The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie, is part of the HackerNoon Books Series. You can jump to any chapter in this book here . THE GOLDFISH POND CHAPTER IX. THE GOLDFISH POND We walked back to the house together. There was no sign of the inspector. Poirot paused on the terrace and stood with his back to the house, slowly turning his head from side to side. “Une belle propriété,” he said at last appreciatively. “Who inherits it?” His words gave me almost a shock. It is an odd thing, but until that moment the question of inheritance had never come into my head. Poirot watched me keenly. “It is a new idea to you, that,” he said at last. “You had not thought of it before—eh?” “No,” I said truthfully. “I wish I had.” He looked at me again curiously. “I wonder just what you mean by that,” he said thoughtfully. “Ah! no,” as I was about to speak. “Inutile! You would not tell me your real thought.” “Every one has something to hide,” I quoted, smiling. “Exactly.” “You still believe that?” “More than ever, my friend. But it is not easy to hide things from Hercule Poirot. He has a knack of finding out.” He descended the steps of the Dutch garden as he spoke. “Let us walk a little,” he said over his shoulder. “The air is pleasant to-day.” I followed him. He led me down a path to the left enclosed in yew hedges. A walk led down the middle, bordered each side with formal flower beds, and at the end was a round paved recess with a seat and a pond of goldfish. Instead of pursuing the path to the end, Poirot took another which wound up the side of a wooded slope. In one spot the trees had been cleared away, and a seat had been put. Sitting there one had a splendid view over the countryside, and one looked right down on the paved recess and the goldfish pond. “England is very beautiful,” said Poirot, his eyes straying over the prospect. Then he smiled. “And so are English girls,” he said in a lower tone. “Hush, my friend, and look at the pretty picture below us.” It was then that I saw Flora. She was moving along the path we had just left and she was humming a little snatch of song. Her step was more dancing than walking, and in spite of her black dress, there was nothing but joy in her whole attitude. She gave a sudden pirouette on her toes, and her black draperies swung out. At the same time she flung her head back and laughed outright. As she did so a man stepped out from the trees. It was Hector Blunt. The girl started. Her expression changed a little. “How you startled me—I didn’t see you.” Blunt said nothing, but stood looking at her for a minute or two in silence. “What I like about you,” said Flora, with a touch of malice, “is your cheery conversation.” I fancy that at that Blunt reddened under his tan. His voice, when he spoke, sounded different—it had a curious sort of humility in it. “Never was much of a fellow for talking. Not even when I was young.” “That was a very long time ago, I suppose,” said Flora gravely. I caught the undercurrent of laughter in her voice, but I don’t think Blunt did. “Yes,” he said simply, “it was.” “How does it feel to be Methuselah?” asked Flora. 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.” “Any one 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. “Not—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 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 castoff things rich relations give you. Last year’s coats and skirts and hats.” “Don’t know much about ladies’ clothes; should have said you were always very well turned out.” “It’s 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 Mélisande saw in the water.” “Mélisande,” 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 Mélisande,” 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. But now he rose briskly 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 this?” “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 stooped 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 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.” would “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 me that,” she said resentfully. “I’ve told him, and I’ll tell you. I’m perfectly certain the dagger was 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 to—to shield Ralph.” not “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. “What hair,” said Poirot to me in a low tone, nodding towards Flora. “The real gold! They will make a pretty couple. She and the dark, handsome Captain Paton. Will they not?” I looked at him inquiringly, but he began to fuss about a few microscopic drops of water on his coat sleeve. The man reminded me in some ways of a cat. His green eyes and his finicking habits. “And all for nothing, too,” I said sympathetically. “I wonder what it was in the pond?” “Would you like to see?” asked Poirot. I stared at him. He nodded. “My good friend,” he said gently and reproachfully, “Hercule Poirot does not run the risk of disarranging his costume without being sure of attaining his object. To do so would be ridiculous and absurd. I am never ridiculous.” “But you brought your hand out empty,” I objected. “There are times when it is necessary to have discretion. Do you tell your patients everything—everything, doctor? I think not. Nor do you tell your excellent sister everything either, is it not so? Before showing my empty hand, I dropped what it contained into my other hand. You shall see what that was.” He held out his left hand, palm open. On it lay a little circlet of gold. A woman’s wedding ring. I took it from him. “Look inside,” commanded Poirot. I did so. Inside was an inscription in fine writing:— From R., March 13th. I looked at Poirot, but he was busy inspecting his appearance in a tiny pocket glass. He paid particular attention to his mustaches, and none at all to me. I saw that he did not intend to be communicative. About HackerNoon Book Series: We bring you the most important technical, scientific, and insightful public domain books. This book is part of the public domain. Agatha Christie (2006). The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Urbana, Illinois: Project Gutenberg. Retrieved https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/69087/pg69087-images.html This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org , located at https://www.gutenberg.org/policy/license.html .

THE ARREST

The Kidnapped Prime Minister

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