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

Caroline merely continued to look omniscient, which so annoyed me that I went on:

“Perhaps you will tell me, Caroline, if I have a medical degree or if I have not?”

“You have the medical degree, I dare say, James⁠—at least, I mean I know you have. But you’ve no imagination whatever.”

“Having endowed you with a treble portion, there was none left over for me,” I said drily.

I was amused to see Caroline’s manoeuvres that afternoon when Poirot duly arrived. My sister, without asking a direct question, skirted the subject of the mysterious guest in every way imaginable. By the twinkle in Poirot’s eyes, I saw that he realized her object. He remained blandly impervious, and blocked her bowling so successfully that she herself was at a loss how to proceed.

Having, I suspect, quietly enjoyed the little game, he rose to his feet and suggested a walk.

“It is that I need to reduce the figure a little,” he explained. “You will come with me, doctor? And perhaps later, Miss Caroline will give us some tea.”

“Delighted,” said Caroline. “Won’t your⁠—er⁠—guest come in also?”

“You are too kind,” said Poirot. “But no, my friend reposes himself. Soon you must make his acquaintance.”

“Quite an old friend of yours, so somebody told me,” said Caroline, making one last valiant effort.

“Did they?” murmured Poirot. “Well, we must start.”

Our tramp took us in the direction of Fernly. I had guessed beforehand that it might do so. I was beginning to understand Poirot’s methods. Every little irrelevancy had a bearing upon the whole.

“I have a commission for you, my friend,” he said at last. “Tonight, at my house. I desire to have a little conference. You will attend, will you not?”

“Certainly,” I said.

“Good. I need also those in the house⁠—that is to say: Mrs. Ackroyd, Mademoiselle Flora, Major Blunt, M. Raymond. I want you to be my ambassador. This little reunion is fixed for nine o’clock. You will ask them⁠—yes?”

“With pleasure; but why not ask them yourself?”

“Because they will then put the questions: Why? What for? They will demand what my idea is. And, as you know, my friend, I much dislike to have to explain my little ideas until the time comes.”

I smiled a little.

“My friend Hastings, he of whom I told you, used to say of me that I was the human oyster. But he was unjust. Of facts, I keep nothing to myself. But to everyone his own interpretation of them.”

“When do you want me to do this?”

“Now, if you will. We are close to the house.”

“Aren’t you coming in?”

“No, me, I will promenade myself in the grounds. I will rejoin you by the lodge gates in a quarter of an hour’s time.”

I nodded, and set off on my task. The only member of the family at home proved to be Mrs. Ackroyd, who was sipping an early cup of tea. She received me very graciously.

“So grateful to you, doctor,” she murmured, “for clearing up that little matter with M. Poirot. But life is one trouble after another. You have heard about Flora, of course?”

“What exactly?” I asked cautiously.

“This new engagement. Flora and Hector Blunt. Of course not such a good match as Ralph would have been. But after all, happiness comes first. What dear Flora needs is an older man⁠—someone steady and reliable, and then Hector is really a very distinguished man in his way. You saw the news of Ralph’s arrest in the paper this morning?”

“Yes,” I said, “I did.”

“Horrible.” Mrs. Ackroyd closed her eyes and shuddered. “Geoffrey Raymond was in a terrible way. Rang up Liverpool. But they wouldn’t tell him anything at the police station there. In fact, they said they hadn’t arrested Ralph at all. Mr. Raymond insists that it’s all a mistake⁠—a⁠—what do they call it?⁠—canard of the newspaper’s. I’ve forbidden it to be mentioned before the servants. Such a terrible disgrace. Fancy if Flora had actually been married to him.”

Mrs. Ackroyd shut her eyes in anguish. I began to wonder how soon I should be able to deliver Poirot’s invitation. Before I had time to speak, Mrs. Ackroyd was off again.

“You were here yesterday, weren’t you, with that dreadful Inspector Raglan? Brute of a man⁠—he terrified Flora into saying she took that money from poor Roger’s room. And the matter was so simple, really. The dear child wanted to borrow a few pounds, didn’t like to disturb her uncle since he’d given strict orders against it, but knowing where he kept his notes she went there and took what she needed.”

“Is that Flora’s account of the matter?” I asked.

“My dear doctor, you know what girls are nowadays. So easily acted on by suggestion. You, of course, know all about hypnosis and that sort of thing. The inspector shouts at her, says the word ‘steal’ over and over again, until the poor child gets an inhibition⁠—or is it a complex?⁠—I always mix up those two words⁠—and actually thinks herself that she has stolen the money. I saw at once how it was. But I can’t be too thankful for the whole misunderstanding in one way⁠—it seems to have brought those two together⁠—Hector and Flora, I mean. And I assure you that I have been very much worried about Flora in the past: why, at one time I actually thought there was going to be some kind of understanding between her and young Raymond. Just think of it!” Mrs. Ackroyd’s voice rose in shrill horror. “A private secretary⁠—with practically no means of his own.”

“It would have been a severe blow to you,” I said. “Now, Mrs. Ackroyd, I’ve got a message for you from M. Hercule Poirot.”

“For me?”

Mrs. Ackroyd looked quite alarmed. I hastened to reassure her, and I explained what Poirot wanted.

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Ackroyd rather doubtfully. “I suppose we must come if M. Poirot says so. But what is it all about? I like to know beforehand.”

I assured the lady truthfully that I myself did not know any more than she did.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Ackroyd at last, rather grudgingly, “I will tell the others, and we