The murder of Roger Ackroyd
_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.