“I hope, James,” said my sister, “that you’ve been careful in what you say about me in it?”
My jaw dropped. I had not been careful at all.
“Not that it matters very much,” said Caroline, reading my expression correctly. “M. Poirot will know what to think. He understands me much better than you do.”
I went into the workshop. Poirot was sitting by the window. The manuscript lay neatly piled on a chair beside him. He laid his hand on it and spoke.
“Eh bien,” he said, “I congratulate you—on your modesty!”
“Oh!” I said, rather taken aback.
“And on your reticence,” he added.
I said “Oh!” again.
“Not so did Hastings write,” continued my friend. “On every page, many, many times was the word ‘I.’ What he thought—what he did. But you—you have kept your personality in the background; only once or twice does it obtrude—in scenes of home life, shall we say?”
I blushed a little before the twinkle of his eye.
“What do you really think of the stuff?” I asked nervously.
“You want my candid opinion?”
“Yes.”
Poirot laid his jesting manner aside.
“A very meticulous and accurate account,” he said kindly. “You have recorded all the facts faithfully and exactly—though you have shown yourself becomingly reticent as to your own share in them.”
“And it has helped you?”
“Yes. I may say that it has helped me considerably. Come, we must go over to my house and set the stage for my little performance.”
Caroline was in the hall. I think she hoped that she might be invited to accompany us. Poirot dealt with the situation tactfully.
“I should much like to have had you present, mademoiselle,” he said regretfully, “but at this juncture it would not be wise. See you, all these people tonight are suspects. Amongst them, I shall find the person who killed Mr. Ackroyd.”
“You really believe that?” I said incredulously.
“I see that you do not,” said Poirot drily. “Not yet do you appreciate Hercule Poirot at his true worth.”
At that minute Ursula came down the staircase.
“You are ready, my child?” said Poirot. “That is good. We will go to my house together. Mademoiselle Caroline, believe me, I do everything possible to render you service. Good evening.”
We went off, leaving Caroline rather like a dog who has been refused a walk, standing on the front door step gazing after us.
The sitting room at The Larches had been got ready. On the table were various sirops and glasses. Also a plate of biscuits. Several chairs had been brought in from the other room.
Poirot ran to and fro rearranging things. Pulling out a chair here, altering the position of a lamp there, occasionally stooping to straighten one of the mats that covered the floor. He was specially fussing over the lighting. The lamps were arranged in such a way as to throw a clear light on the side of the room where the chairs were grouped, at the same time leaving the other end of the room, where I presumed Poirot himself would sit, in a dim twilight.
Ursula and I watched him. Presently a bell was heard.
“They arrive,” said Poirot. “Good, all is in readiness.”
The door opened and the party from Fernly filed in. Poirot went forward and greeted Mrs. Ackroyd and Flora.
“It is most good of you to come,” he said. “And Major Blunt and Mr. Raymond.”
The secretary was debonair as ever.
“What’s the great idea?” he said, laughing. “Some scientific machine? Do we have bands round our wrists which register guilty heartbeats? There is such an invention, isn’t there?”
“I have read of it, yes,” admitted Poirot. “But me, I am old-fashioned. I use the old methods. I work only with the little grey cells. Now let us begin—but first I have an announcement to make to you all.”
He took Ursula’s hand and drew her forward.
“This lady is Mrs. Ralph Paton. She was married to Captain Paton last March.”
A little shriek burst from Mrs. Ackroyd.
“Ralph! Married! Last March! Oh! but it’s absurd. How could he be?”
She stared at Ursula as though she had never seen her before.
“Married to Bourne?” she said. “Really, M. Poirot, I don’t believe you.”
Ursula flushed and began to speak, but Flora forestalled her. Going quickly to the other girl’s side, she passed her hand through her arm.
“You must not mind our being surprised,” she said. “You see, we had no idea of such a thing. You and Ralph have kept your secret very well. I am—very glad about it.”
“You are very kind, Miss Ackroyd,” said Ursula in a low voice, “and you have every right to be exceedingly angry. Ralph behaved very badly—especially to you.”
“You needn’t worry about that,” said Flora, giving her arm a consoling little pat. “Ralph was in a corner and took the only way out. I should probably have done the same in his place. I do think he might have trusted me with the secret, though. I wouldn’t have let him down.”
Poirot rapped gently on a table and cleared his throat significantly.
“The board meeting’s going to begin,” said Flora. “M. Poirot hints that we mustn’t talk. But just tell me one thing. Where is Ralph? You must know if anyone does.”
“But I don’t,” cried Ursula, almost in a wail. “That’s just it, I don’t.”
“Isn’t he detained at Liverpool?” asked Raymond. “It said so in the paper.”
“He is not at Liverpool,” said Poirot shortly.
“In fact,” I remarked, “no one knows where he is.”
“Except Hercule Poirot, eh?” said Raymond.
Poirot replied seriously to the other’s banter. “I know everything. Remember that.”
Geoffrey Raymond lifted his eyebrows.
“Everything?” He whistled. “Whew! that’s a tall order.”
“Do you mean to say you can really guess where Ralph Paton is hiding?” I asked incredulously.
“You call it guessing. I call it knowing, my friend.”
“In Cranchester?” I hazarded.
“No,” replied Poirot gravely, “not in Cranchester.”
He said no more, but at a gesture from him the assembled party took their seats. As they did so, the door opened once more and two other people
