THE PARAGRAPH IN THE PAPER

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 PARAGRAPH IN THE PAPER

CHAPTER XXI. THE PARAGRAPH IN THE PAPER

Caroline, of course, had not failed to see Miss Russell come to the surgery door. I had anticipated this, and had ready an elaborate account of the lady’s bad knee. But Caroline was not in a cross-questioning mood. Her point of view was that she knew what Miss Russell had really come for and that I didn’t.

“Pumping you, James,” said Caroline. “Pumping you in the most shameless manner, I’ve not a doubt. It’s no good interrupting. I dare say you hadn’t the least idea she was doing it even. Men are so simple. She knows that you are in M. Poirot’s confidence, and she wants to find out things. Do you know what I think, James?”

“I couldn’t begin to imagine. You think so many extraordinary things.”

“It’s no good being sarcastic. I think Miss Russell knows more about Mr. Ackroyd’s death than she is prepared to admit.”

Caroline leaned back triumphantly in her chair.

“Do you really think so?” I said absently.

“You are very dull to-day, James. No animation about you. It’s that liver of yours.”

Our conversation then dealt with purely personal matters.

The paragraph inspired by Poirot duly appeared in our daily paper the next morning. I was in the dark as to its purpose, but its effect on Caroline was immense.

She began by stating, most untruly, that she had said as much all along. I raised my eyebrows, but did not argue. Caroline, however, must have felt a prick of conscience, for she went on:—

“I mayn’t have actually mentioned Liverpool, but I knew he’d try to get away to America. That’s what Crippen did.”

“Without much success,” I reminded her.

“Poor boy, and so they’ve caught him. I consider, James, that it’s your duty to see that he isn’t hung.”

“What do you expect me to do?”

“Why, you’re a medical man, aren’t you? You’ve known him from a boy upwards. Not mentally responsible. That’s the line to take, clearly. I read only the other day that they’re very happy in Broadmoor—it’s quite like a high-class club.”

But Caroline’s words had reminded me of something.

“I never knew that Poirot had an imbecile nephew?” I said curiously.

“Didn’t you? Oh, he told me all about it. Poor lad. It’s a great grief to all the family. They’ve kept him at home so far, but it’s getting to such a pitch that they’re afraid he’ll have to go into some kind of institution.”

“I suppose you know pretty well everything there is to know about Poirot’s family by this time,” I said, exasperated.

“Pretty well,” said Caroline complacently. “It’s a great relief to people to be able to tell all their troubles to some one.”

“It might be,” I said, “if they were ever allowed to do so spontaneously. Whether they enjoy having confidences screwed out of them by force is another matter.”

Caroline merely looked at me with the air of a Christian martyr enjoying martyrdom.

“You are so self-contained, James,” she said. “You hate speaking out, or parting with any information yourself, and you think everybody else must be just like you. I should hope that I never screw confidences out of anybody. For instance, if M. Poirot comes in this afternoon, as he said he might do, I shall not dream of asking him who it was arrived at his house early this morning.”

“Early this morning?” I queried.

“Very early,” said Caroline. “Before the milk came. I just happened to be looking out of the window—the blind was flapping. It was a man. He came in a closed car, and he was all muffled up. I couldn’t get a glimpse of his face. But I will tell you my idea, and you’ll see that I’m right.”

“What’s your idea?”

Caroline dropped her voice mysteriously.

“A Home Office expert,” she breathed.

“A Home Office expert,” I said, amazed. “My dear Caroline!”

“Mark my words, James, you’ll see that I’m right. That Russell woman was here that morning after your poisons. Roger Ackroyd might easily have been poisoned in his food that night.”

I laughed out loud.

“Nonsense,” I cried. “He was stabbed in the neck. You know that as well as I do.”

“After death, James,” said Caroline; “to make a false clew.”

“My good woman,” I said, “I examined the body, and I know what I’m talking about. That wound wasn’t inflicted after death—it was the cause of death, and you need make no mistake about it.”

Caroline merely continued to look omniscient, which so annoyed me that I went on:—

“Perhaps you will tell me, Caroline, if I have a medical degree or if I have not?”

“You have the medical degree, I dare say, James—at least, I mean I know you have. But you’ve no imagination whatever.”

“Having endowed you with a treble portion, there was none left over for me,” I said dryly.

I was amused to notice Caroline’s maneuvers that afternoon when Poirot duly arrived. My sister, without asking a direct question, skirted the subject of the mysterious guest in every way imaginable. By the twinkle in Poirot’s eyes, I saw that he realized her object. He remained blandly impervious, and blocked her bowling so successfully that she herself was at a loss how to proceed.

Having, I suspect, quietly enjoyed the little game, he rose to his feet and suggested a walk.

“It is that I need to reduce the figure a little,” he explained. “You will come with me, doctor? And perhaps later Miss Caroline will give us some tea.”

“Delighted,” said Caroline. “Won’t your—er—guest come in also?”

“You are too kind,” said Poirot. “But no, my friend reposes himself. Soon you must make his acquaintance.”

“Quite an old friend of yours, so somebody told me,” said Caroline, making one last valiant effort.

“Did they?” murmured Poirot “Well, we must start.”

Our tramp took us in the direction of Fernly. I had guessed beforehand that it might do so. I was beginning to understand Poirot’s methods. Every little irrelevancy had a bearing upon the whole.

“I have a commission for you, my friend,” he said at last. “To-night, at my house, I desire to have a little conference. You will attend, will you not?”

“Certainly,” I said.

“Good. I need also all those in the house—that is to say: Mrs. Ackroyd, Mademoiselle Flora, Major Blunt, M. Raymond. I want you to be my ambassador. This little reunion is fixed for nine o’clock. You will ask them—yes?”

“With pleasure; but why not ask them yourself?”

“Because they will then put the questions: Why? What for? They will demand what my idea is. And, as you know, my friend, I much dislike to have to explain my little ideas until the time comes.”

I smiled a little.

“My friend Hastings, he of whom I told you, used to say of me that I was the human oyster. But he was unjust. Of facts, I keep nothing to myself. But to every one his own interpretation of them.”

“When do you want me to do this?”

“Now, if you will. We are close to the house.”

“Aren’t you coming in?”

“No, me, I will promenade myself in the grounds. I will rejoin you by the lodge gates in a quarter of an hour’s time.”

I nodded, and set off on my task. The only member of the family at home proved to be Mrs. Ackroyd, who was sipping an early cup of tea. She received me very graciously.

“So grateful to you, doctor,” she murmured, “for clearing up that little matter with M. Poirot. But life is one trouble after another. You have heard about Flora, of course?”

“What exactly?” I asked cautiously.

“This new engagement. Flora and Hector Blunt. Of course not such a good match as Ralph would have been. But after all, happiness comes first. What dear Flora needs is an older man—some one steady and reliable, and then Hector is really a very distinguished man in his way. You saw the news of Ralph’s arrest in the paper this morning?”

“Yes,” I said, “I did.”

“Horrible.” Mrs. Ackroyd closed her eyes and shuddered. “Geoffrey Raymond was in a terrible way. Rang up Liverpool. But they wouldn’t tell him anything at the police station there. In fact, they said they hadn’t arrested Ralph at all. Mr. Raymond insists that it’s all a mistake—a—what do they call it?—canard of the newspaper’s. I’ve forbidden it to be mentioned before the servants. Such a terrible disgrace. Fancy if Flora had actually been married to him.”

Mrs. Ackroyd shut her eyes in anguish. I began to wonder how soon I should be able to deliver Poirot’s invitation.

Before I had time to speak, Mrs. Ackroyd was off again.

“You were here yesterday, weren’t you, with that dreadful Inspector Raglan? Brute of a man—he terrified Flora into saying she took that money from poor Roger’s room. And the matter was so simple, really. The dear child wanted to borrow a few pounds, didn’t like to disturb her uncle since he’d given strict orders against it, but knowing where he kept his notes she went there and took what she needed.”

“Is that Flora’s account of the matter?” I asked.

“My dear doctor, you know what girls are nowadays. So easily acted on by suggestion. You, of course, know all about hypnosis and that sort of thing. The inspector shouts at her, says the word ‘steal’ over and over again, until the poor child gets an inhibition—or is it a complex?—I always mix up those two words—and actually thinks herself that she has stolen the money. I saw at once how it was. But I can’t be too thankful for the whole misunderstanding in one way—it seems to have brought those two together—Hector and Flora, I mean. And I assure you that I have been very much worried about Flora in the past: why, at one time I actually thought there was going to be some kind of understanding between her and young Raymond. Just think of it!” Mrs. Ackroyd’s voice rose in shrill horror. “A private secretary—with practically no means of his own.”

“It would have been a severe blow to you,” I said. “Now, Mrs. Ackroyd, I’ve got a message for you from M. Hercule Poirot.”

“For me?”

Mrs. Ackroyd looked quite alarmed.

I hastened to reassure her, and I explained what Poirot wanted.

“Certainly,” said Mrs. Ackroyd rather doubtfully, “I suppose we must come if M. Poirot says so. But what is it all about? I like to know beforehand.”

I assured the lady truthfully that I myself did not know any more than she did.

“Very well,” said Mrs. Ackroyd at last, rather grudgingly, “I will tell the others, and we will be there at nine o’clock.”

Thereupon I took my leave, and joined Poirot at the agreed meeting-place.

“I’ve been longer than a quarter of an hour, I’m afraid,” I remarked. “But once that good lady starts talking it’s a matter of the utmost difficulty to get a word in edgeways.”

“It is of no matter,” said Poirot. “Me, I have been well amused. This park is magnificent.”

We set off homewards. When we arrived, to our great surprise Caroline, who had evidently been watching for us, herself opened the door.

She put her fingers to her lips. Her face was full of importance and excitement.

“Ursula Bourne,” she said, “the parlormaid from Fernly. She’s here! I’ve put her in the dining-room. She’s in a terrible way, poor thing. Says she must see M. Poirot at once. I’ve done all I could. Taken her a cup of hot tea. It really goes to one’s heart to see any one in such a state.”

“In the dining-room?” asked Poirot.

“This way,” I said, and flung open the door.

Ursula Bourne was sitting by the table. Her arms were spread out in front of her, and she had evidently just lifted her head from where it had been buried. Her eyes were red with weeping.

“Ursula Bourne,” I murmured.

But Poirot went past me with outstretched hands.

“No,” he said, “that is not quite right, I think. It is not Ursula Bourne, is it, my child—but Ursula Paton? Mrs. Ralph Paton.”

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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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