“And now,” said Caroline, rising, “that child is coming upstairs to lie down. Don’t you worry, my dear. M. Poirot will do everything he can for you—be sure of that.”
“I ought to go back to Fernly,” said Ursula uncertainly.
But Caroline silenced her protests with a firm hand.
“Nonsense. You’re in my hands for the time being. You’ll stay here for the present, anyway—eh, M. Poirot?”
“It will be the best plan,” agreed the little Belgian. “This evening I shall want mademoiselle—I beg her pardon, madame—to attend my little reunion. Nine o’clock at my house. It is most necessary that she should be there.”
Caroline nodded, and went with Ursula out of the room. The door shut behind them. Poirot dropped down into a chair again.
“So far, so good,” he said. “Things are straightening themselves out.”
“They’re getting to look blacker and blacker against Ralph Paton,” I observed gloomily.
Poirot nodded.
270
“Yes, that is so. But it was to be expected, was it not?”
I looked at him, slightly puzzled by the remark. He was leaning back in the chair, his eyes half closed, the tips of his fingers just touching1 each other. Suddenly he sighed and shook his head.
“What is it?” I asked.
“It is that there are moments when a great longing2 for my friend Hastings comes over me. That is the friend of whom I spoke3 to you—the one who resides now in the Argentine. Always, when I have had a big case, he has been by my side. And he has helped me—yes, often he has helped me. For he had a knack4, that one, of stumbling over the truth unawares—without noticing it himself, bien entendu. At times he has said something particularly foolish, and behold5 that foolish remark has revealed the truth to me! And then, too, it was his practice to keep a written record of the cases that proved interesting.”
I gave a slight embarrassed cough.
“As far as that goes,” I began, and then stopped.
Poirot sat upright in his chair. His eyes sparkled.
“But yes? What is it that you would say?”
“Well, as a matter of fact, I’ve read some of Captain Hastings’s narratives6, and I thought, why not try my hand at something of the same kind? Seemed a pity not to—unique opportunity—probably the only time I’ll be mixed up with anything of this kind.”
I felt myself getting hotter and hotter, and more and271 more incoherent, as I floundered through the above speech.
Poirot sprang from his chair. I had a moment’s terror that he was going to embrace me French fashion, but mercifully he refrained.
“But this is magnificent—you have then written down your impressions of the case as you went along?”
I nodded.
“Epatant!” cried Poirot. “Let me see them—this instant.”
I was not quite prepared for such a sudden demand. I racked my brains to remember certain details.
“Oh! I comprehend perfectly8; you have referred to me as comic—as, perhaps, ridiculous now and then? It matters not at all. Hastings, he also was not always polite. Me, I have the mind above such trivialities.”
Still somewhat doubtful, I rummaged9 in the drawers of my desk and produced an untidy pile of manuscript which I handed over to him. With an eye on possible publication in the future, I had divided the work into chapters, and the night before I had brought it up to date with an account of Miss Russell’s visit. Poirot had therefore twenty chapters.
I left him with them.
I was obliged to go out to a case at some distance away, and it was past eight o’clock when I got back, to be greeted with a plate of hot dinner on a tray, and the announcement that Poirot and my sister had supped together272 at half-past seven, and that the former had then gone to my workshop to finish his reading of the manuscript.
“I hope, James,” said my sister, “that you’ve been careful in what you say about me in it?”
“Not that it matters very much,” said Caroline, reading my expression correctly. “M. Poirot will know what to think. He understands me much better than you do.”
I went into the workshop. Poirot was sitting by the window. The manuscript lay neatly11 piled on a chair beside him. He laid his hand on it and spoke.
“Oh!” I said, rather taken aback.
“And on your reticence,” he added.
I said “Oh!” again.
“Not so did Hastings write,” continued my friend. “On every page, many, many times was the word ‘I.’ What he thought—what he did. But you—you have kept your personality in the background; only once or twice does it obtrude—in scenes of home life, shall we say?”
I blushed a little before the twinkle in his eye.
“Yes.”
Poirot laid his jesting manner aside.
“A very meticulous15 and accurate account,” he said kindly16. “You have recorded all the facts faithfully and273 exactly—though you have shown yourself becomingly reticent17 as to your own share in them.”
“And it has helped you?”
“Yes. I may say that it has helped me considerably18. Come, we must go over to my house and set the stage for my little performance.”
Caroline was in the hall. I think she hoped that she might be invited to accompany us. Poirot dealt with the situation tactfully.
“I should much like to have had you present, mademoiselle,” he said regretfully, “but at this juncture19 it would not be wise. See you, all these people to-night are suspects. Amongst them, I shall find the person who killed Mr. Ackroyd.”
“You really believe that?” I said incredulously.
“I see that you do not,” said Poirot dryly. “Not yet do you appreciate Hercule Poirot at his true worth.”
At that minute Ursula came down the staircase.
“You are ready, my child?” said Poirot. “That is good. We will go to my house together. Mademoiselle Caroline, believe me, I do everything possible to render you service. Good-evening.”
We went out, leaving Caroline, rather like a dog who has been refused a walk, standing20 on the front door step gazing after us.
The sitting-room21 at The Larches22 had been got ready. On the table were various sirops and glasses. Also a plate of biscuits. Several chairs had been brought in from the other room.
Poirot ran to and fro rearranging things. Pulling out274 a chair here, altering the position of a lamp there, occasionally stooping to straighten one of the mats that covered the floor. He was specially23 fussy24 over the lighting25. The lamps were arranged in such a way as to throw a clear light on the side of the room where the chairs were grouped, at the same time leaving the other end of the room, where I presumed Poirot himself would sit, in a dim twilight26.
Ursula and I watched him. Presently a bell was heard.
“They arrive,” said Poirot. “Good, all is in readiness.”
The door opened and the party from Fernly filed in. Poirot went forward and greeted Mrs. Ackroyd and Flora27.
“It is most good of you to come,” he said. “And Major Blunt and Mr. Raymond.”
“What’s the great idea?” he said, laughing. “Some scientific machine? Do we have bands round our wrists which register guilty heart-beats? There is such an invention, isn’t there?”
“I have read of it, yes,” admitted Poirot. “But me, I am old-fashioned. I use the old methods. I work only with the little gray cells. Now let us begin—but first I have an announcement to make to you all.”
He took Ursula’s hand and drew her forward.
“This lady is Mrs. Ralph Paton. She was married to Captain Paton last March.”
“Ralph! Married! Last March! Oh! but it’s absurd. How could he be?”
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She stared at Ursula as though she had never seen her before.
“Married to Bourne?” she said. “Really, M. Poirot, I don’t believe you.”
Ursula flushed and began to speak, but Flora forestalled30 her.
Going quickly to the other girl’s side, she passed her hand through her arm.
“You must not mind our being surprised,” she said. “You see, we had no idea of such a thing. You and Ralph have kept your secret very well. I am—very glad about it.”
“You are very kind, Miss Ackroyd,” said Ursula in a low voice, “and you have every right to be exceedingly angry. Ralph behaved very badly—especially to you.”
“You needn’t worry about that,” said Flora, giving her arm a consoling little pat. “Ralph was in a corner and took the only way out. I should probably have done the same in his place. I do think he might have trusted me with the secret, though. I wouldn’t have let him down.”
Poirot rapped gently on a table and cleared his throat significantly.
“The board meeting’s going to begin,” said Flora. “M. Poirot hints that we mustn’t talk. But just tell me one thing. Where is Ralph? You must know if any one does.”
“Isn’t he detained at Liverpool?” asked Raymond. “It said so in the paper.”
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“He is not at Liverpool,” said Poirot shortly.
“In fact,” I remarked, “no one knows where he is.”
“Excepting Hercule Poirot, eh?” said Raymond.
“Me, I know everything. Remember that.”
“Everything?” He whistled. “Whew! that’s a tall order.”
“Do you mean to say you can really guess where Ralph Paton is hiding?” I asked incredulously.
“You call it guessing. I call it knowing, my friend.”
“In Cranchester?” I hazarded.
“No,” replied Poirot gravely, “not in Cranchester.”
He said no more, but at a gesture from him the assembled party took their seats. As they did so, the door opened once more and two other people came in and sat down near the door. They were Parker and the housekeeper34.
“The number is complete,” said Poirot. “Every one is here.”
There was a ring of satisfaction in his tone. And with the sound of it I saw a ripple35 of something like uneasiness pass over all those faces grouped at the other end of the room. There was a suggestion in all this as of a trap—a trap that had closed.
Poirot read from a list in an important manner.
“Mrs. Ackroyd, Miss Flora Ackroyd, Major Blunt, Mr. Geoffrey Raymond, Mrs. Ralph Paton, John Parker, Elizabeth Russell.”
He laid the paper down on the table.
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“What’s the meaning of all this?” began Raymond.
“The list I have just read,” said Poirot, “is a list of suspected persons. Every one of you present had the opportunity to kill Mr. Ackroyd——”
With a cry Mrs. Ackroyd sprang up, her throat working.
“You cannot go home, madame,” said Poirot sternly, “until you have heard what I have to say.”
He paused a moment, then cleared his throat.
“I will start at the beginning. When Miss Ackroyd asked me to investigate the case, I went up to Fernly Park with the good Dr. Sheppard. I walked with him along the terrace, where I was shown the footprints on the window-sill. From there Inspector37 Raglan took me along the path which leads to the drive. My eye was caught by a little summer-house, and I searched it thoroughly38. I found two things—a scrap39 of starched40 cambric and an empty goose quill41. The scrap of cambric immediately suggested to me a maid’s apron42. When Inspector Raglan showed me his list of the people in the house, I noticed at once that one of the maids—Ursula Bourne, the parlormaid—had no real alibi43. According to her own story, she was in her bedroom from nine-thirty until ten. But supposing that instead she was in the summer-house? If so, she must have gone there to meet some one. Now we know from Dr. Sheppard that some one from outside did come to the house that night—the stranger whom he met just by the gate. At a first glance278 it would seem that our problem was solved, and that the stranger went to the summer-house to meet Ursula Bourne. It was fairly certain that he did go to the summer-house because of the goose quill. That suggested at once to my mind a taker of drugs—and one who had acquired the habit on the other side of the Atlantic where sniffing44 ‘snow’ is more common than in this country. The man whom Dr. Sheppard met had an American accent, which fitted in with that supposition.
“But I was held up by one point. The times did not fit. Ursula Bourne could certainly not have gone to the summer-house before nine-thirty, whereas the man must have got there by a few minutes past nine. I could, of course, assume that he waited there for half an hour. The only alternative supposition was that there had been two separate meetings in the summer-house that night. Eh bien, as soon as I went into that alternative I found several significant facts. I discovered that Miss Russell, the housekeeper, had visited Dr. Sheppard that morning, and had displayed a good deal of interest in cures for victims of the drug habit. Taking that in conjunction with the goose quill, I assumed that the man in question came to Fernly to meet the housekeeper, and not Ursula Bourne. Who, then, did Ursula Bourne come to the rendezvous45 to meet? I was not long in doubt. First I found a ring—a wedding ring—with ‘From R.’ and a date inside it. Then I learnt that Ralph Paton had been seen coming up the path which led to the summer-house at twenty-five minutes past nine, and I also heard of a certain conversation which had taken place in279 the wood near the village that very afternoon—a conversation between Ralph Paton and some unknown girl. So I had my facts succeeding each other in a neat and orderly manner. A secret marriage, an engagement announced on the day of the tragedy, the stormy interview in the wood, and the meeting arranged for the summer-house that night.
“Incidentally this proved to me one thing, that both Ralph Paton and Ursula Bourne (or Paton) had the strongest motives46 for wishing Mr. Ackroyd out of the way. And it also made one other point unexpectedly clear. It could not have been Ralph Paton who was with Mr. Ackroyd in the study at nine-thirty.
“So we come to another and most interesting aspect of the crime. Who was it in the room with Mr. Ackroyd at nine-thirty? Not Ralph Paton, who was in the summer-house with his wife. Not Charles Kent, who had already left. Who, then? I posed my cleverest—my most audacious question: Was any one with him?”
Poirot leaned forward and shot the last words triumphantly47 at us, drawing back afterwards with the air of one who has made a decided48 hit.
“I don’t know if you’re trying to make me out a liar50, M. Poirot, but the matter does not rest on my evidence alone—except perhaps as to the exact words used. Remember, Major Blunt also heard Mr. Ackroyd talking to some one. He was on the terrace outside, and couldn’t280 catch the words clearly, but he distinctly heard the voices.”
Poirot nodded.
“I have not forgotten,” he said quietly. “But Major Blunt was under the impression that it was you to whom Mr. Ackroyd was speaking.”
For a moment Raymond seemed taken aback. Then he recovered himself.
“Blunt knows now that he was mistaken,” he said.
“Exactly,” agreed the other man.
“Yet there must have been some reason for his thinking so,” mused51 Poirot. “Oh! no,” he held up his hand in protest, “I know the reason you will give—but it is not enough. We must seek elsewhere. I will put it this way. From the beginning of the case I have been struck by one thing—the nature of those words which Mr. Raymond overheard. It has been amazing to me that no one has commented on them—has seen anything odd about them.”
He paused a minute, and then quoted softly:—
“... The calls on my purse have been so frequent of late that I fear it is impossible for me to accede52 to your request. Does nothing strike you as odd about that?”
“I don’t think so,” said Raymond. “He has frequently dictated53 letters to me, using almost exactly those same words.”
“Exactly,” cried Poirot. “That is what I seek to arrive at. Would any man use such a phrase in talking to another? Impossible that that should be part of a real conversation. Now, if he had been dictating54 a letter——”
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“You mean he was reading a letter aloud,” said Raymond slowly. “Even so, he must have been reading to some one.”
“But why? We have no evidence that there was any one else in the room. No other voice but Mr. Ackroyd’s was heard, remember.”
“Surely a man wouldn’t read letters of that type aloud to himself—not unless he was—well—going balmy.”
“You have all forgotten one thing,” said Poirot softly: “the stranger who called at the house the preceding Wednesday.”
They all stared at him.
“But yes,” said Poirot, nodding encouragingly, “on Wednesday. The young man was not of himself important. But the firm he represented interested me very much.”
Poirot nodded.
“Mr. Ackroyd had promised to invest in a dictaphone, you remember. Me, I had the curiosity to inquire of the company in question. Their reply is that Mr. Ackroyd did purchase a dictaphone from their representative. Why he concealed56 the matter from you, I do not know.”
“He must have meant to surprise me with it,” murmured Raymond. “He had quite a childish love of surprising people. Meant to keep it up his sleeve for a day or so. Probably was playing with it like a new toy. Yes, it fits in. You’re quite right—no one would use quite those words in casual conversation.”
282
“It explains, too,” said Poirot, “why Major Blunt thought it was you who were in the study. Such scraps57 as came to him were fragments of dictation, and so his subconscious58 mind deduced that you were with him. His conscious mind was occupied with something quite different—the white figure he had caught a glimpse of. He fancied it was Miss Ackroyd. Really, of course, it was Ursula Bourne’s white apron he saw as she was stealing down to the summer-house.”
Raymond had recovered from his first surprise.
“All the same,” he remarked, “this discovery of yours, brilliant though it is (I’m quite sure I should never have thought of it), leaves the essential position unchanged. Mr. Ackroyd was alive at nine-thirty, since he was speaking into the dictaphone. It seems clear that the man Charles Kent was really off the premises59 by then. As to Ralph Paton——?”
He hesitated, glancing at Ursula.
“Ralph and I parted just before a quarter to ten. He never went near the house, I am sure of that. He had no intention of doing so. The last thing on earth he wanted was to face his stepfather. He would have funked it badly.”
“It isn’t that I doubt your story for a moment,” explained Raymond. “I’ve always been quite sure Captain Paton was innocent. But one has to think of a court of law—and the questions that would be asked. He is in a most unfortunate position, but if he were to come forward——”
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Poirot interrupted.
“That is your advice, yes? That he should come forward?”
“Certainly. If you know where he is——”
“I perceive that you do not believe that I do know. And yet I have told you just now that I know everything. The truth of the telephone call, of the footprints on the window-sill, of the hiding-place of Ralph Paton——”
“Where is he?” said Blunt sharply.
“Not very far away,” said Poirot, smiling.
“In Cranchester?” I asked.
Poirot turned towards me.
“Always you ask me that. The idea of Cranchester it is with you an idée fixe. No, he is not in Cranchester. He is—there!”
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touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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knack
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| n.诀窍，做事情的灵巧的，便利的方法 | |
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behold
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| v.看，注视，看到 | |
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narratives
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| 记叙文( narrative的名词复数 )； 故事； 叙述； 叙述部分 | |
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stammered
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| v.结巴地说出( stammer的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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rummaged
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| 翻找，搜寻( rummage的过去式和过去分词 )； 已经海关检查 | |
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jaw
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| n.颚，颌，说教，流言蜚语；v.喋喋不休，教训 | |
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neatly
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| adv.整洁地，干净地，灵巧地，熟练地 | |
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modesty
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| n.谦逊，虚心，端庄，稳重，羞怯，朴素 | |
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nervously
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| adv.神情激动地，不安地 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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meticulous
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| adj.极其仔细的，一丝不苟的 | |
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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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reticent
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considerably
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juncture
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standing
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sitting-room
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larches
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specially
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fussy
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lighting
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| n.照明，光线的明暗，舞台灯光 | |
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twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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flora
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| n.(某一地区的)植物群 | |
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debonair
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| adj.殷勤的，快乐的 | |
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shriek
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| v./n.尖叫，叫喊 | |
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forestalled
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| v.先发制人，预先阻止( forestall的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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wail
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| vt./vi.大声哀号，恸哭；呼啸，尖啸 | |
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banter
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| n.嘲弄，戏谑；v.取笑，逗弄，开玩笑 | |
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eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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ripple
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| n.涟波，涟漪，波纹，粗钢梳；vt.使...起涟漪，使起波纹； vi.呈波浪状，起伏前进 | |
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wailed
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inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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thoroughly
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scrap
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| n.碎片；废料；v.废弃，报废 | |
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starched
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| adj.浆硬的，硬挺的，拘泥刻板的v.把（衣服、床单等）浆一浆( starch的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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quill
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| n.羽毛管；v.给（织物或衣服）作皱褶 | |
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apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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alibi
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| n.某人当时不在犯罪现场的申辩或证明；借口 | |
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sniffing
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| n.探查法v.以鼻吸气，嗅，闻( sniff的现在分词 )；抽鼻子（尤指哭泣、患感冒等时出声地用鼻子吸气）；抱怨，不以为然地说 | |
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rendezvous
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| n.约会，约会地点，汇合点；vi.汇合，集合；vt.使汇合，使在汇合地点相遇 | |
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motives
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| n.动机，目的( motive的名词复数 ) | |
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triumphantly
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| ad.得意洋洋地；得胜地；成功地 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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liar
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| n.说谎的人 | |
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mused
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| v.沉思，冥想( muse的过去式和过去分词 )；沉思自语说（某事） | |
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accede
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| v.应允，同意 | |
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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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54
dictating
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| v.大声讲或读( dictate的现在分词 )；口授；支配；摆布 | |
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55
gasped
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| v.喘气( gasp的过去式和过去分词 )；喘息；倒抽气；很想要 | |
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concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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subconscious
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| n./adj.潜意识(的)，下意识(的) | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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60
Flared
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| adj. 端部张开的, 爆发的, 加宽的, 漏斗式的 动词flare的过去式和过去分词 | |
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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forefinger
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| n.食指 | |
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doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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