The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie (a court of thorns and roses ebook free .txt) 📕

At the sight of it the man’s face changed. He half held out his hand.

“Snow,” said Poirot thoughtfully. “No, my friend, it is empty. It lay where you dropped it in the summerhouse that night.”

Charles Kent looked at him uncertainly.

“You seem to know a hell of a lot about everything, you little foreign cock duck. Perhaps you remember this: the papers say that the old gent was croaked between a quarter to ten and ten o’clock?”

“That is so,” agreed Poirot.

“Yes, but is it really so? That’s what I’m getting at.”

“This gentleman will tell you,” said Poirot.

He indicated Inspector Raglan. The latter hesitated, glanced at Superintendent Hayes, then at Poirot, and finally, as though receiving sanction, he said: “That’s right. Between a quarter to ten and ten o’clock.”

“Then you’ve nothing to keep me here for,” said Kent. “I was away from Fernly Park by twenty-five minutes past nine. You can ask at the Dog and Whistle. That’s a saloon about a mile out of Fernly on the road to Cranchester. I kicked up a bit of a row there, I remember. As near as nothing to quarter to ten, it was. How about that?”

Inspector Raglan wrote down something in his notebook.

“Well?” demanded Kent.

“Inquiries will be made,” said the inspector. “If you’ve spoken the truth, you won’t have anything to complain about. What were you doing at Fernly Park anyway?”

“Went there to meet someone.”

“Who?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“You’d better keep a civil tongue in your head, my man,” the superintendent warned him.

“To hell with a civil tongue. I went there on my own business, and that’s all there is to it. If I was clear away before the murder was done, that’s all that concerns the cops.”

“Your name, it is Charles Kent,” said Poirot. “Where were you born?”

The man stared at him, then he grinned. “I’m a full-blown Britisher all right,” he said.

“Yes,” said Poirot meditatively. “I think you are. I fancy you were born in Kent.”

The man stared. “Why’s that? Because of my name? What’s that to do with it? Is a man whose name is Kent bound to be born in that particular county?”

“Under certain circumstances, I can imagine he might be,” said Poirot very deliberately. “Under certain circumstances, you comprehend.”

There was so much meaning in his voice as to surprise the two police officers. As for Charles Kent, he flushed a brick red, and for a moment I thought he was going to spring at Poirot. He thought better of it, however, and turned away with a kind of laugh.

Poirot nodded as though satisfied, and made his way out through the door. He was joined presently by the two officers.

“We’ll verify that statement,” remarked Raglan. “I don’t think he’s lying, though. But he’s got to come clean with a statement as to what he was doing at Fernly. It looks to me as though we’d got our blackmailer all right. On the other hand, granted his story’s correct, he couldn’t have had anything to do with the actual murder. He’d got ten pounds on him when he was arrested⁠—rather a large sum. I fancy that forty pounds went to him⁠—the numbers of the notes didn’t correspond, but of course he’d have changed them first thing. Mr. Ackroyd must have given him the money, and he made off with it as fast as possible. What was that about Kent being his birthplace? What’s that got to do with it?”

“Nothing whatever,” said Poirot mildly. “A little idea of mine, that was all. Me, I am famous for my little ideas.”

“Are you really?” said Raglan, studying him with a puzzled expression.

The superintendent went into a roar of laughter. “Many’s the time I’ve heard Inspector Japp say that. M. Poirot and his little ideas! Too fanciful for me, he’d say, but always something in them.”

“You mock yourself at me,” said Poirot, smiling; “but never mind. The old ones they laugh last sometimes, when the young, clever ones do not laugh at all.”

And nodding his head at them in a sage manner he walked out into the street.

He and I lunched together at an hotel. I know now that the whole thing lay clearly unravelled before him. He had got the last thread he needed to lead him to the truth.

But at the time I had no suspicion of the fact. I overestimated his general self-confidence, and I took it for granted that the things which puzzled me must be equally puzzling to him.

My chief puzzle was what the man Charles Kent could have been doing at Fernly. Again and again I put the question to myself and could get no satisfactory reply. At last I ventured a tentative query to Poirot. His reply was immediate.

“Mon ami, I do not think; I know.”

“Really?” I said incredulously.

“Yes, indeed. I suppose now that to you it would not make sense if I said that he went to Fernly that night because he was born in Kent?”

I stared at him. “It certainly doesn’t seem to make sense to me,” I said drily.

“Ah!” said Poirot pityingly. “Well, no matter. I have still my little idea.”

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