CHAPTER IX

THE GOLDFISH POND

We walked back to the house together. There was no sign of the

inspector. Poirot paused on the terrace and stood with his back to the

house, slowly turning his head from side to side.

“_Une belle propriété_,” he said at last appreciatively. “Who inherits

it?”

His words gave me almost a shock. It is an odd thing, but until that

moment the question of inheritance had never come into my head. Poirot

watched me keenly.

“It is a new idea to you, that,” he said at last. “You had not thought

of it before—eh?”

“No,” I said truthfully. “I wish I had.”

He looked at me again curiously.

“I wonder just what you mean by that,” he said thoughtfully. “Ah! no,”

as I was about to speak. “_Inutile!_ You would not tell me your real

thought.”

“Every one has something to hide,” I quoted, smiling.

“Exactly.”

“You still believe that?”

“More than ever, my friend. But it is not easy to hide things from

Hercule Poirot. He has a knack of finding out.”

He descended the steps of the Dutch garden as he spoke.

“Let us walk a little,” he said over his shoulder. “The air is pleasant

to-day.”

I followed him. He led me down a path to the left enclosed in yew

hedges. A walk led down the middle, bordered each side with formal

flower beds, and at the end was a round paved recess with a seat and

a pond of goldfish. Instead of pursuing the path to the end, Poirot

took another which wound up the side of a wooded slope. In one spot the

trees had been cleared away, and a seat had been put. Sitting there one

had a splendid view over the countryside, and one looked right down on

the paved recess and the goldfish pond.

“England is very beautiful,” said Poirot, his eyes straying over the

prospect. Then he smiled. “And so are English girls,” he said in a

lower tone. “Hush, my friend, and look at the pretty picture below us.”

It was then that I saw Flora. She was moving along the path we had

just left and she was humming a little snatch of song. Her step was

more dancing than walking, and in spite of her black dress, there was

nothing but joy in her whole attitude. She gave a sudden pirouette on

her toes, and her black draperies swung out. At the same time she flung

her head back and laughed outright.

As she did so a man stepped out from the trees. It was Hector Blunt.

The girl started. Her expression changed a little.

“How you startled me—I didn’t see you.”

Blunt said nothing, but stood looking at her for a minute or two in

silence.

“What I like about you,” said Flora, with a touch of malice, “is your

cheery conversation.”

I fancy that at that Blunt reddened under his tan. His voice, when he

spoke, sounded different—it had a curious sort of humility in it.

“Never was much of a fellow for talking. Not even when I was young.”

“That was a very long time ago, I suppose,” said Flora gravely.

I caught the undercurrent of laughter in her voice, but I don’t think

Blunt did.

“Yes,” he said simply, “it was.”

“How does it feel to be Methuselah?” asked Flora.

This time the laughter was more apparent, but Blunt was following out

an idea of his own.

“Remember the Johnny who sold his soul to the devil? In return for

being made young again? There’s an opera about it.”

“Faust, you mean?”

“That’s the beggar. Rum story. Some of us would do it if we could.”

“Any one would think you were creaking at the joints to hear you talk,”

cried Flora, half vexed, half amused.

Blunt said nothing for a minute or two. Then he looked away from Flora

into the middle distance and observed to an adjacent tree trunk that it

was about time he got back to Africa.

“Are you going on another expedition—shooting things?”

“Expect so. Usually do, you know—shoot things, I mean.”

“You shot that head in the hall, didn’t you?”

Blunt nodded. Then he jerked out, going rather red, as he did so:—

“Care for some decent skins any time? If so, I could get ’em for you.”

“Oh! please do,” cried Flora. “Will you really? You won’t forget?”

“I shan’t forget,” said Hector Blunt.

He added, in a sudden burst of communicativeness:—

“Time I went. I’m no good in this sort of life. Haven’t got the manners

for it. I’m a rough fellow, no use in society. Never remember the

things one’s expected to say. Yes, time I went.”

“But you’re not going at once,” cried Flora. “Not—not while we’re in

all this trouble. Oh! please. If you go——”

She turned away a little.

“You want me to stay?” asked Blunt.

He spoke deliberately but quite simply.

“We all——”

“I meant you personally,” said Blunt, with directness.

Flora turned slowly back again and met his eyes.

“I want you to stay,” she said, “if—if that makes any difference.”

“It makes all the difference,” said Blunt.

There was a moment’s silence. They sat down on the stone seat by the

goldfish pond. It seemed as though neither of them knew quite what to

say next.

“It—it’s such a lovely morning,” said Flora at last. “You know, I can’t

help feeling happy, in spite—in spite of everything. That’s awful, I

suppose?”

“Quite natural,” said Blunt. “Never saw your uncle until two years ago,

did you? Can’t be expected to grieve very much. Much better to have no

humbug about it.”

“There’s something awfully consoling about you,” said Flora. “You make

things so simple.”

“Things are simple as a rule,” said the big game hunter.

“Not always,” said Flora.

Her voice had lowered itself, and I saw Blunt turn and look at her,

bringing his eyes back from (apparently) the coast of Africa to do so.

He evidently put his own construction on her change of tone, for he

said, after a minute or two, in rather an abrupt manner:—

“I say, you know, you mustn’t worry. About that young chap, I mean.

Inspector’s an ass. Everybody knows—utterly absurd to think he could

have done it. Man from outside. Burglar chap. That’s the only possible

solution.”

Flora turned to look at him.

“You really think so?”

“Don’t you?” said Blunt quickly.

“I—oh, yes, of course.”

Another silence, and then Flora burst out:—

“I’m—I’ll tell you why I felt so happy this morning. However heartless

you think me, I’d rather tell you. It’s because the lawyer has been—Mr.

Hammond. He told us about the will. Uncle Roger has left me twenty

thousand pounds. Think of it—twenty thousand beautiful pounds.”

Blunt looked surprised.

“Does it mean so much to you?”

“Mean much to me? Why, it’s everything. Freedom—life—no more scheming

and scraping and lying——”

“Lying?” said Blunt, sharply interrupting.

Flora seemed taken aback for a minute.

“You know what I mean,” she said uncertainly. “Pretending to be

thankful for all the nasty castoff things rich relations give you. Last

year’s coats and skirts and hats.”

“Don’t know much about ladies’ clothes; should have said you were

always very well turned out.”

“It’s cost me something, though,” said Flora in a low voice. “Don’t

let’s talk of horrid things. I’m so happy. I’m free. Free to do what I

like. Free not to——”

She stopped suddenly.

“Not to what?” asked Blunt quickly.

“I forget now. Nothing important.”

Blunt had a stick in his hand, and he thrust it into the pond, poking

at something.

“What are you doing, Major Blunt?”

“There’s something bright down there. Wondered what it was—looks like a

gold brooch. Now I’ve stirred up the mud and it’s gone.”

“Perhaps it’s a crown,” suggested Flora. “Like the one Mélisande saw in

the water.”

“Mélisande,” said Blunt reflectively—“she’s in an opera, isn’t she?”

“Yes, you seem to know a lot about operas.”

“People take me sometimes,” said Blunt sadly. “Funny idea of

pleasure—worse racket than the natives make with their tom-toms.”

Flora laughed.

“I remember Mélisande,” continued Blunt, “married an old chap old

enough to be her father.”

He threw a small piece of flint into the goldfish pond. Then, with a

change of manner, he turned to Flora.

“Miss Ackroyd, can I do anything? About Paton, I mean. I know how

dreadfully anxious you must be.”

“Thank you,” said Flora in a cold voice. “There is really nothing to

be done. Ralph will be all right. I’ve got hold of the most wonderful

detective in the world, and he’s going to find out all about it.”

For some time I had felt uneasy as to our position. We were not exactly

eavesdropping, since the two in the garden below had only to lift their

heads to see us. Nevertheless, I should have drawn attention to our

presence before now, had not my companion put a warning pressure on my

arm. Clearly he wished me to remain silent.

But now he rose briskly to his feet, clearing his throat.

“I demand pardon,” he cried. “I cannot allow mademoiselle thus

extravagantly to compliment me, and not draw attention to my presence.

They say the listener hears no good of himself, but that is not the

case this time. To spare my blushes, I must join you and apologize.”

He hurried down the path with me close behind him, and joined the

others by the pond.

“This is M. Hercule Poirot,” said Flora. “I expect you’ve heard of him.”

Poirot bowed.

“I know Major Blunt by reputation,” he said politely. “I am glad to

have encountered you, monsieur. I am in need of some information that

you can give me.”

Blunt looked at him inquiringly.

“When did you last see M. Ackroyd alive?”

“At dinner.”

“And you neither saw nor heard anything of him after that?”

“Didn’t see him. Heard his voice.”

“How was that?”

“I strolled out on the terrace——”

“Pardon me, what time was this?”

“About half-past nine. I was walking up and down smoking in front of

the drawing-room window. I heard Ackroyd talking in his study——”

Poirot stooped and removed a microscopic weed.

“Surely you couldn’t hear voices in the study from that part of the

terrace,” he murmured.

He was not looking at Blunt, but I was, and to my intense surprise, I

saw the latter flush.

“Went as far as the corner,” he explained unwillingly.

“Ah! indeed?” said Poirot.

In the mildest manner he conveyed an impression that more was wanted.

“Thought I saw—a woman disappearing into the bushes. Just a gleam of

white, you know. Must have been mistaken. It was while I was standing

at the corner of the terrace that I heard Ackroyd’s voice speaking to

that secretary of his.”

“Speaking to Mr. Geoffrey Raymond?”

“Yes—that’s what I supposed at the time. Seems I was wrong.”

“Mr. Ackroyd didn’t address him by name?”

“Oh, no.”

“Then, if I may ask, why did you think——?”

Blunt explained laboriously.

“Took it for granted that it _would_ be Raymond, because he had said

just before I came out that he was taking some papers to Ackroyd. Never

thought of it being anybody else.”

“Can you remember what the words you heard were?”

“Afraid I can’t. Something quite ordinary and unimportant. Only caught

a scrap of it. I was thinking of something else at the time.”

“It is of no importance,” murmured Poirot. “Did you move a chair back

against the wall when you went into the study after the body was

discovered?”

“Chair? No—why should I?”

Poirot shrugged his shoulders but did not answer. He turned to Flora.

“There is one thing I should like to know from you, mademoiselle. When

you were examining the things in the silver table with Dr. Sheppard,

was the dagger in its place, or was it not?”

Flora’s chin shot up.

“Inspector Raglan has been asking me that,” she said resentfully. “I’ve

told him, and I’ll tell you. I’m perfectly certain the dagger was _not_

there. He thinks it was and that Ralph sneaked it later in the evening.

And—and he doesn’t believe me. He thinks I’m saying it to—to shield

Ralph.”

“And aren’t you?” I asked gravely.

Flora stamped her foot.

“You, too, Dr. Sheppard! Oh! it’s too bad.”

Poirot tactfully made a diversion.

“It is true what I heard you say, Major Blunt. There is something that

glitters in this pond. Let us see if I can reach it.”

He knelt down by the pond, baring his arm to the elbow, and lowered it

in very slowly, so as not to disturb the bottom of the pond. But in

spite of all his precautions the mud eddied and swirled, and he was

forced to draw his arm out again empty-handed.

He gazed ruefully at the mud upon his arm. I offered him my

handkerchief, which he accepted with fervent protestations of thanks.

Blunt looked at his watch.

“Nearly lunch time,” he said. “We’d better be getting back to the

house.”

“You will lunch with us, M. Poirot?” asked Flora. “I should like you to

meet my mother. She is—very fond of Ralph.”

The little man bowed.

“I shall be delighted, mademoiselle.”

“And you will stay, too, won’t you, Dr. Sheppard?”

I hesitated.

“Oh, do!”

I wanted to, so I accepted the invitation without further ceremony.

We set out towards the house, Flora and Blunt walking ahead.

“What hair,” said Poirot to me in a low tone, nodding towards Flora.

“The real gold! They will make a pretty couple. She and the dark,

handsome Captain Paton. Will they not?”

I looked at him inquiringly, but he began to fuss about a few

microscopic drops of water on his coat sleeve. The man reminded me in

some ways of a cat. His green eyes and his finicking habits.

“And all for nothing, too,” I said sympathetically. “I wonder what it

was in the pond?”

“Would you like to see?” asked Poirot.

I stared at him. He nodded.

“My good friend,” he said gently and reproachfully, “Hercule Poirot

does not run the risk of disarranging his costume without being sure

of attaining his object. To do so would be ridiculous and absurd. I am

never ridiculous.”

“But you brought your hand out empty,” I objected.

“There are times when it is necessary to have discretion. Do you tell

your patients everything—everything, doctor? I think not. Nor do you

tell your excellent sister everything either, is it not so? Before

showing my empty hand, I dropped what it contained into my other hand.

You shall see what that was.”

He held out his left hand, palm open. On it lay a little circlet of

gold. A woman’s wedding ring.

I took it from him.

“Look inside,” commanded Poirot.

I did so. Inside was an inscription in fine writing:—

_From R., March 13th._

I looked at Poirot, but he was busy inspecting his appearance in a tiny

pocket glass. He paid particular attention to his mustaches, and none

at all to me. I saw that he did not intend to be communicative.