The murder of Roger Ackroyd
“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