The murder of Roger Ackroyd
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.