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

But Caroline is seldom daunted for long. With magnificent mendacity, she explained to Poirot that although James laughed at her for doing so, she adhered strictly to a vegetarian diet. She descanted ecstatically on the delights of nut cutlets (which I am quite sure she has never tasted) and ate a Welsh rarebit with gusto and frequent cutting remarks as to the dangers of “flesh” foods.

Afterwards, when we were sitting in front of the fire and smoking, Caroline attacked Poirot directly.

“Not found Ralph Paton yet?” she asked.

“Where should I find him, mademoiselle?”

“I thought, perhaps, you’d found him in Cranchester,” said Caroline, with intense meaning in her tone.

Poirot looked merely bewildered. “In Cranchester? But why in Cranchester?”

I enlightened him with a touch of malice. “One of our ample staff of private detectives happened to see you in a car on the Cranchester road yesterday,” I explained.

Poirot’s bewilderment vanished. He laughed heartily. “Ah, that! A simple visit to the dentist, c’est tout. My tooth, it aches. I go there. My tooth, it is at once better. I think to return quickly. The dentist, he says no. Better to have it out. I argue. He insists. He has his way! That particular tooth, it will never ache again.”

Caroline collapsed rather like a pricked balloon.

We fell to discussing Ralph Paton.

“A weak nature,” I insisted. “But not a vicious one.”

“Ah!” said Poirot. “But weakness, where does it end?”

“Exactly,” said Caroline. “Take James here⁠—weak as water, if I weren’t about to look after him.”

“My dear Caroline,” I said irritably, “can’t you talk without dragging in personalities?”

“You are weak, James,” said Caroline, quite unmoved. “I’m eight years older than you are⁠—oh! I don’t mind M. Poirot knowing that⁠—”

“I should never have guessed it, mademoiselle,” said Poirot, with a gallant little bow.

“Eight years older. But I’ve always considered it my duty to look after you. With a bad bringing up, Heaven knows what mischief you might have got into by now.”

“I might have married a beautiful adventuress,” I murmured, gazing at the ceiling, and blowing smoke rings.

“Adventuress!” said Caroline, with a snort. “If we’re talking of adventuresses⁠—”

She left the sentence unfinished.

“Well?” I said, with some curiosity.

“Nothing. But I can think of someone not a hundred miles away.”

Then she turned to Poirot suddenly. “James sticks to it that you believe someone in the house committed the murder. All I can say is, you’re wrong.”

“I should not like to be wrong,” said Poirot. “It is not⁠—how do you say⁠—my métier?”

“I’ve got the facts pretty clearly,” continued Caroline, taking no notice of Poirot’s remark, “from James and others. As far as I can see, of the people in the house, only two could have had the chance of doing it. Ralph Paton and Flora Ackroyd.”

“My dear Caroline⁠—”

“Now, James, don’t interrupt me. I know what I’m talking about. Parker met her outside the door, didn’t he? He didn’t hear her uncle saying goodnight to her. She could have killed him then and there.”

“Caroline.”

“I’m not saying she did, James. I’m saying she could have done. As a matter of fact, though Flora is like all these young girls nowadays, with no veneration for their betters and thinking they know best on every subject under the sun, I don’t for a minute believe she’d kill even a chicken. But there it is. Mr. Raymond and Major Blunt have alibis. Mrs. Ackroyd’s got an alibi. Even that Russell woman seems to have one⁠—and a good job for her it is she has. Who is left? Only Ralph and Flora! And say what you will, I don’t believe Ralph Paton is a murderer. A boy we’ve known all our lives.”

Poirot was silent for a minute, watching the curling smoke rise from his cigarette. When at last he spoke, it was in a gentle faraway voice that produced a curious impression. It was totally unlike his usual manner.

“Let us take a man⁠—a very ordinary man. A man with no idea of murder in his heart. There is in him somewhere a strain of weakness⁠—deep down. It has so far never been called into play. Perhaps it never will be⁠—and if so he will go to his grave honoured and respected by everyone. But let us suppose that something occurs. He is in difficulties⁠—or perhaps not that even. He may stumble by accident on a secret⁠—a secret involving life or death to someone. And his first impulse will be to speak out⁠—to do his duty as an honest citizen. And then the strain of weakness tells: Here is a chance of money⁠—a great amount of money. He wants money⁠—he desires it⁠—and it is so easy. He has to do nothing for it⁠—just keep silence. That is the beginning. The desire for money grows. He must have more⁠—and more! He is intoxicated by the gold mine which has opened at his feet. He becomes greedy. And in his greed he overreaches himself. One can press a man as far as one likes⁠—but with a woman one must not press too far. For a woman has at heart a great desire to speak the truth. How many husbands who have deceived their wives go comfortably to their graves, carrying their secret with them! How many wives who have deceived their husbands wreck their lives by throwing the fact in those same husbands’ teeth! They have been pressed too far. In a reckless moment (which they will afterwards regret, bien entendu) they fling safety to the winds and turn at bay, proclaiming the truth with great momentary satisfaction to themselves. So it was, I think, in this case. The strain was too great. And so there came your proverb, the death of the goose that laid the golden eggs. But that is not the end. Exposure faced the man of whom we are speaking. And he is not the same man he was⁠—say, a year ago. His moral fibre is blunted. He is desperate. He is fighting a losing battle, and he is prepared to take any means