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 sobs1.
Caroline pushed past me, and putting her arm round the girl, patted her on the shoulder.
“There, there, my dear,” she said soothingly2, “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 distress3.
Presently Ursula sat up and wiped her eyes.
“This is very weak and silly of me,” she said.
“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 crumpled5 piece of newspaper, and I recognized the paragraph that Poirot had had inserted.
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“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 verity7 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?”
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“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 eldest10 sister was married to Captain Folliott. It was she whom I had seen that Sunday, and the cause of her embarrassment11 was clear enough now. Determined12 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 aloofness13 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 culminated14 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 became263 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 enraged15 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 Flora16, and he put the matter plainly before the young man.
And here it was that the innate17 weakness of Ralph Paton showed itself. As always, he grasped at the easy, the immediate18 solution. As far as I could make out, neither Flora nor Ralph made any pretence19 of love. It was, on both sides, a business arrangement. Roger Ackroyd dictated20 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 envisage21 the future, but I gather that he saw vaguely22 the engagement with Flora being broken off after a decent interval23 had elapsed. Both Flora and he stipulated24 that it should be kept a secret for the present. He was anxious to conceal25 it from264 Ursula. He felt instinctively26 that her nature, strong and resolute27, 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, decided28 to announce the engagement. He said no word of his intention to Ralph—only to Flora, and Flora, apathetic29, 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 implored30 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 acrimoniously31.
Ursula, steadfast32 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 obsessed33 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 rancor34 was mainly directed to Ralph, but Ursula came in for her share, since he regarded her as a girl who had deliberately35 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 was265 made up of reproaches on both sides. Ralph charged Ursula with having irretrievably ruined his prospects36 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 meditations37 were interrupted. It was Poirot’s voice speaking, and I knew from the gravity of his tone that he, too, was fully6 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 minutes266 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 insistence38 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.
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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 candidly39. 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 conceited40 that they never believe you mean it if it’s unflattering.”
“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.”
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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 bagatelle42, mademoiselle. A rien du tout43. 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 forefinger44 wagging eloquently45, “no questions. And do not torment46 yourself. Be of good courage, and place your faith in Hercule Poirot.”
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1
sobs
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| 啜泣（声），呜咽（声）( sob的名词复数 ) | |
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soothingly
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| adv.抚慰地，安慰地；镇痛地 | |
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3
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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6
fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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7
verity
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| n.真实性 | |
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8
queried
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| v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的过去式和过去分词 )；询问 | |
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wager
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| n.赌注；vt.押注，打赌 | |
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10
eldest
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| adj.最年长的，最年老的 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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13
aloofness
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| 超然态度 | |
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14
culminated
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| v.达到极点( culminate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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15
enraged
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| 使暴怒( enrage的过去式和过去分词 )； 歜； 激愤 | |
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16
flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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17
innate
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| adj.天生的，固有的，天赋的 | |
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18
immediate
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| adj.立即的；直接的，最接近的；紧靠的 | |
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19
pretence
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| n.假装，作假；借口，口实；虚伪；虚饰 | |
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20
dictated
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的过去式和过去分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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21
envisage
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| v.想象，设想，展望，正视 | |
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vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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23
interval
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| n.间隔，间距；幕间休息，中场休息 | |
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24
stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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26
instinctively
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| adv.本能地 | |
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27
resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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28
decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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29
apathetic
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| adj.冷漠的，无动于衷的 | |
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30
implored
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| 恳求或乞求（某人）( implore的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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31
acrimoniously
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| adv.毒辣地，尖刻地 | |
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32
steadfast
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| adj.固定的，不变的，不动摇的；忠实的；坚贞不移的 | |
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obsessed
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| adj.心神不宁的,鬼迷心窍的,沉迷的 | |
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rancor
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| n.深仇，积怨 | |
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35
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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36
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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38
insistence
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| n.坚持；强调；坚决主张 | |
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39
candidly
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| adv.坦率地，直率而诚恳地 | |
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40
conceited
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| adj.自负的，骄傲自满的 | |
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41
nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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42
bagatelle
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| n.琐事；小曲儿 | |
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43
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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44
forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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45
eloquently
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| adv. 雄辩地(有口才地, 富于表情地) | |
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46
torment
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| n.折磨；令人痛苦的东西(人)；vt.折磨；纠缠 | |
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