“Those dreadful bills. And some I didn’t like to show Roger at all. They were things a man wouldn’t understand. He would have said the things weren’t necessary. And of course they mounted up, you know, and they kept coming in—”
She looked at me appealingly, as though asking me to condole with her on this striking peculiarity.
“It’s a habit they have,” I agreed.
“And the tone altered—became quite abusive. I assure you, doctor, I was becoming a nervous wreck. I couldn’t sleep at nights. And a dreadful fluttering round the heart. And then I got a letter from a Scotch gentleman—as a matter of fact there were two letters—both Scotch gentlemen. Mr. Bruce MacPherson was one, and the other was Colin MacDonald. Quite a coincidence.”
“Hardly that,” I said drily. “They are usually Scotch gentlemen, but I suspect a Semitic strain in their ancestry.”
“Ten pounds to ten thousand on note of hand alone,” murmured Mrs. Ackroyd reminiscently. “I wrote to one of them, but it seemed there were difficulties.”
She paused.
I gathered that we were just coming to delicate ground. I have never known anyone more difficult to bring to the point.
“You see,” murmured Mrs. Ackroyd, “it’s all a question of expectations, isn’t it? Testamentary expectations. And though, of course, I expected that Roger would provide for me, I didn’t know. I thought that if only I could glance over a copy of his will—not in any sense of vulgar prying—but just so that I could make my own arrangements.”
She glanced sideways at me. The position was now very delicate indeed. Fortunately words, ingeniously used, will serve to mask the ugliness of naked facts.
“I could only tell this to you, dear Dr. Sheppard,” said Mrs. Ackroyd rapidly. “I can trust you not to misjudge me, and to represent the matter in the right light to M. Poirot. It was on Friday afternoon—”
She came to a stop and swallowed uncertainly.
“Yes,” I repeated encouragingly. “On Friday afternoon. Well?”
“Everyone was out, or so I thought. And I went into Roger’s study—I had some real reason for going there—I mean, there was nothing underhand about it. And as I saw all the papers heaped on the desk, it just came to me, like a flash: ‘I wonder if Roger keeps his will in one of the drawers of the desk.’ I’m so impulsive, always was, from a child. I do things on the spur of the moment. He’d left his keys—very careless of him—in the lock of the top drawer.”
“I see,” I said helpfully. “So you searched the desk. Did you find the will?”
Mrs. Ackroyd gave a little scream, and I realized that I had not been sufficiently diplomatic.
“How dreadful it sounds. But it wasn’t at all like that really.”
“Of course it wasn’t,” I said hastily. “You must forgive my unfortunate way of putting things.”
“Of course, men are so peculiar. In dear Roger’s place, I should have not objected to revealing the provisions of my will. But men are so secretive. One is forced to adopt little subterfuges in self-defence.”
“And the result of the little subterfuge?” I asked.
“That’s just what I’m telling you. As I got to the bottom drawer, Bourne came in. Most awkward. Of course I shut the drawer and stood up, and I called her attention to a few specks of dust on the surface. But I didn’t like the way she looked—quite respectful in manner, but a very nasty light in her eyes. Almost contemptuous, if you know what I mean. I never have liked that girl very much. She’s a good servant, and she says Ma’am, and doesn’t object to wearing caps and aprons (which I declare to you a lot of them do nowadays), and she can say ‘Not at home’ without scruples if she has to answer the door instead of Parker, and she doesn’t have those peculiar gurgling noises inside which so many parlour maids seem to have when they wait at table—Let me see, where was I?”
“You were saying, that in spite of several valuable qualities, you never liked Bourne.”
“No more I do. She’s—odd. There’s something different about her from the others. Too well educated, that’s my opinion. You can’t tell who are ladies and who aren’t nowadays.”
“And what happened next?” I asked.
“Nothing. At least, Roger came in. And I thought he was out for a walk. And he said: ‘What’s all this?’ and I said ‘Nothing. I just came in to fetch Punch.’ And I took Punch and went out with it. Bourne stayed behind. I heard her asking Roger if she could speak to him for a minute. I went straight up to my room, to lie down. I was very upset.”
There was a pause.
“You will explain to M. Poirot, won’t you? You can see for yourself what a trivial matter the whole thing was. But, of course, when he was so stern about concealing things, I thought of this at once. Bourne may have made some extraordinary story out of it, but you can explain, can’t you?”
“That is all?” I said. “You have told me everything?”
“Ye‑es,” said Mrs. Ackroyd. “Oh! yes,” she added firmly.
But I had noted the momentary hesitation, and I knew that there was still something she was keeping back. It was nothing less than a flash of sheer genius that prompted me to ask the question I did.
“Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said, “was it you who left the silver table open?”
I had my answer in the blush of guilt that even rouge and powder could not conceal.
“How did you know?” she whispered.
“It was you, then?”
“Yes—I—you see—there were one or two pieces of old silver—very interesting. I had been reading up the subject and there was an illustration of quite a small piece which had fetched an immense sum at Christie’s. It looked to be just the same as the one in the silver table. I thought I would take it up to London with me when I went—and—and have it valued. Then if it really was a valuable piece, just think what a charming surprise it would have
