ROUND THE TABLE

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. ROUND THE TABLE

CHAPTER XII. ROUND THE TABLE

A joint inquest was held on Monday.

I do not propose to give the proceedings in detail. To do so would only be to go over the same ground again and again. By arrangement with the police, very little was allowed to come out. I gave evidence as to the cause of Ackroyd’s death and the probable time. The absence of Ralph Paton was commented on by the coroner, but not unduly stressed.

Afterwards, Poirot and I had a few words with Inspector Raglan. The inspector was very grave.

“It looks bad, Mr. Poirot,” he said. “I’m trying to judge the thing fair and square. I’m a local man, and I’ve seen Captain Paton many times in Cranchester. I’m not wanting him to be the guilty one—but it’s bad whichever way you look at it. If he’s innocent, why doesn’t he come forward? We’ve got evidence against him, but it’s just possible that that evidence could be explained away. Then why doesn’t he give an explanation?”

A lot more lay behind the inspector’s words than I knew at the time. Ralph’s description had been wired to every port and railway station in England. The police everywhere were on the alert. His rooms in town were watched, and any houses he had been known to be in the habit of frequenting. With such a cordon it seemed impossible that Ralph should be able to evade detection. He had no luggage, and, as far as any one knew, no money.

“I can’t find any one who saw him at the station that night,” continued the inspector. “And yet he’s well known down here, and you’d think somebody would have noticed him. There’s no news from Liverpool either.”

“You think he went to Liverpool?” queried Poirot.

“Well, it’s on the cards. That telephone message from the station, just three minutes before the Liverpool express left—there ought to be something in that.”

“Unless it was deliberately intended to throw you off the scent. That might just possibly be the point of the telephone message.”

“That’s an idea,” said the inspector eagerly. “Do you really think that’s the explanation of the telephone call?”

“My friend,” said Poirot gravely, “I do not know. But I will tell you this: I believe that when we find the explanation of that telephone call we shall find the explanation of the murder.”

“You said something like that before, I remember,” I observed, looking at him curiously.

Poirot nodded.

“I always come back to it,” he said seriously.

“It seems to me utterly irrelevant,” I declared.

“I wouldn’t say that,” demurred the inspector. “But I must confess I think Mr. Poirot here harps on it a little too much. We’ve better clews than that. The fingerprints on the dagger, for instance.”

Poirot became suddenly very foreign in manner, as he often did when excited over anything.

“M. l’Inspecteur,” he said, “beware of the blind—the blind—comment dire?—the little street that has no end to it.”

Inspector Raglan stared, but I was quicker.

“You mean a blind alley?” I said.

“That is it—the blind street that leads nowhere. So it may be with those fingerprints—they may lead you nowhere.”

“I don’t see how that can well be,” said the police officer. “I suppose you’re hinting that they’re faked? I’ve read of such things being done, though I can’t say I’ve ever come across it in my experience. But fake or true—they’re bound to lead somewhere.”

Poirot merely shrugged his shoulders, flinging out his arms wide.

The inspector then showed us various enlarged photographs of the fingerprints, and proceeded to become technical on the subject of loops and whorls.

“Come now,” he said at last, annoyed by Poirot’s detached manner, “you’ve got to admit that those prints were made by some one who was in the house that night?”

“Bien entendu,” said Poirot, nodding his head.

“Well, I’ve taken the prints of every member of the household, every one, mind you, from the old lady down to the kitchenmaid.”

I don’t think Mrs. Ackroyd would enjoy being referred to as the old lady. She must spend a considerable amount on cosmetics.

“Every one’s,” repeated the inspector fussily.

“Including mine,” I said dryly.

“Very well. None of them correspond. That leaves us two alternatives. Ralph Paton, or the mysterious stranger the doctor here tells us about. When we get hold of those two——”

“Much valuable time may have been lost,” broke in Poirot.

“I don’t quite get you, Mr. Poirot?”

“You have taken the prints of every one in the house, you say,” murmured Poirot. “Is that the exact truth you are telling me there, M. l’Inspecteur?”

“Certainly.”

“Without overlooking any one?”

“Without overlooking any one.”

“The quick or the dead?”

For a moment the inspector looked bewildered at what he took to be a religious observation. Then he reacted slowly.

“You mean——”

“The dead, M. l’Inspecteur.”

The inspector still took a minute or two to understand.

“I am suggesting,” said Poirot placidly, “that the fingerprints on the dagger handle are those of Mr. Ackroyd himself. It is an easy matter to verify. His body is still available.”

“But why? What would be the point of it? You’re surely not suggesting suicide, Mr. Poirot?”

“Ah! no. My theory is that the murderer wore gloves or wrapped something round his hand. After the blow was struck, he picked up the victim’s hand and closed it round the dagger handle.”

“But why?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders again.

“To make a confusing case even more confusing.”

“Well,” said the inspector, “I’ll look into it. What gave you the idea in the first place?”

“When you were so kind as to show me the dagger and draw attention to the fingerprints. I know very little of loops and whorls—see, I confess my ignorance frankly. But it did occur to me that the position of the prints was somewhat awkward. Not so would I have held a dagger in order to strike. Naturally, with the right hand brought up over the shoulder backwards, it would have been difficult to put it in exactly the right position.”

Inspector Raglan stared at the little man. Poirot, with an air of great unconcern, flecked a speck of dust from his coat sleeve.

“Well,” said the inspector, “it’s an idea. I’ll look into it all right, but don’t you be disappointed if nothing comes of it.”

He endeavored to make his tone kindly and patronizing. Poirot watched him go off. Then he turned to me with twinkling eyes.

“Another time,” he observed, “I must be more careful of his amour propre. And now that we are left to our own devices, what do you think, my good friend, of a little reunion of the family?”

The “little reunion,” as Poirot called it, took place about half an hour later. We sat round the table in the dining-room at Fernly—Poirot at the head of the table, like the chairman of some ghastly board meeting. The servants were not present, so we were six in all. Mrs. Ackroyd, Flora, Major Blunt, young Raymond, Poirot, and myself.

When every one was assembled, Poirot rose and bowed.

“Messieurs, mesdames, I have called you together for a certain purpose.” He paused. “To begin with, I want to make a very special plea to mademoiselle.”

“To me?” said Flora.

“Mademoiselle, you are engaged to Captain Ralph Paton. If any one is in his confidence, you are. I beg you, most earnestly, if you know of his whereabouts, to persuade him to come forward. One little minute”—as Flora raised her head to speak—“say nothing till you have well reflected. Mademoiselle, his position grows daily more dangerous. If he had come forward at once, no matter how damning the facts, he might have had a chance of explaining them away. But this silence—this flight—what can it mean? Surely only one thing, knowledge of guilt. Mademoiselle, if you really believe in his innocence, persuade him to come forward before it is too late.”

Flora’s face had gone very white.

“Too late!” she repeated, very low.

Poirot leant forward, looking at her.

“See now, mademoiselle,” he said very gently, “it is Papa Poirot who asks you this. The old Papa Poirot who has much knowledge and much experience. I would not seek to entrap you, mademoiselle. Will you not trust me—and tell me where Ralph Paton is hiding?”

The girl rose, and stood facing him.

“M. Poirot,” she said in a clear voice, “I swear to you—swear solemnly—that I have no idea where Ralph is, and that I have neither seen him nor heard from him either on the day of—of the murder, or since.”

She sat down again. Poirot gazed at her in silence for a minute or two, then he brought his hand down on the table with a sharp rap.

“Bien! That is that,” he said. His face hardened. “Now I appeal to these others who sit round this table, Mrs. Ackroyd, Major Blunt, Dr. Sheppard, Mr. Raymond. You are all friends and intimates of the missing man. If you know where Ralph Paton is hiding, speak out.”

There was a long silence. Poirot looked to each in turn.

“I beg of you,” he said in a low voice, “speak out.”

But still there was silence, broken at last by Mrs. Ackroyd.

“I must say,” she observed in a plaintive voice, “that Ralph’s absence is most peculiar—most peculiar indeed. Not to come forward at such a time. It looks, you know, as though there were something behind it. I can’t help thinking, Flora dear, that it was a very fortunate thing your engagement was never formally announced.”

“Mother!” cried Flora angrily.

“Providence,” declared Mrs. Ackroyd. “I have a devout belief in Providence—a divinity that shapes our ends, as Shakespeare’s beautiful line runs.”

“Surely you don’t make the Almighty directly responsible for thick ankles, Mrs. Ackroyd, do you?” asked Geoffrey Raymond, his irresponsible laugh ringing out.

His idea was, I think, to loosen the tension, but Mrs. Ackroyd threw him a glance of reproach and took out her handkerchief.

“Flora has been saved a terrible amount of notoriety and unpleasantness. Not for a moment that I think dear Ralph had anything to do with poor Roger’s death. I don’t think so. But then I have a trusting heart—I always have had, ever since a child. I am loath to believe the worst of any one. But, of course, one must remember that Ralph was in several air raids as a young boy. The results are apparent long after, sometimes, they say. People are not responsible for their actions in the least. They lose control, you know, without being able to help it.”

“Mother,” cried Flora, “you don’t think Ralph did it?”

“Come, Mrs. Ackroyd,” said Blunt.

“I don’t know what to think,” said Mrs. Ackroyd tearfully. “It’s all very upsetting. What would happen to the estate, I wonder, if Ralph were found guilty?”

Raymond pushed his chair away from the table violently. Major Blunt remained very quiet, looking thoughtfully at her. “Like shell-shock, you know,” said Mrs. Ackroyd obstinately, “and I dare say Roger kept him very short of money—with the best intentions, of course. I can see you are all against me, but I do think it is very odd that Ralph has not come forward, and I must say I am thankful Flora’s engagement was never announced formally.”

“It will be to-morrow,” said Flora in a clear voice.

“Flora!” cried her mother, aghast.

Flora had turned to the secretary.

“Will you send the announcement to the Morning Post and the Times, please, Mr. Raymond.”

“If you are sure that it is wise, Miss Ackroyd,” he replied gravely.

She turned impulsively to Blunt.

“You understand,” she said. “What else can I do? As things are, I must stand by Ralph. Don’t you see that I must?”

She looked very searchingly at him, and after a long pause he nodded abruptly.

Mrs. Ackroyd burst out into shrill protests. Flora remained unmoved. Then Raymond spoke.

“I appreciate your motives, Miss Ackroyd. But don’t you think you’re being rather precipitate? Wait a day or two.”

“To-morrow,” said Flora, in a clear voice. “It’s no good, mother, going on like this. Whatever else I am, I’m not disloyal to my friends.”

“M. Poirot,” Mrs. Ackroyd appealed tearfully, “can’t you say anything at all?”

“Nothing to be said,” interpolated Blunt. “She’s doing the right thing. I’ll stand by her through thick and thin.”

Flora held out her hand to him.

“Thank you, Major Blunt,” she said.

“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, “will you let an old man congratulate you on your courage and your loyalty? And will you not misunderstand me if I ask you—ask you most solemnly—to postpone the announcement you speak of for at least two days more?”

Flora hesitated.

“I ask it in Ralph Paton’s interests as much as in yours, mademoiselle. You frown. You do not see how that can be. But I assure you that it is so. Pas de blagues. You put the case into my hands—you must not hamper me now.”

Flora paused a few minutes before replying.

“I do not like it,” she said at last, “but I will do what you say.”

She sat down again at the table.

“And now, messieurs et mesdames,” said Poirot rapidly, “I will continue with what I was about to say. Understand this, I mean to arrive at the truth. The truth, however ugly in itself, is always curious and beautiful to the seeker after it. I am much aged, my powers may not be what they were.” Here he clearly expected a contradiction. “In all probability this is the last case I shall ever investigate. But Hercule Poirot does not end with a failure. Messieurs et mesdames, I tell you, I mean to know. And I shall know—in spite of you all.”

He brought out the last words provocatively, hurling them in our face as it were. I think we all flinched back a little, excepting Geoffrey Raymond, who remained good humored and imperturbable as usual.

“How do you mean—in spite of us all?” he asked, with slightly raised eyebrows.

“But—just that, monsieur. Every one of you in this room is concealing something from me.” He raised his hand as a faint murmur of protest arose. “Yes, yes, I know what I am saying. It may be something unimportant—trivial—which is supposed to have no bearing on the case, but there it is. Each one of you has something to hide. Come, now, am I right?”

His glance, challenging and accusing, swept round the table. And every pair of eyes dropped before his. Yes, mine as well.

“I am answered,” said Poirot, with a curious laugh. He got up from his seat. “I appeal to you all. Tell me the truth—the whole truth.” There was a silence. “Will no one speak?”

He gave the same short laugh again.

“C’est dommage,” he said, and went out.

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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

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