CHAPTER XVII

PARKER

It occurred to me the next morning that under the exhilaration

produced by Tin-ho, or the Perfect Winning, I might have been slightly

indiscreet. True, Poirot had not asked me to keep the discovery of

the ring to myself. On the other hand, he had said nothing about it

whilst at Fernly, and as far as I knew, I was the only person aware

that it had been found. I felt distinctly guilty. The fact was by now

spreading through King’s Abbot like wildfire. I was expecting wholesale

reproaches from Poirot any minute.

The joint funeral of Mrs. Ferrars and Roger Ackroyd was fixed for

eleven o’clock. It was a melancholy and impressive ceremony. All the

party from Fernly were there.

After it was over, Poirot, who had also been present, took me by the

arm, and invited me to accompany him back to The Larches. He was

looking very grave, and I feared that my indiscretion of the night

before had got round to his ears. But it soon transpired that his

thoughts were occupied by something of a totally different nature.

“See you,” he said. “We must act. With your help I propose to examine a

witness. We will question him, we will put such fear into him that the

truth is bound to come out.”

“What witness are you talking of?” I asked, very much surprised.

“Parker!” said Poirot. “I asked him to be at my house this morning at

twelve o’clock. He should await us there at this very minute.”

“What do you think,” I ventured, glancing sideways at his face.

“I know this—that I am not satisfied.”

“You think that it was he who blackmailed Mrs. Ferrars?”

“Either that, or——”

“Well?” I said, after waiting a minute or two.

“My friend, I will say this to you—I hope it was he.”

The gravity of his manner, and something indefinable that tinged it,

reduced me to silence.

On arrival at The Larches, we were informed that Parker was already

there awaiting our return. As we entered the room, the butler rose

respectfully.

“Good morning, Parker,” said Poirot pleasantly. “One instant, I pray of

you.”

He removed his overcoat and gloves.

“Allow me, sir,” said Parker, and sprang forward to assist him. He

deposited the articles neatly on a chair by the door. Poirot watched

him with approval.

“Thank you, my good Parker,” he said. “Take a seat, will you not? What

I have to say may take some time.”

Parker seated himself with an apologetic bend of the head.

“Now what do you think I asked you to come here for this morning—eh?”

Parker coughed.

“I understood, sir, that you wished to ask me a few questions about my

late master—private like.”

“_Précisément_,” said Poirot, beaming. “Have you made many experiments

in blackmail?”

“Sir!”

The butler sprang to his feet.

“Do not excite yourself,” said Poirot placidly. “Do not play the farce

of the honest, injured man. You know all there is to know about the

blackmail, is it not so?”

“Sir, I—I’ve never—never been——”

“Insulted,” suggested Poirot, “in such a way before. Then why, my

excellent Parker, were you so anxious to overhear the conversation in

Mr. Ackroyd’s study the other evening, after you had caught the word

blackmail?”

“I wasn’t—I——”

“Who was your last master?” rapped out Poirot suddenly.

“My last master?”

“Yes, the master you were with before you came to Mr. Ackroyd.”

“A Major Ellerby, sir——”

Poirot took the words out of his mouth.

“Just so, Major Ellerby. Major Ellerby was addicted to drugs, was he

not? You traveled about with him. When he was in Bermuda there was some

trouble—a man was killed. Major Ellerby was partly responsible. It was

hushed up. But you knew about it. How much did Major Ellerby pay you to

keep your mouth shut?”

Parker was staring at him open-mouthed. The man had gone to pieces, his

cheeks shook flabbily.

“You see, me, I have made inquiries,” said Poirot pleasantly. “It is

as I say. You got a good sum then as blackmail, and Major Ellerby went

on paying you until he died. Now I want to hear about your latest

experiment.”

Parker still stared.

“It is useless to deny. Hercule Poirot _knows_. It is so, what I have

said about Major Ellerby, is it not?”

As though against his will, Parker nodded reluctantly once. His face

was ashen pale.

“But I never hurt a hair of Mr. Ackroyd’s head,” he moaned. “Honest to

God, sir, I didn’t. I’ve been afraid of this coming all the time. And I

tell you I didn’t—I didn’t kill him.”

His voice rose almost to a scream.

“I am inclined to believe you, my friend,” said Poirot. “You have not

the nerve—the courage. But I must have the truth.”

“I’ll tell you anything, sir, anything you want to know. It’s true that

I tried to listen that night. A word or two I heard made me curious.

And Mr. Ackroyd’s wanting not to be disturbed, and shutting himself up

with the doctor the way he did. It’s God’s own truth what I told the

police. I heard the word blackmail, sir, and well——”

He paused.

“You thought there might be something in it for you?” suggested Poirot

smoothly.

“Well—well, yes, I did, sir. I thought that if Mr. Ackroyd was being

blackmailed, why shouldn’t I have a share of the pickings?”

A very curious expression passed over Poirot’s face. He leaned forward.

“Had you any reason to suppose before that night that Mr. Ackroyd was

being blackmailed?”

“No, indeed, sir. It was a great surprise to me. Such a regular

gentleman in all his habits.”

“How much did you overhear?”

“Not very much, sir. There seemed what I might call a spite against me.

Of course I had to attend to my duties in the pantry. And when I did

creep along once or twice to the study it was no use. The first time

Dr. Sheppard came out and almost caught me in the act, and another time

Mr. Raymond passed me in the big hall and went that way, so I knew it

was no use; and when I went with the tray, Miss Flora headed me off.”

Poirot stared for a long time at the man, as if to test his sincerity.

Parker returned his gaze earnestly.

“I hope you believe me, sir. I’ve been afraid all along the police

would rake up that old business with Major Ellerby and be suspicious of

me in consequence.”

“_Eh bien_,” said Poirot at last. “I am disposed to believe you. But

there is one thing I must request of you—to show me your bank-book. You

have a bank-book, I presume?”

“Yes, sir, as a matter of fact, I have it with me now.”

With no sign of confusion, he produced it from his pocket. Poirot took

the slim, green-covered book and perused the entries.

“Ah! I perceive you have purchased £500 of National Savings

Certificates this year?”

“Yes, sir. I have already over a thousand pounds saved—the result of

my connection with—er—my late master, Major Ellerby. And I have had

quite a little flutter on some horses this year—very successful. If you

remember, sir, a rank outsider won the Jubilee. I was fortunate enough

to back it—£20.”

Poirot handed him back the book.

“I will wish you good-morning. I believe that you have told me the

truth. If you have not—so much the worse for you, my friend.”

When Parker had departed, Poirot picked up his overcoat once more.

“Going out again?” I asked.

“Yes, we will pay a little visit to the good M. Hammond.”

“You believe Parker’s story?”

“It is credible enough on the face of it. It seems clear that—unless

he is a very good actor indeed—he genuinely believes it was Ackroyd

himself who was the victim of blackmail. If so, he knows nothing at all

about the Mrs. Ferrars business.”

“Then in that case—who——”

“_Précisément!_ Who? But our visit to M. Hammond will accomplish one

purpose. It will either clear Parker completely or else——”

“Well?”

“I fall into the bad habit of leaving my sentences unfinished this

morning,” said Poirot apologetically. “You must bear with me.”

“By the way,” I said, rather sheepishly, “I’ve got a confession to

make. I’m afraid I have inadvertently let out something about that

ring.”

“What ring?”

“The ring you found in the goldfish pond.”

“Ah! yes,” said Poirot, smiling broadly.

“I hope you’re not annoyed? It was very careless of me.”

“But not at all, my good friend, not at all. I laid no commands upon

you. You were at liberty to speak of it if you so wished. She was

interested, your sister?”

“She was indeed. It created a sensation. All sorts of theories are

flying about.”

“Ah! And yet it is so simple. The true explanation leapt to the eye,

did it not?”

“Did it?” I said dryly.

Poirot laughed.

“The wise man does not commit himself,” he observed. “Is not that so?

But here we are at Mr. Hammond’s.”

The lawyer was in his office, and we were ushered in without any delay.

He rose and greeted us in his dry, precise manner.

Poirot came at once to the point.

“Monsieur, I desire from you certain information, that is, if you will

be so good as to give it to me. You acted, I understand, for the late

Mrs. Ferrars of King’s Paddock?”

I noticed the swift gleam of surprise which showed in the lawyer’s

eyes, before his professional reserve came down once more like a mask

over his face.

“Certainly. All her affairs passed through our hands.”

“Very good. Now, before I ask you to tell me anything, I should like

you to listen to the story Dr. Sheppard will relate to you. You have no

objection, have you, my friend, to repeating the conversation you had

with Mr. Ackroyd last Friday night?”

“Not in the least,” I said, and straightway began the recital of that

strange evening.

Hammond listened with close attention.

“That is all,” I said, when I had finished.

“Blackmail,” said the lawyer thoughtfully.

“You are surprised?” asked Poirot.

The lawyer took off his pince-nez and polished them with his

handkerchief.

“No,” he replied, “I can hardly say that I am surprised. I have

suspected something of the kind for some time.”

“That brings us,” said Poirot, “to the information for which I am

asking. If any one can give us an idea of the actual sums paid, you are

the man, monsieur.”

“I see no object in withholding the information,” said Hammond, after

a moment or two. “During the past year, Mrs. Ferrars has sold out

certain securities, and the money for them was paid into her account

and not reinvested. As her income was a large one, and she lived very

quietly after her husband’s death, it seems certain that these sums of

money were paid away for some special purpose. I once sounded her on

the subject, and she said that she was obliged to support several of

her husband’s poor relations. I let the matter drop, of course. Until

now, I have always imagined that the money was paid to some woman who

had had a claim on Ashley Ferrars. I never dreamed that Mrs. Ferrars

herself was involved.”

“And the amount?” asked Poirot.

“In all, I should say the various sums totaled at least twenty thousand

pounds.”

“Twenty thousand pounds!” I exclaimed. “In one year!”

“Mrs. Ferrars was a very wealthy woman,” said Poirot dryly. “And the

penalty for murder is not a pleasant one.”

“Is there anything else that I can tell you?” inquired Mr. Hammond.

“I thank you, no,” said Poirot, rising. “All my excuses for having

deranged you.”

“Not at all, not at all.”

“The word derange,” I remarked, when we were outside again, “is

applicable to mental disorder only.”

“Ah!” cried Poirot, “never will my English be quite perfect. A curious

language. I should then have said disarranged, _n’est-ce pas_?”

“Disturbed is the word you had in mind.”

“I thank you, my friend. The word exact, you are zealous for it. _Eh

bien_, what about our friend Parker now? With twenty thousand pounds

in hand, would he have continued being a butler? _Je ne pense pas._ It

is, of course, possible that he banked the money under another name,

but I am disposed to believe he spoke the truth to us. If he is a

scoundrel, he is a scoundrel on a mean scale. He has not the big ideas.

That leaves us as a possibility, Raymond, or—well—Major Blunt.”

“Surely not Raymond,” I objected. “Since we know that he was

desperately hard up for a matter of five hundred pounds.”

“That is what he says, yes.”

“And as to Hector Blunt——”

“I will tell you something as to the good Major Blunt,” interrupted

Poirot. “It is my business to make inquiries. I make them. _Eh

bien_—that legacy of which he speaks, I have discovered that the amount

of it was close upon twenty thousand pounds. What do you think of that?”

I was so taken aback that I could hardly speak.

“It’s impossible,” I said at last. “A well-known man like Hector Blunt.”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders.

“Who knows? At least he is a man with big ideas. I confess that I

hardly see him as a blackmailer, but there is another possibility that

you have not even considered.”

“What is that?”

“The fire, my friend. Ackroyd himself may have destroyed that letter,

blue envelope and all, after you left him.”

“I hardly think that likely,” I said slowly. “And yet—of course, it

may be so. He might have changed his mind.”

We had just arrived at my house, and on the spur of the moment I

invited Poirot to come in and take pot luck.

I thought Caroline would be pleased with me, but it is hard to satisfy

one’s women folk. It appears that we were eating chops for lunch—the

kitchen staff being regaled on tripe and onions. And two chops set

before three people are productive of embarrassment.

But Caroline is seldom daunted for long. With magnificent mendacity,

she explained to Poirot that although James laughed at her for

doing so, she adhered strictly to a vegetarian diet. She descanted

ecstatically on the delights of nut cutlets (which I am quite sure

she has never tasted) and ate a Welsh rarebit with gusto and frequent

cutting remarks as to the dangers of “flesh” foods.

Afterwards, when we were sitting in front of the fire and smoking,

Caroline attacked Poirot directly.

“Not found Ralph Paton yet?” she asked.

“Where should I find him, mademoiselle?”

“I thought, perhaps, you’d found him in Cranchester,” said Caroline,

with intense meaning in her tone.

Poirot looked merely bewildered.

“In Cranchester? But why in Cranchester?”

I enlightened him with a touch of malice.

“One of our ample staff of private detectives happened to see you in a

car on the Cranchester road yesterday,” I explained.

Poirot’s bewilderment vanished. He laughed heartily.

“Ah, that! A simple visit to the dentist, _c’est tout_. My tooth, it

aches. I go there. My tooth, it is at once better. I think to return

quickly. The dentist, he says No. Better to have it out. I argue. He

insists. He has his way! That particular tooth, it will never ache

again.”

Caroline collapsed rather like a pricked balloon.

We fell to discussing Ralph Paton.

“A weak nature,” I insisted. “But not a vicious one.”

“Ah!” said Poirot. “But weakness, where does it end?”

“Exactly,” said Caroline. “Take James here—weak as water, if I weren’t

about to look after him.”

“My dear Caroline,” I said irritably, “can’t you talk without dragging

in personalities?”

“You _are_ weak, James,” said Caroline, quite unmoved. “I’m eight years

older than you are—oh! I don’t mind M. Poirot knowing that——”

“I should never have guessed it, mademoiselle,” said Poirot, with a

gallant little bow.

“Eight years older. But I’ve always considered it my duty to look after

you. With a bad bringing up, Heaven knows what mischief you might have

got into by now.”

“I might have married a beautiful adventuress,” I murmured, gazing at

the ceiling, and blowing smoke rings.

“Adventuress!” said Caroline, with a snort. “If we’re talking of

adventuresses——”

She left the sentence unfinished.

“Well?” I said, with some curiosity.

“Nothing. But I can think of some one not a hundred miles away.”

Then she turned to Poirot suddenly.

“James sticks to it that you believe some one in the house committed

the murder. All I can say is, you’re wrong.”

“I should not like to be wrong,” said Poirot. “It is not—how do you

say—my _métier_?”

“I’ve got the facts pretty clearly,” continued Caroline, taking no

notice of Poirot’s remark, “from James and others. As far as I can see,

of the people in the house, only two _could_ have had the chance of

doing it. Ralph Paton and Flora Ackroyd.”

“My dear Caroline——”

“Now, James, don’t interrupt me. I know what I’m talking about. Parker

met her _outside_ the door, didn’t he? He didn’t hear her uncle saying

good-night to her. She could have killed him then and there.”

“Caroline.”

“I’m not saying she _did_, James. I’m saying she _could_ have done. As

a matter of fact, though Flora is like all these young girls nowadays,

with no veneration for their betters and thinking they know best on

every subject under the sun, I don’t for a minute believe she’d kill

even a chicken. But there it is. Mr. Raymond and Major Blunt have

alibis. Mrs. Ackroyd’s got an alibi. Even that Russell woman seems to

have one—and a good job for her it is she has. Who is left? Only Ralph

and Flora! And say what you will, I don’t believe Ralph Paton is a

murderer. A boy we’ve known all our lives.”

Poirot was silent for a minute, watching the curling smoke rise from

his cigarette. When at last he spoke, it was in a gentle far-away voice

that produced a curious impression. It was totally unlike his usual

manner.

“Let us take a man—a very ordinary man. A man with no idea of murder

in his heart. There is in him somewhere a strain of weakness—deep

down. It has so far never been called into play. Perhaps it never will

be—and if so he will go to his grave honored and respected by every

one. But let us suppose that something occurs. He is in difficulties—or

perhaps not that even. He may stumble by accident on a secret—a secret

involving life or death to some one. And his first impulse will be to

speak out—to do his duty as an honest citizen. And then the strain of

weakness tells. Here is a chance of money—a great amount of money.

He wants money—he desires it—and it is so easy. He has to do nothing

for it—just keep silence. That is the beginning. The desire for money

grows. He must have more—and more! He is intoxicated by the gold mine

which has opened at his feet. He becomes greedy. And in his greed he

overreaches himself. One can press a man as far as one likes—but with

a woman one must not press too far. For a woman has at heart a great

desire to speak the truth. How many husbands who have deceived their

wives go comfortably to their graves, carrying their secret with them!

How many wives who have deceived their husbands wreck their lives by

throwing the fact in those same husbands’ teeth! They have been pressed

too far. In a reckless moment (which they will afterwards regret, _bien

entendu_) they fling safety to the winds and turn at bay, proclaiming

the truth with great momentary satisfaction to themselves. So it was, I

think, in this case. The strain was too great. And so there came your

proverb, the death of the goose that laid the golden eggs. But that is

not the end. Exposure faced the man of whom we are speaking. And he is

not the same man he was—say, a year ago. His moral fiber is blunted.

He is desperate. He is fighting a losing battle, and he is prepared to

take any means that come to his hand, for exposure means ruin to him.

And so—the dagger strikes!”

He was silent for a moment. It was as though he had laid a spell upon

the room. I cannot try to describe the impression his words produced.

There was something in the merciless analysis, and the ruthless power

of vision which struck fear into both of us.

“Afterwards,” he went on softly, “the danger removed, he will be

himself again, normal, kindly. But if the need again arises, then once

more he will strike.”

Caroline roused herself at last.

“You are speaking of Ralph Paton,” she said. “You may be right, you may

not, but you have no business to condemn a man unheard.”

The telephone bell rang sharply. I went out into the hall, and took off

the receiver.

“What?” I said. “Yes. Dr. Sheppard speaking.”

I listened for a minute or two, then replied briefly. Replacing the

receiver, I went back into the drawing-room.

“Poirot,” I said, “they have detained a man at Liverpool. His name is

Charles Kent, and he is believed to be the stranger who visited Fernly

that night. They want me to go to Liverpool at once and identify him.”