The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, Agatha Christie [accelerated reader books TXT] 📗

“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 le 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 homme?”

“Reassure myself?”

“I think, M. le 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,