The murder of Roger Ackroyd
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