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

not faint nowadays, monsieur, without considerable provocation. Eh bien! there it is. She is bound to stick to her story, or else confess everything. And a young and pretty girl does not like to admit that she is a thief⁠—especially before those whose esteem she is anxious to retain.”

Raglan brought his fist down with a thump on the table. “I’ll not believe it,” he said. “It’s⁠—it’s not credible. And you⁠—you’ve known this all along?”

“The possibility has been in my mind from the first,” admitted Poirot. “I was always convinced that Mademoiselle Flora was hiding something from us. To satisfy myself, I made the little experiment I told you of. Dr. Sheppard accompanied me.”

“A test for Parker, you said it was,” I remarked bitterly.

“Mon ami,” said Poirot apologetically, “as I told you at the time, one must say something.”

The inspector rose. “There’s only one thing for it,” he declared. “We must tackle the young lady right away. You’ll come up to Fernly with me, M. Poirot?”

“Certainly. Dr. Sheppard will drive us up in his car.”

I acquiesced willingly.

On inquiry for Miss Ackroyd, we were shown into the billiard room. Flora and Major Hector Blunt were sitting on the long window seat.

“Good morning, Miss Ackroyd,” said the inspector. “Can we have a word or two alone with you?”

Blunt got up at once and moved to the door.

“What is it?” asked Flora nervously. “Don’t go, Major Blunt. He can stay, can’t he?” she asked, turning to the inspector.

“That’s as you like,” said the inspector drily. “There’s a question or two it’s my duty to put to you, miss, but I’d prefer to do so privately, and I dare say you’d prefer it also.”

Flora looked keenly at him. I saw her face grow whiter. Then she turned and spoke to Blunt.

“I want you to stay⁠—please⁠—yes, I mean it. Whatever the inspector has to say to me, I’d rather you heard it.”

Raglan shrugged his shoulders. “Well, if you will have it so, that’s all there is to it. Now, Miss Ackroyd, M. Poirot here has made a certain suggestion to me. He suggests that you weren’t in the study at all last Friday night, that you never saw Mr. Ackroyd to say goodnight to him, that instead of being in the study you were on the stairs leading down from your uncle’s bedroom when you heard Parker coming across the hall.”

Flora’s gaze shifted to Poirot. He nodded back at her.

“Mademoiselle, the other day, when we sat round the table, I implored you to be frank with me. What one does not tell to Papa Poirot he finds out. It was that, was it not? See, I will make it easy for you. You took the money, did you not?”

“The money?” said Blunt sharply.

There was a silence which lasted for at least a minute.

Then Flora drew herself up and spoke.

“M. Poirot is right. I took that money. I stole. I am a thief⁠—yes, a common, vulgar little thief. Now you know! I am glad it has come out. It’s been a nightmare, these last few days!” She sat down suddenly and buried her face in her hands. She spoke huskily through her fingers. “You don’t know what my life has been since I came here. Wanting things, scheming for them, lying, cheating, running up bills, promising to pay⁠—oh! I hate myself when I think of it all! That’s what brought us together, Ralph and I. We were both weak! I understood him, and I was sorry⁠—because I’m the same underneath. We’re not strong enough to stand alone, either of us. We’re weak, miserable, despicable things.”

She looked at Blunt and suddenly stamped her foot.

“Why do you look at me like that⁠—as though you couldn’t believe? I may be a thief⁠—but at any rate I’m real now. I’m not lying any more. I’m not pretending to be the kind of girl you like, young and innocent and simple. I don’t care if you never want to see me again. I hate myself, despise myself⁠—but you’ve got to believe one thing, if speaking the truth would have made things better for Ralph, I would have spoken out. But I’ve seen all along that it wouldn’t be better for Ralph⁠—it makes the case against him blacker than ever. I was not doing him any harm by sticking to my lie.”

“Ralph,” said Blunt. “I see⁠—always Ralph.”

“You don’t understand,” said Flora hopelessly. “You never will.”

She turned to the inspector.

“I admit everything; I was at my wits’ end for money. I never saw my uncle that evening after he left the dinner table. As to the money, you can take what steps you please. Nothing could be worse than it is now!”

Suddenly she broke down again, hid her face in her hands, and rushed from the room.

“Well,” said the inspector in a flat tone, “so that’s that.”

He seemed rather at a loss what to do next.

Blunt came forward.

“Inspector Raglan,” he said quietly, “that money was given to me by Mr. Ackroyd for a special purpose. Miss Ackroyd never touched it. When she says she did, she is lying with the idea of shielding Captain Paton. The truth is as I said, and I am prepared to go into the witness-box and swear to it.”

He made a kind of jerky bow, then turning abruptly he left the room.

Poirot was after him in a flash. He caught the other up in the hall.

“Monsieur⁠—a moment, I beg of you, if you will be so good.”

“Well, sir?”

Blunt was obviously impatient. He stood frowning down on Poirot.

“It is this,” said Poirot rapidly: “I am not deceived by your little fantasy. No, indeed. It was truly Miss Flora who took the money. All the same it is well imagined what you say⁠—it pleases me. It is very good what you have done there. You are a man quick to think and to act.”

“I’m not in the least anxious for your opinion, thank you,” said Blunt coldly.

He made once more as though to pass on, but Poirot, not at all offended,