“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 so---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---but 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 moustaches, and none at all to me. I saw that he did not intend to be communicative.
Agatha Christie
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926)
To Punkie, who likes an orthodox detective story, murder, inquest, and suspicion falling on everyone in turn! 10
The Parlourmaid
WE found Mrs. Ackroyd in the hall. With her was a small dried-up little man, with an aggressive chin and sharp grey eyes, and ‘lawyer’ written all over him.
“Mr. Hammond is staying to lunch with us,” said Mrs. Ackroyd. “You know Major Blunt, Mr. Hammond? And dear Doctor Sheppard---also a close friend of poor Roger's. And, let me see---”
She paused, surveying Hercule Poirot in some perplexity.
“This is M. Poirot, Mother,” said Flora. “I told you about him this morning.”
“Oh! yes,” said Mrs. Ackroyd vaguely. “Of course, my dear, of course. He is to find Ralph, is he not?”
“He is to find out who killed Uncle,” said Flora.
“Oh! my dear,” cried her mother. “Please! My poor nerves. I am a wreck this morning, a positive wreck. Such a dreadful thing to happen. I can't help feeling that it must have been an accident of some kind. Roger was so fond of handling queer curios. His hand must have slipped, or something.”
This theory was received in polite silence. I saw Poirot edge up to the lawyer, and speak to him in a confidential undertone. They moved aside into the embrasure of the window. I joined them---then hesitated.
“Perhaps I'm intruding,” I said.
“Not at all,” cried Poirot heartily. “You and I, M. le docteur, we investigate this affair side by side. Without you I should be lost. I desire a little information from the good Mr. Hammond.”
“You are acting of behalf of Captain Ralph Paton, I understand,” said the lawyer cautiously.
Poirot shook his head.
“Not so. I am acting in the interests of justice. Miss Ackroyd has asked me to investigate the death of her uncle.”
Mr. Hammond seemed slightly taken aback.
