The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (Hercule Poirot 4)

This time the laughter was more apparent, but Blunt was following out an idea of his own.

'Remember the johnny who sold his soul to the devil? In return for being made young again? There's an opera about it.' 'Faust, you mean?' 'That's the beggar. Rum story. Some of us would do it if we could.' 'Anyone would think you were creaking at the joints to hear you talk,' cried Flora, half vexed, half amused.

Blunt said nothing for a minute or two. Then he looked away from Flora into the middle distance and observed to an adjacent tree trunk that it was about time he got back to Africa.

'Are you going on another expedition - shooting things?' 'Expect so. Usually do, you know - shoot things, I mean.' 'You shot that head in the hall, didn't you?' Blunt nodded. Then he jerked out, going rather red as he did so: 'Care for some decent skins any time? If so, I could get 'em for you.' 'Oh! please do,' cried Flora. 'Will you really? You won't forget?' 'I shan't forget,' said Hector Blunt.

He added, in a sudden burst of communicativeness: 'Time I went. I'm no good in this sort of life. Haven't got the manners for it. I'm a rough fellow, no use in society. Never remember the things one's expected to say. Yes, time I went.' 'But you're not going at once,' cried Flora. 'No - not while we're in all this trouble. Oh! please. If you go ' She turned away a little.

'You want me to stay?' asked Blunt.

He spoke deliberately but quite simply.

'We all-' 'I meant you personally,' said Blunt, with directness.

Flora turned slowly back again and met his eyes.

'I want you to stay,' she said, 'if - if that makes any difference.' 'It makes all the difference,' said Blunt.

There was a moment's silence. They sat down on the stone seat by the goldfish pond. It seemed as though neither of them knew quite what to say next.

'It - it's such a lovely morning,' said Flora at last. 'You know, I can't help feeling happy, in spite - in spite of everything. That's awful, I suppose?' 'Quite natural,' said Blunt. 'Never saw your uncle until two years ago, did you? Can't be expected to grieve very much. Much better to have no humbug about it.' 'There's something awfully consoling about you,' said Flora. 'You make things seems so simple.' 'Things are simple as a rule,' said the big-game hunter.

'Not always,' said Flora.

Her voice had lowered itself, and I saw Blunt turn and look at her, bringing his eyes back from (apparently) the coast of Africa to do so. He evidently put his own construction on her change of tone, for he said, after a minute or two, in rather an abrupt manner: 'I say, you know, you mustn't worry. About that young chap, I mean. Inspector's an ass. Everybody knows utterly absurd to think he could have done it. Man from outside. Burglar chap. That's the only possible solution.' Flora turned to look at him.

'You really think so?' 'Don't you?' said Blunt quickly.

'I - oh, yes, of course.' Another silence, and then Flora burst out: 'I'm - I'll tell you why I felt so happy this morning.

However heartless you think me, I'd rather tell you. It's because the lawyer has been - Mr Hammond. He told us about the will. Uncle Roger has left me twenty thousand pounds. Think of it - twenty thousand beautiful pounds.' Blunt looked surprised.

'Does it mean so much to you?' 'Mean much to me? Why, it's everything. Freedom - life - no more scheming and scraping and lying ' 'Lying?' said Blunt, sharply interrupting.

Flora seemed taken aback for a minute.

'You know what I mean,' she said uncertainly. 'Pretending to be thankful for all the nasty cast-off things rich relations give you. Last year's coat and skirts and hats.' 'Don't know much about ladies' clothes; should have said you were always very well turned out.' 'It cost me something, though,' said Flora in a low voice.

'Don't let's talk of horrid things. I'm so happy. I'm free. Free to do what I like. Free not to ' She stopped suddenly.

'Not to what?' asked Blunt quickly.

'I forget now. Nothing important.' Blunt had a stick in his hand, and he thrust it into the pond, poking at something.

'What are you doing. Major Blunt?' 'There's something bright down there. Wondered what it was - looks like a gold brooch. Now I've stirred up the mud and it's gone.' 'Perhaps it's a crown,' suggested Flora. 'Like the one Melisande saw in the water.' 'Melisande,' said Blunt reflectively - 'she's in an opera, isn't she?' 'Yes, you seem to know a lot about operas.' 'People take me sometimes,' said Blunt sadly. 'Funny idea of pleasure - worse racket than the natives make with their tom-toms.' Flora laughed.

'I remember Melisande,' continued Blunt, 'married an old chap old enough to be her father.' He threw a small piece of flint into the goldfish pond.

Then, with a change of manner, he turned to Flora.

'Miss Ackroyd, can I do anything? About Paton, I mean.

I know how dreadfully anxious you must be.' 'Thank you,' said Flora in a cold voice. 'There is really nothing to be done. Ralph will be all right. I've got hold of the most wonderful detective in the world, and he's going to find out all about it.' For some time I had felt uneasy as to our position. We were not exactly eavesdropping, since the two in the garden below had only to lift their heads to see us. Nevertheless, I should have drawn attention to our presence before now, had not my companion put a warning pressure on my arm.

Clearly he wished me to remain silent. Now, however, he acted briskly.

He rose quickly to his feet, clearing his throat.

'I demand pardon,' he cried. 'I cannot allow mademoiselle thus extravagantly to compliment me, and not draw attention to my presence. They say the listener hears no good of himself, but that is not the case this time.

To spare my blushes, I must join you and apologize.' He hurried down the path with me close behind him, and joined the others by the pond.

'This is M. Hercule Poirot,' said Flora. 'I expect you've heard of him.' Poirot bowed.

'I know Major Blunt by reputation,' he said politely. 'I am glad to have encountered you, monsieur. I am in need of some information that you can give me.' Blunt looked at him inquiringly.

'When did you last see M. Ackroyd alive?' 'At dinner.' 'And you neither saw nor heard anything of him after that?' 'Didn't see him. Heard his voice.' 'How was that?' 'I strolled out on the terrace ' 'Pardon me, what time was that?' 'About half-past nine. I was walking up and down smoking in front of the drawing-room window. I heard Ackroyd talking in his study -' Poirot stopped and removed a microscopic weed.

'Surely you couldn't hear voices in the study from that part of the terrace,' he murmured.

He was not looking at Blunt, but I was, and to my intense surprise, I saw the latter flush.

'Went as far as the corner,' he explained unwillingly.

'Ah! indeed?' said Poirot.

In the mildest manner he conveyed an impression that more was wanted.

'Thought I saw - a woman disappearing into the bushes. Just a gleam of white, you know. Must have been mistaken. It was while I was standing at the corner of the terrace that I heard Ackroyd's voice speaking to that secretary of his.' 'Speaking to Mr Geoffrey Raymond?' 'Yes - that's what I supposed at the time. Seems I was wrong.' 'Mr Ackroyd didn't address him by name?' 'Oh, no.' 'Then, if I may ask, why did you think -?' Blunt explained laboriously.

'Took it for granted that it would be Raymond, because he had said just before I came out that he was taking some papers to Ackroyd. Never thought of it being anybody else.' 'Can you remember what the words you heard were?' 'Afraid I can't. Something quite ordinary and unimportant. Only caught a scrap of it. I was thinking of something else at the time.' 'It is of no importance,' murmured Poirot. 'Did you move a chair back against the wall when you went into the study after the body was discovered?' 'Chair? No, why should I?' Poirot shrugged his shoulders but did not answer. He turned to Flora.

'There is one thing I should like to know from you, mademoiselle. When you were examining the things in the silver table with Dr Sheppard, was the dagger in its place, or was it not?' Flora's chin shot up.

'Inspector Raglan has been asking m

e that,' she said resentfully. 'I've told him, and I'll tell you. I'm perfectly certain the dagger was not there. He thinks it was and that Ralph sneaked it later in the evening. And - and he doesn't believe me. He thinks I'm saying it so - to shield Ralph.' 'And aren't you?' I asked gravely.

Flora stamped her foot.

'You, too, Dr Sheppard! Oh! it's too bad.' Poirot tactfully made a diversion.

'It is true what I heard you say, Major Blunt. There is something that glitters in this pond. Let us see if I can reach it.' He knelt down by the pond, baring his arm to the elbow, and lowered it in very slowly, so as not to disturb the bottom of the pond. But in spite of all his precautions the mud eddied and swirled, and he was forced to draw his arm out again empty-handed.

He gazed ruefully at the mud upon his arm. I offered him my handkerchief, which he accepted with fervent protestations of thanks. Blunt looked at his watch.

'Nearly lunch time,' he said. 'We'd better be getting back to the house.' 'You will lunch with us, M. Poirot?' asked Flora. 'I should like you to meet my mother. She is - very fond of Ralph.' The little man bowed.

'I shall be delighted, mademoiselle.' 'And you will stay, too, won't you, Dr Sheppard?' I hesitated.

'Oh, do!' I wanted to, so I accepted the invitation without further ceremony.

We set out towards the house. Flora and Blunt walking ahead.