CHAPTER XIX

FLORA ACKROYD

As I was returning from my round the following morning, I was hailed by

Inspector Raglan. I pulled up, and the inspector mounted on the step.

“Good-morning, Dr. Sheppard,” he said. “Well, that alibi is all right

enough.”

“Charles Kent’s?”

“Charles Kent’s. The barmaid at the Dog and Whistle, Sally Jones, she

remembers him perfectly. Picked out his photograph from among five

others. It was just a quarter to ten when he came into the bar, and the

Dog and Whistle is well over a mile from Fernly Park. The girl mentions

that he had a lot of money on him—she saw him take a handful of notes

out of his pocket. Rather surprised her, it did, seeing the class of

fellow he was, with a pair of boots clean dropping off him. That’s

where that forty pounds went right enough.”

“The man still refuses to give an account of his visit to Fernly?”

“Obstinate as a mule he is. I had a chat with Hayes at Liverpool over

the wire this morning.”

“Hercule Poirot says he knows the reason the man went there that

night,” I observed.

“Does he?” cried the inspector eagerly.

“Yes,” I said maliciously. “He says he went there because he was born

in Kent.”

I felt a distinct pleasure in passing on my own discomfiture.

Raglan stared at me for a moment or two uncomprehendingly. Then a

grin overspread his weaselly countenance and he tapped his forehead

significantly.

“Bit gone here,” he said. “I’ve thought so for some time. Poor old

chap, so that’s why he had to give up and come down here. In the

family, very likely. He’s got a nephew who’s quite off his crumpet.”

“Poirot has?” I said, very surprised.

“Yes. Hasn’t he ever mentioned him to you? Quite docile, I believe, and

all that, but mad as a hatter, poor lad.”

“Who told you that?”

Again a grin showed itself on Inspector Raglan’s face.

“Your sister, Miss Sheppard, she told me all about it.”

Really, Caroline is amazing. She never rests until she knows the last

details of everybody’s family secrets. Unfortunately, I have never been

able to instill into her the decency of keeping them to herself.

“Jump in, inspector,” I said, opening the door of the car. “We’ll go

up to The Larches together, and acquaint our Belgian friend with the

latest news.”

“Might as well, I suppose. After all, even if he is a bit balmy, it was

a useful tip he gave me about those fingerprints. He’s got a bee in his

bonnet about the man Kent, but who knows—there may be something useful

behind it.”

Poirot received us with his usual smiling courtesy.

He listened to the information we had brought him, nodding his head now

and then.

“Seems quite O.K., doesn’t it?” said the inspector rather gloomily. “A

chap can’t be murdering some one in one place when he’s drinking in the

bar in another place a mile away.”

“Are you going to release him?”

“Don’t see what else we can do. We can’t very well hold him for

obtaining money on false pretences. Can’t prove a ruddy thing.”

The inspector tossed a match into the grate in a disgruntled fashion.

Poirot retrieved it and put it neatly in a little receptacle designed

for the purpose. His action was purely mechanical. I could see that his

thoughts were on something very different.

“If I were you,” he said at last, “I should not release the man Charles

Kent yet.”

“What do you mean?”

Raglan stared at him.

“What I say. I should not release him yet.”

“You don’t think he can have had anything to do with the murder, do

you?”

“I think probably not—but one cannot be certain yet.”

“But haven’t I just told you——”

Poirot raised a hand protestingly.

“_Mais oui, mais oui._ I heard. I am not deaf—nor stupid, thank the

good God! But see you, you approach the matter from the wrong—the

wrong—premises, is not that the word?”

The inspector stared at him heavily.

“I don’t see how you make that out. Look here, we know Mr. Ackroyd was

alive at a quarter to ten. You admit that, don’t you?”

Poirot looked at him for a moment, then shook his head with a quick

smile.

“I admit nothing that is not—_proved_!”

“Well, we’ve got proof enough of that. We’ve got Miss Flora Ackroyd’s

evidence.”

“That she said good-night to her uncle? But me—I do not always believe

what a young lady tells me—no, not even when she is charming and

beautiful.”

“But hang it all, man, Parker saw her coming out of the door.”

“No.” Poirot’s voice rang out with sudden sharpness. “That is just what

he did not see. I satisfied myself of that by a little experiment the

other day—you remember, doctor? Parker saw her _outside_ the door, with

her hand on the handle. He did not see her come out of the room.”

“But—where else could she have been?”

“Perhaps on the stairs.”

“The stairs?”

“That is my little idea—yes.”

“But those stairs only lead to Mr. Ackroyd’s bedroom.”

“Precisely.”

And still the inspector stared.

“You think she’d been up to her uncle’s bedroom? Well, why not? Why

should she lie about it?”

“Ah! that is just the question. It depends on what she was doing there,

does it not?”

“You mean—the money? Hang it all, you don’t suggest that it was Miss

Ackroyd who took that forty pounds?”

“I suggest nothing,” said Poirot. “But I will remind you of this. Life

was not very easy for that mother and daughter. There were bills—there

was constant trouble over small sums of money. Roger Ackroyd was a

peculiar man over money matters. The girl might be at her wit’s end for

a comparatively small sum. Figure to yourself then what happens. She

has taken the money, she descends the little staircase. When she is

half-way down she hears the chink of glass from the hall. She has not a

doubt of what it is—Parker coming to the study. At all costs she must

not be found on the stairs—Parker will not forget it, he will think it

odd. If the money is missed, Parker is sure to remember having seen her

come down those stairs. She has just time to rush down to the study

door—with her hand on the handle to show that she has just come out,

when Parker appears in the doorway. She says the first thing that comes

into her head, a repetition of Roger Ackroyd’s orders earlier in the

evening, and then goes upstairs to her own room.”

“Yes, but later,” persisted the inspector, “she must have realized the

vital importance of speaking the truth? Why, the whole case hinges on

it!”

“Afterwards,” said Poirot dryly, “it was a little difficult for

Mademoiselle Flora. She is told simply that the police are here and

that there has been a robbery. Naturally she jumps to the conclusion

that the theft of the money has been discovered. Her one idea is to

stick to her story. When she learns that her uncle is dead she is

panic-stricken. Young women do not faint nowadays, monsieur, without

considerable provocation. _Eh bien!_ there it is. She is bound to stick

to her story, or else confess everything. And a young and pretty girl

does not like to admit that she is a thief—especially before those

whose esteem she is anxious to retain.”

Raglan brought his fist down with a thump on the table.

“I’ll not believe it,” he said. “It’s—it’s not credible. And you—you’ve

known this all along?”

“The possibility has been in my mind from the first,” admitted Poirot.

“I was always convinced that Mademoiselle Flora was hiding something

from us. To satisfy myself, I made the little experiment I told you of.

Dr. Sheppard accompanied me.”

“A test for Parker, you said it was,” I remarked bitterly.

“_Mon ami_,” said Poirot apologetically, “as I told you at the time,

one must say something.”

The inspector rose.

“There’s only one thing for it,” he declared. “We must tackle the young

lady right away. You’ll come up to Fernly with me, M. Poirot?”

“Certainly. Dr. Sheppard will drive us up in his car.”

I acquiesced willingly.

On inquiry for Miss Ackroyd, we were shown into the billiard room.

Flora and Major Hector Blunt were sitting on the long window seat.

“Good-morning, Miss Ackroyd,” said the inspector. “Can we have a word

or two alone with you?”

Blunt got up at once and moved to the door.

“What is it?” asked Flora nervously. “Don’t go, Major Blunt. He can

stay, can’t he?” she asked, turning to the inspector.

“That’s as you like,” said the inspector dryly. “There’s a question

or two it’s my duty to put to you, miss, but I’d prefer to do so

privately, and I dare say you’d prefer it also.”

Flora looked keenly at him. I saw her face grow whiter. Then she turned

and spoke to Blunt.

“I want you to stay—please—yes, I mean it. Whatever the inspector has

to say to me, I’d rather you heard it.”

Raglan shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, if you will have it so, that’s all there is to it. Now, Miss

Ackroyd, M. Poirot here has made a certain suggestion to me. He

suggests that you weren’t in the study at all last Friday night, that

you never saw Mr. Ackroyd to say good-night to him, that instead of

being in the study you were on the stairs leading down from your

uncle’s bedroom when you heard Parker coming across the hall.”

Flora’s gaze shifted to Poirot. He nodded back at her.

“Mademoiselle, the other day, when we sat round the table, I implored

you to be frank with me. What one does not tell to Papa Poirot he finds

out. It was that, was it not? See, I will make it easy for you. You

took the money, did you not?”

“The money,” said Blunt sharply.

There was a silence which lasted for at least a minute.

Then Flora drew herself up and spoke.

“M. Poirot is right. I took that money. I stole. I am a thief—yes, a

common, vulgar little thief. Now you know! I am glad it has come out.

It’s been a nightmare, these last few days!” She sat down suddenly and

buried her face in her hands. She spoke huskily through her fingers.

“You don’t know what my life has been since I came here. Wanting

things, scheming for them, lying, cheating, running up bills, promising

to pay—oh! I hate myself when I think of it all! That’s what brought us

together, Ralph and I. We were both weak! I understood him, and I was

sorry—because I’m the same underneath. We’re not strong enough to stand

alone, either of us. We’re weak, miserable, despicable things.”

She looked at Blunt and suddenly stamped her foot.

“Why do you look at me like that—as though you couldn’t believe? I may

be a thief—but at any rate I’m real now. I’m not lying any more. I’m

not pretending to be the kind of girl you like, young and innocent and

simple. I don’t care if you never want to see me again. I hate myself,

despise myself—but you’ve got to believe one thing, if speaking the

truth would have made things better for Ralph, I would have spoken out.

But I’ve seen all along that it wouldn’t be better for Ralph—it makes

the case against him blacker than ever. I was not doing him any harm by

sticking to my lie.”

“Ralph,” said Blunt. “I see—always Ralph.”

“You don’t understand,” said Flora hopelessly. “You never will.”

She turned to the inspector.

“I admit everything; I was at my wit’s end for money. I never saw my

uncle that evening after he left the dinner-table. As to the money, you

can take what steps you please. Nothing could be worse than it is now!”

Suddenly she broke down again, hid her face in her hands, and rushed

from the room.

“Well,” said the inspector in a flat tone, “so that’s that.”

He seemed rather at a loss what to do next.

Blunt came forward.

“Inspector Raglan,” he said quietly, “that money was given to me by Mr.

Ackroyd for a special purpose. Miss Ackroyd never touched it. When she

says she did, she is lying with the idea of shielding Captain Paton.

The truth is as I said, and I am prepared to go into the witness box

and swear to it.”

He made a kind of jerky bow, then turning abruptly, he left the room.

Poirot was after him in a flash. He caught the other up in the hall.

“Monsieur—a moment, I beg of you, if you will be so good.”

“Well, sir?”

Blunt was obviously impatient. He stood frowning down on Poirot.

“It is this,” said Poirot rapidly: “I am not deceived by your little

fantasy. No, indeed. It was truly Miss Flora who took the money. All

the same it is well imagined what you say—it pleases me. It is very

good what you have done there. You are a man quick to think and to act.”

“I’m not in the least anxious for your opinion, thank you,” said Blunt

coldly.

He made once more as though to pass on, but Poirot, not at all

offended, laid a detaining hand on his arm.

“Ah! but you are to listen to me. I have more to say. The other day I

spoke of concealments. Very well, all along have I seen what you are

concealing. Mademoiselle Flora, you love her with all your heart. From

the first moment you saw her, is it not so? Oh! let us not mind saying

these things—why must one in England think it necessary to mention

love as though it were some disgraceful secret? You love Mademoiselle

Flora. You seek to conceal that fact from all the world. That is very

good—that is as it should be. But take the advice of Hercule Poirot—do

not conceal it from mademoiselle herself.”

Blunt had shown several signs of restlessness whilst Poirot was

speaking, but the closing words seemed to rivet his attention.

“What d’you mean by that?” he said sharply.

“You think that she loves the Capitaine Ralph Paton—but I, Hercule

Poirot, tell you that that is not so. Mademoiselle Flora accepted

Captain Paton to please her uncle, and because she saw in the marriage

a way of escape from her life here which was becoming frankly

insupportable to her. She liked him, and there was much sympathy

and understanding between them. But love—no! It is not Captain Paton

Mademoiselle Flora loves.”

“What the devil do you mean?” asked Blunt.

I saw the dark flush under his tan.

“You have been blind, monsieur. Blind! She is loyal, the little one.

Ralph Paton is under a cloud, she is bound in honor to stick by him.”

I felt it was time I put in a word to help on the good work.

“My sister told me the other night,” I said encouragingly, “that Flora

had never cared a penny piece for Ralph Paton, and never would. My

sister is always right about these things.”

Blunt ignored my well-meant efforts. He spoke to Poirot.

“D’you really think——” he began, and stopped.

He is one of those inarticulate men who find it hard to put things into

words.

Poirot knows no such disability.

“If you doubt me, ask her yourself, monsieur. But perhaps you no longer

care to—the affair of the money——”

Blunt gave a sound like an angry laugh.

“Think I’d hold that against her? Roger was always a queer chap about

money. She got in a mess and didn’t dare tell him. Poor kid. Poor

lonely kid.”

Poirot looked thoughtfully at the side door.

“Mademoiselle Flora went into the garden, I think,” he murmured.

“I’ve been every kind of a fool,” said Blunt abruptly. “Rum

conversation we’ve been having. Like one of those Danish plays. But

you’re a sound fellow, M. Poirot. Thank you.”

He took Poirot’s hand and gave it a grip which caused the other to

wince in anguish. Then he strode to the side door and passed out into

the garden.

“Not every kind of a fool,” murmured Poirot, tenderly nursing the

injured member. “Only one kind—the fool in love.”