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

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. “I’ll 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