The Murder Of Roger Ackroyd hp-4 Read online

  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 of 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 m
e 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 reproachfully 'Hercule Poirot does not run the risk of disarranging his 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 9. 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. le 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 compris!' 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 t
ime?' '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.