The murder of Roger Ackroyd
to be looking out of the window—the blind was flapping. It was a man.
He came in a closed car, and he was all muffled up. I couldn’t get a
glimpse of his face. But I will tell you _my_ idea, and you’ll see that
I’m right.”
“What’s your idea?”
Caroline dropped her voice mysteriously.
“A Home Office expert,” she breathed.
“A Home Office expert,” I said, amazed. “My dear Caroline!”
“Mark my words, James, you’ll see that I’m right. That Russell woman
was here that morning after your poisons. Roger Ackroyd might easily
have been poisoned in his food that night.”
I laughed out loud.
“Nonsense,” I cried. “He was stabbed in the neck. You know that as well
as I do.”
“After death, James,” said Caroline; “to make a false clew.”
“My good woman,” I said, “I examined the body, and I know what I’m
talking about. That wound wasn’t inflicted after death—it was the cause
of death, and you need make no mistake about it.”
Caroline merely continued to look omniscient, which so annoyed me that
I went on:—
“Perhaps you will tell me, Caroline, if I have a medical degree or if I
have not?”
“You have the medical degree, I dare say, James—at least, I mean I know
you have. But you’ve no imagination whatever.”
“Having endowed you with a treble portion, there was none left over for
me,” I said dryly.
I was amused to notice Caroline’s maneuvers that afternoon when Poirot
duly arrived. My sister, without asking a direct question, skirted the
subject of the mysterious guest in every way imaginable. By the twinkle
in Poirot’s eyes, I saw that he realized her object. He remained
blandly impervious, and blocked her bowling so successfully that she
herself was at a loss how to proceed.
Having, I suspect, quietly enjoyed the little game, he rose to his feet
and suggested a walk.
“It is that I need to reduce the figure a little,” he explained. “You
will come with me, doctor? And perhaps later Miss Caroline will give us
some tea.”
“Delighted,” said Caroline. “Won’t your—er—guest come in also?”
“You are too kind,” said Poirot. “But no, my friend reposes himself.
Soon you must make his acquaintance.”
“Quite an old friend of yours, so somebody told me,” said Caroline,
making one last valiant effort.
“Did they?” murmured Poirot. “Well, we must start.”
Our tramp took us in the direction of Fernly. I had guessed beforehand
that it might do so. I was beginning to understand Poirot’s methods.
Every little irrelevancy had a bearing upon the whole.
“I have a commission for you, my friend,” he said at last. “To-night,
at my house, I desire to have a little conference. You will attend,
will you not?”
“Certainly,” I said.
“Good. I need also all those in the house—that is to say: Mrs. Ackroyd,
Mademoiselle Flora, Major Blunt, M. Raymond. I want you to be my
ambassador. This little reunion is fixed for nine o’clock. You will ask
them—yes?”
“With pleasure; but why not ask them yourself?”
“Because they will then put the questions: Why? What for? They will
demand what my idea is. And, as you know, my friend, I much dislike to
have to explain my little ideas until the time comes.”
I smiled a little.
“My friend Hastings, he of whom I told you, used to say of me that I
was the human oyster. But he was unjust. Of facts, I keep nothing to
myself. But to every one his own interpretation of them.”
“When do you want me to do this?”
“Now, if you will. We are close to the house.”
“Aren’t you coming in?”
“No, me, I will promenade myself in the grounds. I will rejoin you by
the lodge gates in a quarter of an hour’s time.”
I nodded, and set off on my task. The only member of the family at home
proved to be Mrs. Ackroyd, who was sipping an early cup of tea. She
received me very graciously.
“So grateful to you, doctor,” she murmured, “for clearing up that
little matter with M. Poirot. But life is one trouble after another.
You have heard about Flora, of course?”
“What exactly?” I asked cautiously.
“This new engagement. Flora and Hector Blunt. Of course not such a good
match as Ralph would have been. But after all, happiness comes first.
What dear Flora needs is an older man—some one steady and reliable, and
then Hector is really a very distinguished man in his way. You saw the
news of Ralph’s arrest in the paper this morning?”
“Yes,” I said, “I did.”
“Horrible.” Mrs. Ackroyd closed her eyes and shuddered. “Geoffrey
Raymond was in a terrible way. Rang up Liverpool. But they wouldn’t
tell him anything at the police station there. In fact, they said
they hadn’t arrested Ralph at all. Mr. Raymond insists that it’s all
a mistake—a—what do they call it?—_canard_ of the newspaper’s. I’ve
forbidden it to be mentioned before the servants. Such a terrible
disgrace. Fancy if Flora had actually been married to him.”
Mrs. Ackroyd shut her eyes in anguish. I began to wonder how soon I
should be able to deliver Poirot’s invitation.
Before I had time to speak, Mrs. Ackroyd was off again.
“You were here yesterday, weren’t you, with that dreadful Inspector
Raglan? Brute of a man—he terrified Flora into saying she took that
money from poor Roger’s room. And the matter was so simple, really. The
dear child wanted to borrow a few pounds, didn’t like to disturb her
uncle since he’d given strict orders against it, but knowing where he
kept his notes she went there and took what she needed.”
“Is that Flora’s account of the matter?” I asked.
“My dear doctor, you know what girls are nowadays. So easily acted on
by suggestion. You, of course, know all about hypnosis and that sort of
thing. The inspector shouts at her, says the word ‘steal’ over and over
again, until the poor child gets an inhibition—or is it a complex?—I
always mix up those two words—and actually thinks herself that she has
stolen the money. I saw at once how it was. But I can’t be too thankful
for the whole misunderstanding in one way—it seems to have brought
those two together—Hector and Flora, I mean. And I assure you that I
have been very much worried about Flora in the past: why, at one time
I actually thought there was going to be some kind of understanding
between her and young Raymond. Just think of it!” Mrs. Ackroyd’s voice
rose in shrill horror. “A private secretary—with practically no means
of his own.”
“It would have been a severe blow to you,” I said. “Now, Mrs. Ackroyd,
I’ve got a message for you from M. Hercule Poirot.”
“For me?”
Mrs. Ackroyd looked quite alarmed.
I hastened to reassure her, and I explained what Poirot wanted.
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Ackroyd rather doubtfully, “I suppose we must
come if M. Poirot says so. But what is it all about? I like to know
beforehand.”
I assured the lady truthfully that I myself did not know any more than
she did.
“Very well,” said Mrs. Ackroyd at last, rather grudgingly, “I will tell
the others, and we will be there at nine o’clock.”
Thereupon I took my leave, and joined Poirot at the agreed
meeting-place.
“I’ve been longer than a quarter of an hour, I’m afraid,” I remarked.
“But once that good lady starts talking it’s a matter of the utmost
difficulty to get a word in edgeways.”
“It is of no matter,” said Poirot. “Me, I have been well amused. This
park is magnificent.”
We set off homewards. When we arrived, to our great surprise Caroline,
who had evidently been watching for us, herself opened the door.
She put her fingers to her lips. Her face was full of importance and
excitement.
“Ursula Bourne,” she said, “the parlormaid from Fernly. She’s here!
I’ve put her in the dining-room. She’s in a terrible way, poor thing.
Says she must see M. Poirot at once. I’ve done all I could. Taken her a
cup of hot tea. It really goes to one’s heart to see any one in such a
state.”
“In the dining-room?” asked Poirot.
“This way,” I said, and flung open the door.
Ursula Bourne was sitting by the table. Her arms were spread out in
front of her, and she had evidently just lifted her head from where it
had been buried. Her eyes were red with weeping.
“Ursula Bourne,” I murmured.
But Poirot went past me with outstretched hands.
“No,” he said, “that is not quite right, I think. It is not Ursula
Bourne, is it, my child—but Ursula Paton? Mrs. Ralph Paton.”
CHAPTER XXII
URSULA’S STORY
For a moment or two the girl looked mutely at Poirot. Then, her reserve
breaking down completely, she nodded her head once, and burst into an
outburst of sobs.
Caroline pushed past me, and putting her arm round the girl, patted her
on the shoulder.
“There, there, my dear,” she said soothingly, “it will be all right.
You’ll see—everything will be all right.”
Buried under curiosity and scandal-mongering there is a lot of kindness
in Caroline. For the moment, even the interest of Poirot’s revelation
was lost in the sight of the girl’s distress.
Presently Ursula sat up and wiped her eyes.
“This is very weak and silly of me,” she said.
“No, no, my child,” said Poirot kindly. “We can all realize the strain
of this last week.”
“It must have been a terrible ordeal,” I said.
“And then to find that you knew,” continued Ursula. “How did you know?
Was it Ralph who told you?”
Poirot shook his head.
“You know what brought me to you to-night,” went on the girl. “_This_——”
She held out a crumpled piece of newspaper, and I recognized the
paragraph that Poirot had had inserted.
“It says that Ralph has been arrested. So everything is useless. I need
not pretend any longer.”
“Newspaper paragraphs are not always true, mademoiselle,” murmured
Poirot, having the grace to look ashamed of himself. “All the same, I
think you will do well to make a clean breast of things. The truth is
what we need now.”
The girl hesitated, looking at him doubtfully.
“You do not trust me,” said Poirot gently. “Yet all the same you came
here to find me, did you not? Why was that?”
“Because I don’t believe that Ralph did it,” said the girl in a very
low voice. “And I think that you are clever, and will find out the
truth. And also——”
“Yes?”
“I think you are kind.”
Poirot nodded his head several times.
“It is very good that—yes, it is very good. Listen, I do in verity
believe that this husband of yours is innocent—but the affair marches
badly. If I am to save him, I must know all there is to know—even if it
should seem to make the case against him blacker than before.”
“How well you understand,” said Ursula.
“So you will tell me the whole story, will you not? From the beginning.”
“You’re not going to send _me_ away, I hope,” said Caroline, settling
herself comfortably in an arm-chair. “What I want to know,” she
continued, “is why this child was masquerading as a parlormaid?”
“Masquerading?” I queried.
“That’s what I said. Why did you do it, child? For a wager?”
“For a living,” said Ursula dryly.
And encouraged, she began the story which I reproduce here in my own
words.
Ursula Bourne, it seemed, was one of a family of seven—impoverished
Irish gentlefolk. On the death of her father, most of the girls were
cast out into the world to earn their own living. Ursula’s eldest
sister was married to Captain Folliott. It was she whom I had seen
that Sunday, and the cause of her embarrassment was clear enough now.
Determined to earn her living and not attracted to the idea of being a
nursery governess—the one profession open to an untrained girl, Ursula
preferred the job of parlormaid. She scorned to label herself a “lady
parlormaid.” She would be the real thing, her reference being supplied
by her sister. At Fernly, despite an aloofness which, as has been seen,
caused some comment, she was a success at her job—quick, competent, and
thorough.