The murder of Roger Ackroyd
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?”