'That's what I said. Why did you do it, child? For a wager?' 'For a living,' said Ursula drily.
And encouraged, she began the story which I reproduce here in my own words.
Ursula Bourne, it seemed, was one of a family of seven impoverished Irish gentlefolk. On the death of her father, most of the girls were cast out into the world to earn their own living. Ursula's eldest sister was married to Captain Folliott. It was she whom I had seen that Sunday, and the cause of her embarrassment was clear enough now. Detemined to earn her living and not attracted to the idea of being a nursery governess - the one profession open to an untrained girl, Ursula preferred the job of parlourmaid. She scorned to label herself a 'lady parlourmaid.' She would be the real thing, her reference being supplied by her sister. At Fernly, despite an aloofness which, as has been seen, caused some comment, she was a success at her job - quick, competent, and thorough.
'I enjoyed the work,' she explained. 'And I had plenty of time to myself.' And then came her meeting with Ralph Paton, and the love affair which culminated in a secret marriage. Ralph had persuaded her into that, somewhat against her will. He had declared that his stepfather would not hear of his marrying a penniless girl. Better to be married secretly, and break the news to him at some later and more favourable minute.
And so the deed was done, and Ursula Bourne became Ursula Paton. Ralph had declared that he meant to pay off his debts, find a job, and then, when he was in a position to support her, and independent of his adopted father, they would break the news to him.
But to people like Ralph Paton, turning over a new leaf is easier in theory than in practice. He hoped that his stepfather, whilst still in ignorance of the marriage, might be persuaded to pay his debts and put him on his feet again.
But the revelation of the amount of Ralph's liabilities merely enraged Roger Ackroyd, and he refused to do anything at all. Some months passed, and then Ralph was bidden once more to Fernly. Roger Ackroyd did not beat about the bush. It was the desire of his heart that Ralph should marry Flora, and he put the matter plainly before the young man.
And here it was that the innate weakness of Ralph Paton showed itself. As always, he grasped at the easy, the immediate solution. As far as I could make out, neither Flora nor Ralph made any pretence of love. It was, on both sides, a business arrangement. Roger Ackroyd dictated his wishes - they agreed to them. Flora accepted a chance of liberty, money, and an enlarged horizon, Ralph, of course, was playing a different game. But he was in a very awkward hole financially. He seized at the chance. His debts would be paid. He could start again with a clean sheet. His was not a nature to envisage the future, but I gather that he saw vaguely the engagement with Flora being broken off after a decent interval had elapsed. Both Flora and he stipulated that it should be kept a secret for the present. He was anxious to conceal it from Ursula. He felt instinctively that her nature, strong and resolute, with an inherent distaste for duplicity, was not one to welcome such a course.
Then came the crucial moment when Roger Ackroyd, always high-handed, decided to announce the engagement.
He said no word of his intention to Ralph - only to Flora, and Flora, apathetic, raised no objection. On Ursula, the news fell like a bombshell. Summoned by her, Ralph came hurriedly down from town. They met in the wood, where part of their conversation was overheard by my sister. Ralph implored her to keep silent for a little while longer, Ursula was equally determined to have done with concealments.
She would tell Mr Ackroyd the truth without any further delay. Husband and wife parted acrimoniously.
Ursula, steadfast in her purpose, sought an interview with Roger Ackroyd that very afternoon, and revealed the truth to him. Their interview was a stormy one - it might have been even more stormy had not Roger Ackroyd been already obsessed with his own troubles. It was bad enough, however. Ackroyd was not the kind of man to forgive the deceit that had been practised upon him. His rancour was mainly directed to Ralph, but Ursula came in for her share, since he regarded her as a girl who had deliberately tried to 'entrap' the adopted son of a very wealthy man. Unforgivable things were said on both sides.
That same evening Ursula met Ralph by appointment in the small summer-house, stealing out from the house by the side door in order to do so. Their interview was made up of reproaches on both sides. Ralph charged Ursula with having irretrievably ruined his prospects by her ill-timed revelation.
Ursula reproached Ralph with his duplicity.
They parted at last. A little over half an hour later came the discovery of Roger Ackroyd's body. Since that night Ursula had neither seen nor heard from Ralph.
As the story unfolded itself, I realized more and more what a damning series of facts it was. Alive, Ackroyd could hardly have failed to alter his will - I knew him well enough to realize that to do so would be his first thought. His death came in the nick of time for Ralph and Ursula Paton. Small wonder the girl had held her tongue, and played her part so consistently.
My meditations were interrupted. It was Poirot's voice speaking, and I knew from the gravity of his tone that he, too, was fully alive to the implications of the position.
'Mademoiselle, I must ask you one question, and you must answer it truthfully, for on it everything may hang: What time was it when you parted from Captain Ralph Paton in the summer-house? Now, take a little minute so that your answer may be very exact.' The girl gave a half laugh, bitter enough in all conscience.
'Do you think I haven't gone over that again and again in my own mind? It was just half-past nine when I went out to meet him. Major Blunt was walking up and down the terrace, so I had to go round through the bushes to avoid him. It must have been about twenty-seven minutes to ten when I reached the summer-house. Ralph was waiting for me. I was with him ten minutes - not longer, for it was just a quarter to ten when I got back to the house.' I saw now the insistence of her question the other day. If only Ackroyd could have been proved to have been killed before a quarter to ten, and not after.
I saw the reflection of that thought in Poirot's next question.
'Who left the summer-house first?' 'I did.' 'Leaving Ralph Paton in the summerhouse?' 'Yes - but you don't think ' 'Mademoiselle, it is of no importance what I think. What did you do when you got back to the house?' 'I went up to my room.' 'And stayed there until when?' 'Until about ten o'clock.' 'Is there anyone who can prove that?' 'Prove? That I was in my room, you mean? Oh! no. But surely - oh! I see, they might think - they might think ' I saw the dawning horror in her eyes.
Poirot finished the sentence for her.
'That it was you who entered by the window and stabbed Mr Ackroyd as he sat in his chair? Yes, they might think just that.' 'Nobody but a fool would think any such thing,' said Caroline indignantly.
She patted Ursula on the shoulder.
The girl had her face hidden in her hands.
'Horrible,' she was murmuring. 'Horrible.' Caroline gave her a friendly shake.
'Don't worry, my dear,' she said. 'M. Poirot doesn't think that really. As for that husband of yours, I don't think much of him, and I tell you so candidly. Running away and leaving you to face the music.' But Ursula shook her head energetically.
'Oh, no,' she cried. 'It wasn't like that at all. Ralph would not run away on his own account. I see now. If he heard of his stepfather's murder, he might think himself that I had done it.' 'He wouldn't think any such thing,' said Caroline.
'I was so cruel to him that night - so hard and bitter. I wouldn't listen to what he was trying to say - wouldn't believe that he really cared. I just stood there telling him what I thought of him, and saying the coldest, cruellest things that came into my mind - trying my best to hurt him.' 'Do him no harm,' said Caroline. 'Never worry about what you say to a man. They're so conceited that they never believe you mean it if it's unflattering.' Ursula went on nervously twisting and untwisting her hands.
'When the murder was discovered and he didn't come forward, I was terribly upset. Just for a moment I won
dered - but then I knew he couldn't - he couldn't… But I wished he would come forward and say openly that he'd had nothing to do with it. I knew that he was fond of Dr Sheppard, and I fancied that perhaps Dr Sheppard might know where he was hiding.' She turned to me.
'That's why I said what I did to you that day. I thought, if you knew where he was, you might pass on the message to him.' 'I?' I exclaimed.
'Why should James know where he was?' demanded Caroline sharply.
'It was very unlikely, I know,' admitted Ursula, 'but Ralph had often spoken of Dr Sheppard, and I knew that he would be likely to consider him as his best friend in King's Abbot.' 'My dear child,' I said, 'I have not the least idea where Ralph Paton is at the present moment.' 'That is true enough,' said Poirot.
'But -' Ursula held out the newspaper cutting in a puzzled fashion.
'Ah! that,' said Poirot, slightly embarrassed; 'a bagatelle, mademoiselle. A rien du tout. Not for a moment do I believe that Ralph Paton has been arrested.' 'But then -' began the girl slowly.
Poirot went on quickly: 'There is one thing I should like to know - did Captain Paton wear shoes or boots that night?' Ursula shook her head.
'I can't remember.' 'A pity! But how should you? Now, madame,' he smiled at her, his head on one side, his forefinger wagging eloquently, 'no questions. And do not torment yourself. Be of good courage, and place your faith in Hercule Poirot.'
Chapter 20. Poirot's Little Reunion
'And now,' said Caroline, rising, 'that child is coming upstairs to lie down. Don't you worry, my dear. M. Poirot will do everything he can for you - be sure of that.' 'I ought to go back to Fernly,' said Ursula uncertainly.
But Caroline silenced her protests with a firm hand.
'Nonsense. You're in my hands for the time being. You'll stay here for the present, anyway - eh, M. Poirot?' 'It will be the best plan,' agreed the little Belgian. 'This evening I shall want mademoiselle - I beg her pardon, madame - to attend my little reunion. Nine o'clock at my house. It is most necessary that she should be there.' Caroline nodded, and went with Ursula out of the room.
The door shut behind them. Poirot dropped down into a chair again.
'So far, so good,' he said. 'Things are straightening themselves out.' 'They're getting to look blacker and blacker against Ralph Paton,' I observed gloomily.
Poirot nodded.
'Yes, that is so. But it was to be expected, was it not?' I looked at him, slightly puzzled by the remark. He was leaning back in the chair, his eyes half closed, the tips of his fingers just touching each other. Suddenly he sighed and shook his head.
'What is it?' I asked.
'It is that there are moments when a great longing for my friend Hastings comes over me. That is the friend of whom I spoke to you - the one who resides now in the Argentine.
Always, when I have had a big case, he has been by my side.
And he has helped me - yes, often he has helped me. For he had a knack, that one, of stumbling over the truth unawares - without noticing it himself, bien entendu. At times, he has said something particularly foolish, and behold that foolish remark has revealed the truth to me! And then, too, it was his practice to keep a written record of the cases that proved interesting.' I gave a slightly embarrassed cough.
'As far as that goes,' I began, and then stopped.
Poirot sat upright in his chair. His eyes sparkled.
'But yes? What is it that you would say?' 'Well, as a matter of fact, I've read some of Captain Hastings's narratives, and I thought, why not try my hand at something of the same kind. Seemed a pity not to unique opportunity - probably the only time I'll be mixed up with anything of this kind.' I felt myself getting hotter and hotter, and more and more incoherent, as I floundered through the above speech.
Poirot sprang from his chair. I had a moment's terror that he was going to embrace me French fashion, but mercifully he refrained.
'But this is magnificent - you have then written down your impressions of the case as you went along?' I nodded.
'Epatant!' cried Poirot. 'Let me see them - this instant.' I was not quite prepared for such a sudden demand. I racked my brains to remember certain details.
'I hope you won't mind,' I stammered. 'I may have been a little - er - personal now and then.' 'Oh! I comprehend perfectly; you have referred to me as comic - as, perhaps, ridiculous now and then? It matters not at all. Hastings, he also was not always polite. Me, I have the mind above such trivialities.' Still somewhat doubtful, I rummaged in the drawers of my desk and produced an untidy pile of manuscript which I handed over to him. With an eye on possible publication in the future, I had divided the work into chapters, and the night before I had brought it up to date with an account of Miss Russell's visit. Poirot had therefore twenty chapters.
I left him with them.
I was obliged to go out to a case at some distance away and it was past eight o'clock when I got back, to be greeted with a plate of hot dinner on a tray, and the announcement that Poirot and my sister had supped together at half-past seven, and that the former had then gone to my workshop to finish his reading of the manuscript.
'I hope, James,' said my sister, 'that you've been careful in what you say about me in it?' My jaw dropped. I had not been careful at all.
'Not that it matters very much,' said Caroline, reading my expression correctly. 'M. Poirot will know what to think. He understands me much better than you do.' I went into the workshop. Poirot was sitting by the window. The manuscript lay neatly piled on a chair beside him. He laid his hand on it and spoke.
'Eh bien,' he said, 'I congratulate you - on your modesty!' 'Oh!' I said, rather taken aback.
'And on your reticence,' he added.
I said 'Oh!' again.
'Not so did Hastings write,' continued my friend. 'On every page, many, many times was the word "I." What he thought - what he did. But you - you have kept your personality in the background; only once or twice does it obtrude - in scenes of home life, shall we say?' I blushed a little before the twinkle of his eye.
'What do you really think of the stuff?' I asked nervously.
'You want my candid opinion?' 'Yes.' Poirot laid his jesting manner aside.
'A very meticulous and accurate account,' he said kindly.
'You have recorded all the facts faithfully and exactly though you have shown yourself becomingly reticent as to your own share in them.' 'And it has helped you?' 'Yes. I may say that it has helped me considerably. Come, we must go over to my house and set the stage for my little performance.' Caroline was in the hall. I think she hoped that she might be invited to accompany us. Poirot dealt with the situation tactfully.
'I should much like to have had you present, mademoiselle,' he said regretfully, 'but at this juncture it would not be wise.
See you, all these people tonight are suspects. Amongst them, I shall find the person who killed Mr Ackroyd.' 'You really believe that?' I said incredulously.
'I see that you do not,' said Poirot drily. 'Not yet do you appreciate Hercule Poirot at his true worth.' At that minute Ursula came down the staircase.
'You are ready, my child?' said Poirot. 'That is good. We will go to my house together. Mademoiselle Caroline, believe me, I do everything possible to render you service. Good-evening.' We went off, leaving Caroline rather like a dog who has been refused a walk, standing on the front door step gazing after us.
The sitting-room at The Larches had been got ready. On the table were various siropes and glasses. Also a plate of biscuits.
Several chairs had been brought in from the other room.
Poirot ran to and fro rearranging things. Pulling out a chair here, altering the position of a lamp there, occasionally stooping to straighten one of the mats that covered the floor. He was specially fussing over the lighting. The lamps were arranged in such a way as to throw a clear light on the side of the room where the chairs were grouped, at the same time leaving the other end of the room, where I presumed Poirot himself would sit, in a dim
twilight.
Ursula and I watched him. Presently a bell was heard.
'They arrive,' said Poirot. 'Good, all is in readiness.' The door opened and the party from Fernly filed in. Poirot went forward and greeted Mrs Ackroyd and Flora.
'It is most good of you to come,' he said. 'And Major Blunt and Mr Raymond.' The secretary was debonair as ever.
'What's the great idea?' he said, laughing. 'Some scientific machine? Do we have bands round our wrists which register guilty heart-beats? There is such an invention isn't there?' 'I have read of it, yes,' admitted Poirot. 'But me, I am oldfashioned.
I use the old methods. I work only with the little grey cells. Now let us begin - but first I have an announcement to make to you all.' He took Ursula's hand and drew her forward.
'This lady is Mrs Ralph Paton. She was married to Captain Paton last March.' A little shriek burst from Mrs Ackroyd.
'Ralph! Married! Last March! Oh! but it's absurd. How could he be?' She stared at Ursula as though she had never seen her before.
'Married to Bourne?' she said. 'Really, M. Poirot, I don't believe you.' Ursula flushed and began to speak, but Flora forestalled her.
Going quickly to the other girl's side, she passed her hand through her arm.
'You must not mind our being surprised,' she said. 'You see, we had no idea of such a thing. You and Ralph have kept your secret very well. I am - very glad about it.' 'You are very kind. Miss Ackroyd,' said Ursula in a low voice, 'and you have every right to be exceedingly angry.
Ralph behaved very badly - especially to you.' 'You needn't worry about that,' said Flora, giving her arm a consoling little pat. 'Ralph was in a corner and took the only way out. I should probably have done the same in his place. I do think he might have trusted me with the secret, though. I wouldn't have let him down.' Poirot rapped gently on a table and cleared his throat significantly.
The Murder Of Roger Ackroyd hp-4 Page 18
