The housekeeper bade us a dry good afternoon, and we took our leave.
I left the house with Poirot.
“I wonder,” I said, breaking the silence, “what the papers the girl disarranged could have been for Ackroyd to have got into such a state about them? I wonder if there is any clue there to the mystery.”
“The secretary said there were no papers of particular importance on the desk,” said Poirot quietly.
“Yes, but—” I paused.
“It strikes you as odd that Ackroyd should have flown into a rage about so trivial a matter?”
“Yes, it does rather.”
“But was it a trivial matter?”
“Of 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 parlour maid?”
“Yes, the parlour maid. 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 tack.”
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.”
XI
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 parlour maid.
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 parlour maid previously employed by you, Ursula Bourne.”
With the utterance of the name the smile vanished from her face, and all the cordiality froze out of her manner. She looked uncomfortable and ill at ease.
“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
