“And what happened next?” I asked.
“Nothing. At least, Roger came in. And I thought he was out for a walk. And he said: ‘What's all this?’ and I said ‘Nothing. I just came in to fetch Punch.’ And I took Punch and went out with it. Bourne stayed behind. I heard her asking Roger if she could speak to him for a minute. I went straight up to my room, to lie down. I was very upset.”
There was a pause.
“You will explain to M. Poirot, won't you? You can see for yourself what a trivial matter the whole thing was. But, of course, when he was so stern about concealing things, I thought of this at once. Bourne may have made some extraordinary story out of it, but you can explain, can't you?”
“That is all?” I said. “You have told me everything?”
“Ye---es,” said Mrs. Ackroyd. “Oh! yes,” she added firmly.
But I had noted the momentary hesitation, and I knew that there was still something she was keeping back. It was nothing less than a flash of sheer genius that prompted me to ask the question I did.
“Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said, “was it you who left the silver table open?”
I had my answer in the blush of guilt that even rouge and powder could not conceal.
“How did you know?” she whispered.
“It was you, then?”
“Yes---I---you see---there were one or two pieces of old silver---very interesting. I had been reading up the subject and there was an illustration of quite a small piece which had fetched an immense sum at Christy's. It looked to be just the same as the one in the silver table. I thought I would take it up to London with me when I went---and---and have it valued. Then if it really was a valuable piece, just think what a charming surprise it would have been for Roger.”
I refrained from comments, accepting Mrs. Ackroyd's story on its merits. I even forbore to ask her why it was necessary to abstract what she wanted in such a surreptitious manner.
“Why did you leave the lid open?” I asked. “Did you forget?”
“I was startled,” said Mrs. Ackroyd. “I heard footsteps coming along the terrace outside. I hastened out of the room and just got up the stairs before Parker opened the front door to you.”
“That must have been Miss Russell,” I said thoughtfully. Mrs. Ackroyd had revealed to me one fact that was extremely interesting. Whether her designs upon Ackroyd's silver had been strictly honourable I neither knew nor cared. What did interest me was the fact that Miss Russell must have entered the drawing-room by the window, and that I had not been wrong when I judged her to be out of breath with running. Where had she been? I thought of the summer-house and the scrap of cambric.
“I wonder if Miss Russell has had her handkerchiefs starched!” I exclaimed on the spur of the moment.
Mrs. Ackroyd's start recalled me to myself, and I rose.
“You think you can explain to M. Poirot?” she asked anxiously.
“Oh, certainly. Absolutely.”
I got away at last, after being forced to listen to more justifications of her conduct.
The parlourmaid was in the hall, and it was she who helped me on with my overcoat. I observed her more closely than I had done heretofore. It was clear that she had been crying.
“How is it,” I asked, “that you told us that Mr. Ackroyd sent for you on Friday to his study? I hear now that it was you who asked to speak to him.”
For a minute the girl's eyes dropped before mine.
Then she spoke.
“I meant to leave in any case,” she said uncertainly.
I said no more. She opened the front door for me. Just as I was passing out, she said suddenly in a low voice:
“Excuse me, sir, is there any news of Captain Paton?”
I shook my head, looking at her inquiringly.
“He ought to come back,” she said. “Indeed---indeed he ought to come back.”
She was looking at me with appealing eyes.
“Does no one know where he is?” she asked.
“Do you?” I said sharply.
She shook her head.
“No, indeed. I know nothing. But anyone who was a friend to him would tell him this: he ought to come back.”
I lingered, thinking that perhaps the girl would say more. Her next question surprised me.
“When do they think the murder was done? Just before ten o'clock?”
“That is the idea,” I said. “Between a quarter to ten and the hour.”
“Not earlier? Not before a quarter to ten?”
I looked at her attentively. She was so clearly eager for a reply in the affirmative.
“That's out of the question,” I said. “Miss Ackroyd saw her uncle alive at a quarter to ten.”
She turned away, and her whole figure seemed to droop.
“A handsome girl,” I said to myself as I drove off. “An exceedingly handsome girl.”
Caroline was at home. She had had a visit from Poirot and was very pleased and important about it.
“I am helping him with the case,” she explained.
I felt rather uneasy. Caroline is bad enough as it is. What will she be like with her detective instincts encouraged?
“Are you going round the neighbourhood looking for Ralph Paton's mysterious girl?” I inquired.
“I might do that on my own account,” said Caroline. “No, this is a special thing M. Poirot wants me to find out for him.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“He wants to know whether Ralph Paton's boots were black or brown,” said Caroline with tremendous solemnity.
