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 débris 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 summerhouse, yes, I know.”
“How do you know?”
“Mademoiselle, it is the business of Hercule Poirot to know things. I know that you went out earlier in the evening, that you left a message in the summerhouse 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 in 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.
Twenty-one
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 I 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 high-class 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, if M. 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 nee
d to reduce the figure a little,” he explained. “You will come with me, doctor? And perhaps later, Miss Caroline will give us some tea.”
“Delighted,” said Caroline. “Won’t your—er—guest come in also?”
“You are too kind,” said Poirot. “But no, my friend reposes himself. Soon you must make his acquaintance.”
“Quite an old friend of yours, so somebody told me,” said Caroline, making one last valiant effort.
“Did they?” murmured Poirot. “Well, we must start.”
Our tramp took us in the direction of Fernly. I had guessed beforehand that it might do so. I was beginning to understand Poirot’s methods. Every little irrelevancy had a bearing upon the whole.
“I have a commission for you, my friend,” he said at last. “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?”
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd Page 19