Sad Cypress Agatha Christie
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Chapter 1 An anonymous letter! Elinor Carlisle stood looking down at it as it lay open in her hand. She'd never had such a thing before. It gave one an unpleasant sensation. It's written, badly spelled, on cheap pink paper. This is to Warn You, I'm naming no Names but there's Someone sucking up to your Aunt and if you're not kareful you'll get Cut Out of Everything. Girls Are very Artful and Old Ladies is Soft when Young Ones suck up to Them and Flatter them What I say is You'd best come down and see for Yourself whats Going On its not right you and the Young Gentleman should be Done Out of What's yours - and She's Very Artful and the Old Lady might Pop off at any time. Well-Wisher. Elinor was still staring at this missive, her plucked brows drawn together in distaste, when the door opened. The maid announced, 'Mr. Welman,' and Roddy came in. Roddy! As always when she saw Roddy, Elinor was conscious of a slightly giddy feeling, a throb of sudden pleasure, a feeling that it was incumbent upon her to be very matter-of-fact and unemotional. Because it was so very obvious that Roddy, although he loved her, didn't feel about her the way she felt about him. The first sight of him did something to her, twisted her heart round so that it almost hurt. Absurd that a man - an ordinary, yes, a perfectly ordinary young man - should be able to do that to one! That the mere look of him should set the world spinning, that his voice should make you want - just a little to cry. Love surely should be a pleasurable emotion - not something that hurt you by its intensity.
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One thing was clear: one must be very, very careful to be off-hand and casual about it all. Men didn't like devotion and adoration. Certainly Roddy didn't. She said lightly, 'Hallo, Roddy!' Roddy said, 'Hallo, darling. You're looking very tragic. Is it a bill?' Elinor shook her head. Roddy said, ‘I thought it might be - midsummer, you know - when the fairies dance, and the accounts rendered come tripping along!' Elinor said, 'It's rather horrid. It's an anonymous letter.' Roddy's brows went up. His keen, fastidious face stiffened and changed. He said - a sharp, disgusted exclamation, 'No!' Elinor said again, 'It's rather horrid..' She moved a step toward her desk. 'I'd better tear it up, I suppose.' She could have done that - she almost did - for Roddy and anonymous letters were two things that ought not to come together. She might have thrown it away and thought no more about it. He would not have stopped her. His fastidiousness was far more strongly developed than his curiosity. But on an impulse Elinor decided differently. She said, 'Perhaps, though, you'd better read it first. Then we'll burn it. It's about Aunt Laura.' Roddy's eyebrows rose in surprise. 'Aunt Laura?' He took the letter, read it, gave a frown of distaste, and handed it back. 'Yes,' he said. 'Definitely to be burned! How extraordinary people are!' Elinor said, 'One of the servants, do you think?' 4
'I suppose so.' He hesitated. 'I wonder who - who the person is - the one they mention?' Elinor said thoughtfully, 'It must be Mary Gerrard, I think.' Roddy frowned in an effort of remembrance. 'Mary Gerrard? Who is she?' 'The daughter of the people at the lodge. You must remember her as a child? Aunt Laura was always fond of the girl, and took an interest in her. She paid for her schooling and for various extras - piano lessons and French and things.' Roddy said, 'Oh, yes, I remember her now; scrawny kid, all legs and arms, with a lot of messy fair hair.' Elinor nodded. 'Yes, you probably haven't seen her since those summer holidays when Mum and Dad were abroad. You've not been down at Hunterbury as often as I have, of course, and she's been abroad au pair in Germany lately, but we used to rout her out and play with her when we were all kids.' 'What's she like now?' asked Roddy. Elinor said, 'She's turned out very nice-looking. Good manners and all that. As a result of her education, you'd never take her for old Gerrard's daughter.' 'Gone all lady-like, has she?' 'Yes. I think, as a result of that, she doesn't get on very well at the lodge. Mrs. Gerrard died some years ago, you know, and Mary and her father don't get on. He jeers at her schooling and her 'fine ways.'
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Roddy said irritably, 'People never dream what harm they may do by ‘educating' someone! Often it's cruelty, not kindness!' Elinor said, 'I suppose she is up at the house a good deal. She reads aloud to Aunt Laura, I know, since she had her stroke.' Roddy said, 'Why can't the nurse read to her?' Elinor said with a smile, 'Nurse O'Brien's got a brogue you can cut with a knife! I don't wonder Aunt Laura prefers Mary.' Roddy walked rapidly and nervously up and down the room for a minute or two. Then he said, 'You know, Elinor, I believe we ought to go down.' Elinor said with a slight recoil, 'Because of this -?' 'No, no - not at all. Oh, damn it all, one must be honest, yes! Foul as that communication is, there may be some truth behind it. I mean, the old girl is pretty ill -' 'Yes, Roddy.' He looked at her with his charming smile - admitting the fallibility of human nature. He said, 'And the money does matter - to you and me, Elinor.' She admitted it quickly: 'Oh, it does.' He said seriously, 'It's not that I'm mercenary. But, after all, Aunt Laura herself has said over and over again that you and I are her only family ties. You're her own niece, her brother's child, and I'm her husband's nephew. She's always given us to understand that at her death all she's got would come to one or the other - or more probably both - of us. And it's a pretty large sum, Elinor.' 'Yes,' said Elinor thoughtfully. 'It must be.' 6
'It's no joke keeping up Hunterbury.' He paused. 'Uncle Henry was what you'd call, I suppose, comfortably off when he met your Aunt Laura. But she was an heiress. She and your father were both left very wealthy. Pity your father speculated and lost most of his.' Elinor sighed. 'Poor father never had much business sense. He got very worried over things before he died.' 'Yes, your Aunt Laura had a much better head than he had. She married Uncle Henry and they bought Hunterbury, and she told me the other day that she'd been exceedingly lucky always in her investments. Practically nothing had slumped.' 'Uncle Henry left all he had to her when he died, didn't he?' Roddy nodded. 'Yes, tragic his dying so soon. And she's never married again. Faithful old bean. And she's always been very good to us. She's treated me as if I were her nephew by blood. If I've been in a hole she's helped me out; luckily I haven't done that too often!' 'She's been awfully generous to me, too,' said Elinor gratefully. Roddy nodded. 'Aunt Laura,' he said, 'is a brick. But, you know, Elinor, perhaps without meaning to do so, you and I live pretty extravagantly, considering what our means really are!' She said ruefully, 'I suppose, we do. Everything costs so much - clothes and one's face - and just silly things like movies and cocktails - and even gramophone records!' Roddy said, 'Darling, you are one of the lilies of the field, aren't you? You toil not, neither do you spin!' Elinor said, 'Do you think I ought to, Roddy?'
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He shook his head. 'I like you as you are: delicate and aloof and ironical. I'd hate you to go all earnest. I'm only saying that if it weren't for Aunt Laura you probably would be working at some grim job.' He went on: 'The same with me. I've got a job, of sorts. Being with Lewis & Hume is not too arduous. It suits me. I preserve my self-respect by having a job; but - mark this - but I don't worry about the future because of my expectations - from Aunt Laura.' Elinor said, 'We sound rather like human leeches!' 'Nonsense! We've been given to understand that some day we shall have money - that's all. Naturally that fact influences our conduct.' Elinor said thoughtfully, 'Aunt Laura has never told us definitely just how she has left her money?' Roddy said, 'That doesn't matter! In all probability she's divided it between us; but if that isn't so - if she's left all of it or most of it to you as her own flesh and blood - why, then, darling, I shall still share in it, because I'm going to marry you - and if the old pet thinks the majority should go to me as the male representative of the Welmans, that's still all right, because you're marrying me.' He grinned at her affectionately. He said, 'Lucky we happen to love each other. You do love me, don't you, Elinor?' 'Yes.' She said it coldly, almost primly. 'Yes!' Roddy mimicked her. 'You're adorable, Elinor. That little air of yours - aloof - untouchable - la Princesse Lointaine. It's that quality of yours that made me love you, I believe.' Elinor caught her breath. She said, 'Is it?'
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'Yes.' He frowned. 'Some women are so - oh, I don't know - so damned possessive - so - so dog-like and devoted - their emotions slopping all over the place! I'd hate that. With you I never know - I'm never sure - any minute you might turn around in that cool, detached way of yours and say you'd changed your mind - quite coolly, like that - without batting an eyelash! You're a fascinating creature, Elinor. You're like a work of art, so - so finished.' He went on: 'You know, I think ours will be the perfect marriage: We both love each other enough and not too much. We're good friends. We've got a lot of tastes in common. We know each other through and through. We've all the advantages of cousinship without the disadvantages of blood relationship. I shall never get tired of you, because you're such an elusive creature. You may get tired of me, though, I'm such an ordinary sort of chap -' Elinor shook her head. She said, 'I shan't get tired of you, Roddy - ever.' 'My sweet!' He kissed her. He said, 'Aunt Laura has a pretty shrewd idea of how it is with us, I think, although we haven't been down since we finally fixed it up. It rather gives us an excuse, doesn't it, for going down?' 'Yes. I was thinking the other day -' Roddy finished the sentence for her: '- that we hadn't been down as often as we might. I thought that, too. When she first had her stroke we went down almost every other weekend. And now it must be almost two months since we were there.' Elinor said, 'We'd have gone if she'd asked for us - at once.' 'Yes, of course. And we know that she likes Nurse O'Brien and is well looked after. All the same, perhaps, we have been a bit slack. I'm talking now not from the money point of view - but the sheer human one.' 9
Elinor nodded. 'I know.' 'So that filthy letter has done some good, after all! We'll go down to protect our interests and because we're fond of the old dear!' He lit a match and set fire to the letter which he took from Elinor's hand. 'Wonder who wrote it?' he said. 'Not that it matters.. Someone who was ‘on our side,' as we used to say when we were kids. Perhaps they've done us a good turn, too. Jim Partington's mother went out to the Riviera to live, had a handsome young Italian doctor to attend her, became quite crazy about him and left him every penny she had. Jim and his sisters tried to upset the will, but couldn't.' Elinor said, 'Aunt Laura likes the new doctor who's taken over Dr. Ransome's practice - but not to that extent! Anyway, that horrid letter mentioned a girl. It must be Mary.' Roddy said, 'We'll go down and see for ourselves.' II Nurse O'Brien rustled out of Mrs. Welman's bedroom and into the bathroom. She said over her shoulder, 'I'll just pop the kettle on. You could do with a cup of tea before you go on, I'm sure, Nurse.' Nurse Hopkins said comfortably, 'Well, dear, I can always do with a cup of tea. I always say there's nothing like a nice cup of tea - a strong cup!' Nurse O'Brien said as she filled the kettle and lit the gas-ring, 'I've got everything here in this cupboard - teapot and cups and sugar - and Edna brings me up fresh milk twice a day. No need to be forever ringing bells. ‘T is a fine gas-ring, this; boils a kettle in a flash.' Nurse O'Brien was a tall red-haired woman of thirty with flashing white teeth, a freckled face and an engaging smile. Her cheerfulness and vitality 10
made her a favourite with her patients. Nurse Hopkins, the District Nurse who came every morning to assist with the bedmaking and toilet of the heavy old lady, was a homely-looking middle-aged woman with a capable air and a brisk manner. She said now approvingly, 'Everything's very well done in this house.' The other nodded. 'Yes, old-fashioned, some of it, no central heating, but plenty of fires and all the maids are very obliging girls and Mrs. Bishop looks after them well.' Nurse Hopkins said, 'These girls nowadays - I've no patience with ‘em don't know what they want, most of them - and can't do a decent day's work.' 'Mary Gerrard's a nice girl,' said Nurse O'Brien. 'I really don't know what Mrs. Welman would do without her. You saw how she asked for her now? Ah, well, she's a lovely creature, I will say, and she's got a way with her.' Nurse Hopkins said, 'I'm sorry for Mary. That old father of hers does his best to spite the girl.' 'Not a civil word in his head, the old curmudgeon,' said Nurse O'Brien. 'There, the kettle's singing. I'll wet the tea as soon as it comes to the boil.' The tea was made and poured, hot and strong. The two nurses sat with it in Nurse O'Brien's room next door to Mrs. Welman's bedroom. 'Mr. Welman and Miss Carlisle are coming down,' said Nurse O'Brien. 'There was a telegram came this morning.' 'There, now, dear,' said Nurse Hopkins. 'I thought the old lady was looking excited about something. It's some time since they've been down, isn't it?' 11
'It must be two months and over. Such a nice young gentleman, Mr. Welman. But very proud-looking.' Nurse Hopkins said, 'I saw her picture in the Tatler the other day - with a friend at Newmarket.' Nurse O'Brien said, 'She's very well known in society, isn't she? And always has such lovely clothes. Do you think she's really good-looking, Nurse?' Nurse Hopkins said, 'Difficult to tell what these girls really look like under their make-up! In my opinion, she hasn't got anything like the looks Mary Gerrard has!' Nurse O'Brien pursed her lips and put her head on one side. 'You may be right now. But Mary hasn't got the style!' Nurse Hopkins said sententiously, 'Fine feathers make fine birds.' 'Another cup of tea, Nurse?' 'Thank you, Nurse. I don't mind if I do.' Over their steaming cups the women drew a little closer together. Nurse O'Brien said, 'An odd thing happened last night. I went in at two o'clock to settle my dear comfortably, as I always do, and she was lying there awake. But she must have been dreaming, for as soon as I got into the room she said, ‘The photograph. I must have the photograph.' 'So I said, ‘Why, of course, Mrs. Welman. But wouldn't you rather wait till morning?' And she said, ‘No. I want to look at it now.' So I said, ‘Well, where is this photograph? Is it the one of Mr. Roderick you're meaning?' And she said, ‘Roderick? No. Lewis.' And she began to struggle, and I went to lift her and she got out her keys from the little box beside her bed and told me to unlock the second drawer of the tallboy, and there, sure enough, was a big photograph in a silver frame. Such a handsome 12
man. And ‘Lewis' written across the corner. Old-fashioned, of course, must have been taken years ago. I took it to her and she held it there, staring at it a long time. And she just murmured, ‘Lewis - Lewis.' Then she sighed and gave it to me and told me to put it back. And, would you believe it, when I turned round again she'd gone off as sweetly as a child.' Nurse Hopkins said, 'Was it her husband, do you think?' Nurse O'Brien said, 'It was not! For this morning I asked Mrs. Bishop, careless-like, what was the late Mr. Welman's first name, and it was Henry, she told me!' The two women exchanged glances. Nurse Hopkins had a long nose, and the end of it quivered a little with pleasurable emotion. She said thoughtfully, 'Lewis - Lewis. I wonder, now. I don't recall the name anywhere round these parts.' 'It would be many years ago, dear,' the other reminded her. 'Yes, and, of course, I've only been here a couple of years. I wonder, now -' Nurse O'Brien said, 'A very handsome man. Looked as though he might be a cavalry officer!' Nurse Hopkins sipped her tea. She said, 'That's very interesting.' Nurse O'Brien said romantically, 'Maybe they were boy and girl together and a cruel father separated them.' Nurse Hopkins said with a deep sigh, 'Perhaps he was killed in the war.'
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III When Nurse Hopkins, pleasantly stimulated by tea and romantic speculation, finally left the house, Mary Gerrard ran out of the door to overtake her. 'Oh, Nurse, may I walk down to the village with you?' 'Of course you can, Mary, my dear.' Mary Gerrard said breathlessly, 'I must talk to you. I'm so worried about everything.' The older woman looked at her kindly. At twenty-one Mary Gerrard was a lovely creature with a kind of wild-rose unreality about her; a long delicate neck, pale golden hair lying close to her exquisitely shaped head in soft natural waves, and eyes of a deep, vivid blue. Nurse Hopkins said, 'What's the trouble?' 'The trouble is that the time is going on and on and I'm not doing anything!' Nurse Hopkins said dryly, 'Time enough for that.' 'No, but it is so - so unsettling. Mrs. Welman has been wonderfully kind, giving me all that expensive schooling. I do feel now that I ought to be starting to earn my own living. I ought to be training for something.' Nurse Hopkins nodded sympathetically. 'It's such a waste of everything if I don't. I've tried to - to - explain what I feel to Mrs. Welman, but - it's difficult - she doesn't seem to understand. She keeps saying there's plenty of time.' Nurse Hopkins said, 'She's a sick woman, remember.' 14
Mary flushed, a contrite flush. 'Oh, I know. I suppose I oughtn't to bother her. But it is worrying - and Father's so - so beastly about it! Keeps jibing me for being a fine lady! But indeed I don't want to sit about doing nothing!' 'I know you don't.' 'The trouble is that training of any kind is nearly always expensive. I know German pretty well now, and I might do something with that. But I think really I want to be a hospital nurse. I do like nursing and sick people.' Nurse Hopkins said unromantically, 'You've got to be as strong as a horse, remember!' 'I am strong! And I really do like nursing. Mother's sister, the one in New Zealand, was a nurse. So it's in my blood, you see.' 'What about massage?' suggested Nurse Hopkins. 'Or Norland? You're fond of children. There's good money to be made in massage.' Mary said doubtfully, 'It's expensive to train for it, isn't it? I hoped - but of course that's very greedy of me - she's done so much for me already.' 'Mrs. Welman, you mean? Nonsense. In my opinion, she owes you that. She's given you a slap-up education, but not the kind that leads to anything much. You don't want to teach?' 'I'm not clever enough.' Nurse Hopkins said, 'There's brains and brains! If you take my advice, Mary, you'll be patient for the present. In my opinion, as I said, Mrs. Welman owes it to you to help you get a start at making your living. And I've no doubt she means to do it. But the truth of the matter is, she's got fond of you, and she doesn't want to lose you.' 15
Mary said, 'Oh!' She drew in her breath with a little gasp. 'Do you really think that's it?' 'I haven't the least doubt of it! There she is, poor old lady, more or less helpless, paralyzed one side and nothing and nobody much to amuse her. It means a lot to her to have a fresh, pretty young thing like you about the house. You've a very nice way with you in a sickroom.' Mary said softly, 'If you really think so - that makes me feel better.. Dear Mrs. Welman, I'm very, very fond of her! She's been so good to me always. I'd do anything for her!' Nurse Hopkins said dryly, 'Then the best thing you can do is to stay where you are and stop worrying! It won't be for long.' Mary said, 'Do you mean -?' Her eyes looked wide and frightened. The District Nurse nodded. 'She's rallied wonderfully, but it won't be for long. There will be a second stroke and then a third. I know the way of it only too well. You be patient, my dear. If you keep the old lady's last days happy and occupied, that's a better deed than many. The time for the other will come.' Mary said, 'You're very kind.' Nurse Hopkins said, 'Here's your father coming out from the lodge - and not to pass the time of day pleasantly, I should say!' They were just nearing the big iron gates. On the steps of the lodge an elderly man with a bent back was painfully hobbling down the two steps. Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully, 'Good morning, Mr. Gerrard.' Ephraim Gerrard said crustily, 'Ah!' 16
'Very nice weather,' said Nurse Hopkins. Old Gerrard said crossly, 'May be for you. 'It isn't for me. My lumbago's been at me something cruel.' Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully, 'That was the wet spell last week, I expect. This hot dry weather will soon clear that away.' Her brisk professional manner appeared to annoy the old man. He said disagreeably, 'Nurses - nurses, you're all the same. Full of cheerfulness over other people's troubles. Little you care! And there's Mary talks about being a nurse, too. Should have thought she'd want to be something better than that, with her French and her German and her piano-playing and all the things she's learned at her grand school and her travels abroad.' Mary said sharply, 'Being a hospital nurse would be quite good enough for me!' 'Yes, and you'd sooner do nothing at all, wouldn't you? Strutting about with your airs and your graces and your fine-lady-do-nothing ways. Laziness, that's what you like, my girl!' Mary protested, tears springing to her eyes, 'It isn't true, Dad. You've no right to say that!' Nurse Hopkins intervened with a heavy, determinedly humorous air. 'Just a bit under the weather, aren't we, this morning? You don't really mean what you say, Gerrard. Mary's a good girl and a good daughter to you.' Gerrard looked at his daughter with an air of almost active malevolence. 'She's no daughter of mine - nowadays - with her French and her history and her mincing talk. Pah!' 17
He turned and went into the lodge again. Mary said, the tears still standing in her eyes, 'You do see, Nurse, don't you, how difficult it is? He's so unreasonable. He's never really liked me even when I was a little girl. Mum was always standing up for me.' Nurse Hopkins said kindly, 'There, there, don't worry. These things are sent to try us! Goodness, I must hurry. Such a round as I've got this morning.' And as she stood watching the brisk retreating figure, Mary Gerrard thought forlornly that nobody was any real good or could really help you. Nurse Hopkins, for all her kindness, was quite content to bring out a little stock of platitudes and offer them with an air of novelty. Mary thought disconsolately, 'What SHALL I do?'
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Chapter 2 Mrs. Welman lay on her carefully built-up pillows. Her breathing was a little heavy, but she was not asleep. Her eyes - eyes still deep and blue like those of her niece Elinor, looked up at the ceiling. She was a big, heavy woman, with a handsome, hawk-like profile. Pride and determination showed in her face. The eyes dropped and came to rest on the figure sitting by the window. They rested there tenderly - almost wistfully. She said at last, 'Mary -' The girl turned quickly. 'Oh, you're awake, Mrs. Welman.' Laura Welman said, 'Yes, I've been awake some time.' 'Oh, I didn't know. I'd have -' Mrs. Welman broke in, 'No, that's all right. I was thinking - thinking of many things.' 'Yes, Mrs. Welman?' The sympathetic look, the interested voice, made a tender look come into the older woman's face. She said gently, 'I'm very fond of you, my dear. You're very good to me.' 'Oh, Mrs. Welman, it's you who have been good to me. If it hadn't been for you, I don't know what I should have done! You've done everything for me.' 'I don't know - I don't know, I'm sure.' The sick woman moved restlessly, her right arm twitched - the left remaining inert and lifeless. 'One means 19
to do the best one can, but it's so difficult to know what is best - what is right. I've been too sure of myself always.' Mary Gerrard said, 'Oh, no, I'm sure you always know what is best and right to do.' But Laura Welman shook her head. 'No - no. It worries me. I've had one besetting sin always, Mary: I'm proud. Pride can be the devil. It runs in our family. Elinor has it, too.' Mary said quickly, 'It will be nice for you to have Miss Elinor and Mr. Roderick down. It will cheer you up a lot. It's quite a time since they were here.' Mrs. Welman said softly, 'They're good children - very good children. And fond of me, both of them. I always know I've only got to send and they'll come at any time. But I don't want to do that too often. They're young and happy - the world in front of them. No need to bring them near decay and suffering before their time.' Mary said, 'I'm sure they'd never feel like that, Mrs. Welman.' Mrs. Welman went on, talking perhaps more to herself than to the girl: 'I always hoped they might marry. But I tried never to suggest anything of the kind. Young people are so contradictory. It would have put them off! I had an idea, long ago, when they were children, that Elinor had set her heart on Roddy. But I wasn't at all sure about him. He's a funny creature. Henry was like that - very reserved and fastidious.. Yes, Henry..' She was silent for a little, thinking of her dead husband. She murmured, 'So long ago - so very long ago.. We had only been married five years when he died. Double pneumonia.. We were happy yes, very happy; but somehow it all seems very unreal, that happiness. I was an odd, solemn, undeveloped girl - my head full of ideals and heroworship. No reality.' 20
Mary murmured, 'You must have been very lonely - afterward.' 'After? Oh, yes - terribly lonely. I was twenty-six - and now I'm over sixty. A long time, my dear - a long, long time.' She said with sudden brisk acerbity, 'And now this!' 'Your illness?' 'Yes. A stroke is the thing I've always dreaded. The indignity of it all! Washed and tended like a baby! Helpless to do anything for myself. It maddens me. The O'Brien creature is good-natured - I will say that for her. She doesn't mind my snapping at her and she's not more idiotic than most of them. But it makes a lot of difference to me to have you about, Mary.' 'Does it?' The girl flushed. 'I - I'm so glad, Mrs. Welman.' Laura Welman said shrewdly, 'You've been worrying, haven't you? About the future. You leave it to me, my dear. I'll see to it that you shall have the means to be independent and take up a profession. But be patient for a little - it means too much to me to have you here.' 'Oh, Mrs. Welman, of course - of course! I wouldn't leave you for the world. Not if you want me -' 'I do want you.' The voice was unusually deep and full. 'You're - you're quite like a daughter to me, Mary. I've seen you grow up here at Hunterbury from a little toddling thing - have seen you grow into a beautiful girl. I'm proud of you, child. I only hope I've done what was best for you.' Mary said quickly, 'If you mean that your having been so good to me and having educated me above - well, above my station - if you think it's made me dissatisfied or - or - given me what Father calls fine-lady ideas, indeed that isn't true. I'm just ever so grateful, that's all. And if I'm 21
anxious to start earning my living, it's only because I feel it's right that I should, and not - and not - well, do nothing after all you've done for me. I - I shouldn't like it to be thought that I was sponging on you.' Laura Welman said, and her voice was suddenly sharpedged, 'So that's what Gerrard's been putting into your head? Pay no attention to your father, Mary; there never has been and never will be any question of your sponging on me! I'm asking you to stay here a little longer solely on my account. Soon it will be over.. If they went the proper way about things, my life could be ended here and now - none of this long-drawnout tomfoolery with nurses and doctors.' 'Oh, no, Mrs. Welman, Dr. Lord says you may live for years.' 'I'm not at all anxious to, thank you! I told him the other day that in a decently civilized state all there would be to do would be for me to intimate to him that I wished to end it, and he'd finish me off painlessly with some nice drug. ‘And if you'd any courage, Doctor,' I said, ‘you'd do it anyway!' ' Mary cried, 'Oh! What did he say?' 'The disrespectful young man merely grinned at me, my dear, and said he wasn't going to risk being hanged. He said, ‘If you'd left me all your money, Mrs. Welman, that would be different, of course!' Impudent young jackanapes! But I like him. His visits do me more good than his medicines.' 'Yes, he's very nice,' said Mary. 'Nurse O'Brien thinks a lot of him and so does Nurse Hopkins.' Mrs. Welman said, 'Hopkins ought to have more sense at her age. As for O'Brien, she simpers and says, ‘Oh, Doctor,' and tosses those long streamers of hers whenever he comes near her.' 'Poor Nurse O'Brien.' 22
Mrs. Welman said indulgently, 'She's not a bad sort, really, but all nurses annoy me; they always will think that you'd like ‘a nice cup of tea' at five in the morning!' She paused. 'What's that? Is it the car?' Mary looked out of the window. 'Yes, it's the car. Miss Elinor and Mr. Roderick have arrived.' II Mrs. Welman said to her niece, 'I'm very glad, Elinor, about you and Roddy.' Elinor smiled at her. 'I thought you would be, Aunt Laura.' The older woman said, after a moment's hesitation, 'You do - care about him, Elinor?' Elinor's delicate brows lifted. 'Of course.' Laura Welman said quickly, 'You must forgive me, dear. You know, you're very reserved. It's very difficult to know what you're thinking or feeling. When you were both much younger I thought you were perhaps beginning to care for Roddy - too much.' Again Elinor's delicate brows were raised. 'Too much?' The older woman nodded. 'Yes. It's not wise to care too much. Sometimes a very young girl does do just that.. I was glad when you went abroad to Germany to finish. Then, when you came back, you seemed quite indifferent to him - and, well, I was sorry for that, too! I'm a tiresome old woman, difficult to satisfy! But I've always fancied that you had, perhaps, rather an intense nature - that kind of temperament runs in our family. It isn't a very happy one for its possessors.. But, as I say, 23
when you came back from abroad so indifferent to Roddy, I was sorry about that, because I had always hoped you two would come together. And now you have, and so everything is all right! And you do really care for him?' Elinor said gravely, 'I care for Roddy enough and not too much.' Mrs. Welman nodded approval. 'I think, then, you'll be happy. Roddy needs love - but he doesn't like violent emotion. He'd shy off from possessiveness.' Elinor said with feeling, 'You know Roddy very well!' Mrs. Welman said, 'If Roddy cares for you just a little more than you care for him - well, that's all to the good.' Elinor said sharply, 'Aunt Agatha's Advice Column. ‘Keep your boy friend guessing! Don't let him be too sure of you!' Laura Welman said sharply, 'Are you unhappy, child? Is anything wrong?' 'No, no, nothing.' Laura Welman said, 'You just thought I was being rather - cheap? My dear, you're young and sensitive. Life, I'm afraid, is rather cheap.' Elinor said with some slight bitterness, 'I suppose it is.' Laura Welman said, 'My child - you are unhappy? What is it?' 'Nothing - absolutely nothing.' She got up and went to the window. Half turning, she said, 'Aunt Laura, tell me, honestly, do you think love is ever a happy thing?' Mrs. Welman's face became grave. 'In the sense you mean, Elinor - no, probably not. To care passionately for another human creature brings 24
always more sorrow than joy; but all the same, Elinor, one would not be without that experience. Anyone who has never really loved has never really lived.' The girl nodded. She said, 'Yes - you understand - you've known what it's like -' She turned suddenly, a questioning look in her eyes. 'Aunt Laura -' The door opened and red-haired Nurse O'Brien came in. She said in a sprightly manner, 'Mrs. Welman, here's Doctor come to see you.' Dr. Lord was a young man of 32. He had sandy hair, a pleasantly ugly freckled face and a remarkably square jaw. His eyes were a keen, piercing light blue. 'Good morning, Mrs. Welman,' he said. 'Good morning, Dr. Lord. This is my niece. Miss Carlisle.' A very obvious admiration sprang into Dr. Lord's transparent face. He said, 'How do you do?' The hand that Elinor extended to him he took rather gingerly as though he thought he might break it. Mrs. Welman went on: 'Elinor and my nephew have come to cheer me up.' 'Splendid!' said Dr. Lord, 'Just what you need! It will do you a lot of good, I am sure, Mrs. Welman.' He was still looking at Elinor with obvious admiration. Elinor said, moving toward the door, 'Perhaps I shall see you before you go, Dr. Lord?' 'Oh - er - yes, of course.' 25
She went out, shutting the door behind her. Dr. Lord approached the bed, Nurse O'Brien fluttering behind him. Mrs. Welman said with a twinkle, 'Going through the usual bag of tricks, Doctor: pulse, respiration, temperature? What humbugs you doctors are!' Nurse O'Brien said with a sigh, 'Oh, Mrs. Welman. What a thing, now, to be saying to the doctor!' Dr. Lord said with a twinkle, 'Mrs. Welman sees through me, Nurse! All the same, Mrs. Welman, I've got to do my stuff, you know. The trouble with me is I've never learned the right bedside manner.' 'Your bedside manner's all right. Actually you're rather proud of it.' Peter Lord chuckled and remarked, 'That's what you say!' After a few routine questions had been asked and answered, Dr. Lord leaned back in his chair and smiled at his patient. 'Well,' he said, 'you're going on splendidly.' Laura Welman said, 'So I shall be up and walking round the house in a few weeks' time?' 'Not quite so quickly as that.' 'No, indeed. You humbug! What's the good of living stretched out like this, and cared for like a baby?' Dr. Lord said, 'What's the good of life, anyway? That's the real question. Ever read about that nice medieval invention, the Little Ease? You couldn't stand, sit, or lie in it. You'd think anyone condemned to that would die in a few weeks. Not at all. One man lived for sixteen years in an iron cage, was released, and lived to a hearty old age.' 26
Laura Welman said, 'What's the point of this story?' Peter Lord said, 'The point is that one's got an instinct to live. One doesn't live because one's reason assents to living. People who, as we say, ‘would be better dead' don't want to die! People who apparently have got everything to live for just let themselves fade out of life because they haven't got the energy to fight.' 'Go on.' 'There's nothing more. You're one of the people who really wants to live, whatever you say about it! And if your body wants to live, it's no good your brain dishing out the other stuff.' Mrs. Welman said with an abrupt change of subject, 'How do you like it down here?' Peter Lord said, smiling, 'It suits me fine.' 'Isn't it a bit irksome for a young man like you? Don't you want to specialize? Don't you find a country G.P. practice rather boring?' Lord shook his sandy head. 'No, I like my job. I like people, you know, and I like ordinary everyday diseases. I don't really want to pin down the rare bacillus of an obscure disease. I like measles and chicken pox and all the rest of it. I like seeing how different bodies react to them. I like seeing if I can't improve on recognized treatment. The trouble with me is I've got absolutely no ambition. I shall stay here till I grow side-whiskers and people begin saying, ‘Of course, we've always had Dr. Lord, and he's a nice old man; but he's very old-fashioned in his methods and perhaps we'd better call in young so-and-so, who's very up to date.' 'H'm,' said Mrs. Welman. 'You seem to have got it all taped out!' 27
Peter Lord got up. 'Well,' he said, 'I must be off,' Mrs. Welman said, 'My niece will want to speak to you, I expect. By the way, what do you think of her? You haven't seen her before.' Dr. Lord went suddenly scarlet. His very eyebrows blushed. He said, 'I - oh! she's very good-looking, isn't she? And - er - clever and all that, I should think.' Mrs. Welman was diverted. She thought to herself, How very young he is, really. Aloud she said, 'You ought to get married.' III Roddy had wandered into the garden. He had crossed the broad sweep of lawn and gone along a paved walk and had then entered the walled kitchen-garden. It was well-kept and well-stocked. He wondered if he and Elinor would live at Hunterbury one day. He supposed that they would. He himself would like that. He preferred country life. He was a little doubtful about Elinor. Perhaps she'd like living in London better. A little difficult to know where you were with Elinor. She didn't reveal much of what she thought and felt about things. He liked that about her. He hated people who reeled off their thoughts and feelings to you, who took it for granted that you wanted to know all their inner mechanism. Reserve was always more interesting. Elinor, he thought judicially, was really quite perfect. Nothing about her ever jarred or offended. She was delightful to look at, witty to talk to altogether the most charming of companions, He thought complacently to himself, I'm damned lucky to have got her. Can't think what she sees in a chap like me. For Roderick Welman, in spite of his fastidiousness, was not conceited. It did honestly strike him as strange that Elinor should have consented to marry him. 28
Life stretched ahead of him pleasantly enough. One knew pretty well where one was; that was always a blessing. He supposed that Elinor and he would be married quite soon - that is, if Elinor wanted to; perhaps she'd rather put it off for a bit. He mustn't rush her. They'd be a bit hardup at first. Nothing to worry about, though. He hoped sincerely that Aunt Laura wouldn't die for a long time to come. She was a dear and had always been nice to him, having him there for holidays, always interested in what he was doing. His mind shied away from the thought of her actual death (his mind usually did shy away from any concrete unpleasantness). He didn't like to visualize anything unpleasant too clearly. But - er afterward - well, it would be very pleasant to live here, especially as there would be plenty of money to keep it up. He wondered exactly how his aunt had left it. Not that it really mattered. With some women it would matter a good deal whether husband or wife had the money. But not with Elinor. She had plenty of tact and she didn't care enough about money to make too much of it. He thought, No, there's nothing to worry about - whatever happens! He went out of the walled garden by the gate at the far end. From there he wandered into the little wood where the daffodils were in spring. They were over now, of course. But the green light was very lovely where the sunlight came filtering through the trees. Just for a moment an odd restlessness came to him - a rippling of his previous placidity. He felt, There's something - something I haven't got something I want - I want - I want.. The golden green light, the softness in the air - with them came a quickened pulse, a stirring of the blood, a sudden impatience.
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A girl came through the trees toward him - a girl with pale, gleaming hair and a rose-flushed skin. He thought, How beautiful - how unutterably beautiful. Something gripped him; he stood quite still, as though frozen into immobility. The world, he felt, was spinning, was topsy-turvy, was suddenly and impossibly and gloriously crazy! The girl stopped suddenly, then she came on. She came up to him where he stood, dumb and absurdly fish-like, his mouth open. She said, with a little hesitation, 'Don't you remember me, Mr. Roderick? It's a long time, of course. I'm Mary Gerrard, from the lodge.' Roddy said, 'Oh - oh - you're Mary Gerrard?' She said. 'Yes.' Then she went on rather shyly: 'I've changed, of course, since you saw me.' He said, 'Yes, you've changed. I - I wouldn't have recognized you.' He stood staring at her. He did not hear footsteps behind him. Mary did and turned. Elinor stood motionless a minute. Then she said, 'Hallo, Mary.' Mary said, 'How do you do. Miss Elinor? It's nice to see you. Mrs. Welman has been looking forward to you coming down.' Elinor said, 'Yes - it's a long time. I - Nurse O'Brien sent me to look for you. She wants to lift Mrs. Welman up, and she says you usually do it with her.' Mary said, 'I'll go at once.' 30
She moved off, breaking into a run. Elinor stood looking after her. Mary ran well, grace in every movement. Roddy said softly, 'Atalanta.' Elinor did not answer. She stood quite still for a minute or two. Then she said, 'It's nearly lunch-time. We'd better go back.' They walked side by side toward the house. IV 'Oh! Come on, Mary. It's a grand film - all about Paris. And a story by a tiptop author. There was an opera of it once.' 'It's frightfully nice of you, Ted, but I really won't.' Ted Bigland said angrily, 'I can't make you out nowadays, Mary. You're different - altogether different.' 'No, I'm not, Ted.' 'You are! I suppose because you've been away to that grand school and to Germany. You're too good for us now.' 'It's not true, Ted. I'm not like that.' She spoke vehemently. The young man, a fine, sturdy specimen, looked at her appraisingly in spite of his anger. 'Yes, you are. You're almost a lady, Mary.' Mary said with sudden bitterness, 'Almost isn't much good, is it?' He said with sudden understanding, 'No, I reckon it isn't.' Mary said quickly, 'Anyway, who cares about that sort of thing nowadays? Ladies and gentlemen, and all that!' 31
'It doesn't matter like it did - no,' Ted assented, but thoughtfully. 'All the same, there's a feeling. Lord, Mary, you look like a countess or something.' Mary said, 'That's not saying much. I've seen countesses looking like oldclothes women!' 'Well, you know what I mean.' A stately figure of ample proportions, handsomely dressed in black bore down upon them. Her eyes gave them a sharp glance. Ted moved aside a step or two. He said, 'Afternoon, Mrs. Bishop.' Mrs. Bishop inclined her head graciously. 'Good afternoon, Ted Bigland. Good afternoon, Mary.' She passed on, a ship in full sail. Ted looked respectfully after her. Mary murmured, 'Now, she really is like a duchess!' 'Yes - she's got a manner. Always makes me feel hot inside my collar.' Mary said slowly, 'She doesn't like me.' 'Nonsense, my girl.' 'It's true. She doesn't. She's always saying sharp things to me.' 'Jealous,' said Ted, nodding his head sapiently. 'That's all it is.' Mary said doubtfully, 'I suppose it might be that.' 'That's it, depend upon it. She's been housekeeper at Hunterbury for years, ruling the roost and ordering everyone about, and now old Mrs. Welman takes a fancy to you, and it puts her out! That's all it is.' 32
Mary said, a shade of trouble on her forehead, 'It's silly of me, but I can't bear it when anyone doesn't like me. I want people to like me.' 'Sure to be women who don't like you, Mary! Jealous cats who think you're too good-looking!' Mary said, 'I think jealousy's horrible.' Ted said slowly, 'Maybe - but it exists all right. Say, I saw a lovely film over at Alledore last week. Clark Gable. All about one of these millionaire blokes who neglected his wife, and then she pretended she'd done the dirty on him. And there was another fellow -' Mary moved away. She said, 'Sorry, Ted, I must go. I'm late.' 'Where are you going?' 'I'm going to have tea with Nurse Hopkins.' Ted made a face. 'Funny taste. That woman's the biggest gossip in the village! Pokes that long nose of hers into everything.' Mary said, 'She's been very kind to me always.' 'Oh, I'm not saying there's any harm in her. But she talks.' Mary said, 'Good-bye, Ted.' She hurried off, leaving him standing gazing resentfully after her. V Nurse Hopkins occupied a small cottage at the end of the village. She herself had just come in and was untying her bonnet strings when Mary entered. 33
'Ah, there you are. I'm a bit late. Old Mrs. Caldecott was bad again. Made me late with my round of dressings. I saw you with Ted Bigland at the end of the street.' Mary said rather dispiritedly, 'Yes.' Nurse Hopkins looked up alertly from where she was stooping to light the gas-ring under the kettle. Her long nose twitched. 'Was he saying something particular to you, my dear?' 'No. He just asked me to go to the movies.' 'I see,' said Nurse Hopkins promptly. 'Well, of course, he's a nice young fellow and doesn't do too badly at the garage, and his father does rather better than most of the farmers round here. All the same, my dear, you don't seem to me cut out for Ted Bigland's wife. Not with your education and all. As I was saying, if I was you I'd go in for massage when the time comes. You get about a bit and see people that way, and your time's more or less your own.' Mary said, 'I'll think it over. Mrs. Welman spoke to me the other day. She was very sweet about it. It was just exactly as you said it was. She doesn't want me to go away just now. She'd miss me, she said. But she told me not to worry about the future, that she meant to help me.' Nurse Hopkins said dubiously, 'Let's hope she's put that down in black and white! Sick people are odd.' Mary asked, 'Do you think Mrs. Bishop really dislikes me - or is it only my fancy?' Nurse Hopkins considered a minute.
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'She puts on a sour face, I must say. She's one of those who don't like seeing young people having a good time or anything done for them. Thinks, perhaps, Mrs. Welman is a bit too fond of you, and resents it.' She laughed cheerfully. 'I shouldn't worry if I was you, Mary, my dear. Just open that paper bag, will you? There's a couple of doughnuts in it.'
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Chapter 3 Your Aunt had second stroke last night. No cause immediate anxiety but suggest you should come down if possible. Dr. Lord. Immediately on receipt of the telegram Elinor had rung up Roddy, and now they were in the train together bound for Hunterbury. Elinor had not seen much of Roddy in the week that had elapsed since their visit. On the two brief occasions when they had met, there had been an odd kind of constraint between them. Roddy had sent her flowers - a great sheaf of long-stemmed roses. It was unusual on his part. At a dinner they had had together he had seemed more attentive than usual, consulting her preferences in food and drink, being unusually assiduous in helping her on and off with her coat. A little, Elinor thought, as though he were playing a part in a play - the part of the devoted fiance. Then she had said to herself, Don't be an idiot. Nothing's wrong. You imagine things! It's that beastly, brooding, possessive mind of yours. Her manner to him had been perhaps a shade more detached, more aloof than usual. Now, in this sudden emergency, the constraint passed, they talked together naturally enough. Roddy said, 'Poor old dear, and she was so well when we saw her the other day.' Elinor said, 'I do mind so terribly for her. I know how she hated being ill, anyway, and now I suppose she'll be more helpless still, and she'll simply loathe that! One does feel, Roddy, that people ought to be set free - if they themselves really want it.' Roddy said, 'I agree. It's the only civilized thing to do. You put animals out of their pain. I suppose you don't do it with human beings simply because, human nature being what it is, people would get shoved off for 37
their money by their fond relations - perhaps when they weren't really bad at all.' Elinor said thoughtfully, 'It would be in the doctors' hands, of course.' 'A doctor might be a crook.' 'You could trust a man like Dr. Lord.' Roddy said carelessly, 'Yes, he seems straightforward enough. Nice fellow.' II Dr. Lord was leaning over the bed. Nurse O'Brien hovered behind him. He was trying, his forehead puckered, to understand the slurred sounds coming from his patient's mouth. He said, 'Yes, yes.. Now, don't get excited. Take plenty of time. Just raise this right hand a little when you mean yes. There's something you're worried about?' He received the affirmatory sign. 'Something urgent? Yes. Something you want done? Someone sent for? Miss Carlisle? And Mr. Welman? They're on their way.' Again Mrs. Welman tried incoherently to speak. Dr. Lord listened attentively. 'You wanted them to come, but it's not that? Someone else? A relation? No? Some business matter? I see. Something to do with money? Lawyer? That's right, isn't it? You want to see your lawyer? Want to give him instructions about some - thing?'
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'Now, now - that's all right. Keep calm. Plenty of time. What's that you're saying - Elinor?' He caught the garbled name. 'She knows what lawyer? And she will arrange with him? Good. She'll be here in about half an hour. I'll tell her what you want and I'll come up with her and we'll get it all straight. Now, don't worry any more. Leave it all to me. I'll see that things are arranged the way you want them to be.' He stood a moment watching her relax, then he moved quietly away and went out on the landing. Nurse O'Brien followed him. Nurse Hopkins was just coming up the stairs. He nodded to her. She said breathlessly, 'Good evening, Doctor.' 'Good evening, Nurse.' He went with the two of them into Nurse O'Brien's room next door and gave them their instructions. Nurse Hopkins would remain on overnight and take charge with Nurse O'Brien. 'Tomorrow I'll have to get hold of a second resident nurse. Awkward, this diphtheria epidemic over at Stamford. The nursing homes there are working short handed as it is.' Then, having given his orders, which were listened to with reverent attention (which sometimes tickled him), Dr. Lord went downstairs, ready to receive the niece and nephew who, his watch told him, were due to arrive any minute now. In the hall he encountered Mary Gerrard. Her face was pale and anxious. She asked, 'Is she better?' Dr. Lord said, 'I can ensure her a peaceful night - that's about all that can be done.' Mary said brokenly, 'It seems so cruel - so unfair' 39
He nodded sympathetically enough. 'Yes, it does seem like that sometimes. I believe -' He broke off. 'That's the car.' He went out into the hall. Mary ran upstairs. Elinor exclaimed as she came into the drawing-room, 'Is she very bad?' Roddy was looking pale and apprehensive. The doctor said gravely, 'I'm afraid it will be rather a shock to you. She's badly paralyzed. Her speech is almost unrecognizable. By the way, she's definitely worried about something. It's to do with sending for her lawyer. You know who he is, Miss Carlisle?' Elinor said quickly, 'Mr. Seddon - of Bloomsbury Square. But he wouldn't be there at this time of the evening, and I don't know his home address.' Dr. Lord said reassuringly, 'Tomorrow will be in plenty of time. I'm anxious to set Mrs. Welman's mind at rest as soon as possible. If you will come up with me now, Miss Carlisle, I think together we shall be able to reassure her.' 'Of course. I will come up at once.' Roddy said hopefully, 'You don't want me?' He felt faintly ashamed of himself, but he had a nervous dread of going up to the sickroom, of seeing Aunt Laura lying there inarticulate and helpless. Dr. Lord reassured him promptly. 'Not the least need, Mr. Welman. Better not to have too many people in the room.' Roddy's relief showed plainly. 40
Dr. Lord and Elinor went upstairs. Nurse O'Brien was with the patient. Laura Welman, breathing deeply and stertorously, lay as though in a stupor. Elinor stood looking down on her, shocked by the drawn, twisted face. Suddenly Mrs. Welman's right eyelid quivered and opened. A faint change came over her face as she recognized Elinor. She tried to speak. 'Elinor..' The word would have been meaningless to anyone who had not guessed at what she wanted to say. Elinor said quickly, 'I'm here, Aunt Laura. You're worried about something? You want me to send for Mr. Seddon?' Another of those hoarse, raucous sounds. Elinor guessed at the meaning. She said, 'Mary Gerrard?' Slowly the right hand moved shakily in assent. A long burble of sound came from the sick woman's lips. Dr. Lord and Elinor frowned helplessly. Again and again it came. Then Elinor got a word. 'Provision - You want to make provision for her in your will? You want her to have some money? I see, dear Aunt Laura. That will be quite simple. Mr. Seddon will come down tomorrow and everything shall be arranged exactly as you wish.' The sufferer seemed relieved. The look of distress faded from that appealing eye. Elinor took her hand in hers and felt a feeble pressure from her fingers. Mrs. Welman said with a great effort, 'You - all - you ..' Elinor said, 'Yes, yes, leave it all to me. I will see that everything you want is done!' 41
She felt the pressure of the fingers again. Then it relaxed. The eyelids drooped and closed. Dr. Lord laid a hand on Elinor's arm and drew her gently away out of the room. Nurse O'Brien resumed her seat near the bed. Outside on the landing Mary Gerrard was talking to Nurse Hopkins. She started forward. 'Oh, Dr. Lord, can I go in to her, please?' He nodded. 'Keep quite quiet, though, and don't disturb her.' Mary went into the sickroom. Dr. Lord said, 'Your train was late. You -' He stopped. Elinor had turned her head to look after Mary. Suddenly she became aware of his abrupt silence. She turned her head and looked at him inquiringly. He was staring at her, a startled look in his face. The color rose in Elinor's cheeks. She said hurriedly, 'I beg your pardon. What did you say?' Peter Lord said slowly, 'What was I saying? I don't remember. Miss Carlisle, you were splendid in there!' He spoke warmly. 'Quick to understand, reassuring, everything you should have been.' The very faintest of sniffs came from Nurse Hopkins. Elinor said, 'Poor darling. It upset me terribly seeing her like that.' 'Of course. But you didn't show it. You must have great self-control.' Elinor said, her lips set very straight, 'I've learned not - to show my feelings.' 42
The doctor said slowly, 'All the same, the mask's bound to slip once in a while.' Nurse Hopkins had bustled into the bathroom. Elinor said, raising her delicate eyebrows and looking full at him, 'The mask?' Dr. Lord said, 'The human face is, after all, nothing more nor less than a mask.' 'And underneath?' 'Underneath is the primitive man or woman.' She turned away quickly and led the way downstairs. Peter Lord followed, puzzled and unwontedly serious. Roddy came out into the hall to meet them. 'Well?' he asked anxiously. Elinor said, 'Poor darling. It's very sad to see her. I shouldn't go, Roddy till - till - she asks for you.' Roddy asked, 'Did she want anything - special?' Peter Lord said to Elinor, 'I must be off now. There's nothing more I can do for the moment. I'll look in early tomorrow. Good-bye, Miss Carlisle. Don't - don't worry too much.' He held her hand in his for a moment or two. He had a strangely reassuring and comforting clasp. He looked at her, Elinor thought, rather oddly as though - as though he was sorry for her. As the door shut behind the doctor, Roddy repeated his question. Elinor said, 'Aunt Laura is worried about - about certain business matters. I managed to pacify her and told her Mr. Seddon would certainly come down tomorrow. We must telephone him first thing.' 43
Roddy asked, 'Does she want to make a new will?' Elinor answered, 'She didn't say so.' 'What did she -?' He stopped in the middle of the question. Mary Gerrard was running down the stairs. She crossed the hall and disappeared through the door to the kitchen quarters. Elinor said in a harsh voice, 'Yes? What is it you wanted to ask?' Roddy said vaguely, 'I - what? I've forgotten what it was.' He was staring at the door through which Mary Gerrard had gone. Elinor's hands closed. She could feel her long, pointed nails biting into the flesh of her palms. She thought, I can't bear it - I can't bear it. It's not imagination - it's true. Roddy - Roddy, I CAN'T lose you. And she thought, What did that man - the doctor - what did he see in my face upstairs? He saw something.. Oh, God, how awful life is - to feel as I feel now. Say something, fool. Pull yourself together! Aloud she said, in her calm voice, 'About meals, Roddy. I'm not very hungry. I'll sit with Aunt Laura and the nurses can both come down.' Roddy said in alarm, 'And have dinner with we?' Elinor said coldly, 'They won't bite you!' 'But what about you? You must have something. Why don't we dine first, and let them come down afterward?' Elinor said, 'No, the other way's better.' She added wildly, 'They're so touchy, you know.' 44
She thought, I can't sit through a meal with him - alone - talking behaving as usual. She said impatiently, 'Oh, do let me arrange things my own way!'
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Chapter 4 It was no mere housemaid who wakened Elinor the following morning. It was Mrs. Bishop in person, rustling in her old-fashioned black, and weeping unashamedly. 'Oh, Miss Elinor, she's gone.' 'What?' Elinor sat up in bed. 'Your dear aunt. Mrs. Welman. My dear mistress. Passed away in her sleep.' 'Aunt Laura? Dead?' Elinor stared. She seemed unable to take it in. Mrs. Bishop was weeping now with more abandon. 'To think of it,' she sobbed. 'After all these years! Eighteen years I've been here. But indeed it doesn't seem like it.' Elinor said slowly, 'So Aunt Laura died in her sleep - quite peacefully. What a blessing for her!' Mrs. Bishop wept. 'So sudden. The doctor saying he'd call again this morning and everything just as usual.' Elinor said rather sharply, 'It wasn't exactly sudden. After all, she'd been ill for some time. I'm just so thankful she's been spared more suffering.' Mrs. Bishop said tearfully that there was indeed that to be thankful for. She added, 'Who'll tell Mr. Roderick?' 47
Elinor said, 'I will.' She threw on a dressing-gown and went along to his door and tapped. His voice answered, saying, 'Come in.' She entered. 'Aunt Laura's dead, Roddy. She died in her sleep.' Roddy, sitting up in bed, drew a deep sigh. 'Poor dear Aunt Laura! Thank God for it, I say. I couldn't have borne to see her go on lingering in the state she was yesterday.' Elinor said mechanically, 'I didn't know you'd seen her?' He nodded rather shamefacedly. 'The truth is, Elinor, I felt the most awful coward, because I'd funked it! I went along there yesterday evening. The nurse, the fat one, left the room for something - went down with a hot-water bottle, I think - and I slipped in. She didn't know I was there, of course. I just stood a bit and looked at her. Then, when I heard Mrs. Gamp stumping up the stairs again, I slipped away. But it was pretty terrible!' Elinor nodded. 'Yes, it was.' Roddy said, 'She'd have hated it like hell - every minute of it!' 'I know.' Roddy said, 'It's marvelous the way you and I always see alike over things.' Elinor said in a low voice, 'Yes, it is.' He said, 'We're both feeling the same thing at this minute: just utter thankfulness that she's out of it all.'
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II Nurse O'Brien said, 'What is it, Nurse? Can't you find something?' Nurse Hopkins, her face rather red, was hunting through the little attache case that she had laid down in the hall the preceding evening. She grunted, 'Most annoying. How I came to do such a thing I can't imagine!' 'What is it?' Nurse Hopkins replied not very intelligibly: 'It's Eliza Rykin - that sarcoma, you know. She's got to have double injections - night and morning morphine. Gave her the last tablet in the old tube last night on my way here, and I could swear I had the new tube in here, too.' 'Look again. Those tubes are so small.' Nurse Hopkins gave a final stir to the contents of the attache case. 'No, it's not here! I must have left it in my cupboard after all! Really, I did think I could trust my memory better than that. I could have sworn I took it out with me!' 'You didn't leave the case anywhere, did you, on the way here?' 'Of course not!' said Nurse Hopkins sharply. 'Oh, well, dear,' said Nurse O'Brien, 'it must be all right.' 'Oh, yes! The only place I've laid my case down was here in this hall, and nobody here would pinch anything! Just my memory, I suppose. But it vexes me, if you understand, Nurse. Besides, I shall have to go right home first to the other end of the village and back again.' 49
Nurse O'Brien said, 'Hope you won't have too tiring a'day, dear, after last night. Poor old lady. I didn't think she would last long.' 'No, nor I. I dare say Doctor will be surprised!' Nurse O'Brien said with a tinge of disapproval, 'He's always so hopeful about his cases.' Nurse Hopkins, as she prepared to depart, said, 'Ah, he's young! He hasn't our experience.' On which gloomy pronouncement she departed. III Dr. Lord raised himself up on his toes. His sandy eyebrows climbed right up his forehead till they nearly got merged in his hair. He said in surprise, 'So she's conked out - eh?' 'Yes, Doctor.' On Nurse O'Brien's tongue exact details were tingling to be uttered, but with stern discipline she waited. Peter Lord said thoughtfully, 'Conked out?' He stood for a moment thinking, then he said sharply, 'Get me some boiling water.' Nurse O'Brien was surprised and mystified, but true to the spirit of hospital training, hers not to reason why. If a doctor had told her to go and get the skin of an alligator she would have murmured automatically, 'Yes, Doctor,' and glided obediently from the room to tackle the problem. IV Roderick Welman said, 'Do you mean to say that my aunt died intestate that she never made a will at all?' 50
Mr. Seddon polished his eyeglasses. He said, 'That seems to be the case.' Roddy said, 'But how extraordinary!' Mr. Seddon gave a deprecating cough. 'Not so extraordinary as you might imagine. It happens oftener than you would think. There's a kind of superstition about it. People will think they've got plenty of time. The mere fact of making a will seems to bring the possibility of death nearer to them. Very odd - but there it is!' Roddy said, 'Didn't you ever - er - expostulate with her on the subject?' Mr. Seddon replied dryly, 'Frequently.' 'And what did she say?' Mr. Seddon sighed. 'The usual things. That there was plenty of time! That she didn't intend to die just yet! That she hadn't made up her mind definitely, exactly how she wished to dispose of her money!' Elinor said, 'But surely, after her first stroke -?' Mr. Seddon shook his head. 'Oh, no, it was worse then. She wouldn't hear the subject mentioned!' Roddy said, 'Surely that's very odd?' Mr. Seddon said again, 'Oh, no. Naturally, her illness made her much more nervous.' Elinor said in a puzzled voice, 'But she wanted to die.' Polishing his eyeglasses, Mr. Seddon said, 'Ah, my dear Miss Elinor, the human mind is a very curious piece of mechanism. Mrs. Welman may have thought she wanted to die, but side by side with that feeling there ran the hope that she would recover absolutely. And because of that 51
hope, I think she felt that to make a will would be unlucky. It isn't so much that she didn't mean to make one, as that she was eternally putting it off. 'You know,' went on Mr. Seddon, suddenly addressing Roddy in an almost personal manner, 'how one puts off and avoids a thing that is distasteful - that you don't want to face?' Roddy flushed. He muttered, 'Yes, I - I - yes, of course. I know what you mean.' 'Exactly,' said Mr. Seddon. 'Mrs. Welman always meant to make a will, but tomorrow was always a better day to make it than today! She kept telling herself that there was plenty of time.' Elinor said slowly, 'So that's why she was so upset last night - and in such a panic that you should be sent for.' Mr. Seddon replied, 'Undoubtedly!' Roddy said in a bewildered voice, 'But what happens now?' 'To Mrs. Welman's estate?' The lawyer coughed. 'Since Mrs. Welman died intestate, all her property goes to her next of kin - that is, to Miss Elinor Carlisle.' Elinor said slowly, 'All to me?' 'The Crown takes a certain percentage,' Mr. Seddon explained. He went into details. He ended, 'There are no settlements or trusts. Mrs. Welman's money was hers absolutely to do with as she chose. It passes, therefore, straight to Miss Carlisle. Er - the death duties, I am afraid, will be somewhat heavy, but even after their payment, the fortune will still be a 52
considerable one, and it is very well invested in sound, gilt-edged securities.' Elinor said, 'But Roderick - ' Mr. Seddon said with a little apologetic cough, 'Mr. Welman is only Mrs. Welman's husband's nephew. There is no blood relationship.' 'Quite,' said Roddy. Elinor said slowly, 'Of course, it doesn't much matter which of us gets it, as we're going to be married.' But she did not look at Roddy. It was Mr. Seddon's turn to say, 'Quite!' He said it rather quickly. V 'But it doesn't matter, does it?' Elinor said. She spoke almost pleadingly. Mr. Seddon had departed. Roddy's face twitched nervously. He said, 'You ought to have it. It's quite right you should. For heaven's sake, Elinor, don't get it into your head that I grudge it to you. I don't want the damned money!' Elinor said, her voice slightly unsteady, 'We did agree, Roddy, in London that it wouldn't matter which of us it was, as - as we were going to be married?' He didn't answer. She persisted, 'Don't you remember saying that, Roddy?' He said, 'Yes.' 53
He looked down at his feet. His face was white and sullen; there was pain in the taut lines of his sensitive mouth. Elinor said with a sudden gallant lift of the head, 'It doesn't matter - if we're going to be married.. But are we, Roddy?' He said, 'Are we what?' 'Are we going to marry each other?' 'I understood that was the idea.' His tone was indifferent, with a slight edge to it. He went on: 'Of course, Elinor, if you've other ideas now -' Elinor cried out, 'Oh, Roddy, can't you be honest?' He winced. Then he said in a low, bewildered voice, 'I don't know what's happened to me.' Elinor said in a stifled voice, 'I do.' He said quickly, 'Perhaps it's true that I don't, after all, quite like the idea of living on my wife's money.' Elinor, her face white, said, 'It's not that. It's something else.' She paused, then she said, 'It's - Mary, isn't it?' Roddy muttered unhappily, 'I suppose so. How did you know?' Elinor said, her mouth twisting sideways in a crooked smile, 'It wasn't difficult. Every time you look at her - it's there in your face for anyone to read.' Suddenly his composure broke. 'Oh, Elinor - I don't know what's the matter! I think I'm going mad! It happened when I saw her - that first day - in the wood .. just her face - it - it's turned everything upside down. You can't understand that.' 54
Elinor said, 'Yes, I can. Go on.' Roddy said helplessly, 'I didn't want to fall in love with her - I was quite happy with you. Oh, Elinor, what a cad I am, talking like this to you - ' Elinor said, 'Nonsense. Go on. Tell me.' He said brokenly, 'You're wonderful. Talking to you helps frightfully. I'm so terribly fond of you, Elinor! You must believe that. This other thing is like an enchantment! It's upset everything: my conception of life - and my enjoyment of things - and - all the decent, ordered, reasonable things.' Elinor said gently, 'Love - isn't very reasonable.' Roddy said miserably, 'No.' Elinor said, and her voice trembled a little, 'Have you said anything to her?' Roddy said, 'This morning - like a fool - I lost my head -' Elinor said, 'Yes?' Roddy said, 'Of course she - shut me up at once! She was shocked. Because of Aunt Laura and–of you–' Elinor drew the diamond ring off her finger. She said, 'You'd better take it back, Roddy.' Taking it, he murmured without looking at her, 'Elinor, you've no idea what a beast I feel.' Elinor said in her calm voice, 'Do you think she'll marry you?'
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He shook his head. 'I've no idea. Not - not for a long time. I don't think she cares for me now; but she might come to care.' Elinor said, 'I think you're right. You must give her time. Not see her for a bit, and then - start afresh.' 'Darling Elinor! You're the best friend anyone ever had.' He took her hand suddenly and kissed it. 'You know, Elinor, I do love you - just as much as ever! Sometimes Mary seems just like a dream. I might wake up from it - and find she wasn't there.' Elinor said, 'If Mary wasn't there -' Roddy said with sudden feeling, 'Sometimes I wish she wasn't.. You and I, Elinor, belong. We do belong, don't we?' Slowly she bent her head. She said, 'Oh, yes - we belong.' She thought, If Mary wasn't there..
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Chapter 5 Nurse Hopkins said with emotion, 'It was a beautiful funeral!' Nurse O'Brien responded, 'It was, indeed. And the flowers! Did you ever see such beautiful flowers? A harp of white lilies there was, and a cross of yellow roses. Beautiful!' Nurse Hopkins sighed and helped herself to buttered teacake. The two nurses were sitting in the Blue Tit Café. Nurse Hopkins went on: 'Miss Carlisle is a generous girl. She gave me a nice present, though she'd no call to do so.' 'She's a fine, generous girl,' agreed Nurse O'Brien warmly. 'I do detest stinginess.' Nurse Hopkins said, 'Well, it's a grand fortune she's inherited.' Nurse O'Brien said, 'I wonder -' and stopped. Nurse Hopkins said, 'Yes?' encouragingly. 'It was strange the way the old lady made no will.' 'It was wicked,' Nurse Hopkins said sharply. 'People ought to be forced to make wills! It only leads to unpleasantness when they don't.' 'I'm wondering,' said Nurse O'Brien, 'if she had made a will, how she'd have left her money?' Nurse Hopkins said firmly, 'I know one thing.' 'What's that?' 57
'She'd have left a sum of money to Mary - Mary Gerrard.' 'Yes indeed, and that's true,' agreed the other. She added excitedly, 'Wasn't I after telling you that night of the state she was in, poor dear, and the doctor doing his best to calm her down. Miss Elinor was there holding her auntie's hand and swearing by God Almighty,' said Nurse O'Brien, her Irish imagination suddenly running away with her, 'that the lawyer should be sent for and everything done accordingly. ‘Mary. Mary' the poor old lady said. ‘Is it Mary Gerrard you are meaning?' says Miss Elinor, and straightaway she swore that Mary should have her rights!' Nurse Hopkins said rather doubtfully, 'Was it like that?' Nurse O'Brien replied firmly, 'That was the way of it, and I'll tell you this, Nurse Hopkins: In my opinion, if Mrs. Welman had lived to make that will, it's likely there might have been surprises for all! Who knows she mightn't have left every penny she possessed to Mary Gerrard!' Nurse Hopkins said dubiously, 'I don't think she'd do that. I don't hold with leaving your money away from your own flesh and blood.' Nurse O'Brien said oracularly, 'There's flesh and blood and flesh and blood.' Nurse Hopkins responded instantly, 'Now, what might you mean by that?' Nurse O'Brien said with dignity. 'I'm not one to gossip! And I wouldn't be blackening anyone's name that's dead.' Nurse Hopkins nodded her head slowly and said, 'That's right. I agree with you. Least said soonest mended.' She filled up the teapot.
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Nurse O'Brien said, 'By the way, now, did you find that tube of morphine all right when you got home?' Nurse Hopkins frowned. She said, 'No. It beats me to know what can have become of it, but I think it may have been this way: I might have set it down on the edge of the mantelpiece as I often do while I lock the cupboard, and it might have rolled and fallen into the waste-paper basket that was all full of rubbish and that was emptied out into the dustbin just as I left the house.' She paused. 'It must be that way, for I don't see what else could have become of it.' 'I see,' said Nurse O'Brien. 'Well, dear, that must have been it. It's not as though you'd left your case about anywhere else - only just in the hall at Hunterbury - so it seems to me that what you suggested just now must be so. It's gone into the rubbish bin.' 'That's right,' said Nurse Hopkins eagerly. 'It couldn't be any other way, could it?' She helped herself to a pink sugar cake. She said, 'It's not as though -' and stopped. The other agreed quickly - perhaps a little too quickly. 'I'd not be worrying about it any more if I was you,' she said comfortably. Nurse Hopkins said, 'I'm not worrying.' II Young and severe in her black dress, Elinor sat in front of Mrs. Welman's massive writing table in the library. Various papers were spread out in front of her. She had finished interviewing the servants and Mrs. Bishop. Now it was Mary Gerrard who entered the room and hesitated a minute by the doorway. 59
'You wanted to see me, Miss Elinor?' she said. Elinor looked up. 'Oh, yes, Mary. Come here and sit down, will you?' Mary came and sat in the chair Elinor indicated. It was turned a little toward the window, and the light from it fell on her face, showing the dazzling purity of the skin and bringing out the pale gold of the girl's hair. Elinor held one hand shielding her face a little. Between the fingers she could watch the other girl's face. She thought, Is it possible to hate anyone so much and not show it? Aloud she said in a pleasant, business-like voice, 'I think you know, Mary, that my aunt always took a great interest in you and would have been concerned about your future.' Mary murmured in her soft voice, 'Mrs. Welman was very good to me always.' Elinor went on, her voice cold and detached: 'My aunt, if she had had time to make a will, would have wished, I know, to leave several legacies. Since she died without making a will, the responsibility of carrying out her wishes rests on me. I have consulted with Mr. Seddon, and by his advice we have drawn up a schedule of sums for the servants according to their length of service, etc.' She paused. 'You, of course, don't come quite into that class.' She half hoped, perhaps, that those words might hold a sting, but the face she was looking at showed no change. Mary accepted the words at their face value and listened to what more was to come. Elinor said, 'Though it was difficult for my aunt to speak coherently, she was able to make her meaning understood that last evening. She definitely wanted to make some provision for your future.' 60
Mary said quietly, 'That was very good of her.' Elinor said brusquely, 'As soon as probate is granted, I am arranging that two thousand pounds should be made over to you - that sum to be yours to do with absolutely as you please.' Mary's color rose. 'Two thousand pounds? Oh, Miss Elinor, that is good of you! I don't know what to say.' Elinor said sharply, 'It isn't particularly good of me, and please don't say anything.' Mary flushed. 'You don't know what a difference it will make to me,' she murmured. Elinor said, 'I'm glad.' She hesitated. She looked away from Mary to the other side of the room. She said with a slight effort, 'I wonder - have you any plans?' Mary said quickly, 'Oh, yes. I shall train for something. Massage, perhaps. That's what Nurse Hopkins advises.' Elinor said, 'That sounds a very good idea. I will try and arrange with Mr. Seddon that some money shall be advanced to you as soon as possible at once, if that is feasible.' 'You're very, very good, Miss Elinor,' said Mary gratefully. Elinor said curtly, 'It was Aunt Laura's wish.' She hesitated, then said, 'Well, that's all, I think.' This time the definite dismissal in the words pierced Mary's sensitive skin. She got up, said quietly, 'Thank you very much, Miss Elinor,' and left the room. 61
Elinor sat quite still, staring ahead of her. Her face was quite impassive. There was no clue in it as to what was going on in her mind. But she sat there, motionless, for a long time. Elinor went at last in search of Roddy. She found him in the morningroom. He was standing staring out of the window. He turned sharply as Elinor came in. She said, 'I've got through it all! Five hundred for Mrs. Bishop - she's been here such years. A hundred for the cook and fifty each for Milly and Olive. Five pounds each to the others. Twenty-five for Stephens, the head gardener; and there's old Gerrard, of course, at the lodge. I haven't done anything about him yet. It's awkward. He'll have to be pensioned off, I suppose?' She paused and then went on rather hurriedly: 'I'm settling two thousand on Mary Gerrard. Do you think that's what Aunt Laura would have wished? It seemed to me about the right sum.' Roddy said without looking at her, 'Yes, exactly right. You've always got excellent judgment, Elinor.' He turned to look out of the window again. Elinor held her breath for a minute, then she began to speak with nervous haste, the words tumbling out incoherently: 'There's something more. I want to - it's only right - I mean, you've got to have your proper share, Roddy.' As he wheeled round, anger on his face, she hurried on: 'No, listen, Roddy. This is just bare justice! The money that was your uncle's - that he left to his wife - naturally he always assumed it would come to you. Aunt Laura meant it to, too. I know she did, from lots of things she said. If I have her money, you should have the amount that was his - it's only right. I - I can't bear to feel that I've robbed you - just because Aunt Laura funked making a will. You must - you must see sense about this!' 62
Roderick's long, sensitive face had gone dead white. He said, 'My God, Elinor, do you want to make me feel an utter cad? Do you think for one moment I could - could take this money from you?' 'I'm not giving it to you. It's just - fair.' Roddy cried out, 'I don't want your money!' 'It isn't mine!' 'It's yours by law - and that's all that matters! For God's sake, don't let's be anything but strictly business-like! I won't take a penny from you. You're not going to do the Lady Bountiful to me!' Elinor cried out, 'Roddy!' He made a quick gesture. 'Oh, my dear, I'm sorry. I don't know what I'm saying. I feel so bewildered - so utterly lost.' Elinor said gently, 'Poor Roddy.' He had turned away again and was playing with the tassel of the window blind. He said in a different tone, a detached one, 'Do you know what Mary Gerrard proposes doing?' 'She's going to train as a masseuse, so she says.' He said, 'I see.' There was a silence. Elinor drew herself up; she flung back her head. Her voice when she spoke was suddenly compelling: 'Roddy, I want you to listen to me carefully!' He turned to her, slightly surprised. 'Of course, Elinor.' 'I want you, if you will, to follow my advice.' 63
'And what is your advice?' Elinor said calmly, 'You are not particularly tied? You can always get a holiday, can't you?' 'Oh, yes.' 'Then do - just that. Go abroad somewhere for - say, three months. Go by yourself. Make new friends and see new places. Let's speak quite frankly. At this moment you think you're in love with Mary Gerrard. Perhaps you are. But it isn't a moment for approaching her - you know that only too well. Our engagement is definitely broken off. Go abroad, then, as a free man, and at the end of the three months, as a free man, make up your mind. You'll know then whether you - really love Mary or whether it was only a temporary infatuation. And if you are quite sure you do love her - well, then, come back and go to her and tell her so, and that you're quite sure about it, and perhaps then she'll listen.' Roddy came to her. He caught her hand in his. 'Elinor, you're wonderful! So clear-headed! So marvellously impersonal! There's no trace of pettiness or meanness about you. I admire you more than I can ever say. I'll do exactly what you suggest. Go away, cut free from everything - and find out whether I've got the genuine disease or if I've just been making the most ghastly fool of myself. Oh, Elinor, my dear, you don't know how truly fond I am of you. I do realize you were always a thousand times too good for me. Bless you, dear, for all your goodness.' Quickly, impulsively, he kissed her and went out. It was as well, perhaps, that he did not look back and see her face. III It was a couple of days later that Mary acquainted Nurse Hopkins with her improved prospects. 64
That practical woman was warmly congratulatory. 'That's a great piece of luck for you, Mary,' she said. 'The old lady may have meant well by you, but unless a thing's down in black and white, intentions don't go for much! You might easily have got nothing at all.' 'Miss Elinor said that the night Mrs. Welman died she told her to do something for me.' Nurse Hopkins snorted. 'Maybe she did. But there's many would have forgotten conveniently afterward. Relations are like that. I've seen a few things, I can tell you! People dying and saying they know they can leave it to their dear son or their dear daughter to carry out their wishes. Nine times out of ten, dear son and dear daughter find some very good reason to do nothing of the kind. Human nature's human nature, and nobody likes parting with money if they're not legally compelled to! I tell you, Mary, my girl, you've been lucky. Miss Carlisle's straighter than most.' Mary said slowly, 'And yet - somehow - I feel she doesn't like me.' 'With good reason, I should say,' said Nurse Hopkins bluntly. 'Now, don't look so innocent, Mary! Mr. Roderick's been making sheep's eyes at you for some time now.' Mary went red. Nurse Hopkins went on: 'He's got it badly, in my opinion. Fell for you all of a sudden. What about you, my girl? Got any feeling for him?' Mary said hesitatingly, 'I - I don't know. I don't think so. But, of course, he's very nice.' 'H'm,' said Nurse Hopkins. 'He wouldn't be my fancy! One of those men who are finicky and a bundle of nerves. Fussy about their food, too, as likely as not. Men aren't much at the best of times. Don't be in too much of a hurry, Mary, my dear. With your looks you can afford to pick and 65
choose. Nurse O'Brien passed the remark to me the other day that you ought to go on the films. They like blondes, I've always heard.' Mary said, with a slight frown creasing her forehead, 'Nurse, what do you think I ought to do about Father? He thinks I ought to give some of this money to him.' 'Don't you do anything of the kind,' said Nurse Hopkins wrathfully. 'Mrs. Welman never meant that money for him. It's my opinion he'd have lost his job years ago if it hadn't been for you. A lazier man never stepped!' Mary said, 'It seems funny when she'd all that money that she never made a will to say how it was to go.' Nurse Hopkins shook her head. 'People are like that. You'd be surprised. Always putting it off.' Mary said, 'It seems downright silly to me.' Nurse Hopkins said with a faint twinkle, 'Made a will yourself, Mary?' Mary stared at her. 'Oh, no.' 'And yet you're over twenty-one.' 'But I - I haven't got anything to leave - at least I suppose I have now.' Nurse Hopkins said sharply, 'Of course you have. And a nice tidy little sum, too.' Mary said, 'Oh, well, there's no hurry.' 'There you go,' said Nurse Hopkins dryly. 'Just like everyone else. Because you're a healthy young girl isn't a reason why you shouldn't be smashed up in a charabanc or a bus, or run over in the street, any minute.' 66
Mary laughed. She said, 'I don't even know how to make a will.' 'Easy enough. You can get a form at the post office. Let's go and get one right away.' In Nurse Hopkins's cottage the form was spread out and the important matter discussed. Nurse Hopkins was enjoying herself thoroughly. A will, as she said, was next best to a death, in her opinion. Mary said, 'Who'd get the money if I didn't make a will?' Nurse Hopkins said rather doubtfully, 'Your father, I suppose.' Mary said sharply, 'He shan't have it. I'd rather leave it to my auntie in New Zealand.' 'It wouldn't be much use leaving it to your father, anyway - he's not long for this world, I should say.' Mary had heard Nurse Hopkins make this kind of pronouncement too often to be impressed by it. 'I can't remember my auntie's address. We've not heard from her for years.' 'I don't suppose that matters,' said Nurse Hopkins. 'You know her Christian name?' 'Mary. Mary Riley.' 'That's all right. Put down you leaving everything to Mary Riley, sister of the late Eliza Gerrard of Hunterbury, Maidensford.' Mary bent over the form, writing. As she came to the end she shivered suddenly. A shadow had come between her and the sun. She looked up to see Elinor Carlisle standing outside the window looking in. 67
Elinor said, 'What are you doing so busily?' Nurse Hopkins said with a laugh, 'She's making her will, that's what she's doing.' 'Making her will?' Suddenly Elinor laughed–a strange laugh - almost hysterical. She said, 'So you're making your will, Mary. That's funny. That's very funny.' Still laughing, she turned away and walked rapidly along the street. Nurse Hopkins stared. 'Did you ever? What's come to her?' IV Elinor had not taken more than half a dozen steps - she was still laughing - when a hand fell on her arm from behind. She stopped abruptly and turned. Dr. Lord looked straight at her, his brow creased into a frown. He said peremptorily, 'What were you laughing at?' Elinor said, 'Really - I don't know.' Peter Lord said, 'That's rather a silly answer!' Elinor flushed. She said, 'I think I must be nervous or something. I looked in at the District Nurse's cottage and - and Mary Gerrard was writing out her will. It made me laugh; I don't know why!' Lord said abruptly, 'Don't you?' Elinor said, 'It was silly of me - I tell you - I'm nervous.' Peter Lord said, 'I'll write you out a tonic.' Elinor said incisively, 'How useful!' 68
He grinned disarmingly. 'Quite useless, I agree. But it's the only thing one can do when people won't tell one what is the matter with them!' Elinor said, 'There's nothing the matter with me.' Peter Lord said calmly, 'There's quite a lot the matter with you.' Elinor said, 'I've had a certain amount of nervous strain I suppose.' He said, 'I expect you've had quite a lot. But that's not what I'm talking about.' He paused. 'Are you - are you staying down here much longer?' 'I'm leaving tomorrow.' 'You won't - live down here?' Elinor shook her head. 'No - never. I think - I think - I shall sell the place if I can get a good offer.' Dr. Lord said rather flatly, 'I see.' Elinor said, 'I must be getting home now.' She held out her hand very firmly. Peter Lord took it. He held it. He said very earnestly, 'Miss Carlisle, will you please tell me what was in your mind when you laughed just now?' She wrenched her hand away quickly. 'What should there be in my mind?' 'That's what I'd like to know.' His face was grave and a little unhappy. Elinor said impatiently, 'It just struck me as funny, that was all!' 69
'That Mary Gerrard was making a will? Why? Making a will is a perfectly sensible procedure. Saves a lot of trouble. Sometimes, of course, it makes trouble!' Elinor said impatiently, 'Of course - everyone should make a will. I didn't mean that.' Dr. Lord said, 'Mrs. Welman ought to have made a will.' Elinor said with feeling, 'Yes, indeed.' The colour rose in her face. Dr. Lord said unexpectedly, 'What about you?' 'Me?' 'Yes, you said just now everyone should make a will! Have you?' Elinor stared at him for a minute, then she laughed. 'How extraordinary!' she said. 'No, I haven't. I hadn't thought of it! I'm just like Aunt Laura. Do you know, Dr. Lord, I shall go home and write to Mr. Seddon about it at once.' Peter Lord said, 'Very sensible.' V In the library Elinor had just finished a letter: DEAR Mr. Seddon, - Will you draft a will for me to sign? Quite a simple one. I want to leave everything to Roderick Welman absolutely. Yours sincerely, 70
Elinor Carlisle. She glanced at the clock. The post would be going in a few minutes. She opened the drawer of the desk, then remembered she had used the last stamp that morning. There were some in her bedroom she was sure. She went upstairs. When she re-entered the library with the stamp in her hand, Roddy was standing by the window. He said, 'So we leave here tomorrow. Good old Hunterbury. We've had some good times here.' Elinor said, 'Do you mind its being sold?' 'Oh, no, no! I quite see it's the best thing to be done.' There was a silence. Elinor picked up her letter, glanced through it to see if it was all right. Then she sealed and stamped it.
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Chapter 6 Letter from Nurse O'Brien to Nurse Hopkins, July 14th: Laborough Court. Dear Hopkins, - Have been meaning to write to you for some days now. This is a lovely house and the pictures, I believe, quite famous. But I can't say it's as comfortable as Hunterbury was, if you know what I mean. Being in the dead country it's difficult to get maids, and the girls they have got are a raw lot, and some of them not too obliging, and though I'm sure I'm never one to give trouble, meals sent up on a tray should at least be hot, and no facilities for boiling a kettle and the tea not always made with boiling water! Still, all that's neither here nor there. The patient's a nice quiet gentleman - double pneumonia, but the crisis is past. What I've got to tell you that will really interest you is the very queerest coincidence you ever knew. In the drawingroom, on the grand piano, there's a photograph in a big silver frame, and would you believe it, it's the same photograph that I told you about - the one signed Lewis that old Mrs. Welman asked for. Well, of course I was intrigued - and who wouldn't be? And I asked the butler who it was, which he answered at once saying it was Lady Rattery's brother - Sir Lewis Rycroft. He lived not far from here, and he was killed in the War. Very sad, wasn't it? I asked casual like was he married, and the butler said yes, but that Lady Rycroft went into an asylum, poor thing, soon after the marriage. She was still alive, he said. Now, isn't that interesting? And we were quite wrong, you see, in all our ideas. They must have been very fond of each other, he and Mrs. W., and unable to marry because of the wife being in an asylum. Just like the pictures, isn't it? And her remembering all those years and looking at his photograph just before she died. He was killed in 1917, the butler said. Quite a romance, that's what I feel. 73
No movies anywhere near here! Oh, it's awful to be buried in the country. No wonder they can't get decent maids! Well, good-by for the present, dear, write and tell me all the news. Yours sincerely, ElLEEN O'BRIEN. Letter from Nurse Hopkins to Nurse O'Brien, July 14th: Rose Cottage. Dear O'BRIEN, - Everything goes on here much as usual. Hunterbury is deserted - all the servants gone and a board up: For Sale. I saw Mrs. Bishop the other day, she is staying with her sister who lives about a mile away. She was very upset, as you can imagine, at the place being sold. It seems she made sure Miss Carlisle would marry Mr. Welman and live there. Mrs. B. says that the engagement is off! Miss Carlisle went to London soon after you left. She was very peculiar in her manner once or twice. I really didn't know what to make of her! Mary Gerrard has gone to London and is starting to train for a masseuse. Very sensible of her, I think. Miss Carlisle's going to settle two thousand pounds on her, which I call very handsome and more than what many would do. By the way, it's funny how things come about. Do you remember telling me something about a photograph signed Lewis that Mrs. Welman showed you? I was having a chat the other day with Mrs. Slattery (she was housekeeper to old Dr. Ransome who had the practice before Dr. Lord), and of course she's lived here all her life and knows a lot about the gentry round about. I just brought the subject up in a casual manner, speaking of Christian names and saying that the name of Lewis was uncommon and among others she mentioned Sir Lewis Rycroft over at Forbes Park. He served in the War in the 17th Lancers and was killed toward the end of the 74
War. So I said he was a great friend of Mrs. Welman's at Hunterbury, wasn't he? And at once she gave me a look and said, Yes, very close friends they'd been, and some said more than friends, but that she herself wasn't one to talk - and why shouldn't they befriends? So I said but surely Mrs. Welman was a widow at the time, and she said. Oh, yes, she was a widow. So, dear, I saw at once she meant something by that, so I said it was odd then, that they'd never married, and she said at once, 'They couldn't marry. He'd got a wife in an asylum!' So now, you see, we know all about it! Curious the way things come about, isn't it? Considering the easy way you get divorces nowadays, it does seem a shame that insanity shouldn't have been a ground for it then. Do you remember a good-looking young chap, Ted Bigland, who used to hang around after Mary Gerrard a lot? He's been at me for her address in London, but I haven't given it to him. In my opinion, Mary's a cut above Ted Bigland. I don't know if you realized it, dear, but Mr. R - - W - - was taken with her. A pity, because it's made trouble. Mark my words, that's the reason for the engagement between him and Miss Carlisle being off. And, if you ask me, it's hit her badly. I don't know what she saw in him, I'm sure - he wouldn't have been my cup of tea, but I hear from reliable sources that she's always been madly in love with him. It does seem a mix-up, doesn't it? And she's got all that money, too. I believe he was always led to expect his aunt would leave him something substantial. Old Gerrard at the lodge is failing rapidly - has had several nasty dizzy spells. He's just as rude and crossgrained as ever. He actually said the other day that Mary wasn't his daughter. 'Well,' I said, 'I'd be ashamed to say a thing like that about your wife if I were you.' He just looked at me and said, 'You're nothing but a fool. You don't understand.' Polite, wasn't it? I took him up pretty sharply, I can tell you. His wife was lady's maid to Mrs. Welman before her marriage, I believe. 75
Yours ever, JESSIE hopkins. Post card from Nurse Hopkins' to Nurse O'Brien: Fancy our letters just crossing'. Isn't this weather awful? Post card from Nurse O'Brien to Nurse Hopkins: Got your letter this morning. What a coincidence! Letter from Roderick Welman to Elinor Carlisle, July 15th: DEAR Elinor, - Just got your letter. No, really, I have no feelings about Hunterbury being sold. Nice of you to consult me. I think you're doing the wisest thing if you don't fancy living there, which you obviously don't. You may have some difficulty in getting rid of it, though. It's a biggish place for present-day needs, though, of course, it's been modernized and is up to date, with good servants' quarters, and gas and electric light and all that. Anyway, I hope you'll have luck! The heat here is glorious. I spend hours in the sea. Rather a funny crowd of people, but I don't mix much. You told me once that Z wasn't a good mixer. I'm afraid it's true. I find most of the human race extraordinarily repulsive. They probably reciprocate this feeling. I have long felt that you are one of the only really satisfactory representatives of humanity. Am thinking of wandering on to the Damnation coast in a week or two. Address to Thomas Cook, Dubrovnik, from the 22nd onward. If there's anything I can do, let me know. Yours, with admiration and gratitude, RODDY. 76
Letter from Mr. Seddon of Messrs. Seddon, Blatherwick & Seddon to Miss Elinor Carlisle, July 20th: 104 Bloomsbury Square. Dear Miss Carlisle, - I certainly think you should accept Major Somervell's offer of twelve thousand five hundred (£12,500) for Hunterbury. Large properties are extremely difficult to sell at the moment, and the price offered seems to be most advantageous. The offer depends, however, on immediate possession, and I know Major Somervell has been seeing other properties in the neighbourhood, so I would advise immediate acceptance. Major Somervell is willing, I understand, to take the place furnished for three months, by which time the legal formalities should be accomplished and the sale can go through. As regards the lodgekeeper, Gerrard, and the question of pensioning him off, I hear from Dr. Lord that the old man is seriously ill and not expected to live. Probate has not yet been granted, but I have advanced one hundred pounds to Miss Mary Gerrard pending the settlement. Yours sincerely, Edmund Seddon. Letter from Dr. Lord to Miss Elinor Carlisle, July 24th: DEAR MISS Carlisle, - Old Gerrard passed away today. Is there anything I can do for you? I hear you have sold the house to our new M.P., Major Somervell. Yours sincerely, 77
Peter Lord. Letter from Elinor Carlisle to Mary Gerrard, July 25th: Dear Mary, - I am so sorry to hear of your father's death. I have had an offer for Hunterbury - from a Major Somervell. He is anxious to get in as soon as possible. I am going down there to go through my aunt's papers and clear up generally. Would it be possible for you to get your father's things moved out of the lodge as quickly as possible? I hope you are doing well and not finding your massage training too strenuous. Yours very sincerely, Elinor Carlisle. Letter from Mary Gerrard to Nurse Hopkins, July 25th: Dear Nurse Hopkins, - Thank you so much for writing to me about father. I'm glad he didn't suffer. Miss Elinor writes me that the house is sold and that she would like the lodge cleared out as soon as possible. Could you put me up if I came down tomorrow for the funeral? Don't bother to answer if that's all right. Yours affectionately, Mary Gerrard.
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Chapter 7 Elinor Carlisle came out of the King's Arms on the morning of Thursday, July 27th, and stood for a minute or two looking up and down the main street of Maidensford. Suddenly, with an exclamation of pleasure, she crossed the road. There was no mistaking that large, dignified presence, that serene gait as of a galleon in full sail. 'Mrs. Bishop!' 'Why, Miss Elinor! This is a surprise! I'd no notion you were in these parts! If I'd known you were coming to Hunterbury I'd have been there myself! Who's doing for you there? Have you brought someone down from London?' Elinor shook her head. 'I'm not staying at the house. I am staying at the King's Arms.' Mrs. Bishop looked across the road and sniffed dubiously. 'It is possible to stay there, I've heard,' she allowed. 'It's clean, I know. And the cooking, they say, is fair, but it's hardly what you're accustomed to, Miss Elinor.' Elinor said, smiling, 'I'm really quite comfortable. It's only for a day or two. I have to sort out things at the house. All my aunt's personal things, and then there are a few pieces of furniture I should like to have in London.' 'The house is really sold, then?' 'Yes. To a Major Somervell. Our new Member. Sir George Kerr died, you know, and there's been a bye-election.' 79
'Returned unopposed,' said Mrs. Bishop grandly. 'We've never had anyone but a Conservative for Maidensford.' Elinor said, 'I'm glad someone has bought the house who really wants to live in it. I should have been sorry if it had been turned into a hotel or built upon.' Mrs. Bishop shut her eyes and shivered all over her plump, aristocratic person. 'Yes, indeed, that would have been dreadful - quite dreadful. It's bad enough as it is to think of Hunterbury passing into the hands of strangers.' Elinor said, 'Yes, but, you see, it would have been a very large house for me to live in - alone.' Mrs. Bishop sniffed. Elinor said quickly, 'I meant to ask you: Is there any special piece of furniture that you might care to have? I should be very glad for you to have it, if so.' Mrs. Bishop beamed. She said graciously, 'Well, Miss Elinor, that is very thoughtful of you - very kind, I'm sure. If it's not taking a liberty -' She paused and Elinor said, 'Oh, no.' 'I have always had a great admiration for the secretaire in the drawingroom. Such a handsome piece.' Elinor remembered it, a somewhat flamboyant piece of inlaid marquetry. She said quickly, 'Of course you shall have it, Mrs. Bishop. Anything else?' 'No, indeed, Miss Elinor. You have already been extremely generous.' 80
Elinor said, 'There are some chairs in the same style as the secretaire. Would you care for those?' Mrs. Bishop accepted the chairs with becoming thanks. She explained, 'I am staying at the moment with my sister. Is there anything I can do for you up at the house, Miss Elinor? I could come up there with you, if you like.' 'No, thank you.' Elinor spoke quickly, rather abruptly. Mrs. Bishop said, 'It would be no trouble, I assure you - a pleasure. Such a melancholy task going through all dear Mrs. Welman's things.' Elinor said, 'Thank you, Mrs. Bishop, but I would rather tackle it alone. One can do some things better alone - ' Mrs. Bishop said stiffly, 'As you please, of course.' She went on: 'That daughter of Gerrard's is down here. The funeral was yesterday. She's staying with Nurse Hopkins. I did hear they were going up to the lodge this morning.' Elinor nodded. She said, 'Yes, I asked Mary to come down and see to that. Major Somervell wants to get in as soon as possible.' 'I see.' Elinor said, 'Well, I must be getting on now. So glad to have seen you, Mrs. Bishop. I'll remember about the secretaire and the chairs.' She shook hands and passed on. She went into the baker's and bought a loaf of bread. Then she went into the dairy and bought half a pound of butter and some milk. Finally she went into the grocer's. 81
'I want some paste for sandwiches, please.' 'Certainly, Miss Carlisle.' Mr. Abbott himself bustled forward, elbowing aside his junior apprentice. 'What would you like? Salmon and shrimp? Turkey and tongue? Salmon and sardine? Ham and tongue?' He whipped down pot after pot and arrayed them on the counter. Elinor said with a faint smile, 'In spite of their names, I always think they taste much alike.' Mr. Abbott agreed instantly. 'Well, perhaps they do in a way. Yes, in a way. But, of course, they're very tasty - very tasty.' Elinor said, 'One used to be rather afraid of eating fish pastes. There have been cases of ptomaine poisoning from them, haven't there?' Mr. Abbott put on a horrified expression. 'I can assure you this is an excellent brand - most reliable - we never have any complaints.' Elinor said, 'I'll have one of salmon and anchovy and one of salmon and shrimp. Thank you.' Elinor Carlisle entered the grounds of Hunterbury by the back gate. It was a hot, clear summer's day. There were sweet peas in flower. Elinor passed by a row of them. The undergardener, Horlick, who was remaining in to keep the place in order, greeted her respectfully. 'Good morning, miss. I got your letter. You'll find the side door open, miss. I've unfastened the shutters and opened most of the windows.' Elinor said, 'Thank you, Horlick.' As she moved on, the young man said nervously, his Adam's apple jerking up and down in spasmodic fashion, 'Excuse me, miss -' 82
Elinor turned back. 'Yes?' 'Is it true that the house is sold? I mean, is it really settled?' 'Oh, yes!' Horlick said nervously, 'I was wondering, miss, if you would say a word for me - to Major Somervell, I mean. He'll be wanting gardeners. Maybe he'll think I'm too young for head gardener, but I've worked under Mr. Stephens for four years now, and I reckon I know a tidyish bit, and I've kept things going fairly well since I've been here, single-handed.' Elinor said quickly, 'Of course I will do all I can for you, Horlick. As a matter of fact, I intended to mention you to Major Somervell and tell him what a good gardener you are.' Horlick's face grew dusky red. 'Thank you, miss. That's very kind of you. You can understand it's been a bit of a blow, like - Mrs. Welman dying, and then the place being sold off so quick - and I - well, the fact of the matter is I was going to get married this autumn, only one's got to be sure -' He stopped. Elinor said kindly, 'I hope Major Somervell will take you on. You can rely on me to do all I can.' Horlick said again, 'Thank you, miss. We all hoped, you see, as how the place would be kept on by the family. Thank you, miss.' Elinor walked on. Suddenly, rushing over her like the stream from a broken dam, a wave of wild resentment swept over her. 'We all hoped the place would be kept on by the family..'
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She and Roddy could have lived here! She and Roddy.. Roddy would have wanted that. It was what she herself would have wanted. They had always loved Hunterbury, both of them. Dear Hunterbury.. In the years before her parents had died, when they had been in India, she had come here for holidays. She had played in the woods, rambled by the stream, picked sweet peas in great flowering armloads, eaten fat green gooseberries and dark red luscious raspberries. Later, there had been apples. There had been places, secret lairs, where she had curled up with a book and read for hours. She had loved Hunterbury. Always, at the back of her mind, she had felt sure of living there permanently some day. Aunt Laura had fostered that idea. Little words and phrases: 'Some day, Elinor, you may like to cut down those yews. They are a little gloomy, perhaps!' 'One might have a water garden here. Some day, perhaps, you will.' And Roddy? Roddy, too, had looked forward to Hunterbury being his home. It had lain, perhaps, behind his feeling for her, Elinor. He had felt, subconsciously, that it was fitting and right that they two should be together at Hunterbury. And they would have been together there. They would have been together here - now - not packing up the house for selling, but redecorating it, planning new beauties in house and garden, walking side by side in gentle proprietary pleasure, happy - yes, happy together - but for the fatal accident of a girl's wild-rose beauty. What did Roddy know of Mary Gerrard? Nothing - less than nothing! What did he care for her - for the real Mary? She had, quite possibly, admirable qualities, but did Roddy know anything about them? It was the old story - Nature's hoary old joke! Hadn't Roddy himself said it was an 'enchanment?' Didn't Roddy himself - really - want to be free of it? 84
If Mary Gerrard were to - die, for instance, wouldn't Roddy some day acknowledge, 'It was all for the best. I see that now. We had nothing in common.' He would add, perhaps, with gentle melancholy, 'She was a lovely creature.' Let her be that to him–yes–an exquisite memory–a thing of beauty and a joy forever. If anything were to happen to Mary Gerrard, Roddy would come back to her - Elinor. She was quite sure of that! If anything were to happen to Mary Gerrard.. Elinor turned the handle of the side door. She passed from the warm sunlight into the shadow of the house. She shivered. It felt cold in here, dark, sinister. It was as though Something was there, waiting for her, in the house .. She walked along the hall and pushed the baize door that led into the butler's pantry. It smelled slightly musty. She pushed up the window, opening it wide. She put down her parcels - the butter, the loaf, the little glass bottle of milk. She thought, Stupid! I meant to get coffee. She looked in the canisters on a shelf. There was a little tea in one of them, but no coffee. She thought, Oh, well, it doesn't matter. She unwrapped the two glass jars of fish paste and stood staring at them for a minute. Then she left the pantry and went upstairs. She went straight to Mrs. Welman's room. She began on the big tallboy, opening drawers, sorting, arranging, folding clothes in little piles. II In the lodge Mary Gerrard was looking round rather helplessly. She hadn't realized, somehow, how cramped it all was. Her past life rushed 85
back over her in a flood. Mum making clothes for her dolls. Dad always cross and surly. Disliking her. Yes, disliking her.. She said suddenly to Nurse Hopkins, 'Dad didn't say anything - send me any message before he died, did he?' Nurse Hopkins said cheerfully and callously, 'Oh, dear me, no. He was unconscious for an hour before he passed away.' Mary said slowly, 'I feel perhaps I ought to have come down and looked after him. After all, he was my father.' Nurse Hopkins said with a trace of embarrassment, 'Now, just you listen to me, Mary: whether he was your father or not doesn't enter into it. Children don't care much about their parents in these days, from what I can see, and a good many parents don't care for their children, either. That's as may be but, anyway, it's a waste of breath to go back over the past and sentimentalise. We've got to go on living–that's our job–and not too easy, either, sometimes!' Mary said slowly, 'I expect you're right. But I feel perhaps it was my fault we didn't get on better.' Nurse Hopkins said robustly, 'Nonsense!' The word exploded like a bomb. It quelled Mary. Nurse Hopkins turned to more practical matters. 'What are you going to do with the furniture? Store it? Or sell it?' Mary said doubtfully, 'I don't know. What do you think?' Running a practical eye over it, Nurse Hopkins said, 'Some of it's quite good and solid. You might store it and furnish a little flat of your own in London some day. Get rid of the rubbish. The chairs are good – so's the table. And that's a nice bureau – it's the kind that's out of fashion, but it's 86
solid mahogany, and they say Victorian stuff will come in again one day. I'd get rid of that great wardrobe, if I were you. Too big to fit in anywhere. Takes up half the bedroom as it is.' They made a list between them of pieces to be kept or let go. Mary said, 'The lawyer's been very kind – Mr. Seddon, I mean. He advanced me some money, so that I could get started with my training fees and other expenses. It will be a month or so before the money can be definitely made over to me, so he said.' Nurse Hopkins said, 'How do you like your work?' 'I think I shall like it very much. It's rather strenuous at first. I come home tired to death.' Nurse Hopkins said grimly, 'I thought I was going to die when I was a probationer at St. Luke's. I felt I could never stick it for three years. But I did.' They had sorted through the old man's clothes. Now they came to a tin box full of papers. Mary said, 'We must go through these, I suppose.' They sat down one on each side of the table. Nurse Hopkins grumbled as she started with a handful. 'Extraordinary what rubbish people keep! Newspaper cuttings! Old letters. All sorts of things!' Mary said, unfolding a document, 'Here's Dad's and Mum's marriage certificate. At St. Albans, 1919.' Nurse Hopkins said, 'Marriage lines, that's the old-fashioned term. Lots of the people in this village use that term yet.' 87
Mary said in a stifled voice, 'But, Nurse -' The other looked up sharply. She saw the distress in the girl's eyes. She said sharply, 'What's the matter?' Mary Gerrard said in a shaky voice, 'Don't you see? This is 1939. And I'm twenty-one. In 1919 I was a year old. That means - that means - that my father and mother weren't married till - till - afterward.' Nurse Hopkins frowned. She said robustly, 'Well, after all, what of it? Don't go worrying about that, at this time of day!' 'But, Nurse, I can't help it.' Nurse Hopkins spoke with authority, 'There's many couples that don't go to church till a bit after they should do so. But so long as they do it in the end, what's the odds? That's what I say!' Mary said in a low voice, 'Is that why - do you think - my father never liked me? Because, perhaps, my mother made him marry her?' Nurse Hopkins hesitated. She bit her lip, then she said, 'It wasn't quite like that, I imagine.' She paused. 'Oh, well, if you're going to worry about it, you may as well know the truth. You aren't Gerrard's daughter at all.' Mary said, 'Then that was why!' Nurse Hopkins said, 'Maybe.' Mary said, a red spot suddenly burning in each cheek, 'I suppose it's wrong of me, but I'm glad! I've always felt uncomfortable because I didn't care for my father, but if he wasn't my father, well that makes it all right! How did you know about it?'
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Nurse Hopkins said, 'Gerrard talked about it a good deal before he died. I shut him up pretty sharply, but he didn't care. Naturally, I shouldn't have said anything to you about it if this hadn't cropped up.' Mary said slowly, 'I wonder who my real father was.' Nurse Hopkins hesitated. She opened her mouth, then shut it again. She appeared to be finding it hard to make up her mind on some point. Then a shadow fell across the room, and the two women looked round to see Elinor Carlisle standing at the window. Elinor said, 'Good morning.' Nurse Hopkins said, 'Good morning, Miss Carlisle. Lovely day, isn't it?' Mary said, 'Oh - good morning, Miss Elinor.' Elinor said, 'I've been making some sandwiches. Won't you come up and have some? It's just on one o'clock, and it's such a bother to have to go home for lunch. I got enough for three on purpose.' Nurse Hopkins said in pleased surprise, 'Well, I must say, Miss Carlisle, that's extremely thoughtful of you. It is a nuisance to have to break off what you're doing and come all the way back from the village. I hoped we might finish this morning. I went round and saw my cases early. But, there, turning out takes you longer than you think.' Mary said gratefully, 'Thank you, Miss Elinor, it's very kind of you.' The three of them walked up the drive to the house. Elinor had left the front door open. They passed inside into the cool of the hall. Mary shivered a little. Elinor looked at her sharply. She said, 'What is it?' 89
Mary said, 'Oh, nothing - just a shiver. It was coming in - out of the sun.' Elinor said in a low voice, 'That's queer. That's what I felt this morning.' Nurse Hopkins said in a loud, cheerful voice and with a laugh, 'Come, now, you'll be pretending there are ghosts in the house next. I didn't feel anything!' Elinor smiled. She led the way into the morning-room on the right of the front door: The blinds were up and the windows open. It looked cheerful. Elinor went across the hall and brought back from the pantry a big plate of sandwiches. She handed it to Mary, saying, 'Have one?' Mary took one. Elinor stood watching her for a moment as the girl's even white teeth bit into the sandwich. She held her breath for a minute, then expelled it in a little sigh. Absentmindedly she stood for a minute with the plate held to her waist, then at sight of Nurse Hopkins's slightly parted lips and hungry expression she flushed and quickly proffered the plate to the older woman. Elinor took a sandwich herself. She said apologetically, 'I meant to make some coffee, but I forgot to get any. There's some beer on that table, though, if anyone likes that?' Nurse Hopkins said sadly, 'If only I'd thought to bring along some tea now.' Elinor said absently, 'There's a little tea still in the canister in the pantry.' Nurse Hopkins's face brightened. 'Then I'll just pop out and put the kettle on. No milk, I suppose?' Elinor said, 'Yes, I brought some.' 'Well, then, that's all right,' said Nurse Hopkins and hurried out. 90
Elinor and Mary were alone together. A queer tension crept into the atmosphere. Elinor, with an obvious effort, tried to make conversation. Her lips were dry. She passed her tongue over them. She said, rather stiffly, 'You - like your work in London?' 'Yes, thank you. I - I'm very grateful to you -' A sudden harsh sound broke from Elinor. A laugh so discordant, so unlike her, that Mary stared at her in surprise. Elinor said, 'You needn't be so grateful!' Mary, rather embarrassed, said, 'I didn't mean - that is -' She stopped. Elinor was staring at her - a glance so searching, so, yes, strange that Mary flinched under it. She said, 'Is - is anything wrong?' Elinor got up quickly. She said, turning away, 'What should be wrong?' Mary murmured, 'You - you looked -' Elinor said with a little laugh, 'Was I staring? I'm so sorry. I do sometimes - when I'm thinking of something else.' Nurse Hopkins looked in at the door and remarked brightly, 'I've put the kettle on,' and went out again. Elinor was taken with a sudden fit of laughter. 'Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on, Polly put the kettle on - we'll all have tea! Do you remember playing that, Mary, when we were children?' 'Yes, indeed I do.' Elinor said, 'When we were children. It's a pity, Mary, isn't it, that one can never go back?' 91
Mary said, 'Would you like to go back?' Elinor said with force, 'Yes - yes.' Silence fell between them for a little while. Then Mary said, her face flushing, 'Miss Elinor, you mustn't think -' She stopped, warned by the sudden stiffening of Elinor's slender figure, the uplifted line of her chin. Elinor said in a cold, steel-like voice, 'What mustn't I think?' Mary murmured, 'I - I've forgotten what I was going to say.' Elinor's body relaxed - as at a danger past. Nurse Hopkins came in with a tray. On it was a brown teapot, and milk and three cups. She said, quite unconscious of anticlimax, 'Here's the tea!' She put the tray in front of Elinor. Elinor shook her head. 'I won't have any.' She pushed the tray along toward Mary. Mary poured out two cups. Nurse Hopkins sighed with satisfaction. 'It's nice and strong.' Elinor got up and moved over to the window. Nurse Hopkins said persuasively, 'Are you sure you won't have a cup, Miss Carlisle? Do you good.' Elinor murmured, 'No, thank you.' Nurse Hopkins drained her cup, replaced it in the saucer, and murmured, 'I'll just turn off the kettle. I put it on in case we needed to fill up the pot again.' 92
She bustled out. Elinor wheeled round from the window. She said, and her voice was suddenly charged with a desperate appeal, 'Mary -' Mary Gerrard answered quickly, 'Yes?' Slowly the light died out of Elinor's face. The lips closed. The desperate pleading faded and left a mere mask - frozen and still. She said, 'Nothing.' The silence came down heavily on the room. Mary thought, How queer everything is today. As though - as though we were waiting for something. Elinor moved at last. She came from the window and picked up the tea-tray, placing on it the empty sandwich plate. Mary jumped up. 'Oh, Miss Elinor, let me.' Elinor said sharply, 'No, you stay here. I'll do this.' She carried the tray out of the room. She looked back once over her shoulder at Mary Gerrard by the window, young and alive and beautiful.. III Nurse Hopkins was in the pantry. She was wiping her face with a handkerchief. She looked up sharply as Elinor entered. She said, 'My word, it's hot in here!' 93
Elinor answered mechanically, 'Yes, the pantry faces south.' Nurse Hopkins relieved her of the tray. 'You let me wash up, Miss Carlisle. You're not looking quite the thing.' Elinor said, 'Oh, I'm all right.' She picked up a dish-cloth. 'I'll dry.' Nurse Hopkins slipped off her cuffs. She poured hot water from the kettle into the basin. Elinor said idly, looking at her wrist, 'You've pricked yourself.' Nurse Hopkins laughed. 'On the rose trellis at the lodge - a thorn. I'll get it out presently.' The rose trellis at the lodge. Memory poured in waves over Elinor. She and Roddy quarrelling - the Wars of the Roses. She and Roddy quarrelling - and making it up. Lovely, laughing, happy days. A sick wave of revulsion passed over her. What had she come to now? What black abyss of hate of evil? She swayed a little as she stood. She thought, I've been mad quite mad. Nurse Hopkins was staring at her curiously. 'Downright odd, she seemed,' so ran Nurse Hopkins's narrative later. 'Talking as if she didn't know what she was saying, and her eyes so bright and queer.' The cups and saucers rattled in the basin. Elinor picked up an empty fishpaste pot from the table and put it into the basin. As she did so she said, and marvelled at the steadiness of her voice, 'I've sorted out some clothes upstairs, Aunt Laura's things. I thought, perhaps, Nurse, you could advise me where they would be useful in the village.' 94
Nurse Hopkins said briskly, 'I will indeed. There's Mrs. Parkinson, and old Nellie, and that poor creature who's not quite all there at Ivy Cottage. Be a godsend to them.' She and Elinor cleared up the pantry. Then they went upstairs together. In Mrs. Welman's room clothes were folded in neat bundles: underclothing, dresses, and certain articles of handsome clothing, velvet tea-gowns, a musquash coat. The latter, Elinor explained, she thought of giving to Mrs. Bishop. Nurse Hopkins nodded assent. She noticed that Mrs. Welman's sables were laid on the chest of drawers. Going to have them remodelled for herself, she thought. She cast a look at the big tallboys. She wondered if Elinor had found that photograph signed Lewis, and what she had made of it, if so. Funny, she thought to herself, the way O'Brien's letter crossed mine. I never dreamed a thing like that could happen. Her hitting on that photo just the day I wrote to her about Mrs. Slattery. She helped Elinor sort through the clothing and volunteered to tie them up in separate bundles for the different families and see to their distribution herself. She said, 'I can be getting on with that while Mary goes down to the lodge and finishes up there. She's only got a box of papers to go through. Where is the girl, by the way? Did she go down to the lodge?' Elinor said, 'I left her in the morning-room.' Nurse Hopkins said, 'She'd not be there all this time.' She glanced at her watch. 'Why, it's nearly an hour we've been up here!' She bustled down the stairs. Elinor followed her. They went into the morning-room. 95
Nurse Hopkins exclaimed, 'Well, I never, she's fallen asleep.' Mary Gerrard was sitting in a big armchair by the window. She had dropped down a little in it. There was a queer sound in the room: stertorous, laboured breathing. Nurse Hopkins went across and shook the girl. 'Wake up, my dear -' She broke off. She bent lower, pulled down an eyelid. Then she started shaking the girl in grim earnest. She turned on Elinor. There was something menacing in her voice as she said, 'What's all this?' Elinor said, 'I don't know what you mean. Is she ill?' Nurse Hopkins said, 'Where's the phone? Get hold of Dr. Lord as soon as you can.' Elinor said, 'What's the matter?' 'The matter? The girl's ill. She's dying.' Elinor recoiled a step. She said, 'Dying?' Nurse Hopkins said, 'She's been poisoned.' Her eyes, hard with suspicion, glared at Elinor.
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Chapter 8 Hercule Poirot, his egg-shaped head gently tilted to one side, his eyebrows raised inquiringly, his finger tips joined together, watched the young man who was striding so savagely up and down the room, his pleasant freckled face puckered and drawn. Hercule Poirot said, 'Eh bien, my friend, what is all this?' Peter Lord stopped dead in his pacing. He said, 'Monsieur Poirot, you're the only man in the world who can help me. I've heard Stillingfleet talk about you; he's told me what you did in that Benedict Parley case. How every mortal soul thought it was suicide and you showed that it was murder.' Hercule Poirot said, 'Have you, then, a case of suicide among your patients about which you are not satisfied?' Peter Lord shook his head. He sat down opposite Poirot. He said, 'There's a young woman. She's been arrested and she's going to be tried for murder! I want you to find evidence that will prove that she didn't do it!' Poirot's eyebrows rose a little higher. Then he assumed a discreet and confidential manner. He said, 'You and this young lady - you are affianced - yes? You are in love with each other?' Peter Lord laughed - a sharp, bitter laugh. He said, 'No, it's not like that! She has the bad taste to prefer a longnosed, supercilious ass with a face like a melancholy horse! Stupid other, but there it is!' Poirot said, 'I see.'
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Lord said bitterly, 'Oh, yes, you see all right! No need to be so tactful about it. I fell for her straightaway. And because of that I don't want her hanged. See?' Poirot said, 'What is the charge against her?' 'She's accused of murdering a girl called Mary Gerrard, by poisoning her with morphine hydrochloride. You've probably read the account of the inquest in the papers.' Poirot said, 'And the motive?' 'Jealousy!' 'And in your opinion she didn't do it?' 'No, of course not.' Hercule Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for a moment or two, then said, 'What is it exactly that you want me to do? To investigate this matter?' 'I want you to get her off.' 'I am not a defending counsel, mon cher.' 'I'll put it more clearly: I want you to find evidence that will enable her counsel to get her off.' Hercule Poirot said, 'You put this a little curiously.' Peter Lord said, 'Because I don't wrap it up, you mean? It seems simple enough to me. I want this girl acquitted. I think you are the only man who can do it!'
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'You wish me to look into the facts? To find out the truth? To discover what really happened?' 'I want you to find any facts that will tell in her favour.' Hercule Poirot, with care and precision, lighted a very tiny cigarette. He said, 'But is it not a little unethical what you say there? To arrive at the truth, yes, that always interests me. But the truth is a two-edged weapon. Supposing that I find facts against the lady? Do you demand that I suppress them?' Peter Lord stood up. He was very white. He said, 'That's impossible! Nothing that you could find could be more against her than the facts are already! They're utterly and completely damning! There's any amount of evidence against her black and plain for all the world to see! You couldn't find anything that would damn her more completely than she is already! I'm asking you to use all your ingenuity - Stillingfleet says you're damned ingenious - to ferret out a loophole, a possible alternative.' Hercule Poirot said, 'Surely her lawyers will do that?' 'Will they?' The young man laughed scornfully. 'They're licked before they start! Think it's hopeless! They've briefed Bulmer, K.C., the forlorn hope man; that's a give-away in itself! Big orator - sob stuff - stressing the prisoner's youth - all that! But the judge won't let him get away with it. Not a hope!' Hercule Poirot said, 'Supposing she is guilty - do you still want to get her acquitted?' Peter Lord said quietly, 'Yes.' Hercule Poirot moved in his chair. He said, 'You interest me.' After a minute or two he said, 'You had better, I think, tell me the exact facts of the case.' 99
'Haven't you read anything about it in the papers?' Hercule Poirot waved a hand. 'A mention of it - yes. But the newspapers, they are so inaccurate, I never go by what they say.' Peter Lord said, 'It's quite simple. Horribly simple. This girl, Elinor Carlisle, had just come into a place near here - Hunterbury Hall - and a fortune from her aunt, who died intestate. Aunt's name was Welman. Aunt had a nephew by marriage - Roderick Welman. He was engaged to Elinor Carlisle - long-standing business, known each other since children. There was a girl down at Hunterbury: Mary Gerrard, daughter of the lodgekeeper. Old Mrs. Welman had made a lot of fuss about her, paid for her education, etc. Consequence is, girl was to outward seeming a lady. Roderick Welman, it seems, fell for her. In consequence, engagement is broken off.' 'Now we come to the doings. Elinor Carlisle put up the place for sale and a man called Somervell bought it. Elinor came down to clear out her aunt's personal possessions and so on. Mary Gerrard, whose father had just died, was clearing out the lodge. That brings us to the morning of July 27th.' 'Elinor Carlisle was staying at the local pub. In the street she met the former housekeeper, Mrs. Bishop. Mrs. Bishop suggested coming up to the house to help her. Elinor refused - rather over-vehemently. Then she went to the grocer's shop and bought some fish paste, and there she made a remark about food poisoning. You see? Perfectly innocent thing to do; but, of course, it tells against her! She went up to the house, and about one o'clock she went down to the lodge, where Mary Gerrard was busy with the District Nurse, a Nosey Parker of a woman called Hopkins, helping her, and told them that she had made some sandwiches ready up at the house. They came up to the house with her, ate sandwiches, and about an hour or so later I was sent for and found Mary Gerrard unconscious. Did all I could, but it was no good. Autopsy revealed large dose of morphine had been taken a short time previously. And the police
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found a scrap of a label with morphia hydrochloride on it just where Elinor Carlisle had been spreading the sandwiches.' 'What else did Mary Gerrard eat or drink?' 'She and the District Nurse drank tea with the sandwiches. Nurse made it and Mary poured it out. Couldn't have been anything there. Of course, I understand Counsel will make a song and dance about sandwiches, too, saying all three ate them, therefore impossible to ensure that only one person should be poisoned. They said that in the Hearne case, you remember.' Poirot nodded. He said, 'But actually it is very simple. You make your pile of sandwiches. In one of them is the poison. You hand the plate. In our state of civilization it is a foregone conclusion that the person to whom the plate is offered will take the sandwich that is nearest to them. I presume that Elinor Carlisle handed the plate to Mary Gerrard first?' 'Exactly.' 'Although the nurse, who was an older woman, was in the room.' 'Yes.' 'That does not look very good.' 'It doesn't mean a thing, really. You don't stand on ceremony at a picnic lunch.' 'Who cut the sandwiches?' 'Elinor Carlisle.' 'Was there anyone else in the house?' 'No one.' 101
Poirot shook his head. 'It is bad, that. And the girl had nothing but the tea and the sandwiches?' 'Nothing. Stomach contents tell us that.' Poirot said, 'It is suggested that Elinor Carlisle hoped the girl's death would be taken for food poisoning? How did she propose to explain the fact that only one member of the party was affected?' Peter Lord said, 'It does happen that way sometimes. Also, there were two pots of paste - both much alike in appearance. The idea would be that one pot was all right and that by a coincidence all the bad paste was eaten by Mary.' 'An interesting study in the laws of probability,' said Poirot. 'The mathematical chances against that happening would be high, I fancy. But another point, if food poisoning was to be suggested: Why not choose a different poison? The symptoms of morphine are not in the least like those of food poisoning. Atropine, surely, would have been a better choice!' Peter Lord said slowly, 'Yes, that's true. But there's something more. That damned District Nurse swears she lost a tube of morphine!' 'When?' 'Oh, weeks earlier, the night old Mrs. Welman died. The nurse says she left her case in the hall and found a tube of morphine missing in the morning. All buncombe, I believe. Probably smashed it at home some time before and forgot about it.' 'She has only remembered it since the death of Mary Gerrard?' Peter Lord said reluctantly, 'As a matter of fact, she did mention it at the time - to the nurse on duty.' 102
Hercule Poirot was looking at Peter Lord with some interest. He said gently, 'I think, mon cher, there is something else - something that you have not yet told me.' Peter Lord said, 'Oh, well, I suppose you'd better have it all. They're applying for an exhumation order and going to dig up old Mrs. Welman.' Poirot said, 'Eh bien?' Peter Lord said, 'When they do, they'll probably find what they're looking for - morphine !' 'You knew that?' Peter Lord, his face white under the freckles, muttered, 'I suspected it.' Hercule Poirot beat with his hand on the arm of his chair. He cried out, 'Mon Dieu, I do not understand you! You knew when she died that she had been murdered?' Peter Lord shouted, 'Good Lord, no! I never dreamed of such a thing! I thought she'd taken it herself.' Poirot sank back in his chair. 'Ah! You thought that.' 'Of course I did! She'd talked to me about it. Asked me more than once if I couldn't ‘finish her off.' She hated illness, the helplessness of it - the what she called the indignity of lying there tended like a baby. And she was a very determined woman.'
He was silent a moment, then he went on: 'I was surprised at her death. I hadn't expected it. I sent the nurse out of the room and made as thorough an investigation as I could. Of course, it was impossible to be sure without an autopsy. Well, what was the good of that? If she'd taken a short-cut, why make a song and dance about it and create a scandal? 103
Better sign the certificate and let her be buried in peace. After all, I couldn't be sure. I decided wrong, I suppose. But I never dreamed for one moment of foul play! I was quite sure she'd done it herself.' Poirot asked, 'How did you think she had got hold of the morphine?' 'I hadn't the least idea. But, as I tell you, she was a clever, resourceful woman, with plenty of ingenuity and remarkable determination.' 'Would she have got it from the nurses?' Peter Lord shook his head. 'Never on your life! You don't know nurses!' 'From her family?' 'Possibly. Might have worked on their feelings.' Hercule Poirot said, 'You have told me that Mrs. Welman died intestate. If she had lived, would she have made a will?' Peter Lord grinned suddenly. 'Putting your finger with fiendish accuracy on all the vital spots, aren't you? Yes, she was going to make a will; very agitated about it. Couldn't speak intelligently, but made her wishes clear. Elinor Carlisle was to have telephoned the lawyer first thing in the morning.' 'So Elinor Carlisle knew that her aunt wanted to make a will? And if her aunt died without making one, Elinor Carlisle inherited everything?' Peter Lord said quickly, 'She didn't know that. She'd no idea her aunt had never made a will.' 'That, my friend, is what she says. She may have known.' 'Look here, Poirot, are you the Prosecuting Counsel?' 104
'At the moment, yes. I must know the full strength of the case against her. Could Elinor Carlisle have taken the morphine from the attache case?' 'Yes. So could anyone else. Roderick Welman. Nurse O'Brien. Any of the servants.' 'Or Dr. Lord?' Peter Lord's eyes opened wide. He said, 'Certainly. But what would be the idea?' 'Mercy, perhaps.' Peter Lord shook his head. 'Nothing doing there! You'll have to believe me!' Hercule Poirot leaned back in his chair. He said, 'Let us entertain a supposition. Let us say that Elinor Carlisle did take that morphine from the attache case and did administer it to her aunt. Was anything said about the loss of the morphine?' 'Not to the household. The two nurses kept it to themselves.' Poirot said, 'What, in your opinion, will be the action of the Crown?' 'You mean if they find morphine in Mrs. Welman's body?' 'Yes.' Peter Lord said grimly, 'It's possible that if Elinor is acquitted of the present charge she will be rearrested and charged with the murder of her aunt.'
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Poirot said thoughtfully, 'The motives are different; that is to say, in the case of Mrs. Welman the motive would have been gain, whereas in the case of Mary Gerrard the motive is supposed to be jealousy.' 'That's right.' Poirot said, 'What line does the defence propose to take?' Peter Lord said, 'Bulmer proposes to take the line that there was no motive. He'll put forward the theory that the engagement between Elinor and Roderick was a family business, entered into for family reasons, to please Mrs. Welman, and that the moment the old lady was dead Elinor broke it off of her own accord. Roderick Welman will give evidence to that effect. I think he almost believes it!' 'Believes that Elinor did not care for him to any great extent?' 'Yes.' 'In which case,' said Poirot, 'she would have no reason for murdering Mary Gerrard.' 'Exactly.' 'But in that case, who did murder Mary Gerrard?' 'As you say.' Poirot shook his head. 'C'est difficile.' Peter Lord said vehemently, 'That's just it! If she didn't, who did? There's the tea; but both Nurse Hopkins and Mary drank that. The defence will try and suggest that Mary Gerrard took the morphine herself after the other two had left the room - that she committed suicide, in fact.' 'Had she any reason for committing suicide?' 106
'None whatever.' 'Was she of a suicidal type?' 'No.' Poirot said, 'What was she like, this Mary Gerrard?' Peter Lord considered, 'She was - well, she was a nice kid. Yes, definitely a nice kid.' Poirot sighed. He murmured 'This Roderick Welman, did he fall in love with her because she was a nice kid?' Peter Lord smiled. 'Oh, I get what you mean. She was beautiful, all right.' 'And you yourself? You had no feeling for her?' Peter Lord stared, 'Good Lord, no.' Hercule Poirot reflected for a moment or two, then he said, 'Roderick Welman says that there was affection between him and Elinor Carlisle, but nothing stronger. Do you agree to that?' 'How the hell should I know?' Poirot shook his head. 'You told me when you came into this room that Elinor Carlisle had the bad taste to be in love with a long-nosed, supercilious ass. That, I presume, is a description of Roderick Welman. So, according to you, she does care for him.' Peter Lord said in a low, exasperated voice, 'She cares for him all right! Cares like hell!' 107
Poirot said, 'Then there was a motive.' Peter Lord swerved round on him, his face alight with anger. 'Does it matter? She might have done it, yes! I don't care if she did.' Poirot said, 'Aha!' 'But I don't want her hanged, I tell you! Supposing she was driven desperate? Love's a desperate and twisting business. It can turn a worm into a fine fellow - and it can bring a decent, straight man down to the dregs! Suppose she did do it. Haven't you got any pity?' Hercule Poirot said, 'I do not approve of murder.' Peter Lord stared at him, looked away, stared again, and finally burst out laughing. 'Of all the things to say - so prim and smug, too! Who's asking you to approve? I'm not asking you to tell lies! Truth's truth, isn't it? If you find something that tells in an accused person's favour, you wouldn't be inclined to suppress it because she's guilty, would you?' 'Certainly not.' 'Then why the hell can't you do what I ask you?' Hercule Poirot said, 'My friend, I am perfectly prepared to do so.'
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Chapter 9 Peter Lord stared at him, took out a handkerchief, wiped his face, and threw himself down in a chair. 'Whoof!' he said. 'You got me all worked up! I didn't see in the least what you were getting at!' Poirot said, 'I was examining the case against Elinor Carlisle. Now I know it. Morphine was administered to Mary Gerrard; and, as far as I can see, it must have been given in the sandwiches. Nobody touched those sandwiches except Elinor Carlisle. Elinor Carlisle had a motive for killing Mary Gerrard, and she is, in your opinion, capable of killing Mary Gerrard, and in all probability she did kill Mary Gerrard. I see no reason for believing otherwise.' 'That, mon ami, is one side of the question. Now we will dismiss all those considerations from our mind and we will approach the matter from the opposite angle: If Elinor Carlisle did not kill Mary Gerrard, who did? Or did Mary Gerrard commit suicide?' Peter Lord sat up. A frown creased his forehead. He said, 'You weren't quite accurate just now.' 'I? Not accurate?' Poirot sounded affronted. Peter Lord pursued relentlessly, 'No. You said nobody but Elinor Carlisle touched those sandwiches. You don't know that.' 'There was no one else in the house.' 'As far as we know. But you are excluding a short period of time. There was a time during which Elinor Carlisle left the house to go down to the lodge. During that period of time the sandwiches were on a plate in the pantry, and somebody could have tampered with them.' 109
Poirot drew a deep breath. He said, 'You are right, my friend. I admit it. There was a time during which somebody could have had access to the plate of sandwiches. We must try to form some idea who that somebody could be; that is to say, what kind of person.' He paused. 'Let us consider this Mary Gerrard. Someone, not Elinor Carlisle, desired her death. Why? Did anyone stand to gain by her death? Had she money to leave?' Peter Lord shook his head. 'Not now. In another month she would have had two thousand pounds. Elinor Carlisle was making that sum over to her because she believed her aunt would have wished it. But the old lady's estate isn't wound up yet.' Poirot said, 'Then we can wash out the money angle. Mary Gerrard was beautiful, you say. With that there are always complications. She had admirers?' 'Probably. I don't know much about it.' 'Who would know?' Peter Lord grinned. 'I'd better put you on to Nurse Hopkins. She's the town crier. She knows everything that goes on in Maidensford.' 'I was going to ask you to give me your impressions of the two nurses.' 'Well, O'Brien's Irish, good nurse, competent, a bit silly, could be spiteful, a bit of a liar - the imaginative kind that's not so much deceitful, but just has to make a good story out of everything.' Poirot nodded.
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'Hopkins is a sensible, shrewd, middle-aged woman, quite kindly and competent, but a sight too much interested in other people's business!' 'If there had been trouble over some young man in the village, would Nurse Hopkins know about it?' 'You bet!' He added slowly, 'All the same, I don't believe there can be anything very obvious in that line. Mary hadn't been home long. She'd been away in Germany for two years.' 'She was twenty-one?' 'Yes.' 'There may be some German complication.' Peter Lord's face brightened. He said eagerly, 'You mean that some German fellow may have had it in for her? He may have followed her over here, waited his time, and finally achieved his object?' 'It sounds a little melodramatic,' said Hercule Poirot doubtfully. 'But it's possible ?' 'Not very probable, though.' Peter Lord said, 'I don't agree. Someone might get all het up about the girl, and see red when she turned him down. He may have fancied she treated him badly. It's an idea.' 'It is an idea, yes,' said Hercule Poirot, but his tone was not encouraging. Peter Lord said pleadingly, 'Go on, Poirot.' 111
'You want me, I see, to be the conjurer. To take out of the empty hat rabbit after rabbit.' 'You can put it that way if you like.' 'There is another possibility,' said Hercule Poirot. 'Go on.' 'Someone abstracted a tube of morphine from Nurse Hopkins's case that evening in June. Suppose Mary Gerrard saw the person who did it?' 'She would have said so.' 'No, no, mon cher. Be reasonable. If Elinor Carlisle, or Roderick Welman, or Nurse O'Brien, or even any of the servants, were to open that case and abstract a little glass tube, what would anyone think? Simply that the person in question had been sent by the nurse to fetch something from it. The matter would pass straight out of Mary Gerrard's mind again, but it is possible that, later, she might recollect the fact and might mention it casually to the person in question - oh, without the least suspicion in the world. But to the person guilty of the murder of Mrs. Welman, imagine the effect of that remark! Mary had seen; Mary must be silenced at all costs! I can assure you, my friend, that anyone who has once committed a murder finds it only too easy to commit another!' Peter Lord said with a frown, 'I've believed all along that Mrs. Welman took the stuff herself.' 'But she was paralysed - helpless - she had just had a second stroke.' 'Oh, I know. My idea was that, having got hold of morphine somehow or other, she kept it by her in a receptacle close at hand.' 'But in that case she must have got hold of the morphine before her second attack, and the nurse missed it afterward.' 112
'Hopkins may only have missed the morphine that morning. It might have been taken a couple of days before, and she hadn't noticed it.' 'How would the old lady have got hold of it?' 'I don't know. Bribed a servant, perhaps. If so, that servant's never going to tell.' 'You don't think either of the nurses were bribable?' Lord shook his head. 'Not on your life! To begin with, they're both very strict about their professional ethics - and in addition they'd be scared to death to do such a thing. They'd know the danger to themselves.' Poirot said, 'That is so.' He added thoughtfully, 'It looks, does it not, as though we return to our muttons? Who is the most likely person to have taken that morphine tube? Elinor Carlisle. We may say that she wished to make sure of inheriting a large fortune. We may be more generous and say that she was actuated by pity, that she took the morphine and administered it in compliance with her aunt's often-repeated request; but she took it - and Mary Gerrard saw her do it. And so we are back at the sandwiches and the empty house, and we have Elinor Carlisle once more - but this time with a different motive to save her neck.' Peter Lord cried out, 'That's fantastic. I tell you, she isn't that kind of person! Money doesn't really mean anything to her - or to Roderick Welman, either, I'm bound to admit. I've heard them both say as much!' 'You have? That is very interesting. That is the kind of statement I always look upon with a good deal of suspicion myself.' Peter Lord said, 'Damn you, Poirot, must you always twist everything round so that it comes back to that girl?' 113
'It is not I that twist things round; they come round of themselves. It is like the pointer at the fair. It swings round, and when it comes to rest it points always at the same name - Elinor Carlisle.' Peter Lord said, 'No!' Hercule Poirot shook his head sadly. Then he said, 'Has she relations, this Elinor Carlisle? Sisters, cousins? A father or mother?' 'No. She's an orphan - alone in the world.' 'How pathetic it sounds! Bulmer, I am sure, will make great play with that! Who, then, inherits her money if she dies?' 'I don't know. I haven't thought.' Poirot said reprovingly, 'One should always think of these things. Has she made a will, for instance?' Peter Lord flushed. He said uncertainly, 'I - I don't know.' Hercule Poirot looked at the ceiling and joined his finger tips. He remarked, 'It would be well, you know, to tell me.' 'Tell you what?' 'Exactly what is in your mind - no matter how damaging it may happen to be to Elinor Carlisle.' 'How do you know -' 'Yes, yes, I know. There is something - some incident in your mind! It will be as well to tell me, otherwise I shall imagine it is something worse than it is!' 'It's nothing, really -' 114
'We will agree it is nothing. But let me hear what it is.' Slowly, unwillingly, Peter Lord allowed the story to be dragged from him that scene of Elinor leaning in at the window of Nurse Hopkins's cottage, and of her laughter. Poirot said thoughtfully, 'She said that, did she, ‘So you're making your will, Mary? That's funny - that's very funny.' And it was very clear to you what was in her mind. She had been thinking perhaps, that Mary Gerrard was not going to live long.' Peter Lord said, 'I only imagined that. I don't know.' Poirot said, 'No, you did not only imagine it.'
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Chapter 10 Hercule Poirot sat in Nurse Hopkins's cottage. Dr. Lord had brought him there, had introduced him, and had then, at a glance from Poirot, left him to a tête-à-tête. Having, to begin with, eyed his foreign appearance somewhat askance, Nurse Hopkins was now thawing rapidly. She said with a faintly gloomy relish, 'Yes, it's a terrible thing. One of the most terrible things I've ever known. Mary was one of the most beautiful girls you've ever seen. Might have gone on the films any time! And a nice steady girl, too, and not stuck-up, as she might have been with all the notice taken of her.' Poirot, inserting a question adroitly, said, 'You mean the notice taken of her by Mrs. Welman?' 'That's what I mean. The old lady had taken a tremendous fancy to her really, a tremendous fancy.' Hercule Poirot murmured, 'Surprising, perhaps?' 'That depends. It might be quite natural, really. I mean -' Nurse Hopkins bit her lip and looked confused. 'What I mean is, Mary had a very pretty way with her; nice soft voice and pleasant manners. And it's my opinion it does an elderly person good to have a young face about.' Hercule Poirot said, 'Miss Carlisle came down occasionally, I suppose, to see her aunt?' Nurse Hopkins said sharply, 'Miss Carlisle came down when it suited her.' Poirot murmured, 'You do not like Miss Carlisle.' Nurse Hopkins cried out, 'I should hope not, indeed! A poisoner! A coldblooded poisoner!' 117
'Ah,' said Hercule Poirot, 'I see you have made up your mind.' Nurse Hopkins said suspiciously, 'What do you mean? Made up my mind?' 'You are quite sure that it was she who administered morphine to Mary Gerrard?' 'Who else could have done it, I should like to know? You're not suggesting that I did?' 'Not for a moment. But her guilt has not yet been proved, remember.' Nurse Hopkins said with calm assurance, 'She did it, all right. Apart from anything else, you could see it in her face. Queer she was, all the time. And taking me away upstairs and keeping me there - delaying as long as possible. And then when I turned on her, after finding Mary like that, it was there in her face as plain as anything. She knew I knew!' Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully, 'It is certainly difficult to see who else could have done it. Unless, of course, she did it herself.' 'What do you mean, did it herself? Do you mean that Mary committed suicide? I never heard such nonsense!' Hercule Poirot said, 'One can never tell. The heart of a young girl, it is very sensitive, very tender.' He paused. 'It would have been possible, I suppose? She could have slipped something into her tea without your noticing her?' 'Slipped it into her cup, you mean?' 'Yes. You weren't watching her all the time.' 'I wasn't watching her - no. Yes, I suppose she could have done that. .. But it's all nonsense! What would she want to do a thing like that for?' 118
Hercule Poirot shook his head with a resumption of his former manner. 'A young girl's heart - as I say, so sensitive. An unhappy love affair, perhaps -' Nurse Hopkins gave a snort. 'Girls don't kill themselves for love affairs not unless they're in the family way - and Mary wasn't that, let me tell you!' She glared at him belligerently. 'And she was not in love?' 'Not she. Quite fancy free. Keen on her job and enjoying life.' 'But she must have had admirers, since she was such an attractive girl.' Nurse Hopkins said, 'She wasn't one of these girls who are all sex appeal. She was a quiet girl!' 'But there were young men, no doubt, in the village who admired her.' 'There was Ted Bigland, of course,' said Nurse Hopkins. Poirot extracted various details as to Ted Bigland. 'Very gone on Mary, he was,' said Nurse Hopkins. 'But as I told her, she was a cut above him.' Poirot said, 'He must have been angry when she would not have anything to do with him?' 'He was sore about it, yes,' admitted Nurse Hopkins. 'Blamed me for it, too.' 'He thought it was your fault?' 'That's what he said. I'd a perfect right to advise the girl. After all, I know something of the world. I didn't want the girl to throw herself away.' 119
Poirot said gently, 'What made you take so much interest in the girl?' 'Well, I don't know.' Nurse Hopkins hesitated. She looked shy and a little ashamed of herself. 'There was something - well - romantic about Mary.' Poirot murmured, 'About her, perhaps, but not about her circumstances. She was the lodgekeeper's daughter, wasn't she?' Nurse Hopkins said, 'Yes - yes, of course. At least-' She hesitated, looked at Poirot, who was gazing at her in the most sympathetic manner. 'As a matter of fact,' said Nurse Hopkins, in a burst of confidence, 'she wasn't old Gerrard's daughter at all. He told me so. Her father was a gentleman.' Poirot murmured, 'I see.. And her mother?' Nurse Hopkins hesitated, bit her lip, and then went on: 'Her mother had been lady's maid to old Mrs. Welman. She married Gerrard after Mary was born.' 'As you say, quite a romance - a mystery romance.' Nurse Hopkins's face lit up. 'Wasn't it? One can't help taking an interest in people when one knows something that nobody else does about them. Just by chance I happened to find out a good deal. As a matter of fact, it was Nurse O'Brien who set me on the track; but that's another story. But, as you say, it's interesting knowing past history. There's many a tragedy that goes unguessed at. It's a sad world.' Poirot sighed and shook his head. Nurse Hopkins said with sudden alarm, 'But I oughtn't to have gone talking like this. I wouldn't have a word of this get out for anything! After all, it's nothing to do with the case. As far as the world is concerned, Mary was Gerrard's daughter, and there mustn't be a hint of anything 120
else. Damaging her in the eyes of the world after she's dead! He married her mother, and that's enough.' Poirot murmured, 'But you know, perhaps, who her real father was?' Nurse Hopkins said reluctantly, 'Well, perhaps I do; but, then again, perhaps I don't. That is, I don't know anything. I could make a guess. Old sins have long shadows, as they say! But I'm not one to talk, and I shan't say another word.' Poirot tactfully retired from the fray and attacked another subject. 'There is something else - a delicate matter. But I am sure I can rely on your discretion.' Nurse Hopkins bridled. A broad smile appeared on her homely face. Poirot continued, 'I speak of Mr. Roderick Welman. He was, so I hear, attracted by Mary Gerrard.' Nurse Hopkins said, 'Bowled over by her!' 'Although at the time he was engaged to Miss Carlisle?' 'If you ask me,' said Nurse Hopkins, 'he was never really sweet on Miss Carlisle. Not what I'd call sweet on her.' Poirot asked, using an old-fashioned term, 'Did Mary Gerrard - er encourage his advances?' Nurse Hopkins said sharply, 'She behaved very well. Nobody could say she led him on!' Poirot said, 'Was she in love with him?' Nurse Hopkins said sharply, 'No, she wasn't.' 121
'But she liked him?' 'Oh, yes, she liked him well enough.' 'And I suppose, in time, something might have come of it?' 'That may be. But Mary wouldn't have done anything in a hurry. She told him down here he had no business to speak like that to her when he was engaged to Miss Elinor. And when he came to see her in London she said the same.' Poirot asked with an air of engaging candor, 'What do you yourself think of Mr. Roderick Welman?' Nurse Hopkins said, 'He's a nice enough young fellow. Nervy, though. Looks as though he might be dyspeptic later on. Those nervy ones often are.' 'Was he very fond of his aunt?' 'I believe so.' 'Did he sit with her much when she was so ill?' 'You mean when she had that second stroke? The night before she died when they came down? I don't believe he even went into her room!' 'Really.' Nurse Hopkins said quickly, 'She didn't ask for him. And, of course, we'd no idea the end was so near. There are a lot of men like that, you know; fight shy of a sickroom. They can't help it. And it's not heartlessness. They just don't want to be upset in their feelings.' Poirot nodded comprehendingly. He said, 'Are you sure Mr. Welman did not go into his aunt's room before she died?' 122
'Well, not while I was on duty! Nurse O'Brien relieved me at three a.m., and she may have fetched him before the end; but, if so, she didn't mention it to me.' Poirot suggested, 'He may have gone into her room when you were absent?' Nurse Hopkins snapped, 'I don't leave my patients unattended, Mr. Poirot.' 'A thousand apologies. I did not mean that. I thought perhaps you might have had to boil water, or to run downstairs for some necessary stimulant.' Mollified, Nurse Hopkins said, 'I did go down to change the bottles and get them refilled. I knew there'd be a kettle on the boil down in the kitchen.' 'You were away long?' 'Five minutes, perhaps.' 'Ah, yes, then Mr. Welman may have just looked in on her then?' 'He must have been very quick about it if he did.' Poirot sighed. He said, 'As you say, men fight shy of illness. It is the women who are the ministering angels. What should we do without them? Especially women of your profession - a truly noble calling.' Nurse Hopkins, slightly red in the face, said, 'It's very kind of you to say that. I've never thought of it that way myself. Too much hard work in nursing to think about the noble side of it.' Poirot said, 'And there is nothing else you can tell me about Mary Gerrard?' 123
There was an appreciable pause before Nurse Hopkins answered, 'I don't know of anything.' 'Are you quite sure?' Nurse Hopkins said rather incoherently, 'You don't understand. I was fond of Mary.' 'And there's nothing more you can tell me?' 'No, there is not! And that's flat.'
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Chapter 11 In the awesome majesty of Mrs. Bishop's black-clad presence Hercule Poirot sat humbly insignificant. The thawing of Mrs. Bishop was no easy matter. For Mrs. Bishop, a lady of conservative habits and views, strongly disapproved of foreigners. And a foreigner most indubitably Hercule Poirot was. Her responses were frosty and she eyed him with disfavour and suspicion. Dr. Lord's introduction of him had done little to soften the situation. 'I am sure,' said Mrs. Bishop when Dr. Lord had gone, 'Dr. Lord is a very clever doctor and means well. Dr. Ransome, his predecessor, had been here many years!' Dr. Ransome, that is to say, could be trusted to behave in a manner suitable to the county. Dr. Lord, a mere irresponsible youngster, an upstart who had taken Dr. Ransome's place, had only one recommendation: 'cleverness' in his profession. Cleverness, the whole demeanor of Mrs. Bishop seemed to say, is not enough! Hercule Poirot was persuasive. He was adroit. But charm he never so wisely, Mrs. Bishop remained aloof and implacable. The death of Mrs. Welman had been very sad. She had been much respected in the neighbourhood. The arrest of Miss Carlisle was 'Disgraceful!' and believed to be the result of 'these new-fangled police methods.' The views of Mrs. Bishop upon the death of Mary Gerrard were vague in the extreme, 'I couldn't say, I'm sure,' being the most she could be brought to say.
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Hercule Poirot played his last card. He recounted with naive pride a recent visit of his to Sandringham. He spoke with admiration of the graciousness and delightful simplicity and kindness of Royalty. Mrs. Bishop, who followed daily in the court circular the exact movements of Royalty, was overborne. After all, if They had sent for Mr. Poirot - Well, naturally, that made All the Difference. Foreigner or no foreigner, who was she, Emma Bishop, to hold back where Royalty had led the way? Presently she and M. Poirot were engaged in pleasant conversation on a really interesting theme - no less than the selection of a suitable future husband for the Princess. Having finally exhausted all possible candidates as Not Good Enough, the talk reverted to less exalted circles. Poirot observed sententiously, 'Marriage, alas, is fraught with dangers and pitfalls!' Mrs. Bishop said, 'Yes, indeed - with this nasty divorce,' rather as though she were speaking of a contagious disease such as chicken pox. 'I suspect,' said Poirot, 'that Mrs. Welman, before her death, must have been anxious to see her niece suitably settled for life?' Mrs. Bishop bowed her head. 'Yes, indeed. The engagement between Miss Elinor and Mr. Roderick was a great relief to her. It was a thing she had always hoped for.' Poirot ventured, 'The engagement was perhaps entered into partly from a wish to please her?' 'Oh, no, I wouldn't say that, Mr. Poirot. Miss Elinor has always been devoted to Mr. Roddy - always was, as a tiny tot - quite beautiful to see. Miss Elinor has a very loyal and devoted nature!' Poirot murmured, 'And he?' 126
Mrs. Bishop said austerely, 'Mr. Roderick was devoted to Miss Elinor.' Poirot said, 'Yet the engagement, I think, was broken off?' The color rose in Mrs. Bishop's face. She said, 'Owing, Mr. Poirot, to the machinations of a snake in the grass.' Poirot said, appearing suitably impressed, 'Indeed?' Mrs. Bishop, her face becoming redder still, explained, 'In this country, Mr. Poirot, there is a certain Decency to be observed when mentioning the Dead, But that young woman, Mr. Poirot, was Underhand in her Dealings.' Poirot looked at her thoughtfully for a moment. Then he said with an apparent lack of guile, 'You surprise me. I had been given the impression that she was a very simple and unassuming girl.' Mrs. Bishop's chin trembled a little. 'She was Artful, Mr. Poirot. People were Taken In by her. That Nurse Hopkins, for instance! Yes, and my poor dear mistress, too!' Poirot shook his head sympathetically and made a clacking noise with his tongue. 'Yes, indeed,' said Mrs. Bishop, stimulated by these encouraging noises. 'She was failing, poor dear, and that young woman Wormed her way into her Confidence. She knew which side of her bread was buttered. Always hovering about, reading to her, bringing her little nosegays of flowers. It was Mary this and Mary that and ‘Where's Mary?' all the time! The money she spent on the girl, too! Expensive schools and finishing places abroad - and the girl nothing but old Gerrard's daughter! He didn't like it, I can tell you! Used to complain of her Fine Lady ways. Above Herself, that's what She was.' This time Poirot shook his head and said commiseratingly, 'Dear, dear.' 127
'And then Making Up to Mr. Roddy the way she did! He was too simple to See Through her. And Miss Elinor, a nice minded young lady as she is, of course she wouldn't realize what was Going On. But Men, they are all alike: easily caught by flattery and a pretty face!' Poirot sighed. 'She had, I suppose, admirers of her own class?' he asked. 'Of course she had. There was Rufus Bigland's son Ted - as nice a boy as you could find. But, oh, no, my fine lady was too good for him! I'd no patience with such airs and graces!' Poirot said, 'Was he not angry about her treatment of him?' 'Yes, indeed. He accused her of carrying on with Mr. Roddy. I know that for a fact. I don't blame the boy for feeling sore!' 'Nor I,' said Poirot. 'You interest me extremely, Mrs. Bishop. Some people have the knack of presenting a character clearly and vigorously in a few words. It is a great gift. I have at last a clear picture of Mary Gerrard.' 'Mind you,' said Mrs. Bishop, 'I'm not saying a word against the girl! I wouldn't do such a thing - and she in her grave. But there's no doubt that she caused a lot of trouble!' Poirot murmured, 'Where would it have ended, I wonder?' 'That's what I say!' said Mrs. Bishop. 'You can take it from me, Mr. Poirot, that if my dear mistress hadn't died when she did - awful as the shock was at the time, I see now that it was a Mercy in Disguise - I don't know what might have been the end of it!' Poirot said invitingly, 'You mean?' Mrs. Bishop said solemnly, 'I've come across it time and again. My own sister was in service where it happened. Once when old Colonel 128
Randolph died and left every penny away from his poor wife to a hussy living at Eastbourne - and once old Mrs. Dacres - left it to the organist of the church - one of those long-haired young men - and she with married sons and daughters.' Poirot said, 'You mean, I take it, that Mrs. Welman might have left all her money to Mary Gerrard?' 'It wouldn't have surprised me!' said Mrs. Bishop. 'That's what the young woman was working up to, I've no doubt. And if I ventured to say a word, Mrs. Welman was ready to bite my head off, though I'd been with her nearly twenty years. It's an ungrateful world, Mr. Poirot. You try to do your duty and it is not appreciated.' 'Alas,' sighed Poirot, 'how true that is!' 'But Wickedness doesn't always flourish,' said Mrs. Bishop. Poirot said, 'True. Mary Gerrard is dead.' Mrs. Bishop said comfortably, 'She's gone to her reckoning, and we mustn't judge her.' Poirot mused, 'The circumstances of her death seem quite inexplicable.' 'These police and their new-fangled ideas,' said Mrs. Bishop. 'Is it likely that a well-bred, nicely brought-up young lady like Miss Elinor would go about poisoning anyone? Trying to drag me into it, too, saying I said her manner was peculiar!' 'But was it not peculiar?' 'And why shouldn't it be?' Mrs. Bishop's bust heaved with a flash of jet. 'Miss Elinor's a young lady of feelings. She was going to turn out her aunt's things - and that's always a painful business.' 129
Poirot nodded sympathetically. He said, 'It would have made it much easier for her if you had accompanied her.' 'I wanted to, Mr. Poirot, but she took me up quite sharp. Oh, well, Miss Elinor was always a very proud and reserved young lady. I wish, though, that I had gone with her.' Poirot murmured, 'You did not think of following her up to the house?' Mrs. Bishop reared her head majestically. 'I don't go where I'm not wanted, Mr. Poirot.' Poirot looked abashed. He murmured, 'Besides, you had doubtless matters of importance to attend to that morning?' 'It was a very warm day, I remember. Very sultry.' She sighed. 'I walked to the cemetery to place a few flowers on Mrs. Welman's grave, a token of respect, and I had to rest there quite a long time. Quite overcome by the heat, I was. I got home late for lunch, and my sister was quite upset when she saw the State of Heat I was in! Said I never should have done it on a day like that.' Poirot looked at her with admiration. He said, 'I envy you, Mrs. Bishop. It is pleasant indeed to have nothing with which to reproach oneself after a death. Mr. Roderick Welman, I fancy, must blame himself for not going in to see his aunt that night, though naturally he could not know she was going to pass away so soon.' 'Oh, but you're quite wrong, Mr. Poirot. I can tell you that for a fact. Mr. Roddy did go into his aunt's room. I was just outside on the landing myself. I'd heard that nurse go off downstairs, and I thought maybe I'd better make sure the mistress wasn't needing anything, for you know what nurses are - always staying downstairs to gossip with the maids, or else worrying them to death by asking them for things. Not that Nurse Hopkins was as bad as that red-haired Irish nurse. Always chattering and making trouble, she was! But, as I say, I thought I'd just see everything 130
was all right, and it was then that I saw Mr. Roddy slip into his aunt's room. I don't know whether she knew him or not; but anyway he hasn't got anything to reproach himself with!' Poirot said, 'I am glad. He is of a somewhat nervous disposition.' 'Just a trifle cranky. He always has been.' Poirot said, 'Mrs. Bishop, you are evidently a woman of great understanding. I have formed a high regard for your judgment. What do you think is the truth about the death of Mary Gerrard?' Mrs. Bishop snorted. 'Clear enough, I should think! One of those nasty pots of paste of Abbott's. Keeps them on those shelves for months! My second cousin was took ill and nearly died once, with tinned crab!' Poirot objected, 'But what about the morphine found in the body?' Mrs. Bishop said grandly, 'I don't know anything about morphine! I know what doctors are. Tell them to look for something, and they'll find it! Tainted fish paste isn't good enough for them! ' Poirot said, 'You do not think it possible that she committed suicide?' 'She?' Mrs. Bishop snorted. 'No, indeed. Hadn't she made up her mind to marry Mr. Roddy? Catch her committing suicide!'
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Chapter 12 Since it was Sunday, Hercule Poirot found Ted Bigland at his father's farm. There was little difficulty in getting Ted Bigland to talk. He seemed to welcome the opportunity - as though it was a relief. He said thoughtfully, 'So you're trying to find out who killed Mary? It's a black mystery, that.' Poirot said, 'You do not believe that Miss Carlisle killed her, then?' Ted Bigland frowned - a puzzled, almost child-like frown it was. He said slowly, 'Miss Elinor's a lady. She's the kind - well, you couldn't imagine her doing anything like that - anything violent, if you know what I mean. After all, it isn't likely, is it, sir, that a nice young lady would go and do a thing of that kind?' Hercule Poirot nodded in a contemplative manner. He said, 'No, it is not likely. But when it comes to jealousy-' He paused, watching the good-looking, fair young giant before him. Ted Bigland said, 'Jealousy? I know things happen that way, but it's usually drink and getting worked up that makes a fellow see red and run amuck. Miss Elinor - a nice quiet young lady like that -' Poirot said, 'But Mary Gerrard died - and she did not die a natural death. Have you any idea - is there anything you can tell me to help me find out - who killed Mary Gerrard?' Slowly the boy shook his head. He said, 'It doesn't seem right. It doesn't seem possible, if you take my meaning, that anyone could have killed Mary. She was - she was like a flower.' 133
And suddenly, for a vivid minute, Hercule Poirot had a new conception of the dead girl. In that halting rustic voice the girl Mary lived and bloomed again. 'She was like a flower.' There was suddenly a poignant sense of loss, of something exquisite destroyed. In his mind phrase after phrase succeeded each other. Peter Lord's 'She was a nice kid.' Nurse Hopkins's 'She could have gone on the films any time.' Mrs. Bishop's venomous 'No patience with her airs and graces.' And now last, putting to shame, laying aside those other views, the quiet, wondering, 'She was like a flower.' Hercule Poirot said, 'But then - ?' He spread out his hands in a wide, appealing foreign gesture. Ted Bigland nodded his head. His eyes had still the dumb, glazed look of an animal in pain. He said, 'I know, sir. I know what you say's true. She didn't die natural. But I've been wondering -' He paused. Poirot said, 'Yes?' Ted Bigland said slowly, 'I've been wondering if in some way it couldn't have been an accident!' 'An accident? But what kind of an accident?' 'I know, sir. I know. It doesn't sound like sense. But I keep thinking and thinking, and it seems to me it must have been that way. Something that wasn't meant to happen or something that was all a mistake. Just - well, just an accident!' He looked pleadingly at Poirot, embarrassed by his own lack of eloquence. Poirot was silent a moment or two. He seemed to be considering. He said at last, 'It is interesting that you feel that.' 134
Ted Bigland said deprecatingly, 'I dare say it doesn't make sense to you, sir. I can't figure out how and why about it. It's just a feeling I've got.' Hercule Poirot said, 'Feeling is sometimes an important guide. You will pardon me, I hope, if I seem to tread on painful ground, but you cared very much for Mary Gerrard, did you not?' A little dark colour came up in the tanned face. Ted said simply, 'Everyone knows that around here, I reckon.' 'You wanted to marry her?' 'Yes.' 'But she - was not willing?' Ted's face darkened a little. He said, with a hint of suppressed anger, 'Mean well, people do, but they shouldn't muck up people's lives by interfering. All this schooling and going abroad! It changed Mary. I don't mean it spoiled her, or that she was stuck-up - she wasn't. But it - oh, it bewildered her! She didn't know where she was any more. She was well, put it crudely - she was too good for me, but she still wasn't good enough for a real gentleman like Mr. Welman.' Hercule Poirot said, watching him, 'You don't like Mr. Welman?' Ted Bigland said with simple violence, 'Why the hell should I? Mr. Welman's all right. I've nothing against him. He's not what I call much of a man! I could pick him up and break him in two. He's got brains, I suppose. .. But that's not much help to you if your car breaks down, for instance. You may know the principle that makes a car run, but it doesn't stop you from being as helpless as a baby when all that's needed is to take the mag out and give it a wipe.' Poirot said, 'Of course, you work in a garage?' 135
Ted Bigland nodded. 'Henderson's, down the road.' 'You were there on the morning when - this thing happened?' Ted Bigland said, 'Yes, testing out a car for a gentleman. A choke somewhere, and I couldn't locate it. Ran it round for a bit. Seems odd to think of now. It was a lovely day, some honeysuckle still in the hedges.. Mary used to like honeysuckle. We used to go picking it together before she went away abroad.' Again there was that puzzled, child-like wonder on his face. Hercule Poirot was silent. With a start Ted Bigland came out of his trance. He said, 'Sorry, sir. Forget what I said about Mr. Welman. I was sore because of his hanging round after Mary. He ought to have let her alone. She wasn't his sort - not really.' Poirot said, 'Do you think she cared for him?' Again Ted Bigland frowned. 'I don't - not really. But she might have. I couldn't say.' Poirot asked, 'Was there any other man in Mary's life? Anyone, for instance, she had met abroad?' 'I couldn't say, sir. She never mentioned anybody.' 'Any enemies - here in Maidensford?' 'You mean anyone who had it in for her?' He shook his head. 'Nobody knew her very well. But they all liked her.' Poirot said, 'Did Mrs. Bishop, the housekeeper at Hunterbury, like her?' Ted gave a sudden grin. He said, 'Oh, that was just spite! The old dame didn't like Mrs. Welman taking such a fancy to Mary.' 136
Poirot asked, 'Was Mary Gerrard happy when she was down here? Was she fond of old Mrs. Welman?' Ted Bigland said, 'She'd have been happy enough, I dare say, if Nurse had let her alone. Nurse Hopkins, I mean. Putting ideas into her head of earning her living and going off to do massage.' 'She was fond of Mary, though?' 'Oh, yes, she was fond enough of her; but she's the kind who always knows what's best for everyone!' Poirot said slowly, 'Supposing that Nurse Hopkins knows something something, let us say, that would throw a discreditable light on Mary - do you think she would keep it to herself?' Ted Bigland looked at him curiously. 'I don't quite get your meaning, sir.' 'Do you think that if Nurse Hopkins knew something against Mary Gerrard she would hold her tongue about it?' Ted Bigland said, 'I doubt if that woman could hold her tongue about anything! She's the greatest gossip in the village. But if she'd hold her tongue about anybody, it would probably be about Mary.' He added, his curiosity getting the better of him, 'I'd like to know why you ask that?' Hercule Poirot said, 'One has, in talking to people, a certain impression. Nurse Hopkins was, to all seeming, perfectly frank and outspoken, but I formed the impression - and very strongly - that she was keeping something back. It is not necessarily an important thing. It may have no bearing on the crime. But, there is something that she knows which she has not told. I also formed the impression that this something - whatever it is - is something definitely damaging or detrimental to the character of Mary Gerrard.' 137
Ted shook his head helplessly. Hercule Poirot sighed. 'Ah, well, I shall learn what it is in time.'
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Chapter 13 Poirot looked with interest at the long, sensitive face of Roderick Welman. Roddy's nerves were in a pitiable condition. His hands twitched, his eyes were bloodshot, his voice was husky and irritable. He said, looking down at the card, 'Of course, I know your name, Monsieur Poirot. But I don't see what Dr. Lord thinks you can do in this matter! And, anyway, what business is it of his? He attended my aunt, but otherwise he's a complete stranger. Elinor and I had not even met him until we went down there this June. Surely it is Seddon's business to attend to all this sort of thing?' Hercule Poirot said, 'Technically that is correct.' Roddy went on unhappily, 'Not that Seddon gives me much confidence. He's so confoundedly gloomy.' 'It is a habit, that, of lawyers.' 'Still,' said Roddy, cheering up a little, 'we've briefed Bulmer. He's supposed to be pretty well at the top of the tree, isn't he?' Hercule Poirot said, 'He has a reputation for leading forlorn hopes.' Roddy winced palpably. Poirot said, 'It does not displease you, I hope, that I should endeavour to be of assistance to Miss Carlisle?' 'No, no, of course not. But -' 'But what can I do? It is that, that you would ask?' 139
A quick smile flashed across Roddy's worried face - a smile so suddenly charming that Hercule Poirot understood the subtle attraction of the man. Roddy said apologetically, 'It sounds a little rude, put like that. But, really, of course, that is the point. I won't beat about the bush. What can you do, Monsieur Poirot?' Poirot said, 'I can search for the truth.' 'Yes.' Roddy sounded a little doubtful. Poirot said, 'I might discover facts that would be helpful to the accused.' Roddy sighed. 'If you only could!' Hercule Poirot went on: 'It is my earnest desire to be helpful. Will you assist me by telling me just what you think of the whole business?' Roddy got up and walked restlessly up and down. 'What can I say? The whole thing's so absurd - so fantastic! The mere idea of Elinor - Elinor, whom I've known since she was a child - actually doing such a melodramatic thing as poisoning someone. It's quite laughable, of course! But how on earth explain that to a jury?' Poirot said stolidly, 'You consider it quite impossible that Miss Carlisle should have done such a thing?' 'Oh, quite! That goes without saying! Elinor's an exquisite creature beautifully poised and balanced - no violence in her nature. She's intellectual, sensitive, and altogether devoid of animal passions. But get twelve fatheaded fools in a jury box, and God knows what they can be made to believe! After all, let's be reasonable: they're not there to judge character; they're there to sift evidence. Facts - facts - facts! And the facts are unfortunate!' 140
Hercule Poirot nodded thoughtfully. He said, 'You are a person, Mr. Welman, of sensibility and intelligence. The facts condemn Miss Carlisle. Your knowledge of her acquits her. What, then, really happened? What can have happened?' Roddy spread out his hands in exasperation. 'That's the devil of it all! I suppose the nurse couldn't have done it?' 'She was never near the sandwiches - oh, I have made the inquiries very minutely - and she could not have poisoned the tea without poisoning herself as well. I have made quite sure of that. Moreover, why should she wish to kill Mary Gerrard?' Roddy cried out, 'Why should anyone wish to kill Mary Gerrard?' 'That,' said Poirot, 'seems to be the unanswerable question in this case. No one wished to kill Mary Gerrard.' (He added in his own mind, Except Elinor Carlisle.) 'Therefore, the next step logically would seem to be: Mary Gerrard was not killed! But that, alas, is not so. She was killed!' He added, slightly melodramatically, 'But she is in her grave, and oh. The difference to me!' 'I beg your pardon,' said Roddy. Hercule Poirot explained, 'Wordsworth. I read him much. Those lines express, perhaps, what you feel?' 'I?' Roddy looked stiff and unapproachable. Poirot said, 'I apologize - I apologize deeply! It is so hard - to be a detective and also a pukka sahib. As it is so well expressed in your language, there are things that one does not say. But, alas, a detective is 141
forced to say them! He must ask questions: about people's private affairs, about their feelings!' Roddy said, 'Surely all this is quite unnecessary?' Poirot said quickly and humbly, 'If I might just understand the position? Then we will pass from the unpleasant subject and not refer to it again. It is fairly widely known, Mr. Welman, that you - admired Mary Gerrard? That is, I think, true?' Roddy got up and stood by the window. He played with the shade tassel. He said, 'Yes.' 'You fell in love with her?' 'I suppose so.' 'Ah, and you are now heart-broken by her death-' 'I - I suppose - I mean - well, really, M. Poirot - ' He turned - a nervous, irritable, sensitive creature at bay. Hercule Poirot said, 'If you could just tell me - just show me clearly - then it would be finished with.' Roddy Welman sat down in a chair. He did not look at the other man. He spoke in a series of jerks. 'It's very difficult to explain. Must we go into it?' Poirot said, 'One cannot always turn aside and pass by from the unpleasantnesses of life, Mr. Welman! You say you suppose you cared for this girl. You are not sure, then?'
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Roddy said, 'I don't know .. She was so lovely. Like a dream. That's what it seems like now. A dream! Not real! All that - my seeing her first - my well, my infatuation for her! A kind of madness! And now everything is finished - gone - as though - as though it had never happened.' Poirot nodded his head. He said, 'Yes, I understand.' He added, 'You were not in England yourself at the time of her death?' 'No, I went abroad on July 9th and returned on August 1st. Elinor's telegram followed me about from place to place. I hurried home as soon as I got the news.' Poirot said, 'It must have been a great shock to you. You had cared for the girl very much.' Roddy said, and there was bitterness and exasperation in his voice, 'Why should these things happen to one? It's not as though one wished them to happen! It is contrary to all - to all one's ordered expectation of life!' Hercule Poirot said, 'Ah, but life is like that! It does not permit you to arrange and order it as you will. It will not permit you to escape emotion, to live by the intellect and by reason! You cannot say, ‘I will feel so much and no more.' Life, Mr. Welman, whatever else it is, is not reasonable!' Roderick Welman murmured, 'So it seems.' Poirot said, 'A spring morning, a girl's face - and the well-ordered sequence of existence is routed.' Roddy winced and Poirot went on: 'Sometimes it is little more than that a face. What did you really know of Mary Gerrard, Mr. Welman?' Roddy said heavily, 'What did I know? So little; I see that now. She was sweet, I think, and gentle; but really, I know nothing - nothing at all. .. That's why, I suppose, I don't miss her.' 143
His antagonism and resentment were gone now. He spoke naturally and simply. Hercule Poirot, as he had a knack of doing, had penetrated the other's defences. Roddy seemed to feel a certain relief in unburdening himself. He said, 'Sweet - gentle - not very clever. Sensitive, I think, and kind. She had a refinement that you would not expect to find in a girl of her class.' 'Was she the kind of girl who would make enemies unconsciously?' Roddy shook his head vigorously. 'No, no, I can't imagine anyone disliking her - really disliking her, I mean. Spite is different.' Poirot said quickly, 'Spite? So there was spite, you think?' Roddy said absently, 'Must have been - to account for that letter.' Poirot said sharply, 'What letter?' Roddy flushed and looked annoyed. He said, 'Oh, nothing important.' Poirot repeated, 'What letter?' 'An anonymous letter.' He spoke reluctantly. 'When did it come? To whom was it written?' Rather unwillingly Roddy explained. Hercule Poirot murmured, 'It is interesting, that. Can I see it, this letter?' 'Afraid you can't. As a matter of fact, I burned it.' 'Now, why did you do that, Mr. Welman?' Roddy said rather stiffly, 'It seemed the natural thing to do at the time.' 144
Poirot said, 'And in consequence of this letter, you and Miss Carlisle went hurriedly down to Hunterbury?' 'We went down, yes. I don't know about hurriedly.' 'But you were a little uneasy, were you not? Perhaps, even, a little alarmed?' Roddy said even more stiffly, 'I won't admit that.' Hercule Poirot cried, 'But surely that was only natural! Your inheritance that which was promised you - was in jeopardy! Surely it is natural that you should be unquiet about the matter! Money, it is very important!' 'Not as important as you make out.' Poirot said, 'Such unworldliness is indeed remarkable!' Roddy flushed. He said, 'Oh, of course, the money did matter to us. We weren't completely indifferent to it. But our main object was to - to see my aunt and make sure she was all right.' Poirot said, 'You went down there with Miss Carlisle. At that time your aunt had not made a will. Shortly afterward she had another attack other illness. She then wishes to make a will, but, conveniently for Miss Carlisle, perhaps, she dies that night before that will can be made.' 'Look here, what are you hinting at?' Roddy's face was wrathful. Poirot answered him like a flash: 'You have told me, Mr. Welman, as regards the death of Mary Gerrard, that the motive attributed to Elinor Carlisle is absurd - that she was, emphatically, not that kind of a person. But there is now another interpretation. Elinor Carlisle had reason to fear that she might be disinherited in favor of an outsider. The letter has warned her - her aunt's broken murmurings confirm that fear. In the hall below is an attaché case with various drugs and medical supplies. It is 145
easy to abstract a tube of morphine. And afterward, so I have learned, she sits in the sickroom alone with her aunt while you and the nurses are at dinner.' Roddy cried, 'Good God, Monsieur Poirot, what are you suggesting now? That Elinor killed Aunt Laura? Of all the ridiculous ideas!' Poirot said, 'But you know, do you not, that an order to exhume Mrs. Welman's body has been applied for?' 'Yes, I know. But they won't find anything!' 'Suppose they do?' 'They won't!' Roddy spoke positively. Poirot shook his head. 'I am not so sure. And there was only one person, you realize, who would benefit by Mrs. Welman's dying at that moment.' Roddy sat down. His face was white, and he was shaking a little. He stared at Poirot. Then he said, 'I thought - you were on her side.' Hercule Poirot said, 'Whatever side one is on, one must face facts! I think, Mr. Welman, that you have so far preferred in life to avoid facing an awkward truth whenever it is possible.' Roddy said, 'Why harrow oneself by looking on the worst side?' Hercule Poirot replied gravely, 'Because it is sometimes necessary.' He paused a minute and then said, 'Let us face the possibility that your aunt's death may be found to be due to the administration of morphine. What then?' Roddy shook his head helplessly. 'I don't know.' 146
'But you must try to think. Who could have given it to her? You must admit that Elinor Carlisle had the best opportunity to do so?' 'What about the nurses?' 'Either of them could have done so, certainly. But Nurse Hopkins was concerned about the disappearance of the tube at the time and mentioned it openly. There was no need for her to do so. The death certificate had been signed. Why call attention to the missing morphine if she was guilty? It will probably bring her censure for carelessness as it is, and if she poisoned Mrs. Welman it was surely idiotic to draw attention to the morphine. Besides, what could she gain by Mrs. Welman's death? Nothing. The same applies to Nurse O'Brien. She could have administered morphine, could have taken it from Nurse Hopkins's case; but, again why should she?' Roddy shook his head. 'All that's true enough.' Poirot said, 'Then there is yourself.' Roddy started like a nervous horse. 'Me?' 'Certainly. You could have abstracted the morphine. You could have given it to Mrs. Welman! You were alone with her for a short period that night. But, again, why should you? If she lived to make a will, it is at least probable that you would have been mentioned in it. So again, you see, there is no motive. Only two people had a motive.' Roddy's eyes brightened. 'Two people?' 'Yes. One was Elinor Carlisle.' 'And the other?' Poirot said slowly, 'The other was the writer of that anonymous letter.' 147
Roddy looked incredulous. Poirot said, 'Somebody wrote that letter - somebody who hated Mary Gerrard or at least disliked her - somebody who was, as they say, ‘on your side.' Somebody, that is, who did not want Mary Gerrard to benefit at Mrs. Welman's death. Now, have you any idea, Mr. Welman, who the writer of that letter could be?' Roddy shook his head. 'I've no idea at all. It was an illiterate letter, misspelled, cheap-looking.' Poirot waved a hand. 'There is nothing much to that! It might easily have been written by an educated person who chose to disguise the fact. That is why I wish you had the letter still. People who try to write in an uneducated manner usually give themselves away.' Roddy said doubtfully, 'Elinor and I thought it might be one of the servants.' 'Had you any idea which of them?' 'No - no idea whatsoever.' 'Could it, do you think, have been Mrs. Bishop, the housekeeper?' Roddy looked shocked. 'Oh, no, she's a most respectable, high-andmighty creature. Writes beautifully involved and ornate letters with long words in them. Besides, I'm sure she would never -' As he hesitated, Poirot cut in, 'She did not like Mary Gerrard!' 'I suppose she didn't. I never noticed anything, though.' 'But perhaps, Mr. Welman, you do not notice very much?'
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Roddy said slowly, 'You don't think, Poirot, that my aunt could have taken that morphine herself?' Poirot said, 'It is an idea, yes.' Roddy said, 'She hated her - her helplessness, you know. Often said she wished she could die.' Poirot said, 'But, then, she could not have risen from her bed, gone downstairs, and helped herself to the tube of morphine from the nurse's case.' Roddy said slowly, 'No, but somebody could have got it for her.' 'Who?' 'Well, one of the nurses.' 'No, neither of the nurses. They would understand the danger to themselves far too well! The nurses are the last people to suspect.' 'Then - somebody else -' He started, opened his mouth, shut it again. Poirot said quietly, 'You have remembered something, have you not?' Roddy said doubtfully, 'Yes - but -' 'You wonder if you ought to tell me?' 'Well, yes.' Poirot said, a curious smile tilting the corners of his mouth, 'When did Miss Carlisle say it?' 149
Roddy drew a deep breath. 'By Jove, you are a wizard! It was in the train coming down. We'd had the telegram, you know, saying Aunt Laura had had another stroke. Elinor said how terribly sorry she was for her, how the poor dear hated being ill, and that now she would be more helpless still and that it would be absolute hell for her. Elinor said, ‘One does feel that people ought to be set free if they themselves really want it.' ' 'And you said - what?' 'I agreed.' Poirot spoke very gravely, 'Just now, Mr. Welman, you scouted the possibility of Miss Carlisle having killed your aunt for monetary gain. Do you also scout the possibility that she may have killed Mrs. Welman out of compassion?' Roddy said, 'I - I - no, I can't.' Hercule Poirot bowed his head. He said, 'Yes, I thought - I was sure - that you would say that.'
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Chapter 14 In the offices of Messrs. Seddon, Blatherwick & Seddon, Hercule Poirot was received with extreme caution, not to say distrust. Mr. Seddon, a forefinger stroking his closely shaven chin, was noncommittal and his shrewd grey eyes appraised the detective thoughtfully. 'Your name is familiar to me, Monsieur Poirot, of course. But I am at a loss to understand your position in this case.' Hercule Poirot said, 'I am acting, Monsieur, in the interests of your client.' 'Ah - indeed? And who - er - engaged you in that capacity?' 'I am here at the request of Dr. Lord.' Mr. Seddon's eyebrows rose very high. 'Indeed! That seems to me very irregular - very irregular. Dr. Lord, I understand, has been subpoenaed as a witness for the prosecution.' Hercule Poirot shrugged his shoulders. 'Does that matter?' Mr. Seddon said, 'The arrangements for Miss Carlisle's defence are entirely in our hands. I really do not think we need any outside assistance in this case.' Poirot asked, 'Is that because your client's innocence will be so easily proved?' Mr. Seddon winced. Then he became wrathful in a dry legal fashion. 'That,' he said, 'is a most improper question. Most improper.' Hercule Poirot said, 'The case against your client is a very strong one.' 'I really fail to see, Poirot, how you know anything about it.' 151
Poirot said, 'Although I am actually retained by Dr. Lord, I have here a note from Mr. Roderick Welman.' He handed it over with a bow. Mr. Seddon perused the few lines it contained and remarked grudgingly, 'That, of course, throws a new complexion on the matter. Mr. Welman has made himself responsible for Miss Carlisle's defence. We are acting at his request.' He added with visible distaste, 'Our firm does very little in er - criminal procedure, but I felt it my duty to my - er - late client - to undertake the defence of her niece. I may say we have already briefed Sir Edwin Bulmer, K.C.' Poirot said, and his smile was suddenly ironic, 'No expense will be spared. Very right and proper!' Looking over his glasses, Mr. Seddon said, 'Really, Monsieur Poirot -' Poirot cut into his protest. 'Eloquence and emotional appeal will not save your client. It will need more than that.' Mr. Seddon said dryly, 'What do you advise?' 'There is always the truth.' 'Quite so.' 'But in this case will truth help us?' Mr. Seddon said sharply, 'That, again, is a most improper remark.' Poirot said, 'There are certain questions to which I should like answers.' Mr. Seddon said cautiously, 'I cannot, of course, guarantee to answer without the consent of my client.' 152
'Naturally I understand that.' He paused and then said, 'Has Elinor Carlisle any enemies?' Mr. Seddon showed a faint surprise. 'As far as I know, none.' 'Did the late Mrs. Welman, at any period of her life, make a will?' 'Never. She always put it off.' 'Has Elinor Carlisle made a will?' 'Yes.' 'Recently? Since her aunt's death?' 'Yes.' 'To whom has she left her property?' 'That, Poirot, is confidential. I cannot tell you without authorization from my client.' Poirot said, 'Then I shall have to interview your client!' Mr. Seddon said with a cold smile, 'That, I fear, will not be easy.' Poirot rose and made a gesture. 'Everything,' he said, 'is easy to Hercule Poirot.'
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Chapter 15 Chief Inspector Marsden was affable. 'Well, Monsieur Poirot,' he said. 'Come to set me right about one of my cases?' Poirot murmured deprecatingly, 'No, no. A little curiosity on my part, that is all.' 'Only too happy to satisfy it. Which case is it?' 'Elinor Carlisle.' 'Oh, yes, girl who poisoned Mary Gerrard. Coming up for trial in two weeks' time. Interesting case. She did in the old woman too, by the way. Final report isn't in yet, but it seems there's no doubt of it. Morphia. Cold-blooded bit of goods. Never turned a hair at the time of her arrest or after. Giving nothing away. But we've got the goods on her all right. She's for it.' 'You think she did it?' Marsden, an experienced, kindly looking man, nodded his head affirmatively. 'Not a doubt of it. Put the stuff in the top sandwich. She's a cool customer.' 'You have no doubts? No doubts at all?' 'Oh, no. I'm quite sure. It's a pleasant feeling when you are sure! We don't like making mistakes any more than anyone else would. We're not just out to get a conviction, as some people think. This time I can go ahead with a clear conscience.' Poirot said slowly, 'I see.' The Scotland Yard man looked at him curiously. 'Is there anything on the other side?' 155
Slowly Poirot shook his head. 'As yet, no. So far everything I have found out about the case points to Elinor Carlisle's being guilty.' Inspector Marsden said with cheerful certainty, 'She's guilty, all right.' Poirot said, 'I should like to see her.' Inspector Marsden smiled indulgently. He said, 'Got the present Home Secretary in your pocket, haven't you? That will be easy enough.'
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Chapter 16 Peter Lord said, 'Well?' Hercule Poirot said, 'No, it is not very well.' Peter Lord said heavily, 'You haven't got hold of anything?' Poirot said slowly, 'Elinor Carlisle killed Mary Gerrard out of jealousy Elinor Carlisle killed her aunt so as to inherit her money - Elinor Carlisle killed her aunt out of compassion. My friend, you may make your choice!' Peter Lord said, 'You're talking nonsense!' Hercule Poirot said, 'Am I?' Lord's freckled face looked angry. He said, 'What is all this?' Hercule Poirot said, 'Do you think it is possible, that?' 'Do I think what is possible?' 'That Elinor Carlisle was unable to bear the sight of her aunt's misery and helped her out of existence?' 'Nonsense!' 'Is it nonsense? You have told me yourself that the old lady asked you to help her.' 'She didn't mean it seriously. She knew I wouldn't do anything of the sort.' 'Still, the idea was in her mind. Elinor Carlisle might have helped her.' 157
Peter Lord strolled up and down. He said at last, 'One can't deny that that sort of thing is possible. But Elinor Carlisle is a level-headed, clearthinking kind of young woman. I don't think she'd be so carried away by pity as to lose sight of the risk. And she'd realize exactly what the risk was. She'd be liable to stand accused of murder.' 'So you don't think she would do it?' Peter Lord said slowly, 'I think a woman might do such a thing for her husband, or for her child, or for her mother, perhaps. I don't think she'd do it for an aunt, though she might be fond of that aunt. And I think in any case she'd only do it if the person in question was actually suffering unbearable pain.' Poirot said thoughtfully, 'Perhaps you are right.' Then he added, 'Do you think Roderick Welman's feelings could have been sufficiently worked upon to induce him to do such a thing?' Peter Lord replied scornfully, 'He wouldn't have the guts!' Poirot murmured, 'I wonder. In some ways, mon cher, you underestimate that young man.' 'Oh, he's clever and intellectual and all that, I dare say.' 'Exactly,' said Poirot. 'And he has charm, too. Yes, I felt that.' 'Did you? I never have!' Then Peter Lord said earnestly, 'Look here, Poirot, isn't there anything?' Poirot said, 'They are not fortunate so far, my investigations! They lead always back to the same place. No one stood to gain by Mary Gerrard's death. No one hated Mary Gerrard - except Elinor Carlisle. There is only 158
one question that we might perhaps ask ourselves. We might say, perhaps, Did anyone hate Elinor Carlisle? ' Slowly Dr. Lord shook his head. 'Not that I know of. .. You mean - that someone might have framed her for the crime?' Poirot nodded. He said, 'It is a very far-fetched speculation, that, and there is nothing to support it - except, perhaps, the very completeness of the case against her.' He told the other of the anonymous letter. 'You see,' he said, 'that makes it possible to outline a very strong case against her. She was warned that she might be completely cut out of her aunt's will - that this girl, a stranger, might get all the money. So, when her aunt in her halting speech was asking for a lawyer, Elinor took no chances, and saw to it that the old lady should die that night!' Peter Lord cried, 'What about Roderick Welman? He stood to lose, too!' Poirot shook his head. 'No, it was to his advantage that the old lady should make a will. If she died intestate, he got nothing, remember. Elinor was the next of kin.' Lord said, 'But he was going to marry Elinor!' Poirot said, 'True. But remember that immediately afterward the engagement was broken off - that he showed her clearly that he wished to be released from it.' Peter Lord groaned and held his head. He said, 'It comes back to her, then. Every time!' 'Yes. Unless -' He was silent for a minute. Then he said, 'There is something -' 159
'Yes?' 'Something - some little piece of the puzzle that is missing. It is something - of that I am certain - that concerns Mary Gerrard. My friend, you hear a certain amount of gossip, of scandal, down here. Have you ever heard anything against her?' 'Against Mary Gerrard? Her character, you mean?' 'Anything. Some bygone story about her. Some indiscretion on her part. A hint of scandal. A doubt of her honesty. A malicious rumour concerning her. Anything - anything at all - but something that definitely is damaging to her.' Peter Lord said slowly, 'I hope you're not going to suggest that line. Trying to rake up things about a harmless young woman who's dead and can't defend herself. And, anyway, I don't believe you can do it!' 'She was like the female Sir Galahad - a blameless life?' 'As far as I know, she was. I never heard anything else.' Poirot said gently, 'You must not think, my friend, that I would stir the mud where no mud is. No, no, it is not like that at all. But the good Nurse Hopkins is not adept at hiding her feelings. She was fond of Mary, and there is something about Mary she does not want known; that is to say, there is something against Mary that she is afraid I will find out. She does not think that it has any bearing on the crime. But, then, she is convinced that the crime was committed by Elinor Carlisle, and clearly this fact, whatever it is, has nothing to do with Elinor. But, you see, my friend, it is imperative that I should know everything. For it may be that there is a wrong done by Mary to some third person, and in that case, that third person might have a motive for desiring her death.' Peter Lord said, 'But surely, in that case, Nurse Hopkins would realize that, too.' 160
Poirot said, 'Nurse Hopkins is quite an intelligent woman within her limitations, but her intellect is hardly the equal of mine. She might not see, but Hercule Poirot would!' Peter Lord said, shaking his head, 'I'm sorry. I don't know anything.' Poirot said thoughtfully, 'No more does Ted Bigland - and he has lived here all his life and Mary's. No more does Mrs. Bishop, for if she knew anything unpleasant about the girl, she would not have been able to keep it to herself! Eh bien, there is one more hope.' 'Yes?' 'I am seeing the other nurse, Nurse O'Brien, today.' Peter Lord said, shaking his head, 'She doesn't know much about this part of the world. She was only here for a month or two.' Poirot said, 'I am aware of that. But, my friend, Nurse Hopkins, we have been told, has the long tongue. She has not gossiped in the village, where such talk might have done Mary Gerrard harm. But I doubt if she could refrain from giving at least a hint about something that was occupying her mind to a stranger and a colleague! Nurse O'Brien may know something.'
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Chapter 17 Nurse O'Brien tossed her red head and smiled widely across the tea-table at the little man opposite her. She thought to herself, It's the funny little fellow he is - and his eyes green like any cat's, and with all that Dr. Lord saying he's the clever one!
Hercule Poirot said, 'It is a pleasure to meet someone so full of health and vitality. Your patients, I am sure, must all recover.' Nurse O'Brien said, 'I'm not one for pulling a long face, and not many of my patients die on me, I'm thankful to say.' Poirot said, 'Of course, in Mrs. Welman's case, it was a merciful release.' 'Ah! it was that, the poor dear.' Her eyes were shrewd as she looked at Poirot and asked, 'Is it about that you want to talk to me? I was after hearing that they're digging her up.' Poirot said, 'You yourself had no suspicion at the time?' 'Not the least in the world, though indeed I might have had, with the face Dr. Lord had on him that morning, and him sending me here, there, and everywhere for things he didn't need! But he signed the certificate, for all that.' Poirot began, 'He had his reasons -' but she took the words out of his mouth. 'Indeed and he was right. It does a doctor no good to think things and offend the family, and then if he's wrong it's the end of him, and no one would be wishing to call him in any more. A doctor's got to be sure! ' Poirot said, 'There is a suggestion that Mrs. Welman might have committed suicide.' 163
'She? And her lying there helpless? Just lift one hand, that was all she could do!' 'Someone might have helped her?' 'Ah! I see now what you're meaning. Miss Carlisle, or Mr. Welman, or maybe Mary Gerrard?' 'It would be possible, would it not?' Nurse O'Brien shook her head. She said, 'They'd not dare - any of them!' Poirot said slowly, 'Perhaps not.' Then he said, 'When was it Nurse Hopkins missed the tube of morphine?' 'It was that very morning. ‘I'm sure I had it here,' she said. Very sure she was at first, but you know how it is; after a while your mind gets confused, and in the end she made sure she'd left it at home.' Poirot murmured, 'And even then you had no suspicion?' 'Not the least in the world! Sure, it never entered my head for a moment that things weren't as they should be. And even now 'tis only a suspicion they have.' 'The thought of that missing tube never caused either you or Nurse Hopkins an uneasy moment?' 'Well, I wouldn't say that. I do remember that it came into my head - and into Nurse Hopkins's head, too, I believe - in the Blue Tit Café we were at the time. And I saw the thought pass into her mind from mine. ‘It couldn't be any other way than that I left it on the mantelpiece and it fell into the dustbin, could it?' she says. And ‘No, indeed, that was the way of 164
it,' I said to her, and neither of us saying what was in our minds and the fear that was on us.' Hercule Poirot asked, 'And what do you think now?' Nurse O'Brien said, 'If they find morphine in her there'll be little doubt who took the tube, nor what it was used for - though I'll not be believing she sent the old lady the same road till it's proved there's morphine in her.' Poirot said, 'You have no doubt at all that Elinor Carlisle killed Mary Gerrard?' 'There's no question of it at all, in my opinion! Who else had the reason or the wish to do it?' 'That is the question,' said Poirot. Nurse O'Brien went on dramatically: 'Wasn't I there that night when the old lady was trying to speak, and Miss Elinor promising her that everything should be done decently and according to her wishes? And didn't I see her face looking after Mary as she went down the stairs one day, and the black hate that was on it? 'Twas murder she had in her heart that minute.' Poirot said, 'If Elinor Carlisle killed Mrs. Welman, why did she do it?' 'Why? For the money, of course. Two hundred thousand pounds, no less. That's what she got by it, and that's why she did it - if she did it. She's a bold, clever young lady, with no fear in her, and plenty of brains.' Hercule Poirot said, 'If Mrs. Welman had lived to make a will, how do you think she'd have left her money?'
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'Ah, it's not for me to be saying that,' said Nurse O'Brien, betraying, however, every symptom of being about to do so. 'But it's my opinion that every penny the old lady had would have gone to Mary Gerrard.' 'Why?' said Hercule Poirot. The simple monosyllable seemed to upset Nurse O'Brien. 'Why? Is it why you're asking? Well - I'd say that that would be the way of it.' Poirot murmured, 'Some people might say that Mary Gerrard had played her cards very cleverly, that she had managed so to ingratiate herself with the old woman as to make her forget the ties of blood and affection.' 'They might that,' said Nurse O'Brien slowly. Poirot asked, 'Was Mary Gerrard a clever, scheming girl?' Nurse O'Brien said, still rather slowly, 'I'll not think that of her. All she did was natural enough, with no thought of scheming. She wasn't that kind. And there's reasons often for these things that never get made public.' Hercule Poirot said softly, 'You are, I think, a very discreet woman, Nurse O'Brien.' 'I'm not one to be talking of what doesn't concern me.' Watching her very closely, Poirot went on: 'You and Nurse Hopkins, you have agreed together, have you not, that there are some things which are best not brought out into the light of day?' Nurse O'Brien said, 'What would you be meaning by that?'
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Poirot said quickly, 'Nothing to do with the crime - or crimes. I mean the other matter.' Nurse O'Brien said, nodding her head, 'What would be the use of raking up mud and an old story, and she a decent elderly woman with never a breath of scandal about her, and dying respected and looked up to by everybody.' Hercule Poirot nodded in assent. He said cautiously, 'As you say, Mrs. Welman was much respected in Maidensford.' The conversation had taken an unexpected turn, but his face expressed no surprise or puzzlement. Nurse O'Brien went on; 'It's so long ago, too. All dead and forgotten. I've a soft heart for a romance myself, and I do say and I always have said that it's hard for a man who's got a wife in an asylum to be tied all his life with nothing but death that can free him.' Poirot murmured, still in bewilderment, 'Yes, it is hard.' Nurse O'Brien said, 'Did Nurse Hopkins tell you how her letter crossed mine?' Poirot said truthfully, 'She did not tell me that.' 'Twas an odd coincidence. But there, that's always the way of it! Once you hear a name, maybe, and a day or two later you'll come across it again, and so on and so on. That I should be seeing the self-same photograph on the piano and at the same minute Nurse Hopkins was hearing all about it from the doctor's housekeeper.' 'That,' said Poirot, 'is very interesting.' He murmured tentatively, 'Did Mary Gerrard know - about this?' 167
'Who'd be telling her?' said Nurse O'Brien. 'Not I - and not Hopkins. After all, what good would it be to her?' She flung up her red head and gazed at him steadily. Poirot said with a sigh, 'What, indeed?'
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Chapter 18 Elinor Carlisle. Across the width of the table that separated them Poirot looked at her searchingly. They were alone together. Through a glass wall a warder watched them. Poirot noted the sensitive, intelligent face with the square, white forehead, and the delicate modelling of the ears and nose. Fine lines; a proud, sensitive creature, showing breeding, self-restraint and something else - a capacity for passion. He said, 'I am Hercule Poirot. I have been sent to you by Dr. Peter Lord. He thinks that I can help you.' Elinor Carlisle said, 'Peter Lord. ..' Her tone was reminiscent. For a moment she smiled a little wistfully. She went on formally: 'It was kind of him, but I do not think there is anything you can do.' Hercule Poirot said, 'Will you answer my questions?' She sighed. She said, 'Believe me - really - it would be better not to ask them. I am in good hands. Mr. Seddon has been most kind. I am to have a very famous counsel.' Poirot said, 'He is not so famous as I am!' Elinor Carlisle said with a touch of weariness, 'He has a great reputation.' 'Yes, for defending criminals. I have a great reputation - for demonstrating innocence.' She lifted her eyes at last - eyes of a vivid, beautiful blue. They looked straight into Poirot's. She said, 'Do you believe I am innocent?' 169
Hercule Poirot said, 'Are you?' Elinor smiled, an ironic little smile. She said, 'Is that a sample of your questions? It is very easy, isn't it, to answer Yes?' He said unexpectedly, 'You are very tired, are you not?' Her eyes widened a little. She answered, 'Why, yes - that more than anything. How did you know?' Hercule Poirot said, 'I knew.' Elinor said, 'I shall be glad when it is - over.' Poirot looked at her for a minute in silence. Then he said, 'I have seen your - cousin, shall I call him for convenience? - Mr. Roderick Welman.' Into the white, proud face the colour crept slowly. He knew then that one question of his was answered without his asking it. She said, and her voice shook very slightly, 'You've seen Roddy?' Poirot said, 'He is doing all he can for you.' 'I know.' Her voice was quick and soft. Poirot said, 'Is he poor or rich?' 'Roddy? He has not very much money of his own.' 'And he is extravagant?' She said, almost absently, 'Neither of us ever thought it mattered. We knew that some day -' She stopped. 170
Poirot said quickly, 'You counted on your inheritance? That is understandable.' He went on: 'You have heard, perhaps, the result of the autopsy on your aunt's body. She died of morphine poisoning.' Elinor Carlisle said coldly, 'I did not kill her.' 'Did you help her to kill herself?' 'Did I help - ? Oh, I see. No, I did not.' 'Did you know that your aunt had not made a will?' 'No, I had no idea of that.' Her voice was flat now - dull. The answer was mechanical, uninterested. Poirot said, 'And you yourself, have you made a will?' 'Yes.' 'Did you make it the day Dr. Lord spoke to you about it?' 'Yes.' Again that swift wave of colour. Poirot said, 'How have you left your fortune, Miss Carlisle?' Elinor said quietly, 'I have left everything to Roddy - to Roderick Welman.' Poirot said, 'Does he know that?' She said quickly, 'Certainly not.' 'You didn't discuss it with him?' 171
'Of course not. He would have been horribly embarrassed and would have disliked what I was doing very much.' 'Who else knows the contents of your will?' 'Only Mr. Seddon - and his clerks, I suppose.' 'Did Mr. Seddon draw up the will for you?' 'Yes. I wrote to him that same evening - I mean the evening of the day Dr. Lord spoke to me about it.' 'Did you post your letter yourself?' 'No. It went in the box from the house with the other letters.' 'You wrote it, put it in an envelope, sealed it, stamped it, and put it in the box - comme ça? You did not pause to reflect? To read it over?' Elinor said, staring at him, 'I read it over - yes, I had gone to look for some stamps. When I came back with them, I just re-read the letter to be sure I had put it clearly.' 'Was anyone in the room with you?' 'Only Roddy.' 'Did he know what you were doing?' 'I told you - no.' 'Could anyone have read that letter when you were out of the room?' 'I don't know. One of the servants, you mean? I suppose they could have if they had chanced to come in while I was out of the room.' 172
'And before Mr. Roderick Welman entered it?' 'Yes.' Poirot said, 'And he could have read it, too?' Elinor's voice was clear and scornful. She said, 'I can assure you, Monsieur Poirot, that my ‘cousin,' as you call him, does not read other people's letters.' Poirot said, 'That is the accepted idea, I know. You would be surprised how many people do the things that ‘are not done.' Elinor shrugged her shoulders. Poirot said in a casual voice, 'Was it on that day that the idea of killing Mary Gerrard first came to you?' For the third time colour swept over Elinor Carlisle's face. This time it was a burning tide. She said, 'Did Peter Lord tell you that?' Poirot said gently, 'It was then, wasn't it? When you looked through the window and saw her making her will. It was then, was it not, that it struck you how funny it would be - and how convenient - if Mary Gerrard should happen to die?' Elinor said in a low, suffocated voice, 'He knew - he looked at me and he knew -' Poirot said, 'Dr. Lord knows a good deal. He is no fool, that young man with the freckled face and the sandy hair.' Elinor said in a low voice, 'Is it true that he sent you to - help me?' 'It is true, Mademoiselle.' 173
She sighed and said, 'I don't understand. No, I don't understand.' Poirot said, 'Listen, Miss Carlisle. It is necessary that you tell me just what happened that day when Mary Gerrard died - where you went, what you did. More than that, I want to know even what you thought.' She stared at him. Then slowly a queer little smile came to her lips. She said, 'You must be an incredibly simple man. Don't you realize how easy it is for me to lie to you?' Hercule Poirot said placidly, 'It does not matter.' She was puzzled. 'Not matter?' 'No. For lies, Mademoiselle, tell a listener just as much as truth can. Sometimes they tell more. Come, now, commence. You met your housekeeper, the good Mrs. Bishop. She wanted to come and help you. You would not let her. Why?' 'I wanted to be alone.' 'Why?' 'Why? Why? Because I wanted to - to think.' 'You wanted to imagine - yes. And then what did you do next?' Elinor, her chin raised defiantly, said, 'I bought some paste for sandwiches.' 'Two pots?' 'Two.' 'And you went to Hunterbury. What did you do there?' 174
'I went up to my aunt's room and began to go through her things.' 'What did you find?' 'Find?' She frowned. 'Clothes - old letters - photographs - jewellery.' Poirot said, 'No secrets?' 'Secrets? I don't understand you.' 'Then let us proceed. What next?' Elinor said, 'I came down to the pantry and I cut sandwiches.' Poirot said softly, 'And you thought - what?' Her blue eyes flashed suddenly. She said, 'I thought of my namesake, Eleanor of Aquitaine.' Poirot said, 'I understand perfectly.' 'Do you?' 'Oh, yes. I know the story. She offered Fair Rosamond, did she not, the choice of a dagger or a cup of poison. Rosamond chose the poison.' Elinor said nothing. She was white now. Poirot said, 'But perhaps, this time, there was to be no choice. Go on, Mademoiselle, what next?' Elinor said, 'I put the sandwiches ready on a plate and I went down to the lodge. Nurse Hopkins was there as well as Mary. I told them I had some sandwiches up at the house.'
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Poirot was watching her. He said softly, 'Yes, and you all came up to the house together, did you not?' 'Yes. We - ate the sandwiches in the morning-room.' Poirot said in the same soft tone, 'Yes, yes - still in the dream. And then ' 'Then?' She stared. 'I left her - standing by the window. I went out into the pantry. It was still like you say - in a dream. Nurse was there washing up. I gave her the paste-pot.' 'Yes - yes. And what happened then? What did you think of next?' Elinor said dreamily, 'There was a mark on Nurse's wrist. I mentioned it and she said it was a thorn from the rose trellis by the lodge. The roses by the lodge. .. Roddy and I had a quarrel once - long ago - about the Wars of the Roses. I was Lancaster and he was York. He liked white roses. I said they weren't real - they didn't even smell! I liked red roses, big and dark and velvety and smelling of summer. We quarrelled in the most idiotic way. You see, it all came back to me - there in the pantry - and something - something broke - the black hate I'd had in my heart - it went away with remembering how we were together as children. I didn't hate Mary any more. I didn't want her to die.' She stopped. 'But later, when we went back into the morning-room, she was dying.' She stopped. Poirot was staring at her very intently. She flushed and said, 'Will you ask me - again - did I kill Mary Gerrard?' Poirot rose to his feet. He said quickly, 'I shall ask you - nothing. There are things I do not want to know.'
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Chapter 19 Dr. Lord met the train at the station as requested. Hercule Poirot alighted from it. He looked very Londonified and was wearing pointed patent-leather shoes. Peter Lord scrutinized his face anxiously, but Hercule Poirot was giving nothing away. Peter Lord said, 'I've done my best to get answers to your questions. First, Mary Gerrard left here for London on July 10th. Second, I haven't got a housekeeper - a couple of giggling girls run my house. I think you must mean Mrs. Slattery, who was Ransome's (my predecessor's) housekeeper. I can take you to her this morning if you like. I've arranged that she shall be in.' Poirot said, 'Yes, I think it would be as well if I saw her first.' 'Then you said you wanted to go to Hunterbury. I could come with you there. It beats me why you haven't been there already. I can't think why you wouldn't go when you were down here before. I should have thought the first thing to be done in a case like this was to visit the place where the crime took place.' Holding his head a little on one side, Hercule Poirot inquired, 'Why?' 'Why?' Peter Lord was rather disconcerted by the question. 'Isn't it the usual thing to do?' Hercule Poirot said, 'One does not practice detection with a textbook! One uses one's natural intelligence.' Peter Lord said, 'You might find a clue of some sort there.' Poirot sighed. 'You read too much detective fiction. Your police force in this country is quite admirable. I have no doubt that they searched the house and grounds most carefully.' 177
'For evidence against Elinor Carlisle - not for evidence in her favour.' Poirot sighed. 'My dear friend, it is not a monster - this police force! Elinor Carlisle was arrested because sufficient evidence was found to make out a case against her - a very strong case, I may say. It was useless for me to go over ground when the police had gone over it already.' 'But you do want to go there now?' objected Peter. Hercule Poirot nodded his head. He said, 'Yes - now it is necessary. Because now I know exactly what I am looking for. One must understand with the cells of one's brain before one uses one's eyes.' 'Then you do think there might be - something - there still?' Poirot said gently, 'I have a little idea we shall find something - yes.' 'Something to prove Elinor's innocence?' 'Ah, I did not say that.' Peter Lord stopped dead. 'You don't mean you still think she's guilty?' Poirot said gravely, 'You must wait, my friend, before you get an answer to that question.' II Poirot lunched with the doctor in a pleasant square room with a window open on to the garden. Lord said, 'Did you get what you wanted out of old Slattery?' 'Yes.' 'What did you want with her?' 178
'Gossip! Talk about old days. Some crimes have their roots in the past. I think this one had.' Peter Lord said irritably, 'I don't understand a word you are talking about.' Poirot smiled. He said, 'This fish is deliciously fresh.' Lord said impatiently, 'I dare say. I caught it myself before breakfast this morning. Look here, Poirot, am I to have any idea what you're driving at? Why keep me in the dark?' The other shook his head. 'Because as yet there is no light. I am always brought up short by the fact that there was no one who had any reason to kill Mary Gerrard - except Elinor Carlisle.' Peter Lord said, 'You can't be sure of that. She'd been abroad for some time, remember.' 'Yes, yes, I have made the inquiries.' 'You've been to Germany yourself?' 'Myself, no.' With a slight chuckle he added, 'I have my spies!' 'Can you depend on other people?' 'Certainly. It is not for me to run here and there, doing amateurishly the things that for a small sum someone else can do with professional skill. I can assure you, mon cher, I have several irons on the fire. I have some useful assistants - one of them a former burglar.' 'What do you use him for?' 'The last thing I have used him for was a very thorough search of Mr. Welman's flat.' 179
'What was he looking for?' Poirot said, 'One always likes to know exactly what lies have been told one.' 'Did Welman tell you a lie?' 'Definitely.' 'Who else has lied to you?' 'Everybody, I think: Nurse O'Brien romantically; Nurse Hopkins stubbornly; Mrs. Bishop venomously. You yourself -' 'Good God!' Peter Lord interrupted him unceremoniously. 'You don't think I've lied to you, do you?' 'Not yet,' Poirot admitted. Dr. Lord sank back in his chair. He said, 'You're a disbelieving sort of fellow, Poirot.' Then he said, 'If you've finished, shall we set off for Hunterbury? I've got some patients to see later, and then there's the surgery.' 'I am at your disposal, my friend.' They set off on foot, entering the grounds by the back gate. Halfway to the house they met a tall, good-looking young fellow wheeling a barrow. He touched his cap respectfully to Dr. Lord. 'Good morning, Horlick. This is Horlick, the gardener, Poirot. He was working here that morning,' Horlick said, 'Yes, sir, I was. I saw Miss Elinor that morning and talked to her.' 180
Poirot asked, 'What did she say to you?' 'She told me the house was as good as sold, and that rather took me aback, sir; but Miss Elinor said as how she'd speak for me to Major Somervell, and that maybe he'd keep me on - if he didn't think me too young, perhaps, as head - seeing as how I'd had good training under Mr. Stephens, here.' Dr. Lord said, 'Did she seem much the same as usual, Horlick?' 'Why, yes, sir, except that she looked a bit excited like - and as though she had something on her mind.' Hercule Poirot said, 'Did you know Mary Gerrard?' 'Oh, yes, sir. But not very well.' Poirot said, 'What was she like?' Horlick looked puzzled. 'Like, sir? Do you mean to look at?' 'Not exactly. I mean, what kind of a girl was she?' 'Oh, well, sir, she was a very superior sort of a girl. Nice spoken and all that. Thought a lot of herself, I should say. You see, old Mrs. Welman had made a lot of fuss over her. Made her father wild, that did. He was like a bear with a sore head about it.' Poirot said, 'By all that I've heard, he had not the best of tempers, that old one?' 'No, indeed, he hadn't. Always grumbling, and crusty as they make them. Seldom had a civil word for you.' Poirot said, 'You were here on that morning. Whereabouts were you working?' 181
'Mostly in the kitchen garden, sir.' 'You cannot see the house from there?' 'No, sir.' Peter Lord said, 'If anybody had come up to the house - up to the pantry window - you wouldn't have seen them?' 'No, I wouldn't, sir.' Peter Lord said, 'When did you go to your dinner?' 'One o'clock, sir.' 'And you didn't see anything - any man hanging about - or a car outside anything like that?' The man's eyebrows rose in slight surprise. 'Outside the back gate, sir? There was your car there - nobody else's.' Peter Lord cried, 'My car? It wasn't my car! I was over Withenbury direction that morning. Didn't get back till after two.' Horlick looked puzzled. 'I made sure it was your car, sir,' he said doubtfully. Peter Lord said quickly, 'Oh, well, it doesn't matter. Good morning, Horlick.' He and Poirot moved on. Horlick stared after them for a minute or two, then slowly resumed his progress with the wheelbarrow. Peter Lord said softly - but with great excitement, 'Something - at last. Whose car was it standing in the lane that morning?' 182
Poirot said, 'What make is your car, my friend?' 'A Ford ten - sea-green. They're pretty common, of course.' 'And you are sure that it was not yours? You haven't mistaken the day?' 'Absolutely certain. I was over at Withenbury, came back late, snatched a bit of lunch, and then the call came through about Mary Gerrard and I rushed over.' Poirot said softly, 'Then it would seem, my friend, that we have come upon something tangible at last.' Peter Lord said, 'Someone was here that morning - someone who was not Elinor Carlisle, nor Mary Gerrard, nor Nurse Hopkins.' Poirot said, 'This is very interesting. Come, let us make our investigations. Let us see, for instance, supposing a man (or woman) were to wish to approach the house unseen, how they would set about it.' Halfway along the drive a path branched off through some shrubbery. They took this and at a certain turn in it Peter Lord clutched Poirot's arm, pointing to a window. He said, 'That's the window of the pantry where Elinor Carlisle was cutting the sandwiches.' Poirot murmured, 'And from here, anyone could see her cutting them. The window was open, if I remember rightly?' Peter Lord said, 'It was wide open. It was a hot day, remember.' Hercule Poirot said musingly, 'Then if anyone wished to watch unseen what was going on, somewhere about here would be a good spot.' 183
The two men cast about. Peter Lord said, 'There's a place here - behind these bushes. Some stuff's been trampled down here. It's grown up again now, but you can see plainly enough.' Poirot joined him. He said thoughtfully, 'Yes, this is a good place. It is concealed from the path, and that opening in the shrubs gives one a good view of the window. Now, what did he do, our friend who stood here? Did he perhaps smoke?' They bent down, examining the ground and pushing aside the leaves and branches. Suddenly Hercule Poirot uttered a grunt. Peter Lord straightened up from his own search. 'What is it?' 'A match box, my friend. An empty match box, trodden heavily into the ground, sodden and decayed.' With care and delicacy he salvaged the object. He displayed it at last on a sheet of notepaper taken from his pocket. Peter Lord said, 'It's foreign. My God! German matches! ' Hercule Poirot said, 'And Mary Gerrard had recently come from Germany!' Peter Lord said exultingly, 'We've got something now! You can't deny it.' Hercule Poirot said slowly, 'Perhaps.' 'But, damn it all, man. Who on earth round here would have had foreign matches?' Hercule Poirot said, 'I know - I know.'
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His eyes, perplexed eyes, went to the gap in the bushes and the view of the window. He said, 'It is not quite so simple as you think. There is one great difficulty. Do you not see it yourself?' 'What? Tell me.' Poirot sighed. 'If you do not see for yourself - But come, let us go on.' They went on to the house. Peter Lord unlocked the back door with a key. He led the way through the scullery to the kitchen, through that, along a passage where there was a cloakroom on one side and the butler's pantry on the other. The two men looked round the pantry. It had the usual cupboards with sliding glass doors for glass and china. There was a gas ring and two kettles and canisters marked Tea and Coffee on a shelf above. There was a sink and draining-board and a washing-up bowl. In front of the window was a table. Peter Lord said, 'It was on this table that Elinor Carlisle cut the sandwiches. The fragment of the morphine label was found in this crack in the floor under the sink.' Poirot said thoughtfully, 'The police are careful searchers. They do not miss much.' Peter Lord said violently, 'There's no evidence that Elinor ever handled that tube! I tell you, someone was watching her from the shrubbery outside. She went down to the lodge and he saw his chance and slipped in, uncorked the tube, crushed some tablets of morphine to powder, and put them into the top sandwich. He never noticed that he'd torn a bit off the label of the tube, and that it had fluttered down the crack. He hurried away, started up his car, and went off again.'
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Poirot sighed. 'And still you do not see! It is extraordinary how dense an intelligent man can be.' Peter Lord demanded angrily, 'Do you mean to say that you don't believe someone stood in those bushes watching this window?' Poirot said, 'Yes, I believe that.' 'Then we've got to find whoever it was!' Poirot murmured, 'We shall not have to look far, I fancy.' 'Do you mean you know?' 'I have a very shrewd idea.' Peter Lord said slowly, 'Then your minions who made inquiries in Germany did bring you something.' Hercule Poirot said, tapping his forehead, 'My friend, it is all here, in my head. Come, let us look over the house.' III They stood at last in the room where Mary Gerrard had died. The house had a strange atmosphere in it; it seemed alive with memories and forebodings. Peter Lord flung up one of the windows. He said with a slight shiver, 'This place feels like a tomb.' Poirot said, 'If walls could speak. It is all here, is it not, here in the house the beginning of the whole story.' He paused and then said softly, 'It was in this room that Mary Gerrard died?' 186
Peter Lord said, 'They found her sitting in that chair by the window.' Hercule Poirot said thoughtfully, 'A young girl - beautiful - romantic. Did she scheme and intrigue? Was she a superior person who gave herself airs? Was she gentle and sweet, with no thought of intrigue - just a young thing beginning life - a girl like a flower?' 'Whatever she was,' said Peter Lord, 'someone wished her dead.' Hercule Poirot murmured, 'I wonder -' Lord stared at him. 'What do you mean?' Poirot shook his head. 'Not yet.' He turned about. 'We have been all through the house. We have seen all that there is to be seen here. Let us go down to the lodge.' Here again all was in order, the rooms dusty, but neat and emptied of personal possessions. The two men stayed only a few minutes. As they came out into the sun, Poirot touched the leaves of a pillar rose growing up a trellis. It was pink and sweet-scented. He murmured, 'Do you know the name of this rose? It is Zephyrine Droughin, my friend.' Peter Lord said irritably, 'What of it?' Hercule Poirot said, 'When I saw Elinor Carlisle, she spoke to me of roses. It was then that I began to see - not daylight, but the little glimpse of light that one gets in a train when one is about to come out of a tunnel. It is not so much daylight, but the promise of daylight.' Peter Lord said harshly, 'What did she tell you?'
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'She told me of her childhood, of playing here in this garden, and of how she and Roderick Welman were on different sides. They were enemies, for he preferred the white rose of York - cold and austere - and she, so she told me, loved red roses, the red rose of Lancaster. Red roses that have scent and color and passion and warmth. And that, my friend, is the difference between Elinor Carlisle and Roderick Welman.' Peter Lord said, 'Does that explain - anything?' Poirot said, 'It explains Elinor Carlisle - who is passionate and proud and who loved desperately a man who was incapable of loving her.' Peter Lord said, 'I don't understand you.' Poirot said, 'But I understand her. I understand both of them. Now, my friend, we will go back once more to that little clearing in the shrubbery.' They went there in silence. Peter Lord's freckled face was troubled and angry. When they came to the spot, Poirot stood motionless for sometime, and Peter Lord watched him. Then suddenly the little detective gave a vexed sigh. He said, 'It is so simple, really. Do you not see, my friend, the fatal fallacy in your reasoning? According to your theory, someone, a man, presumably, who had known Mary Gerrard in Germany came here intent on killing her. But look, my friend, look! Use the two eyes of your body, since the eyes of the mind do not seem to serve you. What do you see from here? A window, is it not? And at that window - a girl. A girl cutting sandwiches. That is to say, Elinor Carlisle. But think for a minute of this: What on earth was to tell the watching man that those sandwiches were going to be offered to Mary Gerrard? No one knew that but Elinor Carlisle herself - nobody! Not even Mary Gerrard, nor Nurse Hopkins.' 'So what follows - if a man stood here watching, and if he afterward went to that window and climbed in and tampered with the sandwiches? 188
What did he think and believe? He thought, he must have thought, that the sandwiches were to be eaten by Elinor Carlisle herself.'
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Chapter 20 Poirot knocked at the door of Nurse Hopkins's cottage. She opened it to him with her mouth full of Bath bun. She said sharply, 'Well, Mr. Poirot, what do you want now? ' 'I may enter?' Somewhat grudgingly Nurse Hopkins drew back and Poirot was permitted to cross the threshold. Nurse Hopkins was hospitable with the teapot, and a minute later Poirot was regarding with some dismay a cup of inky beverage. 'Just made - nice and strong!' said Nurse Hopkins. Poirot stirred his tea cautiously and took one heroic sip. He said, 'Have you any idea why I have come here?' 'I couldn't say, I'm sure, until you tell me. I don't profess to be a mindreader.' 'I have come to ask you for the truth.' Nurse Hopkins uprose in wrath. 'And what's the meaning of that, I should like to know? A truthful woman I've always been. Not one to shield myself in any way. I spoke up about that missing tube of morphine at the inquest when many a one in my place would have sat tight and said nothing. For well enough did I know that I should get censured for carelessness in leaving my case about, and, after all, it's a thing might happen to anybody! I was blamed for that - and it won't do me any good in my profession, I can tell you. But that didn't make any difference to me! I knew something that had a bearing on the case, and so I spoke out. And I'll thank you, Mr. Poirot, to keep any nasty insinuation to yourself! There's not a thing about Mary Gerrard's death that I haven't been open and aboveboard as daylight about, and if you think differently, I'd be obliged if you'd give chapter and verse for it! I've concealed nothing 191
nothing at all! And I'm prepared to take the oath and stand up in court and say so.' Poirot did not attempt to interrupt. He knew only too well the technique of dealing with an angry woman. He allowed Nurse Hopkins to flare up and simmer down. Then he spoke - quietly and mildly. He said, 'I did not suggest that there is anything about the crime which you have not told.' 'Then what did you suggest, I'd like to know?' 'I asked you to tell the truth - not about the death, but about the life of Mary Gerrard.' 'Oh!' Nurse Hopkins seemed momentarily taken aback. She said, 'So that's what you're getting at? But it's got nothing to do with the murder.' 'I did not say that it had. I said that you were withholding knowledge concerning her.' 'Why shouldn't I - if it's nothing to do with the crime?' Poirot shrugged his shoulders. 'Why should you?' Nurse Hopkins, very red in the face, said, 'Because it's common decency! They're all dead now - everyone concerned. And it's no business of anyone else's!' 'If it is only surmise - perhaps not. But if you have actual knowledge, that's different.' Nurse Hopkins said slowly, 'I don't know exactly what you mean.' Poirot said, 'I will help you. I have had hints from Nurse O'Brien and I have had a long conversation with Mrs. Slattery, who has a very good 192
memory for events that happened over twenty years ago. I will tell you exactly what I have learned. Well, over twenty years ago there was a love affair between two people. One of them was Mrs. Welman, who had been a widow for some years and who was a woman capable of a deep and passionate love. The other party was Sir Lewis Rycroft, who had the great misfortune to have a wife who was hopelessly insane. The law in those days gave no promise of relief by divorce. Lady Rycroft, whose physical health was excellent, might live to be ninety. The liaison between those two people was, I think, guessed at, but they were both discreet and careful to keep up appearances. Then Sir Lewis Rycroft was killed in action.' 'Well?' said Nurse Hopkins. 'I suggest,' said Poirot, 'that there was a child born after his death, and that child was Mary Gerrard.' Nurse Hopkins said, 'You seem to know all about it!' Poirot said, 'That is what I think. But it is possible that you have got define proof that that is so.' Nurse Hopkins sat silent a minute or two, frowning, then abruptly she rose, went across the room, opened a drawer, and took out an envelope. She brought it across to Poirot. She said, 'I'll tell you how this came into my hands. Mind, I'd had my suspicions. The way Mrs. Welman looked at the girl, for one thing, and then hearing the gossip on top of it. And old Gerrard told me when he was ill that Mary wasn't his daughter. 'Well, after Mary died I finished clearing up the lodge, and in a drawer among some of the old man's things I came across this letter. You see what's written on it.' Poirot read the superscription written in faded ink: 193
For Mary - to be sent to her after my death. Poirot said, 'This writing is not recent?' 'It wasn't Gerrard who wrote that,' explained Nurse Hopkins. 'It was Mary's mother, who died fourteen years ago. She meant this for the girl, but the old man kept it among his things and so she never saw it - and I'm thankful she didn't! She was able to hold up her head to the end, and she'd no cause to feel ashamed.' She paused and then said, 'Well, it was sealed up, but when I found it I'll admit to you that I opened it and read it then and there, which I dare say I should not have done. But Mary was dead, and I guessed more or less at what was inside it and I didn't see that it was any concern of anyone else's. All the same, I haven't liked to destroy it, because I didn't feel somehow it would be right to do that. But, there, you'd better read it yourself.' Poirot drew out the sheet of paper covered in small, angular writing: This is the truth I've written down here in case it should ever be needed. I was lady's maid to Mrs. Welman at Hunterbury, and very kind to me she was. I got into trouble, and she stood by me and took me back into her service when it was all over; but the baby died. My mistress and Sir Lewis Rycroft were fond of each other, but they couldn't marry, because he had a wife already and she was in a madhouse, poor lady. He was a fine gentleman and devoted to Mrs. Welman. He was killed, and she told me soon after that she was going to have a child. After that she went up to Scotland and took me with her. The child was born there - at Ardlochrie. Bob Gerrard, who had washed his hands of me and flung me off when I had my trouble, had been writing to me again. The arrangement was that we should marry and live at the lodge and he should think that the baby was mine. If we lived on the place it would seem natural that Mrs. Welman should be interested in the child and she'd see to educating her and giving 194
her a place in the world. She thought it would be better for Mary never to know the truth. Mrs. Welman gave us both a handsome sum of money; but I would have helped her without that. I've been quite happy with Bob, but he never took to Mary. I've held my tongue and never said anything to anybody, but I think it's right in case I die that I should put this down in black and white. Eliza Gerrard (born Eliza Riley). Hercule Poirot drew a deep breath and folded up the letter again. Nurse Hopkins said anxiously, 'What are you going to do about it? They're all dead now! It's no good raking up these things. Everyone looked up to Mrs. Welman in these parts; there's never been anything said against her. All this old scandal - it would be cruel. The same with Mary. She was a sweet girl. Why should anyone have to know she was a bastard? Let the dead rest in peace in their graves, that's what I say.' Poirot said, 'One has to consider the living.' Nurse Hopkins said, 'But this has got nothing to do with the murder.' Hercule Poirot said gravely, 'It may have a great deal to do with it.' He went out of the cottage, leaving Nurse Hopkins with her mouth open, staring after him. He had walked some way when he became aware of hesitating footsteps just behind him. He stopped and turned round. It was Horlick, the young gardener from Hunterbury. He was looking the picture of embarrassment and twisting his cap round and round in his hands. 'Excuse me, sir. Could I have a word with you?' Horlick spoke with a kind of gulp. 195
'Certainly. What is it?' Horlick twisted the cap even more fiercely. He said, averting his eyes and looking the picture of misery and embarrassment, 'It's about that car.' 'The car that was outside the back gate that morning?' 'Yes, sir. Dr. Lord said this morning that it wasn't his car - but it was, sir.' 'You know that for a fact?' 'Yes, sir. Because of the number, sir. It was MSS 2022. I noticed it particular - MSS 2022. You see, we know it in the village, and always call it Miss Tou-Tou! I'm quite sure of it, sir.' Poirot said with a faint smile, 'But Dr. Lord says he was over at Withenbury that morning.' Horlick said miserably, 'Yes, sir. I heard him. But it was his car, sir. I'll take my oath on that.' Poirot said gently, 'Thank you, Horlick, that's just exactly what you may have to do.'
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Chapter 21 Was it very hot in the court? Or very cold? Elinor Carlisle could not be quite sure. Sometimes she felt burning and immediately after she shivered. She had not heard the end of the Prosecuting Counsel's speech. She had gone back to the past - gone slowly through the whole business again, from the day when that miserable letter came to the moment when that smooth-faced police officer had said with horrible fluency: 'You are Elinor Katharine Carlisle. I have here a warrant for your arrest upon the charge of murdering Mary Gerrard by administering poison to her on the 27th of July last, and I must warn you that anything you say will be taken down in writing and may be used as evidence at your trial.' Horrible, frightening fluency. She felt caught up in a smooth running, well-oiled machine - inhuman, passionless. And now here she was, standing in the dock in the open glare of publicity, with hundreds of eyes that were neither impersonal nor inhuman, feasting upon her and gloating. Only the jury did not look at her. Embarrassed, they kept their eyes studiously turned away. She thought, It's because - soon - they know what they're going to say. Dr. Lord was giving evidence. Was this Peter Lord - that freckled, cheery young doctor who had been so kind and so friendly at Hunterbury? He was very stiff now. Sternly professional. His answers came monotonously. He had been summoned by telephone to Hunterbury Hall; too late for anything to be done; Mary Gerrard had died a few minutes after his arrival; death consistent, in his opinion, with morphia poisoning in one of its less common forms - the 'foudroyante' variety. Sir Edwin Bulmer rose to cross-examine. 'You were the late Mrs. Welman's regular medical attendant?' 'I was.' 197
'During your visits to Hunterbury in June last, you had occasion to see the accused and Mary Gerrard together?' 'Several times.' 'What should you say was the manner of the accused to Mary Gerrard?' 'Perfectly pleasant and natural.' Sir Edwin Bulmer said with a slight, disdainful smile, 'You never saw any signs of this ‘jealous hatred' we have heard so much about?' Peter Lord, his jaw set, said firmly, 'No.' Elinor thought, But he did - he did. He told a lie for me there. He knew. Peter Lord was succeeded by the police surgeon. His evidence was longer, more detailed. Death was due to morphia poisoning of the 'foudroyante' variety. Would he kindly explain the term? With some enjoyment he did so. Death from morphine poisoning might result in several different ways. The most common was a period of intense excitement followed by drowsiness and narcosis, pupils of eyes contracted. Another not so common form had been named by the French 'foudroyante.' In these cases deep sleep supervened in a very short time - about ten minutes; the pupils of the eyes were usually dilated. II The court had adjourned and sat again. There had been some hours of expert medical testimony. Dr. Alan Garcia, the distinguished analyst, full of learned terms, spoke with gusto of the stomach contents. Bread, fish paste, tea, presence of morphia - more learned terms and various decimal points. Amount taken 198
by the deceased estimated to be about four grains. Fatal dose could be as low as one grain. Sir Edwin rose, still bland. 'I should like to get it quite clear. You found in the stomach nothing but bread, butter, fish paste, tea, and morphia. There were no other foodstuffs?' 'None.' 'That is to say, the deceased had eaten nothing but sandwiches and tea for some considerable time?' 'That is so.' 'Was there anything to show in what particular vehicle the morphia had been administered?' 'I don't quite understand.' 'I will simplify that question. The morphia could have been taken in the fish paste, or in the bread, or in the butter on the bread, or in the tea, or in the milk that had been added to the tea?' 'Certainly.' 'There was no special evidence that the morphia was in the fish paste rather than in the other mediums?' 'No.' 'And, in fact, the morphia might have been taken separately - that is to say, not in any vehicle at all? It could have been simply swallowed in its tablet form?' 'That is so, of course.' 199
Sir Edwin sat down. Sir Samuel Attenbury re-examined. 'Nevertheless, you are of the opinion that, however the morphia was taken, it was taken at the same time as the other food and drink?' 'Yes.' 'Thank you.' III Inspector Brill had taken the oath with mechanical fluency. He stood there, soldierly and stolid, reeling off his evidence with practiced ease. 'Summoned to the house. .. The accused said, ‘It must have been bad fish paste!' .. search of the premises .. one jar of fish paste washed out was standing on the draining-board in the pantry, another half full .. further search of pantry kitchen. ..' 'What did you find?' 'In a crack behind the table, between the floor-boards, I found a tiny scrap of paper.' The exhibit went to the jury. 'What did you take it to be?' 'A fragment off a printed label - such as are used on glass tubes of morphia.' Counsel for the Defence arose with leisurely ease. He said, 'You found this scrap in a crack in the flooring?' 200
'Yes.' 'Part of a label?' 'Yes.' 'Did you find the rest of that label?' 'No.' 'You did not find any glass tube or any bottle to which that label might have been affixed?' 'No.' 'What was the state of that scrap of paper when you found it? Was it clean or dirty?' 'It was quite fresh.' 'What do you mean, quite fresh?' 'There was surface dust on it from the flooring, but it was quite clean otherwise.' 'It could not have been there for any length of time?' 'No, it had found its way there quite recently.' 'You would say, then, that it had come there on the actual day you found it - not earlier?' 'Yes.' With a grunt Sir Edwin sat down. 201
IV Nurse Hopkins in the box, her face red and self-righteous. All the same, Elinor thought, Nurse Hopkins was not so frightening as Inspector Brill. It was the inhumanity of Inspector Brill that was so paralysing. He was so definitely part of a great machine. Nurse Hopkins had human passions, prejudices. 'Your name is Jessie Hopkins?' 'Yes.' 'You are a certified District Nurse and you reside at Rose Cottage, Hunterbury?' 'Yes.' 'Where were you on the 28th of June last?' 'I was at Hunterbury Hall.' 'You had been sent for?' 'Yes. Mrs. Welman had had a stroke - the second. I went to assist Nurse O'Brien until a second nurse could be found.' 'Did you take a small attache case with you?' 'Yes.' 'Tell the jury what was in it.' 'Bandages, dressings, a hypodermic syringe, and certain drugs, including a tube of morphine hydrochloride.' 'For what purpose was the morphine there?' 202
'One of the cases in the village had to have hypodermic injections of morphia morning and evening.' 'What were the contents of the tube?' 'There were twenty tablets, each containing half-grain Morphine Hydrochloride.' 'What did you do with your attaché case?' 'I laid it down in the hall.' 'That was on the evening of the 28th. When did you next have occasion to look in the case?' 'The following morning about nine o'clock, just as I was preparing to leave the house.' 'Was anything missing?' 'The tube of morphine was missing.' 'Did you mention this loss?' 'I spoke of it to Nurse O'Brien, the nurse in charge of the patient.' 'This case was lying in the hall, where people were in the habit of passing to and fro?' 'Yes.' Sir Samuel paused. Then he said, 'You knew the dead girl, Mary Gerrard, intimately?' 'Yes.' 203
'What was your opinion of her?' 'She was a very sweet girl - and a good girl.' 'Was she of a happy disposition?' 'Very happy.' 'She had no troubles that you know of?' 'No.' 'At the time of her death was there anything whatever to worry her or make her unhappy about the future?' 'Nothing.' 'She would have had no reason to have taken her own life?' 'No reason at all.' It went on and on - the damning story. How Nurse Hopkins had accompanied Mary to the lodge, the appearance of Elinor, her excitable manner, the invitation to sandwiches, the plate being handed first to Mary. Elinor's suggestion that everything be washed up, and her further suggestion that Nurse Hopkins should come upstairs with her and assist in sorting out clothes. There were frequent interruptions and objections from Sir Edwin Bulmer. Elinor thought. Yes, it's all true - and she believes it. She's certain I did it. And every word she says is the truth - that's what's so horrible. It's all true.
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Once more, as she looked across the court, she saw the face of Hercule Poirot regarding her thoughtfully - almost kindly. Seeing her with too much knowledge. The piece of cardboard with the scrap of label pasted on it was handed to the witness. 'Do you know what this is?' 'It's a bit of a label.' 'Can you tell the jury what label?' 'Yes - it's a part of a label off a tube of hypodermic tablets. Morphine tablets half-grain - like the one I lost.' 'You are sure of that?' 'Of course I'm sure. It's off my tube.' The judge said, 'Is there any special mark on it by which you can identify it as the label of the tube you lost?' 'No, my Lord, but it must be the same.' 'Actually, all you can say is that it is exactly similar?' 'Well, yes, that's what I mean.' The court adjourned.
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Chapter 22 It was another day. Sir Edwin Bulmer was on his feet cross-examining. He was not at all bland now. He said sharply, 'This attache case we've heard so much about. On June 28th it was left in the main hall of Hunterbury all night?' Nurse Hopkins agreed: 'Yes.' 'Rather a careless thing to do, wasn't it?' Nurse Hopkins flushed. 'Yes, I suppose it was.' 'Are you in the habit of leaving dangerous drugs lying about where anyone could get at ‘em?' 'No, of course not.' 'Oh! You're not? But you did it on this occasion?' 'Yes.' 'And it's a fact, isn't it, that anybody in the house could have got at that morphia if they'd wanted to?' 'I suppose so.' 'No suppose about it. It is so, isn't it?' 'Well - yes.' 'It wasn't only Miss Carlisle who could have got it? Any of the servants could? Or Dr. Lord? Or Mr. Roderick Welman? Or Nurse O'Brien? Or Mary Gerrard herself?' 'I suppose so - yes.' 207
'It is so, isn't it?' 'Yes.' 'Was anyone aware you'd got morphia in that case?' 'I don't know.' 'Well, did you talk about it to anyone?' 'No.' 'So, as a matter of fact, Miss Carlisle couldn't have known that there was any morphia there?' 'She might have looked to see.' 'That's very unlikely, isn't it?' 'I don't know, I'm sure.' 'There were people who'd be more likely to know about the morphia than Miss Carlisle. Dr. Lord, for instance. He'd know. You were administering this morphia under his orders, weren't you?' 'Of course.' 'Mary Gerrard knew you had it there, too?' 'No, she didn't.' 'She was often in your cottage, wasn't she?' 'Not very often.'
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'I suggest to you that she was there very frequently, and that she, of all the people in the house, would be the most likely to guess that there was morphia in your case.' 'I don't agree.' Sir Edwin paused a minute. 'You told Nurse O'Brien in the morning that the morphia was missing?' 'Yes.' 'I put it to you that what you really said was, ‘I have left the morphia at home. I shall have to go back for it.' 'No, I didn't.' 'You didn't suggest that the morphia had been left on the mantelpiece in your cottage?' 'Well, when I couldn't find it I thought that must have been what had happened.' 'In fact, you didn't really know what you'd done with it!' 'Yes, I did. I put it in the case.' 'Then why did you suggest on the morning of June 29th that you had left it at home?' 'Because I thought I might have.' 'I put it to you that you're a very careless woman.' 'That's not true.' 'You make rather inaccurate statements sometimes, don't you?' 209
'No, I don't. I'm very careful what I say.' 'Did you make a remark about a prick from a rose tree on July 27th - the day of Mary Gerrard's death?' 'I don't see what that's got to do with it!' The judge said, 'Is that relevant, Sir Edwin?' 'Yes, my Lord, it is an essential part of the defence, and I intend to call witnesses to prove that that statement was a lie.' He resumed. 'Do you still say you pricked your wrist on a rose tree on July 27th?' 'Yes, I did.' Nurse Hopkins looked defiant. 'When did you do that?' 'Just before leaving the lodge and coming up to the house on the morning of July 27th.' Sir Edwin said sceptically, 'And what rose tree was this?' 'A climbing one just outside the lodge, with pink flowers.' 'You're sure of that?' 'I'm quite sure.' Sir Edwin paused and then asked, 'You persist in saying the morphia was in the attache case when you came to Hunterbury on June 28th?' 'I do. I had it with me.'
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'Supposing that presently Nurse O'Brien goes into the box and swears that you said you had probably left it at home?' 'It was in my case. I'm sure of it.' Sir Edwin sighed. 'You didn't feel at all uneasy about the disappearance of the morphia?' 'Not - uneasy - no.' 'Oh, so you were quite at ease, notwithstanding the fact that a large quantity of a dangerous drug had disappeared?' 'I didn't think at the time anyone had taken it.' 'I see. You just couldn't remember for the moment what you had done with it?' 'Not at all. It was in the case.' 'Twenty half-grain tablets - that is, ten grains of morphia. Enough to kill several people, isn't it?' 'Yes.' 'But you are not uneasy - and you don't even report the loss officially?' 'I thought it was all right.' 'I put it to you that if the morphia had really disappeared the way it did you would have been bound, as a conscientious person, to report the loss officially.' Nurse Hopkins, very red in the face, said, 'Well, I didn't.'
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'That was surely a piece of criminal carelessness on your part. You don't seem to take your responsibilities very seriously. Did you often mislay these dangerous drugs?' 'It never happened before.' It went on for some minutes. Nurse Hopkins, flustered, red in the face, contradicting herself - an easy prey to Sir Edwin's skill. 'Is it a fact that on Thursday, July 6th, the dead girl, Mary Gerrard, made a will?' 'She did.' 'Why did she do that?' 'Because she thought it was the proper thing to do. And so it was.' 'Are you sure it wasn't because she was depressed and uncertain about her future?' 'Nonsense.' 'It showed, though, that the idea of death was present in her mind - that she was brooding on the subject.' 'Not at all. She just thought it was the proper thing to do.' 'Is this the will? Signed by Mary Gerrard, witnessed by Emily Biggs and Roger Wade, confectioners' assistants, and leaving everything of which she died possessed to Mary Riley, sister of Eliza Riley?' 'That's right.' It was handed to the jury. 212
'To your knowledge, had Mary Gerrard any property to leave?' 'Not then, she hadn't.' 'But she was shortly going to have?' 'Yes?' 'Is it not a fact that a considerable sum of money - two thousand pounds - was being given to Mary by Miss Carlisle?' 'Yes.' 'There was no compulsion on Miss Carlisle to do this? It was entirely a generous impulse on her part?' 'She did it of her own free will, yes.' 'But surely, if she had hated Mary Gerrard, as is suggested, she would not of her own free will have handed over to her a large sum of money.' 'That's as may be.' 'What do you mean by that answer?' 'I don't mean anything.' 'Exactly. Now, had you heard any local gossip about Mary Gerrard and Mr. Roderick Welman?' 'He was sweet on her.' 'Have you any evidence of that?' 'I just knew it, that's all.' 213
'Oh - you ‘just knew it.' That's not very convincing to the jury, I'm afraid. Did you say on one occasion Mary would have nothing to do with him because he was engaged to Miss Elinor and she said the same to him in London?' 'That's what she told me.' Sir Samuel Attenbury re-examined: 'When Mary Gerrard was discussing with you the wording of this will, did the accused look in through the window?' 'Yes, she did.' 'What did she say?' 'She said, ‘So you're making your will, Mary. That's funny.' And she laughed. Laughed and laughed. And it's my opinion,' said the witness viciously, 'that it was at that moment the idea came into her head. The idea of making away with the girl! She'd murder in her heart that very minute.' The judge spoke sharply: 'Confine yourself to answering the questions that are asked you. The last part of that answer is to be struck out.' Elinor thought, How queer. When anyone says what's true, they strike it out. She wanted to laugh hysterically. II Nurse O'Brien was in the box. 'On the morning of June 29th did Nurse Hopkins make a statement to you?' 214
'Yes. She said she had a tube of morphine hydrochloride missing from her case.' 'What did you do?' 'I helped her to hunt for it.' 'But you could not find it?' 'No.' 'To your knowledge, was the case left overnight in the hall?' 'It was.' 'Mr. Welman and the accused were both staying in the house at the time of Mrs. Welman's death - that is, on June 28th to 29th?' 'Yes.' 'Will you tell us of an incident that occurred on June 29th - the day after Mrs. Welman's death?' 'I saw Mr. Roderick Welman with Mary Gerrard. He was telling her he loved her, and he tried to kiss her.' 'He was at the time engaged to the accused?' 'Yes.' 'What happened next?' 'Mary told him to think shame of himself, and him engaged to Miss Elinor!'
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'In your opinion, what was the feeling of the accused toward Mary Gerrard?' 'She hated her. She would look after her as though she'd like to destroy her.' Sir Edwin jumped up. Elinor thought, Why do they wrangle about it? What does it matter? Sir Edwin Bulmer cross-examined: 'Is it not a fact that Nurse Hapkins said she thought she had left the morphia at home?' 'Well, you see, it was this way. After - ' 'Kindly answer my question. Did she not say that she had probably left the morphia at home?' 'Yes.' 'She was not really worried at the time about it?' 'No, not then.' 'Because she thought she had left it at home. So naturally she was not uneasy.' 'She couldn't imagine anyone taking it.' 'Exactly. It wasn't till after Mary Gerrard's death from morphia that her imagination got to work.' The judge interrupted: 'I think, Sir Edwin, that you have already been over that point with the former witness.' 'As your Lordship pleases. 216
'Now, regarding the attitude of the accused to Mary Gerrard, there was no quarrel between them at any time?' 'No quarrel, no.' 'Miss Carlisle was always quite pleasant to the girl?' 'Yes. 't was the way she looked at her.' 'Yes - yes - yes. But we can't go by that sort of thing. You're Irish, I think?' 'I am that.' 'And the Irish have rather a vivid imagination, haven't they?' Nurse O'Brien cried excitedly, 'Every word I've told you is the truth.' III Mr. Abbott, the grocer, in the box. Flustered - unsure of himself (slightly thrilled, though, at his importance). His evidence was short. The purchase of two pots of fish paste. The accused had said, 'There's a lot of food poisoning with fish paste.' She had seemed excited and queer. No cross-examination.
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Chapter 23 Opening speech for the Defence: 'Gentlemen of the jury, I might, if I like, submit to you that there is no case against the accused. The onus of proof is on the Prosecution, and so far, in my opinion - and, I have no doubt, yours - they have proved exactly nothing at all! The Prosecution avers that Elinor Carlisle, having obtained possession of morphine (which everyone else in the house had had equal opportunity of purloining, and as to which there exists considerable doubt whether it was ever in the house at all), proceeds to poison Mary Gerrard. Here the Prosecution has relied solely on opportunity. It has sought to prove motive, but I submit that that is just what it has not been able to do. For, members of the jury, there is no motive! The Prosecution has spoken of a broken engagement. I ask you - a broken engagement! If a broken engagement is a cause for murder, why are we not having murders committed every day? And this engagement, mark you, was not an affair of desperate passion, it was an engagement entered into mainly for family reasons. Miss Carlisle and Mr. Welman had grown up together; they had always been fond of each other, and gradually they drifted into a warmer attachment; but I intend to prove to you it was at best a very lukewarm affair.' (Oh, Roddy - Roddy. A lukewarm affair?) 'Moreover, this engagement was broken off, not by Mr. Welman - but by the prisoner. I submit to you that the engagement between Elinor Carlisle and Roderick Welman was entered into mainly to please old Mrs. Welman. When she died, both parties realized that their feelings were not strong enough to justify them in entering upon matrimony. They remained, however, good friends. Moreover, Elinor Carlisle, who had inherited her aunt's fortune, in the kindliness of her nature, was planning to settle a considerable sum of money on Mary Gerrard. And this is the girl she is accused of poisoning! The thing is farcical.' 'The only thing that there is against Elinor Carlisle is the circumstances under which the poisoning took place.' 219
'The Prosecution has said in effect: 'No one but Elinor Carlisle could have killed Mary Gerrard. Therefore they have had to search about for a possible motive. But, as I have said to you, they have been unable to find any motive, because there was none.' 'Now, is it true that no one but Elinor Carlisle could have killed Mary Gerrard? No, it is not. There is the possibility that Mary Gerrard committed suicide. There is the possibility that someone tampered with the sandwiches while Elinor Carlisle was out of the house at the lodge. There is a third possibility. It is a fundamental law of evidence that if it can be shown that there is an alternative theory which is possible and consistent with the evidence, the accused must be acquitted. I propose to show you that there was another person who had not only an equal opportunity to poison Mary Gerrard, but who had a far better motive for doing so. I propose to call evidence to show you that there was another person who had access to the morphine, and who had a very good motive for killing Mary Gerrard, and I can show that that person had an equally good opportunity of doing so. I submit to you that no jury in the world will convict this woman of murder when there is no evidence against her except that of opportunity, and when it can be shown that there is not only evidence of opportunity against another person, but an overwhelming motive. I shall also call witnesses to prove that there has been deliberate perjury on the part of one of the witnesses for the Crown. But first I will call the prisoner, that she may tell you her own story, and that you may see for yourself how entirely unfounded the charges against her are.' She had taken the oath. She was answering Sir Edwin's questions in a low voice. The judge leaned forward. He told her to speak louder. Sir Edwin was talking gently and encouragingly - all the questions to which she had rehearsed the answers. 'You were fond of Roderick Welman?'
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'Very fond. He was like a brother to me - or a cousin. I always thought of him as a cousin.' The engagement .. drifted into it .. very pleasant to marry someone you had known all your life. .. 'Not, perhaps, what might be called a passionate affair?' (Passionate? Oh, Roddy.) 'Well, no .. you see, we knew each other so well ..' 'After the death of Mrs. Welman, was there a slightly strained feeling between you?' 'Yes, there was.' 'How did you account for this?' 'I think it was partly the money.' 'The money?' 'Yes. Roderick felt uncomfortable. He thought people might think he was marrying me for that.' 'The engagement was not broken off on account of Mary Gerrard?' 'I did think Roderick was rather taken with her, but I didn't believe it was anything serious.' 'Would you have been upset if it had been?' 'Oh, no. I should have thought it rather unsuitable, that is all.'
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'Now, Miss Carlisle. Did you or did you not take a tube of morphine from Nurse Hopkins's attache case on June 28th?' 'I did not.' 'Have you at any time had morphine in your possession?' 'Never.' 'Were you aware that your aunt had not made a will?' 'No. It came as a great surprise to me.' 'Did you think she was trying to convey to you a message on the night of June 28th when she died?' 'I understood that she had made no provision for Mary Gerrard, and was anxious to do so.' 'And in order to carry out her wishes, you yourself were prepared to settle a sum of money on the girl?' 'Yes. I wanted to carry out Aunt Laura's wishes. And I was grateful for the kindness Mary had shown to my aunt.' 'On July 28th did you come down from London to Maidensford and stay at the King's Arms?' 'Yes.' 'What was your purpose in coming down?' 'I had an offer for the house, and the man who had bought it wanted possession as quickly as possible. I had to look through my aunt's personal things and settle things up generally.' 222
'Did you buy various provisions on your way to Hunterbury Hall on July 27th?' 'Yes. I thought it would be easier to have a picnic lunch there than to come back to the village.' 'Did you then go on to the house, and did you sort through your aunt's personal effects?' 'I did.' 'And after that?' 'I came down to the pantry and cut some sandwiches. I then went down to the lodge and invited the District Nurse and Mary Gerrard to come up to the house.' 'Why did you do this?' 'I wished to save them a hot walk back to the village and back again to the lodge.' 'It was, in fact, a natural and kindly action on your part. Did they accept the invitation?' 'Yes. They walked up to the house with me.' 'Where were the sandwiches you had cut?' 'I left them in the pantry on a plate.' 'Was the window open?' 'Yes.' 'Anyone could have got into the pantry while you were absent?' 223
'Certainly.' 'If anybody had observed you from outside while you were cutting the sandwiches, what would they have thought?' 'I suppose that I was preparing to have a picnic lunch.' 'They could not know, could they, that anyone was to share the lunch?' 'No. The idea of inviting the other two only came to me when I saw what a quantity of food I had.' 'So that if anyone had entered the house during your absence and placed morphine in one of those sandwiches, it would be you they were attempting to poison?' 'Well, yes, it would.' 'What happened when you had all arrived back at the house?' 'We went into the morning-room. I fetched the sandwiches and handed them to the other two.' 'Did you drink anything with them?' 'I drank water. There was beer on a table, but Nurse Hopkins and Mary preferred tea. Nurse Hopkins went into the pantry and made it. She brought it in on a tray and Mary poured it out.' 'Did you have any?' 'No.' 'But Mary Gerrard and Nurse Hopkins both drank tea?' 'Yes.' 224
'What happened next?' 'Nurse Hopkins went and turned the gas-ring off.' 'Leaving you alone with Mary Gerrard?' 'Yes.' 'What happened next?' 'After a few minutes I picked up the tray and the sandwich plate and carried them into the pantry. Nurse Hopkins was there, and we washed them together.' 'Did Nurse Hopkins have her cuffs off at the time?' 'Yes. She was washing the things, while I dried them.' 'Did you make a certain remark to her about a scratch on her wrist?' 'I asked her if she had pricked herself.' 'What did she reply?' 'She said, ‘It was a thorn from the rose tree outside the lodge. I'll get it out presently.' ' 'What was her manner at the time?' 'I think she was feeling the heat. She was perspiring and her face was a queer color.' 'What happened after that?' 'We went upstairs, and she helped me with my aunt's things.' 225
'What time was it when you went downstairs again?' 'It must have been an hour later.' 'Where was Mary Gerrard?' 'She was sitting in the morning-room. She was breathing very queerly and was in a coma. I rang up the doctor on Nurse Hopkins's instructions. He arrived just before she died.' Sir Edwin squared his shoulders dramatically. 'Miss Carlisle, did you kill Mary Gerrard?' (That's your cue. Head up, eyes straight.) 'No!' II Sir Samuel Attenbury. A sick beating at one's heart. Now - now she was at the mercy of an enemy! No more gentleness, no more questions to which she knew the answers! But he began quite mildly. 'You were engaged to be married, you have told us, to Mr. Roderick Welman?' 'Yes.' 'You were fond of him?' 'Very fond.' 'I put it to you that you were deeply in love with Roderick Welman and that you were wildly jealous of his love for Mary Gerrard?' 226
'No.' (Did it sound properly indignant, that 'no'?) Sir Samuel said menacingly, 'I put it to you that you deliberately planned to put this girl out of the way, in the hope that Roderick Welman would return to you.' 'Certainly not.' (Disdainful - a little weary. That was better.) The questions went on. It was just like a dream - a bad dream - a nightmare .. Question after question - horrible, hurting questions. Some of them she was prepared for, some took her unawares. Always trying to remember her part. Never once to let go, to say, 'Yes, I did hate her. .. Yes, I did want her dead. .. Yes, all the time I was cutting the sandwiches I was thinking of her dying. ..' To remain calm and cool and answer as briefly and passionlessly as possible. .. Fighting. .. Fighting every inch of the way. .. Over now. .. The horrible man was sitting down. And the kindly, unctuous voice of Sir Edwin Bulmer was asking a few more questions. Easy, pleasant questions, designed to remove any bad impression she might have made under cross-examination. She was back again in the dock. Looking at the jury, wondering. .. (Roddy. Roddy standing there, blinking a little, hating it all. Roddy looking somehow - not quite real.) (But nothing's real any more. Everything is whirling round in a devilish way. Black's white, and top is bottom and east is west. .. And I'm not Elinor Carlisle; I'm 'the accused.' And, whether they hang me or whether they let me go, nothing will ever be the same again. If there were just something - just one sane thing to hold to. ..) 227
(Peter Lord's face, perhaps, with its freckles and its extraordinary air of being just the same as usual ..) Where had Sir Edwin got to now ? 'Will you tell us what was the state of Miss Carlisle's feelings toward you?' Roddy answered in his precise voice, 'I should say she was deeply attached to me, but certainly not passionately in love with me.' 'You considered your engagement satisfactory?' 'Oh, quite. We had a good deal in common.' 'Will you tell the jury, Mr. Welman, exactly why that engagement was broken off?' 'Well, after Mrs. Welman died it pulled us up, I think, with a bit of a shock. I didn't like the idea of marrying a rich woman when I myself was penniless. Actually the engagement was dissolved by mutual consent. We were both rather relieved.' 'Now, will you tell us just what your relations were with Mary Gerrard?' (Oh, Roddy, poor Roddy, how you must hate all this!) 'I thought her very lovely.' 'Were you in love with her?' 'Just a little.' 'When was the last time you saw her?' 'Let me see. It must have been the 5th or 6th of July.' 228
Sir Edwin said, a touch of steel in his voice, 'You saw her after that, I think.' 'No, I went abroad - to Venice and Dalmatia.' 'You returned to England - when?' 'When I received a telegram - let me see - on the 1st of August, it must have been.' 'But you were actually in England on July 27th, I think.' 'No.' 'Come, now, Mr. Welman. You are on oath, remember. Is it not a fact that your passport shows that you returned to England on July 25th and left it again on the night of the 27th?' Sir Edwin's voice held a subtly menacing note. Elinor frowned, suddenly jerked back to reality. Why was Counsel bullying his own witness? Roderick had turned rather pale. He was silent for a minute or two, then he said with an effort, 'Well - yes, that is so.' 'Did you go to see this girl Mary Gerrard in London on the 25th at her lodgings?' 'Yes, I did.' 'Did you ask her to marry you?' 'Er - er - yes.' 'What was her answer?' 'She refused.' 229
'You are not a rich man, Mr. Welman?' 'No.' 'And you are rather heavily in debt?' 'What business is that of yours?' 'Were you not aware of the fact that Miss Carlisle had left all her money to you in the event of her death?' 'This is the first I have heard of it.' 'Were you in Maidensford on the morning of July 27th?' 'I was not.' Sir Edwin sat down. Counsel for the Prosecution said: 'You say that in your opinion the accused was not deeply in love with you.' 'That is what I said.' 'Are you a chivalrous man, Mr. Welman?' 'I don't know what you mean.' 'If a lady were deeply in love with you and you were not in love with her, would you feel it incumbent upon you to conceal the fact?' 'Certainly not.' 'Where did you go to school, Mr. Welman?' 'Eton.' 230
Sir Samuel said with a quiet smile, 'That is all.' III Alfred James Wargrave. 'You are a rose-grower and live at Emsworth, Berks?' 'Yes.' 'Did you on October 20th go to Maidensford and examine a rose tree growing at the lodge of Hunterbury Hall?' 'I did.' 'Will you describe this tree?' 'It was a climbing rose - Zephyrine Droughin. It bears a sweetly scented pink flower. It has no thorns.' 'It would be impossible to prick oneself on a rose tree of this description?' 'It would be quite impossible. It is a thornless tree.' No cross-examination. IV 'You are James Arthur Littledale. You are a qualified chemist and employed by the wholesale chemists, Jenkins & Hale?' 'I am.' 'Will you tell me what this scrap of paper is?' 231
The exhibit was handed to him. 'It is a fragment of one of our labels.' 'What kind of a label?' 'The label we attach to tubes of hypodermic tablets.' 'Is there enough here for you to say definitely what drug was in the tube to which this label was attached?' 'Yes. I should say quite definitely that the tube in question contained hypodermic tablets of apomorphine hydrochloride 1/20 grain.' 'Not morphine hydrochloride?' 'No, it could not be that.' 'Why not?' 'On such a tube the word morphine is spelled with a capital M. The end of the line of the m here, seen under my magnifying glass, shows plainly that it is part of a small m, not a capital M.' 'Please let the jury examine it with the glass. Have you labels here to show what you mean?' The labels were handed to the jury. Sir Edwin resumed: 'You say this is from a tube of apomorphine hydrochloride? What exactly is apomorphine hydrochloride?'
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'The formula is C17H17NO2. It is a derivative of morphine prepared by saponifying morphine by heating it with dilute hydrochloric acid in sealed tubes. The morphine loses one molecule of water.' 'What are the special properties of apomorphine?' Mr. Littledale said quietly, 'Apomorphine is the quickest and most powerful emetic known. It acts within a few minutes.' 'So if anybody had swallowed a lethal dose of morphine and were to inject a dose of apomorphine hypodermically within a few minutes, what would result?' 'Vomiting would take place almost immediately and the morphine would be expelled from the system.' 'Therefore, if two people were to share the same sandwich or drink from the same pot of tea, and one of them were then to inject a dose of apomorphine hypodermically, what would be the result, supposing the shared food or drink to have contained morphine?' 'The food or drink together with the morphine would be vomited by the person who injected the apomorphine.' 'And that person would suffer no ill results?' 'No.' There was suddenly a stir of excitement in court and order for silence from the judge. V 'You are Amelia Mary Sedley and you reside ordinarily at 17 Charles Street, Boonamba, Auckland?' 233
'Yes.' 'Do you know a Mrs. Draper?' 'Yes. I have known her for over twenty years.' 'Do you know her maiden name?' 'Yes. I was at her marriage. Her name was Mary Riley.' 'Is she a native of New Zealand?' 'No, she came out from England.' 'You have been in court since the beginning of these proceedings?' 'Yes, I have.' 'Have you seen this Mary Riley - or Draper - in court?' 'Yes.' 'Where did you see her?' 'Giving evidence in this box.' 'Under what name?' 'Jessie Hopkins.' 'And you are quite sure that this Jessie Hopkins is the woman you know as Mary Riley or Draper?' 'Not a doubt of it.' A slight commotion at the back of the court. 234
'When did you last see Mary Draper - until today?' 'Five years ago. She went to England.' Sir Edwin said with a bow, 'Your witness.' Sir Samuel, rising with a highly perplexed face, began: 'I suggest to you, Mrs. - Sedley, that you may be mistaken.' 'I'm not mistaken.' 'You may have been misled by a chance resemblance.' 'I know Mary Draper well enough.' 'Nurse Hopkins is a certified District Nurse.' 'Mary Draper was a hospital nurse before her marriage.' 'You understand, do you not, that you are accusing a Crown witness of perjury?' 'I understand what I'm saying.' VI 'Edward John Marshall, you lived for some years in Auckland, New Zealand, and now reside at 14 Wren Street, Deptford?' 'That's right.' 'Do you know Mary Draper?' 'I've known her for years in New Zealand.' 'Have you seen her today in court?' 235
'I have. She called herself Hopkins, but it was Mrs. Draper all right.' The judge lifted his head. He spoke in a small, clear, penetrating voice, 'It is desirable, I think, that the witness Jessie Hopkins should be recalled.' A pause, a murmur. 'Your lordship, Jessie Hopkins left the court a few minutes ago.' VII 'Hercule Poirot.' Hercule Poirot entered the box, took the oath, twirled his moustache, and waited, with his head a little on one side. He gave his name and address and calling. 'Poirot, do you recognize this document?' 'Certainly.' 'How did it originally come into your possession?' 'It was given me by the District Nurse, Nurse Hopkins.' Sir Edwin said, 'With your permission, my lord, I will read this aloud, and it can then go to the jury.'
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Chapter 24 Closing speech for the Defence: 'Gentlemen of the jury, the responsibility now rests with you. It is for you to say if Elinor Carlisle is to go forth free from the court. If, after the evidence you have heard, you are satisfied that Elinor Carlisle poisoned Mary Gerrard, then it is your duty to pronounce her guilty.' 'But if it should seem to you that there is equally strong evidence, and perhaps far stronger evidence, against another person, then it is your duty to free the accused without more ado.' 'You will have realized by now that the facts of the case are very different from what they originally appeared to be.' 'Yesterday, after the dramatic evidence given by Monsieur Hercule Poirot, I called other witnesses to prove beyond any reasonable doubt that the girl Mary Gerrard was the illegitimate daughter of Laura Welman. That being true, it follows, as His Lordship will doubtless instruct you, that Mrs. Welman's next of kin was not her niece, Elinor Carlisle, but her illegitimate daughter who went by the name of Mary Gerrard. And therefore Mary Gerrard at Mrs. Welman's death inherited a vast fortune.' 'That, gentlemen, is the crux of the situation. A sum in the neighbourhood of two hundred thousand pounds was inherited by Mary Gerrard. But she herself was unaware of the fact. She was also unaware of the true identity of the woman Hopkins. You may think, gentlemen, that Mary Riley or Draper may have had some perfectly legitimate reason for changing her name to Hopkins. If so, why has she not come forward to state what the reason was?' 'All that we do know is this: That at Nurse Hopkins's instigation, Mary Gerrard made a will leaving everything she had to ‘Mary Riley, sister of Eliza Riley.' We know that Nurse Hopkins, by reason of her profession, 237
had access to morphine and to apomorphine and was well acquainted with their properties. Furthermore, it has been proved that Nurse Hopkins was not speaking the truth when she said that her wrist had been pricked by a thorn from a thornless rose tree.' 'Why did she lie, if it were not that she wanted hurriedly to account for the mark just made by the hypodermic needle? Remember, too, that the accused has stated on oath that Nurse Hopkins, when she joined her in the pantry was looking ill, and her face was of a greenish color comprehensible enough if she had just been violently sick.' 'I will underline yet another point: If Mrs. Welman had lived twenty-four hours longer, she would have made a will; and in all probability that will would have made a suitable provision for Mary Gerrard, but would not have left her the bulk of her fortune, since it was Mrs. Welman's belief that her unacknowledged daughter would be happier if she remained in another sphere of life.' 'It is not for me to pronounce on the evidence against another person, except to show that this other person had equal opportunities and a far stronger motive for the murder.' 'Looked at from that point of view, gentlemen of the jury, I submit to you that the case against Elinor Carlisle falls to the ground.' II From Mr. Justice Beddingfeld's summing-up: '.. You must be perfectly satisfied that this woman did, in fact, administer a dangerous dose of morphia to Mary Gerrard on July 27th. If you are not satisfied, you must acquit the prisoner.' 'The Prosecution has stated that the only person who had the opportunity to administer poison to Mary Gerrard was the accused. The Defence has sought to prove that there were other alternatives. There is 238
the theory that Mary Gerrard committed suicide, but the only evidence in support of that theory is the fact that Mary Gerrard made a will shortly before she died. There is not the slightest proof that she was depressed or unhappy or in a state of mind likely to lead her to take her own life. It has also been suggested that the morphine might have been introduced into the sandwiches by someone entering the pantry during the time that Elinor Carlisle was at the lodge. In that case, the poison was intended for Elinor Carlisle, and Mary Gerrard's death was a mistake. The third alternative suggested by the Defence is that another person had an equal opportunity to administer morphine, and that in the latter case the poison was introduced into the tea and not into the sandwiches. In support of that theory the Defence has called the witness Littledale, who has sworn that the scrap of paper found in the pantry was part of a label on a tube containing tablets of apomorphine hydrochloride, a very powerful emetic. You have had an example of both types of labels submitted to you. In my view, the police were guilty of gross carelessness in not checking the original fragment more closely and in jumping to the conclusion that it was a morphine label.' 'The witness Hopkins has stated that she pricked her wrist on a rose tree at the lodge. The witness Wargrave has examined that tree, and it has no thorns on it. You have to decide what caused the mark on Nurse Hopkins's wrist and why she should tell a lie about it. ..' 'If the Prosecution has convinced you that the accused and no other committed the crime, then you must find the accused guilty.' 'If the alternative theory suggested by the Defence is possible and consistent with the evidence, the accused must be acquitted.' 'I will ask you to consider the verdict with courage and diligence, weighing only the evidence that has been put before you.' III Elinor was brought back into the court. 239
The jury filed in. 'Gentlemen of the jury, are you agreed upon your verdict?' 'Yes.' 'Look upon the prisoner at the bar, and say whether she is guilty or not guilty.' 'Not guilty.'
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Chapter 25 They had brought her out by a side door. She had been aware of faces welcoming her - Roddy - the detective with the big moustache. But it was to Peter Lord she had turned. 'I want to get away.' She was with him now in the smooth Daimler, driving rapidly out of London. He had said nothing to her. She had sat in the blessed silence. Every minute taking her farther and farther away. A new life. .. That was what she wanted. .. A new life. She said suddenly, 'I - I want to go somewhere quiet - where there won't be any faces.' Peter Lord said quietly, 'That's all arranged. You're going to a sanatorium. Quiet place. Lovely gardens. No one will bother you - or get at you.' She said with a sigh, 'Yes - that's what I want.' It was being a doctor, she supposed, that made him understand. He knew - and didn't bother her. So blessedly peaceful to be here with him, going away from it all, out of London - to a place that was safe. She wanted to forget - forget everything. None of it was real any longer. It was all gone, vanished, finished with - the old life and the old emotions. She was a new, strange, defenceless creature, very crude and raw, beginning all over again. Very strange and very afraid. But it was comforting to be with Peter Lord. They were out of London now, passing through suburbs. She said at last, 'It was all you - all you.' 241
Peter Lord said, 'It was Hercule Poirot. The fellow's a kind of magician!' But Elinor shook her head. She said obstinately, 'It was you. You got hold of him and made him do it!' Peter grinned. 'I made him do it, all right.' Elinor said, 'Did you know I hadn't done it, or weren't you sure?' Peter said simply, 'I was never quite sure.' Elinor said, 'That's why I nearly said ‘guilty' right at the beginning because, you see, I had thought of it. .. I thought of it that day when I laughed outside the cottage.' Peter said, 'Yes, I knew.' She said wonderingly, 'It seems so queer now - like a kind of possession. That day I bought the paste and cut the sandwiches I was pretending to myself, I was thinking, ‘I've mixed poison with this, and when she eats she will die - and then Roddy will come back to me.' Peter Lord said, 'It helps some people to pretend that sort of thing to themselves. It isn't a bad thing, really. You take it out of yourself in a fantasy. Like sweating a thing out of your system.' Elinor said, 'Yes, that's true. Because it went - suddenly! The blackness, I mean! When that woman mentioned the rose tree outside the lodge - it all swung back into - into being normal again.' Then with a shiver she said, 'Afterward when we went into the morningroom and she was dead - dying, at least - I felt then: Is there much difference between thinking and doing murder?' Peter Lord said, 'All the difference in the world!' 242
'Yes, but is there?' 'Of course there is! Thinking murder doesn't really do any harm. People have silly ideas about that; they think it's the same as planning murder! It isn't. If you think murder long enough, you suddenly come through the blackness and feel that it's all rather silly!' Elinor cried, 'Oh! you are a comforting person.' Peter Lord said rather incoherently, 'Not at all. Just common sense.' Elinor said, and there were suddenly tears in her eyes, 'Every now and then - in court - I looked at you. It gave me courage. You looked so - so ordinary.' Then she laughed. 'That's rude!' He said, 'I understand. When you're in the middle of a nightmare something ordinary is the only hope. Anyway, ordinary things are the best. I've always thought so.' For the first time since she had entered the car she turned her head and looked at him. The sight of his face didn't hurt her as Roddy's face always hurt her; it gave her no sharp pang of pain and pleasure mixed; instead, it made her feel warm and comforted. She thought, How nice his face is - nice and funny - and, yes, comforting. They drove on. They came at last to a gateway and a drive that wound upward till it reached a quiet white house on the side of a hill. He said, 'You'll be quite safe here. No one will bother you.' Impulsively she laid her hand on his arm. She said, 'You - you'll come and see me?' 243
'Of course.' 'Often?' Peter Lord said, 'As often as you want me.' She said, 'Please come - very often.'
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Agatha Christie - The Murder Of Roger Ackroyd CHAPTER 1 Dr Sheppard at the Breakfast Table Mrs Ferrars died on the night of the 16th17th September - a Thursday. I was sent for at eight o'clock on the morning of Friday the 17th. There was nothing to be done. She had been dead some hours. It was just a few minutes after nine when I reached home once more. I opened the front door with my latchkey, and purposely delayed a few moments in the hall, hanging up my hat and the light overcoat that I had deemed a wise precaution against the chill of an early autumn morning. To tell the truth, I was considerably upset and worried. I am not going to pretend that at that moment I foresaw the events of the next few weeks. I emphatically did not do so. But my instinct told me that there were stirring times ahead. From the dining-room on my left there came the rattle of tea-cups and the short, dry cough of my sister Caroline. 'Is that you, James?' she called. An unnecessary question, since who else could it be? To tell the truth, it was precisely my sister Caroline who was the cause of my few minutes' delay. The motto of the mongoose family, so Mr Kipling tells us, is: 'Go and find out.' If Caroline ever adopts a crest, I should certainly suggest a mongoose rampant. One might omit the first part of the motto. Caroline can do any amount of finding out by sitting placidly at home. I don't know how she manages it, but there it is. I suspect that the servants and the tradesmen constitute her Intelligence Corps. When she goes out, it is not to gather in information, but to spread it. At that, too, she is amazingly expert. It was really this last named trait of hers which was causing me these pangs of indecision. Whatever I told Caroline now concerning the demise of Mrs Ferrars would be common knowledge all over the village within the space of an hour and a half. As a professional man, I naturally aim at discretion. Therefore I have got into the habit of continually withholding all information possible from my sister. She usually finds out just the same, but I have the moral satisfaction of knowing that I am in no way to blame. Mrs Ferrars' husband died just over a year ago, and Caroline has constantly asserted, without the least foundation for the assertion, that his wife poisoned him. She scorns my invariable rejoinder that Mr Ferrars died of acute gastritis, helped on by habitual overindulgence in alcoholic beverages. The symptoms of gastritis and arsenical poisoning are not, I agree, unlike, but Caroline bases her accusation on quite different lines. 'You've only got to look at her,' I have heard her say. Mrs Ferrars, though not in her first youth, was a very attractive woman, and her clothes, though simple, always seemed to fit her very well, but all the same, lots of women buy their clothes in Paris, and have not, on that account, necessarily poisoned their husbands. As I stood hesitating in the hall, with all this passing through my mind, Caroline's voice came again, with a sharper note in it.
'What on earth are you doing out there, James? Why don't you come and get your breakfast?' 'Just coming, my dear,' I said hastily. 'I've been hanging up my overcoat.' 'You could have hung up half a dozen overcoats in this time.' She was quite right. I could have. I walked into the dining-room, gave Caroline the accustomed peck on the cheek, and sat down to eggs and bacon. The bacon was rather cold. 'You've had an early call,' remarked Caroline. 'Yes,' I said. 'King's Paddock. Mrs Ferrars.' 'I know,' said my sister. 'How did you know?' 'Annie told me.' Annie is the house parlourmaid. A nice girl, but an inveterate talker. There was a pause. I continued to eat eggs and bacon. My sister's nose, which is long and thin, quivered a little at the tip, as it always does when she is interested or excited over anything. 'Well?' she demanded. 'A sad business. Nothing to be done. Must have died in her sleep.' 'I know,' said my sister again. This time I was annoyed. 'You can't know,' I snapped. 'I didn't know myself until I got there, and haven't mentioned it to a soul yet. If that girl Annie knows, she must be a clairvoyant.' 'It wasn't Annie who told me. It was the milkman. He had it from the Ferrarses' cook.' As I say, there is no need for Caroline to go out to get information. She sits at home and it comes to her. My sister continued: 'What did she die of? Heart failure?' 'Didn't the milkman tell you that?' I inquired sarcastically. Sarcasm is wasted on Caroline. She takes it seriously and answers accordingly. 'He didn't know,' she explained. After all, Caroline was bound to hear sooner or later. She might as well hear from me. 'She died of an overdose of veronal. She's been taking it lately for sleeplessness. Must have taken too much.' 'Nonsense,' said Caroline immediately. 'She took it on purpose. Don't tell me!' It is odd, when you have a secret belief of your own which you do not wish to acknowledge, the. voicing of it by someone else will rouse you to a fury of denial. I burst immediately into indignant speech. 'There you go again,' I said. 'Rushing along without rhyme or reason. Why on earth should Mrs Ferrars wish to commit suicide? A widow, fairly young still, very well off, good health, and nothing to do but enjoy life. It's absurd.' 'Not at all. Even you must have noticed how different she has been looking lately. It's been coming on for the last six months. She's looked positively hag-ridden. And you have just admitted that she hasn't been able to sleep.' 'What is your diagnosis?' I demanded coldly. 'An unfortunate love affair, I suppose?' My sister shook her head. 'Remorse,1 she said, with great gusto.
'Remorse?' 'Yes. You never would believe me when I told you she poisoned her husband. I'm more than ever convinced of it now.' 'I don't think you're very logical,' I objected. 'Surely if a woman committed a crime like murder, she'd be sufficiently cold-blooded to enjoy the fruits of it without any weak-minded sentimentality such as repentance.' Caroline shook her head. 'There probably are women like that - but Mrs Ferrars wasn't one of them. She was a mass of nerves. An overmastering impulse drove her on to get rid of her husband because she was the sort of person who simply can't endure suffering of any kind, and there's no doubt that the wife of a man like Ashley Ferrars must have had to suffer a good deal ' I nodded. 'And ever since she's been haunted by what she did. I can't help feeling sorry for her.' I don't think Caroline ever felt sorry for Mrs Ferrars whilst she was alive. Now that she has gone where (presumably) Paris frocks can no longer be worn, Caroline is prepared to indulge in the softer emotions of pity and comprehension. I told her firmly that her whole idea was nonsense. I was all the more firm because I secretly agreed with some part, at least, of what she had said. But it is all wrong that Caroline should arrive at the truth simply by a kind of inspired guesswork. I wasn't going to encourage that sort of thing. She will go round the village airing her views, and everyone will think that she is doing so on medical data supplied by me. Life is very trying. 'Nonsense,' said Caroline, in reply to my strictures. 'You'll see. Ten to one she's left a letter confessing everything.' 'She didn't leave a letter of any kind,' I said sharply, and not seeing where the admission was going to land me. 'Oh!' said Caroline. 'So you did inquire about that, did you? I believe, James, that in your heart of hearts, you think very much as I do. You're a precious old humbug.' 'One always has to take the possibility of suicide into consideration,' I said impressively. 'Will there be an inquest?' 'There may be. It all depends. If I am able to declare myself absolutely satisfied that the overdose was taken accidentally, an inquest might be dispensed with.' 'And are you absolutely satisfied?' asked my sister shrewdly. I did not answer, but got up from the table. CHAPTER 2 Who's Who in King's Abbot Before I proceed further with what I said to Caroline and what Caroline said to me, it might be as well to give some idea of what I should describe as our local geography. Our village. King's Abbot, is, I imagine, very much like any other village. Our big town is Cranchester, nine miles away. We have a large railway station, a small post office, and two rival 'General Stores.' Able-bodied men are apt to leave the place early in life, but we are rich in unmarried ladies and retired military officers. Our hobbies and recreations can be summed up in the one word, 'gossip.' There are only two houses of any importance in King's Abbot. One is King's Paddock, left to Mrs Ferrars by her late husband. The other,
Fernly Park, is owned by Roger Ackroyd. Ackroyd has always interested me by being a man more impossibly like a country squire than any country squire could really be. He reminds one of the red-faced sportsmen who always appeared early in the first act of an old-fashioned musical comedy, the setting being the village green. They usually sang a song about going up to London. Nowadays we have revues, and the country squire has died out of musical fashion. Of course, Ackroyd is not really a country squire. He is an immensely successful manufacturer of (I think) wagon wheels. He is a man of nearly fifty years of age, rubicund of face and genial of manner. He is hand and glove with the vicar, subscribes liberally to parish funds (though rumour has it that he is extremely mean in personal expenditure), encourages cricket matches. Lads' Clubs, and Disabled Soldiers' Institutes. He is, in fact, the life and soul of our peaceful village of King's Abbot. Now when Roger Ackroyd was a lad of twenty-one, he fell in love with, and married, a beautiful woman some five or six years his senior. Her name was Paton, and she was a widow with one child. The history of the marriage was short and painful. To put it bluntly, Mrs Ackroyd was a dipsomaniac. She succeeded in drinking herself into her grave four years after her marriage. In the years that followed, Ackroyd showed no disposition to make a second matrimonial adventure. His wife's child by her first marriage was only seven years old when his mother died. He is now twenty-five. Ackroyd has always regarded him as his own son, and has brought him up accordingly, but he has been a wild lad and a continual source of worry and trouble to his stepfather. Nevertheless we are all very fond of Ralph Paton in King's Abbot. He is such a good-looking youngster for one thing. As I said before, we are ready enough to gossip in our village. Everybody noticed from the first that Ackroyd and Mrs Ferrars got on very well together. After her husband's death, the intimacy became more marked. They were always seen about together, and it was freely conjectured that at the end of her period of mourning, Mrs Ferrars would become Mrs Roger Ackroyd. It was felt, indeed, that there was a certain fitness in the thing. Roger Ackroyd's wife had admittedly died of drink. Ashley Ferrars had been a drunkard for many years before his death. It was only fitting that these two victims of alcoholic excess should make up to each other for all that they had previously endured at the hands of their former spouses. The Ferrars only came to live here just over a year ago, but a halo of gossip has surrounded Ackroyd for many years past. All the time that Ralph Paton was growing up to manhood a series of lady housekeepers presided over Ackroyd's establishment, and each in turn was regarded with lively suspicion by Caroline and her cronies. It is not too much to say that for at least fifteen years the whole village has confidently expected Ackroyd to marry one of his housekeepers. The last of them, a redoubtable lady called Miss Russell, has reigned undisputed for five years, CHAPTER 3 Before I proceed further with what I said to Caroline and what Caroline said to me, it might be as well to give some idea of what I should describe as our local geography. Our village. King's Abbot, is, I imagine, very much like any other village. Our big town is Cranchester, nine miles away. We have a large railway station, a small post office, and two rival 'General Stores.' Able-bodied men are apt to leave the place early in life, but we are rich in unmarried ladies and retired military officers. Our hobbies and recreations can be summed up in the one word, 'gossip.' There are only two houses of any
importance in King's Abbot. One is King's Paddock, left to Mrs Ferrars by her late husband. The other, Fernly Park, is owned by Roger Ackroyd. Ackroyd has always interested me by being a man more impossibly like a country squire than any country squire could really be. He reminds one of the red-faced sportsmen who always appeared early in the first act of an old-fashioned musical comedy, the setting being the village green. They usually sang a song about going up to London. Nowadays we have revues, and the country squire has died out of musical fashion. Of course, Ackroyd is not really a country squire. He is an immensely successful manufacturer of (I think) wagon wheels. He is a man of nearly fifty years of age, rubicund of face and genial of manner. He is hand and glove with the vicar, subscribes liberally to parish funds (though rumour has it that he is extremely mean in personal expenditure), encourages cricket matches. Lads' Clubs, and Disabled Soldiers' Institutes. He is, in fact, the life and soul of our peaceful village of King's Abbot. Now when Roger Ackroyd was a lad of twenty-one, he fell in love with, and married, a beautiful woman some five or six years his senior. Her name was Paton, and she was a widow with one child. The history of the marriage was short and painful. To put it bluntly, Mrs Ackroyd was a dipsomaniac. She succeeded in drinking herself into her grave four years after her marriage. In the years that followed, Ackroyd showed no disposition to make a second matrimonial adventure. His wife's child by her first marriage was only seven years old when his mother died. He is now twenty-five. Ackroyd has always regarded him as his own son, and has brought him up accordingly, but he has been a wild lad and a continual source of worry and trouble to his stepfather. Nevertheless we are all very fond of Ralph Paton in King's Abbot. He is such a good-looking youngster for one thing. As I said before, we are ready enough to gossip in our village. Everybody noticed from the first that Ackroyd and Mrs Ferrars got on very well together. After her husband's death, the intimacy became more marked. They were always seen about together, and it was freely conjectured that at the end of her period of mourning, Mrs Ferrars would become Mrs Roger Ackroyd. It was felt, indeed, that there was a certain fitness in the thing. Roger Ackroyd's wife had admittedly died of drink. Ashley Ferrars had been a drunkard for many years before his death. It was only fitting that these two victims of alcoholic excess should make up to each other for all that they had previously endured at the hands of their former spouses. The Ferrars only came to live here just over a year ago, but a halo of gossip has surrounded Ackroyd for many years past. All the time that Ralph Paton was growing up to manhood a series of lady housekeepers presided over Ackroyd's establishment, and each in turn was regarded with lively suspicion by Caroline and her cronies. It is not too much to say that for at least fifteen years the whole village has confidently expected Ackroyd to marry one of his housekeepers. The last of them, a redoubtable lady called Miss Russell, has reigned undisputed for five years, twice as long as any of her predecessors. It is felt that but for the advent of Mrs Ferrars, Ackroyd could hardly have escaped. That - and one other factor - the unexpected arrival of a widowed sister-in-law with her daughter from Canada. Mrs Cecil Ackroyd, widow of Ackroyd's ne'er-do-well younger brother, has taken up her residence at Fernley Park, and has succeeded, according to Caroline, in putting Miss Russell in her proper place. I don't know exactly what a 'proper place' constitutes - it sounds chilly and unpleasant - but I know that Miss Russell goes about with pinched lips, and what I can only describe as an acid smile, and that she professes the utmost sympathy for 'poor Mrs Ackroyd - dependent on the charity of her husband's brother. The bread of charity is so bitter, is it not? / should be quite miserable if I did not work for my living.' I don't know what Mrs Cecil Ackroyd thought of the Ferrars affair when it came on the tapis. It
was clearly to her advantage that Ackroyd should remain unmarried. She was always very charming - not to say gushing - to Mrs Ferrars when they met. Caroline says that proves less than nothing. Such have been our preoccupations in King's Abbot for the last few years. We have discussed Ackroyd and his affairs from every standpoint. Mrs Ferrars has fitted into her place in the scheme. Now there has been a rearrangement of the kaleidoscope. From a mild discussion of probable wedding presents, we had been jerked into the midst of tragedy. Revolving these and sundry other matters in my mind, I went mechanically on my round. I had no cases of special interest to attend, which was, perhaps, as well, for my thoughts returned again and again to the mystery of Mrs Ferrars's death. Had she taken her own life? Surely, if she had done so, she would have left some word behind to say what she contemplated doing? Women, in my experience, if they once reach the determination to commit suicide, usually wish to reveal the state of mind that led to the fatal action. They covet the limelight. When had I last seen her? Not for over a week. Her manner then had been normal enough considering well considering everything. Then I suddenly remembered that I had seen her, though not to speak to, only yesterday. She had been walking with Ralph Paton, and I had been surprised because I had had no idea that he was likely to be in King's Abbot. I thought, indeed, that he had quarrelled finally with his stepfather. Nothing had been seen of him down here for nearly six months. They had been walking along, side by side, their heads close together, and she had been talking very earnestly. I think I can safely say that it was at this moment that a foreboding of the future first swept over me. Nothing tangible as yet - but a vague premonition of the way things were setting. That earnest tete-a-tete between Ralph Paton and Mrs Ferrars the day before struck me disagreeably. I was still thinking of it when I came face to face with Roger Ackroyd. 'Sheppard!' he exclaimed. 'Just the man I wanted to get hold of. This is a terrible business.' ||^ 'You've heard then?' He nodded. He had felt the blow keenly, I could see. His big red cheeks seemed to have fallen in, and he looked a positive wreck of his usual jolly, healthy self. 'It's worse than you know,' he said quietly. 'Look here, Sheppard, I've got to talk to you. Can you come back with me now?' 'Hardly. I've got three patients to see still, and I must be back by twelve to see my surgery patients.' 'Then this afternoon - no, better still, dine tonight. At 7.30. Will that suit you?' 'Yes, I can manage that all right. What's wrong? Is it Ralph?' I hardly knew why I said that - except, perhaps, that it had so often been Ralph. Ackroyd stared blankly at me as though he hardly understood. I began to realize that there must be something very I'm sure Miss Russell knows far more about high society than I do. I didn't attempt to argue with her. 'Just tell me this, doctor,' said Miss Russell. 'Suppose you are really a slave of the drug habit, is there any cure?' One cannot answer a question like that off-hand. I gave her a short lecture on the subject, and she listened with close attention. I still suspected her of seeking information about Mrs Ferrars.
'Now, veronal, for instance -' I proceeded. But, strangely enough, she didn't seem interested in veronal. Instead she changed the subject, and asked me if it was true that there were certain poisons so rare as to baffle detection. 'Ah!' I said. 'You've been reading detective stories.' She admitted that she had. 'The essence of a detective story,' I said, 'is to have a rare poison - if possible something from South America, that nobody has ever heard of- something that one obscure tribe of savages use to poison their arrows with. Death is instantaneous, and Western science is powerless to detect it. Is that the kind of thing you mean?' 'Yes. Is there really such a thing?' I shook my head regretfully. 'I'm afraid there isn't. There's curare, of course.' I told her a good deal about curare, but she seemed to have lost interest once more. She asked me if I had any in my poison cupboard, and when I replied in the negative I fancy I fell in her estimation. She said she must be getting back, and I saw her out at the surgery door just as the luncheon gong went. I should never have suspected Miss Russell of a fondness for detective stories. It pleases me very much to think of her stepping out of the housekeeper's room to rebuke a delinquent housemaid, and then returning to a comfortable perusal of The Mystery of the Seventh Death, or something of the kind. CHAPTER 4 The Man Who Grew Vegetable Marrows I told Caroline at lunch that I should be dining at Fernly. She expressed no objection - on the contrary. 'Excellent,' she said. 'You'll hear all about it. By the way, what is the trouble with Ralph?' ^ 'With Ralph?' I said, surprised; 'there isn't any.' 'Then why is he staying at the Three Boars instead of at Fernly Park?' I did not for a minute question Caroline's statement that Ralph Paton was staying at the local inn. That Caroline said so was enough for me. 'Ackroyd told me he was in London,' I said. In the surprise of the moment I departed from my valuable rule of never parting with information. 'Oh!' said Caroline. I could see her nose twitching as she worked on this. 'He arrived at the Three Boars yesterday morning,' she ,,.said. 'And he's still there. Last night he was out with a girl.' |?i;i That did not surprise me in the least. Ralph, I should say, is out with a girl most nights of his life. But I did rather wonder that he chose to indulge in the pastime in King's Abbot instead of in the gay Metropolis. II, , 'One of the barmaids?' I asked. ; 'No. That's just it. He went out to meet her. I don't know.who she is.' } (Bitter for Caroline to have to admit such a thing.) 'But I can guess,' continued my indefatigable sister. ; I waited patiently. 'His cousin.' 'Flora Ackroyd?' I exclaimed in surprise.
Flora Ackroyd is, of course, no relation whatever really to Ralph Paton but Ralph has been looked upon for so long as it 19 practically Ackroyd's own son, that cousinship is taken for granted. 'Flora Ackroyd,' said my sister. 'But why not go to Fernly if he wanted to see her?' 'Secretly engaged,' said Caroline, with immense enjoyment. 'Old Ackroyd won't hear of it, and they have to meet this way.' I saw a good many flaws in Caroline's theory, but I forebore to point them out to her. An innocent remark about our new neighbour created a diversion. The house next door. The Larches, has recently been taken by a stranger. To Caroline's extreme annoyance, she has not been able to find out anything about him, except that he is a foreigner. The Intelligence Corps has proved a broken reed. Presumably the man has milk and vegetables and joints of meat and occasional whitings just like everybody else, but none of the people who make it their business to supply these things seem to have acquired any information. His name, apparently, is Mr Porrott ~ a name which conveys an odd feeling of unreality. The one thing we do know about him is that he is interested in the growing of vegetable marrows. But that is certainly not the sort of information that Caroline is after. She wants to know where he comes from, what he does, whether he is married, what his wife was, or is, like, whether he has children, what his mother's maiden name was - and so on. Somebody very like Caroline must have invented the questions on passports, I think. 'My dear Caroline,' I said. 'There's no doubt at all about what the man's profession has been. He's a retired hairdresser. Look at that moustache of his.' Caroline dissented. She said that if the man was a hairdresser, he would have wavy hair - not straight. All hairdressers did. I cited several hairdressers personally known to me who had straight hair, but Caroline refused to'be convinced. 'I can't make him out at all,' she said in an aggrieved voice. 'I borrowed some garden tools the other day, and he was most polite, but I couldn't get anything out of him. I asked him point blank at last whether he was a Frenchman, and he said he wasn't - and, somehow, I didn't like to ask him any more.' I began to be more interested in our mysterious neighbour. A man who is capable of shutting up Caroline and sending her, like the Queen of Sheba, empty away, must be something of a personality. 'I believe,' said Caroline, 'that he's got one of those new vacuum cleaners ' I saw a meditated loan and the opportunity of further questioning gleaming from her eye. I saw the chance to escape into the garden. I am rather fond of gardening. I was busily exterminating dandelion roots when a shout of warning sounded from close by and a heavy body whizzed by my ears and fell at my feet with a repellent squelch. It was a vegetable marrow! I looked up angrily. Over the wall, to my left, there appeared a face. An egg-shaped head, partially covered with suspiciously black hair, two immense moustaches, and a pair of watchful eyes. It was our mysterious neighbour, Mr Porrott. Hi He broke at once into fluent apologies. ^ 'I demand of you a thousand pardons, monsieur. I am
without defence. For some months now I cultivate the marrows. This morning suddenly I enrage myself with these marrows. I send them to promenade themselves - alas! not only mentally but physically. I seize the biggest. I hurl him over the wall. Monsieur, I am ashamed. I prostrate myself.' Before such profuse apologies, my anger was forced to melt. After all, the wretched vegetable hadn't hit me. But I sincerely hoped that throwing large vegetables over walls was not our new friend's hobby. Such a habit could hardly endear him to us as a neighbour. H The strange little man seemed to read my thoughts. '^ 'Ah! no,' he exclaimed. 'Do not disquiet yourself. It is not with me a habit. But you can figure to yourself, monsieur, that a man may work towards a certain object, fc- ' 21 may labour and toil to attain a certain kind of leisure and occupation, and then find that, after all, he yearns for the old busy days, and the old occupations that he thought himself so glad to leave?' 'Yes,' I said slowly. 'I fancy that that is a common enough occurrence. I myself am perhaps an instance. A year ago I came into a legacy - enough to enable me to realize a dream. I have always wanted to travel, to see the world. Well, that was a year ago, as I said, and - I am still here.' My little neighbour nodded. 'The chains of habit. We work to attain an object, and the object gained, we find that what we miss is the daily toil. And mark you, monsieur, my work was interesting work. The most interesting work there is in the world.' 'Yes?' I said encouragingly. For the moment the spirit of Caroline was strong within me. 'The study of human nature, monsieur!' 'Just so,' I said kindly. Clearly a retired hairdresser. Who knows the secrets of human nature better than a hairdresser? 'Also, I had a friend - a friend who for many years never left my side. Occasionally of an imbecility to make one afraid, nevertheless he was very dear to me. Figure to yourself that I miss even his stupidity. His naivete, his honest outlook, the pleasure of delighting and surprising him by my superior gifts - all these I miss more than I can tell you.' 'He died?' I asked sympathetically. 'Not so. He lives and flourishes - but on the other side of the world. He is now in the Argentine.' 'In the Argentine,' I said enviously. I have always wanted to go to South America. I sighed, and then looked up to find Mr Porrott eyeing me sympathetically. He seemed an understanding little man. 'Will you go there, yes?' he asked. I shook my head with a sigh. 'I could have gone,' I said. 'A year ago. But I was foolish and worse than foolish - greedy. I risked the substance for the shadow.' 'I comprehend,' said Mr Porrott. 'You speculated?' I nodded mournfully, but in spite of myself I felt secretly entertained. This ridiculous little man was so portentously solemn. 'Not the Porcupine Oilfields?' he asked suddenly. I stared. 'I thought of them, as a matter of fact, but in the end I plumped for a gold mine in Western Australia.' My neighbour was regarding me with a strange expression which I could not fathom.
'It is Fate,' he said at last. 'What is Fate?' I asked irritably. 'That I should live next to a man who seriously considers Porcupine Oilfields, and also West Australian Gold Mines. Tell me, have you also a penchant for auburn hair?' I stared at him open-mouthed, and he burst out laughing. 'No, no, it is not the insanity that I suffer from. Make your mind easy. It was a foolish question that I put to you there, for, you see, my friend of whom I spoke was a young man, a man who thought all women good, and most of them beautiful. But you are a man of middle age, a doctor, a man who knows the folly and the vanity of most things in this life of ours. Well, well, we are neighbours. I beg of you to accept and present to your excellent sister my best marrow.' He stooped, and with a flourish produced an immense specimen of the tribe, which I duly accepted in the spirit in which it was offered. 'Indeed,' said the little man cheerfully, 'this has not been a wasted morning. I have made the acquaintance of a man who in some ways resembles my far-off friend. By the way, I should like to ask you a question. You doubtless know everyone in this tiny village. Who is the young man with the very dark hair and eyes, and the handsome face. He walks with his head flung back, and an easy smile on his lips?' The description left me in no doubt. 'That must be Captain Ralph Paton,' I said slowly. 'I have not seen him about here before?' 'No, he has not been here for some time. But he is the son adopted son, rather - of Mr Ackroyd of Fernly Park.' My neighbour made a slight gesture of impatience. 'Of course, I should have guessed. Mr Ackroyd spoke of him many times.' 'You know Mr Ackroyd?' I said, slightly surprised. 'Mr Ackroyd knew me in London - when I was at work there. I have asked him to say nothing of my profession down here.' 'I see,' I said, rather amused by this patent snobbery, as I thought it. But the little man went on with an almost grandiloquent smirk. 'One prefers to remain incognito. I am not anxious for notoriety. I have not even troubled to correct the local version of my name.' 'Indeed,' I said, not knowing quite what to say. 'Captain Ralph Paton,' mused Mr Porrott. 'And so he is engaged to Mr Ackroyd's niece, the charming Miss Flora.' 'Who told you so?' I asked, very much surprised. 'Mr Ackroyd. About a week ago. He is very pleased about it - has long desired that such a thing should come to pass, or so I understood from him. I even believe that he brought some pressure to bear upon the young man. That is never wise. A young man should marry to please himself - not to please a stepfather from whom he has expectations.' My ideas were completely upset. I could not see Ackroyd taking a hairdresser into his confidence, and discussing the marriage of his niece and stepson with him. Ackroyd extends a genial patronage to the lower orders, but he has a very great sense of his own dignity. I began to think that Porrott couldn't be a hairdresser after all. To hide my confusion, I said the first thing that came into my head.
'What made you notice Ralph Paton? His good looks?' 'No, not that alone - though he is unusually good-looking for an Englishman - what your lady novelists would call a Greek God. No, there was something about that young man that I did not understand.' He said the last sentence in a musing tone of voice which made an indefinable impression upon me. It was as though he was summing up the boy by the light of some inner knowledge that I did not share. It was that impression that was left with me, for at that moment my sister's voice called me from the house. I went in. Caroline had her hat on, and had evidently just come in from the village. She began without preamble. 'I met Mr Ackroyd.' 'Yes?' I said. 'I stopped him, of course, but he seemed in a great hurry, and anxious to get away.' I have no doubt but that that was the case. He would feel towards Caroline much as he had felt towards Miss Gannett earlier in the day - perhaps more so. Caroline is less easy to shake off. 'I asked him at once about Ralph. He was absolutely astonished. Had no idea the boy was down here. He actually said he thought I must have made a mistake. I! A mistake!' 'Ridiculous,' I said. 'He ought to have known you better.' 'Then he went on to tell me that Ralph and Flora are engaged.' 'I knew that, too,' I interrupted, with modest pride. 'Who told you?' 'Our new neighbour.' Caroline visibly wavered for a second or two, much as if a roulette ball might coyly hover between two numbers. Then she declined the tempting red herring. 'I told Mr Ackroyd that Ralph was staying at the Three Boars.' 'Caroline,' I said, 'do you never reflect that you might do a lot of harm with this habit of yours of repeating everything indiscriminately?' 'Nonsense,' said my sister. 'People ought to know things. I consider it my duty to tell them. Mr Ackroyd was very grateful to me.' 'Well,' I said, for there was clearly more to come. 'I think he went straight off to the Three Boars, but if so he didn't find Ralph there.' 'No?' 'No. Because as I was coming back through the wood ' 'Coming back through the wood?' I interrupted. Caroline had the grace to blush. 'It was such a lovely day,' she exclaimed. 'I thought I would make a little round. The woods with their autumnal tints are so perfect at this time of year.' Caroline does not care a hang for woods at any time of year. Normally she regards them as places where you get your feet damp, and where all kinds of unpleasant things may drop on your head. No, it was good sound mongoose instinct which took her to our local wood. It is the only place adjacent to the village of King's Abbot where you can talk with a young woman unseen by the whole of the village. It adjoins the Park of Fernly. 'Well,' I said, 'go on.' 'As I say, I was just coming back through the wood when I heard voices.' Caroline paused. 'Yes?' 'One was Ralph Paton's - I knew it at once. The other was a girl's. Of course I didn't mean to listen ' 'Of course not,' I interjected, with patent sarcasm which was, however, wasted on Caroline.
'But I simply couldn't help overhearing. The girl said something - I didn't quite catch what it was, and Ralph answered. He sounded very angry. 'My dear girl,' he said. 'Don't you realize that it is quite on the cards the old man will cut me off with a shilling? He's been pretty fed up with me for the last few years. A little more would do it. And we need the dibs, my dear. I shall be a very rich man when the old fellow pops off. He's mean as they make 'em, but he's rolling in money really. I don't want him to go altering his will. You leave it to me, and don't worry.' Those were his exact words. I remember them perfectly. Unfortunately, just then I stepped on a dry twig or something, and they lowered their voices and moved away. I couldn't, of course, go rushing after them, so wasn't able to see who the girl was.' 'That must have been most vexing,' I said. 'I suppose, though, you hurried on to the Three Boars, felt faint, and went into the bar for a glass of brandy, and so were able to see if both the barmaids were on duty?' 'It wasn't a barmaid,' said Caroline unhesitatingly. 'In fact, I'm almost sure that it was Flora Ackroyd, only ' 'Only it doesn't seem to make sense,' I agreed. 'But if it wasn't Flora, who could it have been?' Rapidly my sister ran over a list of maidens living in the neighbourhood, with profuse reasons for and against. When she paused for breath, I murmured something about a patient, and slipped out. I proposed to make my way to the Three Boars. It seemed likely that Ralph Paton would have returned there by now. I knew Ralph very well - better, perhaps, than anyone else in King's Abbot, for I had known his mother before him, and therefore I understood much in him that puzzled others. He was, to a certain extent, the victim of heredity. He had not inherited his mother's fatal propensity for drink, but nevertheless he had in him a strain of weakness. As my new friend of this morning had declared, he was extraordinarily handsome. Just on six feet, perfectly proportioned, with the easy grace of an athlete, he was dark, like his mother, with a handsome, sunburnt face always ready to break into a smile. Ralph Paton was of those born to charm easily and without effort. He was self-indulgent and extravagant, with no veneration for anything on earth, but he was lovable nevertheless, and his friends were all devoted to him. Could I do anything with the boy? I thought I could. On inquiry at the Three Boars I found that Captain Paton had just come in. I went up to his room and entered unannounced. For a moment, remembering what I had heard and seen, I was doubtful of my reception, but I need have had no misgivings. 'Why, it's Sheppard! Glad to see you.' He came forward to meet me, hand outstretched, a sunny smile lighting up his face. 'The one person I am glad to see in this infernal place.' I raised my eyebrows. 'What's the place been doing?' He gave a vexed laugh.
'It's a long story. Things haven't been going well with me, doctor. But have a drink, won't you?' Thanks,' I said, 'I will.' He pressed the bell, then coming back threw himself into a chair. 'Not to mince matters,' he said gloomily, 'I'm in the devil of a mess. In fact, I haven't the least idea what to do next.' 'What's the matter?' I asked sympathetically. 'It's my confounded stepfather.' 'What has he done?' 'It isn't what he's done yet, but what he's likely to do.' The bell was answered, and Ralph ordered the drinks. When the man had gone again, he sat hunched in the armchair, frowning to himself. 'Is it really - serious?' I asked. He nodded. 'I'm fairly up against it this time,' he said soberly. The unusual ring of gravity in his voice told me that he spoke the truth. It took a good deal to make Ralph grave. 'In fact,' he continued, 'I can't see my way ahead.. I'm damned if I can.' 'If I could help -' I suggested diffidently. But he shook his head very decidedly. 'Good of you, doctor. But I can't let you in on this. I've got to play a lone hand.' He was silent a minute and then repeated in a slightly different tone of voice: 'Yes - I've got to play a lone hand..' CHAPTER 5 Dinner at Fernly It was just a few minutes before half-past seven when I rang the front-door bell of Fernly Park. The door was opened with admirable promptitude by Parker, the butler. The night was such a fine one that I had preferred to come on foot. I stepped into the big square hall and Parker relieved me of my overcoat. Just then Ackroyd's secretary, a pleasant young fellow by the name of Raymond, passed through the hall on his way to Ackroyd's study, his hands full of papers. 'Good evening, doctor. Coming to dine? Or is this a professional call?' The last was in allusion to my black bag which I had laid down on the oak chest. I explained that I expected a summons to a confinement case at any moment, and so had come out prepared for an emergency call. Raymond nodded, and went on his way, calling over his shoulder: 'Go into the drawing-room. You know the way. The ladies will be down in a minute. I must just take these papers to Mr Ackroyd, and I'll tell him you're here.' On Raymond's appearance Parker had withdrawn, so I was alone in the hall. I settled my tie, glanced in a large mirror which hung there, and crossed to the door directly facing me, which was, as I knew, the door of the drawingroom. I noticed, just as I was turning the handle, a sound from within - the shutting down of a window, I took it to be. I noticed it, I may say, quite mechanically, without attaching ^y importance to it at the time. I opened the door and walked in. As I did so I almost collided with Miss Russell who was just coming
out. We both apologized. For the first time I found myself appraising the housekeeper and thinking what a handsome woman she must once have been - indeed, as far as that goes, still was. Her dark hair was unstreaked with grey, and when she had a colour, as she had at this minute, the stern quality of her looks was not so apparent. Quite subconsciously I wondered whether she had been out, for she was breathing hard, as though she had been running. 'I'm afraid I'm a few minutes early,' I said. 'Oh! I don't think so. It's gone half-past seven, Dr Sheppard.' She paused a minute before saying, 'I didn't know you were expected to dinner tonight. Mr Ackroyd didn't mention it.' I received a vague impression that my dining there displeased her in some way, but I couldn't imagine why. 'How's the knee?' I inquired. 'Much the same, thank you, doctor. I must be going now. Mrs Ackroyd will be down in a moment. I - I only came in here to see if the flowers were all right.' She passed quickly out of the room. I strolled to the window, wondering at her evident desire to justify her presence in the room. As I did so, I saw what, of course, I might have known all the time had I troubled to give my mind to it, namely, that the windows were long french ones opening on the terrace. The sound I had heard, therefore, could not have been that of a window being shut down. Quite idly, and more to distract my mind from painful thoughts than for any other reason, I amused myself by trying to guess what could have caused the sound in question. Coals on the fire? No, that was not the kind of noise at all. A drawer of a bureau pushed in? No, not that. Then my eye was caught by what, I believe, is called a silver table, the lid of which lifts, and through the glass of which you can see the contents. I crossed over to it, studying the contents. There were one or two pieces of old silver, a baby shoe belonging to King Charles the First, some Chinese jade figures, and quite a number of African implements and curios. Wanting to examine one of the jade figures more closely, I lifted the lid. It slipped through my fingers and fell. At once I recognized the sound I had heard. It was this same table lid being shut down gently and carefully. I repeated the action once or twice for my own satisfaction. Then I lifted the lid to scrutinize the contents more closely. I was still bending over the open silver table when Flora Ackroyd came into the room. Quite a lot of people do not like Flora Ackroyd, but nobody can help admiring her. And to her friends she can be very charming. The first thing that strikes you about her is her extraordinary fairness. She has the real Scandinavian pale gold hair. Her eyes are blue - blue as the waters of a Norwegian fiord, and her skin is cream and roses. She has square, boyish shoulders and slight hips. And to a jaded medical man it is very refreshing to come across such perfect health.
A simple straightforward English girl - I may be oldfashioned, but I think the genuine article takes a lot of beating. Flora joined me by the silver table, and expressed heretical doubts as to King Charles I ever having worn the baby shoe. 'And anyway,' continued Miss Flora, 'all this making a fuss about things because someone wore or used them seems to me all nonsense. They're not wearing or using them now. That pen that George Eliot wrote The Mill on the Floss with - that sort of thing - well, it's only just a pen after all. If you're really keen on George Eliot, why not get The Mill on the Floss in a cheap edition and read it.' 'I suppose you never read such old out-of-date stuff. Miss Flora?' 'You're wrong, Dr Sheppard. I love The Mill on the Floss: I was rather pleased to hear it. The things young women read nowadays and profess to enjoy positively frighten me. 'You haven't congratulated me yet, Dr Sheppard,' said Flora. 'Haven't you heard?' She held out her left hand. On the third finger of it was an exquisitely set single pearl. 'I'm going to marry Ralph, you know,' she went on. 'Uncle is very pleased. It keeps me in the family, you see.' I took both her hands in mine. My dear,' I said, 'I hope you'll be very happy.' 'We've been engaged for about a month,' continued Flora in her cool voice, 'but it was only announced yesterday. Uncle is going to do up Cross-stones, and give it to us to live in, and we're going to pretend to farm. Really, we shall hunt all the winter, town for the season, and then go yachting. I love the sea. And, of course, I shall take a great interest in the parish affairs, and attend all the Mothers' Meetings.' Just then Mrs Ackroyd rustled in, full of apologies for being late. I am sorry to say I detest Mrs Ackroyd. She is all chains and teeth and bones. A most unpleasant woman. She has small pale flinty blue eyes, and however gushing her words may be, those eyes others always remain coldly speculative. I went across to her, leaving Flora by the window. She gave me a handful of assorted knuckles and rings to squeeze, and began talking volubly. Had I heard about Flora's engagement? So suitable in every way. The dear young things had fallen in love at first sight. Such a perfect pair, he so dark and she so fair. 'I can't tell you, my dear Dr Sheppard, the relief to a mother's heart.' Mrs Ackroyd sighed - a tribute to her mother's heart, whilst her eyes remained shrewdly observant of me. 'I was wondering. You are such an old friend of dear Roger's. We know how much he trusts to your judgment. So difficult for me - in my position as poor Cecil's widow. But there are so many tiresome things - settlements, you know - all that. I fully believe that Roger intends to make settlements upon dear Flora, but, as you know, he is just a leetle peculiar about money. Very usual, I've heard, amongst men who are captains of industry. I wondered, you know, if you could just
sound him on the subject? Flora is so fond of you. We feel you are quite an old friend, although we have only really known you just over two years.' Mrs Ackroyd's eloquence was cut short as the drawing-room door opened once more. I was pleased at the interruption. I hate interfering in other people's affairs, and I had not the least intention of tackling Ackroyd on the subject of Flora's settlements. In another moment I should have been forced to tell Mrs Ackroyd as much. 'You know Major Blunt, don't you, doctor?' 'Yes, indeed,' I said. A lot of people know Hector Blunt - at least by repute. He has shot more wild animals in unlikely places than any man living, I suppose. When you mention him, people say: 'Blunt - you don't mean the big game man, do you?' His friendship with Ackroyd has always puzzled me a little. The two men are so totally dissimilar. Hector Blunt is perhaps five years Ackroyd's junior. They made friends early in life, and though their ways have diverged, the friendship still holds. About once in two years Blunt spends a fortnight at Fernly, and an immense animal's head, with an amazing number of horns which fixes you with a glazed stare as soon as you come inside the front door, is a permanent reminder of the friendship. Blunt had entered the room now with his own peculiar, deliberate, yet soft-footed tread. He is a man of medium height, sturdily and rather stockily built. His face is almost mahogany coloured, and is peculiarly expressionless. He has grey eyes that give the impression of always watching something that is happening very far away. He talks little, and what he does say is said jerkily, as though the words were forced out of him unwillingly. He said now: 'How are you, Sheppard?' in his usual abrupt fashion, and then stood squarely in front of the fireplace looking over our heads as though he saw something very interesting happening in Timbuctoo. 'Major Blunt,' said Flora, 'I wish you'd tell me about these African things. I'm sure you know what they all are.' I have heard Hector Blunt described as a woman hater, but I noticed that he joined Flora at the silver table with what might be described as alacrity. They bent over it together. I was afraid Mrs Ackroyd would begin talking about settlements again, so I made a few hurried remarks about the new sweet pea. I knew there was a new sweet pea because the Daily Mail had told me so that morning. Mrs Ackroyd knows nothing about horticulture, but she is the kind of woman who likes to appear well-informed about the topics of the day, and she, too, reads the Daily Mail. We were able to converse quite intelligently until Ackroyd and his secretary joined us, and immediately afterwards Parker announced dinner. My place at table was between Mrs Ackroyd and Flora. Blunt was on Mrs Ackroyd's other side, and Geoffrey Raymond next to him. Dinner was not a cheerful affair. Ackroyd was visibly preoccupied. He looked wretched, and ate next to nothing. Mrs Ackroyd, Raymond, and I kept the conversation going. Flora seemed affected by her uncle's depression, and Blunt relapsed into his usual taciturnity.
Immediately after dinner Ackroyd slipped his arm through mine and led me off to his study. 'Once we've had coffee, we shan't be disturbed again,' he explained. 'I told Raymond to see to it that we shouldn't be interrupted.' I studied him quietly without appearing to do so. He was clearly under the influence of some strong excitement. For a minute or two he paced up and down the room, then, as Parker entered with the coffee tray, he sank into an armchair in front of the fire. The study was a comfortable apartment. Bookshelves lined one wall of it. The chairs were big and covered in dark blue leather. A large desk stood by the window and was covered with papers neatly docketed and filed. On a round table were various magazines and sporting papers. 'I've had a return of that pain after food lately,' remarked Ackroyd calmly, as he helped himself to coffee. 'You must give me some more of those tablets of yours.' It struck me that he was anxious to convey the impression that our conference was a medical one. I played up accordingly. 'I thought as much. I brought some up with me.' 'Good man. Hand them over now.' 'They're in my bag in the hall. I'll get them.' Ackroyd arrested me. 'Don't you trouble. Parker will get them. Bring in the doctor's bag, will you, Parker?' 'Very good, sir.' Parker withdrew. As I was about to speak, Ackroyd threw up his hand. 'Not yet. Wait. Don't you see I'm in such a state of nerves that I can hardly contain myself?' I saw that plainly enough. And I was very uneasy. All sorts of forebodings assailed me. Ackroyd spoke again almost immediately. 'Make certain that window's closed, will you,' he asked. Somewhat surprised, I got up and went to it. It was not a french window, but one of the ordinary sash type. The heavy blue velvet curtains were drawn in front of it, but the window itself was open at the top. Parker re-entered the room with my bag while I was still at the window. 'That's all right,' I said, emerging again into the room. 'You've put the latch across?' 'Yes, yes. What's the matter with you, Ackroyd?' The door had just closed behind Parker, or I would not have put the question. Ackroyd waited just a minute before replying. 'I'm in hell,' he said slowly, after a minute. 'No, don't bother with those damn tablets. I only said that for Parker. Servants are so curious. Come here and sit down. The door's closed too, isn't it?' 'Yes. Nobody can overhear; don be uneasy.' 'Sheppard, nobody knows? what I've gone through in the last twenty-four hours. If a- ^'^ house ever fe11 in ruin about him, mine has about ^le- This business of Ralph's is the last straw. But we won^t talk about that now. It's the other - the other -I I don't kw°w what to do about it. And I've got to make up my mind soc^11'What's the trouble?' Ackroyd remained silent ^ a minute or two. He seemed curiously averse to begin. VO^' he dld ^a^the question he asked came as a complete? uprise. It was the last thing I expected. 'Sheppard, you attended ^shiey Ferrars in his last illness, didn't you?' 'Yes, I did.' He seemed to find
even greater difficulty in framing his next question. 'Did you ever suspect - dS^ n ever enter Y0111'head -that well, that he might have be 'I'll tell you the truth,' sald- 'At the tlme had n0 suspicion whatever, but sino^ - well, it was mere idle talk on my sister's part that first p-r1 the ldea into my head- Since then I haven't been able to ^t rt out aga'1- Bm' ''d Y^ I've no foundation whateve if for that suspicion.' 'He was poisoned,' said ^-Ackroyd. He spoke in a dull heavy 'volce- 'Who by?' I asked sharpMY- 'His wife.' 'How do you know that?' 'She told me so herself.' 'When?' 'Yesterday! My God! yesterday! It seems ten years ago.' I waited a minute, then M^ went on. 'You understand, Sheppo^d' rm tellmg V011 this m confidence. It's to go no furtl-i^- 1 want your advice - I can't carry the whole weight by r-flY^- As l said '^ 'w, I don't know what to do.' 'Can you tell me the whole story?' I said. 'I'm still in the dark. How did Mrs Ferrars come to make this confession to you?' 'It's like this. Three months ago I asked Mrs Ferrars to marry me. She refused. I asked her again and she consented, but she refused to allow me to make the engagement public until her year of mourning was up. Yesterday I called upon her, pointed out that a year and three weeks had now elapsed since her husband's death, and that there could be no further objection to making the engagement public property. I had noticed that she had been very strange in her manner for some days. Now, suddenly, without the least warning, she broke down completely. She - she told me everything. Her hatred of her brute of a husband, her growing love for me, and the - the dreadful means she had taken. Poison! My God! It was murder in cold blood.' I saw the repulsion, the horror, in Ackroyd's face. So Mrs Ferrars must have seen it. Ackroyd's is not the type of the great lover who can forgive all for love's sake. He is fundamentally a good citizen. All that was sound and wholesome and law-abiding in him must have turned from her utterly in that moment of revelation. 'Yes,' he went on, in a low, monotonous voice, 'she confessed everything. It seems that there is one person who has known all along - who has been blackmailing her for huge sums. It was the strain of that that drove her nearly mad.' 'Who was the man?' Suddenly before my eyes there arose the picture of Ralph Paton and Mrs Ferrars side by side. Their heads so close together. I felt a momentary throb of anxiety. Supposing oh! but surely that was impossible. I remembered the frankness of Ralph's greeting that very afternoon. Absurd! 'She wouldn't tell me his name,' said Ackroyd slowly. 'As a matter of fact, she didn't actually say that it was a man. But of course ' 'Of course,' I agreed. 'It must have been a man. And you've no suspicion at all?' For answer Ackroyd groaned and dropped his head into his hands. 'It can't be,' he said. 'I'm mad even to think of such a thing. No, I won't even admit to you the wild suspicion that crossed my mind. I'll tell you this much, though. Something she said made me think that the person in question might be actually among my household - but that can't be so. I must have misunderstood her.' 'What did you say to her?' I asked. 'What could I say? She saw, of course, the awful shock it had been to me. And then there was the question, what was my duty in the matter? She had made me, you see, an accessory after the fact. She saw all that, I think, quicker than I did. I was stunned, you know. She asked me for twenty-four hours made me promise to do nothing till the end of that time. And she steadfastly refused to give me the name
of the scoundrel who had been blackmailing her. I suppose she was afraid that I might go straight off and hammer him, and then the fat would have been in the fire as far as she was concerned. She told me that I should hear from her before twenty-four hours had passed. My God! I swear to you, Sheppard, that it never entered my head what she meant to do. Suicide! And I drove her to it.' 'No, no,' I said. 'Don't take an exaggerated view of things. The responsibility for her death doesn't lie at your door.' 'The question is, what am I to do now? The poor lady is dead. Why rake up past trouble?' 'I rather agree with you,' I said. 'But there's another point. How am I to get hold of that scoundrel who drove her to death as surely as if he'd killed her? He knew of the first crime, and he fastened on to it like some obscene vulture. She's paid the penalty. Is he to go scot free?' 'I see,' I said slowly. 'You want to hunt him down? It will mean a lot of publicity, you know.' 'Yes, I've thought of that. I've zigzagged to and fro in my mind.' 'I agree with you that the villain ought to be punished, but the cost has got to be reckoned.' Ackroyd rose and walked up and down. Presently he sank into the chair again. 'Look here, Sheppard, suppose we leave it like this. If no word comes from her, we'll let the dead things lie.' 'What do you mean by word coming from her?' I asked curiously. 'I have the strongest impression that somewhere or somehow she must have left a message for me before she went. I can't argue about it, but there it is.' I shook my head. 'She left no letter or word of any kind?' I asked. 'Sheppard, I'm convinced that she did. And more, I've a feeling that by deliberately choosing death, she wanted the whole thing to come out, if only to be revenged on the man who drove her to desperation. I believe that if I could have seen her then, she would have told me his name and bid me go for him for all I was worth.' He looked at me. 'You don't believe in impressions?' 'Oh, yes, I do, in a sense. If, as you put it, word should come from her ' I broke off. The door opened noiselessly and Parker entered with a salver on which were some letters. 'The evening post, sir,' he said, handing the salver to Ackroyd. Then he collected the coffee cups and withdrew. My attention, diverted for a moment, came back to Ackroyd. He was staring like a man turned to stone at a long blue envelope. The other letters he had let drop to the ground. 'Her writing,' he said in a whisper. 'She must have gone out and posted it last night, just before - before ' He ripped open the envelope and drew out a thick enclosure. Then he looked up sharply. 'You're sure you shut the window?' he said. 'Quite sure,' I said, surprised. 'Why?' 'All this evening I've had a queer feeling of being watched, spied upon. What's that ' He turned sharply. So did I. We both had the impression of hearing the latch of the door give ever so slightly. I went across to it and opened it. There was no one there. 'Nerves,' murmured Ackroyd to himself.
He unfolded the thick sheets of paper, and read aloud in a low voice. 'My dear, my very dear Roger, - A life calls for a life. I see that -1 saw it in your face this afternoon. So I am taking the only road open to me. I leave to you the punishment of the person who has made my life a hell upon earth for the last year. I would not tell you the name, this afternoon, but I propose to write it to you now. I have no children or near relations to be spared, so do not fear publicity. If you can, Roger, my very dear Roger, forgive me the wrong I meant to do you, since when the time came, I could not do it after all. : Ackroyd, his finger on the sheet to turn it over, paused. 'Sheppard, forgive me, but I must read this alone,' he said unsteadily. 'It was meant for my eyes, and my eyes only.' He put the letter in the envelope and laid it on the table. 'Later, when I am alone.' 'No,' I cried impulsively, 'read it now.' Ackroyd stared at me in some surprise. 'I beg your pardon,' I said, reddening. 'I do not mean read it aloud to me. But read it through whilst I am still here.' Ackroyd shook his head. 'No, I'd rather wait.' But for some reason, obscure to myself, I continued to urge him. 'At least, read the name of the man,' I said. Now Ackroyd is essentially pig-headed. The more you urge him to do a thing, the more determined he is not to do it. All my arguments were in vain. The letter had been brought in at twenty minutes to nine. It was just on ten minutes to nine when I left him, the letter still unread. I hesitated with my hand on the door handle, looking back and wondering if there was anything I had left undone. I could think of nothing. With a shake of the head I passed out and closed the door behind me. I was startled by seeing the figure ofParker close at hand. He looked embarrassed, and it occurred to me that he might have been listening at the door. What a fat, smug, oily face the man had, and surely there was something decidedly shifty in his eye. 'Mr Ackroyd particularly does not want to be disturbed,' I said coldly. 'He told me to tell you so.' 'Quite so, sir. I - I fancied I heard the bell ring.' This was such a palpable untruth that I did not trouble to reply. Preceding me to the hall, Parker helped me on with my overcoat, and I stepped out into the night. The moon was overcast, and everything seemed very dark and still. The village church clock chimed nine o'clock as I passed through the lodge gates. I turned to the left towards the village, and almost cannoned into a man coming in the opposite direction. 'This the way to Fernly Park, mister?' asked the stranger in a hoarse voice. I looked at him. He was wearing a hat pulled down over his eyes, and his coat collar turned up. I could see little or nothing of his face, but he seemed a young fellow. The voice was rough and uneducated. 'These are the lodge gates here,' I said.
'Thank you, mister.' He paused, and then added, quite unnecessarily, 'I'm a stranger in these parts, you see.' He went on, passing through the gates as I turned to look after him. The odd thing was that his voice reminded me of someone's voice that I knew, but whose it was I could not think. Ten minutes later I was at home once more. Caroline was full of curiosity to know why I had returned so early. I had to make up a slightly fictitious account of the evening in order to satisfy her, and I had an uneasy feeling that she saw through the transparent device. At ten o'clock I rose, yawned, and suggested bed, Caroline acquiesced. It was Friday night, and on Friday night I wind the clocks. I did it as usual, whilst Caroline satisfied herself that the servants had locked up the kitchen properly. It was a quarter past ten as we went up the stairs. I had just reached the top when the telephone rang in the hall below. 'Mrs Bates,' said Caroline immediately. 'I'm afraid so,' I said ruefully. I ran down the stairs and took up the receiver. 'What?' I said. 'W7w(? Certainly, I'll come at once.' I ran upstairs, caught up my bag, and stuffed a few extra dressings into it. Tarker telephoning,' I shouted to Caroline, 'from Fernly. They've just found Roger Ackroyd murdered.' I got out the car in next to no time, and drove rapidly to Fernly. Jumping out, I pulled the bell impatiently. There was some delay in answering, and I rang again. Then I heard the rattle of the chain and Parker, his impassivity of countenance quite unmoved, stood in the open doorway. I pushed past him into the hall. 'Where is he?' I demanded sharply. 'I beg your pardon, sir?' 'Your master. Mr Ackroyd. Don't stand there staring at me, man. Have you notified the police?' 'The police, sir? Did you say the police?' Parker stared at me as though I were a ghost. 'What's the matter with you, Parker? If, as you say, your master has been murdered ' A gasp broke from Parker. 'The master? Murdered? Impossible, sir!' It was my turn to stare. 'Didn't you telephone to me, not five minutes ago, and tell me that Mr Ackroyd had been found murdered?' The, sir? Oh! no indeed, sir. I wouldn't dream of doing such a thing.' 'Do you mean to say it's all a hoax? That there's nothing the matter with Mr Ackroyd?' 'Excuse me, sir, did the person
telephoning use my name?' 'I'll give you the exact words I heard. 'Is that DrSheppard? Parker, the butler at Femly, speaking. Will you please come at once, sir. Mr Ackroyd has been murdered.' Parker and I stared at each other blankly. 'A very wicked joke to play, sir,' he said at last, in a shocked tone. 'Fancy saying a thing like that.' 'Where is Mr Ackroyd?' I asked suddenly. 'Still in the study, I fancy, sir. The ladies have gone to bed, and Major Blunt and Mr Raymond are in the billiard room.' 'I think I'll just look in and see him for a minute,' I said. 'I know he didn't want to be disturbed again, but this odd practical joke has made me uneasy. I'd just like to satisfy myself that he's all right.' 'Quite so, sir. It makes me feel quite uneasy myself. If you don't object to my accompanying you as far as the door, sir-?' 'Not at all,' I said. 'Come along.' I passed through the door on the right, Parker on my heels, traversed the little lobby where a small flight of stairs led upstairs to Ackroyd's bedroom, and tapped on the study door. There was no answer. I turned the handle, but the door was locked. 'Allow me, sir,' said Parker. Very nimbly, for a man of his build, he dropped on one knee and applied his eye to the keyhole. 'Key is in the lock all right, sir,' he said, rising. 'On the inside. Mr Ackroyd must have locked himself in and possibly just dropped off to sleep.' I bent down and verified Parker's statement. 'It seems all right,' I said, 'but, all the same, Parker, I'm going to wake your master up. I shouldn't be satisfied to go home without hearing from his own lips that he's quite all right.' So saying, I rattled the handle and called out, 'Ackroyd, Ackroyd, just a minute.' But still there was no answer. I glanced over my shoulder. 'I don't want to alarm the household,' I said hesitatingly. Parker went across and shut the door from the big hall through which we had come. 'I think that will be all right now, sir. The billiard room is at the other side of the house, and so are the kitchen quarters and the ladies' bedrooms.' I nodded comprehendingly. Then I banged once more frantically on the door, and stooping down, fairly bawled through the keyhole: 'Ackroyd, Ackroyd! It's Sheppard. Let me in.' And still - silence. Not a sign of life from within the locked room. Parker and I glanced at each other. 'Look here, Parker,' I said, 'I'm going to break this door in - or rather, we are. I'll take the responsibility.' 'If you say so, sir,' said Parker, rather doubtfully. 'I do say so. I'm seriously alarmed about Mr Ackroyd.' 'I looked round the small lobby and picked up a heavy oak chair. Parker and I held it between us and advanced to the assault. Once, twice, and three times we hurled it against the lock. At the third blow it gave, and we staggered into the room. Ackroyd was sitting as I had left him in the armchair before the fire. His head had fallen sideways, and clearly visible, just below the collar of his coat, was a shining piece of twisted metalwork.
Parker and I advanced till we stood over the recumbent figure. I heard the butler draw in his breath with a sharp hiss. 'Stabbed from be'ind,' he murmured. ' 'Orrible!' He wiped his moist brow with his handkerchief, then stretched out a gingerly hand towards the hilt of the dagger. 'You mustn't touch that,' I said sharply. 'Go at once to the telephone and ring up the police station. Inform them of what has happened. Then tell Mr Raymond and Major Blunt.' 'Very good, sir.' Parker hurried away, still wiping his perspiring brow. I did what little had to be done. I was careful not to disturb the position of the body, and not to handle the dagger at all. No object was to be attained by moving it. Ackroyd had clearly been dead some little time. Then I heard young Raymond's voice, horrorstricken and incredulous, outside. 'What do you say? Oh! impossible! Where's the doctor?' He appeared impetuously in the doorway, then stopped dead, his face very white. A hand put him aside, and Hector Blunt came past him into the room. 'My God!' said Raymond from behind him; 'it's true, then.' Blunt came straight on till he reached the chair. He bent over the body, and I thought that, like Parker, he was going to lay hold of the dagger hilt. I drew him back with one hand. 'Nothing must be moved,' I explained. 'The police must see him exactly as he is now.' Blunt nodded in instant comprehension. His face was expressionless as ever, but I thought I detected signs of emotion beneath the stolid mask. Geoffrey Raymond had joined us now, and stood peering over Blunt's shoulder at the body. 'This is terrible,' he said in a low voice. He had regained his composure, but as he took off the pince-nez he habitually wore and polished them I observed that his hand was shaking. 'Robbery, I suppose,' he said. 'How did the fellow get in? Through the window? Has anything been taken?' He went towards the desk. 'You think it's burglary?' I said slowly. 'What else could it be? There's no question of suicide, I suppose?' 'No man could stab himself in such a way,' I said confidently. 'It's murder right enough. But with what motive?' 'Roger hadn't an enemy in the world,' said Blunt quietly. 'Must have been burglars. But what was the thief after? Nothing seems to be disarranged?' He looked round the room. Raymond was still sorting the papers on the desk. 'There seems nothing missing, and none of the drawers show signs of having been tampered with,' the
secretary observed at last. 'It's very mysterious.' Blunt made a slight motion with his head. 'There are some letters on the floor here,' he said. I looked down. Three or four letters still lay where Ackroyd had dropped them earlier in the evening. But the blue envelope containing Mrs Ferrars's letter had disappeared. I half opened my mouth to speak, but at that moment the sound of a bell pealed through the house. There was a confused murmur of voices in the hall, and then Parker appeared with our local inspector and a police constable. 'Good evening, gentlemen,' said the inspector. 'I'm terribly sorry for this! A good kind gentleman like Mr Ackroyd. The butler says it's murder. No possibility of accident or suicide, doctor?' 'None whatever,' I said. 'Ah! A bad business.' He came and stood over the body. 'Been moved at all?' he asked sharply. 'Beyond making certain that life was extinct - an easy matter - I have not disturbed the body in any way.' 'Ah! And everything points to the murderer having got clear away - for the moment, that is. Now then, let me hear all about it. Who found the body?' I explained the circumstances carefully. 'A telephone message, you say? From the butler?' 'A message that I never sent,' declared Parker earnestly. 'I've not been near the telephone the whole evening. The others can bear me out that I haven't.' 'Very odd, that. Did it sound like Parker's voice, doctor?' 'Well -1 can't say I noticed. I took it for granted, you see.' 'Naturally. Well, you got up here, broke in the door, and found poor Mr Ackroyd like this. How long should you say he had been dead, doctor?' 'Half an hour at least - perhaps longer,' I said. 'The door was locked on the inside, you say? What about the window?' 'I myself closed and bolted it earlier in the evening at Mr Ackroyd's request.' The inspector strode across to it and threw back the curtains. 'Well, it's open now, anyway,' he remarked, True enough, the window was open, the lower sash being raised to its fullest extent. The inspector produced a pocket torch and flashed it along the sill outside. 'This is the way he went all right,' he remarked, 'and got in. See here.' In the light of the powerful torch, several clearly defined footmarks could be seen. They seemed to be those of shoes with rubber studs in the soles. One particularly clear one pointed inwards, another, slightly overlapping it, pointed outwards. 'Plain as a pikestaff,' said the inspector. 'Any valuables missing?' Geoffrey Raymond shook his head. 'Not so far that we can discover. Mr Ackroyd never kept anything of particular value in this room.' 'H'm,' said the inspector. 'Man found an open window, Climbed in, saw Mr Ackroyd sitting there - maybe he'd fallen asleep. Man stabbed him from behind, then lost his nerve and made off. But he's left his tracks pretty clearly. We ought to get hold of him without much difficulty. No suspicious strangers been hanging
about anywhere?' 'Oh!' I said suddenly. 'What is it, doctor?' 'I met a man this evening - just as I was turning out of the gate. He asked me the way to Fernly Park.' 'What time would that be?' 'Just nine o'clock. I heard it chime the hour as I was turning out of the gate.' 'Can you describe him?' I did so to the best of my ability. The inspector turned to the butler. 'Anyone answering that description come to the front door?' 'No, sir. No one has been to the house at all this evening.' 'What about the back?' 'I don't think so, sir, but I'll make inquiries.' He moved towards the door, but the inspector held up a large hand. 'No, thanks. I'll do my own inquiring. But first of all I want to fix the times a little more clearly. When was Mr Ackroyd last seen alive?' 'Probably by me,' I said, 'when I left at - let me see about ten minutes to nine. He told me that he didn't wish to be disturbed, and I repeated the order to Parker.' 'Just so, sir,' said Parker respectfully. 'Mr Ackroyd was certainly alive at half-past nine,' put in Raymond, 'for I heard his voice in here talking.' 'Who was he talking to?' 'That I don't know. Of course, at the time I took it for granted that it was Dr Sheppard who was with him. I wanted to ask him a question about some papers I was engaged upon, but when I heard the voices I-remembered that he had said he wanted to talk to Dr Sheppard without being disturbed, and I went away again. But now it seems that the doctor had already left?' I nodded. 'I was at home by a quarter past nine,' I said. 'I didn't go out again until I received the telephone call.' 'Who could have been with him at half-past nine?' queried the inspector. 'It wasn't you, Mr - er ' 'Major Blunt,' I said. 'Major Hector Blunt?' asked the inspector, a respectful tone creeping into his voice. Blunt merely jerked his head affirmatively. 'I think we've seen you down here before, sir,' said the inspector. 'I didn't recognize you for the moment, but you were staying with Mr Ackroyd a year ago last May.' 'June,' corrected Blunt. 'Just so, June it was. Now, as I was saying, it wasn't you with Mr Ackroyd at nine-thirty this evening?' Blunt shook his head. 'Never saw him after dinner,' he volunteered. The inspector turned once more to Raymond. 'You didn't overhear any of the conversation going on, did you, sir?' 'I did catch just a fragment of it,' said the secretary, 'and, supposing as I did that it was Dr Sheppard who was with Mr Ackroyd, that fragment struck me as distinctly odd. As far as I can remember, the exact words were these. Mr Ackroyd was speaking. 'The calls on my purse have been so frequent of late' - that is what he was saying - 'of late, that I fear it is impossible for me to accede to your request..' I went away again at once, of course, so I did not hear any more. But I rather wondered because Dr Sheppard ' ' - Does not ask for loans for himself or subscriptions for others,' I finished. 'A demand for money,' said the inspector musingly. 'It may be that here we have a very important clue.' He turned to the butler. 'You say, Parker, that nobody was admitted by the front door this evening?'
'That's what I say, sir.' 'Then it seems almost certain that Mr Ackroyd himself must have admitted this stranger. But I don't quite see ' The inspector went into a kind of day-dream for some minutes. 'One thing's clear,' he said at length, rousing himself from his absorption, 'Mr Ackroyd was alive and well at nine-thirty. That is the last moment at which he is known to have been alive.' Parker gave vent to an apologetic cough which brought the inspector's eyes on him at once. 'Well?' he said sharply. 'If you'll excuse me, sir. Miss Flora saw him after that.' 'Miss Flora?' 'Yes, sir. About a quarter to ten that would be. It was after that that she told me Mr Ackroyd wasn't to be disturbed again tonight.' 'Did he send her to you with that message?' 'Not exactly, sir. I was bringing a tray with soda and whisky when Miss Flora, who was just coming out of this room, stopped me and said her uncle didn't want to be disturbed.' The inspector looked at the butler with rather closer attention than he had bestowed on him up to now. 'You'd already been told that Mr Ackroyd didn't want to be disturbed, hadn't you?' Parker began to stammer. His hands shook. 'Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Quite so, sir.' 'And yet you were proposing to do so?' 'I'd forgotten, sir. At least I mean, I always bring the whisky and soda about that time, sir, and ask if there's anything more, and I thought - well, I was doing as usual without thinking.' It was at this moment that it began to dawn upon me that Parker was most suspiciously flustered. The man was shaking and twitching all over. 'H'm,' said the inspector. 'I must see Miss Ackroyd at once. For the moment we'll leave this room exactly as it is. I can return here after I've heard what Miss Ackroyd has to tell me. I shall just take the precaution of shutting and bolting the window.' This precaution accomplished, he led the way into the hall and we followed him. He paused a moment, as he glanced up at the little staircase, then spoke over his shoulder to the constable. 'Jones, you'd better stay here. Don't let anyone go into that room.' Parker interposed deferentially. 'If you'll excuse me, sir. If you were to lock the door into the main hall, nobody could gain access to this part. That staircase leads only to Mr Ackroyd's bedroom and bathroom. There is no communication with the other part of the house. There once was a door through, but Mr Ackroyd had it blocked up. He liked to feel that his suite was entirely private.' To make things clear and explain the position, I have appended a rough sketch of the right-hand wing of the house. The small staircase leads, as Parker explained, to a big bedroom made by two being knocked into one, and an adjoining bathroom and lavatory. The inspector took in the position at a glance. We went through into the large hall and he locked the door behind him, slipping the key into his pocket. Then he gave the constable some low-voiced instructions, and the latter prepared to depart. 'We must get busy on those shoe tracks,' explained the inspector. 'But first of all, I must have a word with Miss Ackroyd. She was the last person to see her uncle alive.
Does she know yet?' Raymond shook his head. 'Well, no need to tell her for another five minutes. She can answer my questions better without being upset by knowing the truth about her uncle. Tell her there's been a burglary, and ask her if she would mind dressing and coming down to answer a few questions.' It was Raymond who went upstairs on this errand. 'Miss Ackroyd will be down in a minute,' he said, when he returned. 'I told her just what you suggested.' In less than five minutes Flora descended the staircase. She was wrapped in a pale pink silk kimono. She looked anxious and excited. The inspector stepped forward. 'Good evening. Miss Ackroyd,' he said civilly. 'We're afraid there's been an attempt at robbery, and we want you to help us. What's this room - the billiard room? Come in here and sit down.' Flora sat down composedly on the wide divan which ran the length of the wall, and looked up at the inspector. 'I don't quite understand. What has been stolen? What do you want me to tell you?' 'It's just this. Miss Ackroyd. Parker here says you came out of your uncle's study at about a quarter to ten. Is that right?' 'Quite right. I had been to say goodnight to him.' 'And the time is correct?' 'Well, it must have been about then. I can't say exactly. It might have been later.' 'Was your uncle alone, or was there anyone with him?' 'He was alone. Dr Sheppard had gone.' 'Did you happen to notice whether the window was open or shut?' Flora shook her head. 'I can't say. The curtains were drawn.' 'Exactly. And your uncle seemed quite as usual?' 'I think so.' 'Do you mind telling us exactly what passed between you?' Flora paused a minute, as though to collect her recollections. 'I went in and said, 'Goodnight, Uncle, I'm going to bed now. I'm tired tonight.' He gave a sort of grunt, and - I went over and kissed him, and he said something about my looking nice in the frock I had on, and then he told me to run away as he was busy. So I went.' 'Did he ask specially not to be disturbed?' 'Oh! yes, I forgot. He said: 'Tell Parker I don't want anything more tonight, and that he's not to disturb me.' I met Parker just outside the door and gave him Uncle's message.' 'Just so,' said the inspector. 'Won't you tell me what it is that has been stolen?' 'We're not quite - certain,' said the inspector hesitatingly. A wide look of alarm came into the girl's eyes. She started up. 'What is it? You're hiding something from me?' Moving in his usual unobtrusive manner. Hector Blunt came between her and the inspector. She half stretched out her hand, and he took it in both of his, patting it as though she were a very small child, and she turned to him as though something in his stolid, rocklike demeanour promised comfort and safety. 'It's bad news, Flora,' he said quietly. 'Bad news for all of us. Your Uncle Roger ' 'Yes?' 'It will be a shock to you. Bound to be. Poor Roger's dead.' Flora drew away from him, her eyes dilating with horror. 'When?' she whispered. 'When?' 'Very soon after you left him, I'm afraid,' said Blunt gravely.
Flora raised her hand to her throat, gave a little cry, and I hurried to catch her as she fell. She had fainted, and Blunt and I carried her upstairs and laid her on her bed. Then I got him to wake Mrs Ackroyd and tell her the news. Flora soon revived, and I brought her mother to her, telling her what to do for the girl. Then I hurried downstairs again. CHAPTER 6 The Tunisian Dagger I met the inspector just coming from the door which led into the kitchen quarters. 'How's the young lady, doctor?' 'Coming round nicely. Her mother's with her.' 'That's good. I've been questioning the servants. They all declare that no one has been to the back door tonight. Your description of that stranger was rather vague. Can't you give us something more definite to go upon?' 'I'm afraid not,' I said regretfully. 'It was a dark night, you. see, and the fellow had his coat collar well pulled up and his hat squashed down over his eyes.' 'H'm,' said the inspector. 'Looked as though he wanted to conceal his face. Sure it was no one you know?' I replied in the negative, but not as decidedly as I might have done. I remembered my impression that the stranger's voice was not unfamiliar to me. I explained this rather haltingly to the inspector. 'It was a rough, uneducated voice, you say?' I agreed, but it occurred to me that the roughness had been of an almost exaggerated quality. If, as the inspector thought, the man had wished to hide his face, he might equally well have tried to disguise his voice. 'Do you mind coming into the study with me again, doctor? There are one or two things I want to ask you.' I acquiesced. Inspector Davis unlocked the door of the lobby, we passed through, and he locked the door again behind him. 'We don't want to be disturbed,' he said grimly. 'And we don't want any eavesdropping either. What's all this about blackmail?' 'Blackmail!' I exclaimed, very much startled. 'Is it an effort of Parker's imagination? Or is there something in it?' 'IfParker heard anything about blackmail,' I said slowly, 'he must have been listening outside this door with his ear glued against the keyhole.' Da vis nodded. 'Nothing more likely. You see, I've been instituting a few inquiries as to what Parker has been doing with himself this evening. To tell the truth, I didn't like his manner. The man knows something. When I began to question him, he got the wind up, and plumped out some garbled story of blackmail.' I took an instant decision. 'I'm rather glad you've brought the matter up,' I said. 'I've been trying to decide whether to make a clean breast of things or not. I'd already practically decided to tell you everything, but I was going to wait for a favourable opportunity. You might as well have it now.' And then and there I narrated the whole events of the evening as I have set them down here. The inspector listened keenly, occasionally interjecting a question. 'Most extraordinary story I ever heard,' he said, when I had finished. 'And you say that letter has completely disappeared? It looks bad - it looks very bad indeed. It gives us what we've been looking for - a motive for the murder.' I nodded. 'I realize that.' 'You say that Mr Ackroyd hinted at a suspicion he had that some member of his
household was involved? Household's rather an elastic term.' 'You don't think that Parker himself might be the man we're after?' I suggested. 'It looks very like it. He was obviously listening at the door when you came out. Then Miss Ackroyd came across him later bent on entering the study. Say he tried again when she was safely out of the way. He stabbed Ackroyd, locked the door on the inside, opened the window, and got out that way, and went round to a side door which he had previously left open. How's that?' 'I want to see if Mr Raymond can tell us anything about this dagger,' he explained. Locking the outer door behind us again, we made our way to the billiard room, where we found Geoffrey Raymond. The inspector held up his exhibit. 'Ever seen this before, Mr Raymond?' 'Why -1 believe - I'm almost sure that is a curio given to Mr Ackroyd by Major Blunt. It comes from Morocco - no, Tunis. So the crime was committed with that? What an extraordinary thing. It seems almost impossible, and yet there could hardly be two daggers the same. May I fetch Major Blunt?' Without waiting for an answer, he hurried off. 'Nice young fellow that,' said the inspector. 'Something honest and ingenuous about him.' I agreed. In the two years that Geoffrey Raymond has been secretary to Ackroyd, I have never seen him ruffled or out of temper. And he has been, I know, a most efficient secretary. In a minute or two Raymond returned, accompanied by Blunt. 'I was right,' said Raymond excitedly. 'It is the Tunisian dagger.' 'Major Blunt hasn't looked at it yet,' objected the inspector. 'Saw it the moment I came into the study,' said the quiet man. 'You recognized it, then?' Blunt nodded. 'You said nothing about it,' said the inspector suspiciously. 'Wrong moment,' said Blunt. 'Lot of harm done by blurting out things at the wrong time.' He returned the inspector's stare placidly enough. The latter grunted at last and turned away. He brought the dagger over to Blunt. 'You're quite sure about it, sir. You identify it positively?' 'Absolutely. No doubt whatever.' 'Where was this - er - curio usually kept? Can you tell me that, sir?' It was the secretary who answered. 'In the silver table in the drawing-room.' 'What?' I exclaimed. The others looked at me. 'Yes, doctor?' said the inspector encouragingly. 'It's nothing,' said the inspector again, still encouragingly. 'It's so trivial,' I explained apologetically. 'Only that when I arrived last night for dinner I heard the lid of
the silver table being shut down in the drawing-room.' I saw profound scepticism and a trace of suspicion on the inspector's countenance. 'How did you know it was the silver table lid?' I was forced to explain in detail - a long, tedious explanation which I would infinitely rather not have had to make. The inspector heard me to the end. 'Was the dagger in its place when you were looking over the contents?' he asked. 'I don't know,' I said. 'I can't say I remember noticing it - but, of course, it may have been there all the time.' 'We'd better get hold of the housekeeper,' remarked the inspector, and pulled the bell. A few minutes later Miss Russell, summoned by Parker, entered the room. 'I don't think I went near the silver table,' she said, when the inspector had posed his question. 'I was looking to see that all the flowers were fresh. Oh! yes, I remember now. The silver table was open - which it had no business to be, and I shut the lid down as I passed.' She looked at him aggressively. 'I see,' said the inspector. 'Can you tell me if this dagger was in its place then?' Miss Russell looked at the weapon composedly. 'I can't say I'm sure,' she replied. 'I didn't stop to look. I knew the family would be down any minute, and I wanted to get away.' 'Thank you,' said the inspector. There was just a trace of hesitation in his manner, as though he would have liked to question her further, but Miss Russell clearly accepted the words as a dismissal, and glided from the room. 'Rather a Tartar, I should fancy, eh?' said the inspector, looking after her. 'Let me see. This silver table is in front of one of the windows, I think you said, doctor?' Raymond answered for me. 'Yes, the left-hand window.' 'And the window was open?' 'They were both ajar.' 'Well, I don't think we need go into the question much further. Somebody - I'll just say somebody - could get that dagger any time he liked, and exactly when he got it doesn't matter in the least. I'll be coming up in the morning with the chief constable, Mr Raymond. Until then, I'll keep the key of that door. I want Colonel Melrose to see everything exactly as it is. I happen to know that he's dining out the other side of the county, and, I believe, staying the night..' We watched the inspector take up the jar. 'I shall have to pack this carefully,' he observed. 'It's going to be an important piece of evidence in more ways than one.' A few minutes later as I came out of the billiard room with Raymond, the latter gave a low chuckle of amusement. I felt the pressure of his hand on my arm, and followed the direction of his eyes. Inspector Davis seemed to be inviting Parker's opinion of a small pocket diary. 'A little obvious,' murmured my companion. 'So Parker is the suspect, is he? Shall we oblige Inspector Davis with a set of our fingerprints also?' He took two cards from the card tray, wiped them with his silk handkerchief, then handed one to me and took the other himself. Then, with a grin, he handed them to the police inspector.
'Souvenirs,' he said. 'No. 1. Dr Sheppard, No. 2, my humble self. One from Major Blunt will be forthcoming in the morning.' Youth is very buoyant. Even the brutal murder of his friend and employer could not dim Geoffrey Raymond's spirits for long. Perhaps that is as it should be. I do not know. I have lost the quality of resilience long since myself. It was very late when I got back, and I hoped that Caroline would have gone to bed. I might have known better. She had hot cocoa waiting for me, and whilst I drank it, she extracted the whole history of the evening from me. I said nothing of the blackmailing business, but contented myself with giving her the facts of the murder. 'The police suspect Parker,' I said, as I rose to my feet and prepared to ascend to bed. 'There seems a fairly clear case against him.' 'Parker!' said my sister. 'Fiddlesticks! That inspector must be a perfect fool. Parker indeed! Don't tell me.' With which obscure pronouncement we went up to bed. CHAPTER 7 I Learn My Neighbour's Profession On the following morning I hurried unforgivably over my round. My excuse can be that I had no very serious cases to attend. On my return Caroline came into the hall to greet me. 'Flora Ackroyd is here,' she announced in an excited whisper. 'What?' I concealed my surprise as best as I could. 'She's very anxious to see you. She's been here half an hour.' Caroline led the way into our small sitting-room, and I followed. Flora was sitting on the sofa by the window. She was in black and she sat nervously twisting her hands together. I was shocked by the sight of her face. All the colour had faded away from it. But when she spoke her manner was as composed and resolute as possible. 'Dr Sheppard, I have come to ask you to help me?' 'Of course he'll help you, my dear,' said Caroline. I don't think Flora really wished Caroline to be present at the interview. She would, I am sure, have infinitely preferred to speak to me privately. But she also wanted to waste no time, so she made the best of it. 'I want you to come to The Larches with me.' 'The Larches?' I queried, surprised. 'To see that funny little man?' exclaimed Caroline. 'Yes. You know who he is, don't you?' 'We fancied,' I said, 'that he might be a retired hairdresser.' Flora's blue eyes opened very wide. 'Why, he's Hercule Poirot! You know who I mean - the private detective. They say he's done the most wonderful things - just like detectives do in books. A year ago he retired and came to live down here. Uncle knew who he was, but he promised not to tell anyone, because M. Poirot wanted to live quietly without being bothered by people.' 'So that's who he is,' I said slowly.
'You've heard of him, of course?' 'I'm rather an old fogey, as Caroline tells me,' I said,' but I have just heard of him.' 'Extraordinary!' commented Caroline. I don't know what she was referring to - possibly her own failure to discover the truth. 'You want to go and see him?' I asked slowly. 'Now why?' 'To get him to investigate this murder, of course,' said Caroline sharply. 'Don't be so stupid, James.' I was not really being stupid. Caroline does not always understand what I am driving at. 'You haven't got confidence in Inspector Davis?' I went on. 'Of course she hasn't,' said Caroline. 'I haven't either.' Anyone would have thought it was Caroline's uncle who had been murdered. 'And how do you know he would take up the case?' I asked. 'Remember he has retired from active work.' 'That's just it,' said Flora simply. 'I've got to persuade him.' 'You are sure you are doing wisely?' I asked gravely. 'Of course she is,' said Caroline. 'I'll go with her myself if she likes.' 'I'd rather the doctor came with me, if you don't mind, Miss Sheppard,' said Flora. She knows the value of being direct on certain occasions. Any hints would certainly have been wasted on Caroline. 'You see,' she explained, following directness with tact, 'Dr Sheppard being the doctor, and having found the body, he would be able to give all the details to M. Poirot.' 'Yes,' said Caroline grudgingly, 'I see that.' I took a turn or two up and down the room. 'Flora,' I said gravely, 'be guided by me. I advise you not to drag this detective into the case.' Flora sprang to her feet. The colour rushed into her cheeks. 'I know why you say that,' she cried. 'But it's exactly for that reason I'm so anxious to go. You're afraid! But I'm not. I know Ralph better than you do.' 'Ralph!' said Caroline. 'What has Ralph got to do with it?' Neither of us heeded her. 'Ralph may be weak,' continued Flora. 'He may have done foolish things in the past - wicked things even - but he wouldn't murder anyone.' 'No, no,' I exclaimed. 'I never thought it of him.' 'Then why did you go to the Three Boars last night?' demanded Flora, 'on your way home - after Uncle's body was found?' I was momentarily silenced. I had hoped that that visit of mine would remain unnoticed. 'How did you know about that?' I countered. 'I went there this morning,' said Flora. 'I heard from the servants that Ralph was staying there ' I interrupted her. 'You had no idea that he was in King's Abbot?' 'No. I was astounded. I couldn't understand it. I went there and asked for him. They told me, what I suppose they told you last night, that he went out at about nine o'clock yesterday evening - and - and never came back.' Her eyes met mine defiantly, and as though
answering something in my look, she burst out: 'Well, why shouldn't he? He might have gone anywhere. He may even have gone back to London.' 'Leaving his luggage behind?' I asked gently. Flora stamped her foot. 'I don't care. There must be a simple explanation.' 'And that's why you want to go to Hercule Poirot? Isn't it better to leave things as they are? The police don't suspect Ralph in the least, remember. They're working on quite another tack.' 'But that's just it,' cried the girl. They do suspect him. A man from Cranchester turned up this morning - Inspector Raglan, a horrid, weaselly little man. I found he had been to the Three Boars this morning before me. They told me all about his having been there, and the questions he had asked. He must think Ralph did it.' 'That's a change of mind from last night, if so,' I said slowly. 'He doesn't believe in Davis's theory that it was Parker then?' 'Parker indeed,' said my sister, and snorted. Flora came forward and laid her hand on my arm. 'Oh! Dr Sheppard, let us go at once to this M. Poirot. He will find out the truth.' 'My dear Flora,' I said gently, laying my hand on hers. 'Are you quite sure it is the truth we want?' She looked at me, nodding her head gravely. 'You're not sure,' she said. 'I am. I know Ralph better than you do.' 'Of course he didn't do it,' said Caroline, who had been keeping silent with great difficulty. 'Ralph may be extravagant, but he's a dear boy, and has the nicest manners.' I wanted to tell Caroline that large numbers of murderers have had nice manners, but the presence of Flora restrained me. Since the girl was determined, I was forced to give in to her and we started at once, getting away before my sister was able to fire off any more pronouncements beginning with her favourite words, 'Of course.' An old woman with an immense Breton cap opened the door of The Larches to us. M. Poirot was at home, it seemed. We were ushered into a little sitting-room arranged with formal precision, and there, after a lapse of a minute or so, my friend of yesterday came to us. 'Monsieur Ie docteur,' he said, smiling. 'Mademoiselle.' He bowed to Flora. 'Perhaps,' I began, 'you have heard of the tragedy which occurred last night.' His face grew grave. 'But certainly I have heard. It is horrible. I offer mademoiselle all my sympathy. In what way can I serve you?' 'Miss Ackroyd,' I said, 'wants you to - to ' 'To find the murderer,' said Flora in a clear voice. 'I see,' said the little man. 'But the police will do that, will they not?' 'They might make a mistake,' said Flora. 'They are on their way to make a mistake now, I think. Please, M. Poirot, won't you help us? If- if it is a question of money -' Poirot held up his hand. 'Not that, I beg of you, mademoiselle. Not that I do not care for money.' His eyes showed a momentary twinkle. 'Money, it means much to me and always has done. No, if I go into this, you must understand one thing clearly. I shall go through with it to the end. The good dog, he does not leave the scent, remember! You
may wish that, after all, you had left it to the local police.' 'I want the truth,' said Flora, looking him straight in the eyes. 'All the truth?' 'All the truth.' 'Then I accept,' said the little man quietly. 'And I hope you will not regret those words. Now, tell me all the circumstances.' 'Dr Sheppard had better tell you,' said Flora. 'He knows more than I do.' Thus enjoined, I plunged into a careful narrative, embodying all the facts I have previously set down. Poirot listened carefully, inserting a question here and there, but for the most part sitting in silence, his eyes on the ceiling. I brought my story to a close with the departure of the inspector and myself from Fernly Park the previous night. 'And now,' said Flora, as I finished, 'tell him all about Ralph.' I hesitated, but her imperious glance drove me on. 'You went to this inn - this Three Boars - last night on your way home?' asked Poirot, as I brought my tale to a close. 'Now exactly why was that?' I paused a moment to choose my words carefully. 'I thought someone ought to inform the young man of his uncle's death. It occurred to me after I had left Fernly that possibly no one but myself and Mr Ackroyd were aware that he was staying in the village.' Poirot nodded. 'Quite so. That was your only motive in going there, eh?' 'That was my only motive,' I said stiffly. 'It was not to - shall we say - reassure yourself about ce jeune hommeT 'Reassure myself?' 'I think, M. Ie docteur, that you know very well what I mean, though you pretend not to do so. I suggest that it would have been a relief to you if you had found that Captain Paton had been at home all the evening.' 'Not at all,' I said sharply. The little detective shook his head at me gravely. 'You have not the trust in me of Miss Flora,' he said. 'But no matter. What we have to look at is this Captain Paton is missing, under circumstances which call for an explanation. I will not hide from you that the matter looks grave. Still, it may admit of a perfectly simple explanation.' 'That's just what I keep saying,' cried Flora eagerly. Poirot touched no more upon that theme. Instead he suggested an immediate visit to the local police. He thought it better for Flora to return home, and for me to be the one to accompany him there and introduce him to the officer in charge of the case. We carried out this plan forthwith. We found Inspector Davis outside the police station looking very glum indeed. With him was Colonel Melrose, the Chief Constable, and another man whom, from Flora's description of'weaselly,' I had no difficulty in recognizing as Inspector Raglan from Cranchester. I know Melrose fairly well, and I introduced Poirot to him and explained the situation. The chief constable was clearly vexed, and Inspector Raglan looked as black as thunder. Davis, however, seemed slightly exhilarated by the sight of his superior officer's annoyance.
'The case is going to be plain as a pikestaff,' said Raglan. 'Not the least need for amateurs to come butting in. You'd think any fool would have seen the way things were last night, and then we shouldn't have lost twelve hours.' He directed a vengeful glance at poor Davis, who received it with perfect stolidity. 'Mr Ackroyd's family must, of course, do what they see fit,' said Colonel Melrose. 'But we cannot have the official investigation hampered in any way. I know M. Poirot's great reputation, of course,' he added courteously. 'The police can't advertise themselves, worse luck,' said Raglan. It was Poirot who saved the situation. 'It is true that I have retired from the world,' he said. 'I never intended to take up a case again. Above all things, I have a horror of publicity. I must beg, that in the case of my being able to contribute something to the solution of the mystery, my name may not be mentioned.' Inspector Raglan's face lightened a little. 'I've heard of some very remarkable successes of yours,' observed the colonel, thawing. 'I have had much experience,' said Poirot quietly. 'But most of my successes have been obtained by the aid of the police. I admire enormously your English police. If Inspector Raglan permits me to assist him, I shall be both honoured and flattered.' The inspector's countenance became still more gracious. Colonel Melrose drew me aside. 'From all I hear, this little fellow's done some really remarkable things,' he murmured. 'We're naturally anxious not to have to call in Scotland Yard. Raglan seems very sure of himself, but I'm not quite certain that I agree with him. You see, I - er - know the parties concerned better than he does. This fellow doesn't seem out after kudos, does he? Would work in with us unobtrusively, eh?' 'To the greater glory of Inspector Raglan,' I said solemnly. 'Well, well,' said Colonel Melrose breezily in a louder voice, 'we must put you wise to the latest developments, M. Poirot.' 'I thank you,' said Poirot. 'My friend. Doctor Sheppard, said something of the butler being suspected?' 'That's all bunkum,' said Raglan instantly. 'These high-class servants get in such a funk that they act suspiciously for nothing at all.' 'The fingerprints?' I hinted. 'Nothing like Parker's.' He gave a faint smile, and added: 'And yours and Mr Raymond's don't fit either, doctor.' 'What about those of Captain Ralph Paton?' asked Poirot quietly. I felt a secret admiration of the way he took the bull by the horns. I saw a look of respect creep into the inspector's eye. 'I see you don't let the grass grow under your feet, Mr Poirot. It will be a pleasure to work with you, I'm sure.
We're going to take that young gentleman's fingerprints as soon as we can lay hands upon him.' 'I can't help thinking you're mistaken. Inspector,' said Colonel Melrose warmly. 'I've known Ralph Paton from a boy upward. He'd never stoop to murder.' 'Maybe not,' said the inspector tonelessly. 'What have you got against him?' I asked. 'Went out just on nine o'clock last night. Was seen in the neighbourhood of Fernly Park somewhere about nine-thirty. Not been seen since. Believed to be in serious money difficulties. I've got a pair of his shoes here - shoes with rubber studs in them. He had two pairs, almost exactly alike. I'm going up now to compare them with those footmarks. The constable is up there seeing that no one tampers with them.' 'We'll go at once,' said Colonel Melrose. 'You and M. Poirot will accompany us, will you not?' We assented, and all drove up in the colonel's car. The inspector was anxious to get at once to the footmarks, and asked to be put down at the lodge. About half-way up the drive, on the right, a path branched off which led round to the terrace and the window of Ackroyd's study. 'Would you like to go with the inspector, M. Poirot?' asked the chief constable, 'or would you prefer to examine the study?' Poirot chose the latter alternative. Parker opened the door to us. His manner was smug and deferential, and he seemed to have recovered from his panic of the night before. Colonel Melrose took a key from his pocket, and unlocking the door which let into the lobby, he ushered us through into the study. 'Except for the removal of the body, M. Poirot, this room is exactly as it was last night.' 'And the body was found - where?' As precisely as possible, I described Ackroyd's position. The arm-chair still stood in front of the fire. Poirot went and sat down in it. 'The blue letter you speak of, where was it when you left the room?' 'Mr Ackroyd had laid it down on this little table at his right hand.' Poirot nodded. 'Except for that, everything was in its place?' 'Yes, I think so.' 'Colonel Melrose, would you be so extremely obliging as to sit down in this chair a minute. I thank you. Now M. Ie docteur, will you kindly indicate to me the exact position of the dagger?' I did so, whilst the little man stood in the doorway. 'The hilt of the dagger was plainly visible from the door then. Both you and Parker could see it at once?' 'Yes.' Poirot went next to the window. 'The electric light was on, of course, when you discovered the body?' he asked over his shoulder. I assented, and joined him where he was studying the marks on the windowsill. 'The rubber studs are the same pattern as those in Captain Paton's shoes,' he said quietly. Then he came back once more to the middle of the room. His eye travelled round, searching everything in the room with a quick, trained glance.
'Are you a man of good observation. Doctor Sheppard?' he asked at last. T think so,' I said, surprised. 'There was a fire in the grate, I see. When you broke the door down and found Mr Ackroyd dead, how was the fire? Was it low?' I gave a vexed laugh. T -1 really can't say. I didn't notice. Perhaps Mr Raymond or Major Blunt ' The little man opposite me shook his head with a faint smile. 'One must always proceed with method. I made an error of judgment in asking you that question. To each man his own knowledge. You could tell me the details of the patient's appearance - nothing there would escape you. If I wanted information about the papers on that desk, Mr Raymond would have noticed anything there was to see. To find out about the fire, I must ask the man whose business it is to observe such things. You permit ' He moved swiftly to the fireplace and rang the bell. After a lapse of a minute or two Parker appeared. 'The bell rang, sir,' he said hesitatingly. 'Come in, Parker,' said Colonel Melrose. 'This gentleman wants to ask you something.' Parker transferred a respectful attention to Poirot. 'Parker,' said the little man, 'when you broke down the door with Dr Sheppard last night, and found your master dead, what was the state of the fire?' Parker replied without a pause. 'It had burned very low, sir.' It was almost out.' 'Ah!' said Poirot. The exclamation sounded almost triumphant. He went on: 'Look round you, my good Parker. Is this room exactly as it was then?' The butler's eye swept round. It came to rest on the windows. 'The curtains were drawn, sir, and the electric light was on.' Poirot nodded approval. 'Anything else?' 'Yes, sir, this chair was drawn out a little more.' He indicated a big grandfather chair to the left of the door between it and the window. I append a plan of the room with the chair in question marked with an X. 'Just show me,' said Poirot. The butler drew the chair in question out a good two feet from the wall, turning it so that the seat faced the door. 'Voila ce qui est curieux,' murmured Poirot. 'No one would want to sit in a chair in such a position, I fancy. Now who pushed it back into place again, I wonder? Did you, my friend?' 'No, sir,' said Parker. 'I was too upset with seeing the master and all.' Poirot looked across at me. 'Did you, doctor?' I shook my head. 'It was back in position when I arrived with the police, sir,' put in Parker. 'I'm sure of that.' 'Curious,' said Poirot again. 'Raymond or Blunt must have pushed it back,' I suggested. 'Surely it isn't important?' 'It is completely
unimportant,' said Poirot. 'That is why it is so interesting,' he added softly. 'Excuse me a minute,' said Colonel Melrose. He left the room with Parker. 'Do you think Parker is speaking the truth?' I asked. 'About the chair, yes. Otherwise I do not know. You will find, M. Ie docteur, if you have much to do with cases of this kind, that they all resemble each other in one thing.' 'What is that?' I asked curiously. 'Everyone concerned in them has something to hide.' 'Have I?' I asked, smiling. Poirot looked at me attentively. 'I think you have,' he said quietly. 'But-' 'Have you told me everything known to you about this young man Paton?' He smiled as I grew red. 'Oh! do not fear. I will not press you. I shall learn it in good time.' 'I wish you'd tell me something of your methods,' I said hastily, to cover my confusion. 'The point about the fire, for instance?' 'Oh! that was very simple. You leave Mr Ackroyd at - ten minutes to nine, was it not?' 'Yes, exactly, I should say.' 'The window is then closed and bolted and the door unlocked. At a quater past ten when the body is discovered, the door is locked and the window is open. Who opened it? Clearly only Mr Ackroyd himself could have done so, and for one of two reasons. Either because the room became unbearably hot but since the fire was nearly out and there was a sharp drop in temperature last night, that cannot be the reason, or because he admitted someone that way. And if he admitted someone that way, it must have been someone well known to him, since he had previously shown himself uneasy on the subject of that same window.' 'It sounds very simple,' I said. 'Everything is simple, if you arrange the facts methodically. We are concerned now with the personality of the person who was with him at nine-thirty last night. Everything goes to show that that was the individual admitted by the window, and though Mr Ackroyd was seen alive later by Miss Flora, we cannot approach a solution of the mystery until we know wno that visitor was. The window may have been left open after his departure and so afforded entrance to the murderer, or the same person may have returned a second time. Ah! here is the colonel who returns.' Colonel Melrose entered with an animated manner. 'That telephone call has been traced at last,' he said. 'It did not come from here. It was put through to Dr Sheppard at 10.15 last night from a public call office at King's Abbot station. And at 10.23 the night mail leaves for Liverpool.' CHAPTER 8 Inspector Raglan is Confident We looked at each other. 'You'll have inquiries made at the station, of course?' I said. 'Naturally, but I'm not over sanguine as to the result. You know what that station is like.' I did. King's Abbot is a mere village, but its station happens to be an important junction. Most of the big expresses stop there, and trains are shunted, re-sorted, and made up. It has two or three public telephone boxes. At that time of night, three local trains come in close upon
each other, to catch the connection with the express for the north which comes in at 10.19 and leaves at 10.23. The whole place is in a bustle, and the chances of one particular person being noticed telephoning or getting into the express are very small indeed. 'But why telephone at all?' demanded Melrose. 'That is what I find so extraordinary. There seems no rhyme or reason in the thing.' Poirot carefully straightened a china ornament on one of the bookcases. 'Be sure there was a reason,' he said over his shoulder. 'But what reason could it be?' 'When we know that, we shall know everything. This case is very curious and very interesting.' There was something almost indescribable in the way he said those last words. I felt that he was looking at the case from some peculiar angle of his own, and what he saw I could not tell. He went to the window and stood there looking out. 'You say it was nine o'clock, Dr Sheppard, when you met this stranger outside the gate?' He asked the question without turning round. 'Yes,' I replied. 'I heard the church clock chime the hour.' 'How long would it take him to reach the house - to reach this window, for instance?' 'Five minutes at the outside. Two or three minutes only if he took the path at the right of the drive and came straight here.' 'But to do that he would have to know the way. How can I explain myself? - it would mean that he had been here before - that he knew his surroundings.' 'That is true,' replied Colonel Melrose. 'We could find out, doubtless, if Mr Ackroyd had received any strangers during the past week?' 'Young Raymond could tell us that,' I said. 'Or Parker,' suggested Colonel Melrose. 'from tons les deux,' suggested Poirot, smiling. Colonel Melrose went in search of Raymond, and I rang the bell once more for Parker. Colonel Melrose returned almost immediately, accompanied by the young secretary, whom he introduced to Poirot. Geoffrey Raymond was fresh and debonair as ever. He seemed surprised and delighted to make Poirot's acquaintance. 'No idea you'd been living among us incognito, M. Poirot,' he said. 'It will be a great privilege to watch you at work - Hallo, what's this?' Poirot had been standing just to the left of the door. Now he moved aside suddenly, and I saw that while my back was turned he must have swiftly drawn out the arm-chair till it stood in the position Parker had indicated. 'Want me to sit in the chair whilst you take a blood test?' asked Raymond good-humouredly. 'What's the idea?' 'M. Raymond, this chair was pulled out - so - last night when Mr Ackroyd was found killed. Someone moved it back again into place. Did you do so?' The secretary's reply came without a second's hesitation. 'No, indeed I didn't. I don't even remember that it was in that position, but it must have been if you say so. Anyway, somebody else must have moved it back to its proper place.
Have they destroyed a clue in doing so? Too bad!' 'It is of no consequence,' said the detective. 'Of no consequence whatever. What I really want to ask you is this, M. Raymond: Did any stranger come to see Mr Ackroyd during this past week?' The secretary reflected for a minute or two, knitting his brows, and during the pause Parker appeared in answer to the bell. 'No,' said Raymond at last. 'I can't remember anyone. Can you, Parker?' 'I beg your pardon, sir?' 'Any stranger coming to see Mr Ackroyd this week?' The butler reflected for a minute or two. 'There was the young man who came on Wednesday, sir,' he said at last. 'From Curtis and Troute, I understood he was.' Raymond moved this aside with an impatient hand. 'Oh! yes, I remember, but that is not the kind of stranger this gentleman means.' He turned to Poirot. 'Mr Ackroyd had some idea of purchasing a dictaphone,' he explained. 'It would have enabled us to get through a lot more work in a limited time. The firm in question sent down their representative, but nothing came of it. Mr Ackroyd did not make up his mind to purchase.' Poirot turned to the butler. 'Can you describe this young man to me, my good Parker?' 'He was fair-haired, sir, and short. Very neatly dressed in a blue serge suit. A very presentable young man, sir, for his station in life.' Poirot turned to me. 'The man you met outside the gate, doctor, was tall, was he not?' 'Yes,' I said. 'Somewhere about six feet, I should say.' 'There is nothing in that, then,' declared the Belgian. 'I thank you, Parker.' The butler spoke to Raymond. 'Mr Hammond has just arrived, sir,' he said. 'He is anxious to know if he can be of any service, and he would be glad to have a word with you.' 'I'll come at once,' said the young man. He hurried out. Poirot looked inquiringly at the chief constable. 'The family solicitor, M. Poirot,' said the latter. 'It is a busy time for this young M. Raymond,' murmured M. Poirot. 'He has the air efficient, that one.' 'I believe Mr Ackroyd considered him a most able secretary.' 'He has been here - how long?' 'Just on two years, I fancy.' 'His duties he fulfils punctiliously. Of that I am sure. In what manner does he amuse himself? Does he go in for Ie sporty 'Private secretaries haven't much time for that sort of thing,' said Colonel Melrose, smiling. 'Raymond plays golf, I believe. And tennis in the summer time.' 'He does not attend the courses -1 should say the running of the horses?' 'Race meetings? No, I don't think he's interested in racing.' Poirot nodded and seemed to lose interest. He glanced slowly round the study. 'I have seen, I think, all that there is to be seen here.' I, too, looked round. 'If those walls could speak,' I murmured. Poirot shook his head.
'A tongue is not enough,' he said. They would have to have also eyes and ears. But do not be too sure that these dead things' - he touched the top of the bookcase as he spoke - 'are always dumb. To me they speak sometimes - chairs, tables - they have their message!' He turned away towards the door. 'What message?' I cried. 'What have they said to you today?' He looked over his shoulder and raised one eyebrow quizzically. 'An opened window,' he said. 'A locked door. A chair that apparently moved itself. To all three I say 'Why?' and I find no answer.' He shook his head, puffed out his chest, and stood blinking at us. He looked ridiculously full of his own importance. It crossed my mind to wonder whether he was really any good as a detective. Had his big reputation been built up on a series of lucky chances?' I think the same thought must have occurred to Colonel Melrose, for he frowned. 'Anything more you want to see, M. Poirot?' he inquired brusquely. 'You would perhaps be so kind as to show me the silver table from which the weapon was taken? After that, I will trespass on your kindness no longer.' We went to the drawing-room, but on the way the constable waylaid the colonel, and after a muttered conversation the latter excused himself and left us together. I showed Poirot the silver table, and after raising the lid once or twice and letting it fall, he pushed open the window and stepped out on the terrace. I followed him. Inspector Raglan had just turned the corner of the house, and was coming towards us. His face looked grim and satisfied. 'So there you are, M. Poirot,' he said. 'Well, this isn't going to be much of a case. I'm sorry, too. A nice enough young fellow gone wrong.' Poirot's face fell, and he spoke very mildly. 'I'm afraid I shall not be able to be of much aid to you, then?' 'Next time, perhaps,' said the inspector soothingly. 'Though we don't have murders every day in this quiet little corner of the world.' Poirot's gaze took on an admiring quality. 'You have been of a marvellous promptness,' he observed. 'How exactly did you go to work, if I may ask?' 'Certainly,' said the inspector. 'To begin with - method. That's what I always say - method!' 'Ah!' cried the other. 'That, too, is my watchword. Method, order, and the little grey cells.' 'The cells?' said the inspector, staring. 'The little grey cells of the brain,' explained the Belgian. 'Oh, of course; well, we all use them, I suppose.' 'In a greater or lesser degree,' murmured Poirot. 'And there are, too, differences in quality. Then there is the psychology of a crime. One must study that.' 'Ah!' said the inspector, 'you've been bitten with all this psycho-analysis stuff? Now, I'm a plain man -' 'Mrs Raglan would not agree, I am sure, to that,' said Poirot, making him a little bow. Inspector Raglan, a little taken aback, bowed.
'You don't understand,' he said, grinning broadly. 'Lord, what a lot of difference language makes. I'm telling you how I set to work. First of all, method. Mr Ackroyd was last seen alive at a quarter to ten by his niece. Miss Flora Ackroyd. That's fact number one, isn't it?' 'If you say so.' 'Well, it is. At half-past ten, the doctor here says that Mr Ackroyd had been dead at least half an hour. You stick to that, doctor?' 'Certainly,' I said. 'Half an hour or longer.' 'Very good. That gives us exactly a quarter of an hour in which the crime must have been committed. I make a list of everyone in the house, and work through it, setting down opposite their names where they were and what they were doing between the hour of 9.45 and 10 p.m.' He handed a sheet of paper to Poirot. I read it over his shoulder. It ran as follows, written in a neat script: Major Blunt. - In billiard room with Mr Raymond. (Latter confirms.) Mr Raymond. - Billiard room. (See above.) Mrs Ackroyd. - 9.45 watching billiard match. Went up to bed 9.55. (Raymond and Blunt watched her up staircase.) Miss Ackroyd. - Went straight from her uncle's room upstairs. (Confirmed by Parker, also housemaid, Elsie Dale.) Servants: Parker. - Went straight to butler's pantry. (Confirmed by housekeeper. Miss Russell, who came down to speak to him about something at 9.47, and remained at least ten minutes.) Miss Russell. - As above. Spoke to housemaid, Elsie Dale, upstairs at 9.45. Ursula Bourne (parlourmaid). - In her own room until 9.55. Then in Servants' Hall. Mrs Cooper (cook). - In Servants' Hall. Gladys Jones (second housemaid). - In Servants' Hall. Elsie Dale. - Upstairs in bedroom. Seen there by Miss Russell and Miss Flora Ackroyd. Mary Thripp (kitchenmaid). - Servants' Hall. 'The cook has been here seven years, the parlourmaid eighteen months, and Parker just over a year. The others are new. Except for something fishy about Parker, they all seem quite all right.' 'A very complete list,' said Poirot, handing it back to him. 'I am quite sure that Parker did not do the murder,' he added gravely. 'So is my sister,' I struck in. 'And she's usually right.' Nobody paid any attention to my interpolation. 'That disposes pretty effectually of the household,' continued the inspector. 'Now we come to a very grave point. The woman at the lodge - Mary Black - was pulling the curtains last night when she saw Ralph Paton turn in at the gate and go up towards the house.' 'She is sure of that?' I asked sharply. 'Quite sure. She knows him well by sight. He went past very quickly and turned off by the path to the right, which is a short cut to the terrace.' 'And what time was that?' asked Poirot, who had sat with an immovable face. 'Exactly twenty-five minutes past nine,' said the inspector gravely.
There was a silence. Then the inspector spoke again. 'It's all clear enough. It fits in without a flaw. At twenty-five minutes past nine. Captain Paton is seen passing the lodge; at nine-thirty or thereabouts, Mr Geoffrey Raymond hears someone in here asking for money and Mr Ackroyd refusing. What happens next? Captain Paton leaves the same way - through the window. He walks along the terrace, angry and baffled. He comes to the open drawing-room window. Say it's now a quarter to ten. Miss Flora Ackroyd is saying goodnight to her uncle. Major Blunt, Mr Raymond, and Mrs Ackroyd are in the billiard room. The drawing-room is empty. He steals in, takes the dagger from the silver table, and returns to the study window. He slips off his shoes, climbs in, and - well, I don't need to go into details. Then he slips out again and goes off. Hadn't the nerve to go back to the inn. He makes for the station, rings up from there ' 'Why?' said Poirot softly. I jumped at the interruption. The little man was leaning forward. His eyes shone with a queer green light. For a moment Inspector Raglan was taken aback by the question. 'It's difficult to say exactly why he did that,' he said at last. 'But murderers do funny things. You'd know that if you were in the police force. The cleverest of them make stupid mistakes sometimes. But come along and I'll show you those footprints.' We followed him round the corner of the terrace to the study window. At a word from Raglan a police constable produced the shoes which had been obtained from the local inn. The inspector laid them over the marks. 'They're the same,' he said confidently. 'That is to say, they're not the same pair that actually made these prints. He went away in those. This is a pair just like them, but older see how the studs are worn down?' 'Surely a great many people wear shoes with rubber studs in them?' asked Poirot. 'That's so, of course,' said the inspector. 'I shouldn't put so much stress on the footmarks if it wasn't for everything else.' 'A very foolish young man. Captain Ralph Paton,' said Poirot thoughtfully. 'To leave so much evidence of his presence.' 'Ah! well,' said the inspector, 'it was a dry, fine night, you know. He left no prints on the terrace or on the gravelled path. But, unluckily for him, a spring must have welled up just lately at the end of the path from the drive. See here.' A small gravelled path joined the terrace a few feet away. In one spot, a few yards from its termination, the ground was wet and boggy. Crossing this wet place there were again the marks of footsteps, and amongst them the shoes with rubber studs. Poirot followed the path on a little way, the inspector by his side. 'You noticed the women's footprints?' he said suddenly. The inspector laughed. 'Naturally. But several different women have walked this way - and men as well. It's a regular short cut to the house, you see. It would be impossible to sort out all the footsteps. After all, it's the ones on the window-sill that are really important.' Poirot nodded.
'It's no good going farther,' said the inspector, as we came in view of the drive. 'It's all gravelled again here, and hard as it can be.' Again Poirot nodded, but his eyes were fixed on a small garden house - a kind of superior summer-house. It was a little to the left of the path ahead of us, and a gravelled walk ran up to it. Poirot lingered about until the inspector had gone back towards the house. Then he looked at me. 'You must have indeed been sent from the good God to replace my friend Hastings,' he said, with a twinkle. 'I observe that you do not quit my side. How say you. Doctor Sheppard, shall we investigate that summer-house? It interests me.' He went up to the door and opened it. Inside, the place was almost dark. There were.one or two rustic seats, a croquet set, and some folded deck-chairs. I was startled to observe my new friend. He had dropped to his hands and knees and was crawling about the floor. Every now and then he shook his head as though not satisfied. Finally, he sat back on his heels. 'Nothing,' he murmured. 'Well, perhaps it was not to be expected. But it would have meant so much ' He broke off, stiffening all over. Then he stretched out his hand to one of the rustic chairs. He detached something from one side of it. 'What is it?' I cried. 'What have you found?' He smiled, unclosing his hand so that I should see what lay in the palm of it. A scrap of stiff white cambric. I took it from him, looked at it curiously, and then handed it back. 'What do you make of it, eh, my friend?' he asked, eyeing me keenly. 'A scrap torn from a handkerchief,' I suggested, shrugging my shoulders. He made another dart and picked up a small quill - a goose quill by the look of it. 'And that?' he cried triumphantly. 'What do you make of that?' I only stared. He slipped the quill into his pocket, and looked again at the scrap of white stuff. 'A fragment of a handkerchief?' he mused. 'Perhaps you are right. But remember this - a good laundry does not starch a handkerchief.' He nodded at me triumphantly, then he put away the scrap carefully in his pocketbook. CHAPTER 9 The Goldfish Pond We walked back to the house together. There was no sign of the inspector. Poirot paused on the terrace and stood with his back to the house, slowly turning his head from side to side. 'Une belle proprietor he said at last appreciatively. 'Who inherits it?' His words gave me almost a shock. It is an odd thing, but until that moment the question of inheritance had never come into my head. Poirot watched me keenly. 'It is a new idea to you, that,' he said at last. 'You had not thought of it before - eh?' 'No,' I said truthfully. 'I wish I had.' He looked at me again curiously.
'I wonder just what you mean by that,' he said thoughtfully. 'Oh! no,' as I was about to speak. 'Inutile You would not tell me your real thought.' 'Everyone has something to hide,' I quoted, smiling. 'Exactly.' 'You still believe that?' 'More than ever, my friend. But it is not easy to hide things from Hercule Poirot. He has a knack of finding out.' He descended the steps of the Dutch garden as he spoke. 'Let us walk a little,' he said over his shoulder. The air is pleasant today.' I followed him. He led me down a path to the left enclosed in yew hedges. A walk led down the middle, bordered each side with formal flower beds, and at the end was a round paved recess with a seat and a pond of goldfish. Instead of pursuing the path to the end, Poirot took another which wound up the side of a wooded slope. In one spot the trees had been cleared away, and a seat had been put. Sitting there one had a splendid view over the countryside, and one looked right down on the paved recess and the goldfish pond. 'England is very beautiful,' said Poirot, his eyes straying over the prospect. Then he smiled. 'And so are English girls,' he said in a lower voice. 'Hush, my friend, and look at the pretty picture below us.' It was then that I saw Flora. She was moving along the path we had just left and she was humming a little snatch of song. Her step was more dancing than walking, and, in spite of her black dress, there was nothing but joy in her whole attitude. She gave a sudden pirouette on her toes, and her black draperies swung out. At the same time she flung her head back and laughed outright. As she did so a man stepped out from the trees. It was Hector Blunt. The girl started. Her expression changed a little. 'How you startled me - I didn't see you.' Blunt said nothing, but stood looking at her for a minute or two in silence. 'What I like about you,' said Flora, with a touch of malice, 'is your cheery conversation.' I fancy that at that Blunt reddened under his tan. His voice, when he spoke, sounded different - it had a curious sort of humility in it. 'Never was much of a fellow for talking. Not even when I was young.' 'That was a very long time ago, I suppose,' said Flora gravely. I caught the undercurrent of laughter in her voice, but I don't think Blunt did. 'Yes,' he said simply, 'it was.' 'How does it feel to be Methuselah?' asked Flora. This time the laughter was more apparent, but Blunt was following out an idea of his own. 'Remember the johnny who sold his soul to the devil? In return for being made young again? There's an opera about it.' 'Faust, you mean?' 'That's the beggar. Rum story. Some of us would do it if we could.' 'Anyone would think you were creaking at the joints to hear you talk,' cried Flora, half vexed, half amused. Blunt said nothing for a minute or two. Then he looked away from Flora into the middle distance and observed to an adjacent tree trunk that it was about time he got back to Africa.
'Are you going on another expedition - shooting things?' 'Expect so. Usually do, you know - shoot things, I mean.' 'You shot that head in the hall, didn't you?' Blunt nodded. Then he jerked out, going rather red as he did so: 'Care for some decent skins any time? If so, I could get 'em for you.' 'Oh! please do,' cried Flora. 'Will you really? You won't forget?' 'I shan't forget,' said Hector Blunt. He added, in a sudden burst of communicativeness: 'Time I went. I'm no good in this sort of life. Haven't got the manners for it. I'm a rough fellow, no use in society. Never remember the things one's expected to say. Yes, time I went.' 'But you're not going at once,' cried Flora. 'No - not while we're in all this trouble. Oh! please. If you go ' She turned away a little. 'You want me to stay?' asked Blunt. He spoke deliberately but quite simply. 'We all-' 'I meant you personally,' said Blunt, with directness. Flora turned slowly back again and met his eyes. 'I want you to stay,' she said, 'if - if that makes any difference.' 'It makes all the difference,' said Blunt. There was a moment's silence. They sat down on the stone seat by the goldfish pond. It seemed as though neither °f them knew quite what to say next. 'It - it's such a lovely morning,' said Flora at last. 'You know, I can't help feeling happy, in spite - in spite of everything. That's awful, I suppose?' 'Quite natural,' said Blunt. 'Never saw your uncle until two years ago, did you? Can't be expected to grieve very much. Much better to have no humbug about it.' 'There's something awfully consoling about you,' said Flora. 'You make things seems so simple.' 'Things are simple as a rule,' said the big-game hunter. 'Not always,' said Flora. Her voice had lowered itself, and I saw Blunt turn and look at her, bringing his eyes back from (apparently) the coast of Africa to do so. He evidently put his own construction on her change of tone, for he said, after a minute or two, in rather an abrupt manner: 'I say, you know, you mustn't worry. About that young chap, I mean. Inspector's an ass. Everybody knows utterly absurd to think he could have done it. Man from outside. Burglar chap. That's the only possible solution.' Flora turned to look at him. 'You really think so?' 'Don't you?' said Blunt quickly. 'I - oh, yes, of course.' Another silence, and then Flora burst out: 'I'm - I'll tell you why I felt so happy this morning. However heartless you think me, I'd rather tell you. It's because the lawyer has been - Mr Hammond. He told us about the will. Uncle Roger has left me twenty thousand pounds. Think of it - twenty thousand beautiful pounds.' Blunt looked surprised. 'Does it mean so much to you?' 'Mean much to me? Why, it's everything. Freedom - life - no more scheming and scraping and lying ' 'Lying?' said Blunt, sharply interrupting.
Flora seemed taken aback for a minute. 'You know what I mean,' she said uncertainly. 'Pretending to be thankful for all the nasty cast-off things rich relations give you. Last year's coat and skirts and hats.' 'Don't know much about ladies' clothes; should have said you were always very well turned out.' 'It cost me something, though,' said Flora in a low voice. 'Don't let's talk of horrid things. I'm so happy. I'm free. Free to do what I like. Free not to ' She stopped suddenly. 'Not to what?' asked Blunt quickly. 'I forget now. Nothing important.' Blunt had a stick in his hand, and he thrust it into the pond, poking at something. 'What are you doing. Major Blunt?' 'There's something bright down there. Wondered what it was - looks like a gold brooch. Now I've stirred up the mud and it's gone.' 'Perhaps it's a crown,' suggested Flora. 'Like the one Melisande saw in the water.' 'Melisande,' said Blunt reflectively - 'she's in an opera, isn't she?' 'Yes, you seem to know a lot about operas.' 'People take me sometimes,' said Blunt sadly. 'Funny idea of pleasure - worse racket than the natives make with their tom-toms.' Flora laughed. 'I remember Melisande,' continued Blunt, 'married an old chap old enough to be her father.' He threw a small piece of flint into the goldfish pond. Then, with a change of manner, he turned to Flora. 'Miss Ackroyd, can I do anything? About Paton, I mean. I know how dreadfully anxious you must be.' 'Thank you,' said Flora in a cold voice. 'There is really nothing to be done. Ralph will be all right. I've got hold of the most wonderful detective in the world, and he's going to find out all about it.' For some time I had felt uneasy as to our position. We were not exactly eavesdropping, since the two in the garden below had only to lift their heads to see us. Nevertheless, I should have drawn attention to our presence before now, had not my companion put a warning pressure on my arm. Clearly he wished me to remain silent. Now, however, he acted briskly. He rose quickly to his feet, clearing his throat. 'I demand pardon,' he cried. 'I cannot allow mademoiselle thus extravagantly to compliment me, and not draw attention to my presence. They say the listener hears no good of himself, but that is not the case this time. To spare my blushes, I must join you and apologize.' He hurried down the path with me close behind him, and joined the others by the pond. 'This is M. Hercule Poirot,' said Flora. 'I expect you've heard of him.' Poirot bowed. 'I know Major Blunt by reputation,' he said politely. 'I am glad to have encountered you, monsieur. I am in need of some information that you can give me.' Blunt looked at him inquiringly.
'When did you last see M. Ackroyd alive?' 'At dinner.' 'And you neither saw nor heard anything of him after that?' 'Didn't see him. Heard his voice.' 'How was that?' 'I strolled out on the terrace ' 'Pardon me, what time was that?' 'About half-past nine. I was walking up and down smoking in front of the drawing-room window. I heard Ackroyd talking in his study -' Poirot stopped and removed a microscopic weed. 'Surely you couldn't hear voices in the study from that part of the terrace,' he murmured. He was not looking at Blunt, but I was, and to my intense surprise, I saw the latter flush. 'Went as far as the corner,' he explained unwillingly. 'Ah! indeed?' said Poirot. In the mildest manner he conveyed an impression that more was wanted. 'Thought I saw - a woman disappearing into the bushes. Just a gleam of white, you know. Must have been mistaken. It was while I was standing at the corner of the terrace that I heard Ackroyd's voice speaking to that secretary of his.' 'Speaking to Mr Geoffrey Raymond?' 'Yes - that's what I supposed at the time. Seems I was wrong.' 'Mr Ackroyd didn't address him by name?' 'Oh, no.' 'Then, if I may ask, why did you think - ?' Blunt explained laboriously. 'Took it for granted that it would be Raymond, because he had said just before I came out that he was taking some papers to Ackroyd. Never thought of it being anybody else.' 'Can you remember what the words you heard were?' 'Afraid I can't. Something quite ordinary and unimportant. Only caught a scrap of it. I was thinking of something else at the time.' 'It is of no importance,' murmured Poirot. 'Did you move a chair back against the wall when you went into the study after the body was discovered?' 'Chair? No, why should I?' Poirot shrugged his shoulders but did not answer. He turned to Flora. 'There is one thing I should like to know from you, mademoiselle. When you were examining the things in the silver table with Dr Sheppard, was the dagger in its place, or was it not?' Flora's chin shot up. 'Inspector Raglan has been asking me that,' she said resentfully. 'I've told him, and I'll tell you. I'm perfectly certain the dagger was not there. He thinks it was and that Ralph sneaked it later in the evening. And - and he doesn't believe me. He thinks I'm saying it so - to shield Ralph.' 'And aren't you?' I asked gravely. Flora stamped her foot. 'You, too, Dr Sheppard! Oh! it's too bad.' Poirot tactfully made a diversion. 'It is true what I heard you say. Major Blunt. There is something that glitters in this pond. Let us see if I can reach it.' He knelt down by the pond, baring his arm to the elbow, and lowered it in very slowly, so as not to disturb the bottom of the pond. But in spite of all his precautions the mud eddied and swirled, and he was forced to draw his arm out again empty-handed.
He gazed ruefully at the mud upon his arm. I offered him my handkerchief, which he accepted with fervent protestations of thanks. Blunt looked at his watch. 'Nearly lunch time,' he said. 'We'd better be getting back to the house.' 'You will lunch with us, M. Poirot?' asked Flora. 'I should like you to meet my mother. She is - very fond of Ralph.' The little man bowed. 'I shall be delighted, mademoiselle.' 'And you will stay, too, won't you, Dr Sheppard?' I hesitated. 'Oh, do!' I wanted to, so I accepted the invitation without further ceremony. We set out towards the house. Flora and Blunt walking ahead. 'What hair,' said Poirot to me in a low tone, nodding towards Flora. 'The real gold! They will make a pretty couple. She and the dark, handsome Captain Paton. Will they not?' I looked at him inquiringly, but he began to fuss about a few microscopic drops of water on his coat sleeve. The man reminded me in some ways of a cat. His green eyes and his finicking habits. 'And all for nothing, too,' I said sympathetically. 'I wonder what it was in the pond?' 'Would you like to see?' asked Poirot. I stared at him. He nodded. 'My good friend,' he said gently and reproachful! v 'Hercule Poirot does not run the risk of disarranging 1'' costume without being sure of attaining his object. To do so would be ridiculous and absurd. I am never ridiculous.' 'But you brought your hand out empty,' I objected. 'There are times when it is necessary to have discretion. Do you tell your patients everything - but everything, doctor? I think not. Nor do you tell your excellent sister everything either, is it not so? Before showing my empty hand, I dropped what it contained into my other hand. You shall see what that was.' He held out his left hand, palm open. On it lay a little circlet of gold. A woman's wedding ring. I took it from him. 'Look inside,' commanded Poirot. I did so. Inside was an inscription in fine writing: From R., March 13th. I looked at Poirot, but he was busy inspecting his appearance in a tiny pocket glass. He paid particular attention to his moustaches, and none at all to me. I saw that he did not intend to be communicative. CHAPTER 10 The Parlourmaid We found Mrs Ackroyd in the hall. With her was a small dried-up little man, with an aggressive chin and sharp grey eyes, and 'lawyer' written all over him. 'Mr Hammond is staying to lunch with us,' said Mrs Ackroyd. 'You know Major Blunt, Mr Hammond? And dear Doctor Sheppard - also a close friend of poor Roger's.
And, let me see ' She paused, surveying Hercule Poirot in some perplexity. 'This is M. Poirot, Mother,' said Flora. 'I told you about him this morning.' 'Oh! yes,' said Mrs Ackroyd vaguely. 'Of course, my dear, of course. He is to find Ralph, is he not?' 'He is to find out who killed Uncle,' said Flora. 'Oh! my dear,' cried her mother. 'Please! My poor nerves. I am a wreck this morning, a positive wreck. Such a dreadful thing to happen. I can't help feeling that it must have been an accident of some kind. Roger was so fond of handling queer curios. His hand must have slipped, or something.' This theory was received in polite silence. I saw Poirot edge up to the lawyer, and speak to him in a confidential undertone. They moved aside into the embrasure of the window. I joined them - then hesitated. 'Perhaps I'm intruding,' I said. 'Not at all,' cried Poirot heartily. 'You and I, M. Ie docteur, we investigate this affair side by side. Without you I should be lost. I desire a little information from the good Mr Hammond.' 'You are acting of behalf of Captain Ralph Paton, I understand,' said the lawyer cautiously. Poirot shook his head. 'Not so. I am acting in the interests of justice. Miss Ackroyd has asked me to investigate the death of her uncle. Mr Hammond seemed slightly taken aback. 'I cannot seriously believe that Captain Paton can be concerned in this crime,' he said, 'however strong the circumstantial evidence against him may be. The mere fact that he was hard pressed for money ' 'Was he hard pressed for money?' interpolated Poirot quickly. The lawyer shrugged his shoulders. 'It was a chronic condition with Ralph Paton,' he said dryly. 'Money went through his hands like water. He was always applying to his stepfather.' 'Had he done so of late? During the last year, for instance?' 'I cannot say. Mr Ackroyd did not mention the fact to me.' 'I comprehend. Mr Hammond, I take it that you are acquainted with the provisions of Mr Ackroyd's will?' 'Certainly. That is my principal business here today.' 'Then, seeing that I am acting for Miss Ackroyd, you will not object to telling me the terms of that will?' 'They are quite simple. Shorn of legal phraseology, and after paying certain legacies and bequests ' 'Such as - ?' interrupted Poirot. 'Mr Hammond seemed a little surprised. 'A thousand pounds to his housekeeper. Miss Russell; fifty pounds to the cook, Emma Cooper; five hundred pounds to his secretary, Mr Geoffrey Raymond. Then to various hospitals -' Poirot held up his hand. 'Ah! the charitable bequests, they interest me not.' 'Quite so. The income on ten thousand pounds' worth of shares to be paid to Mrs Cecil Ackroyd during her lifetime. Miss Flora Ackroyd inherits twenty thousand pounds outright.
The residue - including this property, and the shares in Ackroyd and Son - to his adopted son, Ralph Paton.' 'Mr Ackroyd possessed a large fortune?' 'A very large fortune. Captain Paton will be an exceedingly wealthy young man.' There was a silence. Poirot and the lawyer looked at each other. 'Mr Hammond,' came Mrs Ackroyd's voice plaintively from the fireplace. The lawyer answered the summons. Poirot took my arm and drew me right into the window. 'Regard the irises,' he remarked in a rather loud voice. 'Magnificent, are they not? A straight and pleasing effect.' At the same time I felt the pressure of his hand on my arm, and he added in a low tone: 'Do you really wish to aid me? To take part in this investigation?' 'Yes, indeed,' I said eagerly. 'There's nothing I should like better. You don't know what a dull old fogey's life I lead. Never anything out of the ordinary.' 'Good, we will be colleagues then. In a minute or two I fancy Major Blunt will join us. He is not happy with the good mamma. Now there are some things I want to know but I do not wish to seem to want to know them. You comprehend? So it will be your part to ask the questions.' 'What questions do you want me to ask?' I asked apprehensively. 'I want you to introduce the name of Mrs Ferrars.' 'Yes?' 'Speak of her in a natural fashion. Ask him if he was down here when her husband died. You understand the kind of thing I mean. And while he replies, watch his face without seeming to watch it. C'est comprisT There was no time for more, for at that minute, as Poirot had prophesied. Blunt left the others in his abrupt fashion and came over to us. I suggested strolling on the terrace, and he acquiesced. Poirot stayed behind. I stopped to examine a late rose. 'How things change in the course of a day or two,' I observed. 'I was up here last Wednesday, I remember, walking up and down this same terrace. Ackroyd was with me - full of spirits. And now three days later - Ackroyd's dead, poor fellow. Mrs Ferrars dead ~ you knew her, didn't you? But of course you did.' Blunt nodded his head. 'Had you seen her since you'd been down this time?' 'Went with Ackroyd to call. Last Tuesday, think it was. Fascinating woman - but something queer about her. Deep - one would never know what she was up to.' I looked into his steady grey eyes. Nothing there surely. I went on: 'I suppose you'd met her before?' 'Last time I was here - she and her husband had just come here to live.' He paused a minute and then added: 'Rum thing, she had changed a lot between then and now.' 'How - changed?' I asked. 'Looked ten years older.' 'Were you down here when her husband died?' I asked, trying to make the question sound as casual as possible. 'No. From all I heard it would be good riddance. Uncharitable, perhaps, but the truth.' I agreed. 'Ashley Ferrars was by no means a pattern husband,' I said cautiously. 'Blackguard, I thought,' said Blunt.
'No,' I said, 'only a man with more money than was good for him.' 'Oh! money! All the troubles in the world can be put down to money - or the lack of it.' 'Which has been your particular trouble?' I asked. 'Enough for what I want. I'm one of the lucky ones.' 'Indeed.' 'I'm not too flush just now, as a matter of fact. Came into a legacy a year ago, and like a fool let myself be persuaded into putting it into some wild-cat scheme.' I sympathized, and narrated my own similar trouble. Then the gong pealed out, and we all went in to lunch. Poirot drew me back a little.
Why shouldn't he? I'll swear the man is perfectly square and above board.' 'Without doubt, without doubt,' said Poirot soothingly. 'Do not upset yourself.' He spoke as though to a fractious child. We all trooped into the dining-room. It seemed incredible that less than twenty-four hours had passed since I last sat at that table. Afterwards, Mrs Ackroyd took me aside and sat down with me on a sofa. 'I can't help feeling a little hurt,' she murmured, producing a handkerchief of the kind obviously not meant to be cried into. 'Hurt, I mean, by Roger's lack of confidence in me. That twenty thousand pounds ought to have been left to me - not to Flora. A mother could be trusted to safeguard the interests of her child. A lack of trust, I call it.' 'You forget, Mrs Ackroyd,' I said, 'Flora was Ackroyd's own niece, a blood relation. It would have been different had you been his sister instead of his sister-in-law.' 'As poor Cecil's widow, I think my feelings ought to have been considered,' said the lady, touching her eyelashes gingerly with the handkerchief. 'But Roger was always most peculiar - not to say mean - about money matters. It has been a most difficult position for both Flora and myself. He did not even give the poor child an allowance. He would pay her bills, you know, and even that with a good deal of reluctance and asking what she wanted all those fal-lals for so like a man - but - now I've forgotten what it was I was going to say! Oh, yes, not a penny we could call our own, you know. Flora resented it - yes, I must say she resented it - very strongly. Though devoted to her uncle, of course. But any girl would have resented it. Yes, I must say Roger had very strange ideas about money. He wouldn't even buy new face towels, though I told him the old ones were in boles. And then,' proceeded Mrs Ackroyd, with a sudden leap highly characteristic of her conversation, 'to leave all that money - a thousand pounds, fancy, a thousand pounds! - to that woman.' 'What woman?' 'That Russell woman. Something very queer about her, and so I've always said. But Roger wouldn't hear a word against her. Said she was a woman of great force of character, and that he admired and respected her. He was always going on about her rectitude and independence and moral worth. / think there's something fishy about her. She was certainly doing her best to marry Roger. But I soon put a stop to that. She always hated me. Naturally. / saw through her.' I began to wonder if there was any chance of stemming Mrs Ackroyd's eloquence, and getting away. Mr Hammond provided the necessary diversion by coming up to say goodbye. I seized my chance and rose also.
'About the inquest,' I said. 'Where would you prefer it to be held? Here, or at the Three Boars?' Mrs Ackroyd stared at me with a dropped jaw. 'The inquest?' she asked, the picture of consternation. 'But surely there won't have to be an inquest?' Mr Hammond gave a dry little cough and murmured, 'Inevitable. Under the circumstances,' in two short little barks. 'But surely Dr Sheppard can arrange ' 'There are limits to my powers of arrangement,' I said drily. 'If his death was an accident ' 'He was murdered, Mrs Ackroyd,' I said brutally. She gave a little cry. 'No theory of accident will hold water for a minute.' Mrs Ackroyd looked at me in distress. I had no patience with what I thought was her silly fear of unpleasantness. 'If there's an inquest, I - I shan't have to answer questions and all that, shall I?' she asked. 'I don't know what will be necessary,' I answered. 'I imagine Mr Raymond will take the brunt of it off you. He knows all the circumstances, and can give formal evidence of identification.' The lawyer assented with a little bow. 'I really don't think there is anything to dread, Mrs Ackroyd,' he said. 'You will be spared all the unpleasantness. Now, as to the question of money, have you all you need for the present? I mean,' he added, as she looked at him inquiringly, 'ready money. Cash, you know. If not, I can arrange to let you have whatever you require.' 'That ought to be all right,' said Raymond, who was standing by. 'Mr Ackroyd cashed a cheque for a hundred pounds yesterday.' 'A hundred pounds?' 'Yes. For wages and other expenses due today. At the moment it is still intact.' 'Where is this money? In his desk?' 'No, he always kept his cash in his bedroom. In an old collar box, to be accurate. Funny idea, wasn't it?' 'I think,' said the lawyer, 'we ought to make sure the money is there before I leave.' 'Certainly,' agreed the secretary. 'I'll take you up now.. Oh! I forgot. The door's locked.' Inquiry from Parker elicited the information that Inspector Raglan was in the housekeeper's room asking a few supplementary questions. A few minutes later the inspector joined the party in the hall, bringing the key with him. He unlocked the door and we passed into the lobby and up the small staircase. At the top of the stairs the door into Ackroyd's bedroom stood open. Inside the room it was dark, the curtains were drawn, and the bed was turned down just as it had been last night. The inspector drew the curtains, letting in the sunlight, and Geoffrey Raymond went to the top drawer of a rosewood bureau. 'He kept his money like that, in an unlocked drawer. Just fancy,' commented the inspector. The secretary flushed a little. 'Mr Ackroyd had perfect faith in the honesty of all the servants,' he said hotly. 'Oh! quite so,' said the inspector hastily. Raymond opened the drawer, took out a round leather collar-box from the back of it, and opening it,
drew out a thick wallet. 'Here is the money,' he said, taking out a fat roll of notes. 'You will find the hundred intact, I know, for Mr Ackroyd put it in the collar-box in my presence last night when he was dressing for dinner, and of course it has not been touched since.' Mr Hammond took the roll from him and counted it. He looked up sharply. 'A hundred pounds, you said. But there is only sixty here.' Raymond stared at him. 'Impossible,' he cried, springing forward. Taking the notes from the other's hand, he counted them aloud. Mr Hammond had been right. The total amounted to sixty pounds. 'But - I can't understand it,' cried the secretary, bewildered. Poirot asked a question. 'You saw Mr Ackroyd put this money away last night when he was dressing for dinner? You are sure he had not paid away any of it already?' 'I'm sure he hadn't. He even said, 'I don't want to take a hundred pounds down to dinner with me. Too bulgy.' 'Then the affair is very simple,' remarked Poirot. 'Either he paid out that forty pounds some time last evening, or else it has been stolen.' 'That's the matter in a nutshell,' agreed the inspector. He turned to Mrs Ackroyd. 'Which of the servants would come in here yesterday evening?' 'I suppose the housemaid would turn down the bed.' 'Who is she? What do you know about her?' 'She's not been here very long,' said Mrs Ackroyd. 'But ^e's a nice ordinary country girl.' 'I think we ought to clear this matter up,' said the inspector. 'If Mr Ackroyd paid that money away himself, it may have a bearing on the mystery of the crime. The other servants all right, as far as you know?' 'Oh, I think so.' 'Not missed anything before?' 'No.' 'None of them leaving, or anything like that?' 'The parlourmaid is leaving.' 'When?' 'She gave notice yesterday, I believe.' To you?' 'Oh, no. I have nothing to do with the servants. Miss Russell attends to the household matters.' The inspector remained lost in thought for a minute or two. Then he nodded his head and remarked, 'I think I'd better have a word with Miss Russell, and I'll see the girl Dale as well.' Poirot and I accompanied him to the housekeeper's room. Miss Russell received us with her usual sangfroid. Elsie Dale had been at Fernly five months. A nice girl, quick at her duties, and most respectable. Good references. The last girl in the world to take anything not belonging to her. What about the parlourmaid? 'She, too, was a most superior girl. Very quiet and ladylike. An excellent worker.' 'Then why is she leaving?' asked the inspector. Miss Russell pursed up her lips. 'It was none of my doing. I understand Mr Ackroyd found fault with her yesterday afternoon. It was her duty to do the study, and she disarranged some of the papers on his desk, I believe. He was very
annoyed about it, and she gave notice. At least, that is what I understood from her, but perhaps you'd like to see her yourselves?' The inspector assented. I had already noticed the girl when she was waiting on us at lunch. A tall girl, with a lot of brown hair rolled tightly away at the back of her neck, and very steady grey eyes. She came in answer to the housekeeper's summons, and stood very straight with those same grey eyes fixed on us. 'You are Ursula Bourne?' asked the inspector. 'Yes, sir.' 'I understand you are leaving?' 'Yes, sir.' 'Why is that?' 'I disarranged some papers on Mr Ackroyd's desk. He was very angry about it, and I said I had better leave. He told me to go as soon as possible.' 'Were you in Mr Ackroyd's bedroom at all last night? Tidying up or anything?' 'No, sir. That is Elsie's work. I never went near that part of the house.' 'I must tell you, my girl, that a large sum of money is missing from Mr Ackroyd's room.' At last I saw her roused. A wave of colour swept over her face. 'I know nothing about any money. If you think I took it, and that that is why Mr Ackroyd dismissed me, you are wrong.' 'I'm not accusing you of taking it, my girl,' said the inspector. 'Don't flare up so.' The girl looked at him coldly. 'You can search my things if you like,' she said disdainfully. 'But you won't find anything.' Poirot suddenly interposed. 'It was yesterday afternoon that Mr Ackroyd dismissed you - or you dismissed yourself, was it not?' he asked. The girl nodded. 'How long did the interview last?' 'The interview?' 'Yes, the interview between you and Mr Ackroyd in the study?' 'I - I don't know.' 'Twenty minutes? Half an hour?' 'Something like that.' 'Not longer?' 'Not longer than half an hour, certainly.' 'Thank you, mademoiselle.' I looked curiously at him. He was rearranging a few objects on the table, setting them straight with precise fingers. His eyes were shining. 'That'll do,' said the inspector. Ursula Bourne disappeared. The inspector turned to Miss Russell. 'How long has she been here? Have you got a copy of the reference you had with her?' Without answering the first question, Miss Russell moved to an adjacent bureau, opened one of the drawers, and took out a handful of letters clipped together with a patent fastener. She selected one and handed it to the inspector. 'H'm,' said he. 'Reads all right. Mrs Richard Folliott, Marby Grange, Marby. Who's this woman?' 'Quite good country people,' said Miss Russell. 'Well,' said the inspector, handing it back, 'let's have a look at the other one, Elsie Dale.' Elsie Dale was a big fair girl, with a pleasant but slightly stupid face. She answered our questions readily enough, and showed much distress and concern at the loss of the money. 'I don't think there's anything wrong with her,' observed the inspector, after he had dismissed her. 'What
about Parker?' Miss Russell pursed her lips together and made no reply. 'I've a feeling there's something wrong about that man,' the inspector continued thoughtfully. 'The trouble is that I don't quite see when he got his opportunity. He'd be busy with his duties immediately after dinner, and he'd got a pretty good alibi all through the evening. I know, for I've been devoting particular attention to it. Well, thank you very much. Miss Russell. We'll leave things as they are for the present. It's highly probable Mr Ackroyd paid that money away himself.' The housekeeper bade us a dry good afternoon, and we took our leave. I left the house with Poirot. 'I wonder,' I said, breaking the silence, 'what the papers the girl disarranged could have been for Ackroyd to have got into such a state about them? I wonder if there is any clue there to the mystery.' 'The secretary said there were no papers of particular importance on the desk,' said Poirot quietly. 'Yes, but -' I paused. 'It strikes you as odd that Ackroyd should have flown into a rage about so trivial a matter?' 'Yes, it does rather.' 'But was it a trivial matter?' 'Of course,' I admitted, 'we don't know what those papers may have been. But Raymond certainly said ' 'Leave M. Raymond out of it for a minute. What did you think of that girl?' 'Which girl? The parlourmaid?' 'Yes, the parlourmaid. Ursula Bourne.' 'She seemed a nice girl,' I said hesitatingly. Poirot repeated my words, but whereas I had laid a slight stress on the fourth word, he put it on the second. 'She seemed a nice girl - yes.' Then, after a minute's silence, he took something from his pocket and handed it to me. 'See, my friend, I will show you something. Look there.' The paper he had handed me was that compiled by the inspector and given by him to Poirot that morning. Following the pointing finger, I saw a small cross marked in pencil opposite the name Ursula Bourne. 'You may not have noticed it at the time, my good friend, but there was one person on this list whose alibi had no kind of confirmation. Ursula Bourne.' 'You don't think-?' 'Dr Sheppard, I dare to think anything. Ursula Bourne may have killed Mr Ackroyd, but I confess I can see no motive for her doing so. Can you?' He looked at me very hard - so hard that I felt uncomfortable. 'Can you?' he repeated. 'No motive whatsoever,' I said firmly. His gaze relaxed. He frowned and murmured to himself: 'Since the blackmailer was a man, it follows that she cannot be the blackmailer, then ' I coughed. 'As far as that goes -' I began doubtfully. He spun round on me. 'What? What are you going to say?' 'Nothing, Nothing. Only that, strictly speaking, Mrs Ferrars in her
letter mentioned a person - she didn't actually specify a man. But we took it for granted, Ackroyd and I, that it was a man.' Poirot did not seem to be listening to me. He was muttering to himself again. 'But then it is possible after all - yes, certainly it is possible - but then - ah! I must rearrange my ideas. Method, order, never have I needed them more. Everything must fit in - in its appointed place otherwise I am on the wrong track.' He broke off, and whirled round upon me again. 'Where is Marby?' 'It's on the other side of Cranchester.' 'How far away?' 'Oh! - fourteen miles, perhaps.' 'Would it be possible for you to go there? Tomorrow, say?' Tomorrrow? Let me see, that's Sunday. Yes, I could arrange it. What do you want me to do there?' 'See this Mrs Folliott. Find out all you can about Ursula Bourne.' 'Very well. But - I don't much care for the job.' 'It is not the time to make difficulties. A man's life may hang on this.' 'Poor Ralph,' I said with a sigh. 'You believe him to be innocent, though?' Poirot looked at me very gravely. 'Do you want to know the truth?' 'Of course.' 'Then you shall have it. My friend, everything points to the assumption that he is guilty.' 'What!' I exclaimed. Poirot nodded. 'Yes, that stupid inspector - for he is stupid - has everything pointing his way. I seek for the truth - and the truth leads me every time to Ralph Paton. Motive, opportunity, means. But I will leave no stone unturned. I promised Mademoiselle Flora. And she was very sure, that little one. But very sure indeed.' CHAPTER 11 Poirot Pays A Call I was slightly nervous when I rang the bell at Marby Grange the following afternoon. I wondered very much what Poirot expected to find out. He had entrusted the job to me. Why? Was it because, as in the case of questioning Major Blunt, he wished to remain in the background? The wish, intelligible in the first case, seemed to me quite meaningless here. My meditations were interrupted by the advent of a smart parlourmaid. Yes, Mrs Folliott was at home. I was ushered into a big drawing-room, and looked round me curiously as I waited for the mistress of the house. A large bare room, some good bits of old china, and some beautiful etchings, shabby covers and curtains. A lady's room in every sense of the term. I turned from the inspection of a Bartolozzi on the wall as Mrs Folliott came into the room. She was a tall woman, with untidy brown hair, and a very winning smile. 'Dr Sheppard,' she said hesitatingly. 'That is my name,' I replied. 'I must apologize for calling upon you like this, but I wanted some information about a parlourmaid previously employed by you, Ursula Bourne.' With the utterance of the name the smile vanished from her face, and all the cordiality froze out of her manner. She looked uncomfortable and ill at ease. 'Ursula Bourne?' she said hesitatingly.
'Yes,' I said. 'Perhaps you don't remember the name?' 'Oh, yes, of course. I - I remember perfectly.' 'She left you just over a year ago, I understand?' 'Yes. Yes, she did. That is quite right.' 'And you were satisfied with her whilst she was with you? How long was she with you, by the way?' 'Oh! a year or two - I can't remember exactly how long. She - she is very capable. I'm sure you will find her quite satisfactory. I didn't know she was leaving Fernly. I hadn't the least idea of it.' 'Can you tell me anything about her?' I asked. 'Anything about her?' 'Yes, where she comes from, who her people are - that sort of thing?' Mrs Folliott's face wore more than ever its frozen look. 'I don't know at all.' 'Who was she with before she came to you?' 'I'm afraid I don't remember.' There was a spark of anger now underlying her nervousness. She flung up her head in a gesture that was vaguely familiar. 'Is it really necessary to ask all these questions?' 'Not at all,' I said, with an air of surprise and a tinge of apology in my manner. 'I had no idea you would mind answering them. I am very sorry.' Her anger left her and she became confused again. 'Oh! I don't mind answering them. I assure you I don't. Why should I? It - it just seemed a little odd, you know. That's all. A little odd.' One advantage of being a medical practitioner is that you can usually tell when people are lying to you. I should have know from Mrs Folliott's manner, if from nothing else, that she did mind answering my questions - minded intensely. She was thoroughly uncomfortable and upset, and there was plainly some mystery in the background. I judged her to be a woman quite unused to deception of any kind, and consequently rendered acutely uneasy when forced to practise u- A child could have seen through her. But it was also clear the she had no intention of telling me ^ything further. Whatever the mystery centring round Ursula Bourne might be, I was not going to learn it through Mrs Folliott. Ill Defeated, I apologized once more for disturbing her, took my hat and departed. I went to see a couple of patients and arrived home about six o'clock. Caroline was sitting beside the wreck of tea things. She had that look of suppressed exultation on her face which I know only too well. It is a sure sign with her of either the getting or the giving of information. I wondered which it had been. 'I've had a very interesting afternoon,' began Caroline, as I dropped into my own particular easy-chair and stretched out my feet to the inviting blaze in the fireplace. 'Have you?' I said. 'Miss Gannett drop in to tea?' Miss Gannett is one of the chief of our newsmongers. 'Guess again,' said Caroline, with intense complacency. I guessed several times, working slowly through all the members of Caroline's Intelligence Corps. My
sister received each guess with a triumphant shake of the head. In the end she volunteered the information herself. 'M. Poirot!' she said. 'Now, what do you think of that?' I thought a good many things of it, but I was careful not to say them to Caroline. 'Why did he come?' I asked. 'To see me, of course. He said that, knowing my brother so well, he hoped he might be permitted to make the acquaintance of his charming sister - your charming sister, I've got mixed up - but you know what I mean.' 'What did he talk about?' I asked. 'He told me a lot about himself and his cases. You know that Prince Paul of Mauretania - the one who's just married a dancer?' 'Yes?' 'I saw a most intriguing paragraph about her in Society Snippets the other day, hinting that she was really a Russian Grand Duchess - one of the Czar's daughters who managed to escape from the Bolsheviks. Well, it seems that M. Poirot solved a baffling murder mystery that threatened to involve them both. Prince Paul was beside himself with gratitude.' 'Did he give him an emerald tie pin the size of a plover's egg?' I inquired sarcastically. 'He didn't mention it. Why?' 'Nothing,' I said. 'I thought it was always done. It is in detective fiction anyway. The super-detective always has his rooms littered with rubies and pearls and emeralds from grateful Royal clients.' 'It's very interesting to hear about these things from the inside,' said my sister complacently. It would be - to Caroline. I could not but admire the ingenuity of M. Hercule Poirot, who had selected unerringly the case of all others that would most appeal to an elderly lady living in a small village. 'Did he tell you if the dancer was really a Grand Duchess?' I inquired. 'He was not at liberty to speak,' said Caroline importantly. I wondered how far Poirot had strained the truth in talking to Caroline - probably not at all. He had conveyed his innuendoes by means of his eyebrows and his shoulders. 'And after all this,' I remarked, 'I suppose you were ready to eat out of his hand?' 'Don't be coarse, James. I don't know where you get these vulgar expressions from.' 'Probably from my only link with the outside world - my patients. Unfortunately, my practice does not lie amongst Royal princes and interesting Russian emigres.' Caroline pushed her spectacles up and looked at me. 'You seem very grumpy, James. It must be your liver. A blue pill, I think, tonight.' To see me in my own home, you would never imagine that I was a doctor of medicine. Caroline does the home prescribing both for herself and me. 'Damn my liver,' I said irritably. 'Did you talk about the murder at all?' 'Well, naturally, James. What else is there to talk about locally? I was able to set M. Poirot straight upon several points. He was very grateful to me. He said I had the makings of a born detective in me - and a wonderful Psychological insight into human nature.' Caroline was exactly like a cat that is full to overflowing with rich cream. She was positively purring. 'He talked a lot about the little grey cells of the brain, and of their functions. His own, he says, are of the first quality.' 'He would say so,' I remarked bitterly. 'Modesty is certainly not his middle name.' 'I wish
you wouldn't be so horribly American, James. He thought it very important that Ralph should be found as soon as possible, and induced to come forward and give an account of himself. He says that his disappearance will produce a very unfortunate impression at the inquest.' 'And what did you say to that?' 'I agreed with him,' said Caroline importantly. 'And I was able to tell him the way people were talking already about it.' 'Caroline,' I said sharply, 'did you tell M. Poirot what you overheard in the wood that day?' 'I did,' said Caroline complacently. I got up and began to walk about. 'You realize what you're doing, I hope,' I jerked out. 'You're putting a halter round Ralph Paton's neck as surely as you're sitting in that chair.' 'Not at all,' said Caroline, quite unruffled. 'I was surprised you hadn't told him.' 'I took very good care not to,' I said. 'I'm fond of that boy.' 'So am I. That's why I say you're talking nonsense. I don't believe Ralph did it, and so the truth can't hurt him, and we ought to give M. Poirot all the help we can. Why, think, very likely Ralph was out with that identical girl on the night of the murder, and if so, he's got a perfect alibi.' 'If he's got a perfect alibi,' I retorted, 'why doesn't he come forward and say so?' 'Might get the girl into trouble,' said Caroline sapiently. 'But if M. Poirot gets hold of her, and puts it to her as her duty, she'll come forward of her own accord and clear Ralph.' 'You seem to have invented a romantic fairy story of your Own,' I said. 'You read too many trashy novels, Caroline. I've always told you so.' I dropped into my chair again. 'Did Poirot ask you any more questions?' I inquired. 'Only about the patients you had that morning.' 'The patients?' I demanded, unbelievingly. 'Yes, your surgery patients. How many and who they were.' 'Do you mean to say you were able to tell him that?' I demanded. Caroline is really amazing. 'Why not?' asked my sister triumphantly. 'I can see the path up to the surgery door perfectly from this window. And I've got an excellent memory, James. Much better than yours, let me tell you.' 'I'm sure you have,' I murmured mechanically. My sister went on, checking the names on her fingers. 'There was old Mrs Bennett, and that boy from the farm with the bad finger. Dolly Grice to have a needle out of her finger; that American steward off the liner. Let me see - that's four. Yes, and old George Evans with c his ulcer. And lastly ' She paused significantly. Well?' Caroline brought out her climax triumphantly. She hissed it in the most approved style - aided by the fortunate number of s's at her disposal. 'Miss Russell!' She sat back in her chair and looked at me meaningly, and when Caroline looks at you meaningly, it is impossible to miss it.
'I don't know what you mean,' I said, quite untruthfully. 'Why shouldn't Miss Russell consult me about h:r bad knee?' 'Bad knee,' said Caroline. 'Fiddlesticks! No more bad ^ee than you and I. She was after something else.' 'What?' I asked. Caroline had to admit that she didn't know. 'But depend upon it, that was what he was trying to get at - M. Poirot, I mean. There's something fishy about that woman, and he knows it.' 'Precisely the remark Mrs Ackroyd made to me yesterday,' I said. 'That there was something fishy about Miss Russell.' 'Ah!' said Caroline darkly, 'Mrs Ackroyd! There's another!' 'Another what?' Caroline refused to explain her remarks. She merely nodded her head several times, rolling up her knitting, and went upstairs to don the high mauve silk blouse and the gold locket which she calls dressing for dinner. I stayed there staring into the fire and thinking over Caroline's words. Had Poirot really come to gain information about Miss Russell, or was it only Caroline's tortuous mind that interpreted everything according to her own ideas? There had certainly been nothing in Miss Russell's manner that morning to arouse suspicion. At least I remembered her persistent conversation on the subject of drug-taking - and from that she had led the conversation to poisons and poisoning. But there was nothing in that. Ackroyd had not been poisoned. Still, it was odd.. I heard Caroline's voice, rather acid in tone, calling from the top of the stairs. 'James, you will be late for dinner.' I put some coal on the fire and went upstairs obediently. It is well at any price to have peace in the home. CHAPTER 12 Round the Table A joint inquest was held on Monday. I do not propose to give the proceedings in detail. To do so would only be to go over the same ground again and again. By arrangement with the police, very little was allowed to come out. I gave evidence as to the cause of Ackroyd's death and the probable time. The absence of Ralph Paton was commented on by the coroner, but not unduly stressed. Afterwards, Poirot and I had a few words with Inspector Raglan. The inspector was very grave. 'It looks bad, M. Poirot,' he said. 'I'm trying to judge the thing fair and square. I'm a local man, and I've seen Captain Paton many times in Cranchester. I'm not wanting him to be the guilty one - but it's bad whichever way you look at it. If he's innocent, why doesn't he come forward? We've got evidence against him, but it's just possible that the evidence could be explained away. Then why doesn't he give an explanation?' A lot more lay behind the inspector's words than I knew at the time. Ralph's description had been wired to every port and railway station in England. The police everywhere were on the alert. His rooms in town were watched, and any houses he had been known to be in the habit of frequenting.
With such a cordon it seemed impossible that Ralph should be able to evade detection. He had no luggage, and, as far as anyone knew, no money. 'I can't find anyone who saw him at the station that right,' continued the inspector. 'And yet he's well known down here, and you'd think somebody would have noticed him. There's no news from Liverpool either.' 'You think he went to Liverpool?' queried Poirot. fc 117 'Well, it's on the cards. That telephone message from the station, just three minutes before the Liverpool express left there ought to be something in that.' 'Unless it was deliberately intended to throw you off the scent. That might just possibly be the point of the telephone message.' 'That's an idea,' said the inspector eagerly. 'Do you really think that's the explanation of the telephone call?' 'My friend,' said Poirot gravely, 'I do not know. But I will tell you this: I believe that when we find the explanation of that telephone call we shall find the explanation of the murder.' 'You said something like that before, I remember,' I observed, looking at him curiously. Poirot nodded. 'I always come back to it,' he said seriously. 'It seems to me utterly irrelevant,' I declared. 'I wouldn't say that,' demurred the inspector. 'But I must confess I think Mr Poirot here harps on it a little too much. We've better clues than that. The fingerprints on the dagger, for instance.' Poirot became suddenly very foreign in manner, as he often did when excited over anything. 'M. rinspecteur,' he said, 'beware of the blind - the blind comment dire? - the little street that has no end to it.' Inspector Raglan stared, but I was quicker. 'You mean a blind alley?' I said. 'That is it - the blind street that leads nowhere. So it may be with those fingerprints - they may lead you nowhere.' 'I don't see how that can well be,' said the police officer. 'I suppose you're hinting that they're faked? I've read of such things being done, though I can't say I've ever come across it in my experience. But fake or true - they're bound to lead somewhere.' Poirot merely shrugged his shoulders, flinging out his arms wide. The inspector then showed us various enlarged photographs of the fingerprints, and proceeded to become technical on the subject of loops and whorls. 'Come now,' he said at last, annoyed by Poirot's detached manner, 'you've got to admit that those prints were made by someone who was in the house that night?' 'Bien entendu,' said Poirot, nodding his head. 'Well, I've taken the prints of every member of the household, everyone, mind you, from the old lady down to the kitchenmaid.' I don't think Mrs Ackroyd would enjoy being referred to as the old lady. She must spend a considerable amount on cosmetics. 'Everyone's,' repeated the inspector fussily. 'Including mine,' I said drily.
'Very well. None of them correspond. That leaves us two alternatives. Ralph Paton, or the mysterious stranger the doctor here tells 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. 1'Inspecteur?' 'Certainly.' 'Without overlooking anyone?' 'Without overlooking anyone.' 'The quick or the dead?' For a moment the inspector looked bewildered at what he took to be a religious observation. Then he reacted slowly. 'You mean - ?' 'The dead, M. 1'Inspecteur.' The inspector still took a minute or two to understand. 'I am suggesting,' said Poirot placidly, 'that the fingerprints on the dagger handle are those of Mr Ackroyd himself. It is an easy matter to verify. His body is still available.' 'But why? What would be the point of it? You're surely not suggesting suicide, Mr Poirot?' Ah! no. My theory is that the murderer wore gloves or wrapped something round his hand. After the blow was struck, he picked up the 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 idea in the first place?' 'When you were so kind as to show me the dagger and draw attention to the fingerprints. I know very little of loops and whorls - see, I confess my ignorance frankly. But it did occur to me that the position of the prints was somewhat awkward. Not so would I have held a dagger in order to strike. Naturally, with the right hand brought up over the shoulder backwards, it would have been difficult to put it in exactly the right position.' Inspector Raglan stared at the little man. Poirot, with an air of great 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, but don't you be disappointed if nothing comes of it.' He endeavoured to make his tone kindly and patronising. Poirot watched him go off. Then he turned to me with twinkling eyes. 'Another time,' he observed, 'I must be more careful of his amour propre. And now that we are left to our own devices, what do you think, my good friend, of a little reunion of the family?' The 'little reunion,' as Poirot called it, took place about half an hour later. We sat round the table in the diningroom at Fernly. Poirot at the head of the table, like the chairman of some ghastly board meeting. The servants were not present, so we were six in all. Mrs Ackroyd, Flora, Major Blunt, young Raymond, Poirot, and myself. When everyone was assembled, Poirot rose and bowed. 'Messieurs, mesdames, I have called you together for a certain purpose.' He paused. 'To begin with, I want to make a very special plea to mademoiselle.' 'To me?' said Flora. 'Mademoiselle, you are engaged to Captain Ralph Paton. If anyone is in his confidence, you are. I beg you, most earnestly, if you know of his whereabouts, to persuade him to coine forward. One little minute' - as Flora raised her head to speak - 'say nothing rill you have well reflected. Mademoiselle, his position grows daily more dangerous. If he had come forward at once, no matter how damning the facts, he might have had a chance of explaining them away. But this silence - this flight - what can it mean? Surely only one thing, knowledge of guilt. Mademoiselle, if you really believe in his innocence, 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 Poirot who asks you this. The old Papa Poirot who has much knowledge and 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 swear solemnly - that I have no idea where Ralph is, and that I have neither seen him nor heard from him either on the day of- of the murder, or since.' She sat down again. Poirot gazed at her in silence for a minute or two, 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 to these others who sit round this table, Mrs Ackroyd, Major Blunt, Dr Sheppard, Mr Raymond. You are all friends and intimates of the missing man. If you know where Ralph Paton is hiding, speak out.' There was a long silence. Poirot looked to each in turn. 'I beg of you,' 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 & 121 Ralph's absence is most peculiar - most peculiar indeed. Not to come forward at such a time. It looks, you know, as though there were something behind it. I can't help thinking. Flora dear, that it was a very fortunate thing your engagement was never formally announced.' 'Mother!' cried Flora angrily. 'Providence,' declared Mrs Ackroyd. 'I have a devout belief in Providence - a divinity that shapes our ends, as Shakespeare's beautiful line runs.' 'Surely you don't make the Almighty directly responsible for thick ankles, Mrs Ackroyd, do you?' asked Geoffrey Raymond, his irresponsible laugh ringing out. His idea was, I think, to loosen the tension, but Mrs Ackroyd threw him a glance of reproach and took out her handkerchief. 'Flora has been saved a terrible amount of notoriety and unpleasantness. Not for a moment that I think dear Ralph had anything to do with poor Roger's death. I don't think so. But then I have a trusting heart I always have had, ever since a child. I am loath to believe the worst of anyone. But, of course, one must remember that Ralph was in several air raids as a young boy. The results are apparent long after, sometimes, they say. People are not responsible 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 all very upsetting. What would happen to the estate, I wonder, if Ralph were 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 I dare say Roger kept him very short
of money - with the best intentions, of course. I can see you are all against me, but I do think it is very odd that Ralph has not come forward, and I must say I am thankful 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 y011 sen(^ ^ announcement 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, I must stand by Ralph. Don't you see that I must?' She looked very searchingly at him, and after a long pause he nodded abruptly. Mrs Ackroyd burst out into shrill protests. Flora remained unmoved. Then Raymond spoke. 'I appreciate your motives. Miss Ackroyd. But don't you think you'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 say anything at all?' 'Nothing to be said,' interpolated Blunt. 'She's doing the right thing. 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 congratulate you on your courage and your loyalty? And will you not misunderstand me if I ask you - ask you most solemnly - to postpone 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 I assure you that it is so. Pas de blagues. You put the case into my hands - you must not hamper me now.' Flora paused a few minutes before replying. 'I do not like it,' she said 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 will continue with what I was about to say. Understand this I mean to arrive at the truth. The truth, however ugly in itself, is always curious and beautiful to the seeker after it. I am much aged, my powers may not be what they were.' Here he clearly expected a contradiction. 'In all probability this is the last case I shall ever investigate. But Hercule Poirot 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 our face as it were. I think we all flinched back a little, excepting Geoffrey Raymond, who remained goodhumoured and imperturbable as usual. 'How do you mean - in spite of us all?' he asked, with slightly raised eyebrows. 'But - just that, monsieur. Every one of you in this room is concealing something from me.' He raised his hand as a faint murmur of protest arose. 'Yes, yes, I know what I am saying. It may be something
unimportant - trivial - which is supposed to have no bearing on the case, but there it is. Each one of you has something to hide. Come now, am I right?' His glance, challenging and accusing, swept round the table. And every pair of eyes dropped before his. Yes, mine as well. 'I am answered,' said Poirot, with a curious laugh. He got up from his 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. CHAPTER 13 The Goose Quill That evening, at Poirot's request, I went over to his house after dinner. Caroline saw me depart with visible reluctance. I think she would have liked to have accompanied me. Poirot greeted me hospitably. He had placed a bottle of Irish whiskey (which I detest) on a small table, with a soda water siphon and a glass. He himself was engaged in brewing hot chocolate. It was a favourite beverage of his, I discovered later. He inquired politely after my sister, whom he declared to be a most interesting 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,' he remarked obscurely, but he refused to explain the remark. 'You got all the local gossip anyway,' I remarked. 'True, and untrue.' 'And a great deal of valuable information,' he added quietly. 'Such as-' He shook his head. 'Why not have told me the truth?' he countered. 'In a place like this, all Ralph Paton's doings were bound to be known. If your sister had not happened to pass through the wood that day somebody else would have done so.' 'I suppose they would,' I said grumpily. 'What about this interest of yours in my patients?' Again he twinkled. 'Only one of them, doctor. Only one of them.' 'The last?' I hazarded. I ^ He held out to me the little quill. I looked at it curiously. Then a memory of something I had read stirred in me. Poirot, who had been watching my face, nodded. 'Yes, heroin, '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 or the States.' 'What first attracted your attention to that summerhouse?' I
asked curiously. 'My friend the inspector took it for granted that anyone using that path did so as a short cut to the house, but as soon as I saw the summer-house, I realized that the same path would be taken by anyone using the summer-house as a rendezvous. Now it seems fairly certain that the stranger came neither to the front nor to the back door. Then did someone from the house go out and meet him? If so, what could be a more convenient place than that little summerhouse? I searched it with the hope that I might find some clue 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 be obvious.' 'Not very obvious to me.' I changed the subject. 'Anyway,' I said, 'this man went to the summer-house to meet somebody. Who was that somebody?' 'Exactly the question,' said Poirot. 'You will remember that Mrs Ackroyd and her daughter came over from Canada to live here?' 'Is that what you meant today when you accused them of hiding the 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 a servant? Was the story of those important papers a likely one? And remember, though she says she was in her bedroom from nine-thirty until 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 and theories.' I drew a piece of paper from my pocket. 'I just scribbled down a few suggestions,' I said apologetically. 'But excellent - you have method. Let us hear them.' I read out in a somewhat embarrassed voice. 'To begin with, one must look at the thing logically ' 'Just what my poor Hastings used to say,' interrupted Poirot, 'but alas! he never did so.' 'Point No. 1. - Mr Ackroyd was heard talking to someone at half-past nine. 'Point No. 2. - At some time during the evening Ralph Paton must have come in through the window, as evidenced by the prints of his shoes. 'Point No. 3. - Mr Ackroyd was nervous that evening, and would only have admitted someone he knew. 'Point No. 4. - The person with Mr Ackroyd at nine-thirty was asking for money. We know Ralph Paton was in a scrape. ' These four points go to show that the person with Mr Ackroyd at nine-thirty was Ralph Paton. But we know that Mr Ackroyd was alive at a quarter to ten, therefore it was not Ralph who killed him. Ralph left 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 blackmailed Mrs Ferrars. If so, Parker may have heard enough to realize the game was up, have told his accomplice s0, and the latter did the crime with the dagger which Parker gave him.' 'It is a theory that,' admitted Poirot. 'Decidedly you have tells of a kind. 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 by accident, and Raymond or Blunt may have shoved it into place unconsciously under the stress of emotion. Then there is the missing forty pounds.' 'Given by Ackroyd to Ralph,' I suggested. 'He may have reconsidered his first refusal.' 'That still leaves one thing unexplained.' 'What?' 'Why was Blunt so certain in his own mind that it was Raymond with Mr Ackroyd at nine-thirty?' 'He explained that,' I said. 'You think so? I will not press the point. Tell me, instead, what were Ralph Paton's reasons for disappearing?' 'That's rather more difficult,' I said slowly. 'I shall have to speak as a medical man. Ralph's nerves must have gone phut! If he suddenly found out that his uncle had been murdered within a few minutes of his leaving him - after, perhaps, a rather stormy interview - well, he might get the wind up and clear right out. Men have been known to do that - act guiltily when they're perfectly innocent.' 'Yes, that is true,' said Poirot. 'But we must not lose sight of one thing.' 'I know what you're going to say,' I remarked: 'motive. Ralph Paton inherits a great fortune by his uncle's death.' 'That is one motive,' agreed Poirot. 'One?' ^Mais ow. Do you realize that there are three separate motives staring us in the face. Somebody certainly stole the blue envelope and its contents. That is one motive. Blackmail! Ralph Paton may have been the man who blackmailed Mrs Ferrars. Remember, as far as Hammond knew, Ralph Paton had not applied to his uncle for help of late. That looks as though he were being supplied with money 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 black against 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 me to enter on a different phase. The whole thing can be divided into two parts, each clear and distinct from the other. Part I ranges from Ackroyd's death on the Friday evening to the following Monday night. It is the straightforward narrative of what occurred, as presented to Hercule Poirot. I was at Poirot's elbow the whole time. I saw what he saw. I tried my best to read his mind. As I know now, I failed in this latter task. Though Poirot showed me all his discoveries - as, for instance, the gold wedding-ring - he held back the vital and yet logical impressions that he formed. As I came to know later, this secrecy was characteristic of him. He would throw out hints and suggestions, but beyond that he would not go. As I say, up till the Monday evening, my narrative might have been that of Poirot himself. I played Watson to his Sherlock. But after Monday our ways diverged. Poirot was busy on his own account. I got to hear of what he was doing, because in King's Abbot, you get to hear of everything, but he did not take me into his confidence beforehand. And I, too, had my own preoccupations. On looking back, the thing that strikes me most is the piecemeal character of this period. Everyone had a hand in the elucidation of the mystery. It was rather like a jigsaw puzzle to which everyone contributed their own little piece of knowledge or discovery. But their task ended there. To Poirot alone belongs the renown of fitting those pieces into their correct place. Some of the incidents seemed at the time irrelevant and unmeaning. There was, for instance, the question of the black boots. But that comes later.. To take things strictly in chronological order, I must begin with the summons from Mrs Ackroyd.
She sent for me early on Tuesday morning, and since the summons sounded an urgent one, I hastened there, expecting to find her in extremis. The lady was in bed. So much did she concede to the etiquette of the situation. She gave me her bony hand, and indicated a chair drawn 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 be expected of general practitioners. 'I'm prostrated,' said Mrs Ackroyd in a faint voice. 'Absolutely prostrated. It's the shock of poor Roger's death. They say these things often aren't felt at the time, you know. It's the reaction afterwards.' It is a pity that a doctor is precluded by his profession from being able sometimes to say what he really thinks. I would have given anything to be able to answer 'Bunkum!' Instead, I suggested a tonic. Mrs Ackroyd accepted the tonic. One move in the game seemed now to be concluded. Not for a moment did I imagine that I had been sent for because of the shock occasioned by Ackroyd's death. But Mrs Ackroyd is totally incapable of pursuing a straightforward course on any subject. She always approaches her object by tortuous means. I wondered very much why it was she had sent for me. 'And then that scene - yesterday,' continued my patient. She paused as though expecting me to take up a cue. 'What scene?' 'Doctor, how can you? Have you forgotten? That dreadful little Frenchman - or Belgian or whatever he is. Bullying us all like he did. 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 ^d. I should hope I know my duty too well to dream of concealing anything. I have given the police every assistance in my power.' Mrs Ackroyd paused, and I said, 'Quite so.' I was beginning to have a glimmering of what all the trouble was about. 'No one can say that I have failed in my duty,' continued Mrs Ackroyd. 'I am sure Inspector Raglan is perfectly satisfied. Why should this little upstart of a foreigner make a fuss? A most ridiculous-looking creature he is too - just like a comic Frenchman in a revue. I can't think why Flora insisted on bringing him into the case. She never said a word to me about it. Just went off and did it on her own. Flora is too independent. I am a woman of the world and her 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 actually imagine I'm hiding something? He he - positively accused me yesterday.' I shrugged my shoulders. 'It is surely of no consequence, Mrs Ackroyd,' I said.
'Since you are not concealing anything, any remarks 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 talk amongst themselves. And then it gets round and all the time there'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 me off 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't it? Naturally - she's leaving. She would want to make all the trouble she could. Spiteful, that's what they are. They're all alike. Now, you being there, doctor, you must know exactly what she did say? I'm most anxious „. no wrong impression should get about. After all, you 'don't repeat every little detail to the police, do you? There are family matters sometimes - nothing to do with the Question of the murder. But if the girl was spiteful, she may have made out all sorts of things.' I was shrewd enough to see that a very real anxiety lay behind these outpourings. Poirot had been justified in his premises. Of the six people round the table yesterday, Mrs Ackroyd at least had had something to hide. It was for me to discover what that something might be. 'If I were you, Mrs Ackroyd,' I said brusquely, 'I should make a clean breast of things.' She gave a little scream. 'Oh! doctor, how can you be so abrupt. It sounds as though - as though - And I can explain everything so simply.' '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, you know - because it's so difficult for a foreigner to see our point of view. And you don't know - nobody could know - what I've had to contend with. A martyrdom - a long martyrdom. That's what my life has been. I don't like to speak ill of the dead - but there it is. Not the smallest bill but it had all to be gone over - just as though Roger had had a few miserly hundreds a year instead of being (as Mr Hammond told me yesterday) one of the wealthiest men in these parts.' 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 said the things weren't necessary. And of course they mounted up, you know, and they kept coming ui' She looked at me appealingly, as though asking me to condole with 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 from a Scotch gentleman - as a matter of fact there were two letters - both Scotch gentlemen. Mr Bruce MacPherson was one, and the other was Colin MacDonald. Quite a coincidence.' 'Hardly that,' I said drily. 'They are usually Scotch gentlemen, but I suspect a Semitic strain in their ancestry.' 'Ten pounds to ten thousand on note of hand alone,' murmured Mrs Ackroyd reminiscently. 'I wrote to one of them, but it seemed there were difficulties.' She paused. I gathered that we were just coming to delicate ground. I have never known anyone more difficult to
bring to the point. 'You see,' murmured Mrs Ackroyd, 'it's all a question of expectations,' isn't it? Testamentary expectations. And though, of course, I expected that Roger would provide for me, I didn't know. I thought that if only I could glance over a copy of his will - not in any sense of vulgar prying - but just so that I could make my own arrangements.' She glanced sideways at me. The position was now very delicate indeed. Fortunately words, ingeniously used, will serve to mask the ugliness of naked facts. 'I could only tell this to you, dear Doctor Sheppard,' said Mrs Ackroyd rapidly. 'I can trust you not to misjudge me, and to represent the matter 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's study - I had some real reason for going there - I mean, there was nothing underhand about it. And as I saw all the papers heaped on the desk, it just came to me, like a flash: 'I wonder if Roger keeps his will 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 his keys very careless of him - in the lock of the top drawer.' 'I see,' I said helpfully. 'So you searched the desk. Did you find the will?' Mrs Ackroyd gave a little scream, and I realized that I had not been 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 my unfortunate way of putting things.' 'Of course, men are so peculiar. In dear Roger's place, I should have not objected to revealing the provisions of my will. But men are so secretive. One is forced to adopt little subterfuges in self-defence.' '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 and stood up, and I called her attention to a few specks of dust on the surface. But I didn't like the way she looked - quite respectful in manner, but a very nasty light in her eyes. Almost contemptuous, if you know what I mean. I never have liked that girl very much. She's a good servant, and she says Ma'am, and doesn't object to wearing caps 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 answer the door instead of Parker, and she doesn't have those peculiar gurgling noises inside which so many parlourmaids seem to have when they wait at table Let me see, where was I?' 'You were saying, that in spite of several valuable qualities, you never liked Bourne.' 'No more I do. She's - odd. There's something different about her from the others. Too well educated, that's my 'pinion. You can't tell who 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 a walk. And he said: 'What's all this?' and I said 'Nothing. I just came in to fetch Punch.' And I took Punch and went out with it. Bourne stayed behind. I heard her asking Roger if she could speak to him for a minute. I went straight up to my room, to lie down. I was very upset.' There was a pause. 'You will explain to M. Poirot, won't you? You can see for yourself what a trivial matter the whole thing was. But, of course, when he was so stern about concealing things, I thought of this at once. Bourne may have made some extraordinary story out of it, but you can explain, can't you?' '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 there was still something she was keeping back. It was nothing less than a flash 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 powder could 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 an illustration of quite a small piece which had fetched an immense sum at Christy's. It looked to be just the same as the one in the silver table. 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, just think what a charming surprise it would have been for Roger.' I refrained from comments, accepting Mrs Ackroyd's story on its merits. I even forbore to ask her why it was necessary to abstract what 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 coining along the terrace outside. I hastened out of the room and just got up the 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 extremely interesting. Whether her designs upon Ackroyd's silver had been strictly honourable I neither knew nor cared. What did interest me was the fact that Miss Russell must have entered the drawing-room by the window, and that I had not been wrong when I judged her to be out of breath with running. Where had she been? I thought of the summer-house and the scrap of cambric. 'I wonder if Miss Russell has had her handkerchiefs starched!' I exclaimed 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 justifications of her conduct. The parlourmaid was in the hall, and it was she who helped me on with my overcoat. I observed her more closely than I had done heretofore. It was clear that she had been crying. 'How is it,' I asked, 'that you told us that Mr Ackroyd sent for you on Friday to his study? I hear now that it was you who asked to speak 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 was passing 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 °ught to come 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 him would tell him this: he ought to come back.' I lingered, thinking that perhaps the girl would say more. Her next question surprised me. 'When do they think the murder was done? Just before ten o'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 in the affirmative. 'That's out of the question,' I said. 'Miss Ackroyd saw her uncle alive 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 exceedingly handsome girl.' Caroline was at home. She had had a visit from Poirot and was very 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 she be like with her detective instincts encouraged? 'Are you going round the neighbourhood looking for Ralph Paton's mysterious girl?' I inquired. 'I might do that on my own account,' said Caroline. 'No, this is a special 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 or brown,' said Caroline with tremendous solemnity. I stared at her. I see now that I was unbelievably stupid about these 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 pair of boots Ralph had with him at the hotel were brown or black. A lot hangs 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's dearest friend was Miss Gannett's maid, Clara. And Clara was walking out with the Boots at the Three Boars. The whole thing was simplicity itself, and by the aid of Miss Gannett, who co-operated loyally, 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 of Ralph Paton's boots had to do with the case. CHAPTER 14 Geoffrey Raymond I was to have a further proof that day of the success of Poirot's tactics. That challenge of his had been a subtle touch born of his knowledge of human nature. A mixture of fear and guilt had wrung the truth from Mrs Ackroyd. She was the first to react. That afternoon when I returned from seeing my patients, Caroline told 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 to see,' she said. 'He'd just come from the Larches. Mr. Poirot was out. Mr Raymond thought that he might be here, or that you might know where he was.' 'I haven't the least idea.' 'I tried to make him wait,' said Caroline, 'but he said he would call back at The Larches in half an hour, and went away down the village. A great pity, because M. Poirot came in practically the minute after 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. Caroline thought 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 s; ^ Caroline. 'You might hear what it's all about.' I raised my eyebrows. 'Curiosity is not my besetting sin,' I remarked coldly. 'I can exist comfortably without knowing exactly what my neighbours are doing and thinking.' 'Stuff and nonsense, James,' said my sister. 'You want to know just as much as I do. You're not so honest, that's all. You always have to pretend.' 'Really, Caroline,' I said, and retired into my surgery. Ten minutes later Caroline tapped at the door and entered. In her hand 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 to M. Poirot? I promised it to him. He has never tasted any home-made medlar 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 anything else?' 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 to understand the enigma of the boots. When the old lady with the Breton cap opened the door to me, I found myself asking ifM. Poirot was 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 small one? 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,' declared Poirot. 'The big air, it is all very well outside, where ' belongs. Why admit it to the house? But let us not discuss ^ch banalities. You have 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 her promise. And the second thing?' 'Information - of a kind.' And I told him of my interview with Mrs Ackroyd. He listened with interest, but not much excitement. 'It clears the ground,' he said thoughtfully. 'And it has a certain value as confirming the evidence of the housekeeper. She said, you remember, that she found the silver table lid open and closed it down in passing.' 'What about her statement that she went into the drawing-room to see if the flowers were fresh?' 'Ah! we never took that very seriously, did we, my friend? It was patently an excuse, trumped up in a hurry, by a woman who felt it urgent to explain her presence - which, by the way, you would probably never have thought of questioning. I considered it possible that her agitation might arise from the fact that she had been tampering with the silver table, but I think now that we must look for another 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 passed almost 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 subject of conversation. 'The housekeeper. Miss Russell, who came to consult you on that Friday morning - is it indiscreet to ask what passed at the interview - apart from the medical details, I mean?' 'Not at all,' I said. 'When the professional part of the conversation was over, we talked for a few minutes about poisons, and the ease
or difficulty of detecting them, and about drug-taking and drug-takers.' '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 where newspapers were filed. He brought me a copy of the Daily Budget, dated Friday, 16th September, and showed me an article dealing with the 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 catechized him further, for I did not quite understand his meaning, but at that moment the door opened and Geoffrey Raymond 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 been here 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, seating himself at a wave of invitation from Poirot, 'I've got a confession to make.' 'En verite?' said Poirot, with an air of polite interest. 'Oh, it's of no consequence, really. But, as a matter of fact, my conscience has been pricking me ever since yesterday afternoon. You accused us all of keeping back something, M. Poirot. I plead guilty. 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 pounds puts me on my feet again with a little to spare.' He smiled at us both with that engaging frankness that made him such a likeable youngster. 'You know how it is. Suspicious-looking policemen - don't like to admit you were hard up for money think it will look bad to them. But I was a fool, really, because Blunt and I were in the billiard room from a quarter to ten onwards, so I've got a watertight alibi and nothing to fear. 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 my mind.' He got up again and stood smiling at us. 'You are a very wise young man,' said Poirot, nodding at him with approval. 'See you, when I know that anyone is hiding things from me, I suspect that the thing hidden may be something very bad indeed. You have done well.' 'I'm glad I'm cleared from suspicion,' laughed Raymond Til be off now.' 'So that is that,' I remarked, as the door closed behind the young secretary. 'Yes,' agreed Poirot. 'A mere bagatelle - but if he had not been in the billiard room - who knows? After all, many crimes have been committed for the sake of less than five hundred pounds. It all depends on what sum is sufficient to break a man. A question of relativity, is it not so? Have you reflected, my friend, that many people 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, is there not, that Englishmen conceal only one thing their love? And Major Blunt, I should say, is not good at concealments.' 'Sometimes,' I said, 'I wonder if we haven't rather jumped to conclusions on one point.' 'What is that?' 'We've assumed that the blackmailer of Mrs Ferrars is necessarily the murderer of Mr Ackroyd. Mightn't we be mistaken?' Poirot nodded energetically. 'Very good. Very good indeed. I wondered 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 letter unnoticed 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 terrorized Mrs Ferrars? He may have got his information about Mr Ferrars's death from one of the King's Paddock servants. At any rate, he is more 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 later that I noticed it was gone.' 'How much later? After Blunt and Raymond were in the room, or before?' '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. 'But Parker is the most likely. It is in my mind to try a little experiment with Parker. How say you, my friend, will you accompany me to Fernly?' I acquiesced, and we set out at once. Poirot asked to see Miss Ackroyd, and presently Flora came to us. 'Mademoiselle Flora,' said Poirot, 'I have to confide in you a little secret. I am not yet satisfied of the innocence of Parker. I propose to make a little experiment with your assistance. I want to reconstruct some of his actions on that night. But we must think of something to tell him - ah! I have it. I wish to satisfy myself as to whether voices in the little lobby could have been heard outside on the terrace. Now, ring for Parker, if you will be so good.' I did so, and presently the butler appeared, suave as ever. '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 and yourself in the lobby that night. I want to enact that little scene over again. Perhaps you would fetch the tray or whatever it was you were carrying?' Parker vanished, and we repaired to the lobby outside the study door. Presently we heard a chink in the outer hall, and Parker appeared in the doorway carrying a tray with a siphon, a decanter of whisky, and two glasses on it. 'One moment,' cried Poirot, raising his hand and seemingly very excited. 'We must have everything in order. Just as it occurred. It is a little method of mine.' 'A foreign custom, sir,' said Parker. 'Reconstruction of the crime they call it, do they not?' He was quite imperturbable as he stood there politely waiting on Poirot's orders. 'Ah! he knows something, the good Parker,' cried Poirot. 'He has read of these things. Now, I beg you, let us have everything of the most 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 it is now.' 'Then allez,' said Poirot. 'Play me the little comedy.' Flora stood with her hand on the door handle, and Parker came stepping 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 again tonight.' 'Is that right?' she added in an undertone. 'To the best of my recollection, Miss Flora,' said Parker, 'but I fancy you used the word evening instead of night.' Then, raising his voice in a somewhat theatrical fashion: 'Very good, miss. Shall I lock up as usual?' 'Yes, please.' Parker retired through the door. Flora followed him, and started to ascend the main staircase. 'Is that enough?' she asked over her shoulder. 'Admirable,' declared the little man, rubbing his hands. 'By the way, Parker, are you sure there were two glasses on the tray that evening? Who was the second one for?' 'I always bring two glasses, sir,' said Parker. 'Is there anything further?' 'Nothing. I thank you.' Parker withdrew, dignified to the last. Poirot stood in the middle of the hall frowning. Flora came down and joined us. 'Has your experiment been successful?' she asked. 'I don't quite understand, you know -' Poirot smiled admiringly at her. 'It is not necessary that you should,' he said. 'But tell me, were there indeed two glasses on Parker's tray that night?' Flora wrinkled her brows a minute. 'I really can't remember,' she said. 'I think there were. Is - is that the object of your experiment?' Poirot took her hand and patted it. 'Put it this way,' he said. 'I am always 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 asked curiously. Poirot shrugged his shoulders. 'One must say something,' he remarked. '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 I wanted to know. Let us leave it at that.' CHAPTER 15 An Evening at Mah Jong That night we had a little Mah Jong party. This kind of simple entertainment is very popular in King's Abbot. The guests arrive in goloshes and waterproofs after dinner. They partake of coffee and later of cake, sandwiches and tea. On this particular night our guests were Miss Gannett and Colonel Carter, who lives near the church. A good deal of gossip is handed round at these evenings, sometimes seriously interfering with the game in progress. We used to play bridge - chatty bridge of the worst description. We find Mah Jong much more peaceful. The irritated demand as to why on earth your partner did not lead a certain 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, standing with his back to the fire. Caroline had taken Miss Gannett to her own room, and was there assisting her to disentangle herself from her many wraps. 'Reminds me of the Afghan passes.' 'Indeed?' I said politely. 'Very mysterious business this about poor Ackroyd,' continued the colonel, accepting a cup of coffee. 'A deuce of a lot behind it - that's what I say. Between you and me, Sheppard, I've heard the word blackmail mentioned!' The colonel gave me the look which might be tabulated 'one man of the world to another.' 'A woman in it, no doubt,' he said. 'Depend upon it, a woman in it.' Caroline and Miss Gannett joined us at this minute. Miss Gannett drank coffee whilst Caroline got out the Mah Jong box and poured out 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 Colonel Carter has never been in the Shanghai Club in his life. More, that he has never been farther east than India, where he juggled with tins of bully beef and plum and apple jam during the Great War. But the colonel is determinedly military, and in King's Abbot we permit people to indulge their little idiosyncrasies freely. 'Shall we begin?' said Caroline. We sat round the table. For some five minutes there was complete silence, owing to the fact that there is tremendous secret competition amongst 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 the monotonous remarks of 'Three Bamboos,' 'Two Circles,' 'Pung,' and frequently from Miss Gannett 'Unpung,' owing to that lady's habit 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 tremendous significance only to be met with in small villages. 'Ah!' said Caroline interestedly. 'Chow.' 'I believe,' said Miss Gannett, temporarily diverted, 'that it's the right 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 exchange ^formation. 'Really,' said Caroline interestedly. 'Is that it? Well, it doesn't surprise 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 game and indifferent to gossip. But nobody is deceived. 'If you ask me,' said Miss Gannett. ('Was that a Bamboo you discarded, dear? Oh! no, I see now - it was a Circle.) As I was saying, if you ask me. Flora's been exceedingly lucky. Exceedingly lucky she's been.' 'How's that. Miss Gannett?' asked the colonel. 'I'll Pung that Green 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, with the air of one who knows everything there is to know, 'but I can tell you one thing. The first question that's always asked is 'Who last saw the deceased alive?' And the person who did is regarded with suspicion. Now, Flora Ackroyd last saw her uncle alive. It might have looked very nasty for her - very nasty indeed. It's my opinion - and I give it for what it's worth, that Ralph Paton is staying away on her account, to draw suspicion away from her.' 'Come, now,' I protested mildly, 'you surely can't suggest that a young girl like Flora Ackroyd is capable of stabbing her uncle in cold blood?' 'Well, I don't know,' said Miss Gannett. 'I've just been reading a book from the library about the underworld of Paris, and it says that some of the worst women criminals are young girls with the faces of angels.' '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 of curiously little interest. A thing that happened in India many years ago cannot compare for a moment with an event that took place in King's Abbot the day before yesterday. It was Caroline who brought the colonel's story to a close by fortunately going Mah Jong. After the slight unoleasantness always caused 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 own about Ralph Paton. Three Characters. But I'm keeping it to myself for 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. 'Their being 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 of knowing all about it. 'Pung,' said Miss Gannett. 'No - Unpung. I suppose that now the doctor'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 was forgotten.
'Your own wind, too,' he-said. 'And you've got two Pungs of Dragons. 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 great detective?' 'The greatest the world has ever known,' said Caroline solemnly. 'He has 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 friends with Elsie, the housemaid at Fernly, and what do you think Elsie told her? That there's been a lot of money stolen, and it's her opinion - Elsie's - I mean, that the parlourmaid had something to do with it. She's leaving at the month, and she's crying a good deal at night. If you ask me, the girl is very likely in league with a gang. She's always been 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, and most suspicious. I asked her once to come to our Friendly Girls' Evenings, but she refused, and then I asked her a few questions about her home and her family - all that sort of thing, and I'm bound to say I considered her manner most impertinent. Outwardly very respectful - but she shut me up in the most barefaced way.' Miss Gannett stopped for breath, and the colonel, who was totally uninterested in the servant question, remarked that in the Shanghai Club brisk play was the invariable rule. We had a round of brisk play. 'That Miss Russell,' said Caroline. 'She came here pretending to consult James on Friday morning. It's my opinion she wanted to see where the poisons were kept. Five Characters.' 'Chow,' said Miss Gannett. 'What an extraordinary idea! I wonder if you can be right.' 'Talking of poisons,' said the colonel. 'Eh - what? Haven't I discarded? Oh! Eight Bamboos.' 'Mah Jong!' said Miss Gannett. Caroline was very much annoyed. 'One Red Dragon,' she said regretfully, 'and I should have had a hand of three doubles.' 'I've had two Red Dragons all the time,' 1 mentioned. 'So exactly like you, James,' said Caroline reproachfully. 'You've no conception of the spirit of the game.' I myself thought I had played rather cleverly. I should have had to pay Caroline an enormous amount if she had gone Mah Jong. Miss Gannett's Mah Jong was of the poorest variety possible, as Caroline did 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 Ralph Paton, 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. 'All your own idea, eh?' 'Well, not exactly. I'll tell you about it. You know that big map of the county we have in the hall?' We all said Yes.
'As M. Poirot was going out the other day, he stopped and looked at it, and he made some remark - I can't remember exactly what it was. 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 my pieces. My sister immediately reproved me for clumsiness, but half-heartedly. She was intent on her theory. 'Cranchester, Miss Caroline?' said Colonel Carter. 'Surely not Cranchester! It's so near.' 'That's exactly it,' cried Caroline triumphantly. 'It seems quite clear by now that he didn't get away from here by tram. He must simply have walked into Cranchester. And I believe he's there still. No one would dream of his being so near at hand.' I pointed out several objections to the theory, but when °nce Caroline has got something firmly into her head, nothing dislodges it. 'And you think M. Poirot has the same idea,' said Miss Gannett thoughtfully. 'It's a curious coincidence, but I was out for a walk this afternoon on the Cranchester road, and he passed me in a car coming from that direction.' We all looked at each other. 'Why, dear me,' said Miss Gannett suddenly, 'I'm Mah Jong all the time, and I never noticed it.' Caroline's attention was distracted from her own inventive exercises. She pointed out to Miss Gannett that a hand consisting of mixed suits and too many Chows was hardly worth going Mah Jong on. Miss Gannett listened imperturbably and collected her counters. 'Yes, dear, I know what you mean,' she said. 'But it rather depends 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,' urged Caroline. '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 the tea things. Caroline and Miss Gannett were both slightly ruffled as is often the case during one of these festive evenings. 'If you would only play a leetle quicker, dear,' said Caroline, as Miss Gannett hesitated over her discard. 'The Chinese put down the tiles so 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 in glove with the great detective, and nut a hint as to the way things are going.' 'James is an extraordinary creature,' said Caroline. 'He can not bring 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 his own counsel.' Wise man,' said the colonel with a chuckle. 'He doesn't give himself 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 Man Jong.' The situation became more strained. It was annoyance at Miss Gannett's going Mah Jong for the third time running which prompted Caroline 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, of the kind you mean.' 'Nonsense,' said Caroline, as she sorted her hand. 'You must know something interesting.' I did not answer for a moment. I was overwhelmed and intoxicated. I had read of there being such a thing as The Perfect Winning - going Mah Jong on one's
original hand. I had never hoped to hold the hand myself. With suppressed triumph I laid my hand face upwards on the table. 'As they say in the Shanghai Club,' I remarked - Tin-ho - the Perfect Winning!' The colonel's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. 'Upon my soul,' he said. 'what an extraordinary thing. I never saw that happen before!' It was then that I went on, goaded by Caroline's gibes, and rendered reckless by my triumph. 'And as to anything interesting,' I said. 'What about a gold wedding ring with a date and 'From R.' inside.' I pass over the scene that followed. I was made to say exactly where this treasure was found. I was made to reveal the date. 'March 13th,' said Caroline. 'Just six months ago. Ah!' Out of a babel of excited suggestions and suppositions three theories were evolved: 1. That of Colonel Carter: that Ralph was secretly harried to Flora. The first or most simple solution. 2. That of Miss Gannett: that Roger Ackroyd had been secretly married to Mrs Ferrars. 3. That of my sister: that Roger Ackroyd had married his housekeeper. Miss Russell. A fourth or super-theory was propounded by Caroline later as we went up to bed. 'Mark my words,' she said suddenly, 'I shouldn't be at all surprised 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 you heard what Miss Gannett said this evening - abouts Flora's carryings on.' Strictly speaking, I had not heard Miss Gannett say anything of the kind, 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 even be in love with her. But depend upon it a girl isn't going to fall in love with a man old enough to be her father when there's a good-looking secretary about. She may encourage Major Blunt just as a blind. Girls are very artful. But there's one thing I do tell you, James Sheppard. Flora Ackroyd does not care a penny piece for Ralph Paton, and never has. You can take it from me.' I took it from her meekly. CHAPTER 16 Parker It occurred to me the next morning that under the exhilaration produced by Tin-ho or the Perfect Winning, I might have been slightly indiscreet. True, Poirot had not asked me to keep the discovery of the ring to myself. On the other hand, he had said nothing about it whilst at Fernly, and as far as I knew, I was the only person aware that it had been found. I felt distinctly guilty. The fact was by now spreading through King's Abbot like wildfire. I was expecting wholesale reproaches from Poirot any minute. The joint funeral of Mrs Ferrars and Roger Ackroyd was fixed for eleven o'clock. It was a melancholy and impressive ceremony. All the party from Fernly were there.
After it was over, Poirot, who had also been present, took me by the arm, and invited me to accompany him back to The Larches. He was looking very grave, and I feared that my indiscretion of the night before had got round to his ears. But it soon transpired that his thoughts were occupied by something of a totally different nature. 'See you,' he said. 'We must act. With your help I propose to examine a witness. We will question him, we will put such fear into him that the truth is bound to come out.' 'What witness are you talking about?' I asked, very much surprised. '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 -1 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 was already there awaiting our return. As we entered the room, the butler rose respectfully. 'Good morning, Parker,' said Poiroi pleasantly. 'One instant, I pray of you.' He removed his overcoat and gloves. 'Allow me, sir,' said Parker, and sprang forward to assist him. He deposited 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 this morning - eh?' Parker coughed. 'I understood, sir, that you wished to ask me a few questions about my late master - private like.' 'Precisement,' said Poirot, beaming. 'Have you made many experiments in blackmail?' 'Sir!' The butler sprang to his feet. 'Do not excite yourself,' said Poirot placidly. 'Do not play the farce of the honest, injured man. You know all there is to know about the blackmail, is it not so?' 'Sir, I - I've never - never been ' 'Insulted,' suggested Poirot, 'in such a way before. Then why, my excellent Parker, were you so anxious to overhear the conversation in Mr Ackroyd's study the other evening, after you had caught the word 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 travelled about with him. When he was in Bermuda there was some trouble - a man was killed.
Major Ellerby was partly responsible. It was hushed up. But you knew about it. How much did Major Ellerby pay you to keep your mouth shut?' Parker was staring at him open-mouthed. The man had gone to pieces, his cheeks shook flabbily. 'You see, me, I have made inquiries,' said Poirot pleasantly. 'It is as I say. You got a good sum then as blackmail, and Major Ellerby went on paying you until he died. Now I want to hear about your latest experiment.' Parker still stared. 'It is useless to deny. Hercule Poirot knows. It is so, what I have said about Major Ellerby, is it not?' As though against his will, Parker nodded reluctantly once. His face 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 this coming 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 not the nerve - the courage. But I must have the truth.' 'I'll tell you anything, sir, anything you want to know. Il's true that I tried to listen that night. A word or two I heard made me curious. And Mr Ackroyd's wanting not to be disturbed, and shutting himself up with the doctor the way he did. It's God's own truth what I told the police. 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 being blackmailed, why shouldn't I have a share of the Pickings?' A very curious expression passed over Poirot's face. He leaned forward. 'Had you any reason to suppose before that night that Mr Ackroyd was being blackmailed?' 'No, indeed, sir. It was a great surprise to me. Such a regular gentleman in all his habits.' 'How much did you overhear?' 'Not very much, sir. There seemed what I might call a spite against me. Of course I had to attend to my duties in the pantry. And when I did 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, and another time Mr Raymond passed me in the big hall and went that way, so I knew it was no use; and when I went with the tray. Miss Flora 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 police would rake up that old business with Major Ellerby and be suspicious of me in consequence.' 'Eh bien,' said Poirot at last. 'I am disposed to believe you. But there is one thing I must request of you - to show me your bank-book. You have a bank-book, I presume?' 'Yes, sir, as a matter of fact, I have it with me now.' With no sign of confusion, he produced it from his pocket. Poirot took the slim, green-covered book and perused the entries. 'Ah! I perceive you have purchased £500 worth of National Savings Certificates this year?' 'Yes, sir. I have already over a thousand pounds saved - the result of my connection with - er - my late master. Major Ellerby. And I have had quite a little flutter on some horses this year - very successful. If you
remember, sir, a rank outsider won the Jubilee. I was fortunate enough to back it £20.' Poirot handed him back the book. 'I will wish you good morning. I believe that you have told me the truth. If you have not - so much the worse for you, my friend.' When Parker had departed, Poirot picked up his overcoat once more. 'Going out again?' I asked. 'Yes, we will pay a little visit to the good M. Hammond.' 'You believe Parker's story?' 'It is credible enough on the face of it. It seems clear that unless he is a very good actor indeed - he genuinely believes it was Ackroyd himself who was the victim of blackmail. If so, he knows nothing at all about the Mrs Ferrars business.' 'Then in that case - who - ?' 'Precisement Who? But our visit to M. Hammond will accomplish one purpose. It will either clear Parker completely or else ' 'Well?' 'I fall into the bad habit of leaving my sentences unfinished this morning,' said Poirot apologetically. 'You must bear with me.' 'By the way,' I said, rather sheepishly, 'I've got a confession to make. I'm afraid I have inadvertently let out something about that ring.' 'What ring?' 'The ring you found in the goldfish pond.' 'Ah! yes,' said Poirot, smiling broadly. 'I hope you're not annoyed? It was very careless of me.' 'But not at all, my good friend, not at all. I laid no commands upon you. You were at liberty to speak of it if you so wished. She was interested, your sister?' 'She was indeed. It created a sensation. All sorts of theories are flying about.' 'Ah! And yet it is so simple. The true explanation leapt to the eye, did it not?' 'Did it?' I said drily. Poirot laughed. 'The wise man does not commit himself,' he observed. 'Is not that so? But here we are at Mr Hammond's.' The lawyer was in his office, and we were ushered in without any delay. He rose and greeted us in his dry, precise manner. Poirot came at once to the point. 'Monsieur, I desire from you certain information, that is, if you will be so good as to give it to me. You acted, I understand, for the late Mrs Ferrars of King's Paddock?' I noticed the swift gleam of surprise which showed in the lawyer's eyes, before his professional reserve came down once more like a mask over his face. 'Certainly. All her affairs passed through our hands.' 'Very good. Now, before I ask you to tell me anything, I should like you to listen to the story Dr Sheppard will relate to you. You have no objection, have you, my friend, to repeating the conversation you had with Mr Ackroyd last Friday night?' 'Not in the least,' I said, and straightway began the recital of that strange evening. Hammond listened with close attention. 'That is all,' I said, when I had finished. 'Blackmail,' said the lawyer thoughtfully. 'You are surprised?' asked Poirot. The lawyer took off his pince-nez and polished them with his handkerchief.
'No,' he replied, 'I can hardly say that I am surprised. I have suspected something of the kind for some time.' 'That brings us,' said Poirot, 'to the information for which I am asking. If anyone can give us an idea of the actual sums paid, you are the man, monsieur.' 'I see no object in withholding the information,' said Hammond, after a moment or two. 'During the past year, Mrs Ferrars has sold out certain securities, and the money for them was paid into her account and not re-invested. As her income was a large one, and she lived very quietly after her husband's death, it seems certain that these sums of money were paid away for some special purpose. I once sounded her on the subject, and she said that she was obliged to support several of her husband's poor relations. I let the matter drop, of course. Until now, I have always imagined that the money was paid to some woman who had had a claim on Ashley Ferrars. I never dreamed that Mrs Ferrars herself was involved.' 'And the amount?' asked Poirot. 'In all, I should say the various sums totalled at least twenty thousand pounds.' 'Twenty thousand pounds!' I exclaimed. 'In one year!' 'Mrs Ferrars was a very wealthy woman,' said Poirot drily. 'And the penalty for murder is not a pleasant one.' 'Is there anything else that I can tell you?' inquired Mr Hammond. 'I thank you, no,' said Poirot, rising. 'All my excuses for having deranged you.' 'Not at all, not at all.' 'The word derange,' I remarked, when we were outside again, 'is applicable to mental disorder only.' 'Ah!' cried Poirot, 'never will my English be quite perfect. A curious language. I should then have said disarranged, n'est-ce pasV 'Disturbed is the word you had in mind.' 'I thank you, my friend. The word exact, you are zealous for it. Eh bien, what about our friend Parker now? With twenty-thousand pounds in hand, would he have continued being a butler? Je nepensepas. It is, of course, possible that he banked the money under another name, but I am disposed to believe he spoke the truth to us. If he is a scoundrel, he is a scoundrel on a mean scale. He has not the big ideas. That leaves us as a possibility, Raymond, or well - Major Blunt.' 'Surely not Raymond,' I objected. 'Since we know that he was desperately hard up for a matter of five hundred pounds.' 'That is what he says, yes.' 'And as to Hector Blunt ' 'I will tell you something as to the good Major Blunt,' interrupted Poirot. 'It is my business to make inquiries. I make them. Eh bien - that legacy of which he speaks, I have discovered that the amount of it was close upon twenty thousand pounds. What do you think of that?' I was so taken aback that I could hardly speak. 'It's impossible,' I said at last. 'A well-known man like Hector Blunt.' Poirot shrugged his shoulders. 'Who knows? At least he is a man with big ideas. I confess that I hardly see him as a blackmailer, but there is another possibility that you have not even considered.' 'What is that?' 'The fire, my friend. Ackroyd himself may have destroyed that letter, blue envelope and all, after you left him.' 'I hardly think that likely,' I said slowly. 'And yet - of course, it may be so. He might have changed his mind.' We had just arrived at my house, and on the spur of the moment I invited Poirot to come in and take pot luck. I thought Caroline would be pleased with me, but it is hard to satisfy one's womenfolk. It appears that we were eating chops for lunch - the kitchen staff being regaled on tripe and onions. And two chops set before three people are productive of embarrassment. But Caroline is seldom daunted for long. With magnificent mendacity, she explained to Poirot that although James laughed at her for doing so, she adhered strictly to a vegetarian diet. She descanted ecstatically on the delights of nut cutlets (which I am quite sure she has never tasted) and ate a Welsh rarebit with gusto and frequent cutting remarks as to the dangers of 'flesh' foods. Afterwards, when we were sitting in front of the fire and smoking, Caroline attacked Poirot directly.
'Not found Ralph Paton yet?' she asked. 'Where should I find him, mademoiselle?' 'I thought, perhaps, you'd found him in Cranchester,' said Caroline, with intense meaning in her tone. Poirot looked merely bewildered. 'In Cranchester? But why in Cranchester?' I enlightened him with a touch of malice. 'One of our ample staff of private detectives happened to see you in a car on the Cranchester road yesterday,' I explained. Poirot's bewilderment vanished. He laughed heartily. 'Ah, that! A simple visit to the dentist, c'est tout. My tooth, it aches. I go there. My tooth, it is at once better. I think to return quickly. The dentist, he says No. Better to have it out. I argue. He insists. He has his way! That particular tooth, it will never ache again.' Caroline collapsed rather like a pricked balloon. We fell to discussing Ralph Paton. 'A weak nature,' I insisted. 'But not a vicious one.' 'Ah!' said Poirot. 'But weakness, where does it end?' 'Exactly,' said Caroline. 'Take James here - weak as water, if I weren't about to look after him.' 'My dear Caroline,' I said irritably, 'can't you talk without dragging in personalities?' 'You are weak, James,' said Caroline, quite unmoved. 'I'm eight years older than you are - oh! I don't mind M. Poirot knowing that ' 'I should never have guessed it, mademoiselle,' said Poirot, with a gallant little bow. 'Eight years older. And I've always considered it my duty to look after you. With a bad bringing up. Heaven knows what mischief you might have got into by now.' 'I might have married a beautiful adventuress,' I murmured, gazing at the ceiling, and blowing smoke rings. 'Adventuress!' said Caroline, with a snort. 'If we're talking of adventuresses ' She left the sentence unfinished. 'Well?' I said, with some curiosity. 'Nothing. But I can think of someone not a hundred miles away.' Then she turned to Poirot suddenly. 'James sticks to it that you believe 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 you say - my metier?' 'I've got the facts pretty clearly,' continued Caroline, taking no notice ofPoirot's remark, 'from James and others. As far as I can see, of the people in the house, only two could have had the chance of doing it. Ralph Paton and Flora Ackroyd.' 'My dear Caroline-' 'Now, James, don't interrupt me. I know what I'm talking about. Parker met her outside the door, didn't he? He didn't hear her uncle saying 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 girls nowadays, with no veneration for their betters and thinking they know best on every
subject under the sun, I don't for a minute believe she'd kill even a chicken. But there it is. Mr Raymond and Major Blunt have alibis. Mrs Ackroyd's got an alibi. Even that Russell woman seems to have one - and a good job for her it is she has. Who is left? Only Ralph and Flora! And say what you will, I don't believe Ralph Paton is a murderer. A boy we've known all our lives.' Poirot was silent for a minute, watching the curling smoke rise from his cigarette. When at last he spoke, it was in a gentle far-away voice that produced a curious impression. It was totally unlike his usual manner. 'Let us take a man - a very ordinary man. A man with no idea of murder in his heart. There is in him somewhere a strain of weakness - deep down. It has so far never been called into play. Perhaps it never will be - and if so he will go to his grave honoured and respected by everyone. But let us suppose that something occurs. He is in difficulties - or perhaps not that even. He may stumble by accident on a secret - a secret involving life or death to someone. And his first impulse will be to speak out - to do his duty as an honest citizen. And then the strain of weakness tells. Here is a chance of money - a great amount of money. He wants money - he desires it - and it is so easy. He has to do nothing for it - just keep silence. That is the beginning. The desire for money grows. He must have more - and more! He is intoxicated by the gold mine which has opened at his feet. He becomes greedy. And in his greed he overreaches himself. One can press a man as far as one likes but with a woman one must not press too far. For a woman has at heart a great desire to speak the truth. How many husbands who have deceived their wives go comfortably to their graves, carrying their secret with them! How many wives who have deceived their husbands wreck their lives by throwing the fact in those same husbands' teeth! They have been pressed too far. In a reckless moment (which they will afterwards regret, bien entendu) they fling safety to the winds and turn at bay, proclaiming the truth with great momentary satisfaction to themselves. So it was, I think, in this case. The strain was too great. And so there came your proverb, the death of 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 the same man he was - say, a year ago. His moral fibre is blunted. He is desperate. He is fighting a losing battle, and he is prepared to take any 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 spell upon the room. I cannot try to describe the impression his words produced. There was something in the merciless analysis, and the ruthless power of vision which struck fear into both of us. 'Afterwards,' he went on softly, 'the dagger removed, he will be himself again, normal, kindly. But if the need again arises, then once more 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 business to condemn a man unheard.' The telephone bell rang sharply. I went out into the hall, and took off the receiver. 'What?' I said. 'Yes. Dr Sheppard speaking.' I listened for a minute or two, then replied briefly. Replacing the receiver, I went back into the drawing-room. 'Poirot,' I said, 'they have detained a man at Liverpool. His name is Charles Kent, and he is believed to be the stranger who visited Femly that night. They want
me to go to Liverpool at once and identify him.' CHAPTER 17 Charles Kent Half an hour later saw Poirot, myself, and Inspector Raglan in the train on the way to Liverpool. The inspector was clearly very excited. 'We may get a line on the blackmailing part of the business, if on nothing else,' he declared jubilantly. 'He's a rough customer, this fellow, by what I heard over the phone. Takes dope, too. We ought to find it easy to get what we want out of him. If there was the shadow of a motive, nothing's more likely than that he killed Mr Ackroyd. But in that case, why is young Paton keeping out of the way. The whole thing's a muddle - that's what it is. By the way, M. Poirot, you were quite right about those fingerprints. They were Mr Ackroyd's own. I had rather the same idea myself, but I dismissed it as hardly feasible.' I smiled to myself. Inspector Raglan was so very plainly saving his face. '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, I gather. A lot of abuse, but very little more.' On arrival at Liverpool I was surpised to find that Poirot was welcomed with acclamation. Superintendent Hayes, who met us, had worked with Poirot over some case long ago, and had evidently an exaggerated opinion of his powers. 'Now we've got M. Poirot here we shan't be long,' he said cheerfully. 'I thought you'd retired, moosior?' 'So I had, my good Hayes, so I had. But how tedious is retirement! You cannot imagine to yourself the monotony with which day comes after day.' 'Very likely. So you've come to have a look at our own particular find? 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 and privately. Not much to go on, I admit. This fellow has an American accent all right, and he doesn't deny that he was near King's Abbot that 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 have you, sir. You've got permission to do anything you please. Inspector Japp of Scotland Yard was asking after you the other day. Said he'd heard 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 Poirot primly, 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 or three. Tall, thin, with slightly shaking hands, and the evidences of considerable physical strength somewhat run to seed. His hair was dark, but his eyes were blue and shifty, seldom meeting a glance squarely. I had all along cherished the illusion that there was something familiar about the figure I had met that night, but if this were indeed he, I was completely mistaken. He did not remind me in the least of anyone I knew.
'Now then, Kent,' said the superintendent. 'Stand up. Here are some visitors come to see you. Recognize any of them?' Kent glared at us sullenly, but did not reply. I saw his glance waver over 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 appearance goes 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 have you got against me? Come on, out with it! What am I supposed to have 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 it before?' 'On Friday evening last, outside the gates of Fernly Park. You asked 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 Pernly. 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 summer house. At the sight of it the man's face changed. He half held out his hand. 'Snow,' said Poirot thoughtfully. 'No, my friend, it is empty. It lay where you dropped it in the summer house that night.' Charles Kent looked at him uncertainly. 'You seem to know a hell of a lot about everything, you little foreign cock duck. Perhaps you remember this: the papers say that the 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 though receiving sanction, he said: 'That's right. Between a quarter to ten and ten o'clock.' 'Then you've nothing to keep me here for,' said Kent. 'I was away from Fernly Park by twenty-five minutes past nine. You can ask at the Dog and Whistle. That's a saloon about a mile out of Fernly on the 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 the truth, you won't have anything to
complain about. What were you doing 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,' the superintendent warned him. 'To hell with a civil tongue. I went there on my own business, and that's all there is to it. If I was clear away before the murder was done, that's all that concerns the cops.' 'Your name, it is Charles Kent,' said Poirot. 'Where were you born?' The man stared at him, then he grinned. 'I'm a full-blown Britisher all right,' he said. 'Yes,' said Poirot meditatively. 'I think you are. I fancy you were born in Kent.' The man stared. 'Why's that? Because of my name? What's that to do with it? Is a man whose name is Kent bound to be born in that particular county?' 'Under certain circumstances, I can imagine he might be,' said Poirot very deliberately. 'Under certain circumstances, you comprehend.' There was so much meaning in his voice as to surprise the two police officers. As for Charles Kent, he flushed a brick red, and for a moment I thought he was going to spring at Poirot. He thought better of it, however, and turned away with a kind of laugh. Poirot nodded as though satisfied, and made his way out through the door. He was joined presently by the two officers. 'We'll verify that statement,' remarked Raglan. 'I don't think he's lying, though. But he's got to come clean with a statement as to what he 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 got ten pounds on him when he was arrested - rather a large sum. I fancy that forty pounds went to him - the numbers of the notes didn't correspond, but of course he'd have changed them first thing. Mr Ackroyd must have given him the money, and he made off with it as 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, that was all. Me, I am famous for my little ideas.' 'Are you really?' said Raglan, studying him with a puzzled expression. The superintendent went into a roar of laughter. 'Many's the time I've heard Inspector Japp say that. M. Poirot and his little ideas! Too fanciful 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, clever ones do not laugh at all.' And nodding his head at them in a sage manner he walked out into the street. He and I lunched together at an hotel. I know now that the whole thing lay clearly unravelled before him. He had got the last thread he needed to lead him to the truth. But at the time I had no suspicion of the fact. I overestimated his general self-confidence, and I took it for granted that the things which puzzled me must be equally puzzling to him. My chief puzzle was what the man Charles Kent could have been doing at Fernly. Again and again I put the question to myself and could get no satisfactory reply. At last I ventured a tentative query to Poirot. 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 if I said that he went to Fernly that night because he was born in Kent?' I stared at him. 'It certainly doesn't seem to make sense to me,' I said drily. 'Ah!' said Poirot pityingly. 'Well, no matter. I have still my little idea.' CHAPTER 18 Flora Ackroyd As I was returning from my round the following morning, I was hailed by Inspector Raglan. I pulled up, and the inspector mounted on the step. 'Good morning, Dr Sheppard,' he said. 'Well, that alibi is all right enough.' 'Charles Kent's?' 'Charles Kent's. The barmaid at the Dog and Whistle, Sally Jones, she remembers him perfectly. Picked out his photograph from among five others. It was just a quarter to ten when he came into the bar, and 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 him take 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 dropping off 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 Liverpool over the wire this morning.' 'Hercule Poirot says he knows the reason the man went there that night,' I observed. 'Does he?' cried the inspector eagerly. 'Yes,' I said maliciously. 'He says he went there because he was born 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 countenance and he tapped his forehead significantly. 'But gone here,' he said. 'I've thought so for some time. Poor old chap, so that's why he had to give up and come down here. In the family, very likely. He's got a nephew who's quite off his crumpet.' 'Poirot has?' I said, very surprised. 'Yes. Hasn't he ever mentioned him to you? Quite docile, I believe, and all that, but mad as a hatter, poor lad.' 'Who told you that?' Again a grin showed itself on Inspector Raglan's face. 'Your sister. Miss Sheppard, she told me all about it.' Really, Caroline is amazing. She never rests until she knows the last details of everybody's family secrets. Unfortunately, I have never been able to instil into her the decency of keeping them to herself. 'Jump in. Inspector,' I said, opening the door of the car. 'We'll go up to The Larches together, and acquaint our Belgian friend with the latest news.' 'Might as well, I suppose. After all, even if he is a bit balmy, it was a useful dp he gave me about those fingerprints. He's got a bee in his bonnet about the man Kent, but who knows - there may be something useful behind it.' Poirot received us with his usual smiling courtesy.
He listened to the information we had brought him, nodding his head now and then. 'Seems quite O.K., doesn't it?' said the inspector rather gloomily. 'A chap can't be murdering someone in one place when he's drinking in the bar in another place a mile away.' 'Are you going to release him?' 'Don't see what else we can do. We can't very well hold him for obtaining money on false pretences. Can't prove a ruddy thing.' The inspector tossed a match into the grate in a disgruntled fashion. Poirot retrieved it and put it neatly in a little receptacle designed for the purpose. His action was purely mechanical. I could see that his thoughts were on something very different. 'If I were you,' he said at last, 'I should not release the man Charles Kent yet.' 'What do you mean?' Raglan stared at him. 'What I say. I should not release him yet.' 'You don't think he can have had anything to do with the murder, do you?' 'I think probably not - but one cannot be certain yet.' 'But haven't I just told you - ?' Poirot raised a hand protestingly. 'Mais oui, mais oui. I heard. I am not deaf - or stupid, thank the good God! But you see, you approach the matter from the wrong - the wrong - premises, is not that the word?' The inspector stared at him heavily. 'I don't see how you make that out. Look here, we know Mr Ackroyd was alive at a quarter to ten. You admit that, don't you?' Poirot looked at him for a moment, then shook his head with a quick smile. 'I admit nothing that is not - proved? 'Well, we've got proof enough of that. We've got Miss Flora Ackroyd's evidence.' 'That she said goodnight to her uncle? But me - I do not always believe what a young lady tells me - no, not even when she is charming and beautiful.' 'But hang it all, man, Parker saw her coming out of the door.' 'No.' Poirot's voice rang out with sudden sharpness. 'That is just what he did not see. I satisfied myself of that by a little experiment the other day - you remember, doctor? Parker saw her outside the door, with her hand on the handle. He did not see her come out of the room.' 'But - where else could she have been?' 'Perhaps on the stairs.' 'The stairs?' 'That is my little idea - yes.' 'But those stairs only lead to Mr Ackroyd's bedroom.' 'Precisely.' And still the inspector stared. 'You think she'd been up to her uncle's bedroom? Well, why not? Why should she lie about it?' 'Ah! that is just the question. It depends on what she was doing there, does it not?' 'You mean - the money? Hang it all, you don't suggest that it was Miss Ackroyd who took that forty pounds?' 'I suggest nothing,' said Poirot. 'But I will remind you of this. Life was not very easy for that mother and daughter. There were bills - there was constant trouble over small sums of money. Roger Ackroyd was a peculiar man over money matters. The girl might be at her wits' end for a comparatively small sum. Figure to yourself then what happens. She has taken the money, she descends the little staircase. When she is half-way down she hears the chink of glass from the hall. She has not a doubt of what it is - Parker coming to the study. At all costs she must not be found on the stairs - Parker will not forget it, he will think it odd. If the money is missed, Parker is sure to remember having seen her come down those stairs. She has just time to rush down to the study door - with her hand on the handle to show that she has just come out, when Parker appears in the doorway. She says the first thing that comes into her head, a
repetition of Roger Ackroyd's orders earlier in the evening, and then goes upstairs to her own room.' 'Yes, but later,' persisted the inspector, 'she must have realized the vital importance of speaking the truth? Why, the whole case hinges on it!' 'Afterwards,' said Poirot drily, 'it was a little difficult for Mademoiselle Flora. She is told simply that the police are here and that there has been a robbery. Naturally she jumps to the conclusion that the theft of the money has been discovered. Her one idea is to stick to her story. When she learns that her uncle is dead she is panic-stricken. Young women do not faint nowadays, monsieur, without considerable provocation. Eh bien there it is. She is bound to stick to her story, or else confess everything. And a young and pretty girl does not like to admit that she is a thief- especially before ^ those whose esteem she is anxious to retain.' Raglan brought his fist down with a thump on the table. 'I'll not believe it,' he said. 'It's - it's not credible. And you - you've known this all along?' 'The possibility has been in my mind from the first,' admitted Poirot. 'I was always convinced that Mademoiselle Flora was hiding something from us. To satisfy myself, I made the little experiment I told you of. Dr Sheppard accompanied me.' 'A test for Parker, you said it was,' I remarked bitterly. 'Mon ami,' said Poirot apologetically, 'as I told you at the time, one must say something.' The inspector rose. 'There's only one thing for it,' he declared. 'We must tackle the young lady right away. You'll come up to Fernly with me, M. Poirot?' 'Certainly. Dr Sheppard will drive us up in his car.' 'I acquiesced willingly. On inquiry for Miss Ackroyd, we were shown into the billiard room. Flora and Major Hector Blunt were sitting on the long window seat. 'Good-morning, Miss Ackroyd,' said the inspector. 'Can we have a word or two alone with you?' Blunt got up at once and moved to the door. 'What is it?' asked Flora nervously. 'Don't go. Major Blunt. He can stay, can't he?' she asked, turning to the inspector. 'That's as you like,' said the inspector drily. 'There's a question or two it's my duty to put to you, miss, but I'd prefer to do so privately, and I dare say you'd prefer it also.' Flora looked keenly at him. I saw her face grow whiter. Then she turned and spoke to Blunt. 'I want you to stay - please - yes, I mean it. Whatever the inspector has to say to me, I'd rather you heard it.' Raglan shrugged his shoulders. 'Well, if you will have it so, that's all there is to it. Now, Miss Ackroyd, M. Poirot here has made a certain suggestion to me. He suggests that you weren't in the study at all last Friday night, that you never saw Mr Ackroyd to say goodnight to him, that instead of being in the study you were on the stairs leading down from your uncle's bedroom when you heard Parker coming across the hall.' Flora's gaze shifted to Poirot. He nodded back at her. 'Mademoiselle, the other day, when we sat round the table, I implored you to be frank with me. What one does not tell to Papa Poirot he finds out. It was that, was it not? See, I will make it easy for you. You took the money, did you not?' 'The money?' said Blunt sharply. There was a silence which lasted for at least a minute.
Then Flora drew herself up and spoke. 'M. Poirot is right. I took that money. I stole. I am a thiefyes, a common, vulgar little thief. Now you know! I am glad it has come out. It's been a nightmare, these last few days!' She sat down suddenly and buried her face in her hands. She spoke huskily through her fingers. 'You don't know what my life has been since I came here. Wanting things, scheming for them, lying, cheating, running up bills, promising to pay oh! I hate myself when I think of it all! That's what brought us together, Ralph and I. We were both weak! I understood him, and I was sorry - because I'm the same underneath. We're not strong enough to stand alone, either of us. We're weak, miserable, despicable things.' She looked at Blunt and suddenly stamped her foot. 'Why do you look at me like that - as though you couldn't believe? I may be a thief- but at any rate I'm real now. I'm not lying any more. I'm not pretending to be the kind of girl you like, young and innocent and simple. I don't care if you never want to see me again. I hate myself, despise myselfbut you've got to believe one thing, if speaking the truth would have made things better for Ralph, I would have spoken out. But I've seen all along that it wouldn't be better for Ralph - it makes the case against him blacker than ever. I was not doing 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 181 'I admit everything; I was at my wits' end for money. I never saw my uncle that evening after he left the dinnertable. As to the money, you can take what steps you please. Nothing could be worse than it is now!' Suddenly she broke down again, hid her face in her hands, and rushed 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 me by 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 into the witness-box and swear to it.' He made a kind of jerky bow, then turning abruptly he left the room. 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 little fantasy. No, indeed. It was truly Miss Flora who took the money. All the same it is well imagined what you say - it pleases me. It is very good what you have done there. You are a man quick to think and to act.' 'I'm not in the least anxious for your opinion, thank you,' said Blunt coldly. He made once more as though to pass on, but Poirot, not at all offended, laid a detaining hand on his
arm. 'Ah! but you are to listen to me. I have more to say. The other day I spoke of concealments. Very well, all along I have seen what you are 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 mind saying these things - why must one in England think it necessary to mention love as though it were some disgraceful secret? You love Mademoiselle 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 of Hercule Poirot - do not conceal it from mademoiselle herself.' Blunt had shown several signs of restlessness whilst Poirot was speaking, 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 Flora accepted Captain Paton to please her uncle, and because she saw in the marriage a way of escape from her life here which was becoming frankly insupportable to her. She liked him, and there was much sympathy and understanding between them. But love - no! It is not 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 by him.' I felt it was time I put in a word to help on the good work. 'My sister told me the other night,' I said encouragingly, 'that Flora had never cared a penny piece for Ralph Paton, and never would. My sister is always right about these things.' Blunt ignored my well-meant 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 things into words. Poirot knows no such disability. 'If you doubt me, ask her yourself, monsieur. But perhaps you no longer care to - the affair of the money ' Blunt gave a sound like an angry laugh. 'Think I'd hold that against her? Roger was always a queer chap about money. She got in a mess and didn't dare tell him. Poor kid. Poor lonely kid.' Poirot looked thoughtfully at the side door. ( 183 'Mademoiselle Flora went into the garden, I think,' he murmured. 'I've been every kind of a fool,' said Blunt abruptly. 'Rum conversation we've been having. Like one of those Danish plays. But you're a sound fellow, M. Poirot. Thank you.' He took Poirot's hand and gave it a grip which caused the other to wince in anguish. Then he strode to the side-door and passed out into the garden.
'Not every kind of a fool,' murmured Poirot, tenderly nursing the injured member. 'Only one kind - the fool in love.' CHAPTER 20 Miss Russell Inspector Raglan had received a bad jolt. He was not deceived by Blunt's valiant lie any more than we had been. Our way back to the village was punctuated by his complaints. 'This alters everything, this does. I don't know whether you've realized it. Monsieur Poirot?' 'I think so, yes, I think so,' said Poirot. 'You see, me, I have been familiar with the idea for some time.' Inspector Raglan, who had only had the idea presented to him a short half-hour ago, looked at Poirot unhappily, and went on with his discoveries. 'Those alibis now. Worthless! Absolutely worthless. Got to start again. 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 quite right about the man Kent we don't release him yet awhile. Let me see now - nineforty-five at the Dog and Whistle. He might have got there in a quarter of an hour if he ran. It's just possible that it was his voice Mr Raymond heard talking to Mr Ackroyd asking for money which Mr Ackroyd refused. But one thing's clear - it wasn't he who sent the telephone message. The station is half a mile in the other direction - over a mile and a half from the Dog and Whistle, and he was at the Dog and Whistle until about ten minutes past ten. Dang that 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's room and found him there murdered, he may have sent it. Got the wind up, thought he'd be accused, and cleared out. That's possible, isn't it?' 'Why should he have telephoned?' I 185 'May have had doubts if the old man was really dead. Thought he'd get the doctor up there as soon as possible, but didn't want to give 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 plainly delighted with himself that any words of ours would have been quite superfluous. We arrived back at my house at this minute, and I hurried in to my surgery 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 at the back of the house which I call my workshop 1 am rather proud of the home-made 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 the interior of an alarm clock which had been denounced as wholly unreliable by the household, when the door opened and Caroline put her 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 startled me 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 a moment or two, ushering in Poirot, and then retired again, shutting the door with a bang. 'Aha! my friend,' said Poirot, coming forward and rubbing his hands. '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 on one 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 to see.' '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 I wish to see, you understand - and at the same time it is not necessary that the whole village should intrigue itself about the matter - which is what would happen if the lady were seen to come to my house for it is a lady. But to you she has already come as a patient before.' 'Miss Russell!' I exclaimed. 'Precisement. I wish much to speak with her, so I send her the little note and make the appointment in your surgery. You are not annoyed with me?' 'On the contrary,' I said. 'That is, presuming I am allowed to be present at the interview?' 'But naturally! In your own surgery!' 'You know,' I said, throwing down the pincers I was holding, 'it's extraordinarily intriguing, the whole thing. Every new development that arises is like the shake you give to a kaleidoscope - the thing changes entirely in aspect. Now, why are you so anxious to see Miss Russell?' Poirot raised his eyebrows. 'Surely it is obvious?' he murmured. 'There you go again,' I grumbled. 'According to you everything is obvious. 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 were not - 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 the truth, when it came, was subconsciously expected. It upset Inspector Raglan very much indeed, poor man.' 'Ah! pour {a oui The poor man must rearrange all his ideas. I profited by his state of mental chaos to induce him to grant me a little favour.' 'What was that?' Poirot took a sheet of notepaper from his pocket. Some words were 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, whose death occurred under such tragic circumstances last Friday. Captain Paton has been found at Liverpool, where he was on the 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 at Liverpool!' Poirot beamed on me. 'You have the intelligence so quick! No, he has not been found at Liverpool. Inspector Raglan was very loath to let me send this paragraph to the press, especially as I could not take him into my confidence. But I assured him most solemnly that very interesting results would follow its appearance in print, so he gave in, after stipulating that he was, on no account, to bear the responsibility.' 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, after inspecting the debris of my labours. Every man has his hobby. I immediately drew Poirot's attention to my home-made wireless. Finding him sympathetic, I showed him one or two little inventions of my own - trifling things, but useful in the house. 'Decidedly,' said Poirot, 'you should be an inventor by trade, not a doctor. But I hear the bell - that is your patient. Let us go into the surgery.' Once before I had been struck by the remnants of beauty in the housekeeper's face. This morning I was struck anew. Very simply dressed in black, tall, upright and independent as ever, with her big dark eyes and an unwonted flush of colour in her usually pale cheeks, I realized that as a girl she must have been startlingly handsome. 'Good-morning, mademoiselle,' said Poirot. 'Will you be seated? Dr Sheppard is so kind as to permit me the use of his surgery for a little 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 a trifle wider, and asked, with a tinge of defiance: 'Well, what of it?' But at that moment it came to me - the resemblance that had haunted me all along, something familiar in the defiance of Charles Kent's manner. The two voices, one rough and coarse, the other painfully ladylike - were strangely the same in timbre. It was of Miss Russell that I had been reminded that night outside the gates of Fernly Park. I looked at Poirot, full of my discovery, and he gave me an imperceptible nod. In answer to Miss Russell's question, he threw out his hands in a thoroughly 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 Charles Kent anyway?' 'He is a man, mademoiselle, who was at Fernly on the night of the murder.' 'Really?' 'Fortunately for him, he has an
alibi. At a quarter to ten he was at a public-house a mile from here.' 'Lucky for him,' commented Miss Russell. 'But we still do not know what he was doing at Fernly who it was he 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 stopped her. 'It is not quite all,' he said smoothly. 'This morning fresh developments have arisen. It seems now that Mr Ackroyd was murdered, not at a quarter to ten, but before. Between ten minutes to nine, when Dr Sheppard left, and a quarter to ten.' I saw the colour drain from the housekeeper's face, leaving it dead white. She leaned forward, her figure swaying. 'But Miss Ackroyd said - Miss Ackroyd said ' 'Miss Ackroyd has admitted that she was lying. She was never in the study at all that evening.' Then-' 'Then it would seem that in this Charles Kent we have the man we are looking for. He came to Fernly, can give no account of what he was doing there ' 'I can tell you what he was doing there. He never touched a hair of old Ackroyd's head - he never went near the study. He didn't do it, I tell you.' She was leaning forward. That iron self-control was broken through 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 the shoulder. 'But yes - but yes, I will believe. I had to make you speak, you know.' 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 went out to meet him ' 'In the summer-house, yes, I know.' 'How do you know?' 'Mademoiselle, it is the business ofHercule Poirot to know things. I know that you went out earlier in the evening, that you left a message in the summer-house to say what time you would be there.' 'Yes, I did. I had heard from him - saying he was coming. I dared not let him come to the house. I wrote to the address he gave me and said I would meet him in the summerhouse, and described it to him so that he would be able to find it. Then I was afraid he might not wait there patiently, and I ran out and left a piece of paper to say I would be there about ten minutes past nine. I didn't want the servants to see me, so I slipped out through the drawing-room window. As I came back, I met Dr Sheppard, and I fancied that he would think it queer. I was out of breath, for I had been running. I had no idea that he was expected to dinner that night.' She paused. 'Go on,' said Poirot. 'You went out to meet him at ten minutes past nine. What did you say to each other?' 'It's difficult. You see-' 'Mademoiselle,' said Poirot, interrupting her, 'in this matter I must have the whole truth. What you tell us need never go beyond these four walls. Dr Sheppard will be discreet, and so shall I. See, I will help you. This Charles Kent, he is your son, is he not?' She nodded. The colour had flamed into her cheeks. 'No one has ever known. It was long ago - long ago - down 'i Kent. I was not married..' 'So you took the name of the county as a surname for him. I understand.' 'I got work. I managed to pay for his board and lodging. I never told him that I was his mother. But he turned out badly, he drank, then took to
drugs. I managed to pay his passage out to Canada. I didn't hear of him for a year or two. Then, somehow or other, he found out that I was his mother. He wrote asking me for money. Finally, I heard from him back in this country again. He was coming to see me at Fernly, he said. I dared not let him come to the house. I have always been considered so - so very respectable. If anyone got an inkling - it would have been all up with my post as housekeeper. So I wrote to him in the way I have just told you.' 'And in the morning you came to see Dr Sheppard?' 'Yes. I wondered if something could be done. He was not a bad boy - before he took to drugs.' 'I see,' said Poirot. 'Now let us go on with the story. He came that night to the summerhouse?' 'Yes, he was waiting for me when I got there. He was very rough and abusive. I had brought with me all the money I had, and I gave it to him. We talked a little, and then he went away.' 'What time was that?' 'It must have been between twenty and twenty-five minutes past nine. It was not yet half-past when I got back to the house.' 'Which way did he go?' 'Straight out the same way he came, by the path that joined the drive just inside the lodge gates.' Poirot nodded. 'And you, what did you do?' 'I went back to the house. Major Blunt was walking up and down the terrace smoking, so I made a detour to get round to the side door. It was just then on half-past nine, as I tell you.' Poirot nodded again. He made a note or two in a microscopic pocketbook. 'I think that is all,' he said thoughtfully. •Ought I -?' she hesitated. 'Ought I to tell all this to Inspector Raglan?' 'It may come to that. But let us not be in a hurry. Let us proceed slowly, with due order and method. Charles Kent is not yet formally charged with murder. Circumstances may arise which will render your story unnecessary.' Miss Russell rose. 'Thank you very much, M. Poirot,' she said. 'You have been very kind - very kind indeed. You - you do believe me, don't you? That Charles had nothing to do with this wicked murder!' 'There seems no doubt that the man who was talking to Mr Ackroyd in the library at nine-thirty could not possibly have been your son. Be of good courage, mademoiselle. All will yet be well.' Miss Russell departed. Poirot and I were left together. 'So that's that,' I said. 'Every time we come back to Ralph Paton. How did you manage to spot Miss Russell as the person Charles Kent came to meet? Did you notice the resemblance?' 'I had connected her with the unknown man long before we actually came face to face with him. As soon as we found that quill. The quill suggested dope, and I remembered your account of Miss Russell's visit to you. Then I found the article on cocaine in that morning's paper. It all seemed very clear. She had heard from someone that morning - someone addicted to drugs, she read the article in the paper, and she came to ask you a few tentative questions. She mentioned cocaine, since the article in question was on cocaine. Then, when you seemed too interested, she switched hurriedly to the subject of detective stories and untraceable poisons. I suspected a son or a brother, or some other undesirable male relation. Ah! but I must go. It is the time of the lunch.' 'Stay and lunch with us,' I suggested. Poirot shook his head. A faint twinkle came into his eye. 'Not again today. I should not like to force Mademoiselle Caroline to adopt a vegetarian diet two days in succession.' It occurred to me that there was not much which escaped Hercule Poirot. CHAPTER 21 The Paragraph in the Paper
Caroline, of course, had not failed to see Miss Russell come to the surgery door. I had anticipated this, and had ready an elaborate account of the lady's bad knee. But Caroline was not in a cross-questioning mood. Her point of view was that she knew what Miss Russell had really come for and that / didn't. 'Pumping you, James,' said Caroline. 'Pumping you in the most shameless manner, I've no doubt. It's no good interrupting. I dare say you hadn't the least idea she was doing it even. Men are so simple. She knows that you are in M. Poirot's confidence, and she wants to find out things. Do you know what I think, James?' 'I couldn't begin to imagine. You think so many extraordinary things.' 'It's no good being sarcastic. I think Miss Russell knows more about Mr Ackroyd's death than she is prepared to admit.' Caroline leaned back triumphantly in her chair. 'Do you really think so?' I said absently. 'You are very dull today, James. No animation about you. It's that liver of yours.' Our conversation then dealt with purely personal matters. The paragraph inspired by Poirot duly appeared in our daily paper the next morning. I was in the dark as to its purpose, but its effect on Caroline was immense. She began by stating, most untruly, that she had said as much all along. I raised my eyebrows, but did not argue. Caroline, however, must have felt a prick of conscience, for she went on: 'I mayn't have actually mentioned Liverpool, but I knew he'd try to get away to America. That's what Crippen did.' 'Without much success,' I reminded her. 'Poor boy, and so they've caught him. I consider, James, that it's your duty to see that he isn't hung.' 'What do you expect me to do?' 'Why, you're a medical man, aren't you? You've known him from a boy upwards. Not mentally responsible. That's the line to take, clearly. I read only the other day that they're very happy in Broadmoor - it's quite like a highclass club.' But Caroline's words had reminded me of something. 'I never knew that Poirot had an imbecile nephew?' I said curiously. 'Didn't you? Oh, he told me all about it. Poor lad. It's a great grief to all the family. They've kept him at home so far, but it's getting to such a pitch that they're afraid he'll have to go into some kind of institution.' 'I suppose you know pretty well everything there is to know about Poirot's family by this time,' I said, exasperated. 'Pretty well,' said Caroline complacently. 'It's a great relief to people to be able to tell all their troubles to someone.' 'It might be,' I said, 'if they were ever allowed to do so spontaneously. Whether they enjoy having confidences screwed out of them by force is another matter.' Caroline merely looked at me with an air of a Christian martyr enjoying martyrdom. 'You are so self-contained, James,' she said. 'You hate speaking out, or parting with any information yourself, and you think everybody else must be just like you. I should hope that I never screw
confidences out of anybody. For instance, ifM. Poirot comes in this afternoon, as he said he might do, I shall not dream of asking him who it was arrived at his house early this morning.' 'Early this morning?' I queried. 'Very early,' said Caroline. 'Before the milk came. I just happened to be looking out of the window - the blind was flapping. It was a man. He came in a closed car, and he was all muffled up. I couldn't get a glimpse of his face. But I will tell you my idea, and you'll see that I'm right.' 'What's your idea?' Caroline dropped her voice mysteriously. 'A Home Office expert,' she breathed. 'A Home Office expert,' I said, amazed. 'My dear Caroline!' 'Mark my words, James, you'll see that I'm right. That Russell woman was here that morning after your poisons. Roger Ackroyd might easily have been poisoned in his food that night.' I laughed out loud. 'Nonsense,' I cried. 'He was stabbed in the neck. You know that as well as I do.' 'After death, James,' said Caroline; 'to make a false clue.' 'My good woman,' I said, 'I examined the body, and I know what I'm talking about. That wound wasn't inflicted after death - it was the cause of death, and you need make no mistake about it.' Caroline merely continued to look omniscient, which so annoyed me that I went on: 'Perhaps you will tell me, Caroline, if I have a medical degree or if I have not?' 'You have the medical degree, I dare say, James - at least, I mean I know you have. But you've no imagination whatever.' 'Having endowed you with a treble portion, there was none left over for me,' I said drily. I was amused to see Caroline's manoeuvres that afternoon when Poirot duly arrived. My sister, without asking a direct question, skirted the subject of the mysterious guest in every way imaginable. By the twinkle in Poirot's eyes, I saw that he realized her object. He remained blandly impervious, and blocked her bowling so successfully that she herself was at a loss how to proceed. Having, I suspect, enjoyed the little game, he rose to his feet and suggested a walk. 'It is that I need to reduce the figure a little,' he ex196 plained. 'You will come with me, doctor? And perhaps later. Miss Caroline will give us some tea.' Delighted,' said Caroline. 'Won't your - er - guest come in also?' 'You are too kind,' said Poirot. 'But no, my friend reposes himself. Soon you must make his acquaintance.' 'Quite an old friend of yours, so somebody told me,' said Caroline, making one last valiant effort. 'Did they?' murmured Poirot. 'Well, we must start.' Our tramp took us in the direction of Fernly. I had guessed beforehand that it might do so. I was beginning to understand Poirot's methods. Every little irrelevancy had a bearing upon the whole. 'I have a commission for you, my friend,' he said at last. 'Tonight, at my house. I desire to have a little conference. You will attend, will you not?' 'Certainly,' I said. 'Good. I need also those in the house - that is to say: Mrs Ackroyd, Mademoiselle Flora, Major Blunt, Mr Raymond. I want you to be my ambassador. This little reunion is fixed for nine o'clock. You will ask them - yes?' 'With pleasure; but why not ask them yourself?' 'Because they will then put the questions:
Why? What for? They will demand what my idea is. And, as you know, my friend, I much dislike to have to explain my little ideas until the time comes.' I smiled a little. 'My friend Hastings, he of whom I told you, used to say of me that I was the human oyster. But he was unjust. Of facts, I keep nothing to myself. But to everyone his own interpretation of them.' 'When do you want me to do this?' 'Now, if you will. We are close to the house.' 'Aren't you coming in?' 'No, me, I will promenade myself in the grounds. I will rejoin you by the lodge gates in a quarter of an hour's time.' I nodded, and set off on my task. The only member of the family at home proved to be Mrs Ackroyd, who was sipping an early cup of tea. She received me very graciously. 'So grateful to you, doctor,' she murmured, 'for clearing up that little matter with M. Poirot. But life is one trouble after another. You have heard about Flora, of course?' 'What exactly?' I asked cautiously. 'This new engagement. Flora and Hector Blunt. Of course not such a good match as Ralph would have been. But after all, happiness comes first. What dear Flora needs is an older man - someone steady annd reliable, and then Hector is really a very distinguished man in his way. You saw the news of Ralph's arrest in the paper this morning?' 'Yes,' I said, 'I did.' 'Horrible.' Mrs Ackroyd closed her eyes and shuddered. 'Geoffrey Raymond was in a terrible way. Rang up Liverpool. But they wouldn't tell him anything at the police station there. In fact, they said they hadn't arrested Ralph at all. Mr Raymond insists that it's all a mistake - a ~ what do they call it? - canard of the newspaper's. I've forbidden it to be mentioned before the servants. Such a terrible disgrace. Fancy if Flora had actually been married to him.' Mrs Ackroyd shut her eyes in anguish. I began to wonder how soon I should be able to deliver Poirot's invitation. Before I had time to speak, Mrs Ackroyd was off again. 'You were here yesterday, weren't you, with that dreadful Inspector Raglan? Brute of a man - he terrified Flora into saying she took that money from poor Roger's room. And the matter was so simple, really. The dear child wanted to borrow a few pounds, didn't like to disturb her uncle since he'd given strict orders against it. But knowing where he kept his notes she went there and took what she needed.' 'Is that Flora's account of the matter?' I asked. 'My dear doctor, you know what girls are nowadays. So easily acted on by suggestion. You, of course, know all about hypnosis and that sort of thing. The inspector shouts at her, says the word 'steal' over and over again, until the poor child gets an inhibition - or is it a complex? -1 always mix up those two words - and actually thinks herself that she has stolen the money. I saw at once how it was. But I can't be too thankful for the whole misunderstanding in one way - it seems to have brought those two together Hector and Flora, I mean. And I assure you that I have been very much worried about Flora in the past: why, at one time I actually thought there was going to be some kind of understanding between her and young Raymond. Just think of it!' Mrs Ackroyd's voice rose in shrill horror. 'A private secretary - with practically no means of his own.' 'It would have been a severe blow to you,' I said. 'Now, Mrs Ackroyd, I've got a message for you from M. Hercule Poirot.' 'For me?' Mrs Ackroyd looked quite alarmed. I hastened to reassure her, and I explained what Poirot wanted. 'Certainly,' said Mrs Ackroyd rather doubtfully. 'I suppose we must come if M. Poirot says so. But what is it all about? I like to know beforehand.' I assured the lady truthfully that I myself did not know any
more than she did. 'Very well,' said Mrs Ackroyd at last, rather grudgingly, 'I will tell the others, and we will be there at nine o'clock.' Thereupon I took my leave, and joined Poirot at the agreed meeting-place. 'I've been longer than a quarter of an hour, I'm afraid,' I remarked. 'But once that good lady starts talking it's a matter of the utmost difficulty to get a word in edgeways.' 'It is of no matter,' said Poirot. The, I have been well amused. This park is magnificent.' We set off homewards. When we arrived, to our great surprise Caroline, who had evidently been watching for us, herself opened the door. She put her finger to her lips. Her face was full of importance and excitement. 'Ursula Bourne,' she said, 'the parlourmaid from Fernly. She's here! I've put her in the dining-room. She's in a terrible way, poor thing. Says she must see M. Poirot at For a moment or two the girl looked mutely at Poirot. Then, her reserve breaking down completely, she nodded her head once, and burst into an outburst of sobs. Caroline pushed past me, and putting her arm round the girl, patted her on the shoulder. 'There, there, my dear,' she said soothingly, 'it will be all right. You'll see - everything will be all right.' Buried under curiosity and scandal-mongering there is a lot of kindness in Caroline. For the moment, even the interest of Poirot's revelation was lost in the sight of the girl's distress. Presently Ursula sat up and wiped her eyes. 'This is very Weak and silly of me,' she said. 'No, no, my child,' said Poirot kindly. 'We can all realize the strain of this last week.' 'It must have been a terrible ordeal,' I said. 'And then to find that you knew,' continued Ursula. 'How did you know? Was it Ralph who told you?' Poirot shook his head. 'You know what brought me to you tonight,' went on the girl. 'This-' She held out a crumpled piece of newspaper, and I recognized the paragraph that Poirot had had inserted. 'It says that Ralph has been arrested. So everything is useless. I need not pretend any longer.' 'Newspaper paragraphs are not always true, mademoiselle,' murmured Poirot, having the grace to look ashamed of himself. 'All the same, I think you will do well to make a clean breast of things. The truth is what we need now.' The girl hesitated, looking at him doubtfully. 'You do not trust me,' said Poirot gently. 'Yet all the same you came here to find me, did you not? Why was that?' 'Because I don't believe that Ralph did it,' said the girl in a very low voice. 'And I think that you are clever, and will find out the truth. And also ' 'Yes?' 'I think you are kind.' Poirot nodded his head several times. 'It is very good that - yes, it is very good. Listen, I do in verity believe that this husband of yours is
innocent - but the affair marches badly. If I am to save him, I must know all there is to know - even if it should seem to make the case against him blacker than before.' 'How well you understand,' said Ursula. 'So you will tell me the whole story, will you not? From the beginning.' 'You're not going to send me away, I hope,' said Caroline, settling herself comfortably in an arm-chair. 'What I want to know,' she continued, 'is why this child was masquerading as a parlourmaid?' 'Masquerading?' I queried. 'That's what I said. Why did you do it, child? For a wager?' 'For a living,' said Ursula drily. And encouraged, she began the story which I reproduce here in my own words. Ursula Bourne, it seemed, was one of a family of seven impoverished Irish gentlefolk. On the death of her father, most of the girls were cast out into the world to earn their own living. Ursula's eldest sister was married to Captain Folliott. It was she whom I had seen that Sunday, and the cause of her embarrassment was clear enough now. Detemined to earn her living and not attracted to the idea of being a nursery governess - the one profession open to an untrained girl, Ursula preferred the job of parlourmaid. She scorned to label herself a 'lady parlourmaid.' She would be the real thing, her reference being supplied by her sister. At Fernly, despite an aloofness which, as has been seen, caused some comment, she was a success at her job - quick, competent, and thorough. 'I enjoyed the work,' she explained. 'And I had plenty of time to myself.' And then came her meeting with Ralph Paton, and the love affair which culminated in a secret marriage. Ralph had persuaded her into that, somewhat against her will. He had declared that his stepfather would not hear of his marrying a penniless girl. Better to be married secretly, and break the news to him at some later and more favourable minute. And so the deed was done, and Ursula Bourne became Ursula Paton. Ralph had declared that he meant to pay off his debts, find a job, and then, when he was in a position to support her, and independent of his adopted father, they would break the news to him. But to people like Ralph Paton, turning over a new leaf is easier in theory than in practice. He hoped that his stepfather, whilst still in ignorance of the marriage, might be persuaded to pay his debts and put him on his feet again. But the revelation of the amount of Ralph's liabilities merely enraged Roger Ackroyd, and he refused to do anything at all. Some months passed, and then Ralph was bidden once more to Fernly. Roger Ackroyd did not beat about the bush. It was the desire of his heart that Ralph should marry Flora, and he put the matter plainly before the young man. And here it was that the innate weakness of Ralph Paton showed itself. As always, he grasped at the easy, the immediate solution. As far as I could make out, neither Flora nor Ralph made any pretence of love. It was, on both sides, a business arrangement. Roger Ackroyd dictated his wishes - they agreed to them. Flora accepted a chance of liberty, money, and an enlarged horizon, Ralph, of course, was playing a different game. But he was in a very awkward hole financially. He seized at the chance. His debts would be Paid. He could start again with a clean sheet. His was not a nature to envisage the future, but I gather that he saw vaguely the engagement with Flora being broken off after a decent interval had elapsed. Both Flora and he stipulated that it should be kept a secret for the present. He was anxious to conceal it from Ursula. He felt instinctively that her nature, strong and resolute, with an inherent distaste for duplicity, was not one to welcome such a course. Then came the crucial moment when Roger Ackroyd, always high-handed, decided to announce the
engagement. He said no word of his intention to Ralph - only to Flora, and Flora, apathetic, raised no objection. On Ursula, the news fell like a bombshell. Summoned by her, Ralph came hurriedly down from town. They met in the wood, where part of their conversation was overheard by my sister. Ralph implored her to keep silent for a little while longer, Ursula was equally determined to have done with concealments. She would tell Mr Ackroyd the truth without any further delay. Husband and wife parted acrimoniously. Ursula, steadfast in her purpose, sought an interview with Roger Ackroyd that very afternoon, and revealed the truth to him. Their interview was a stormy one - it might have been even more stormy had not Roger Ackroyd been already obsessed with his own troubles. It was bad enough, however. Ackroyd was not the kind of man to forgive the deceit that had been practised upon him. His rancour was mainly directed to Ralph, but Ursula came in for her share, since he regarded her as a girl who had deliberately tried to 'entrap' the adopted son of a very wealthy man. Unforgivable things were said on both sides. That same evening Ursula met Ralph by appointment in the small summer-house, stealing out from the house by the side door in order to do so. Their interview was made up of reproaches on both sides. Ralph charged Ursula with having irretrievably ruined his prospects by her ill-timed revelation. Ursula reproached Ralph with his duplicity. They parted at last. A little over half an hour later came the discovery of Roger Ackroyd's body. Since that night Ursula had neither seen nor heard from Ralph. As the story unfolded itself, I realized more and more what a damning series of facts it was. Alive, Ackroyd could hardly have failed to alter his will -1 knew him well enough to realize that to do so would be his first thought. His death came in the nick of time for Ralph and Ursula Paton. Small wonder the girl had held her tongue, and played her part so consistently. My meditations were interrupted. It was Poirot's voice speaking, and I knew from the gravity of his tone that he, too, was fully alive to the implications of the position. 'Mademoiselle, I must ask you one question, and you must answer it truthfully, for on it everything may hang: What time was it when you parted from Captain Ralph Paton in the summer-house? Now, take a little minute so that your answer may be very exact.' The girl gave a half laugh, bitter enough in all conscience. 'Do you think I haven't gone over that again and again in my own mind? It was just half-past nine when I went out to meet him. Major Blunt was walking up and down the terrace, so I had to go round through the bushes to avoid him. It must have been about twenty-seven minutes to ten when I reached the summer-house. Ralph was waiting for me. I was with him ten minutes - not longer, for it was just a quarter to ten when I got back to the house.' I saw now the insistence of her question the other day. If only Ackroyd could have been proved to have been killed before a quarter to ten, and not after. I saw the reflection of that thought in Poirot's next question. 'Who left the summer-house first?' 'I did.' 'Leaving Ralph Paton in the summerhouse?' 'Yes - but you don't think ' 'Mademoiselle, it is of no importance what I think. What did you do when you got back to the house?' 'I went up to my room.' 'And stayed there until when?' 'Until about ten o'clock.' 'Is there anyone who can prove that?' 'Prove? That I was in my room, you mean? Oh! no. But surely - oh! I see,
they might think - they might think ' I saw the dawning horror in her eyes. Poirot finished the sentence for her. 'That it was you who entered by the window and stabbed Mr Ackroyd as he sat in his chair? Yes, they might think just that.' 'Nobody but a fool would think any such thing,' said Caroline indignantly. She patted Ursula on the shoulder. The girl had her face hidden in her hands. 'Horrible,' she was murmuring. 'Horrible.' Caroline gave her a friendly shake. 'Don't worry, my dear,' she said. 'M. Poirot doesn't think that really. As for that husband of yours, I don't think much of him, and I tell you so candidly. Running away and leaving you to face the music.' But Ursula shook her head energetically. 'Oh, no,' she cried. 'It wasn't like that at all. Ralph would not run away on his own account. I see now. If he heard of his stepfather's murder, he might think himself that I had done it.' 'He wouldn't think any such thing,' said Caroline. 'I was so cruel to him that night - so hard and bitter. I wouldn't listen to what he was trying to say wouldn't believe that he really cared. I just stood there telling him what I thought of him, and saying the coldest, cruellest things that came into my mind - trying my best to hurt him.' 'Do him no harm,' said Caroline. 'Never worry about what you say to a man. They're so conceited that they never believe you mean it if it's unflattering.' Ursual went on nervously twisting and untwisting her hands. 'When the murder was discovered and he didn't come forward, I was terribly upset. Just for a moment I wondered - but then I knew he couldn't - he couldn't.. But I wished he would come forward and say openly that he'd had nothing to do with it. I knew that he was fond of Dr Sheppard, and I fancied that perhaps Dr Sheppard might know where he was hiding.' She turned to me. 'That's why I said what I did to you that day. I thought, if you knew where he was, you might pass on the message to him.' 'I?' I exclaimed. 'Why should James know where he was?' demanded Caroline sharply. 'It was very unlikely, I know,' admitted Ursula, 'but Ralph had often spoken of Dr Sheppard, and I knew that he would be likely to consider him as his best friend in King's Abbot.' 'My dear child,' I said, 'I have not the least idea where Ralph Paton is at the present moment.' 'That is true enough,' said Poirot. 'But -' Ursula held out the newspaper cutting in a puzzled fashion. 'Ah! that,' said Poirot, slightly embarrassed; 'a bagatelle, mademoiselle. A rien du tout. Not for a moment do I believe that Ralph Paton has been arrested.' 'But then -' began the girl slowly. Poirot went on quickly: 'There is one thing I should like to know - did Captain Paton wear shoes or boots that night?' Ursula shook her head. 'I can't remember.' 'A pity! But how should you? Now, madame,' he smiled at her, his head on one side, his forefinger wagging eloquently, 'no questions. And do not torment yourself. Be of good courage, and
place your faith in Hercule Poirot.' CHAPTER 23 Poirot's Little Reunion 'And now,' said Caroline, rising, 'that child is coming upstairs to lie down. Don't you worry, my dear. M. Poirot will do everything he can for you - be sure of that.' 'I ought to go back to Fernly,' said Ursula uncertainly. But Caroline silenced her protests with a firm hand. 'Nonsense. You're in my hands for the time being. You'll stay here for the present, anyway - eh, M. Poirot?' 'It will be the best plan,' agreed the little Belgian. 'This evening I shall want mademoiselle - I beg her pardon, madame - to attend my little reunion. Nine o'clock at my house. It is most necessary that she should be there.' Caroline nodded, and went with Ursula out of the room. The door shut behind them. Poirot dropped down into a chair again. 'So far, so good,' he said. 'Things are straightening themselves out.' 'They're getting to look blacker and blacker against Ralph Paton,' I observed gloomily. Poirot nodded. 'Yes, that is so. But it was to be expected, was it not?' I looked at him, slightly puzzled by the remark. He was leaning back in the chair, his eyes half closed, the tips of his fingers just touching each other. Suddenly he sighed and shook his head. 'What is it?' I asked. 'It is that there are moments when a great longing for my friend Hastings comes over me. That is the friend of whom I spoke to you - the one who resides now in the Argentine. Always, when I have had a big case, he has been by my side. And he has helped me - yes, often he has helped me. For he had a knack, that one, of stumbling over the truth unawares - without noticing it himself, bien entendu. At times, he has said something particularly foolish, and behold that foolish remark has revealed the truth to me! And then, too, it was his practice to keep a written record of the cases that proved interesting.' I gave a slightly embarrassed cough. 'As far as that goes,' I began, and then stopped. Poirot sat upright in his chair. His eyes sparkled. 'But yes? What is it that you would say?' 'Well, as a matter of fact, I've read some of Captain Hastings's narratives, and I thought, why not try my hand at something of the same kind. Seemed a pity not to unique opportunity - probably the only time I'll be mixed up with anything of this kind.' I felt myself getting hotter and hotter, and more and more incoherent, as I floundered through the above speech. Poirot sprang from his chair. I had a moment's terror that he was going to embrace me French fashion, but mercifully he refrained. 'But this is magnificent - you have then written down your impressions of the case as you went along?' I
nodded. 'Epatant!' cried Poirot. 'Let me see them - this instant.' I was not quite prepared for such a sudden demand. I racked my brains to remember certain details. 'I hope you won't mind,' I stammered. 'I may have been a little - er - personal now and then.' 'Oh! I comprehend perfectly; you have referred to me as comic - as, perhaps, ridiculous now and then? It matters not at all. Hastings, he also was not always polite. Me, I have the mind above such trivialities.' Still somewhat doubtful, I rummaged in the drawers of my desk and produced an untidy pile of manuscript which I handed over to him. With an eye on possible publication in the future, I had divided the work into chapters, and the night before I had brought it up to date with an account of Miss Russell's visit. Poirot had therefore twenty chapters. I left him with them. I was obliged to go out to a case at some distance away and it was past eight o'clock when I got back, to be greeted with a plate of hot dinner on a tray, and the announcement that Poirot and my sister had supped together at half-past seven, and that the former had then gone to my workshop to finish his reading of the manuscript. 'I hope, James,' said my sister, 'that you've been careful in what you say about me in it?' My jaw dropped. I had not been careful at all. 'Not that it matters very much,' said Caroline, reading my expression correctly. 'M. Poirot will know what to think. He understands me much better than you do.' I went into the workshop. Poirot was sitting by the window. The manuscript lay neatly piled on a chair beside him. He laid his hand on it and spoke. 'Eh bien,' he said, 'I congratulate you - on your modesty!' 'Oh!' I said, rather taken aback. 'And on your reticence,' he added. I said 'Oh!' again. 'Not so did Hastings write,' continued my friend. 'On every page, many, many times was the word 'I.' What he thought - what he did. But you - you have kept your personality in the background; only once or twice does it obtrude - in scenes of home life, shall we say?' I blushed a little before the twinkle of his eye. 'What do you really think of the stuff?' I asked nervously. 'You want my candid opinion?' 'Yes.' Poirot laid his jesting manner aside. 'A very meticulous and accurate account,' he said kindly. 'You have recorded all the facts faithfully and exactly though you have shown yourself becomingly reticent as to your own share in them.' 'And it has helped you?' 'Yes. I may say that it has helped me considerably. Come, we must go over to my house and set the stage for my little performance.' Caroline was in the hall. I think she hoped that she might be invited to accompany us. Poirot dealt with the situation tactfully. 'I should much like to have had you present, mademoiselle,' he said regretfully, 'but at this juncture it
would not be wise. See you, all these people tonight are suspects. Amongst them, I shall find the person who killed Mr Ackroyd.' 'You really believe that?' I said incredulously. 'I see that you do not,' said Poirot drily. 'Not yet do you appreciate Hercule Poirot at his true worth.' At that minute Ursula came down the staircase. 'You are ready, my child?' said Poirot. 'That is good. We will go to my house together. Mademoiselle Caroline, believe me, I do everything possible to render you service. Good-evening.' We went off, leaving Caroline rather like a dog who has been refused a walk, standing on the front door step gazing after us. The sitting-room at The Larches had been got ready. On the table were various siropes and glasses. Also a plate of biscuits. Several chairs had been brought in from the other room. Poirot ran to and fro rearranging things. Pulling out a chair here, altering the position of a lamp there, occasionally stooping to straighten one of the mats that covered the floor. He was specially fussing over the lighting. The lamps were arranged in. such a way as to throw a clear light on the side of the room where the chairs were grouped, at the same time leaving the other end of the room, where I presumed Poirot himself would sit, in a dim twilight. Ursula and I watched him. Presently a bell was heard. 'They arrive,' said Poirot. 'Good, all is in readiness.' The door opened and the party from Femly filed in. Poirot went forward and greeted Mrs Ackroyd and Flora. 'It is most good of you to come,' he said. 'And Major Blunt and Mr Raymond.' The secretary was debonair as ever. 'What's the great idea?' he said, laughing. 'Some scientific machine? Do we have bands round our wrists which register guilty heart-beats? There is such an invention isn't there?' 'I have read of it, yes,' admitted Poirot. 'But me, I am oldfashioned. I use the old methods. I work only with the little grey cells. Now let us begin - but first I have an announcement to make to you all.' He took Ursula's hand and drew her forward. 'This lady is Mrs Ralph Paton. She was married to Captain Paton last March.' A little shriek burst from Mrs Ackroyd. 'Ralph! Married! Last March! Oh! but it's absurd. How could he be?' She stared at Ursula as though she had never seen her before. 'Married to Bourne?' she said. 'Really, M. Poirot, I don't believe you.' Ursula flushed and began to speak, but Flora forestalled her. Going quickly to the other girl's side, she passed her hand through her arm. 'You must not mind our being surprised,' she said. 'You see, we had no idea of such a thing. You and
Ralph have kept your secret very well. I am - very glad about it.' 'You are very kind. Miss Ackroyd,' said Ursula in a low voice, 'and you have every right to be exceedingly angry. Ralph behaved very badly - especially to you.' 'You needn't worry about that,' said Flora, giving her arm a consoling little pat. 'Ralph was in a corner and took the only way out. I should probably have done the same in his place. I do think he might have trusted me with the secret, though. I wouldn't have let him down.' Poirot rapped gently on a table and cleared his throat significantly. 'The board meeting's going to begin,' said Flora. 'M. Poirot hints that we mustn't talk. But just tell me one thing. Where is Ralph? You must know if anyone does.' 'But I don't,' cried Ursula, almost in a wail. 'That's just it, I don't.' 'Isn't he detained at Liverpool?' asked Raymond. 'It said so in the paper.' 'He is not at Liverpool,' said Poirot shortly. 'In fact,' I remarked, 'no one knows where he is.' 'Except Hercule Poirot, eh?' said Raymond. Poirot replied seriously to the other's banter. The, I know everything. Remember that.' Geoffrey Raymond lifted his eyebrows. 'Everything?' He whistled. 'Whew! that's a tall order.' 'Do you mean to say you can really guess where Ralph Paton is hiding?' I asked incredulously. 'You call it guessing. I call it knowing, my friend.' 'In Cranchester?' I hazarded. 'No,' replied Poirot gravely, 'not in Cranchester.' He said no more, but at a gesture from him the assembled party took their seats. As they did so, the door opened once more and two other people came in and sat down near the door. They were Parker and the housekeeper. The number is complete,' said Poirot. 'Everyone is here.' There was a ring of satisfaction in his tone. And with the sound of it I saw a ripple of something like uneasiness pass over all those faces grouped at the other end of the room. There was a suggestion in all this as of a trap - a trap that had closed. Poirot read from a list in an important manner. 'Mrs Ackroyd, Miss Flora Ackroyd, Major Blunt, Mr Geoffrey Raymond, Mrs Ralph Paton, John Parker, Elizabeth Russell.' He laid the paper down on the table. 'What's the meaning of all this?' began Raymond. 'The list I have just read,' said Poirot, 'is a list ofsupected persons. Every one of you present had the opportunity to kill Mr Ackroyd-' With a cry Mrs Ackroyd sprang up, her throat working. 'I don't like it,' she wailed. 'I don't like it. I would much prefer to go home.' 'You cannot go home, madame,' said Poirot sternly, 'until you have heard what I have to say.' He paused a moment, then cleared his throat.
'I will start at the beginning. When Miss Ackroyd asked me to investigate the case, I went up to Fernly Park with the good Doctor Sheppard. I walked with him along the terrace, where I was shown the footprints on the windowsill. From there Inspector Raglan took me along the path which leads to the drive. My eye was caught by a little |§ summer-house, and I searched it thoroughly. I found two things - a scrap of starched cambric and an empty goose quill. The scrap of cambric immediately suggested to me a maid's apron. When Inspector Raglan showed me his list of the people in the house, I noticed at once that one of the maids Ursula Bourne, the parlourmaid - had no real alibi. According to her own story, she was in her bedroom from nine-thirty until ten. But supposing that instead she was in the summer-house? If so, she must have gone there to meet someone. Now we know from Dr Sheppard that someone from outside did come to the house that night - the stranger whom he met just by the gate. At first glance it would seem that our problem was solved, and that the stranger went to the summer-house to meet Ursula Bourne. It was fairly certain that he did go to the summer-house because of the goose quill. That suggested at once to my mind a taker of drugs - and one who had acquired the habit on the other side of the Atlantic where sniffing 'snow' is more common than in this country. The man whom Dr Sheppard met had an American accent, which fitted in with that supposition. 'But I was held up by one point. The times did not fit. Ursula Bourne could certainly not have gone to the summer-house before nine-thirty, whereas the man must have got there by a few minutes past nine. I could, of course, assume that he waited there for half an hour. The only alternative supposition was that there had been two separate meetings in the summer-house that night. Eh bien, as soon as I went into that alternative I found several significant facts. I discovered that Miss Russell, the housekeeper, had visited Dr Sheppard that morning, and had displayed a good deal of interest in cures for victims of the drug habit. Taking that in conjunction with the goose quill, I assumed that the man in question came to Fernly to meet the housekeeper, and not Ursula Bourne. Who, then, did Ursula Bourne come to the rendezvous to meet? I was not long in doubt. First I found a ring - a wedding ring - with 'From R.' and a date inside it. Then I learnt that Ralph Paton had been seen coming up the path which led to the summer-house at twenty-five minutes past nine, and I also heard of a certain conversation which had taken place in the wood near the village that very afternoon - a conversation between Ralph Paton and some unknown girl. So I had my facts succeeding each other in a neat and orderly manner. A secret marriage, an engagement announced on the day of the tragedy, the stormy interview in the wood, and the meeting arranged for the summer-house that night. 'Incidentally this proved to me one thing, that both Ralph Paton and Ursula Bourne (or Paton) had the strongest motives for wishing Mr Ackroyd out of the way. And it also made one other point unexpectedly clear. It could not have been Ralph Paton who was with Mr Ackroyd in the study at nine-thirty. 'So we come to another and most interesting aspect of the crime. Who was it in the room with Mr Ackroyd at nine-thirty? Not Ralph Paton, who was in the summer-house with his wife. Not Charles Kent, who had already left. Who, then? I posed my cleverest - my most audacious question: Was anyone with him?' Poirot leaned forward and shot the last words triumphantly at us, drawing back afterwards with the air of one who has made a decided hit. Raymond, however, did not seem impressed, and lodged a mild protest.
'I don't know if you're trying to make me out a liar, M. Poirot, but the matter does not rest on my evidence alone except perhaps as to the exact words used. Remember, Major Blunt also heard Mr Ackroyd talking to someone. He was on the terrace outside, and couldn't catch the words clearly, but he distinctly heard the voices.' Poirot nodded. 'I have not forgotten,' he said quietly. 'But Major Blunt was under the impression that it wasyou to whom Mr Ackroyd was speaking.' For a moment Raymond seemed taken aback. Then he recovered himself. 'Blunt knows now that he was mistaken,' he said. 'Exactly,' agreed the other man. 'Yet there must have been some reason for his thinking so,' mused Poirot. 'Oh! no,' he held up his hand in protest, 'I know the reason you will give - but it is not enough. We must seek elsewhere. I will put it this way. From the beginning of the case I have been struck by one thing - the nature of those words which Mr Raymond overheard. It has been amazing to me that no one has commented on them has seen anything odd about them.' He paused a minute, and then quoted softly: '.. the calb on my purse have been so frequent of late that I fear it is impossible for me to accede to your request. Does nothing strike you as odd about that?' 'I don't think so,' said Raymond. 'He has frequently dictated letters to me, using almost exactly those same words.' 'Exactly,' cried Poirot. 'That is what I seek to arrive at. Would any man use such a prase in talking to another? Impossible that that should be part of a real conversation. Now, if he had been dictating a letter ' 'You mean he was reading a letter aloud,' said Raymond slowly. 'Even so, he must have been reading to someone.' 'But why? We have no evidence that there was anyone else in the room. No other voice but Mr Ackroyd's was heard, remember.' 'Surely a man wouldn't read letters of that type aloud to himself- not unless he was - well - going balmy.' 'You have all forgotten one thing,' said Poirot softly: 'the stranger who called at the house the preceding Wednesday.' They all stared at him. 'But yes,' said Poirot, nodding encouragingly, 'on Wednesday. The young man was not of himself important. But the firm he represented interested me very much.' 'The Dictaphone Company,' gasped Raymond. 'I see it now. A dictaphone. That's what you think?' Poirot nodded. 'Mr Ackroyd had promised to invest in a dictaphone, you remember. Me, I had the curiosity to inquire of the company in question. Their reply is that Mr Ackroyd did purchase a dictaphone from their representative. Why he concealed the matter from you, I do not know.' 'He must have meant to surprise me with it,' murmured Raymond. 'He had quite a childish love of surprising people. Meant to keep it up his sleeve for a day or so. Probably was playing with it like a new toy. Yes, it fits in. You're quite right - no one would use quite those words in casual conversation.' 'It explains, too,' said Poirot, 'why Major Blunt thought it was you who were in the study. Such scraps as came to him were fragments of dictation, and so his subconscious mind deduced that you were with him. His conscious mind was occupied with something quite different - the white figure he had caught a glimpse of. He fancied it was Miss Ackroyd.
Really, of course, it was Ursula Bourne's white apron he saw as she was stealing down to the summerhouse.' Raymond had recovered from his first surprise. 'All the same,' he remarked, 'this discovery of yours, brilliant though it is (I'm quite sure I should never have thought of it), leaves the essential position unchanged. Mr Ackroyd was alive at nine-thirty, since he was speaking into the dictaphone. It seems clear that the man Charles Kent was really off the premises by then. As to Ralph Paton - ?' He hesitated, glancing at Ursula. Her colour flared up, but she answered steadily enough. 'Ralph and I parted just before a quarter to ten. He never went near the house, I am sure of that. He had no intention of doing so. The last thing on earth he wanted was to face his stepfather. He would have funked it badly.' 'It isn't that I doubt your story for a moment,' explained Raymond. 'I've always been quite sure Captain Paton was innocent. But one has to think of a court of law - and the questions that would be asked. He is in a most unfortunate position, but if he were to come forward ' CHAPTER 24 Ralph Paton's Story It was a very uncomfortable minute for me. I hardly took in what happened next, but there were exclamations and cries of surprise! When I was sufficiently master of myself to be able to realize what was going on, Ralph Paton was standing by his wife, her hand in his, and he was smiling across the room at me. Poirot, too, was smiling, and at the same time shaking an eloquent finger at me. 'Have I not told you at least thirty-six times that it is useless to conceal things from Hercule Poirot?' he demanded. 'That in such a case he finds out?' He turned to the others. 'One day, you remember, we held a little seance about a table - just the six of us. I accused the other five persons present of concealing something from me. Four of them gave up their secret. Dr Sheppard did not give up his. But all along I have had my suspicions. Dr Sheppard went to the Three Boars that night hoping to find Ralph. He did not find him there; but supposing, I said to myself, that he met him in the street on his way home? Dr Sheppard was a friend of Captain Paton's, and he had come straight from the scene of the crime. He must know that things looked very black against him. Perhaps he knew more than the general public did ' 'I did,' I said ruefully. 'I suppose I might as well make a clean breast of things now. I went to see Ralph that afternoon. At first he refused to take me into his confidence, but later he told me about his marriage, and the hole he was in. As soon as the murder was discovered, I realized that once the facts were known, suspicion could not fail to attach to Ralph - or, if not to him, to the girl he loved. That night I put the facts plainly before him. The thought of having possibly to give evidence which might incriminate his wife made him resolve at all costs to - to ' I hesitated, and Ralph filled up the gap. 'To do a bunk,' he said graphically. 'You see, Ursula left me to go back to the house. I thought it possible that she might have attempted to have another interview with my stepfather. He had already been very rude to her that afternoon. It occurred to me that he might have so insulted her - in such an unforgivable
manner - that without knowing what she was doing '.He stopped. Ursula released her hand from his, and stepped back. 'You thought that, Ralph! You actually thought that I might have done it?' 'Let us get back to the culpable conduct of Dr Sheppard,' said Poirot drily. 'Dr Sheppard consented to do what he could to help him. He was successful in hiding Captain Paton from the police.' 'Where?' asked Raymond. 'In his own house?' 'Ah, no, indeed,' said Poirot. 'You should ask yourself the question that I did. If the good doctor is concealing the young man, what place would he choose? It must necessarily be somewhere near at hand. I think ofCranchester. A hotel? No. Lodgings? Even more emphatically, no. Where, then? Ah! I have it. A nursing home. A home for the mentally unfit. I test my theory. I invent a nephew with mental trouble. I consult Mademoiselle Sheppard as to suitable homes. She gives me the names of two near Cranchester to which her brother has sent patients. I make inquiries. Yes, at one of them a patient was brought there by the doctor himself early on Saturday morning. That patient, though known by another name, I had no difficulty in identifying as Captain Paton. After certain necessary formalities, I was allowed to bring him away. He arrived at my house in the early hours of yesterday morning.' I looked at him ruefully. 'Caroline's Home Office expert,' I murmured. 'And to think I never guessed!' 'You see now why I drew attention to the reticence of your manuscript,' murmured Poirot. 'It was strictly truthful as far as it went but it did not go very far, eh, my friend?' I was too abashed to argue. 'Dr Sheppard has been very loyal,' said Ralph. 'He has stood by me through thick and thin. He did what he thought was best. I see now, from what M. Poirot has told me, that it was not really the best. I should have come forward and faced the music. You see, in the home, we never saw a newspaper. I knew nothing of what was going on.' 'Dr Sheppard has been a model of discretion,' said Poirot drily. 'But me, I discover all the little secrets. It is my business.' 'Now we can have your story of what happened that night,' said Raymond impatiently. 'You know it already,' said Ralph. 'There's very little for me to all. I left the summer-house about nine forty-five, and tramped about the lanes, trying to make up my mind as to what to do next - what line to take. I'm bound to admit that I've not the shadow of an alibi, but I give you my solemn word that I never went to the study, that I never saw my stepfather alive - or dead. Whatever the world thinks, I'd like all of you to believe me.' 'No alibi,' murmured Raymond. 'That's bad. I believe you, of course, but - it's a bad business.' 'It makes things very simple, though,' said Poirot, in a cheerful voice. 'Very simple indeed.' We all stared at him. 'You see what I mean? No? Just this - to save Captain Paton the real criminal must confess.' He beamed round at us all. 'But yes - I mean what I say. See now, I did not invite Inspector Raglan to be present. That was for a reason. I did not want to tell him all that I knew - at least I did not want to tell him tonight.' He leaned forward, and suddenly his voice and his whole personality changed. He suddenly became dangerous. 'I who speak to you - I know the murderer of Mr Ackroyd is in this room now. It is to the murderer I speak. Tomorrow the truth goes to Inspector Raglan. You understand?'
There was a tense silence. Into the midst of it came the old Breton woman with a telegram on a salver. Poirot tore it open. Blunt's voice rose abrupt and resonant. 'The murderer is amongst us, you say? You know which?' Poirot had read the message. He crumpled it up in his hand. 'I know - now.' He tapped the crumpled ball of paper. 'What is that?' said Raymond sharply. 'A wireless message - from a steamer now on her way to the United States.' There was a dead silence. Poirot rose to his feet bowing. 'Messieurs et Mesdames, this reunion of mine is at an end. Remember - the truth goes to Inspector Raglan in the morning.' CHAPTER 25 The Whole Truth A slight gesture from Poirot enjoined me to stay behind the rest. I obeyed, going over to the fire and thoughtfully stirring the big logs on it with the toe of my boot. I was puzzled. For the first time I was absolutely at sea as to Poirot's meaning. For a moment I was inclined to think that the scene I had just witnessed was a gigantic piece of bombast - that he had been what he called 'playing the comedy' with a view to making himself interesting and important. But, in spite of myself, I was forced to believe in an underlying reality. There had been real menace in his words - a certain indisputable sincerity. But I still believed him to be on entirely the wrong tack. When the door shut behind the last of the party he came over to the fire. 'Well, my friend,' he said quietly, 'and what do you think of it all?' 'I don't know what to think,' I said frankly. 'What was the point? Why not go straight to Inspector Raglan with the truth instead of giving the guilty person this elaborate warning?' Poirot sat down and drew out his case of tiny Russian cigarettes. He smoked for a minute or two in silence. Then: 'Use your little grey cells,' he said. 'There is always a reason behind my actions.' I hesitated for a moment, and then I said slowly: 'The first one that occurs to me is that you yourself do not know who the guilty person is, but that you are sure that he is to be found amongst the people here tonight. Therefore your words were intended to force a confession from the unknown murderer?' Poirot nodded approvingly. 'A clever idea, but not the truth.' 'I thought, perhaps, that by making him believe you knew, you might force him out into the open - not necessarily by confession. He might try to silence you as he formerly silenced Mr Ackroyd - before you could act tomorrow morning.' 'A trap with myself as the bait! Merci, man ami, but I am not sufficiently heroic for that.' 'Then I fail to understand you. Surely you are running the risk of letting the murderer escape by thus putting him on his guard?' Poirot shook his head. 'He cannot escape,' he said gravely. 'There is only one way out - and that way does not lead to freedom.' 'You really believe that one of those people here tonight committed the murder?' I asked incredulously. 'Yes, my friend.' 'Which one?' There was a silence for some minutes. Then Poirot tossed the stump of his
cigarette into the grate and began to speak in a quiet, reflective tone. 'I will take you the way that I have travelled myself. Step by step you shall accompany me, and see for yourself that all the facts point indisputably to one person. Now, to begin with, there were two facts and a little discrepancy in time which especially attracted my attention. The first fact was the telephone call. If Ralph Paton were indeed the murderer, the telephone call became meaningless and absurd. Therefore, I said to myself, Ralph Paton is not the murderer. 'I satisfied myself that the call could not have been sent by anyone in the house, yet I was convinced that it was amongst those present on the fatal evening that I had to look for my criminal. Therefore I concluded that the telephone call must have been sent by an accomplice. I was not quite pleased with that deduction, but I let it stand for the minute. 'I next examined the motive for the call. That was difficult. I could only get at it by judging its result. Which was - that the murder was discovered that night instead ofin all probability - the following morning. You agree with that?' 'Ye-es,' I admitted. 'Yes. As you say, Mr Ackroyd, having given orders that he was not to be disturbed, nobody would have been likely to go to the study that night.' 'Tres bien. The affair marches, does it not? But matters were still obscure. What was the advantage of having the crime discovered that night in preference to the following morning? The only idea I could get hold of was that the murderer, knowing the crime was to be discovered at a certain time, could make sure of being present when the door was broken in - or at any rate immediately afterwards. And now we come to the second fact - the chair pulled out from the wall. Inspector Raglan dismissed that as of no importance. I, on the contrary, have always regarded it as of supreme importance. 'In your manuscript you have drawn a neat little plan of the study. If you had it with you this minute you would see that - the chair being drawn out in the position indicated by Parker - it would stand in a direct line between the door and the window.' 'The window!' I said quickly. 'You, too, have my first idea. I imagined that the chair was drawn out so that something connected with the window should not be seen by anyone entering through the door. But I soon abandoned that supposition, for though the chair was a grandfather with a high back, it obscured very little of the window - only the part between the sash and the ground. No, mon ami - but remember that just in front of the window there stood a table with books and magazines upon it. Now that table was completely hidden by the drawn-out chair - and immediately I had my first shadowy suspicion of the truth. 'Supposing that there had been something on that table not intended to be seen? Something placed there by the murderer? As yet I had no inkling of what that something might be. But I knew certain very interesting facts about it. For instance, it was something that the murderer had not been able to take away with him at the time that he committed the crime. At the same time it was vital that it should be removed as soon as possible after the crime had been discovered. And so - the telephone message, and the opportunity for the murderer to be on the spot when the body was discovered. 'Now four people were on the scene before the police arrived. Yourself, Parker, Major Blunt, and Mr Raymond. Parker I eliminated at once, since at whatever time the crime was discovered, he was the one person certain to be on the spot. Also it was he who told me of the pulled-out chair. Parker, then, was cleared (of the murder, that is. I still thought it possible that he had been blackmailing Mrs Ferrars). Raymond
and Blunt, however, remained under suspicion since, if the crime had been discovered in the early hours of the morning, it was quite possible that they might have arrived on the scene too late to prevent the object on the round table being discovered. 'Now what was that object? You heard my arguments tonight in reference to the scrap of conversation overheard? As soon as I learned that a representative of a dictaphone company had called, the idea of a dictaphone took root in my mind. You heard what I said in this room not half an hour ago? They all agreed with my theory - but one vital fact seems to have escaped them. Granted that a dictaphone was being used by Mr Ackroyd that night - why was no dictaphone found?' 'I never thought of that,' I said. 'We know that a dictaphone was supplied to Mr Ackroyd. But no dictaphone has been found amongst his effects. So, if something was taken from the table - why should not that something be the dictaphone? But there were certain difficulties in the way. The attention of everyone was, of course, focused on the murdered man. I think anyone could have gone to the table unnoticed by the other people in the room. But a dictaphone has a certain bulk - it cannot be slipped casually into a pocket. There must have been a receptacle of some kind capable of holding it. 'You see where I am arriving? The figure of the murderer is taking shape. A person who was on the scene straightaway, but who might not have been if the crime had been discovered the following morning. A person carrying a receptacle into which the dictaphone might be fitted ' I interrupted. 'By why remove the dictaphone? What was the point?' 'You are like Mr Raymond. You take it for granted that what was heard at nine-thirty was Mr Ackroyd's voice speaking into a dictaphone. But consider this useful invention for a little minute. You dictate into it, do you not? And at some later time a secretary or a typist turns it on, and the voice speaks again.' 'You mean - ?' I gasped. Poirot nodded. 'Yes, I meant that. At nine-thirty Mr Ackroyd was already dead. It was the dictaphone speaking - not the man.' 'And the murderer switched it on. Then he must have been in the room at that minute?' 'Possibly. But we must not exclude the likelihood of some mechanical device having been applied something after the nature of a time lock, or even of a simple alarm clock. But in that case we must add two qualifications to our imaginary portrait of the murderer. It must be someone who knew of Mr Ackroyd's purchase of the dictaphone and also someone with the necessary mechanical knowledge. 'I had got thus far in my own mind when we came to the footprints on the window ledge. Here there were three conclusions open to me. (1) They might really have been made by Ralph Paton. He had been at Fernly that night, and might have climbed into the study and found his uncle dead there. That was one hypothesis. (2) There was the possibility that the footmarks might have been made by somebody else who happened to have the same kind of studs in his shoes. But the inmates of the house had shoes soled with crepe rubber, and I declined to believe in the coincidence of someone from outside having the same kind of shoes as Ralph Paton wore. Charles Kent, as we know from the barmaid of the Dog and Whistle, had on a pair of boots 'clean dropping off him.' (3) Those prints were made by someone deliberately trying to throw suspicion on Ralph Paton. To test this last conclusion, it was necessary to
ascertain certain facts. One pair of Ralph's shoes had been obtained from the Three Boars by the police. Neither Ralph nor anyone else could have worn them that evening, since they were downstairs being cleaned. According to the police theory, Ralph was wearing another pair of the same kind, and I found out that it was true that he had two pairs. Now for my theory to be proved correct it was necessary for the murderer to have worn Ralph's shoes that evening - in which case Ralph must have been wearing yet a third pair of footwear of some kind. I could hardly suppose that he would bring three pairs of shoes all alike - the third pair of footwear were more likely to be boots. I got your sister to make inquiries on this point - laying some stress on the colour, in order - I admit it frankly - to obscure the real reason for my asking. 'You know the result of her investigations. Ralph Paton had had a pair of boots with him. The first question I asked him when he came to my house yesterday morning was what he was wearing on his feet on the fatal night. He replied at once that he had worn boots - he was still wearing them, in fact - having nothing else to put on. 'So we get a step further in our description of the murderer - a person who had the opportunity to take these shoes of Ralph Paton's from the Three Boars that day.' He paused, and then said, with a slightly raised voice: 'There is one further point. The murderer must have been a person who ^ had the opportunity to purloin that dagger from the silver table. You might argue that anyone in the house might have done so, but I will recall to you that Flora Ackroyd was very positive that the dagger was not there when she examined the silver table.' He paused again. 'Let us recapitulate - now that all is clear. A person who was at the Three Boars earlier that day, a person who knew Ackroyd well enough to know that he had purchased a dictaphone, a person who was of a mechanical turn of mind, who had the opportunity to take the dagger from the silver table before Miss Flora arrived, who had with him a receptacle suitable for hiding the dictaphone - such as a black bag, and who had the study to himself for a few minutes after the crime was discovered while Parker was telephoning for the police. In fact - Dr SheppardY CHAPTER 26 And Nothing But The Truth There was a dead silence for a minute and a half. Then I laughed. 'You're mad,' I said. 'No,' said Poirot placidly. 'I am not mad. It was the little discrepancy in time that first drew my attention to you - right at the beginning.' 'Discrepancy in time?' I queried, puzzled. 'But yes. You will remember that everyone agreed - you yourself included - that it took five minutes to walk from the lodge to the house - less if you took the short cut to the terrace. But you left the house at ten minutes to nine - both by your own statement and that ofParker, and yet it was nine o'clock when you passed through the lodge gates. It was a chilly night - not an evening a man would be inclined to dawdle; why had you taken ten minutes to do a five minutes' walk? All along I realized that we had only your statement for it that the study window was ever fastened. Ackroyd asked you if you had done so - he never looked to see. Supposing, then, that the study window was unfastened? Would there be time in that ten minutes for you to run round the outside of the house, change your shoes, climb in through the window, kill Ackroyd, and get to the gate by nine o'clock? I decided against that theory since in all probability a man as nervous as Ackroyd was that night would hear you climbing in, and then there would have been a struggle. But supposing that you killed Ackroyd before you left - as you were standing
beside his chair? Then you go out of the front door, run round to the summer-house, take Ralph Paton's shoes out of the bag you brought up with you that night, slip them on, walk through the mud in them, and leave prints on the window ledge, you climb in, lock the study door on the inside, run back to the summer-house, change back into your own shoes, and race down to the gate. (I went through similar actions the other day, when you were with Mrs Ackroyd - it took ten minutes exactly.) Then home - and an alibi - since you had timed the dictaphone for half-past nine.' 'My dear Poirot,' I said in a voice that sounded strange and forced to my own ears, 'you've been brooding over this case too long. What on earth had I to gain by murdering Ackroyd?' 'Safety. It was you who blackmailed Mrs Ferrars. Who could have had a better knowledge of what killed Mr Ferrars than the doctor who was attending him? When you spoke to me that first day in the garden, you mentioned a legacy received about a year ago. I have been unable to discover any trace of a legacy. You had to invent some way of accounting for Mrs Ferrars's twenty thousand pounds. It has not done you much good. You lost most of it in speculation then you put the screw on too hard, and Mrs Ferrars took a way out that you had not expected. If Ackroyd had learnt the truth he would have had no mercy on you - you were ruined for ever.' 'And the telephone call?' I asked, trying to rally. 'You have a plausible explanation of that also, I suppose?' 'I will confess to you that it was my greatest stumbling block when I found that a call had actually been put through to you from King's Abbot station. I at first believed that you had simply invented the story. It was a very clever touch, that. You must have some excuse for arriving at Fernly, finding the body, and so getting the chance to remove the dictaphone on which your alibi depended. I had a very vague notion of how it was worked when I came to see your sister that first day and inquired as to what patients you had seen on Friday morning. I had no thought of Miss Russell in my mind at that time. Her visit was a lucky coincidence, since it distracted your mind from the real object of my questions. I found what I was looking for. Among your patients that morning was the steward of an American liner. Who more suitable than he to be leaving for Liverpool by the train that evening? And afterwards he would be on the high seas, well out of the way. I noted that the Orion sailed on Saturday, and having obtained the name of the steward I sent him a wireless message asking a certain question. This is his reply you saw me receive just now.' He held out the message to me. It ran as follows: 'Quite correct. Dr Sheppard asked me to leave a note at a patient's house. I was to ring him up from the station with the reply. Reply was 'No answer.' 'It was a clever idea,' said Poirot. 'The call was genuine. Your sister saw you take it. But there was only one man's word as to what was actually said - your own!' I yawned. 'All this,' I said, 'is very interesting - but hardly in the sphere of practical politics.' 'You think not? Remember what I said - the truth goes to Inspector Raglan in the morning. But, for the sake of your good sister, I am willing to give you the chance of another way out. There might be, for instance, an overdose of a sleeping draught. You comprehend me? But Captain Ralph Paton must be cleared - ?a va sans dire. I should suggest that you finish that very interesting manuscript of yours - but abandoning your former reticence.' 'You seem to be very prolific of suggestions,' I remarked. 'Are you sure you've quite finished?' 'Now that you remind me of the fact, it is true that there is one thing more. It would be most unwise on your part to attempt to silence me as you silenced M. Ackroyd. That kind of business does not succeed against Hercule Poirot, you understand.' 'My dear Poirot,' I said, smiling a little, 'whatever else I may be, I am not a fool.' I rose to my feet. 'Well, well,' I said, with a slight yawn, 'I must be off home. Thank you for a most interesting and instructive evening.' Poirot also rose and bowed with his accustomed politeness as I passed out of the room. CHAPTER 27 Apologia Five a.m. I am very tired - but I have finished my task. My arm aches from writing.
A strange end to my manuscript. I meant it to be published some day as the history of one ofPoirot's failures! Odd, how things pan out. All along I've had a premonition of disaster, from the moment I saw Ralph Paton and Mrs Ferrars with their heads together. I thought then that she was confiding in him, as it happened I was quite wrong there, but the idea persisted even after I went into the study with Ackroyd that night, until he told me the truth. Poor old Ackroyd. I'm always glad that I gave him a chance. I urged him to read that letter before it was too late. Or let me be honest - didn't I subconsciously realize that with a pig-headed chap like him, it was my best chance of getting him not to read it? His nervousness that night was interesting psychologically. He knew danger was close at hand. And yet he never suspected me. The dagger was an afterthought. I'd brought up a very handy little weapon of my own, but when I saw the dagger lying in the silver table, it occurred to me at once how much better it would be to use a weapon that couldn't be traced to me. I suppose I must have meant to murder him all along. As soon as I heard of Mrs Ferrars's death, I felt convinced that she would have told him everything before she died. When I met him and he seemed so agitated, I thought that perhaps he knew the truth, but that he couldn't bring himself to believe it, and was going to give me the chance of refuting it. So I went home and took my precautions. If the trouble were after all only something to do with Ralph well, no harm would have been done. The dictaphone he had given me two days ago to adjust. Something had gone a little wrong with it, and I persuaded him to let me have a go at it, instead of sending it back. I did what I wanted to, and took it up with me in my bag that evening. I am rather pleased with myself as a writer. What could be neater, for instance, than the following: 'The letters were brought in at twenty minutes to nine. It was just on ten minutes to nine when I left him, the letter still unread. I hesitated with my hand on the door handle, looking back and wondering if there was anything I had left undone.' All true, you see. But suppose I had put a row of stars after the first sentence! Would somebody then have wondered what exactly happened in that blank ten minutes? When I looked round the room from the door, I was quite satisfied. Nothing had been left undone. The dictaphone was on the table by the window, timed to go off at ninethirty (the mechanism of that little device was rather clever - based on the principle of an alarm clock), and the armchair was pulled out so as to hide it from the door. I must admit that it gave me rather a shock to run into Parker just outside the door. I have faithfully recorded that fact. Then later, when the body was discovered, and I sent Parker to telephone for the police, what a judicious use of words: 'I did what little had to be done!' It was quite little just to shove the dictaphone into my bag and push back the chair against the wall in its proper place. I never dreamed that Parker would have noticed that chair. Logically, he ought to have been so agog over the body as to be blind to
everything else. But I hadn't reckoned with the trained servant complex. I wish I could have known beforehand that Flora was going to say she'd seen her uncle alive at a quarter to ten. That puzzled me more than I can say. In fact, all through the case there have been things that puzzled me hopelessly. Everyone seems to have taken a hand. My greatest fear all through has been Caroline. I have fancied she might guess. Curious the way she spoke that day of my 'strain of weakness.' Well, she will never know the truth. There is, as Poirot said, one way out.. I can trust him. He and Inspector Raglan will manage it between them. I should not like Caroline to know. She is fond of me, and then, too, she is proud.. My death will be a grief to her, but grief passes.. When I have finished writing, I shall enclose this whole manuscript in an envelope and address it to Poirot. And then - what shall it be? Veronal? There would be a kind of poetic justice. Not that I take any responsibility for Mrs Ferrars's death. It was the direct consequence of her own actions. I feel no pity for her. I have no pity for myself either. So let it be veronal. But I wish Hercule Poirot had never retired from work and come here to grow vegetable marrows. The End
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