But now he rose briskly to his feet, clearing his throat.
“I demand pardon,” he cried. “I cannot allow mademoiselle thus extravagantly to compliment me, and not draw attention to my presence. They say the listener hears no good of himself, but that is not the case this time. To spare my blushes, I must join you and apologize.”
He hurried down the path with me close behind him, and joined the others by the pond.
“This is M. Hercule Poirot,” said Flora. “I expect you’ve heard of him.”
Poirot bowed.
“I know Major Blunt by reputation,” he said politely. “I am glad to have encountered you, monsieur. I am in need of some information that you can give me.”
Blunt looked at him inquiringly.
“When did you last see M. Ackroyd alive?”
“At dinner.”
“And you neither saw nor heard anything of him after that?”
“Didn’t see him. Heard his voice.”
“How was that?”
“I strolled out on the terrace—”
“Pardon me, what time was that?”
“About half-past nine. I was walking up and down smoking in front of the drawing room window. I heard Ackroyd talking in his study—”
Poirot stopped and removed a microscopic weed. “Surely you couldn’t hear voices in the study from that part of the terrace,” he murmured.
He was not looking at Blunt, but I was, and to my intense surprise, I saw the latter flush.
“Went as far as the corner,” he explained unwillingly.
“Ah! indeed?” said Poirot.
In the mildest manner he conveyed an impression that more was wanted.
“Thought I saw—a woman disappearing into the bushes. Just a gleam of white, you know. Must have been mistaken. It was while I was standing at the corner of the terrace that I heard Ackroyd’s voice speaking to that secretary of his.”
“Speaking to Mr. Geoffrey Raymond?”
“Yes—that’s what I supposed at the time. Seems I was wrong.”
“Mr. Ackroyd didn’t address him by name?”
“Oh, no.”
“Then, if I may ask, why did you think—?”
Blunt explained laboriously.
“Took it for granted that it would be Raymond, because he had said just before I came out that he was taking some papers to Ackroyd. Never thought of it being anybody else.”
“Can you remember what the words you heard were?”
“Afraid I can’t. Something quite ordinary and unimportant. Only caught a scrap of it. I was thinking of something else at the time.”
“It is of no importance,” murmured Poirot. “Did you move a chair back against the wall when you went into the study after the body was discovered?”
“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 to—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—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.
X
The Parlour Maid
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
