CHAPTER XXII

URSULA’S STORY

For a moment or two the girl looked mutely at Poirot. Then, her reserve

breaking down completely, she nodded her head once, and burst into an

outburst of sobs.

Caroline pushed past me, and putting her arm round the girl, patted her

on the shoulder.

“There, there, my dear,” she said soothingly, “it will be all right.

You’ll see—everything will be all right.”

Buried under curiosity and scandal-mongering there is a lot of kindness

in Caroline. For the moment, even the interest of Poirot’s revelation

was lost in the sight of the girl’s distress.

Presently Ursula sat up and wiped her eyes.

“This is very weak and silly of me,” she said.

“No, no, my child,” said Poirot kindly. “We can all realize the strain

of this last week.”

“It must have been a terrible ordeal,” I said.

“And then to find that you knew,” continued Ursula. “How did you know?

Was it Ralph who told you?”

Poirot shook his head.

“You know what brought me to you to-night,” went on the girl. “_This_——”

She held out a crumpled piece of newspaper, and I recognized the

paragraph that Poirot had had inserted.

“It says that Ralph has been arrested. So everything is useless. I need

not pretend any longer.”

“Newspaper paragraphs are not always true, mademoiselle,” murmured

Poirot, having the grace to look ashamed of himself. “All the same, I

think you will do well to make a clean breast of things. The truth is

what we need now.”

The girl hesitated, looking at him doubtfully.

“You do not trust me,” said Poirot gently. “Yet all the same you came

here to find me, did you not? Why was that?”

“Because I don’t believe that Ralph did it,” said the girl in a very

low voice. “And I think that you are clever, and will find out the

truth. And also——”

“Yes?”

“I think you are kind.”

Poirot nodded his head several times.

“It is very good that—yes, it is very good. Listen, I do in verity

believe that this husband of yours is innocent—but the affair marches

badly. If I am to save him, I must know all there is to know—even if it

should seem to make the case against him blacker than before.”

“How well you understand,” said Ursula.

“So you will tell me the whole story, will you not? From the beginning.”

“You’re not going to send _me_ away, I hope,” said Caroline, settling

herself comfortably in an arm-chair. “What I want to know,” she

continued, “is why this child was masquerading as a parlormaid?”

“Masquerading?” I queried.

“That’s what I said. Why did you do it, child? For a wager?”

“For a living,” said Ursula dryly.

And encouraged, she began the story which I reproduce here in my own

words.

Ursula Bourne, it seemed, was one of a family of seven—impoverished

Irish gentlefolk. On the death of her father, most of the girls were

cast out into the world to earn their own living. Ursula’s eldest

sister was married to Captain Folliott. It was she whom I had seen

that Sunday, and the cause of her embarrassment was clear enough now.

Determined to earn her living and not attracted to the idea of being a

nursery governess—the one profession open to an untrained girl, Ursula

preferred the job of parlormaid. She scorned to label herself a “lady

parlormaid.” She would be the real thing, her reference being supplied

by her sister. At Fernly, despite an aloofness which, as has been seen,

caused some comment, she was a success at her job—quick, competent, and

thorough.

“I enjoyed the work,” she explained. “And I had plenty of time to

myself.”

And then came her meeting with Ralph Paton, and the love affair which

culminated in a secret marriage. Ralph had persuaded her into that,

somewhat against her will. He had declared that his stepfather would

not hear of his marrying a penniless girl. Better to be married

secretly, and break the news to him at some later and more favorable

minute.

And so the deed was done, and Ursula Bourne became Ursula Paton.

Ralph had declared that he meant to pay off his debts, find a job, and

then, when he was in a position to support her, and independent of his

adopted father, they would break the news to him.

But to people like Ralph Paton, turning over a new leaf is easier in

theory than in practice. He hoped that his stepfather, whilst still

in ignorance of the marriage, might be persuaded to pay his debts and

put him on his feet again. But the revelation of the amount of Ralph’s

liabilities merely enraged Roger Ackroyd, and he refused to do anything

at all. Some months passed, and then Ralph was bidden once more to

Fernly. Roger Ackroyd did not beat about the bush. It was the desire of

his heart that Ralph should marry Flora, and he put the matter plainly

before the young man.

And here it was that the innate weakness of Ralph Paton showed itself.

As always, he grasped at the easy, the immediate solution. As far

as I could make out, neither Flora nor Ralph made any pretence of

love. It was, on both sides, a business arrangement. Roger Ackroyd

dictated his wishes—they agreed to them. Flora accepted a chance of

liberty, money, and an enlarged horizon, Ralph, of course, was playing

a different game. But he was in a very awkward hole financially. He

seized at the chance. His debts would be paid. He could start again

with a clean sheet. His was not a nature to envisage the future, but

I gather that he saw vaguely the engagement with Flora being broken

off after a decent interval had elapsed. Both Flora and he stipulated

that it should be kept a secret for the present. He was anxious to

conceal it from Ursula. He felt instinctively that her nature, strong

and resolute, with an inherent distaste for duplicity, was not one to

welcome such a course.

Then came the crucial moment when Roger Ackroyd, always high-handed,

decided to announce the engagement. He said no word of his intention

to Ralph—only to Flora, and Flora, apathetic, raised no objection. On

Ursula, the news fell like a bombshell. Summoned by her, Ralph came

hurriedly down from town. They met in the wood, where part of their

conversation was overheard by my sister. Ralph implored her to keep

silent for a little while longer, Ursula was equally determined to have

done with concealments. She would tell Mr. Ackroyd the truth without

any further delay. Husband and wife parted acrimoniously.

Ursula, steadfast in her purpose, sought an interview with Roger

Ackroyd that very afternoon, and revealed the truth to him. Their

interview was a stormy one—it might have been even more stormy had not

Roger Ackroyd been already obsessed with his own troubles. It was bad

enough, however. Ackroyd was not the kind of man to forgive the deceit

that had been practiced upon him. His rancor was mainly directed to

Ralph, but Ursula came in for her share, since he regarded her as a

girl who had deliberately tried to “entrap” the adopted son of a very

wealthy man. Unforgivable things were said on both sides.

That same evening Ursula met Ralph by appointment in the small

summer-house, stealing out from the house by the side door in order to

do so. Their interview was made up of reproaches on both sides. Ralph

charged Ursula with having irretrievably ruined his prospects by her

ill-timed revelation. Ursula reproached Ralph with his duplicity.

They parted at last. A little over half an hour later came the

discovery of Roger Ackroyd’s body. Since that night Ursula had neither

seen nor heard from Ralph.

As the story unfolded itself, I realized more and more what a damning

series of facts it was. Alive, Ackroyd could hardly have failed to

alter his will—I knew him well enough to realize that to do so would

be his first thought. His death came in the nick of time for Ralph and

Ursula Paton. Small wonder the girl had held her tongue, and played her

part so consistently.

My meditations were interrupted. It was Poirot’s voice speaking, and I

knew from the gravity of his tone that he, too, was fully alive to the

implications of the position.

“Mademoiselle, I must ask you one question, and you must answer it

truthfully, for on it everything may hang: What time was it when you

parted from Captain Ralph Paton in the summer-house? Now, take a little

minute so that your answer may be very exact.”

The girl gave a half laugh, bitter enough in all conscience.

“Do you think I haven’t gone over that again and again in my own mind?

It was just half-past nine when I went out to meet him. Major Blunt

was walking up and down the terrace, so I had to go round through the

bushes to avoid him. It must have been about twenty-seven minutes to

ten when I reached the summer-house. Ralph was waiting for me. I was

with him ten minutes—not longer, for it was just a quarter to ten when

I got back to the house.”

I saw now the insistence of her question the other day. If only Ackroyd

could have been proved to have been killed before a quarter to ten, and

not after.

I saw the reflection of that thought in Poirot’s next question.

“Who left the summer-house first?”

“I did.”

“Leaving Ralph Paton in the summer-house?”

“Yes—but you don’t think——”

“Mademoiselle, it is of no importance what I think. What did you do

when you got back to the house?”

“I went up to my room.”

“And stayed there until when?”

“Until about ten o’clock.”

“Is there any one who can prove that?”

“Prove? That I was in my room, you mean? Oh! no. But surely—oh! I see,

they might think—they might think——”

I saw the dawning horror in her eyes.

Poirot finished the sentence for her.

“That it was _you_ who entered by the window and stabbed Mr. Ackroyd as

he sat in his chair? Yes, they might think just that.”

“Nobody but a fool would think any such thing,” said Caroline

indignantly.

She patted Ursula on the shoulder.

The girl had her face hidden in her hands.

“Horrible,” she was murmuring. “Horrible.”

Caroline gave her a friendly shake.

“Don’t worry, my dear,” she said. “M. Poirot doesn’t think that really.

As for that husband of yours, I don’t think much of him, and I tell you

so candidly. Running away and leaving you to face the music.”

But Ursula shook her head energetically.

“Oh, no,” she cried. “It wasn’t like that at all. Ralph would not run

away on his own account. I see now. If he heard of his stepfather’s

murder, he might think himself that I had done it.”

“He wouldn’t think any such thing,” said Caroline.

“I was so cruel to him that night—so hard and bitter. I wouldn’t listen

to what he was trying to say—wouldn’t believe that he really cared.

I just stood there telling him what I thought of him, and saying the

coldest, cruelest things that came into my mind—trying my best to hurt

him.”

“Do him no harm,” said Caroline. “Never worry about what you say to a

man. They’re so conceited that they never believe you mean it if it’s

unflattering.”

Ursula went on, nervously twisting and untwisting her hands.

“When the murder was discovered and he didn’t come forward, I was

terribly upset. Just for a moment I wondered—but then I knew he

couldn’t—he couldn’t.... But I wished he would come forward and say

openly that he’d had nothing to do with it. I knew that he was very

fond of Dr. Sheppard, and I fancied that perhaps Dr. Sheppard might

know where he was hiding.”

She turned to me.

“That’s why I said what I did to you that day. I thought, if you knew

where he was, you might pass on the message to him.”

“I?” I exclaimed.

“Why should James know where he was?” demanded Caroline sharply.

“It was very unlikely, I know,” admitted Ursula, “but Ralph had often

spoken of Dr. Sheppard, and I knew that he would be likely to consider

him as his best friend in King’s Abbot.”

“My dear child,” I said, “I have not the least idea where Ralph Paton

is at the present moment.”

“That is true enough,” said Poirot.

“But——” Ursula held out the newspaper cutting in a puzzled fashion.

“Ah! that,” said Poirot, slightly embarrassed; “a _bagatelle_,

mademoiselle. A _rien du tout_. Not for a moment do I believe that

Ralph Paton has been arrested.”

“But then——” began the girl slowly.

Poirot went on quickly:—

“There is one thing I should like to know—did Captain Paton wear shoes

or boots that night?”

Ursula shook her head.

“I can’t remember.”

“A pity! But how should you? Now, madame,” he smiled at her, his head

on one side, his forefinger wagging eloquently, “no questions. And

do not torment yourself. Be of good courage, and place your faith in

Hercule Poirot.”