inspector fussily.“Including mine,” I said drily.“Very well. None of them correspond. That leaves us twoalternatives. Ralph Paton, or the mysterious stranger the doctor heretells us about. When we get hold of those two—”“Much valuable time may have been lost,” broke in Poirot.“I don’t quite get you, Mr. Poirot.”“You have taken the prints of everyone in the house, you say,”murmured Poirot. “Is that the exact truth you are telling me there, M.l’inspecteur?”“Certainly.”“Without overlooking anyone?”“Without overlooking anyone.”“The quick or the dead?”For a moment the inspector looked bewildered at what he took tobe a religious observation.
Then he reacted slowly. “You mean —?”“The dead, M. l’inspecteur.”The inspector still took a minute or two to understand.“I am suggesting,” said Poirot placidly, “that the fingerprints on thedagger handle are those of Mr. Ackroyd himself. It is an easy matterto verify. His body is still available.”“But why? What would be the point of it? You’re surely notsuggesting suicide, Mr. Poirot?”“Ah! no. My theory is that the murderer wore gloves or wrappedsomething round his hand. After the blow was struck, he picked upthe victim’s hand and closed it round the dagger handle.”“But why?”Poirot shrugged his shoulders again.“To make a confusing case even more confusing.”“Well,” said the inspector. “I’ll look into it. What gave you the ideain the first place?”“When you were so kind as to show me the dagger and drawattention to the fingerprints. I know very little of loops and whorls —see, I confess my ignorance frankly. But it did occur to me that theposition of the prints was somewhat awkward. Not so would I haveheld a dagger in order to strike. Naturally, with the right hand broughtup over the shoulder backwards, it would have been difficult to put itin exactly the right position.”Inspector Raglan stared at the little man. Poirot, with an air ofgreat unconcern, flecked a speck of dust from his coat sleeve.
“Well,” said the inspector. “It’s an idea. I’ll look into it all right, butdon’t you be disappointed if nothing comes of it.”He endeavoured to make his tone kindly and patronising. Poirotwatched him go off. Then he turned to me with twinkling eyes.“Another time,” he observed, “I must be more careful of his amourpropre. And now that we are left to our own devices, what do youthink, my good friend, of a little reunion of the family?”The “little reunion,” as Poirot called it, took place about half anhour later. We sat round the table in the dining room at Fernly —Poirot at the head of the table, like the chairman of some ghastlyboard meeting. The servants were not present, so we were six in all.Mrs. Ackroyd, Flora, Major Blunt, young Raymond, Poirot, andmyself. When everyone was assembled, Poirot rose and bowed.“Messieurs, mesdames, I have called you together for a certainpurpose.” He paused. “To begin with, I want to make a very specialplea to mademoiselle.”“To me?” said Flora.“Mademoiselle, you are engaged to Captain Ralph Paton. Ifanyone is in his confidence, you are. I beg you, most earnestly, if youknow of his whereabouts, to persuade him to come forward. Onelittle minute” —as Flora raised her head to speak—“say nothing tillyou have well reflected. Mademoiselle, his position grows daily moredangerous. If he had come forward at once, no matter how damningthe facts, he might have had a chance of explaining them away. Butthis silence —this flight —what can it mean? Surely only one thing,knowledge of guilt.
Mademoiselle, if you really believe in hisinnocence, persuade him to come forward before it is too late.”Flora’s face had gone very white.“Too late!” she repeated, very low.Poirot leant forward, looking at her.“See now, mademoiselle,” he said very gently, “it is Papa Poirotwho asks you this. The old Papa Poirot who has much knowledgeand much experience. I would not seek to entrap you, mademoiselle.Will you not trust me —and tell me where Ralph Paton is hiding?”The girl rose and stood facing him.“M. Poirot,” she said in a clear voice, “I swear to you—swearsolemnly
Chapter 6
—that I have no idea where Ralph is, and that I haveneither seen him nor heard from him either on the day of —of themurder, or since.”She sat down again. Poirot gazed at her in silence for a minute ortwo, then he brought his hand down on the table with a sharp rap.“Bien! That is that,” he said. His face hardened. “Now I appeal tothese others who sit round this table, Mrs. Ackroyd, Major Blunt,Dr. Sheppard, Mr. Raymond. You are all friends and intimates of themissing man. If you know where Ralph Paton is hiding, speak out.”There was a long silence. Poirot looked to each in turn. “I beg ofyou,” he said in a low voice,“speak out.”But still there was silence, broken at last by Mrs. Ackroyd.“I must say,” she observed in a plaintive voice, “that Ralph’sabsence is most peculiar —most peculiar indeed. Not to comeforward at such a time. It looks, you know, as though there weresomething behind it. I can’t help thinking, Flora dear, that it was avery fortunate thing your engagement was never formallyannounced.”“Mother!” cried Flora angrily.“Providence,” declared Mrs. Ackroyd. “I have a devout belief in Providence—a divinity that shapes our ends, as Shakespeare’sbeautiful line runs.”“Surely you don’t make the Almighty directly responsible for thickankles, Mrs. Ackroyd, do you?” asked Geoffrey Raymond, hisirresponsible laugh ringing out. His idea was, I think, to loosen the tension, but Mrs. Ackroyd threwhim a glance of reproach and took out her handkerchief.“Flora has been saved a terrible amount of notoriety andunpleasantness. Not for a moment that I think dear Ralph hadanything to do with poor Roger’s death.
I don’t think so. But then Ihave a trusting heart —I always have had, ever since a child. I amloath to believe the worst of anyone. But, of course, one mustremember that Ralph was in several air raids as a young boy. Theresults are apparent long after, sometimes, they say. People are notresponsible for their actions in the least. They lose control, you know,without being able to help it.”“Mother,” cried Flora, “you don’t think Ralph did it?”“Come, Mrs. Ackroyd,” said Blunt.“I don’t know what to think,” said Mrs. Ackroyd tearfully. “It’s allvery upsetting. What would happen to the estate, I wonder, if Ralphwere found guilty?”Raymond pushed his chair away from the table violently. Major Blunt remained very quiet, looking thoughtfully at her.“Like shell-shock, you know,” said Mrs. Ackroyd obstinately, “and Idare say Roger kept him very short of money—with the bestintentions, of course.
I can see you are all against me, but I do thinkit is very odd that Ralph has not come forward, and I must say I amthankful Flora’s engagement was never announced formally.”“It will be tomorrow,” said Flora in a clear voice.“Flora!” cried her mother, aghast.Flora had turned to the secretary. “Will you send anannouncement to the Morning Post and the Times, please,Mr. Raymond.”“If you are sure that it is wise, Miss Ackroyd,” he replied gravely.She turned impulsively to Blunt.“You understand,” she said. “What else can I do? As things are, Imust stand by Ralph. Don’t you see that I must?”She looked very searchingly at him, and after a long pause henodded abruptly.Mrs. Ackroyd burst out into shrill protests. Flora remainedunmoved. Then Raymond spoke.“I appreciate your motives. Miss Ackroyd. But don’t you thinkyou’re being rather precipitate? Wait a day or two.”“Tomorrow,” said Flora in a clear voice. “It’s no good, Mother,going on like this. Whatever else I am, I’m not disloyal to my friends.”“M. Poirot,” Mrs. Ackroyd appealed tearfully. “Can’t you sayanything at all?”“Nothing to be said,” interpolated Blunt. “She’s doing the rightthing. I’ll stand by her through thick and thin.”Flora held out her hand to him. “Thank you, Major Blunt,” she said.“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, “will you let an old man congratulateyou on your courage and your loyalty? And will you notmisunderstand me if I ask you —ask you most solemnly — topostpone the announcement you speak of for at least two days more?” Flora hesitated.“I ask it in Ralph Paton’s interests as much as in yours,mademoiselle. You frown. You do not see how that can be. But Iassure you that it is so. Pas de blagues. You put the case into myhands —you must not hamper me now.”Flora paused a few minutes before replying. “I do not like it,” shesaid at last, “but I will do what you say.”She sat down again at the table.“And now, messieurs et mesdames,” said Poirot rapidly, “I willcontinue with what I was about to say.
Understand this: I mean toarrive at the truth. The truth, however ugly in itself, is always curiousand beautiful to the seeker after it. I am much aged, my powers maynot be what they were.” Here he clearly expected a contradiction. “Inall probability this is the last case I shall ever investigate. But HerculePoirot does not end with a failure. Messieurs et mesdames, I tell you,I mean to know. And I shall know —in spite of you all.”He brought out the last words provocatively, hurling them in ourface as it were. I think we all flinched back a little, excepting GeoffreyRaymond, who remained good-humoured and imperturbable asusual.“How do you mean —in spite of us all?” he asked, with slightlyraised eyebrows.“But —just that, monsieur. Every one of you in this room isconcealing something from me.” He raised his hand as a faintmurmur of protest arose. “Yes, yes, I know what I am saying. It maybe something unimportant —trivial —which is supposed to have nobearing on the case, but there it is. Each one of you has somethingto hide. Come now, am I right?”His glance, challenging and accusing, swept round the table. Andevery pair of eyes dropped before his. Yes, mine as well.“I am answered,” said Poirot, with a curious laugh. He got up fromhis seat. “I appeal to you all. Tell me the truth —the whole truth.”There was a silence. “Will no one speak?”
He gave the same short laugh again.“C’est dommage,” he said, and went out.That evening, at Poirot’s request, I went over to his house afterdinner. Caroline saw me depart with visible reluctance. I think shewould have liked to have accompanied me.Poirot greeted me hospitably. He had placed a bottle of Irishwhiskey (which I detest) on a small table, with a soda water siphonand a glass. He himself was engaged in brewing hot chocolate. Itwas a favourite beverage of his, I discovered later.He inquired politely after my sister, whom he declared to be a mostinteresting woman.“I’m afraid you’ve been giving her a swelled head,” I said drily.“What about Sunday afternoon?”He laughed and twinkled. “I always like to employ the expert,” heremarked obscurely,
but he refused to explain the remark.“You got all the local gossip anyway,” I remarked. “True, anduntrue.”“And a great deal of valuable information,” he added quietly.“Such as —?”He shook his head. “Why not have told me the truth?” hecountered. “In a place like this, all Ralph Paton’s doings were boundto be known. If your sister had not happened to pass through thewood that day somebody else would have done so.”“I suppose they would,” I said grumpily. “What about this interest ofyours in my patients?”Again he twinkled. “Only one of them, doctor. Only one of them.”“The last?” I hazarded.“I find Miss Russell a study of the most interesting,” he saidevasively.“Do you agree with my sister and Mrs. Ackroyd that there issomething fishy about her?” I asked.“Eh? What do you say —fishy?”I explained to the best of my ability.“And they say that, do they?”“Didn’t my sister convey as much to you yesterday afternoon?”“C’est possible.”“For no reason whatever,” I declared.“Les femmes,” generalized Poirot. “They are marvelous! Theyinvent haphazard —and by miracle they are right. Not that it is that,really. Women observe subconsciously a thousand little details,without knowing that they are doing so. Their subconscious mindadds these little things together —and they call the result intuition.Me, I am very skilled in psychology. I know these things.”He swelled his chest out importantly, looking so ridiculous, that Ifound it difficult not to burst out laughing. Then he took a small sip ofhis chocolate, and carefully wiped his mustache.“I wish you’d tell me,” I burst out, “what you really think of it all?”He put down his cup. “You wish that?”“I do.”“You have seen what I have seen. Should not our ideas be thesame?”“I’m afraid you’re laughing at me,” I said stiffly. “Of course, I’ve noexperience of matters of this kind.”
Poirot smiled at me indulgently.“You are like the little child who wants to know the way the engineworks. You wish to see the affair, not as the family doctor sees it, butwith the eye of a detective who knows and cares for no one —towhom they are all strangers and all equally liable to suspicion.”“You put it very well,” I said.“So I give you then, a little lecture. The first thing is to get a clearhistory of what happened that evening —always bearing in mind thatthe person who speaks may be lying.”I raised my eyebrows. “Rather a suspicious attitude.”“But necessary —I assure you, necessary. Now first —Dr. Sheppardleaves the house at ten minutes to nine. How do I know that?”“Because I told you so.”“But you might not be speaking the truth —or the watch you wentby might be wrong. But Parker also says that you left the house atten minutes to nine. So we accept that statement and pass on. Atnine o’clock you run into a man —and here we come to what we willcall the Romance of the Mysterious Stranger —just outside the Parkgates. How do I know that that is so?”“I told you so,” I began again, but Poirot interrupted me with agesture of impatience.
“Ah! but it is that you are a little stupid tonight, my friend. You knowthat it is so —but how am I to know? Eh bien, I am able to tell youthat the Mysterious Stranger was not a hallucination on your part,because the maid of a Miss Gannett met him a few minutes before you did, and of her too he inquired the way to Fernly Park. Weaccept his presence, therefore, and we can be fairly sure of twothings about him —that he was a stranger to the neighborhood, andthat whatever his object in going to Fernly, there was no greatsecrecy about it, since he twice asked the way there.”“Yes,” I said, “I see that.”“Now I have made it my business to find out more about this man.He had a drink at the Three Boars, I learn, and the barmaid theresays that he spoke with an American accent and mentioned havingjust come over from the States. Did it strike you that he had anAmerican accent?”“Yes, I think he had,” I said, after a minute or two, during which Icast my mind back, “but a very slight one.”“Précisément. There is also this which, you will remember, I pickedup in the summerhouse?”He held out to me the little quill. I looked at it curiously. Then amemory
of something I had read stirred in me.‘snow.’ Drug-takers carry it like this, and sniff it up the nose.”“Diamorphine hydrochloride,” I murmured mechanically.“This method of taking the drug is very common on the other side.Another proof, if we wanted one, that the man came from Canada orthe States.”“What first attracted your attention to that summerhouse?” I askedcuriously.“My friend the inspector took it for granted that anyone using thatpath did so as a shortcut to the house, but as soon as I saw thesummerhouse, I realized that the same path would be taken byanyone using the summerhouse as a rendezvous. Now it seemsfairly certain that the stranger came neither to the front nor to theback door. Then did someone from the house go out and meet him?If so, what could be a more convenient place than that littlesummerhouse? I searched it with the hope that I might find someclue inside. I found two, the scrap of cambric and the quill.”“And the scrap of cambric?” I asked curiously.
“What about that?”Poirot raised his eyebrows. “You do not use your little grey cells,”he remarked drily. “The scrap of starched cambric should beobvious.”“Not very obvious to me.” I changed the subject. “Anyway,” I said,“this man went to the summerhouse to meet somebody. Who wasthat somebody?”“Exactly the question,” said Poirot. “You will remember thatMrs. Ackroyd and her daughter came over from Canada to livehere?”“Is that what you meant today when you accused them of hidingthe truth?”“Perhaps. Now another point. What did you think of the parlourmaid’s story?”“What story?”“The story of her dismissal. Does it take half an hour to dismiss aservant? Was the story of those important papers a likely one? Andremember, though she says she was in her bedroom from nine-thirtyuntil ten o’clock, there is no one to confirm her statement.”“You bewilder me,” I said.“To me it grows clearer. But tell me now your own ideas andtheories.”I drew a piece of paper from my pocket. “I just scribbled down afew suggestions,” I said apologetically.“But excellent —you have method. Let us hear them.”I read out in a somewhat embarrassed voice. “To begin with, onemust look at the thing logically —”“Just what my poor Hastings used to say,” interrupted Poirot, “butalas! he never did so.”“Point No. —Mr. Ackroyd was heard talking to someone at halfpast nine.“Point No. —At some time during the evening Ralph Paton musthave come in through the window, as evidenced by the prints of hisshoes.
“Point No. —Mr. Ackroyd was nervous that evening, and wouldonly have admitted someone he knew.“Point No.—The person with Mr. Ackroyd at nine-thirty wasasking for money. We know Ralph Paton was in a scrape.“These four points go to show that the person with Mr. Ackroyd atnine-thirty was Ralph Paton. But we know that Mr. Ackroyd was aliveat a quarter to ten, therefore it was not Ralph who killed him. Ralphleft the window open. Afterwards the murderer came in that way.”“And who was the murderer?” inquired Poirot.“The American stranger. He may have been in league with Parker,and possibly in Parker we have the man who blackmailedMrs. Ferrars. If so, Parker may have heard enough to realize thegame was up, have told his accomplice so, and the latter did thecrime with the dagger which Parker gave him.”“It is a theory that,” admitted Poirot. “Decidedly you have cells of akind. But it leaves a good deal unaccounted for.”“Such as —?”“The telephone call, the pushed-out chair —”“Do you really think that latter important?” I interrupted.“Perhaps not,” admitted my friend. “It may have been pulled out byaccident, and Raymond or Blunt may have shoved it into placeunconsciously under the stress of emotion. Then there is the missingforty pounds.”“Given by Ackroyd to Ralph,” I suggested. “He may havereconsidered his first refusal.”“That still leaves one thing unexplained.”“What?”“Why was Blunt so certain in his own mind that it was Raymondwith Mr. Ackroyd at nine-thirty?”“He explained that,” I said.“You think so? I will not press the point. Tell me, instead, whatwere Ralph
Paton’s reasons for disappearing?”“That’s rather more difficult,” I said slowly. “I shall have to speak asa medical man. Ralph’s nerves must have gone phut! If he suddenlyfound out that his uncle had been murdered within a few minutes ofhis leaving him —after, perhaps, a rather stormy interview —well, hemight get the wind up and clear right out. Men have been known todo that — act guiltily when they’re perfectly innocent.”“Yes, that is true,” said Poirot. “But we must not lose sight of onething.”“I know what you’re going to say,” I remarked: “motive. RalphPaton inherits a great fortune by his uncle’s death.”“That is one motive,” agreed Poirot.“One?”“Mais oui. Do you realize that there are three separate motivesstaring us in the face? Somebody certainly stole the blue envelopeand its contents. That is one motive. Blackmail! Ralph Paton mayhave been the man who blackmailed Mrs. Ferrars. Remember, as faras Hammond knew, Ralph Paton had not applied to his uncle forhelp of late. That looks as though he were being supplied withmoney elsewhere. Then there is the fact that he was in some —how do you say —scrape?
—which he feared might get to his uncle’s ears.And finally there is the one you have just mentioned.”“Dear me,” I said, rather taken aback. “The case does seem blackagainst him.”“Does it?” said Poirot. “That is where we disagree, you and I.Three motives—it is almost too much. I am inclined to believe that,after all, Ralph Paton is innocent.After the evening talk I have just chronicled, the affair seemed to meto enter on a different phase. The whole thing can be divided intotwo parts, each clear and distinct from the other. Part ranges fromAckroyd’s death on the Friday evening to the following Monday night.It is the straightforward narrative of what occurred, as presented toHercule Poirot. I was at Poirot’s elbow the whole time. I saw what hesaw. I tried my best to read his mind. As I know now, I failed in thislatter task. Though Poirot showed me all his discoveries —as, forinstance, the gold wedding-ring —he held back the vital and yetlogical impressions that he formed. As I came to know later, thissecrecy was characteristic of him. He would throw out hints andsuggestions, but beyond that he would not go.As I say, up till the Monday evening, my narrative might have beenthat of Poirot himself. I played Watson to his Sherlock. But afterMonday our ways diverged. Poirot was busy on his own account. Igot to hear of what he was doing, because in King’s Abbot, you getto hear of everything, but he did not take me into his confidencebeforehand. And I, too, had my own preoccupations.
On looking back, the thing that strikes me most is the piecemealcharacter of this period. Everyone had a hand in the elucidation ofthe mystery. It was rather like a jigsaw puzzle to which everyonecontributed their own little piece of knowledge or discovery. But theirtask ended there. To Poirot alone belongs the renown of fitting thosepieces into their correct place.Some of the incidents seemed at the time irrelevant andunmeaning. There was, for instance, the question of the black boots.But that comes later. … To take things strictly in chronological order, Imust begin with the summons from Mrs. Ackroyd.She sent for me early on Tuesday morning, and since thesummons sounded an urgent one, I hastened there, expecting to findher in extremis.The lady was in bed. So much did she concede to the etiquette ofthe situation. She gave me her bony hand, and indicated a chairdrawn up to the bedside.“Well, Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said, “and what’s the matter with you?”I spoke with that kind of spurious geniality which seems to beexpected of general practitioners.“I’m prostrated,” said Mrs. Ackroyd in a faint voice. “Absolutelyprostrated. It’s the shock of poor Roger’s death. They say thesethings often aren’t felt at the time, you know. It’s the reactionafterwards.”It is a pity that a doctor is precluded by his profession from beingable sometimes to say what he really thinks. I would have givenanything to be able to
answer “Bunkum!”Instead, I suggested a tonic. Mrs. Ackroyd accepted the tonic. Onemove in the game seemed now to be concluded. Not for a momentdid I imagine that I had been sent for because of the shockoccasioned by Ackroyd’s death. But Mrs. Ackroyd is totally incapableof pursuing a straightforward course on any subject. She alwaysapproaches her object by tortuous means. I wondered very muchwhy it was she had sent for me.“And then that scene —yesterday,” continued my patient. Shepaused as though expecting me to take up a cue.“What scene?”“Doctor, how can you? Have you forgotten? That dreadful littleFrenchman —or Belgian —or whatever he is. Bullying us all like hedid. It has quite upset me. Coming on the top of Roger’s death.”“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said.“I don’t know what he meant—shouting at us like he did. I shouldhope I know my duty too well to dream of concealing anything. Ihave given the police every assistance in my power.”Mrs. Ackroyd paused, and I said, “Quite so.” I was beginning tohave a glimmering of what all the trouble was about.“No one can say that I have failed in my duty,” continuedMrs. Ackroyd. “I am sure Inspector Raglan is perfectly satisfied. Whyshould this little upstart of a foreigner make a fuss? A mostridiculous-looking creature he is too —just like a comic Frenchman ina revue. I can’t think why Flora insisted on bringing him into thecase. She never said a word to me about it. Just went off and did iton her own. Flora is too independent. I am a woman of the world andher mother. She should have come to me for advice first.”I listened to all this in silence.“What does he think? That’s what I want to know. Does he actuallyimagine I’m hiding something?
He —positively accused meyesterday.”I shrugged my shoulders. “It is surely of no consequence, Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said. “Since you are not concealing anything, anyremarks he may have made do not apply to you.”Mrs. Ackroyd went off at a tangent, after her usual fashion.“Servants are so tiresome,” she said. “They gossip, and talkamongst themselves. And then it gets round—and all the timethere’s probably nothing in it at all.”“Have the servants been talking?” I asked. “What about?”Mrs. Ackroyd cast a very shrewd glance at me. It quite threw meoff my balance.“I was sure you’d know, doctor, if anyone did. You were with M.Poirot all the time, weren’t you?”“I was.”“Then of course you know. It was that girl, Ursula Bourne, wasn’tit? Naturally —she’s leaving. She would want to make all the troubleshe could. Spiteful, that’s what they are. They’re all alike. Now, youbeing there, doctor, you must know exactly what she did say? I’mmost anxious that no wrong impression should get about. After all,you don’t repeat every little detail to the police, do you? There arefamily matters sometimes —nothing to do with the question of themurder. But if the girl was spiteful, she may have made out all sortsof things.”I was shrewd enough to see that a very real anxiety lay behindthese outpourings. Poirot had been justified in his premises. Of thesix people round the table yesterday, Mrs. Ackroyd at least had hadsomething to hide. It was for me to discover what that somethingmight be.“If I were you, Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said brusquely, “I should make aclean breast of things.”She gave a little scream. “Oh! doctor, how can you be so abrupt. Itsounds as though—And I can explain everything sosimply.”“Then why not do so?” I suggested.Mrs. Ackroyd took out a frilled handkerchief, and became tearful.“I thought, doctor, that you might put it to M. Poirot —explain it, youknow —because it’s so difficult for a foreigner to see our point ofview. And you don’t know —nobody could know —what I’ve had tocontend with. A martyrdom —a long martyrdom. That’s what my lifehas been. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead—but there it is. Not thesmallest bill but it had all to be gone over —just as though Roger hadhad a few miserly hundreds a year instead of being (as Mr. Hammond told me yesterday) one of the wealthiest men in theseparts.”Mrs. Ackroyd paused to dab her eyes with the frilled handkerchief.“Yes,” I said encouragingly. “You were talking about bills?”“Those dreadful
bills. And some I didn’t like to show Roger at all.They were things a man wouldn’t understand. He would have saidthe things weren’t necessary. And of course they mounted up, youknow, and they kept coming in —”She looked at me appealingly, as though asking me to condolewith her on this striking peculiarity.“It’s a habit they have,” I agreed.“And the tone altered —became quite abusive. I assure you,doctor, I was becoming a nervous wreck. I couldn’t sleep at nights.And a dreadful fluttering round the heart. And then I got a letter froma Scotch gentleman —as a matter of fact there were two letters —both Scotch gentlemen. Mr. Bruce MacPherson was one, and theother was Colin MacDonald. Quite a coincidence.”“Hardly that,” I said drily.
“They are usually Scotch gentlemen, but Isuspect a Semitic strain in their ancestry.”“Ten pounds to ten thousand on note of hand alone,” murmuredMrs. Ackroyd reminiscently. “I wrote to one of them, but it seemedthere were difficulties.”She paused.I gathered that we were just coming to delicate ground. I havenever known anyone more difficult to bring to the point.“You see,” murmured Mrs. Ackroyd, “it’s all a question ofexpectations, isn’t it? Testamentary expectations. And though, ofcourse, I expected that Roger would provide for me, I didn’t know. Ithought that if only I could glance over a copy of his will —not in anysense of vulgar prying—but just so that I could make my ownarrangements.”She glanced sideways at me. The position was now very delicateindeed. Fortunately words, ingeniously used, will serve to mask theugliness of naked facts.“I could only tell this to you, dear Dr. Sheppard,” said Mrs. Ackroydrapidly. “I can trust you not to misjudge me, and to represent thematter in the right light to M. Poirot. It was on Friday afternoon —”She came to a stop and swallowed uncertainly.“Yes,” I repeated encouragingly. “On Friday afternoon. Well?”“Everyone was out, or so I thought. And I went into Roger’sstudy —I had some real reason for going there —I mean, there wasnothing underhand about it. And as I saw all the papers heaped onthe desk, it just came to me, like a flash: ‘I wonder if Roger keeps hiswill in one of the drawers of the desk.’ I’m so impulsive, always was,from a child. I do things on the spur
of the moment. He’d left hiskeys —very careless of him —in the lock of the top drawer.”“I see,” I said helpfully. “So you searched the desk. Did you findthe will?”Mrs. Ackroyd gave a little scream, and I realized that I had notbeen sufficiently diplomatic.“How dreadful it sounds. But it wasn’t at all like that really.”“Of course it wasn’t,” I said hastily. “You must forgive myunfortunate way of putting things.”“Of course, men are so peculiar. In dear Roger’s place, I shouldhave not objected to revealing the provisions of my will. But men areso secretive. One is forced to adopt little subterfuges in selfdefence.”“And the result of the little subterfuge?” I asked.“That’s just what I’m telling you. As I got to the bottom drawer,Bourne came in. Most awkward.
Of course I shut the drawer andstood up, and I called her attention to a few specks of dust on thesurface. But I didn’t like the way she looked —quite respectful inmanner, but a very nasty light in her eyes. Almost contemptuous, ifyou know what I mean. I never have liked that girl very much. She’sa good servant, and she says Ma’am, and doesn’t object to wearingcaps and aprons (which I declare to you a lot of them do nowadays),and she can say ‘Not at home’ without scruples if she has to answerthe door instead of Parker, and she doesn’t have those peculiargurgling noises inside which so many parlour maids seem to havewhen they wait at table —Let me see, where was I?”“You were saying, that in spite of several valuable qualities, younever liked Bourne.” “No more I do. She’s —odd. There’s something different about herfrom the others. Too well educated, that’s my opinion. You can’t tellwho are ladies and who aren’t nowadays.” “And what happened next?” I asked.“Nothing. At least, Roger came in. And I thought he was out for awalk. And he said: ‘What’s all this?’ and I said ‘Nothing. I just camein to fetch Punch.’ And I took Punch and went out with it. Bournestayed behind. I heard her asking Roger if she could speak to him fora minute. I went straight up to my room, to lie down. I was veryupset.”There was a pause.“You will explain to M. Poirot, won’t you? You can see for yourselfwhat a trivial matter the whole thing was. But, of course, when hewas so stern about concealing things, I thought of this at once. Bourne may have made some extraordinary story out of it, but youcan explain, can’t y“That is all?” I said. “You have told me everything?” “Ye-es,” said Mrs. Ackroyd. “Oh! yes,” she added firmly .But I had noted the momentary hesitation, and I knew that therewas still something she was keeping back.
It was nothing less than aflash of sheer genius that prompted me to ask the question I did.“Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said, “was it you who left the silver table open?”I had my answer in the blush of guilt that even rouge and powdercould not conceal.“How did you know?” she whispered.“It was you, then?”“Yes —I —you see —there were one or two pieces of old silver —very interesting. I had been reading up the subject and there was anillustration of quite a small piece which had fetched an immense sumat Christie’s. It looked to be just the same as the one in the silvertable. I thought I would take it up to London with me when I went —and —and have it valued. Then if it really was a valuable piece, justthink what a charming surprise it would have been for Roger?”I refrained from comments, accepting Mrs. Ackroyd’s story on itsmerits. I even forbore to ask her why it was necessary to abstractwhat she wanted in such a surreptitious manner.“Why did you leave the lid open?” I asked. “Did you forget?”“I was startled,” said Mrs. Ackroyd. “I heard footsteps comingalong the terrace outside. I hastened out of the room and just got upthe stairs before Parker opened the front door to you.”“That must have been Miss Russell,” I said thoughtfully.Mrs. Ackroyd had revealed to me one fact that was extremelyinteresting. Whether her designs upon Ackroyd’s silver had beenstrictly honourable I neither knew nor cared. What did interest mewas the fact that Miss Russell must have entered the drawing roomby the window, and that I had not been wrong when I judged her tobe out of breath with running. Where had she been? I thought of
thesummerhouse and the scrap of cambric.“I wonder if Miss Russell has had her handkerchiefs starched!” Iexclaimed on the spur of the moment.Mrs. Ackroyd’s start recalled me to myself, and I rose.“You think you can explain to M. Poirot?” she asked anxiously.“Oh, certainly. Absolutely.”
I got away at last, after being forced to listen to more justificationsof her conduct.The parlour maid was in the hall, and it was she who helped meon with my overcoat. I observed her more closely than I had doneheretofore. It was clear that she had been crying.“How is it,” I asked, “that you told us that Mr. Ackroyd sent for youon Friday to his study? I hear now that it was you who asked tospeak to him.”For a minute the girl’s eyes dropped before mine. Then she spoke.“I meant to leave in any case,” she said uncertainly.I said no more. She opened the front door for me. Just as I waspassing out, she said suddenly in a low voice:“Excuse me, sir, is there any news of Captain Paton?”I shook my head, looking at her inquiringly.“He ought to come back,” she said. “Indeed —indeed he ought tocome back.”She was looking at me with appealing eyes.“Does no one know where he is?” she asked.“Do you?” I said sharply.She shook her head.“No, indeed. I know nothing. But anyone who was a friend to himwould tell him this: he ought to come back.”I lingered, thinking that perhaps the girl would say more. Her nextquestion surprised me.“When do they think the murder was done? Just before teno’clock?”“That is the idea,” I said. “Between a quarter to ten and the hour.”“Not earlier? Not before a quarter to ten?” I looked at her attentively. She was so clearly eager for a reply inthe affirmative.“That’s out of the question,” I said. “Miss Ackroyd saw her unclealive at a quarter to ten.”She turned away, and her whole figure seemed to droop.“A handsome girl,” I said to myself as I drove off. “An exceedinglyhandsome girl.”Caroline was at home. She had had a visit from Poirot and wasvery pleased and important about it.“I am helping him with the case,” she explained.I felt rather uneasy.
Caroline is bad enough as it is. What will shebe like with her detective instincts encouraged?“Are you going round the neighbourhood looking for Ralph Paton’smysterious girl?” I inquired.“I might do that on my own account,” said Caroline. “No, this is aspecial thing M. Poirot wants me to find out for him.”“What is it?” I asked.“He wants to know whether Ralph Paton’s boots were black orbrown,” said Caroline with tremendous solemnity.I stared at her. I see now that I was unbelievably stupid aboutthese boots. I failed altogether to grasp the point.“ They were brown shoes,” I said. “I saw them.”“Not shoes, James, boots. M. Poirot wants to know whether a pairof boots Ralph had with him at the hotel were brown or black. A lothangs on it.” Call me dense if you like. I didn’t see.“And how are you going to find out?” I asked.Caroline said there would be no difficulty about that. Our Annie’sdearest friend was Miss Gannett’s maid, Clara. And Clara waswalking out with the boots at the Three Boars. The whole thing was simplicity itself, and by the aid of Miss Gannett, who cooperatedloyally, at once giving Clara leave of absence, the matter was rushed through at express speed.It was when we were sitting down to lunch that Caroline remarked,with would-be unconcern: “About those boots of Ralph Paton’s.”“Well,” I said, “what about them?”“M. Poirot thought they were probably brown. He was wrong.They’re black.”And Caroline nodded her head several times.
She evidently felt that she had scored a point over Poirot.I did not answer. I was puzzling over what the colour of a pair ofRalph Paton’s boots had to do with the case.I was to have a further proof that day of the success of Poirot’stactics. That challenge of his had been a subtle touch born of hisknowledge of human nature. A mixture of fear and guilt had wrungthe truth from Mrs. Ackroyd. She was the first to react.That afternoon when I returned from seeing my patients, Carolinetold me
that Geoffrey Raymond had just left.“Did he want to see me?” I asked, as I hung up my coat in the hall.Caroline was hovering by my elbow. “It was M. Poirot he wanted tosee,” she said. “He’d just come from The Larches. Mr. Poirot wasout. Mr. Raymond thought that he might be here, or that you mightknow where he was.”“I haven’t the least idea.”“I tried to make him wait,” said Caroline, “but he said he would callback at The Larches in half an hour, and went away down thevillage. A great pity, because M. Poirot came in practically the minuteafter he left.”“Came in here?”“No, to his own house.”“How do you know?”“The side window,” said Caroline briefly.It seemed to me that we had now exhausted the topic. Carolinethought otherwise.“Aren’t you going across?”“Across where?”“To The Larches, of course.”“My dear Caroline,” I said, “what for?”“Mr. Raymond wanted to see him very particularly,” said Caroline.“You might hear what it’s all about.”I raised my eyebrows.“Curiosity is not my besetting sin,” I remarked coldly.
“I can existcomfortably without knowing exactly what my neighbours are doingand thinking.”“Stuff and nonsense, James,” said my sister. “You want to knowjust as much as I do. You’re not so honest, that’s all. You alwayshave to pretend.”“Really, Caroline,” I said, and retired into my surgery.Ten minutes later Caroline tapped at the door and entered. In herhand she held what seemed to be a pot of jam. “I wonder, James,”she said, “if you would mind taking this pot of medlar jelly across toM. Poirot? I promised it to him. He has never tasted any homemademedlar jelly.”“Why can’t Annie go?” I asked coldly.“She’s doing some mending. I can’t spare her.”Caroline and I looked at each other.“Very well,” I said, rising.“But if I take the beastly thing, I shall just leave it at the door. You understand that? ”My sister raised her eyebrows. “Naturally,” she said. “Who suggested you should do anythingelse?”The honours were with Caroline.“If you do happen to see M. Poirot,” she said, as I opened the front door, “you might tell him about the boots.”It was a most subtle parting shot. I wanted dreadfully tounderstand the enigma of the boots. When the old lady with theBreton cap opened the door to me, I found myself asking if M. Poirotwas in, quite automatically.Poirot sprang up to meet me, with every appearance of pleasure.“Sit down, my good friend,” he said. “The big chair? This smallone? The room is not too hot, no?” I thought it was stifling, but refrained from saying so. The windows were closed, and a large fire burned in the grate.
“The English people, they have a mania for the fresh air,” declaredPoirot. “The big air, it is all very well outside, where it belongs. Whyadmit it to the house? But let us not discuss such banalities. Youhave something for me, yes?”“Two things,” I said. “First—this —from my sister.”I handed over the pot of medlar jelly.“How kind of Mademoiselle Caroline. She has remembered herpromise. And the second thing?”“Information —of a kind.”And I told him of my interview with Mrs. Ackroyd. He listened withinterest, but not much excitement.“It clears the ground,” he said thoughtfully. “And it has a certainvalue as confirming the evidence of the housekeeper. She said, youremember, that she found the silver table lid open and closed it downin passing.”“What about her statement that she went into the drawing room tosee if the flowers were fresh?”“Ah! we never took that very seriously, did we, my friend? It waspatently an excuse, trumped up in a hurry, by a woman who felt iturgent to explain her presence —which, by the way, you wouldprobably never have thought of questioning. I considered it possiblethat her agitation might arise from the fact that she had beentampering with the silver table, but I think now that we must look foranother cause.”“Yes,” I said. “Whom did she go out to meet? And why?”“You think she went to meet someone?”“I do.”Poirot nodded. “So do I,” he said thoughtfully.There was a pause.“By the way,” I said, “I’ve got a message for you from my sister.Ralph Paton’s boots were black, not brown.”I was watching
him closely as I gave the message, and I fancied that I saw a momentary flicker of discomposure. If so, it passedalmost immediately.“She is absolutely positive they are not brown?“Absolutely.”“Ah!” said Poirot regretfully. “That is a pity.”And he seemed quite crestfallen.He entered into no explanations, but at once started a new subjectof conversation.“The housekeeper, Miss Russell, who came to consult you on thatFriday morning—is it indiscreet to ask what passed at theinterview —apart from the medical details, I mean?” “Not at all,” I said. “When the professional part of the conversationwas over, we talked for a few minutes about poisons, and the easeor difficulty of detecting them, and about drug-taking and drugtakers.”“With special reference to cocaine?” asked Poirot.“How did you know?” I asked, somewhat surprised.For answer, the little man rose and crossed the room to wherenewspapers were filed. He brought me a copy of the Daily Budget,dated Friday, th September, and showed me an article dealing withthe smuggling of cocaine.
It was a somewhat lurid article, written with an eye to picturesque effect.“That is what put cocaine into her head, my friend,” he said.I would have catechised him further, for I did not quite understandhis meaning, but at that moment the door opened and GeoffreyRaymond was announced. He came in fresh and debonair as ever, and greeted us both.“How are you, doctor? M. Poirot, this is the second time I’ve beenhere this morning. I was anxious to catch you.”“Perhaps I’d better be off,” I suggested rather awkwardly.“Not on my account, doctor. No, it’s just this,” he went on, seatinghimself at a wave of invitation from Poirot, “I’ve got a confession tomake.”“En verité?” said Poirot, with an air of polite interest.“Oh, it’s of no consequence, really. But, as a matter of fact, myconscience has been pricking me ever since yesterday afternoon.You accused us all of keeping back something, M. Poirot. I pleadguilty. I’ve had something up my sleeve.”“And what is that, M. Raymond?”“As I say, it’s nothing of consequence —just this. I was in debt —badly, and that legacy came in the nick of time. Five hundred poundsputs me on my feet again with a little to spare.
”He smiled at us both with that engaging frankness that made himsuch a likeable youngster.“You know how it is. Suspicious-looking policemen —don’t like toadmit you were hard up for money —think it will look bad to them. ButI was a fool, really, because Blunt and I were in the billiard room froma quarter to ten onwards, so I’ve got a watertight alibi and nothing tofear. Still, when you thundered out that stuff about concealing things,I felt a nasty prick of conscience, and I thought I’d like to get it off mymind.”He got up again and stood smiling at us.“You are a very wise young man,” said Poirot, nodding at him withapproval. “See you, when I know that anyone is hiding things fromme, I suspect that the thing hidden may be something very badindeed. You have done well.”“I’m glad I’m cleared from suspicion,” laughed Raymond. “I’ll be offnow.”“So that is that,” I remarked, as the door closed behind the youngsecretary.“Yes,” agreed Poirot. “A mere bagatelle —but if he had not been inthe billiard room —who knows? After all, many crimes have beencommitted for the sake of less than five hundred pounds. It alldepends on what sum is sufficient to break a man. A question ofrelativity, is it not so? Have you reflected, my friend, that manypeople in that house stood to benefit by Mr. Ackroyd’s death?Mrs. Ackroyd, Miss Flora, young Mr. Raymond, the housekeeper,Miss Russell. Only one, in fact, does not, Major Blunt.”His tone in uttering that name was so peculiar that I looked up,puzzled.“I don’t understand you,” I said.“Two of the people I accused have given me the truth.”“You think Major Blunt has something to conceal also?”“As for that,” remarked Poirot nonchalantly, “there is a saying, isthere not, that Englishmen conceal only one thing —their love? AndMajor Blunt, I should say, is not good at concealments.”“Sometimes,” I said, “I wonder if we haven’t rather jumped toconclusions on one point.”“What is that?”“We’ve assumed that the blackmailer of Mrs. Ferrars is necessarilythe
murderer of Mr. Ackroyd. Mightn’t we be mistaken?”Poirot nodded energetically. “Very good. Very good indeed. Iwondered if that idea would come to you. Of course it is possible.But we must remember one point. The letter disappeared. Still, that,as you say, may not necessarily mean that the murderer took it.When you first found the body, Parker may have abstracted the letterunnoticed by you.”“Parker?”“Yes, Parker. I always come back to Parker —not as the murderer —no, he did not commit the murder; but who is more suitable than he as the mysterious scoundrel who terrorizedMrs. Ferrars? He may have got his information about Mr. Ferrars’sdeath from one of the King’s Paddock servants.
At any rate, he ismore likely to have come upon it than a casual guest such as Blunt,for instance.”“Parker might have taken the letter,” I admitted. “It wasn’t till laterthat I noticed it was gone.”“How much later? After Blunt and Raymond were in the room, orbefore?”“I can’t remember,” I said slowly. “I think it was before —no,afterwards. Yes, I’m almost sure it was afterwards.”“That widens the field to three,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “ButParker is the most likely. It is in my mind to try a little experiment withParker. How say you, my friend, will you accompany me to Fernly?”I acquiesced, and we set out at once. Poirot asked to see MissAckroyd, and presently Flora came to us.“Mademoiselle Flora,” said Poirot, “I have to confide in you a littlesecret. I am not yet satisfied of the innocence of Parker. I propose tomake a little experiment with your assistance. I want to reconstructsome of his actions on that night. But we must think of something totell him —ah! I have it. I wish to satisfy myself as to whether voices inthe little lobby could have been heard outside on the terrace. Now,ring for Parker, if you will be so good.“You rang, sir?”“Yes, my good Parker. I have in mind a little experiment. I have placed Major Blunt on the terrace outside the study window.
I want to see if anyone there could have heard the voices of Miss Ackroyd andyourself in the lobby that night. I want to enact that little scene overagain. Perhaps you would fetch the tray or whatever it was you werecarrying?”Parker vanished, and we repaired to the lobby outside the studydoor. Presently we heard a chink in the outer hall, and Parkerappeared in the doorway carrying a tray with a siphon, a decanter ofwhisky, and two glasses on it.“One moment,” cried Poirot, raising his hand and seemingly veryexcited. “We must have everything in order. Just as it occurred. It isa little method of mine.”“A foreign custom, sir,” said Parker. “Reconstruction of the crimethey call it, do they not?”He was quite imperturbable as he stood there politely waiting onPoirot’s orders.“Ah! he knows something, the good Parker,” cried Poirot. “He hasread of these things. Now, I beg you, let us have everything of themost exact. You came from the outer hall — so. Mademoiselle was —where?”“Here,” said Flora, taking up her stand just outside the study door.“Quite right, sir,” said Parker.“I had just closed the door,” continued Flora.“Yes, miss,” agreed Parker. “Your hand was still on the handle as itis now.”“Then allez,” said Poirot. “Play me the little comedy.”Flora stood with her hand on the door handle, and Parker camestepping through the door from the hall, bearing the tray.He stopped just inside the door. Flora spoke.“Oh! Parker. Mr. Ackroyd doesn’t want to be disturbed againtonight.”“Is that right?” she added in an undertone.“To the best of my recollection, Miss Flora,” said Parker, “but Ifancy you used the word evening instead of night.” Then, raising hisvoice in a somewhat theatrical fashion: “Very good, miss. Shall I lockup as usual?”“Yes, please.”Parker retired through the door. Flora followed him, and started toascend the main staircase.“Is that enough?” she asked over her shoulder.“Admirable,” declared the little man, rubbing his hands. “By theway, Parker, are you sure there were two glasses on the tray thatevening? Who was the second one for?”“I always bring two glasses, sir,” said Parker. “Is
there anythingfurther?”“Nothing. I thank you.”Parker withdrew, dignified to the last.Poirot stood in the middle of the hall frowning. Flora came downand joined us.“Has your experiment been successful?” she asked. “I don’t quiteunderstand, you know—”Poirot smiled admiringly at her. “It is not necessary that youshould,” he said. “But tell me, were there indeed two glasses onParker’s tray that night?”Flora wrinkled her brows a minute.“I really can’t remember,” she said. “I think there were. Is —is thatthe object of your experiment?”Poirot took her hand and patted it.
“Put it this way,” he said. “I amalways interested to see if people will speak the truth.”“And did Parker speak the truth?”“I rather think he did,” said Poirot thoughtfully.A few minutes later saw us retracing our steps to the village.“What was the point of that question about the glasses?” I askedcuriously.Poirot shrugged his shoulders. “One must say something,” heremarked. “That particular question did as well as any other.”I stared at him.“At any rate, my friend,” he said seriously, “I know now something Iwanted to know. Let us leave it at thatThat night we had a little Mah Jong party. This kind of simpleentertainment is very popular in King’s Abbot. The guests arrive ingaloshes and waterproofs after dinner. They partake of coffee andlater of cake, sandwiches and tea.On this particular night our guests were Miss Gannett and ColonelCarter, who lives near the church. A good deal of gossip is handedround at these evenings, sometimes seriously interfering with thegame in progress. We used to play bridge —chatty bridge of theworst description. We find Mah Jong much more peaceful. Theirritated demand as to why on earth your partner did not lead acertain card is entirely done away with, and though we still express criticisms frankly, there is not the same acrimonious spirit.“Very cold evening, eh, Sheppard?” said Colonel Carter, standingwith his back to the fire. Caroline had taken Miss Gannett to her own room, and was there assisting her to disentangle herself from hermany wraps.
“Reminds me of the Afghan passes.”“Indeed?” I said politely.“Very mysterious business this about poor Ackroyd,” continued thecolonel, accepting a cup of coffee. “A deuce of a lot behind it — that’swhat I say. Between you and me, Sheppard, I’ve heard the wordblackmail mentioned!”The colonel gave me the look which might be tabulated “one manof the world to another.”“A woman in it, no doubt,” he said. “Depend upon it, a woman init.”Caroline and Miss Gannett joined us at this minute. Miss Gannettdrank coffee whilst Caroline got out the Mah Jong box and pouredout the tiles upon the table.“Washing the tiles,” said the colonel facetiously. “That’s right —washing the tiles, as we used to say in the Shanghai Club.”It is the private opinion of both Caroline and myself that ColonelCarter has never been in the Shanghai Club in his life. More, that hehas never been farther east than India, where he juggled with tins ofbully beef and plum and apple jam during the Great War. But thecolonel is determinedly military, and in King’s Abbot we permitpeople to indulge their little idiosyncrasies freely.“Shall we begin?” said Caroline.We sat round the table. For some five minutes there was completesilence, owing to the fact that there is tremendous secret competitionamongst us as to who can build their wall quickest.“Go on, James,” said Caroline at last. “You’re East Wind.”I discarded a tile. A round or two proceeded, broken by themonotonous remarks of “Three Bamboos,” “Two Circles,” “Pung,”and frequently from Miss Gannett “Unpung,” owing to that lady’shabit of too hastily claiming tiles to which she had no right.“I saw Flora Ackroyd this morning,” said Miss Gannett. “Pung—no —Unpung. I made a mistake.”“Four Circles,” said Caroline. “Where did you see her?”“She didn’t see me,” said Miss Gannett, with that tremendoussignificance only to be met with in small villages.“Ah!” said Caroline interestedly “Chow.”“I believe,” said Miss Gannett, temporarily diverted, “that it’s theright thing nowadays to say ‘Chee’ not ‘Chow.’ ”“Nonsense,” said Caroline. “I have always said ‘Chow.’ ”“In the Shanghai
Club,” said Colonel Carter, “they say ‘Chow.’ ”Miss Gannett retired, crushed.“What were you saying about Flora Ackroyd?” asked Caroline,after a moment or two devoted to the game. “Was she with anyone?”“Very much so,” said Miss Gannett.The eyes of the two ladies met, and seemed to exchangeinformation.“Really,” said Caroline interestedly. “Is that it? Well, it doesn’tsurprise me in the least.”“We’re waiting for you to discard, Miss Caroline,” said the colonel.He sometimes affects the pose of the bluff male, intent on the gameand indifferent to gossip. But nobody is deceived.“If you ask me,” said Miss Gannett. “(Was that a Bamboo youdiscarded, dear? Oh! no, I see now —it was a Circle.) As I wassaying, if you ask me, Flora’s been exceedingly lucky. Exceedinglylucky she’s been.”“How’s that, Miss Gannett?” asked the colonel. “I’ll Pung thatGreen Dragon. How do you make out that Miss Flora’s been lucky?Very charming girl and all that, I know.” “I mayn’t know very much about crime,” said Miss Gannett, withthe air of one who knows everything there is to know, “but I can tellyou one thing. The first question that’s always asked is ‘Who lastsaw the deceased alive?’ And the person who did is regarded withsuspicion.
Now, Flora Ackroyd last saw her uncle alive. It might havelooked very nasty for her —very nasty indeed. It’s my opinion —and Igive it for what it’s worth, that Ralph Paton is staying away on heraccount, to draw suspicion away from her.”“Come, now,” I protested mildly, “you surely can’t suggest that ayoung girl like Flora Ackroyd is capable of stabbing her uncle in coldblood?”“Well, I don’t know,” said Miss Gannett. “I’ve just been reading abook from the library about the underworld of Paris, and it says thatsome of the worst women criminals are young girls with the faces ofangels.”“That’s in France,” said Caroline instantly.“Just so,” said the colonel. “Now, I’ll tell you a very curious thing —a story that was going round the Bazaars in India. …”The colonel’s story was one of interminable length, and ofcuriously little interest. A thing that happened in India many yearsago cannot compare for a moment with an event that took place inKing’s Abbot the day before yesterdayIt was Caroline who brought the colonel’s story to a close byfortunately going Mah Jong. After the slight unpleasantness alwayscaused by my corrections of Caroline’s somewhat faulty arithmetic,we started a new hand.“East Wind passes,” said Caroline. “I’ve got an idea of my ownabout Ralph Paton. Three Characters. But I’m keeping it to myselffor the present.”“Are you, dear?” said Miss Gannett.
“Chow —I mean Pung.”“Yes,” said Caroline firmly.“Was it all right about the boots?” asked Miss Gannett. “Theirbeing black, I mean?”“Quite all right,” said Caroline.“What was the point, do you think?” asked Miss Gannett.Caroline pursed up her lips, and shook her head with an air ofknowing all about it.“Pung,” said Miss Gannett. “No —Unpung. I suppose that now thedoctor’s in with M. Poirot he knows all the secrets?”“Far from it,” I said.“James is so modest,” said Caroline. “Ah! A concealed Kong.”The colonel gave vent to a whistle. For the moment gossip wasforgotten.“Your own Wind, too,” he said. “And you’ve got two Pungs ofDragons. We must be careful. Miss Caroline’s out for a big hand.”We played for some minutes with no irrelevant conversation.“This M. Poirot now,” said Colonel Carter, “is he really such a greatdetective?”“The greatest the world has ever known,” said Caroline solemnly.“He had to come here incognito to avoid publicity.”“Chow,” said Miss Gannett. “Quite wonderful for our little village,I’m sure. By the way, Clara —my maid, you know —is great friendswith Elsie, the housemaid at Fernly, and what do you think Elsie toldher? That there’s been a lot of money stolen, and it’s her opinion —
Elsie’s —I mean, that the parlour maid had something to do with it.She’s leaving at the month, and she’s crying a good deal at night. Ifyou ask me, the girl is very likely in league with a gang. She’s alwaysbeen a queer girl —she’s not friends with any of the girls round here.She goes off by herself on her days out —very unnatural, I call it, andmost suspicious. I asked her once to come to our Girls’ FriendlyEvenings, but she refused, and then I asked her a few questionsabout her home and her family —all that sort of thing, and I’m boundto say I considered her manner most impertinent.
Outwardly veryrespectful —but she shut me up in the most barefaced way.”Miss Gannett stopped for breath, and the colonel, who was totallyuninterested in the servant question, remarked that in the ShanghaiClub brisk play was the invariable rule.We had a round of brisk play.“That Miss Russell,” said Caroline. “She came here pretending toconsult James on Friday morning. It’s my opinion she wanted to seewhere the poisons were kept. Five Characters.”“Chow,” said Miss Gannett. “What an extraordinary idea! I wonderif you can be right.”“Talking of poisons,” said the colonel. “Eh —what? Haven’t Idiscarded? Oh! Eight Bamboos.”“Mah Jong!” said Miss Gannett.Caroline was very much annoyed.“One Red Dragon,” she said regretfully, “and I should have had ahand of three doubles.”“I’ve had two Red Dragons all the time,” I mentioned.“So exactly like you, James,” said Caroline reproachfully. “You’veno conception of the spirit of the game.”I myself thought I had played rather cleverly. I should have had topay Caroline an enormous amount if she had gone Mah Jong. MissGannett’s Mah Jong was of the poorest variety possible, as Carolinedid not fail to point out to her.East Wind passed, and we started a new hand in silence.“What I was going to tell you just now was this,” said Caroline.“Yes?” said Miss Gannett encouragingly.“My idea about Ralph Paton, I mean.”“Yes, dear,” said Miss Gannett, still more encouragingly. “Chow!”“It’s a sign of weakness to Chow so early,” said Caroline severely.
“You should go for a big hand.”“I know,” said Miss Gannett. “You were saying —about RalphPaton, you know?”“Yes. Well, I’ve a pretty shrewd idea where he is.”We all stopped to stare at her.“This is very interesting, Miss Caroline,” said Colonel Carter. “Allyour own idea, eh?”“Well, not exactly. I’ll tell you about it. You know that big map of thecounty we have in the hall?”We all said yes.“As M. Poirot was going out the other day, he stopped and lookedat it, and he made some remark —I can’t remember exactly what itwas. Something about Cranchester being the only big town anywhere near us —which is true, of course. But after he had gone —it came to me suddenly.”“What came to you?”“His meaning. Of course Ralph is in Cranchester.”It was at that moment that I knocked down the rack that held mypieces. My sister immediately reproved me for clumsiness, but halfheartedly. She was intent on her theory.“Cranchester, Miss Caroline?” said Colonel Carter. “Surely notCranchester! It’s so near.”“That’s exactly it,” cried Caroline triumphantly. “It seems quite clearby now that he didn’t get away from here by train. He must simplyhave walked into Cranchester. And I believe he’s there still. No onewould dream of his being so near at hand.”I pointed out several objections to the theory, but when onceCaroline has got something firmly into her head, nothing dislodges it.“And you think M. Poirot has the same idea,” said Miss Gannettthoughtfully. “It’s a curious coincidence, but I was out for a walk thisafternoon on the Cranchester road, and he passed me in a carcoming from that direction.”We all looked at each other.“Why, dear me,” said Miss Gannett suddenly, “I’m Mah Jong all thetime, and I never noticed it.”Caroline’s attention was distracted from her own inventiveexercises. She pointed out to Miss Gannett that a hand consisting ofmixed suits and too many Chows was hardly worth going Mah Jongon. Miss Gannett listened imperturbably and collected her counters.“Yes, dear, I know what you mean,” she said. “But it ratherdepends on what kind of a hand you have to start with, doesn’t
it?”“You’ll never get the big hands if you don’t go for them,” urgedCaroline.“Well, we must all play our own way, mustn’t we?” said Miss Gannett. She looked down at her counters. “After all, I’m up, so far.”Caroline, who was considerably down, said nothing.East Wind passed, and we set to once more. Annie brought in thetea things. Caroline and Miss Gannett were both slightly ruffled as isoften the case during one of these festive evenings.“If you would only play a little quicker, dear,” said Caroline, as MissGannett hesitated over her discard. “The Chinese put down the tilesso quickly it sounds like little birds pattering.”For some minutes we played like the Chinese.“You haven’t contributed much to the sum of information,Sheppard,” said Colonel Carter genially. “You’re a sly dog. Hand inglove with the great detective, and not a hint as to the way things aregoing.”“James is an extraordinary creature,” said Caroline. “He cannotbring himself to part with information.”She looked at me with some disfavour.“I assure you,” I said, “that I don’t know anything. Poirot keeps hisown counsel.”“Wise man,” said the colonel with a chuckle.
“He doesn’t givehimself away. But they’re wonderful fellows, these foreign detectives.Up to all sorts of dodges, I believe.”“Pung,” said Miss Gannett, in a tone of quiet triumph. “And MahJong.”The situation became more strained. It was annoyance at MissGannett’s going Mah Jong for the third time running which promptedCaroline to say to me as we built a fresh wall: “You are too tiresome,James. You sit there like a deadhead, and say nothing at all!”“But, my dear,” I protested, “I have really nothing to say —that is, ofthe kind you mean.”“Nonsense,” said Caroline, as she sorted her hand. “You mustknow something interesting.”I did not answer for a moment. I was overwhelmed andintoxicated. I had read of there being such a thing as The PerfectWinning — going Mah Jong on one’s original hand. I had never hopedto hold the hand myself.With suppressed triumph I laid my hand face upwards on thetable.“As they say in the Shanghai Club,” I remarked —“Tin-ho —thePerfect Winning!”The colonel’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head.“Upon my soul,” he said. “what an extraordinary thing. I never sawthat happen before!”It was then that I went on, goaded by Caroline’s gibes, andrendered reckless by my triumph.“And as to anything interesting,” I said.
“What about a goldwedding ring with a date and ‘From R.’ inside.”I pass over the scene that followed. I was made to say exactlywhere this treasure was found. I was made to reveal the date.“March ,” said Caroline. “Just six months ago. Ah!”Out of a babel of excited suggestions and suppositions threetheories were evolved:. That of Colonel Carter: that Ralph was secretly married to Flora.The first or most simple solution.. That of Miss Gannett: that Roger Ackroyd had been secretlymarried to Mrs. Ferrars.. That of my sister: that Roger Ackroyd had married hishousekeeper, Miss Russell.A fourth or super-theory was propounded by Caroline later as wewent up to bed.“Mark my words,” she said suddenly, “I shouldn’t be at allsurprised if Geoffrey Raymond and Flora weren’t married.”“Surely it would be ‘From G,’ not ‘From R’ then,” I suggested.“You never know. Some girls call men by their surnames. And youheard what Miss Gannett said this evening —about Flora’s carryingson.”Strictly speaking, I had not heard Miss Gannett say anything of thekind, but I respected Caroline’s knowledge of innuendoes.“How about Hector Blunt?” I hinted. “If it’s anybody —”“Nonsense,” said Caroline. “I dare say he admires her, may evenbe in love with her. But depend upon it a girl isn’t going to fall in lovewith a man old enough to be her father when there’s a good-lookingsecretary about. She may encourage Major Blunt just as a blind.Girls are very artful. But there’s one thing I do tell you, JamesSheppard. Flora Ackroyd does not care a penny piece for RalphPaton, and never has. You can take it from me.”I took it from her meeklyIt occurred to me the next morning that under the exhilarationproduced by Tin-ho or
the Perfect Winning, I might have beenslightly indiscreet. True, Poirot had not asked me to keep thediscovery of the ring to myself. On the other hand, he had saidnothing about it whilst at Fernly, and as far as I knew, I was the onlyperson aware that it had been found. I felt distinctly guilty. The factwas by now spreading through King’s Abbot like wildfire. I wasexpecting wholesale reproaches from Poirot any minute.The joint funeral of Mrs. Ferrars and Roger Ackroyd was fixed foreleven o’clock. It was a melancholy and impressive ceremony. Allthe party from Fernly were there.After it was over, Poirot, who had also been present, took me bythe arm, and invited me to accompany him back to The Larches. Hewas looking very grave, and I feared that my indiscretion of the nightbefore had got round to his ears. But it soon transpired that histhoughts were occupied by something of a totally different nature.“See you,” he said. “We must act. With your help I propose toexamine a witness. We will question him, we will put such fear intohim that the truth is bound to come out.” “What witness are you talking about?” I asked, very muchsurprised.“Parker!” said Poirot. “I asked him to be at my house this morning at twelve o’clock. He should await us there at this very minute.”“What do you think?” I ventured, glancing sideways at his face.“I know this —that I am not satisfied.” “You think that it was he who blackmailed Mrs. Ferrars?”“Either that, or —”“Well?” I said, after waiting a minute or two.“My friend, I will say this to you —I hope it was he.”The gravity of his manner, and something indefinable that tinged it,reduced me to silence.On arrival at The Larches, we were informed that Parker wasalready there awaiting our return. As we entered the room, the butlerrose respectfully.
“Good morning, Parker,” said Poirot pleasantly. “One instant, I prayof you.”He removed his overcoat and gloves.“Allow me, sir,” said Parker, and sprang forward to assist him. Hedeposited the articles neatly on a chair by the door.Poirot watched him with approval.“Thank you, my good Parker,” he said. “Take a seat, will you not?What I have to say may take some time.”Parker seated himself with an apologetic bend of the head.“Now what do you think I asked you to come here for thismorning —eh?”Parker coughed. “I understood, sir, that you wished to ask me afew questions about my late master —private like.”“Précisément,” said Poirot, beaming. “Have you made manyexperiments in blackmail?”“Sir!” The butler sprang to his feet.“Do not excite yourself,” said Poirot placidly. “Do not play the farceof the honest, injured man. You know all there is to know about theblackmail, is it not so?”“Sir, I —I’ve never —never been —”“Insulted,” suggested Poirot, “in such a way before. Then why, myexcellent Parker, were you so anxious to overhear the conversationin Mr. Ackroyd’s study the other evening, after you had caught theword blackmail?”“ I wasn’t —I —”“Who was your last master?” rapped out Poirot suddenly.
“My last master?”“Yes, the master you were with before you came to Mr. Ackroyd.”“A Major Ellerby, sir —”Poirot took the words out of his mouth. “Just so. Major Ellerby.Major Ellerby was addicted to drugs, was he not? You travelledabout with him. When he was in Bermuda there was some trouble —a man was killed. Major Ellerby was partly responsible. It washushed up. But you knew about it. How much did Major Ellerby payyou to keep your mouth shut?”Parker was staring at him open-mouthed. The man had gone topieces, his cheeks shook flabbily.“You see, me, I have made inquiries,” said Poirot pleasantly. “It isas I say. You got a good sum then as blackmail, and Major Ellerbywent on paying you until he died. Now I want to hear about yourlatest experiment.”Parker still stared.“It is useless to deny. Hercule Poirot knows. It is so, what I havesaid about Major Ellerby, is it not?”As though against his will, Parker nodded reluctantly once. Hisface was ashen pale. “But I never hurt a hair of Mr. Ackroyd’s head,”he moaned. “Honest to God, sir, I didn’t. I’ve been afraid of thiscoming all the time. And I tell you I didn’t —I didn’t kill him.”His
voice rose almost to a scream.“I am inclined to believe you, my friend,” said Poirot. “You have notthe nerve —the courage. But I must have the truth.”“I’ll tell you anything, sir, anything you want to know. It’s true that Itried to listen that night. A word or two I heard made me curious. AndMr. Ackroyd’s wanting not to be disturbed, and shutting himself upwith the doctor the way he did. It’s God’s own truth what I told thepolice. I heard the word blackmail, sir, and well —”He paused.“You thought there might be something in it for you?” suggested Poirot smoothly. “Well —well, yes, I did, sir. I thought that if Mr. Ackroyd was beingblackmailed, why shouldn’t I have a share of the pickings?”A very curious expression passed over Poirot’s face. He leanedforward.“Had you any reason to suppose before that night that Mr. Ackroydwas being blackmailed?” “No, indeed, sir. It was a great surprise to me. Such a regulargentleman in all his habits.”“How much did you overhear?”“Not very much, sir. There seemed what I might call a spite againstme. Of course I had to attend to my duties in the pantry. And when Idid creep along once or twice to the study it was no use.
The first time Dr. Sheppard came out and almost caught me in the act, andanother time Mr. Raymond passed me in the big hall and went thatway, so I knew it was no use; and when I went with the tray, MissFlora headed me off.”Poirot stared for a long time at the man, as if to test his sincerity.Parker returned his gaze earnestly.“I hope you believe me, sir. I’ve been afraid all along the policewould rake up that old business with Major Ellerby and be suspiciousof me in consequence.”“Eh bien,” said Poirot at last. “I am disposed to believe you. Butthere is one thing I must request of you —to show me your bankbook.You have a bankbook, 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. Poirottook the slim, green-covered book and perused the entries.“Ah! I perceive you have purchased £ worth of NationalSavings Certificates this year?”“Yes, sir. I have already over a thousand pounds saved —the resultof my connection with —er —my late master, Major Ellerby. And Ihave had quite a little flutter on some horses this year —verysuccessful. If you remember, sir, a rank outsider won the Jubilee. Iwas fortunate enough to back it —£.”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 oncemore.“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 unlesshe is a very good actor indeed —he genuinely believes it wasAckroyd himself who was the victim of blackmail. If so, he knowsnothing at all about the Mrs. Ferrars business.”“Then in that case —who —”“Précisément! Who? But our visit to M. Hammond will accomplishone purpose. It will either clear Parker completely or else —”“Well?”“I fall into the bad habit of leaving my sentences unfinished thismorning,” said Poirot apologetically. “You must bear with me.”“By the way,” I said, rather sheepishly, “I’ve got a confession tomake. I’m afraid I have inadvertently let out something about thatring.”“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 uponyou. You were at liberty to speak of it if you so wished. She wasinterested, your sister?”“She was indeed. It created a sensation. All sorts of theories areflying about.”“Ah! And yet it is so simple. The true explanation leapt to the eye,did it not?”“Did it?” I said drily.Poirot laughed. “The wise man does not commit himself,” heobserved. “Is not that so? But here we are at Mr. Hammond’s.”The lawyer was in his office, and we were ushered in without anydelay. He rose
and greeted us in his dry, precise manner.Poirot came at once to the point. “Monsieur, I desire from youcertain 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’sPaddock?”I noticed the swift gleam of surprise which showed in the lawyer’seyes, before his professional reserve came down once more like amask over his face.“Certainly. All her affairs passed through our hands.”“Very good. Now, before I ask you to tell me anything, I should likeyou to listen to the story Dr. Sheppard will relate to you. You have noobjection, have you, my friend, to repeating the conversation youhad with Mr. Ackroyd last Friday night?”“Not in the least,” I said, and straightway began the recital of thatstrange 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 amasking. If anyone can give us an idea of the actual sums paid, youare 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 soldout certain securities, and the money for them was paid into heraccount and not reinvested. As her income was a large one, and shelived very quietly after her husband’s death, it seems certain thatthese sums of money were paid away for some special purpose. Ionce sounded her on the subject, and she said that she was obligedto support several of her husband’s poor relations. I let the matterdrop, of course.
Until now, I have always imagined that the moneywas paid to some woman who had had a claim on Ashley Ferrars. Inever dreamed that Mrs. Ferrars herself was involved.”“And the amount?” asked Poirot.“In all, I should say the various sums totalled at least twentythousand pounds.”“Twenty thousand pounds!” I exclaimed. “In one year!“Mrs. Ferrars was a very wealthy woman,” said Poirot drily. “Andthe 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 havingderanged you.”“Not at all, not at all.”“The word derange,” I remarked, when we were outside again, “isapplicable to mental disorder only.”“Ah!” cried Poirot, “never will my English be quite perfect. Acurious language. I should then have said disarranged, n’est-cepas?”“Disturbed is the word you had in mind.”“I thank you, my friend. The word exact, you are zealous for it. Ehbien, what about our friend Parker now? With twenty thousandpounds in hand, would he have continued being a butler? Je nepense pas. It is, of course, possible that he banked the money underanother 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 notthe 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,” interruptedPoirot. “It is my business to make inquiries. I make them. Eh bien—that legacy of which he speaks, I have discovered that the amount ofit was close upon twenty thousand pounds. What do you think ofthat?”I was so taken aback that I could hardly speak.“It’s impossible,” I said at last. “A well-known man like HectorBlunt.”Poirot shrugged his shoulders.“Who knows? At least he is a man with big ideas. I confess that Ihardly see him as a blackmailer, but there is another possibility thatyou have not even considered.”“What is that?”“The
fire, my friend. Ackroyd himself may have destroyed thatletter, blue envelope and all, after you left him.”“I hardly think that likely,” I said slowly. “And yet —of course, it maybe so. He might have changed his mind.”We had just arrived at my house, and on the spur of the moment Iinvited Poirot to come in and take pot luck.I thought Caroline would be pleased with me, but it is hard tosatisfy one’s womenfolk. It appears that we were eating chops forlunch —the kitchen staff being regaled on tripe and onions. And twochops 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 ather for doing so, she adhered strictly to a vegetarian diet.
She descanted ecstatically on the delights of nut cutlets (which I am quitesure she has never tasted) and ate a Welsh rarebit with gusto andfrequent 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,” saidCaroline, with intense meaning in her tone. Poirot looked merely bewildered. “In Cranchester? But why inCranchester?”I enlightened him with a touch of malice. “One of our ample staff ofprivate detectives happened to see you in a car on the Cranchesterroad yesterday,” I explained.Poirot’s bewilderment vanished. He laughed heartily. “Ah, that! Asimple 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, hesays 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 Iweren’t about to look after him.” “My dear Caroline,” I said irritably, “can’t you talk without draggingin personalities?”“You are weak, James,” said Caroline, quite unmoved. “I’m eightyears older than you are —oh! I don’t mind M. Poirot knowing that —”“I should never have guessed it, mademoiselle,” said Poirot, with agallant little bow.“Eight years older. But I’ve always considered it my duty to lookafter you. With a bad bringing up, Heaven knows what mischief youmight 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 ofadventuresses —”She left the sentence unfinished.“Well?” I said, with some curiosity.“Nothing. But I can think of someone not a hundred miles away.”Then she turned to Poirot suddenly. “James sticks to it that youbelieve someone 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 yousay —my métier?”“I’ve got the facts pretty clearly,” continued Caroline, taking nonotice of Poirot’s remark, “from James and others. As far as I cansee, of the people in the house, only two could have had the chanceof 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 unclesaying goodnight 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 girlsnowadays, with no veneration for their betters and thinking theyknow best on every subject under the sun, I don’t for a minutebelieve she’d kill even a chicken. But there it is. Mr. Raymond andMajor Blunt have alibis. Mrs. Ackroyd’s got an alibi. Even thatRussell woman seems to have one—and a good job for her it is shehas. Who is left?
Only Ralph and Flora! And say what you will, I don’tbelieve Ralph Paton is a murderer. A boy we’ve known all our lives.”Poirot was silent for a minute, watching the curling smoke risefrom his cigarette. When at last he spoke, it was in a gentle farawayvoice that produced a curious impression. It was totally unlike hisusual manner.“Let us take a man —a very ordinary man. A man with no idea ofmurder in his heart. There is in him somewhere a strain ofweakness —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 honouredand respected by everyone. But let us suppose that somethingoccurs. He is in difficulties —or perhaps not that even. He may stumble by accident on a secret —a secret involving life or death tosomeone. And his first impulse will be to speak out—to do his dutyas an honest citizen. And then the strain of weakness tells: Here is achance of money —a great amount of money. He wants money —hedesires it —and it is so easy. He has to do nothing for it —just keepsilence. That is the beginning. The desire for money grows. He musthave more —and more! He is intoxicated by the gold mine which hasopened at his feet. He becomes greedy. And in his greed heoverreaches himself. One can press a man as far as one likes —butwith a woman one must not press too far.
For a woman has at hearta great desire to speak the truth. How many husbands who havedeceived their wives go comfortably to their graves, carrying theirsecret with them! How many wives who have deceived theirhusbands wreck their lives by throwing the fact in those samehusbands’ teeth! They have been pressed too far. In a recklessmoment (which they will afterwards regret, bien entendu) they flingsafety to the winds and turn at bay, proclaiming the truth with greatmomentary satisfaction to themselves. So it was, I think, in this case.The strain was too great. And so there came your proverb, the deathof the goose that laid the golden eggs. But that is not the end.Exposure faced the man of whom we are speaking. And he is not thesame man he was —say, a year ago. His moral fibre is blunted. He isdesperate. He is fighting a losing battle, and he is prepared to takeany means that come to his hand, for exposure means ruin to him.And so —the dagger strikes!”He was silent for a moment. It was as though he had laid a spellupon the room. I cannot try to describe the impression his words produced.
There was something in the merciless analysis, and theruthless power of vision which struck fear into both of us.“Afterwards,” he went on softly, “the dagger removed, he will behimself again, normal, kindly. But if the need again arises, then oncemore he will strike.”Caroline roused herself at last. “You are speaking of Ralph Paton,”she said. “You may be right, you may not, but you have no businessto condemn a man unheard.”The telephone bell rang sharply. I went out into the hall, and tookoff the receiver.“What?” I said. “Yes. Dr. Sheppard speaking.”I listened for a minute or two, then replied briefly. Replacing thereceiver, I went back into the drawing room.“Poirot,” I said, “they have detained a man at Liverpool. His nameis Charles Kent, and he is believed to be the stranger who visitedFernly that night. They want me to go to Liverpool at once andidentify him. Half an hour later saw Poirot, myself, and Inspector Raglan in thetrain on the way to Liverpool. The inspector was clearly very excited.“We may get a line on the blackmailing part of the business, if onnothing else,” he declared jubilantly. “He’s a rough customer, thisfellow, by what I heard over the phone. Takes dope, too. We ought tofind it easy to get what we want out of him. If there was the shadowof a motive, nothing’s more likely than that he killed Mr. Ackroyd. Butin that case, why is young Paton keeping out of the way? The wholething’s a muddle —that’s what it is. By the way, M. Poirot, you werequite right about those fingerprints. They were Mr. Ackroyd’s own. Ihad rather the same idea myself, but I dismissed it as hardlyfeasible.”I smiled to myself. Inspector Raglan was so very plainly saving hisface.“As regard this man,” said Poirot, “he is not yet arrested,
eh?”“No, detained under suspicion.”“And what account does he give of himself?”“Precious little,” said the inspector, with a grin. “He’s a wary bird, Igather. A lot of abuse, but very little more.”On arrival at Liverpool I was surprised to find that Poirot was welcomed with acclamation. Superintendent Hayes, who met us, hadworked with Poirot over some case long ago, and had evidently anexaggerated opinion of his powers.“Now we’ve got M. Poirot here we shan’t be long,” he saidcheerfully. “I thought you’d retired, moosier?”“So I had, my good Hayes, so I had. But how tedious is retirement!You cannot imagine to yourself the monotony with which day comesafter day.”“Very likely. So you’ve come to have a look at our own particularfind? Is this Dr. Sheppard? Think you’ll be able to identify him, sir?”“I’m not very sure,” I said doubtfully.“How did you get hold of him?” inquired Poirot.“Description was circulated, as you know. In the press andprivately. Not much to go on, I admit.
This fellow has an Americanaccent all right, and he doesn’t deny that he was near King’s Abbotthat night. Just asks what the hell it is to do with us, and that he’ll see us in — before he answers any questions.”“Is it permitted that I, too, see him?” asked Poirot.The superintendent closed one eye knowingly. “Very glad to haveyou, sir. You’ve got permission to do anything you please.
InspectorJapp of Scotland Yard was asking after you the other day. Said he’dheard you were connected unofficially with this case. Where’s Captain Paton hiding, sir, can you tell me that?”“I doubt if it would be wise at the present juncture,” said Poirotprimly, and I bit my lips to prevent a smile.The little man really did it very well.After some further parley, we were taken to interview the prisoner.He was a young fellow, I should say not more than twenty-two orthree. Tall, thin, with slightly shaking hands, and the evidences ofconsiderable physical strength somewhat run to seed. His hair wasdark, but his eyes were blue and shifty, seldom meeting a glancesquarely. I had all along cherished the illusion that there wassomething familiar about the figure I had met that night, but if thiswere indeed he, I was completely mistaken. He did not remind me inthe least of anyone I knew.“Now then, Kent,” said the superintendent. “Stand up. Here aresome visitors come to see you. Recognize any of them?”Kent glared at us sullenly, but did not reply.
I saw his glance waverover the three of us, and come back to rest on me.“Well, sir,” said the superintendent to me, “what do you say?”“The height’s the same,” I said, “and as far as general appearancegoes it might well be the man in question. Beyond that, I couldn’t go.”“What the hell’s the meaning of all this?” asked Kent. “What haveyou got against me? Come on, out with it! What am I supposed tohave done?”I nodded my head.“It’s the man,” I said. “I recognize the voice.”“Recognize my voice, do you? Where do you think you heard itbefore?”“On Friday evening last, outside the gates of Fernly Park. Youasked me the way there.”“I did, did I?”“Do you admit it?” asked the inspector.“I don’t admit anything. Not till I know what you’ve got on me.”“Have you not read the papers in the last few days?” asked Poirot,speaking for the first time.The man’s eyes narrowed.“So that’s it, is it? I saw an old gent had been croaked at Fernly.Trying to make out I did the job, are you?”“You were there that night,” said Poirot quietly.“How do you know, mister?”“By this.” Poirot took something from his pocket and held it out.It was the goose quill we had found in the summerhouse.At the sight of it the man’s face changed. He half held out hishand.“Snow,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “No, my friend, it is empty. It laywhere you dropped it in the summerhouse that night.”Charles Kent looked at him uncertainly.“You seem to know a hell of a lot about everything, you littleforeign cock duck. Perhaps you remember this: the papers say thatthe old gent was croaked between a quarter to ten and ten o’clock?”“That is so,” agreed Poirot.“Yes, but is it really so? That’s what I’m getting at.”“This gentleman will tell you,” said Poirot.He indicated
Inspector Raglan. The latter hesitated, glanced at Superintendent Hayes, then at Poirot, and finally, as thoughreceiving sanction, he said: “That’s right. Between a quarter to tenand ten o’clock.”“Then you’ve nothing to keep me here for,” said Kent. “I was awayfrom Fernly Park by twenty-five minutes past nine. You can ask atthe Dog and Whistle. That’s a saloon about a mile out of Fernly onthe road to Cranchester. I kicked up a bit of a row there, I remember.As near as nothing to quarter to ten, it was. How about that?”Inspector Raglan wrote down something in his notebook.“Well?” demanded Kent.“Inquiries will be made,” said the inspector. “If you’ve spoken thetruth, you won’t have anything to complain about. What were youdoing at Fernly Park anyway?”“Went there to meet someone.”“Who?”“That’s none of your business.”“You’d better keep a civil tongue in your head, my man,” thesuperintendent warned him.“To hell with a civil tongue.
I went there on my own business, andthat’s all there is to it. If I was clear away before the murder wasdone, that’s all that concerns the cops.”“Your name, it is Charles Kent,” said Poirot. “Where were youborn?”The man stared at him, then he grinned. “I’m a full-blown Britisherall right,” he said.“Yes,” said Poirot meditatively. “I think you are. I fancy you wereborn in Kent.”The man stared. “Why’s that? Because of my name? What’s thatto do with it? Is a man whose name is Kent bound to be born in thatparticular county?”“Under certain circumstances, I can imagine he might be,” saidPoirot very deliberately. “Under certain circumstances, youcomprehend.”There was so much meaning in his voice as to surprise the twopolice officers. As for Charles Kent, he flushed a brick red, and for amoment I thought he was going to spring at Poirot. He thought betterof it, however, and turned away with a kind of laugh.Poirot nodded as though satisfied, and made his way out throughthe door. He was joined presently by the two officers.“We’ll verify that statement,” remarked Raglan. “I don’t think he’slying, though. But he’s got to come clean with a statement as to whathe was doing at Fernly. It looks to me as though we’d got our blackmailer all right. On the other hand, granted his story’s correct,he couldn’t have had anything to do with the actual murder. He’d gotten pounds on him when he was arrested —rather a large sum. Ifancy that forty pounds went to him —the numbers of the notes didn’tcorrespond, but of course he’d have changed them first thing.
Mr. Ackroyd must have given him the money, and he made off with itas fast as possible. What was that about Kent being his birthplace?What’s that got to do with it?”“Nothing whatever,” said Poirot mildly. “A little idea of mine, thatwas all. Me, I am famous for my little ideas.”“Are you really?” said Raglan, studying him with a puzzledexpression.The superintendent went into a roar of laughter. “Many’s the timeI’ve heard Inspector Japp say that. M. Poirot and his little ideas! Toofanciful for me, he’d say, but always something in them.”“You mock yourself at me,” said Poirot, smiling; “but never mind.The old ones they laugh last sometimes, when the young, cleverones do not laugh at all.”And nodding his head at them in a sage manner he walked outinto the street.He and I lunched together at an hotel. I know now that the wholething lay clearly unravelled before him. He had got the last thread heneeded to lead him to the truth.But at the time I had no suspicion of the fact. I overestimated hisgeneral self-confidence, and I took it for granted that the thingswhich puzzled me must be equally puzzling to him.My chief puzzle was what the man Charles Kent could have beendoing at Fernly. Again and again I put the question to myself andcould get no satisfactory reply. At last I ventured a tentative query toPoirot. His reply was immediate.“Mon ami, I do not think; I know.”“Really?” I said incredulously.“Yes, indeed. I suppose now that to you it would not make sense ifI said that he went to Fernly that night because he was born inKent?”I stared at him. “It certainly doesn’t seem to make sense to me,” Isaid drily.“Ah!”
said Poirot pityingly. “Well, no matter. I have still my littleIdeAs I was returning from my round the following morning, I was hailedby Inspector Raglan. I pulled up, and the inspector mounted on thestep.“Good morning, Dr. Sheppard,” he said. “Well, that alibi is all rightenough.”“Charles Kent’s?”“Charles Kent’s.The barmaid at the Dog and Whistle, Sally Jones,she remembers him perfectly. Picked out his photograph fromamong five others. It was just a quarter to ten when he came into thebar, wwand the Dog and Whistle is well over a mile from Fernly Park.The girl mentions that he had a lot of money on him —she saw himtake a handful of notes out of his pocket. Rather surprised her, it did,seeing the class of fellow he was, with a pair of boots clean droppingoff him. That’s where that forty pounds went right enough.” “The man still refuses to give an account of his visit to Fernly?” “Obstinate as a mule he is. I had a chat with Hayes at Liverpoolover the wire this morning.”“Hercule Poirot says he knows the reason the man went there thatnight,” I observed.“Does he?” cried the inspector eagerly.
“Yes,” I said maliciously. “He says he went there because he wasborn in Kent.”I felt a distinct pleasure in passing on my own discomfiture.Raglan stared at me for a moment or two uncomprehendingly.Then a grin overspread his weaselly She to be the kind of girl you like, young and innocentand simple. I don’t care if you never want to see me again. I hatemyself, despise myself —but you’ve got to believe one thing, if speaking the truth would have made things better for Ralph, I wouldhave spoken out. But I’ve seen all along that it wouldn’t be better forRalph — it makes the case against him blacker than ever. I was notdoing him any harm by sticking to my lie.”“Ralph,” said Blunt. “I see —always Ralph.”“You don’t understand,” said Flora hopelessly. “You never will.”She turned to the inspector.“I admit everything; I was at my wits’ end for money. I never sawmy uncle that evening after he left the dinner table. As to the money,you can take what steps you please. Nothing could be worse than itis now!”Suddenly she broke down again, hid her face in her hands, andrushed from the room.“Well,” said the inspector in a flat tone, “so that’s that.”He seemed rather at a loss what to do next.Blunt came forward.“Inspector Raglan,” he said quietly, “that money was given to meby Mr. Ackroyd for a special purpose.
Miss Ackroyd never touched it.When she says she did, she is lying with the idea of shielding Captain Paton. The truth is as I said, and I am prepared to go intothe witness-box and swear to it.”He made a kind of jerky bow, then turning abruptly he left theroom.Poirot was after him in a flash. He caught the other up in the hall.“Monsieur —a moment, I beg of you, if you will be so good.”“Well, sir?”Blunt was obviously impatient. He stood frowning down on Poirot.“It is this,” said Poirot rapidly: “I am not deceived by your littlefantasy. No, indeed. It was truly Miss Flora who took the money. Allthe same it is well imagined what you say —it pleases me. It is verygood what you have done there. You are a man quick to think and toact.”“I’m not in the least anxious for your opinion, thank you,” said Bluntcoldly.He made once more as though to pass on, but Poirot, not at alloffended, laid a detaining hand on his arm.“Ah! but you are to listen to me. I have more to say. The other dayI spoke of concealments. Very well, all along I have seen what youare concealing. Mademoiselle Flora, you love her with all your heart.From the first moment you saw her, is it not so? Oh! let us not mindsaying these things —why must one in England think it necessary tomention love as though it were some disgraceful secret? You loveMademoiselle Flora. You seek to conceal that fact from all the world.That is very good —that is as it should be. But take the advice ofHercule Poirot —do not conceal it from mademoiselle herself.”Blunt had shown several signs of restlessness whilst Poirot wasspeaking, but the closing words seemed to rivet his attention.“What d’you mean by that?” he said sharply.“You think that she loves the Capitaine Ralph
Paton —but I,Hercule Poirot, tell you that that is not so. Mademoiselle Floraaccepted Captain Paton to please her uncle, and because she sawin the marriage a way of escape from her life here which wasbecoming frankly insupportable to her. She liked him, and there wasmuch sympathy and understanding between them. But love—no! It isnot Captain Paton Mademoiselle Flora loves.”“What the devil do you mean?” asked Blunt.I saw the dark flush under his tan.“You have been blind, monsieur. Blind! She is loyal, the little one.Ralph Paton is under a cloud, she is bound in honour to stick byhim.”I felt it was time I put in a word to help on the good work. “Mysister told me the other night,” I said encouragingly, “that Flora hadnever cared a penny piece for Ralph Paton, and never would. Mysister is always right about these things.”Blunt ignored my wellmeant offers. He spoke to Poirot.“D’you really think —” he began, and stopped.He is one of those inarticulate men who find it hard to put thingsinto words.Poirot knows no such disability
“If you doubt me, ask her yourself, monsieur. But perhaps you nolonger care to —the affair of the money—”Blunt gave a sound like an angry laugh. “Think I’d hold that againsther? Roger was always a queer chap about money. She got in amess and didn’t dare tell him. Poor kid. Poor lonely kid.” Poirot looked thoughtfully at the side door. “Mademoiselle Florawent into the garden, I think,” he murmured.“I’ve been every kind of a fool,” said Blunt abruptly. “Rumconversation we’ve been having. Like one of those Danish plays. Butyou’re a sound fellow, M. Poirot. Thank you.”He took Poirot’s hand and gave it a grip which caused the other towince in anguish. Then he strode to the side-door and passed outinto the garden.“Not every kind of a fool,” murmured Poirot, tenderly nursing theinjured member. “Only one kind —the fool in love.”Inspector Raglan had received a bad jolt. He was not deceived byBlunt’s valiant lie any more than we had been. Our way back to thevillage was punctuated by his complaints.“This alters everything, this does. I don’t know whether you’verealized it, Monsieur Poirot?”“I think so, yes, I think so,” said Poirot. “You see, me, I have beenfamiliar with the idea for some time.”Inspector Raglan, who had only had the idea presented to him ashort half-hour ago, looked at Poirot unhappily, and went on with hisdiscoveries. “Those alibis now. Worthless! Absolutely worthless. Got to startagain. Find out what everyone was doing from nine-thirty onwards.Nine-thirty —that’s the time we’ve got to hang on to.
You were quiteright about the man Kent —we don’t release him yet awhile. Let mesee now —nine forty-five at the Dog and Whistle. He might have gotthere in a quarter of an hour if he ran. It’s just possible that it was hisvoice Mr. Raymond heard talking to Mr. Ackroyd —asking for moneywhich Mr. Ackroyd refused. But one thing’s clear —it wasn’t he whosent the telephone message. The station is half a mile in the otherdirection —over a mile and a half from the Dog and Whistle, and hewas at the Dog and Whistle until about ten minutes past ten. Dangthat telephone call! We always come up against it.”“We do indeed,” agreed Poirot. “It is curious.”“It’s just possible that if Captain Paton climbed into his uncle’sroom and found him there murdered, he may have sent it. Got thewind up, thought he’d be accused, and cleared out. That’s possible,isn’t it?”“Why should he have telephoned?”“May have had doubts if the old man was really dead. Thoughthe’d get the doctor up there as soon as possible, but didn’t want togive himself away. Yes, I say now, how’s that for a theory?Something in that, I should say.”The inspector swelled his chest out importantly. He was so plainlydelighted with himself that any words of ours would have been quitesuperfluous. We arrived back at my house at this minute, and I hurried in to mysurgery patients, who had all been waiting a considerable time,leaving Poirot to walk to the police station with the inspector. Having dismissed the last patient, I strolled into the little room atthe back of the house which I call my workshop. I am rather proud ofthe homemade wireless set I turned out. Caroline hates my
workroom. I have kept my tools there, and Annie is not allowed to wreak havoc with a dustpan and brush. I was just adjusting theinterior of an alarm clock which had been denounced as whollyunreliable by the household, when the door opened and Caroline puther head in.“Oh! there you are, James,” she said, with deep disapproval. “M.Poirot wants to see you.”“Well,” I said, rather irritably, for her sudden entrance had startledme and I had let go of a piece of delicate mechanism, “if he wants to see me, he can come in here.”“In here?” said Caroline.“That’s what I said —in here.” Caroline gave a sniff of disapproval and retired. She returned in amoment or two, ushering in Poirot, and then retired again, shuttingthe door with a bang.“Aha! my friend,” said Poirot, coming forward and rubbing hishands. “You have not got rid of me so easily, you see!”“Finished with the inspector?” I asked.“For the moment, yes. And you, you have seen all the patients?”“Yes.”Poirot sat down and looked at me, tilting his egg-shaped head onone side, with the air of one who savours a very delicious joke.“You are in error,” he said at last.
“You have still one patient tosee.”“Not you?” I exclaimed in surprise.“Ah, not me, bien entendu. Me, I have the health magnificent. No,to tell you the truth, it is a little complot of mine. There is someone Iwish to see, you understand —and at the same time it is notnecessary that the whole village should intrigue itself about thematter —which is what would happen if the lady were seen to cometo my house —for it is a lady. But to you she has already come as apatient before.”“Miss Russell!” I exclaimed.“Précisément. I wish much to speak with her, so I send her thelittle note and make the appointment in your surgery. You are notannoyed with me?”“On the contrary,” I said. “That is, presuming I am allowed to bepresent at the interview?”“But naturally! In your own surgery!”“You know,” I said, throwing down the pincers I was holding, “it’sextraordinarily intriguing, the whole thing. Every new development that arises is like the shake you give to a kaleidoscope —the thingchanges entirely in aspect. Now, why are you so anxious to see MissRussell?”Poirot raised his eyebrows. “Surely it is obvious?” he murmured.“There you go again,” I grumbled. “According to you everything isobvious. But you leave me walking about in a fog.”Poirot shook his head genially to me. “You mock yourself at me.Take the matter of Mademoiselle Flora. The inspector was surprised —but you —you were not.” “I never dreamed of her being the thief,” I expostulated.“That —perhaps no. But I was watching your face and you werenot —like Inspector Raglan —startled and incredulous.”
I thought for a minute or two. “Perhaps you are right,” I said at last.“All along I’ve felt that Flora was keeping back something —so thetruth, when it came, was subconsciously expected. It upset Inspector Raglan very much indeed, poor man.”“Ah! pour ça, oui! The poor man must rearrange all his ideas. Iprofited by his state of mental chaos to induce him to grant me a littlefavour.”“What was that?”Poirot took a sheet of notepaper from his pocket. Some wordswere written on it, and he read them aloud.“The police have, for some days, been seeking for Captain Ralph Paton, the nephew of Mr. Ackroyd of Fernly Park, whosedeath occurred under such tragic circumstances last Friday.Captain Paton has been found at Liverpool, where he was onthe point of embarking for America.”He folded up the piece of paper again.“That, my friend, will be in the newspapers tomorrow morning.”I stared at him, dumbfounded. “But —but it isn’t true! He’s not atLiverpool!”Poirot beamed on me. “You have the intelligence so quick! No, hehas not been found at Liverpool. Inspector Raglan was very loath tolet me send this paragraph to the press, especially as I could nottake him into my confidence. But I assured him most solemnly thatvery interesting results would follow its appearance in print, so hegave in, after stipulating that he was, on no account, to bear theresponsibility.”I stared at Poirot. He smiled back at me.“It beats me,” I said at
last, “what you expect to get out of that.”“You should employ your little grey cells,” said Poirot gravely.He rose and came across to the bench.“It is that you have really the love of the machinery,” he said, afterinspecting the debris of my labours.Every man has his hobby. I immediately drew Poirot’s attention tomy homemade wireless. Finding him sympathetic, I showed him oneor two little inventions of my own —trifling things, but useful in thehouse.“Decidedly,” said Poirot, “you should be an inventor by trade, not adoctor. But I hear the bell —that is your patient. Let us go into thesurgery.”Once before I had been struck by the remnants of beauty in thehousekeeper’s face. This morning I was struck anew. Very simply dressed in black, tall, upright and independent as ever, with her bigdark eyes and an unwonted flush of colour in her usually palecheeks, I realized that as a girl she must have been startlinglyhandsome.“Good morning, mademoiselle,” said Poirot. “Will you be seated?Dr. Sheppard is so kind as to permit me the use of his surgery for alittle conversation I am anxious to have with you.” Miss Russell sat down with her usual composure. If she felt any inward agitation, it did not display itself in any outward manifestation.“It seems a queer way of doing things, if you’ll allow me to say so,”she remarked.“Miss Russell —I have news to give you.”“Indeed!”“Charles Kent has been arrested at Liverpool.”
Not a muscle of her face moved. She merely opened her eyes atrifle wider, and asked, with a tinge of defiance: “Well, what of it?”But at that moment it came to me —the resemblance that hadhaunted me all along, something familiar in the defiance of CharlesKent’s manner. The two voices, one rough and coarse, the otherpainfully ladylike —were strangely the same in timbre. It was of MissRussell that I had been reminded that night outside the gates ofFernly Park.I looked at Poirot, full of my discovery, and he gave me animperceptible nod.In answer to Miss Russell’s question, he threw out his hands in athoroughly French gesture.“I thought you might be interested, that is all,” he said mildly.“Well I’m not particularly,” said Miss Russell. “Who is this CharlesKent anyway?”“He is a man, mademoiselle, who was at Fernly on the night of themurder.”“Really?”“Fortunately for him, he has an alibi. At a quarter to ten he was ata publichouse a mile from here.”“Lucky for him,” commented Miss Russell.“But we still do not know what he was doing at Fernly—who it washe went to meet, for instance.” “I’m afraid I can’t help you at all,” said the housekeeper politely.“Nothing came to my ears. If that is all —”She made a tentative movement as though to rise. Poirot stoppedher.“It is not quite all,” he said smoothly. “This morning freshdevelopments have arisen. It seems now that Mr. Ackroyd was murdered, not at a quarter to ten, but before.
Between ten minutes tonine, when Dr. Sheppard left, and a quarter to ten.”I saw the colour drain from the housekeeper’s face, leaving it deadwhite. She leaned forward, her figure swaying.“But Miss Ackroyd said —Miss Ackroyd said —”“Miss Ackroyd has admitted that she was lying. She was never inthe study at all that evening.”“Then —”“Then it would seem that in this Charles Kent we have the man weare looking for. He came to Fernly, can give no account of what hewas doing there —”“I can tell you what he was doing there. He never touched a hair ofold Ackroyd’s head — he never went near the study. He didn’t do it, Itell you.”She was leaning forward. That iron selfcontrol was brokenthrough at last. Terror and desperation was in her face.“M. Poirot! M. Poirot! Oh, do believe me.”Poirot got up and came to her. He patted her reassuringly on theshoulder.“But yes —but yes, I will believe. I had to make you speak, youknow.”For an instant suspicion flared up in her.“Is what you said true?”“That Charles Kent is suspected of the crime? Yes, that is true.You alone can save him, by telling the reason for his being at Fernly“He came to see me.” She spoke in a low, hurried voice. “I wentout to meet him —”“In the summerhouse, yes, I know.”“How do you
