I hesitated, and Ralph filled up the gap.
“To do a bunk,” he said graphically. “You see, Ursula left me to go back to the house. I thought it possible that she might have attempted to have another interview with my stepfather. He had already been very rude to her that afternoon. It occurred to me that he might have so insulted her—in such an unforgivable manner—that without knowing what she was doing—”
He stopped. Ursula released her hand from his, and stepped back.
“You thought that, Ralph! You actually thought that I might have done it?”
“Let us get back to the culpable conduct of Dr. Sheppard,” said Poirot drily. “Dr. Sheppard consented to do what he could to help him. He was successful in hiding Captain Paton from the police.”
“Where?” asked Raymond. “In his own house?”
“Ah, no, indeed,” said Poirot. “You should ask yourself the question that I did. If the good doctor is concealing the young man, what place would he choose? It must necessarily be somewhere near at hand. I think of Cranchester. A hotel? No. Lodgings? Even more emphatically, no. Where, then? Ah! I have it. A nursing home. A home for the mentally unfit. I test my theory. I invent a nephew with mental trouble. I consult Mademoiselle Sheppard as to suitable homes. She gives me the names of two near Cranchester to which her brother has sent patients. I make inquiries. Yes, at one of them a patient was brought there by the doctor himself early on Saturday morning. That patient, though known by another name, I had no difficulty in identifying as Captain Paton. After certain necessary formalities, I was allowed to bring him away. He arrived at my house in the early hours of yesterday morning.”
I looked at him ruefully. “Caroline’s Home Office expert,” I murmured. “And to think I never guessed!”
“You see now why I drew attention to the reticence of your manuscript,” murmured Poirot. “It was strictly truthful as far as it went—but it did not go very far, eh, my friend?”
I was too abashed to argue.
“Dr. Sheppard has been very loyal,” said Ralph. “He has stood by me through thick and thin. He did what he thought was best. I see now, from what M. Poirot has told me, that it was not really the best. I should have come forward and faced the music. You see, in the home, we never saw a newspaper. I knew nothing of what was going on.”
“Dr. Sheppard has been a model of discretion,” said Poirot drily. “But me, I discover all the little secrets. It is my business.”
“Now we can have your story of what happened that night,” said Raymond impatiently.
“You know it already,” said Ralph. “There’s very little for me to add. I left the summerhouse about nine forty-five, and tramped about the lanes, trying to make up my mind as to what to do next—what line to take. I’m bound to admit that I’ve not the shadow of an alibi, but I give you my solemn word that I never went to the study, that I never saw my stepfather alive—or dead. Whatever the world thinks, I’d like all of you to believe me.”
“No alibi,” murmured Raymond. “That’s bad. I believe you, of course, but—it’s a bad business.”
“It makes things very simple, though,” said Poirot, in a cheerful voice. “Very simple indeed.”
We all stared at him.
“You see what I mean? No? Just this—to save Captain Paton the real criminal must confess.”
He beamed round at us all.
“But yes—I mean what I say. See now, I did not invite Inspector Raglan to be present. That was for a reason. I did not want to tell him all that I knew—at least I did not want to tell him tonight.”
He leaned forward, and suddenly his voice and his whole personality changed. He suddenly became dangerous.
“I who speak to you—I know the murderer of Mr. Ackroyd is in this room now. It is to the murderer I speak. Tomorrow the truth goes to Inspector Raglan. You understand?”
There was a tense silence. Into the midst of it came the old Breton woman with a telegram on a salver. Poirot tore it open.
Blunt’s voice rose abrupt and resonant.
“The murderer is amongst us, you say? You know—which?”
Poirot had read the message. He crumpled it up in his hand.
“I know—now.”
He tapped the crumpled ball of paper.
“What is that?” said Raymond sharply.
“A wireless message—from a steamer now on her way to the United States.”
There was a dead silence. Poirot rose to his feet bowing. “Messieurs et Mesdames, this reunion of mine is at an end. Remember—the truth goes to Inspector Raglan in the morning.”
XXV
The Whole Truth
A slight gesture from Poirot enjoined me to stay behind the rest. I obeyed, going over to the fire and thoughtfully stirring the big logs on it with the toe of my boot.
I was puzzled. For the first time I was absolutely at sea as to Poirot’s meaning. For a moment I was inclined to think that the scene I had just witnessed was a gigantic piece of bombast—that he had been what he called “playing the comedy” with a view to making himself interesting and important. But, in spite of myself, I was forced to believe in an underlying reality. There had been real menace in his words—a certain indisputable sincerity. But I still believed him to be on entirely the wrong tack.
When the door shut behind the last of the party he came over to the fire.
“Well, my friend,” he said quietly, “and what do you think of it all?”
“I don’t know what to think,” I said frankly. “What was the point? Why not go straight to Inspector Raglan with the truth instead of giving the
