neck. You know that as well
as I do.”

“After death, James,” said Caroline; “to make a false clew.”

“My good woman,” I said, “I examined the body, and I know what I’m
talking about. That wound wasn’t inflicted after death—it was the cause
of death, and you need make no mistake about it.”

Caroline merely continued to look omniscient, which so annoyed me that
I went on:—

“Perhaps you will tell me, Caroline, if I have a medical degree or if I
have not?”

“You have the medical degree, I dare say, James—at least, I mean I know
you have. But you’ve no imagination whatever.”

“Having endowed you with a treble portion, there was none left over for
me,” I said dryly.

I was amused to notice Caroline’s maneuvers that afternoon when Poirot
duly arrived. My sister, without asking a direct question, skirted the
subject of the mysterious guest in every way imaginable. By the twinkle
in Poirot’s eyes, I saw that he realized her object. He remained
blandly impervious, and blocked her bowling so successfully that she
herself was at a loss how to proceed.

Having, I suspect, quietly enjoyed the little game, he rose to his feet
and suggested a walk.

“It is that I need to reduce the figure a little,” he explained. “You
will come with me, doctor? And perhaps later Miss Caroline will give us
some tea.”

“Delighted,” said Caroline. “Won’t your—er—guest come in also?”

“You are too kind,” said Poirot. “But no, my friend reposes himself.
Soon you must make his acquaintance.”

“Quite an old friend of yours, so somebody told me,” said Caroline,
making one last valiant effort.

“Did they?” murmured Poirot “Well, we must start.”

Our tramp took us in the direction of Fernly. I had guessed beforehand
that it might do so. I was beginning to understand Poirot’s methods.
Every little irrelevancy had a bearing upon the whole.

“I have a commission for you, my friend,” he said at last. “To-night,
at my house, I desire to have a little conference. You will attend,
will you not?”

“Certainly,” I said.

“Good. I need also all those in the house—that is to say: Mrs. Ackroyd,
Mademoiselle Flora, Major Blunt, M. Raymond. I want you to be my
ambassador. This little reunion is fixed for nine o’clock. You will ask
them—yes?”

“With pleasure; but why not ask them yourself?”

“Because they will then put the questions: Why? What for? They will
demand what my idea is. And, as you know, my friend, I much dislike to
have to explain my little ideas until the time comes.”

I smiled a little.

“My friend Hastings, he of whom I told you, used to say of me that I
was the human oyster. But he was unjust. Of facts, I keep nothing to
myself. But to every one his own interpretation of them.”

“When do you want me to do this?”

“Now, if you will. We are close to the house.”

“Aren’t you coming in?”

“No, me, I will promenade myself in the grounds. I will rejoin you by
the lodge gates in a quarter of an hour’s time.”

I nodded, and set off on my task. The only member of the family at home
proved to be Mrs. Ackroyd, who was sipping an early cup of tea. She
received me very graciously.

“So grateful to you, doctor,” she murmured, “for clearing up that
little matter with M. Poirot. But life is one trouble after another.
You have heard about Flora, of course?”

“What exactly?” I asked cautiously.

“This new engagement. Flora and Hector Blunt. Of course not such a good
match as Ralph would have been. But after all, happiness comes first.
What dear Flora needs is an older man—some one steady and reliable, and
then Hector is really a very distinguished man in his way. You saw the
news of Ralph’s arrest in the paper this morning?”

“Yes,” I said, “I did.”

“Horrible.” Mrs. Ackroyd closed her eyes and shuddered. “Geoffrey
Raymond was in a terrible way. Rang up Liverpool. But they wouldn’t
tell him anything at the police station there. In fact, they said
they hadn’t arrested Ralph at all. Mr. Raymond insists that it’s all
a mistake—a—what do they call it?—_canard_ of the newspaper’s. I’ve
forbidden it to be mentioned before the servants. Such a terrible
disgrace. Fancy if Flora had actually been married to him.”

Mrs. Ackroyd shut her eyes in anguish. I began to wonder how soon I
should be able to deliver Poirot’s invitation.

Before I had time to speak, Mrs. Ackroyd was off again.

“You were here yesterday, weren’t you, with that dreadful Inspector
Raglan? Brute of a man—he terrified Flora into saying she took that
money from poor Roger’s room. And the matter was so simple, really. The
dear child wanted to borrow a few pounds, didn’t like to disturb her
uncle since he’d given strict orders against it, but knowing where he
kept his notes she went there and took what she needed.”

“Is that Flora’s account of the matter?” I asked.

“My dear doctor, you know what girls are nowadays. So easily acted on
by suggestion. You, of course, know all about hypnosis and that sort of
thing. The inspector shouts at her, says the word ‘steal’ over and over
again, until the poor child gets an inhibition—or is it a complex?—I
always mix up those two words—and actually thinks herself that she has
stolen the money. I saw at once how it was. But I can’t be too thankful
for the whole misunderstanding in one way—it seems to have brought
those two together—Hector and Flora, I mean. And I assure you that I
have been very much worried about Flora in the past: why, at one time
I actually thought there was going to be some kind of understanding
between her and young Raymond. Just think of it!” Mrs. Ackroyd’s voice
rose in shrill horror. “A private secretary—with practically no means
of his own.”

“It would have been a severe blow to you,” I said. “Now, Mrs. Ackroyd,
I’ve got a message for you from M. Hercule Poirot.”

“For me?”

Mrs. Ackroyd looked quite alarmed.

I hastened to reassure her, and I explained what Poirot wanted.

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Ackroyd rather doubtfully, “I suppose we must
come if M. Poirot says so. But what is it all about? I like to know
beforehand.”

I assured the lady truthfully that I myself did not know any more than
she did.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Ackroyd at last, rather grudgingly, “I will tell
the others, and we will be there at nine o’clock.”

Thereupon I took my leave, and joined Poirot at the agreed
meeting-place.

“I’ve been longer than a quarter of an hour, I’m afraid,” I remarked.
“But once that good lady starts talking it’s a matter of the utmost
difficulty to get a word in edgeways.”

“It is of no matter,” said Poirot. “Me, I have been well amused. This
park is magnificent.”

We set off homewards. When we arrived, to our great surprise Caroline,
who had evidently been watching for us, herself opened the door.

She put her fingers to her lips. Her face was full of importance and
excitement.

“Ursula Bourne,” she said, “the parlormaid from Fernly. She’s here!
I’ve put her in the dining-room. She’s in a terrible way, poor thing.
Says she must see M. Poirot at once. I’ve done all I could. Taken her a
cup of hot tea. It really goes to one’s heart to see any one in such a
state.”

“In the dining-room?” asked Poirot.

“This way,” I said, and flung open the door.

Ursula Bourne was sitting by the table. Her arms were spread out in
front of her, and she had evidently just lifted her head from where it
had been buried. Her eyes were red with weeping.

“Ursula Bourne,” I murmured.

But Poirot went past me with outstretched hands.

“No,” he said, “that is not quite right, I think. It is not Ursula
Bourne, is it, my child—but Ursula Paton? Mrs. Ralph Paton.”




                             CHAPTER XXII

                            URSULA’S STORY


For a moment or two the girl looked mutely at Poirot. Then, her reserve
breaking down completely, she nodded her head once, and burst into an
outburst of sobs.

Caroline pushed past me, and putting her arm round the girl, patted her
on the shoulder.

“There, there, my dear,” she said soothingly, “it will be all right.
You’ll see—everything will be all right.”

Buried under curiosity and scandal-mongering there is a lot of kindness
in Caroline. For the moment, even the interest of Poirot’s revelation
was lost in the sight of the girl’s distress.

Presently Ursula sat up and wiped her eyes.

“This is very weak and silly of me,” she said.

“No, no, my child,” said Poirot kindly. “We can all realize the strain
of this last week.”

“It must have been a terrible ordeal,” I said.

“And then to find that you knew,” continued Ursula. “How did you know?
Was it Ralph who told you?”

Poirot shook his head.

“You know what brought me to you to-night,” went on the girl. “_This_——”

She held out a crumpled piece of newspaper, and I recognized the
paragraph that Poirot had had inserted.

“It says that Ralph has been arrested. So everything is useless. I need
not pretend any longer.”

“Newspaper paragraphs are not always true, mademoiselle,” murmured
Poirot, having the grace to look ashamed of himself. “All the same, I
think you will do well to make a clean breast of things. The truth is
what we need now.”

The girl hesitated, looking at him doubtfully.

“You do not trust me,” said Poirot gently. “Yet all the same you came
here to find me, did you not? Why was that?”

“Because I don’t believe that Ralph did it,” said the girl in a very
low voice. “And I think that you are clever, and will find out the
truth. And also——”

“Yes?”

“I think you are kind.”

Poirot nodded his head several times.

“It is very good that—yes, it is very good. Listen, I do in verity
believe that this husband of yours is innocent—but the affair marches
badly. If I am to save him, I must know all there is to know—even if it
should seem to make the case against him blacker than before.”

“How well you understand,” said Ursula.

“So you will tell me the whole story, will you not? From the beginning.”

“You’re not going to send _me_ away, I hope,” said Caroline, settling
herself comfortably in an arm-chair. “What I want to know,” she
continued, “is why this child was masquerading as a parlormaid?”

“Masquerading?” I queried.

“That’s what I said. Why did you do it, child? For a wager?”

“For a living,” said Ursula dryly.

And encouraged, she began the story which I reproduce here in my own
words.

Ursula Bourne, it seemed, was one of a family of seven—impoverished
Irish gentlefolk. On the death of her father, most of the girls were
cast out into the world to earn their own living. Ursula’s eldest
sister was married to Captain Folliott. It was she whom I had seen
that Sunday, and the cause of her embarrassment was clear enough now.
Determined to earn her living and not attracted to the idea of being a
nursery governess—the one profession open to an untrained girl, Ursula
preferred the job of parlormaid. She scorned to label herself a “lady
parlormaid.” She would be the real thing, her reference being supplied
by her sister. At Fernly, despite an aloofness which, as has been seen,
caused some comment, she was a success at her job—quick, competent, and
thorough.

“I enjoyed the work,” she explained. “And I had plenty of time to
myself.”

And then came her meeting with Ralph Paton, and the love affair which
culminated in a secret marriage. Ralph had persuaded her into that,
somewhat against her will. He had declared that his stepfather would
not hear of his marrying a penniless girl. Better to be married
secretly, and break the news to him at some later and more favorable
minute.

And so the deed was done, and Ursula Bourne became Ursula Paton.
Ralph had declared that he meant to pay off his debts, find a job, and
then, when he was in a position to support her, and independent of his
adopted father, they would break the news to him.

But to people like Ralph Paton, turning over a new leaf is easier in
theory than in practice. He hoped that his stepfather, whilst still
in ignorance of the marriage, might be persuaded to pay his debts and
put him on his feet again. But the revelation of the amount of Ralph’s
liabilities merely enraged Roger Ackroyd, and he refused to do anything
at all. Some months passed, and then Ralph was bidden once more to
Fernly. Roger Ackroyd did not beat about the bush. It was the desire of
his heart that Ralph should marry Flora, and he put the matter plainly
before the young man.

And here it was that the innate weakness of Ralph Paton showed itself.
As always, he grasped at the easy, the immediate solution. As far
as I could make out, neither Flora nor Ralph made any pretence of
love. It was, on both sides, a business arrangement. Roger Ackroyd
dictated his wishes—they agreed to them. Flora accepted a chance of
liberty, money, and an enlarged horizon, Ralph, of course, was playing
a different game. But he was in a very awkward hole financially. He
seized at the chance. His debts would be paid. He could start again
with a clean sheet. His was not a nature to envisage the future, but
I gather that he saw vaguely the engagement with Flora being broken
off after a decent interval had elapsed. Both Flora and he stipulated
that it should be kept a secret for the present. He was anxious to
conceal it from Ursula. He felt instinctively that her nature, strong
and resolute, with an inherent distaste for duplicity, was not one to
welcome such a course.

Then came the crucial moment when Roger Ackroyd, always high-handed,
decided to announce the engagement. He said no word of his intention
to Ralph—only to Flora, and Flora, apathetic, raised no objection. On
Ursula, the news fell like a bombshell. Summoned by her, Ralph came
hurriedly down from town. They met in the wood, where part of their
conversation was overheard by my sister. Ralph implored her to keep
silent for a little while longer, Ursula was equally determined to have
done with concealments. She would tell Mr. Ackroyd the truth without
any further delay. Husband and wife parted acrimoniously.

Ursula, steadfast in her purpose, sought an interview with Roger
Ackroyd that very afternoon, and revealed the truth to him. Their
interview was a stormy one—it might have been even more stormy had not
Roger Ackroyd been already obsessed with his own troubles. It was bad
enough, however. Ackroyd was not the kind of man to forgive the deceit
that had been practiced upon him. His rancor was mainly directed to
Ralph, but Ursula came in for her share, since he regarded her as a
girl who had deliberately tried to “entrap” the adopted son of a very
wealthy man. Unforgivable things were said on both sides.

That same evening Ursula met Ralph by appointment in the small
summer-house, stealing out from the house by the side door in order to
do so. Their interview was made up of reproaches on both sides. Ralph
charged Ursula with having irretrievably ruined his prospects by her
ill-timed revelation. Ursula reproached Ralph with his duplicity.

They parted at last. A little over half an hour later came the
discovery of Roger Ackroyd’s body. Since that night Ursula had neither
seen nor heard from Ralph.

As the story unfolded itself, I realized more and more what a damning
series of facts it was. Alive, Ackroyd could hardly have failed to
alter his will—I knew him well enough to realize that to do so would
be his first thought. His death came in the nick of time for Ralph and
Ursula Paton. Small wonder the girl had held her tongue, and played her
part so consistently.

My meditations were interrupted. It was Poirot’s voice speaking, and I
knew from the gravity of his tone that he, too, was fully alive to the
implications of the position.

“Mademoiselle, I must ask you one question, and you must answer it
truthfully, for on it everything may hang: What time was it when you
parted from Captain Ralph Paton in the summer-house? Now, take a little
minute so that your answer may be very exact.”

The girl gave a half laugh, bitter enough in all conscience.

“Do you think I haven’t gone over that again and again in my own mind?
It was just half-past nine when I went out to meet him. Major Blunt
was walking up and down the terrace, so I had to go round through the
bushes to avoid him. It must have been about twenty-seven minutes to
ten when I reached the summer-house. Ralph was waiting for me. I was
with him ten minutes—not longer, for it was just a quarter to ten when
I got back to the house.”

I saw now the insistence of her question the other day. If only Ackroyd
could have been proved to have been killed before a quarter to ten, and
not after.

I saw the reflection of that thought in Poirot’s next question.

“Who left the summer-house first?”

“I did.”

“Leaving Ralph Paton in the summer-house?”

“Yes—but you don’t think——”

“Mademoiselle, it is of no importance what I think. What did you do
when you got back to the house?”

“I went up to my room.”

“And stayed there until when?”

“Until about ten o’clock.”

“Is there any one who can prove that?”

“Prove? That I was in my room, you mean? Oh! no. But surely—oh! I see,
they might think—they might think——”

I saw the dawning horror in her eyes.

Poirot finished the sentence for her.

“That it was _you_ who entered by the window and stabbed Mr. Ackroyd as
he sat in his chair? Yes, they might think just that.”

“Nobody but a fool would think any such thing,” said Caroline
indignantly.

She patted Ursula on the shoulder.

The girl had her face hidden in her hands.

“Horrible,” she was murmuring. “Horrible.”

Caroline gave her a friendly shake.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” she said. “M. Poirot doesn’t think that really.
As for that husband of yours, I don’t think much of him, and I tell you
so candidly. Running away and leaving you to face the music.”

But Ursula shook her head energetically.

“Oh, no,” she cried. “It wasn’t like that at all. Ralph would not run
away on his own account. I see now. If he heard of his stepfather’s
murder, he might think himself that I had done it.”

“He wouldn’t think any such thing,” said Caroline.

“I was so cruel to him that night—so hard and bitter. I wouldn’t listen
to what he was trying to say—wouldn’t believe that he really cared.
I just stood there telling him what I thought of him, and saying the
coldest, cruelest things that came into my mind—trying my best to hurt
him.”

“Do him no harm,” said Caroline. “Never worry about what you say to a
man. They’re so conceited that they never believe you mean it if it’s
unflattering.”

Ursula went on, nervously twisting and untwisting her hands.

“When the murder was discovered and he didn’t come forward, I was
terribly upset. Just for a moment I wondered—but then I knew he
couldn’t—he couldn’t.... But I wished he would come forward and say
openly that he’d had nothing to do with it. I knew that he was very
fond of Dr. Sheppard, and I fancied that perhaps Dr. Sheppard might
know where he was hiding.”

She turned to me.

“That’s why I said what I did to you that day. I thought, if you knew
where he was, you might pass on the message to him.”

“I?” I exclaimed.

“Why should James know where he was?” demanded Caroline sharply.

“It was very unlikely, I know,” admitted Ursula, “but Ralph had often
spoken of Dr. Sheppard, and I knew that he would be likely to consider
him as his best friend in King’s Abbot.”

“My dear child,” I said, “I have not the least idea where Ralph Paton
is at the present moment.”

“That is true enough,” said Poirot.

“But——” Ursula held out the newspaper cutting in a puzzled fashion.

“Ah! that,” said Poirot, slightly embarrassed; “a _bagatelle_,
mademoiselle. A _rien du tout_. Not for a moment do I believe that
Ralph Paton has been arrested.”

“But then——” began the girl slowly.

Poirot went on quickly:—

“There is one thing I should like to know—did Captain Paton wear shoes
or boots that night?”

Ursula shook her head.

“I can’t remember.”

“A pity! But how should you? Now, madame,” he smiled at her, his head
on one side, his forefinger wagging eloquently, “no questions. And
do not torment yourself. Be of good courage, and place your faith in
Hercule Poirot.”




                             CHAPTER XXIII

                        POIROT’S LITTLE REUNION


“And now,” said Caroline, rising, “that child is coming upstairs to lie
down. Don’t you worry, my dear. M. Poirot will do everything he can for
you—be sure of that.”

“I ought to go back to Fernly,” said Ursula uncertainly.

But Caroline silenced her protests with a firm hand.

“Nonsense. You’re in my hands for the time being. You’ll stay here for
the present, anyway—eh, M. Poirot?”

“It will be the best plan,” agreed the little Belgian. “This evening I
shall want mademoiselle—I beg her pardon, madame—to attend my little
reunion. Nine o’clock at my house. It is most necessary that she should
be there.”

Caroline nodded, and went with Ursula out of the room. The door shut
behind them. Poirot dropped down into a chair again.

“So far, so good,” he said. “Things are straightening themselves out.”

“They’re getting to look blacker and blacker against Ralph Paton,” I
observed gloomily.

Poirot nodded.

“Yes, that is so. But it was to be expected, was it not?”

I looked at him, slightly puzzled by the remark. He was leaning back in
the chair, his eyes half closed, the tips of his fingers just touching
each other. Suddenly he sighed and shook his head.

“What is it?” I asked.

“It is that there are moments when a great longing for my friend
Hastings comes over me. That is the friend of whom I spoke to you—the
one who resides now in the Argentine. Always, when I have had a big
case, he has been by my side. And he has helped me—yes, often he has
helped me. For he had a knack, that one, of stumbling over the truth
unawares—without noticing it himself, _bien entendu_. At times he has
said something particularly foolish, and behold that foolish remark has
revealed the truth to me! And then, too, it was his practice to keep a
written record of the cases that proved interesting.”

I gave a slight embarrassed cough.

“As far as that goes,” I began, and then stopped.

Poirot sat upright in his chair. His eyes sparkled.

“But yes? What is it that you would say?”

“Well, as a matter of fact, I’ve read some of Captain Hastings’s
narratives, and I thought, why not try my hand at something of the same
kind? Seemed a pity not to—unique opportunity—probably the only time
I’ll be mixed up with anything of this kind.”

I felt myself getting hotter and hotter, and more and more incoherent,
as I floundered through the above speech.

Poirot sprang from his chair. I had a moment’s terror that he was going
to embrace me French fashion, but mercifully he refrained.

“But this is magnificent—you have then written down your impressions of
the case as you went along?”

I nodded.

“_Epatant!_” cried Poirot. “Let me see them—this instant.”

I was not quite prepared for such a sudden demand. I racked my brains
to remember certain details.

“I hope you won’t mind,” I stammered. “I may have been a
little—er—_personal_ now and then.”

“Oh! I comprehend perfectly; you have referred to me as comic—as,
perhaps, ridiculous now and then? It matters not at all. Hastings,
he also was not always polite. Me, I have the mind above such
trivialities.”

Still somewhat doubtful, I rummaged in the drawers of my desk and
produced an untidy pile of manuscript which I handed over to him. With
an eye on possible publication in the future, I had divided the work
into chapters, and the night before I had brought it up to date with an
account of Miss Russell’s visit. Poirot had therefore twenty chapters.

I left him with them.

I was obliged to go out to a case at some distance away, and it was
past eight o’clock when I got back, to be greeted with a plate of hot
dinner on a tray, and the announcement that Poirot and my sister had
supped together at half-past seven, and that the former had then gone
to my workshop to finish his reading of the manuscript.

“I hope, James,” said my sister, “that you’ve been careful in what you
say about me in it?”

My jaw dropped. I had not been careful at all.

“Not that it matters very much,” said Caroline, reading my expression
correctly. “M. Poirot will know what to think. He understands me much
better than you do.”

I went into the workshop. Poirot was sitting by the window. The
manuscript lay neatly piled on a chair beside him. He laid his hand on
it and spoke.

“_Eh bien_,” he said, “I congratulate you—on your modesty!”

“Oh!” I said, rather taken aback.

“And on your reticence,” he added.

I said “Oh!” again.

“Not so did Hastings write,” continued my friend. “On every page,
many, many times was the word ‘I.’ What _he_ thought—what _he_ did.
But you—you have kept your personality in the background; only once or
twice does it obtrude—in scenes of home life, shall we say?”

I blushed a little before the twinkle in his eye.

“What do you really think of the stuff?” I asked nervously.

“You want my candid opinion?”

“Yes.”

Poirot laid his jesting manner aside.

“A very meticulous and accurate account,” he said kindly. “You have
recorded all the facts faithfully and exactly—though you have shown
yourself becomingly reticent as to your own share in them.”

“And it has helped you?”

“Yes. I may say that it has helped me considerably. Come, we must go
over to my house and set the stage for my little performance.”

Caroline was in the hall. I think she hoped that she might be invited
to accompany us. Poirot dealt with the situation tactfully.

“I should much like to have had you present, mademoiselle,” he said
regretfully, “but at this juncture it would not be wise. See you, all
these people to-night are suspects. Amongst them, I shall find the
person who killed Mr. Ackroyd.”

“You really believe that?” I said incredulously.

“I see that you do not,” said Poirot dryly. “Not yet do you appreciate
Hercule Poirot at his true worth.”

At that minute Ursula came down the staircase.

“You are ready, my child?” said Poirot. “That is good. We will go to
my house together. Mademoiselle Caroline, believe me, I do everything
possible to render you service. Good-evening.”

We went out, leaving Caroline, rather like a dog who has been refused a
walk, standing on the front door step gazing after us.

The sitting-room at The Larches had been got ready. On the table were
various _sirops_ and glasses. Also a plate of biscuits. Several chairs
had been brought in from the other room.

Poirot ran to and fro rearranging things. Pulling out a chair here,
altering the position of a lamp there, occasionally stooping to
straighten one of the mats that covered the floor. He was specially
fussy over the lighting. The lamps were arranged in such a way as to
throw a clear light on the side of the room where the chairs were
grouped, at the same time leaving the other end of the room, where I
presumed Poirot himself would sit, in a dim twilight.

Ursula and I watched him. Presently a bell was heard.

“They arrive,” said Poirot. “Good, all is in readiness.”

The door opened and the party from Fernly filed in. Poirot went forward
and greeted Mrs. Ackroyd and Flora.

“It is most good of you to come,” he said. “And Major Blunt and Mr.
Raymond.”

The secretary was debonair as ever.

“What’s the great idea?” he said, laughing. “Some scientific machine?
Do we have bands round our wrists which register guilty heart-beats?
There is such an invention, isn’t there?”

“I have read of it, yes,” admitted Poirot. “But me, I am old-fashioned.
I use the old methods. I work only with the little gray cells. Now let
us begin—but first I have an announcement to make to you all.”

He took Ursula’s hand and drew her forward.

“This lady is Mrs. Ralph Paton. She was married to Captain Paton last
March.”

A little shriek burst from Mrs. Ackroyd.

“Ralph! Married! Last March! Oh! but it’s absurd. How could he be?”

She stared at Ursula as though she had never seen her before.

“Married to Bourne?” she said. “Really, M. Poirot, I don’t believe you.”

Ursula flushed and began to speak, but Flora forestalled her.

Going quickly to the other girl’s side, she passed her hand through her
arm.

“You must not mind our being surprised,” she said. “You see, we had no
idea of such a thing. You and Ralph have kept your secret very well. I
am—very glad about it.”

“You are very kind, Miss Ackroyd,” said Ursula in a low voice, “and
you have every right to be exceedingly angry. Ralph behaved very
badly—especially to you.”

“You needn’t worry about that,” said Flora, giving her arm a consoling
little pat. “Ralph was in a corner and took the only way out. I should
probably have done the same in his place. I do think he might have
trusted me with the secret, though. I wouldn’t have let him down.”

Poirot rapped gently on a table and cleared his throat significantly.

“The board meeting’s going to begin,” said Flora. “M. Poirot hints that
we mustn’t talk. But just tell me one thing. Where is Ralph? You must
know if any one does.”

“But I don’t,” cried Ursula, almost in a wail. “That’s just it, I
don’t.”

“Isn’t he detained at Liverpool?” asked Raymond. “It said so in the
paper.”

“He is not at Liverpool,” said Poirot shortly.

“In fact,” I remarked, “no one knows where he is.”

“Excepting Hercule Poirot, eh?” said Raymond.

Poirot replied seriously to the other’s banter.

“Me, I know everything. Remember that.”

Geoffrey Raymond lifted his eyebrows.

“Everything?” He whistled. “Whew! that’s a tall order.”

“Do you mean to say you can really guess where Ralph Paton is hiding?”
I asked incredulously.

“You call it guessing. I call it knowing, my friend.”

“In Cranchester?” I hazarded.

“No,” replied Poirot gravely, “not in Cranchester.”

He said no more, but at a gesture from him the assembled party took
their seats. As they did so, the door opened once more and two other
people came in and sat down near the door. They were Parker and the
housekeeper.

“The number is complete,” said Poirot. “Every one is here.”

There was a ring of satisfaction in his tone. And with the sound of it
I saw a ripple of something like uneasiness pass over all those faces
grouped at the other end of the room. There was a suggestion in all
this as of a trap—a trap that had closed.

Poirot read from a list in an important manner.

“Mrs. Ackroyd, Miss Flora Ackroyd, Major Blunt, Mr. Geoffrey Raymond,
Mrs. Ralph Paton, John Parker, Elizabeth Russell.”

He laid the paper down on the table.

“What’s the meaning of all this?” began Raymond.

“The list I have just read,” said Poirot, “is a list of suspected
persons. Every one of you present had the opportunity to kill Mr.
Ackroyd——”

With a cry Mrs. Ackroyd sprang up, her throat working.

“I don’t like it,” she wailed. “I don’t like it. I would much prefer to
go home.”

“You cannot go home, madame,” said Poirot sternly, “until you have
heard what I have to say.”

He paused a moment, then cleared his throat.

“I will start at the beginning. When Miss Ackroyd asked me to
investigate the case, I went up to Fernly Park with the good Dr.
Sheppard. I walked with him along the terrace, where I was shown the
footprints on the window-sill. From there Inspector Raglan took me
along the path which leads to the drive. My eye was caught by a little
summer-house, and I searched it thoroughly. I found two things—a scrap
of starched cambric and an empty goose quill. The scrap of cambric
immediately suggested to me a maid’s apron. When Inspector Raglan
showed me his list of the people in the house, I noticed at once that
one of the maids—Ursula Bourne, the parlormaid—had no real alibi.
According to her own story, she was in her bedroom from nine-thirty
until ten. But supposing that instead she was in the summer-house?
If so, she must have gone there to meet some one. Now we know from
Dr. Sheppard that some one from outside _did_ come to the house that
night—the stranger whom he met just by the gate. At a first glance it
would seem that our problem was solved, and that the stranger went to
the summer-house to meet Ursula Bourne. It was fairly certain that he
_did_ go to the summer-house because of the goose quill. That suggested
at once to my mind a taker of drugs—and one who had acquired the habit
on the other side of the Atlantic where sniffing ‘snow’ is more common
than in this country. The man whom Dr. Sheppard met had an American
accent, which fitted in with that supposition.

“But I was held up by one point. _The times did not fit._ Ursula
Bourne could certainly not have gone to the summer-house before
nine-thirty, whereas the man must have got there by a few minutes
past nine. I could, of course, assume that he waited there for half
an hour. The only alternative supposition was that there had been two
separate meetings in the summer-house that night. _Eh bien_, as soon
as I went into that alternative I found several significant facts. I
discovered that Miss Russell, the housekeeper, had visited Dr. Sheppard
that morning, and had displayed a good deal of interest in cures for
victims of the drug habit. Taking that in conjunction with the goose
quill, I assumed that the man in question came to Fernly to meet the
housekeeper, and not Ursula Bourne. Who, then, did Ursula Bourne come
to the rendezvous to meet? I was not long in doubt. First I found a
ring—a wedding ring—with ‘From R.’ and a date inside it. Then I learnt
that Ralph Paton had been seen coming up the path which led to the
summer-house at twenty-five minutes past nine, and I also heard of
a certain conversation which had taken place in the wood near the
village that very afternoon—a conversation between Ralph Paton and
some unknown girl. So I had my facts succeeding each other in a neat
and orderly manner. A secret marriage, an engagement announced on the
day of the tragedy, the stormy interview in the wood, and the meeting
arranged for the summer-house that night.

“Incidentally this proved to me one thing, that both Ralph Paton and
Ursula Bourne (or Paton) had the strongest motives for wishing Mr.
Ackroyd out of the way. And it also made one other point unexpectedly
clear. It could not have been Ralph Paton who was with Mr. Ackroyd in
the study at nine-thirty.

“So we come to another and most interesting aspect of the crime. Who
was it in the room with Mr. Ackroyd at nine-thirty? Not Ralph Paton,
who was in the summer-house with his wife. Not Charles Kent, who
had already left. Who, then? I posed my cleverest—my most audacious
question: _Was any one with him?_”

Poirot leaned forward and shot the last words triumphantly at us,
drawing back afterwards with the air of one who has made a decided hit.

Raymond, however, did not seem impressed, and lodged a mild protest.

“I don’t know if you’re trying to make me out a liar, M. Poirot, but
the matter does not rest on my evidence alone—except perhaps as to the
exact words used. Remember, Major Blunt also heard Mr. Ackroyd talking
to some one. He was on the terrace outside, and couldn’t catch the
words clearly, but he distinctly heard the voices.”

Poirot nodded.

“I have not forgotten,” he said quietly. “But Major Blunt was under the
impression that it was _you_ to whom Mr. Ackroyd was speaking.”

For a moment Raymond seemed taken aback. Then he recovered himself.

“Blunt knows now that he was mistaken,” he said.

“Exactly,” agreed the other man.

“Yet there must have been some reason for his thinking so,” mused
Poirot. “Oh! no,” he held up his hand in protest, “I know the reason
you will give—but it is not enough. We must seek elsewhere. I will put
it this way. From the beginning of the case I have been struck by one
thing—the nature of those words which Mr. Raymond overheard. It has
been amazing to me that no one has commented on them—has seen anything
odd about them.”

He paused a minute, and then quoted softly:—

“... _The calls on my purse have been so frequent of late that I fear
it is impossible for me to accede to your request._ Does nothing strike
you as odd about that?”

“I don’t think so,” said Raymond. “He has frequently dictated letters
to me, using almost exactly those same words.”

“Exactly,” cried Poirot. “That is what I seek to arrive at. Would any
man use such a phrase in _talking_ to another? Impossible that that
should be part of a real conversation. Now, if he had been dictating a
letter——”

“You mean he was reading a letter aloud,” said Raymond slowly. “Even
so, he must have been reading to some one.”

“But why? We have no evidence that there was any one else in the room.
No other voice but Mr. Ackroyd’s was heard, remember.”

“Surely a man wouldn’t read letters of that type aloud to himself—not
unless he was—well—going balmy.”

“You have all forgotten one thing,” said Poirot softly: “the stranger
who called at the house the preceding Wednesday.”

They all stared at him.

“But yes,” said Poirot, nodding encouragingly, “on Wednesday. The
young man was not of himself important. But the firm he represented
interested me very much.”

“The Dictaphone Company,” gasped Raymond. “I see it now. A dictaphone.
That’s what you think?”

Poirot nodded.

“Mr. Ackroyd had promised to invest in a dictaphone, you remember.
Me, I had the curiosity to inquire of the company in question. Their
reply is that Mr. Ackroyd _did_ purchase a dictaphone from their
representative. Why he concealed the matter from you, I do not know.”

“He must have meant to surprise me with it,” murmured Raymond. “He had
quite a childish love of surprising people. Meant to keep it up his
sleeve for a day or so. Probably was playing with it like a new toy.
Yes, it fits in. You’re quite right—no one would use quite those words
in casual conversation.”

“It explains, too,” said Poirot, “why Major Blunt thought it was you
who were in the study. Such scraps as came to him were fragments of
dictation, and so his subconscious mind deduced that you were with him.
His conscious mind was occupied with something quite different—the
white figure he had caught a glimpse of. He fancied it was Miss
Ackroyd. Really, of course, it was Ursula Bourne’s white apron he saw
as she was stealing down to the summer-house.”

Raymond had recovered from his first surprise.

“All the same,” he remarked, “this discovery of yours, brilliant though
it is (I’m quite sure I should never have thought of it), leaves the
essential position unchanged. Mr. Ackroyd was alive at nine-thirty,
since he was speaking into the dictaphone. It seems clear that the man
Charles Kent was really off the premises by then. As to Ralph Paton——?”

He hesitated, glancing at Ursula.

Her color flared up, but she answered steadily enough.

“Ralph and I parted just before a quarter to ten. He never went near
the house, I am sure of that. He had no intention of doing so. The last
thing on earth he wanted was to face his stepfather. He would have
funked it badly.”

“It isn’t that I doubt your story for a moment,” explained Raymond.
“I’ve always been quite sure Captain Paton was innocent. But one has to
think of a court of law—and the questions that would be asked. He is in
a most unfortunate position, but if he were to come forward——”

Poirot interrupted.

“That is your advice, yes? That he should come forward?”

“Certainly. If you know where he is——”

“I perceive that you do not believe that I do know. And yet I have told
you just now that I know everything. The truth of the telephone call,
of the footprints on the window-sill, of the hiding-place of Ralph
Paton——”

“Where is he?” said Blunt sharply.

“Not very far away,” said Poirot, smiling.

“In Cranchester?” I asked.

Poirot turned towards me.

“Always you ask me that. The idea of Cranchester it is with you an
_idée fixe_. No, he is not in Cranchester. He is—_there_!”

He pointed a dramatic forefinger. Every one’s head turned.

Ralph Paton was standing in the doorway.




                             CHAPTER XXIV

                          RALPH PATON’S STORY


It was a very uncomfortable minute for _me_. I hardly took in what
happened next, but there were exclamations and cries of surprise! When
I was sufficiently master of myself to be able to realize what was
going on, Ralph Paton was standing by his wife, her hand in his, and he
was smiling across the room at me.

Poirot, too, was smiling, and at the same time shaking an eloquent
finger at me.

“Have I not told you at least thirty-six times that it is useless to
conceal things from Hercule Poirot?” he demanded. “That in such a case
he finds out?”

He turned to the others.

“One day, you remember, we held a little séance about a table—just
the six of us. I accused the other five persons present of concealing
something from me. Four of them gave up their secret. Dr. Sheppard did
not give up his. But all along I have had my suspicions. Dr. Sheppard
went to the Three Boars that night hoping to find Ralph. He did not
find him there; but supposing, I said to myself, that he met him in the
street on his way home? Dr. Sheppard was a friend of Captain Paton’s,
and he had come straight from the scene of the crime. He must know that
things looked very black against him. Perhaps he knew more than the
general public did——”

“I did,” I said ruefully. “I suppose I might as well make a clean
breast of things now. I went to see Ralph that afternoon. At first he
refused to take me into his confidence, but later he told me about his
marriage, and the hole he was in. As soon as the murder was discovered,
I realized that once the facts were known, suspicion could not fail to
attach to Ralph—or, if not to him, to the girl he loved. That night I
put the facts plainly before him. The thought of having possibly to
give evidence which might incriminate his wife made him resolve at all
costs to—to——”

I hesitated, and Ralph filled up the gap.

“To do a bunk,” he said graphically. “You see, Ursula left me to go
back to the house. I thought it possible that she might have attempted
to have another interview with my stepfather. He had already been very
rude to her that afternoon. It occurred to me that he might have so
insulted her—in such an unforgivable manner—that without knowing what
she was doing——”

He stopped. Ursula released her hand from his, and stepped back.

“You thought that, Ralph! You actually thought that I might have done
it?”

“Let us get back to the culpable conduct of Dr. Sheppard,” said Poirot
dryly. “Dr. Sheppard consented to do what he could to help him. He was
successful in hiding Captain Paton from the police.”

“Where?” asked Raymond. “In his own house?”

“Ah, no, indeed,” said Poirot. “You should ask yourself the question
that I did. If the good doctor is concealing the young man, what place
would he choose? It must necessarily be somewhere near at hand. I think
of Cranchester. A hotel? No. Lodgings? Even more emphatically, no.
Where, then? Ah! I have it. A nursing home. A home for the mentally
unfit. I test my theory. I invent a nephew with mental trouble. I
consult Mademoiselle Sheppard as to suitable homes. She gives me the
names of two near Cranchester to which her brother has sent patients. I
make inquiries. Yes, at one of them a patient was brought there by the
doctor himself early on Saturday morning. That patient, though known
by another name, I had no difficulty in identifying as Captain Paton.
After certain necessary formalities, I was allowed to bring him away.
He arrived at my house in the early hours of yesterday morning.”

I looked at him ruefully.

“Caroline’s Home Office expert,” I murmured. “And to think I never
guessed!”

“You see now why I drew attention to the reticence of your manuscript,”
murmured Poirot. “It was strictly truthful as far as it went—but it did
not go very far, eh, my friend?”

I was too abashed to argue.

“Dr. Sheppard has been very loyal,” said Ralph. “He has stood by me
through thick and thin. He did what he thought was the best. I see now,
from what M. Poirot has told me, that it was not really the best. I
should have come forward and faced the music. You see, in the home, we
never saw a newspaper. I knew nothing of what was going on.”

“Dr. Sheppard has been a model of discretion,” said Poirot dryly. “But
me, I discover all the little secrets. It is my business.”

“Now we can have your story of what happened that night,” said Raymond
impatiently.

“You know it already,” said Ralph. “There’s very little for me to add.
I left the summer-house about nine-forty-five, and tramped about the
lanes, trying to make up my mind as to what to do next—what line to
take. I’m bound to admit that I’ve not the shadow of an alibi, but I
give you my solemn word that I never went to the study, that I never
saw my stepfather alive—or dead. Whatever the world thinks, I’d like
all of you to believe me.”

“No alibi,” murmured Raymond. “That’s bad. I believe you, of course,
but—it’s a bad business.”

“It makes things very simple, though,” said Poirot, in a cheerful
voice. “Very simple indeed.”

We all stared at him.

“You see what I mean? No? Just this—to save Captain Paton the real
criminal must confess.”

He beamed round at us all.

“But yes—I mean what I say. See now, I did not invite Inspector Raglan
to be present. That was for a reason. I did not want to tell him all
that I knew—at least I did not want to tell him to-night.”

He leaned forward, and suddenly his voice and his whole personality
changed. He suddenly became dangerous.

“I who speak to you—I know the murderer of Mr. Ackroyd is in this
room now. It is to the murderer I speak. _To-morrow the truth goes to
Inspector Raglan._ You understand?”

There was a tense silence. Into the midst of it came the old Breton
woman with a telegram on a salver. Poirot tore it open.

Blunt’s voice rose abrupt and resonant.

“The murderer is amongst us, you say? You know—which?”

Poirot had read the message. He crumpled it up in his hand.

“I know—now.”

He tapped the crumpled ball of paper.

“What is that?” said Raymond sharply.

“A wireless message—from a steamer now on her way to the United States.”

There was a dead silence. Poirot rose to his feet bowing.

“Messieurs et Mesdames, this reunion of mine is at an end.
Remember—_the truth goes to Inspector Raglan in the morning_.”




                              CHAPTER XXV

                            THE WHOLE TRUTH


A slight gesture from Poirot enjoined me to stay behind the rest. I
obeyed, going over to the fire and thoughtfully stirring the big logs
on it with the toe of my boot.

I was puzzled. For the first time I was absolutely at sea as to
Poirot’s meaning. For a moment I was inclined to think that the scene
I had just witnessed was a gigantic piece of bombast—that he had been
what he called “playing the comedy” with a view to making himself
interesting and important. But, in spite of myself, I was forced to
believe in an underlying reality. There had been real menace in his
words—a certain indisputable sincerity. But I still believed him to be
on entirely the wrong tack.

When the door shut behind the last of the party he came over to the
fire.

“Well, my friend,” he said quietly, “and what do you think of it all?”

“I don’t know what to think,” I said frankly. “What was the point? Why
not go straight to Inspector Raglan with the truth instead of giving
the guilty person this elaborate warning?”

Poirot sat down and drew out his case of tiny Russian cigarettes. He
smoked for a minute or two in silence. Then:—

“Use your little gray cells,” he said. “There is always a reason behind
my actions.”

I hesitated for a moment, and then I said slowly:

“The first one that occurs to me is that you yourself do not know who
the guilty person is, but that you are sure that he is to be found
amongst the people here to-night. Therefore your words were intended to
force a confession from the unknown murderer?”

Poirot nodded approvingly.

“A clever idea, but not the truth.”

“I thought, perhaps, that by making him believe you knew, you might
force him out into the open—not necessarily by confession. He might try
to silence you as he formerly silenced Mr. Ackroyd—before you could act
to-morrow morning.”

“A trap with myself as the bait! _Merci, mon ami_, but I am not
sufficiently heroic for that.”

“Then I fail to understand you. Surely you are running the risk of
letting the murderer escape by thus putting him on his guard?”

Poirot shook his head.

“He cannot escape,” he said gravely. “There is only one way out—and
that way does not lead to freedom.”

“You really believe that one of those people here to-night committed
the murder?” I asked incredulously.

“Yes, my friend.”

“Which one?”

There was a silence for some minutes. Then Poirot tossed the stump of
his cigarette into the grate and began to speak in a quiet, reflective
tone.

“I will take you the way that I have traveled myself. Step by step
you shall accompany me, and see for yourself that all the facts point
indisputably to one person. Now, to begin with, there were two facts
and one little discrepancy in time which especially attracted my
attention. The first fact was the telephone call. If Ralph Paton were
indeed the murderer, the telephone call became meaningless and absurd.
Therefore, I said to myself, Ralph Paton is not the murderer.

“I satisfied myself that the call could not have been sent by any one
in the house, yet I was convinced that it was amongst those present
on the fatal evening that I had to look for my criminal. Therefore I
concluded that the telephone call must have been sent by an accomplice.
I was not quite pleased with that deduction, but I let it stand for the
minute.

“I next examined the _motive_ for the call. That was difficult. I could
only get at it by judging its _result_. Which was—that the murder was
discovered that night instead of—in all probability—the following
morning. You agree with that?”

“Ye-es,” I admitted. “Yes. As you say, Mr. Ackroyd, having given orders
that he was not to be disturbed, nobody would have been likely to go to
the study that night.”

“_Très bien._ The affair marches, does it not? But matters were
still obscure. What was the advantage of having the crime discovered
that night in preference to the following morning? The only idea I
could get hold of was that the murderer, knowing the crime was to be
discovered at a certain time, could make sure of being present when the
door was broken in—or at any rate immediately afterwards. And now we
come to the second fact—the chair pulled out from the wall. Inspector
Raglan dismissed that as of no importance. I, on the contrary, have
always regarded it as of supreme importance.

“In your manuscript you have drawn a neat little plan of the study.
If you had it with you this minute you would see that—the chair being
drawn out in the position indicated by Parker—it would stand in a
direct line between the door and the window.”

“The window!” I said quickly.

“You, too, have my first idea. I imagined that the chair was drawn out
so that something connected with the window should not be seen by any
one entering through the door. But I soon abandoned that supposition,
for though the chair was a grandfather with a high back, it obscured
very little of the window—only the part between the sash and the
ground. No, _mon ami_—but remember that just in front of the window
there stood a table with books and magazines upon it. Now that table
_was_ completely hidden by the drawn-out chair—and immediately I had my
first shadowy suspicion of the truth.

“Supposing that there had been something on that table not intended
to be seen? Something placed there by the murderer? As yet I had no
inkling of what that something might be. But I knew certain very
interesting facts about it. For instance, it was something that the
murderer had not been able to take away with him at the time that he
committed the crime. At the same time it was vital that it should be
removed as soon as possible after the crime had been discovered. And
so—the telephone message, and the opportunity for the murderer to be on
the spot when the body was discovered.

“Now four people were on the scene before the police arrived. Yourself,
Parker, Major Blunt, and Mr. Raymond. Parker I eliminated at once,
since at whatever time the crime was discovered, he was the one
person certain to be on the spot. Also it was he who told me of the
pulled-out chair. Parker, then, was cleared (of the murder, that is. I
still thought it possible that he had been blackmailing Mrs. Ferrars).
Raymond and Blunt, however, remained under suspicion since, if the
crime had been discovered in the early hours of the morning, it was
quite possible that they might have arrived on the scene too late to
prevent the object on the round table being discovered.

“Now what was that object? You heard my arguments to-night in reference
to the scrap of conversation overheard? As soon as I learned that
a representative of a dictaphone company had called, the idea of a
dictaphone took root in my mind. You heard what I said in this room not
half an hour ago? They all agreed with my theory—but one vital fact
seems to have escaped them. Granted that a dictaphone was being used by
Mr. Ackroyd that night—why was no dictaphone found?”

“I never thought of that,” I said.

“We know that a dictaphone was supplied to Mr. Ackroyd. But no
dictaphone has been found amongst his effects. So, if something was
taken from that table—why should not that something be the dictaphone?
But there were certain difficulties in the way. The attention of every
one was, of course, focused on the murdered man. I think any one could
have gone to the table unnoticed by the other people in the room. But
a dictaphone has a certain bulk—it cannot be slipped casually into
a pocket. There must have been a receptacle of some kind capable of
holding it.

“You see where I am arriving? The figure of the murderer is taking
shape. A person who was on the scene straightway, but who might not
have been if the crime had been discovered the following morning.
A person carrying a receptacle into which the dictaphone might be
fitted——”

I interrupted.

“But why remove the dictaphone? What was the point?”

“You are like Mr. Raymond. You take it for granted that what was heard
at nine-thirty was Mr. Ackroyd’s voice speaking into a dictaphone. But
consider this useful invention for a little minute. You dictate into
it, do you not? And at some later time a secretary or a typist turns it
on, and the voice speaks again.”

“You mean——” I gasped.

Poirot nodded.

“Yes, I mean that. _At nine-thirty Mr. Ackroyd was already dead._ It
was the dictaphone speaking—not the man.”

“And the murderer switched it on. Then he must have been in the room at
that minute?”

“Possibly. But we must not exclude the likelihood of some mechanical
device having been applied—something after the nature of a time lock,
or even of a simple alarm clock. But in that case we must add two
qualifications to our imaginary portrait of the murderer. It must be
some one who knew of Mr. Ackroyd’s purchase of the dictaphone and also
some one with the necessary mechanical knowledge.

“I had got thus far in my own mind when we came to the footprints on
the window ledge. Here there were three conclusions open to me. (1)
They might really have been made by Ralph Paton. He had been at Fernly
that night, and might have climbed into the study and found his uncle
dead there. That was one hypothesis. (2) There was the possibility that
the footmarks might have been made by somebody else who happened to
have the same kind of studs in his shoes. But the inmates of the house
had shoes soled with crepe rubber, and I declined to believe in the
coincidence of some one from outside having the same kind of shoes as
Ralph Paton wore. Charles Kent, as we know from the barmaid of the Dog
and Whistle, had on a pair of boots ‘clean dropping off him.’ (3) Those
prints were made by some one deliberately trying to throw suspicion
on Ralph Paton. To test this last conclusion, it was necessary to
ascertain certain facts. One pair of Ralph’s shoes had been obtained
from the Three Boars by the police. Neither Ralph nor any one else
could have worn them that evening, since they were downstairs being
cleaned. According to the police theory, Ralph was wearing another pair
of the same kind, and I found out that it was true that he had two
pairs. Now for my theory to be proved correct it was necessary for the
murderer to have worn Ralph’s shoes that evening—in which case Ralph
must have been wearing yet a _third_ pair of footwear of some kind.
I could hardly suppose that he would bring three pairs of shoes all
alike—the third pair of footwear were more likely to be boots. I got
your sister to make inquiries on this point—laying some stress on the
color, in order—I admit it frankly—to obscure the real reason for my
asking.

“You know the result of her investigations. Ralph Paton _had_ had a
pair of boots with him. The first question I asked him when he came to
my house yesterday morning was what he was wearing on his feet on the
fatal night. He replied at once that he had worn _boots_—he was still
wearing them, in fact—having nothing else to put on.

“So we get a step further in our description of the murderer—a person
who had the opportunity to take these shoes of Ralph Paton’s from the
Three Boars that day.”

He paused, and then said, with a slightly raised voice:—

“There is one further point. The murderer must have been a person who
had the opportunity to purloin that dagger from the silver table. You
might argue that any one in the house might have done so, but I will
recall to you that Miss Ackroyd was very positive that the dagger was
not there when she examined the silver table.”

He paused again.

“Let us recapitulate—now that all is clear. A person who was at the
Three Boars earlier that day, a person who knew Ackroyd well enough
to know that he had purchased a dictaphone, a person who was of a
mechanical turn of mind, who had the opportunity to take the dagger
from the silver table before Miss Flora arrived, who had with him a
receptacle suitable for hiding the dictaphone—such as a black bag, and
who had the study to himself for a few minutes after the crime was
discovered while Parker was telephoning for the police. In fact—_Dr.
Sheppard!_”




                             CHAPTER XXVI

                       AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH


There was a dead silence for a minute and a half.

Then I laughed.

“You’re mad,” I said.

“No,” said Poirot placidly. “I am not mad. It was the little
discrepancy in time that first drew my attention to you—right at the
beginning.”

“Discrepancy in time?” I queried, puzzled.

“But yes. You will remember that every one agreed—you yourself
included—that it took five minutes to walk from the lodge to the
house—less if you took the short cut to the terrace. But you left the
house at ten minutes to nine—both by your own statement and that of
Parker, and yet it was nine o’clock as you passed through the lodge
gates. It was a chilly night—not an evening a man would be inclined to
dawdle; why had you taken ten minutes to do a five-minutes’ walk? All
along I realized that we had only your statement for it that the study
window was ever fastened. Ackroyd asked you if you had done so—he never
looked to see. Supposing, then, that the study window was unfastened?
Would there be time in that ten minutes for you to run round the
outside of the house, change your shoes, climb in through the window,
kill Ackroyd, and get to the gate by nine o’clock? I decided against
that theory since in all probability a man as nervous as Ackroyd was
that night would hear you climbing in, and then there would have been
a struggle. But supposing that you killed Ackroyd _before_ you left—as
you were standing beside his chair? Then you go out of the front door,
run round to the summer-house, take Ralph Paton’s shoes out of the bag
you brought up with you that night, slip them on, walk through the
mud in them, and leave prints on the window ledge, you climb in, lock
the study door on the inside, run back to the summer-house, change
back into your own shoes, and race down to the gate. (I went through
similar actions the other day, when you were with Mrs. Ackroyd—it took
ten minutes exactly.) Then home—and an alibi—since you had timed the
dictaphone for half-past nine.”

“My dear Poirot,” I said in a voice that sounded strange and forced to
my own ears, “you’ve been brooding over this case too long. What on
earth had I to gain by murdering Ackroyd?”

“Safety. It was you who blackmailed Mrs. Ferrars. Who could have had
a better knowledge of what killed Mr. Ferrars than the doctor who was
attending him? When you spoke to me that first day in the garden,
you mentioned a legacy received about a year ago. I have been unable
to discover any trace of a legacy. You had to invent some way of
accounting for Mrs. Ferrars’s twenty thousand pounds. It has not done
you much good. You lost most of it in speculation—then you put the
screw on too hard, and Mrs. Ferrars took a way out that you had not
expected. If Ackroyd had learnt the truth he would have had no mercy on
you—you were ruined for ever.”

“And the telephone call?” I asked, trying to rally. “You have a
plausible explanation of that also, I suppose?”

“I will confess to you that it was my greatest stumbling block when
I found that a call had actually been put through to you from King’s
Abbot station. I at first believed that you had simply invented the
story. It was a very clever touch, that. You must have some excuse for
arriving at Fernly, finding the body, and so getting the chance to
remove the dictaphone on which your alibi depended. I had a very vague
notion of how it was worked when I came to see your sister that first
day and inquired as to what patients you had seen on Friday morning. I
had no thought of Miss Russell in my mind at that time. Her visit was a
lucky coincidence, since it distracted your mind from the real object
of my questions. I found what I was looking for. Among your patients
that morning was the steward of an American liner. Who more suitable
than he to be leaving for Liverpool by the train that evening? And
afterwards he would be on the high seas, well out of the way. I noted
that the _Orion_ sailed on Saturday, and having obtained the name of
the steward I sent him a wireless message asking a certain question.
This is his reply you saw me receive just now.”

He held out the message to me. It ran as follows—

“Quite correct. Dr. Sheppard asked me to leave a note at a patient’s
house. I was to ring him up from the station with the reply. Reply was
‘No answer.’”

                   *       *       *       *       *

“It was a clever idea,” said Poirot. “The call was genuine. Your sister
saw you take it. But there was only one man’s word as to what was
actually said—your own!”

I yawned.

“All this,” I said, “is very interesting—but hardly in the sphere of
practical politics.”

“You think not? Remember what I said—the truth goes to Inspector Raglan
in the morning. But, for the sake of your good sister, I am willing to
give you the chance of another way out. There might be, for instance,
an overdose of a sleeping draught. You comprehend me? But Captain Ralph
Paton must be cleared—_ça va sans dire_. I should suggest that you
finish that very interesting manuscript of yours—but abandoning your
former reticence.”

“You seem to be very prolific of suggestions,” I remarked. “Are you
sure you’ve quite finished.”

“Now that you remind me of the fact, it is true that there is one thing
more. It would be most unwise on your part to attempt to silence me as
you silenced M. Ackroyd. That kind of business does not succeed against
Hercule Poirot, you understand.”

“My dear Poirot,” I said, smiling a little, “whatever else I may be, I
am not a fool.”

I rose to my feet.

“Well, well,” I said, with a slight yawn, “I must be off home. Thank
you for a most interesting and instructive evening.”

Poirot also rose and bowed with his accustomed politeness as I passed
out of the room.




                             CHAPTER XXVII

                               APOLOGIA


Five a.m. I am very tired—but I have finished my task. My arm aches
from writing.

A strange end to my manuscript. I meant it to be published some day as
the history of one of Poirot’s failures! Odd, how things pan out.

All along I’ve had a premonition of disaster, from the moment I saw
Ralph Paton and Mrs. Ferrars with their heads together. I thought then
that she was confiding in him; as it happened I was quite wrong there,
but the idea persisted even after I went into the study with Ackroyd
that night, until he told me the truth.

Poor old Ackroyd. I’m always glad that I gave him a chance. I urged him
to read that letter before it was too late. Or let me be honest—didn’t
I subconsciously realize that with a pig-headed chap like him, it was
my best chance of getting him _not_ to read it? His nervousness that
night was interesting psychologically. He knew danger was close at
hand. And yet he never suspected _me_.

The dagger was an afterthought. I’d brought up a very handy little
weapon of my own, but when I saw the dagger lying in the silver table,
it occurred to me at once how much better it would be to use a weapon
that couldn’t be traced to me.

I suppose I must have meant to murder him all along. As soon as I heard
of Mrs. Ferrars’s death, I felt convinced that she would have told him
everything before she died. When I met him and he seemed so agitated,
I thought that perhaps he knew the truth, but that he couldn’t bring
himself to believe it, and was going to give me the chance of refuting
it.

So I went home and took my precautions. If the trouble were after all
only something to do with Ralph—well, no harm would have been done. The
dictaphone he had given me two days before to adjust. Something had
gone a little wrong with it, and I persuaded him to let me have a go at
it, instead of sending it back. I did what I wanted to it, and took it
up with me in my bag that evening.

I am rather pleased with myself as a writer. What could be neater, for
instance, than the following:—

“_The letters were brought in at twenty minutes to nine. It was just
on ten minutes to nine when I left him, the letter still unread. I
hesitated with my hand on the door handle, looking back and wondering
if there was anything I had left undone._”

All true, you see. But suppose I had put a row of stars after the first
sentence! Would somebody then have wondered what exactly happened in
that blank ten minutes?

When I looked round the room from the door, I was quite satisfied.
Nothing had been left undone. The dictaphone was on the table by the
window, timed to go off at nine-thirty (the mechanism of that little
device was rather clever—based on the principle of an alarm clock), and
the arm-chair was pulled out so as to hide it from the door.

I must admit that it gave me rather a shock to run into Parker just
outside the door. I have faithfully recorded that fact.

Then later, when the body was discovered, and I had sent Parker to
telephone for the police, what a judicious use of words: “_I did
what little had to be done!_” It was quite little—just to shove the
dictaphone into my bag and push back the chair against the wall in
its proper place. I never dreamed that Parker would have noticed
that chair. Logically, he ought to have been so agog over the body
as to be blind to everything else. But I hadn’t reckoned with the
trained-servant complex.

I wish I could have known beforehand that Flora was going to say she’d
seen her uncle alive at a quarter to ten. That puzzled me more than
I can say. In fact, all through the case there have been things that
puzzled me hopelessly. Every one seems to have taken a hand.

My greatest fear all through has been Caroline. I have fancied she
might guess. Curious the way she spoke that day of my “strain of
weakness.”

Well, she will never know the truth. There is, as Poirot said, one way
out....

I can trust him. He and Inspector Raglan will manage it between them. I
should not like Caroline to know. She is fond of me, and then, too, she
is proud.... My death will be a grief to her, but grief passes....

When I have finished writing, I shall enclose this whole manuscript in
an envelope and address it to Poirot.

And then—what shall it be? Veronal? There would be a kind of poetic
justice. Not that I take any responsibility for Mrs. Ferrars’s death.
It was the direct consequence of her own actions. I feel no pity for
her.

I have no pity for myself either.

So let it be veronal.

But I wish Hercule Poirot had never retired from work and come here to
grow vegetable marrows.


                                THE END




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  SONIA

  Sonia Marsh goes to San Francisco to seek a new life and a happy
  one but she finds everything is not smooth sailing. After many
  harrowing experiences she finally marries the man she loves.

  SEQUEL TO SONIA

  It continues the life story of Sonia Marsh, who left her small
  town to go to the city, where she falls in love with a Doctor and
  marries him.

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               GROSSET & DUNLAP, _Publishers,_ NEW YORK
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                       RAFAEL SABATINI’S NOVELS
=======================================================================
 May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset & Dunlap’s list.
=======================================================================

Jesi a diminutive city of the Italian Marches, was the birthplace of
Rafael Sabatini.

He first went to school in Switzerland and from there to Lycee of
Oporto, Portugal, and has never attended an English school. But English
is hardly an adopted language for him, as he learned it from his
mother, an English woman.

Today Rafael Sabatini is regarded as “The Alexandre Dumas of Modern
Fiction.”

  THE LION’S SKIN
  THE SHAME OF MOTLEY
  THE TRAMPLING OF THE LILIES
  THE GATES OF DOOM
  THE STROLLING SAINT
  THE BANNER OF THE BULL
  THE CAROLINIAN
  SAINT MARTIN’S SUMMER
  MISTRESS WILDING
  FORTUNE’S FOOL
  BARDELYS THE MAGNIFICENT
  THE SNARE
  CAPTAIN BLOOD
  THE SEA-HAWK
  SCARAMOUCHE

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               GROSSET & DUNLAP, _Publishers,_ NEW YORK
=======================================================================


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                          ZANE GREY’S NOVELS
=======================================================================
May be had wherever books are sold. Ask for Grosset and Dunlap’s list.
=======================================================================

  UNDER THE TONTO RIM
  TAPPAN’S BURRO
  THE VANISHING AMERICAN
  THE THUNDERING HERD
  THE CALL OF THE CANYON
  WANDERER OF THE WASTELAND
  TO THE LAST MAN
  THE MYSTERIOUS RIDER
  THE MAN OF THE FOREST
  THE DESERT OF WHEAT
  THE U. P. TRAIL
  WILDFIRE
  THE BORDER LEGION
  THE RAINBOW TRAIL
  THE HERITAGE OF THE DESERT
  RIDERS OF THE PURPLE SAGE
  THE LIGHT OF WESTERN STARS
  THE LAST OF THE PLAINSMEN
  THE LONE STAR RANGER
  DESERT GOLD
  BETTY ZANE
  THE DAY OF THE BEAST

                   *       *       *       *       *

LAST OF THE GREAT SCOUTS

The life story of “Buffalo Bill” by his sister Helen Cody Wetmore, with
Foreword and conclusion by Zane Grey.

ZANE GREY’S BOOKS FOR BOYS

  ROPING LIONS IN THE GRAND CANYON
  KEN WARD IN THE JUNGLE
  THE YOUNG LION HUNTER
  THE YOUNG FORESTER
  THE YOUNG PITCHER
  THE SHORT STOP
  THE RED-HEADED OUTFIELD AND OTHER BASEBALL STORIES

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               GROSSET & DUNLAP, _Publishers,_ NEW YORK
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Transcriber’s Notes:

  - Text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_).
  - Blank pages have been removed.
  - Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected.