The Murder of Roger Ackroyd / Убийство Роджера Экройда - Агата Кристи Билингва Bestseller

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course,’ I admitted, ‘we don’t know what those papers may have been. But Raymond certainly said-’

      ‘Leave M. Raymond out of it for a minute. What did you think of that girl?’

      ‘Which girl? The parlourmaid?’

      ‘Yes, the parlourmaid. Ursula Bourne.’

      ‘She seemed a nice girl,’ I said hesitatingly.

      Poirot repeated my words, but whereas I had laid a slight stress on the fourth word, he put it on the second.

      ‘She seemed a nice girl – yes.’

      Then, after a minute’s silence, he took something from his pocket and handed it to me.

      ‘See, my friend, I will show you something. Look there.’

      The paper he had handed me was that compiled by the inspector and given by him to Poirot that morning. following the pointing finger, I saw a small cross marked in pencil opposite the name Ursula Bourne.

      ‘You may not have noticed it at the time, my good friend, but there was one person on this list whose alibi had no kind of confirmation. Ursula Bourne.’

      ‘You don’t think-?’

      ‘Dr Sheppard, I dare to think anything. Ursula Bourne may have killed Mr Ackroyd, but I confess I can see no motive for her doing so. Can you?’

      He looked at me very hard – so hard that I felt uncomfortable.

      ‘Can you?’ he repeated.

      ‘No motive whatsoever,’ I said firmly.

      His gaze relaxed. He frowned and murmured to himself:

      ‘Since the blackmailer was a man, it follows that she cannot be the blackmailer, then-’ I coughed.

      ‘As far as that goes-’ I began doubtfully.

      He spun round on me.

      ‘What? What are you going to say?’

      ‘Nothing, Nothing. Only that, strictly speaking, Mrs Ferrars in her letter mentioned a person – she didn’t actually specify a man. But we took it for granted, Ackroyd and I, that it was a man.’

      Poirot did not seem to be listening to me. He was muttering to himself again.

      ‘But then it is possible after all – yes, certainly it is possible – but then – ah! I must rearrange my ideas. Method, order, never have I needed them more. everything must fit in – in its appointed place – otherwise I am on the wrong track.’ He broke off, and whirled round upon me again. ‘Where is Marby?’

      ‘It’s on the other side of Cranchester.’

      ‘How far away?’

      ‘Oh! – fourteen miles, perhaps.’

      ‘Would it be possible for you to go there? Tomorrow, say?’

      ‘Tomorrow? Let me see, that’s Sunday. yes, I could arrange it. What do you want me to do there?’

      ‘See this Mrs Folliott. Find out all you can about Ursula Bourne.’

      ‘Very well. But – I don’t much care for the job.’

      ‘It is not the time to make difficulties. A man’s life may hang on this.’

      ‘Poor Ralph,’ I said with a sigh. ‘You believe him to be innocent, though?’

      Poirot looked at me very gravely.

      ‘Do you want to know the truth?’

      ‘Of course.’

      ‘Then you shall have it. My friend, everything points to the assumption that he is guilty.’

      ‘What!’ I exclaimed.

      Poirot nodded.

      ‘Yes, that stupid inspector – for he is stupid – has everything pointing his way. I seek for the truth – and the truth leads me every time to ralph Paton. Motive, opportunity, means. But I will leave no stone unturned. I promised Mademoiselle flora. And she was very sure, that little one. But very sure indeed.’

      Chapter 11

      Poirot Pays a Call

      I was slightly nervous when I rang the bell at Marby Grange the following afternoon. I wondered very much what Poirot expected to find out. he had entrusted the job to me. Why? Was it because, as in the case of questioning Major Blunt, he wished to remain in the background? The wish, intelligible in the first case, seemed to me quite meaningless here.

      My meditations were interrupted by the advent of a smart parlourmaid. Yes, Mrs Folliott was at home. I was ushered into a big drawing-room, and looked round me curiously as I waited for the mistress of the house. A large bare room, some good bits of old china, and some beautiful etchings, shabby covers and curtains. A lady’s room in every sense of the term.

      I turned from the inspection of a Bartolozzi on the wall as Mrs folliott came into the room. She was a tall woman, with untidy brown hair, and a very winning smile.

      ‘Dr Sheppard,’ she said hesitatingly.

      ‘That is my name,’ I replied. ‘I must apologize for calling upon you like this, but I wanted some information about a parlourmaid previously employed by you, Ursula Bourne.’

      ‘Ursula Bourne?’ she said hesitatingly.

      ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you don’t remember the name?’

      ‘Oh, yes, of course. I–I remember perfectly.’

      ‘She left you just over a year ago, I understand?’

      ‘Yes. Yes, she did. That is quite right.’

      ‘And you were satisfied with her whilst she was with you? how long was she with you, by the way?’

      ‘Oh! A year or two – I can’t remember exactly how long. She – she is very capable. I’m sure you will find her quite satisfactory. I didn’t know she was leaving fernly. I hadn’t the least idea of it.’

      ‘Can you tell me anything about her?’ I asked.

      ‘Anything about her?’

      ‘Yes, where she comes from, who her people are – that sort of thing?’

      Mrs Folliott’s face wore more than ever its frozen look.

      ‘I don’t know at all.’

      ‘Who was she with before she came to you?’

      ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember.’

      There was a spark of anger now underlying her nervousness. She flung up her head in a gesture that was vaguely familiar.

      ‘Is it really necessary to ask all these questions?’

      ‘Not at all,’ I said, with an air of surprise and a tinge of apology in my manner. ‘I had no idea you would mind answering them. I am very sorry.’

      Her anger left her and she became confused again.

      ‘oh! I don’t mind answering them. I assure you I don’t. Why should I? It – it just seemed a little odd, you know. That’s all. A little odd.’

      One advantage of being a medical practitioner is that you can usually tell when people are lying to you. I should have known from Mrs Folliott’s manner, if from nothing else, that she did mind answering my questions – minded intensely. She was thoroughly uncomfortable and upset, and there was plainly some mystery in the background. I judged her to be a woman quite unused to deception of any kind, and consequently rendered acutely uneasy when forced to practise it. A child could have seen through her.

      But it was also clear the she had no intention of telling me anything further. Whatever the mystery centring round Ursula Bourne might be, I was not going to learn

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