Agatha Christie - Murder Of Roger Ackroyd

by Murder Of Roger Ackroyd (lit)

  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 yo
u 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.