The murder of Roger Ackroyd
“I enjoyed the work,” she explained. “And I had plenty of time to
myself.”
And then came her meeting with Ralph Paton, and the love affair which
culminated in a secret marriage. Ralph had persuaded her into that,
somewhat against her will. He had declared that his stepfather would
not hear of his marrying a penniless girl. Better to be married
secretly, and break the news to him at some later and more favorable
minute.
And so the deed was done, and Ursula Bourne became Ursula Paton.
Ralph had declared that he meant to pay off his debts, find a job, and
then, when he was in a position to support her, and independent of his
adopted father, they would break the news to him.
But to people like Ralph Paton, turning over a new leaf is easier in
theory than in practice. He hoped that his stepfather, whilst still
in ignorance of the marriage, might be persuaded to pay his debts and
put him on his feet again. But the revelation of the amount of Ralph’s
liabilities merely enraged Roger Ackroyd, and he refused to do anything
at all. Some months passed, and then Ralph was bidden once more to
Fernly. Roger Ackroyd did not beat about the bush. It was the desire of
his heart that Ralph should marry Flora, and he put the matter plainly
before the young man.
And here it was that the innate weakness of Ralph Paton showed itself.
As always, he grasped at the easy, the immediate solution. As far
as I could make out, neither Flora nor Ralph made any pretence of
love. It was, on both sides, a business arrangement. Roger Ackroyd
dictated his wishes—they agreed to them. Flora accepted a chance of
liberty, money, and an enlarged horizon, Ralph, of course, was playing
a different game. But he was in a very awkward hole financially. He
seized at the chance. His debts would be paid. He could start again
with a clean sheet. His was not a nature to envisage the future, but
I gather that he saw vaguely the engagement with Flora being broken
off after a decent interval had elapsed. Both Flora and he stipulated
that it should be kept a secret for the present. He was anxious to
conceal it from Ursula. He felt instinctively that her nature, strong
and resolute, with an inherent distaste for duplicity, was not one to
welcome such a course.
Then came the crucial moment when Roger Ackroyd, always high-handed,
decided to announce the engagement. He said no word of his intention
to Ralph—only to Flora, and Flora, apathetic, raised no objection. On
Ursula, the news fell like a bombshell. Summoned by her, Ralph came
hurriedly down from town. They met in the wood, where part of their
conversation was overheard by my sister. Ralph implored her to keep
silent for a little while longer, Ursula was equally determined to have
done with concealments. She would tell Mr. Ackroyd the truth without
any further delay. Husband and wife parted acrimoniously.
Ursula, steadfast in her purpose, sought an interview with Roger
Ackroyd that very afternoon, and revealed the truth to him. Their
interview was a stormy one—it might have been even more stormy had not
Roger Ackroyd been already obsessed with his own troubles. It was bad
enough, however. Ackroyd was not the kind of man to forgive the deceit
that had been practiced upon him. His rancor was mainly directed to
Ralph, but Ursula came in for her share, since he regarded her as a
girl who had deliberately tried to “entrap” the adopted son of a very
wealthy man. Unforgivable things were said on both sides.
That same evening Ursula met Ralph by appointment in the small
summer-house, stealing out from the house by the side door in order to
do so. Their interview was made up of reproaches on both sides. Ralph
charged Ursula with having irretrievably ruined his prospects by her
ill-timed revelation. Ursula reproached Ralph with his duplicity.
They parted at last. A little over half an hour later came the
discovery of Roger Ackroyd’s body. Since that night Ursula had neither
seen nor heard from Ralph.
As the story unfolded itself, I realized more and more what a damning
series of facts it was. Alive, Ackroyd could hardly have failed to
alter his will—I knew him well enough to realize that to do so would
be his first thought. His death came in the nick of time for Ralph and
Ursula Paton. Small wonder the girl had held her tongue, and played her
part so consistently.
My meditations were interrupted. It was Poirot’s voice speaking, and I
knew from the gravity of his tone that he, too, was fully alive to the
implications of the position.
“Mademoiselle, I must ask you one question, and you must answer it
truthfully, for on it everything may hang: What time was it when you
parted from Captain Ralph Paton in the summer-house? Now, take a little
minute so that your answer may be very exact.”
The girl gave a half laugh, bitter enough in all conscience.
“Do you think I haven’t gone over that again and again in my own mind?
It was just half-past nine when I went out to meet him. Major Blunt
was walking up and down the terrace, so I had to go round through the
bushes to avoid him. It must have been about twenty-seven minutes to
ten when I reached the summer-house. Ralph was waiting for me. I was
with him ten minutes—not longer, for it was just a quarter to ten when
I got back to the house.”
I saw now the insistence of her question the other day. If only Ackroyd
could have been proved to have been killed before a quarter to ten, and
not after.
I saw the reflection of that thought in Poirot’s next question.
“Who left the summer-house first?”
“I did.”
“Leaving Ralph Paton in the summer-house?”
“Yes—but you don’t think——”
“Mademoiselle, it is of no importance what I think. What did you do
when you got back to the house?”
“I went up to my room.”
“And stayed there until when?”
“Until about ten o’clock.”
“Is there any one who can prove that?”
“Prove? That I was in my room, you mean? Oh! no. But surely—oh! I see,
they might think—they might think——”
I saw the dawning horror in her eyes.
Poirot finished the sentence for her.
“That it was _you_ who entered by the window and stabbed Mr. Ackroyd as
he sat in his chair? Yes, they might think just that.”
“Nobody but a fool would think any such thing,” said Caroline
indignantly.
She patted Ursula on the shoulder.
The girl had her face hidden in her hands.
“Horrible,” she was murmuring. “Horrible.”
Caroline gave her a friendly shake.
“Don’t worry, my dear,” she said. “M. Poirot doesn’t think that really.
As for that husband of yours, I don’t think much of him, and I tell you
so candidly. Running away and leaving you to face the music.”
But Ursula shook her head energetically.
“Oh, no,” she cried. “It wasn’t like that at all. Ralph would not run
away on his own account. I see now. If he heard of his stepfather’s
murder, he might think himself that I had done it.”
“He wouldn’t think any such thing,” said Caroline.
“I was so cruel to him that night—so hard and bitter. I wouldn’t listen
to what he was trying to say—wouldn’t believe that he really cared.
I just stood there telling him what I thought of him, and saying the
coldest, cruelest things that came into my mind—trying my best to hurt
him.”
“Do him no harm,” said Caroline. “Never worry about what you say to a
man. They’re so conceited that they never believe you mean it if it’s
unflattering.”
Ursula went on, nervously twisting and untwisting her hands.
“When the murder was discovered and he didn’t come forward, I was
terribly upset. Just for a moment I wondered—but then I knew he
couldn’t—he couldn’t.... But I wished he would come forward and say
openly that he’d had nothing to do with it. I knew that he was very
fond of Dr. Sheppard, and I fancied that perhaps Dr. Sheppard might
know where he was hiding.”
She turned to me.
“That’s why I said what I did to you that day. I thought, if you knew
where he was, you might pass on the message to him.”
“I?” I exclaimed.
“Why should James know where he was?” demanded Caroline sharply.
“It was very unlikely, I know,” admitted Ursula, “but Ralph had often
spoken of Dr. Sheppard, and I knew that he would be likely to consider
him as his best friend in King’s Abbot.”
“My dear child,” I said, “I have not the least idea where Ralph Paton
is at the present moment.”
“That is true enough,” said Poirot.
“But——” Ursula held out the newspaper cutting in a puzzled fashion.
“Ah! that,” said Poirot, slightly embarrassed; “a _bagatelle_,
mademoiselle. A _rien du tout_. Not for a moment do I believe that
Ralph Paton has been arrested.”
“But then——” began the girl slowly.
Poirot went on quickly:—
“There is one thing I should like to know—did Captain Paton wear shoes
or boots that night?”
Ursula shook her head.
“I can’t remember.”
“A pity! But how should you? Now, madame,” he smiled at her, his head
on one side, his forefinger wagging eloquently, “no questions. And
do not torment yourself. Be of good courage, and place your faith in
Hercule Poirot.”
CHAPTER XXIII
POIROT’S LITTLE REUNION
“And now,” said Caroline, rising, “that child is coming upstairs to lie
down. Don’t you worry, my dear. M. Poirot will do everything he can for
you—be sure of that.”
“I ought to go back to Fernly,” said Ursula uncertainly.
But Caroline silenced her protests with a firm hand.
“Nonsense. You’re in my hands for the time being. You’ll stay here for
the present, anyway—eh, M. Poirot?”
“It will be the best plan,” agreed the little Belgian. “This evening I
shall want mademoiselle—I beg her pardon, madame—to attend my little
reunion. Nine o’clock at my house. It is most necessary that she should
be there.”
Caroline nodded, and went with Ursula out of the room. The door shut
behind them. Poirot dropped down into a chair again.
“So far, so good,” he said. “Things are straightening themselves out.”
“They’re getting to look blacker and blacker against Ralph Paton,” I
observed gloomily.
Poirot nodded.
“Yes, that is so. But it was to be expected, was it not?”
I looked at him, slightly puzzled by the remark. He was leaning back in
the chair, his eyes half closed, the tips of his fingers just touching
each other. Suddenly he sighed and shook his head.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It is that there are moments when a great longing for my friend
Hastings comes over me. That is the friend of whom I spoke to you—the
one who resides now in the Argentine. Always, when I have had a big
case, he has been by my side. And he has helped me—yes, often he has
helped me. For he had a knack, that one, of stumbling over the truth
unawares—without noticing it himself, _bien entendu_. At times he has
said something particularly foolish, and behold that foolish remark has
revealed the truth to me! And then, too, it was his practice to keep a
written record of the cases that proved interesting.”
I gave a slight embarrassed cough.
“As far as that goes,” I began, and then stopped.
Poirot sat upright in his chair. His eyes sparkled.
“But yes? What is it that you would say?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I’ve read some of Captain Hastings’s
narratives, and I thought, why not try my hand at something of the same
kind? Seemed a pity not to—unique opportunity—probably the only time
I’ll be mixed up with anything of this kind.”
I felt myself getting hotter and hotter, and more and more incoherent,
as I floundered through the above speech.
Poirot sprang from his chair. I had a moment’s terror that he was going
to embrace me French fashion, but mercifully he refrained.
“But this is magnificent—you have then written down your impressions of
the case as you went along?”
I nodded.
“_Epatant!_” cried Poirot. “Let me see them—this instant.”