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

“Really?”

“Fortunately for him, he has an alibi. At a quarter to ten he was at a public-house a mile from here.”

“Lucky for him,” commented Miss Russell.

“But we still do not know what he was doing at Fernly⁠—who it was he went to meet, for instance.”

“I’m afraid I can’t help you at all,” said the housekeeper politely. “Nothing came to my ears. If that is all⁠—”

She made a tentative movement as though to rise. Poirot stopped her.

“It is not quite all,” he said smoothly. “This morning fresh developments have arisen. It seems now that Mr. Ackroyd was murdered, not at a quarter to ten, but before. Between ten minutes to nine, when Dr. Sheppard left, and a quarter to ten.”

I saw the colour drain from the housekeeper’s face, leaving it dead white. She leaned forward, her figure swaying.

“But Miss Ackroyd said⁠—Miss Ackroyd said⁠—”

“Miss Ackroyd has admitted that she was lying. She was never in the study at all that evening.”

“Then⁠—”

“Then it would seem that in this Charles Kent we have the man we are looking for. He came to Fernly, can give no account of what he was doing there⁠—”

“I can tell you what he was doing there. He never touched a hair of old Ackroyd’s head⁠—he never went near the study. He didn’t do it, I tell you.”

She was leaning forward. That iron self-control was broken through at last. Terror and desperation was in her face.

“M. Poirot! M. Poirot! Oh, do believe me.”

Poirot got up and came to her. He patted her reassuringly on the shoulder.

“But yes⁠—but yes, I will believe. I had to make you speak, you know.”

For an instant suspicion flared up in her.

“Is what you said true?”

“That Charles Kent is suspected of the crime? Yes, that is true. You alone can save him, by telling the reason for his being at Fernly.”

“He came to see me.” She spoke in a low, hurried voice. “I went out to meet him⁠—”

“In the summerhouse, yes, I know.”

“How do you know?”

“Mademoiselle, it is the business of Hercule Poirot to know things. I know that you went out earlier in the evening, that you left a message in the summerhouse to say what time you would be there.”

“Yes, I did. I had heard from him⁠—saying he was coming. I dared not let him come to the house. I wrote to the address he gave me and said I would meet him in the summerhouse, and described it to him so that he would be able to find it. Then I was afraid he might not wait there patiently, and I ran out and left a piece of paper to say I would be there about ten minutes past nine. I didn’t want the servants to see me, so I slipped out through the drawing room window. As I came back, I met Dr. Sheppard, and I fancied that he would think it queer. I was out of breath, for I had been running. I had no idea that he was expected to dinner that night.”

She paused.

“Go on,” said Poirot. “You went out to meet him at ten minutes past nine. What did you say to each other?”

“It’s difficult. You see⁠—”

“Mademoiselle,” said Poirot, interrupting her, “in this matter I must have the whole truth. What you tell us need never go beyond these four walls. Dr. Sheppard will be discreet, and so shall I. See, I will help you. This Charles Kent, he is your son, is he not?”

She nodded. The colour had flamed into her cheeks.

“No one has ever known. It was long ago⁠—long ago⁠—down in Kent. I was not married.⁠ ⁠…”

“So you took the name of the county as a surname for him. I understand.”

“I got work. I managed to pay for his board and lodging. I never told him that I was his mother. But he turned out badly, he drank, then took to drugs. I managed to pay his passage out to Canada. I didn’t hear of him for a year or two. Then, somehow or other, he found out that I was his mother. He wrote asking me for money. Finally, I heard from him back in this country again. He was coming to see me at Fernly, he said. I dared not let him come to the house. I have always been considered so⁠—so very respectable. If anyone got an inkling⁠—it would have been all up with my post as housekeeper. So I wrote to him in the way I have just told you.”

“And in the morning you came to see Dr. Sheppard?”

“Yes. I wondered if something could be done. He was not a bad boy⁠—before he took to drugs.”

“I see,” said Poirot. “Now let us go on with the story. He came that night to the summerhouse?”

“Yes, he was waiting for me when I got there. He was very rough and abusive. I had brought with me all the money I had, and I gave it to him. We talked a little, and then he went away.”

“What time was that?”

“It must have been between twenty and twenty-five minutes past nine. It was not yet half-past when I got back to the house.”

“Which way did he go?”

“Straight out the same way he came, by the path that joined the drive just inside the lodge gates.”

Poirot nodded.

“And you, what did you do?”

“I went back to the house. Major Blunt was walking up and down the terrace smoking, so I made a detour to get round to the side door. It was just then on half-past nine, as I tell you.”

Poirot nodded again. He made a note or two in a microscopic pocketbook.

“I think that is all,” he said thoughtfully.

“Ought I⁠—” she hesitated. “Ought I to tell all this to Inspector Raglan?”

“It may come to that. But let us not be in a hurry. Let us proceed slowly, with due order and method. Charles Kent is not yet formally charged with murder. Circumstances may arise which will render your story unnecessary.”

Miss Russell rose. “Thank you very much, M.