bainixs.com 
“Is that what you meant to-day when you accused them of hiding the truth?”
“Perhaps. Now another point. What did you think of the parlourmaid's story?”
“What story?”
“The story of her dismissal. Does it take half an hour to dismiss a servant? Was the story of those important papers a likely one? And remember, though she says she was in her bedroom from nine-thirty until ten o'clock, there is no one to confirm her statement.”
“You bewilder me,” I said.
“To me it grows clearer. But tell me now your own ideas and theories.”
I drew a piece of paper from my pocket.
“I just scribbled down a few suggestions,” I said apologetically.
“But excellent---you have method. Let us hear them.”
I read out in a somewhat embarrassed voice.
“To begin with, one must look at the thing logically---”
“Just what my poor Hastings used to say,” interrupted Poirot, “but alas! he never did so.”
”Point No. 1.---Mr. Ackroyd was heard talking to someone at half-past nine.”Point No. 2.---At some time during the evening Ralph Paton must have come in through the window, as evidenced by the prints of his shoes.”Point No. 3.---Mr. Ackroyd was nervous that evening, and would only have admitted someone he knew.”Point No. 4.---The person with Mr. Ackroyd at nine-thirty was asking for money. We know Ralph Paton was in a scrape.“These four points go to show that the person with Mr. Ackroyd at nine-thirty was Ralph Paton. But we know that Mr. Ackroyd was alive at a quarter to ten, therefore it was not Ralph who killed him. Ralph left the window open. Afterwards the murderer came in that way.”“And who was the murderer?” inquired Poirot.
“The American stranger. He may have been in league with Parker, and possibly in Parker we have the man who blackmailed Mrs. Ferrars. If so, Parker may have heard enough to realize the game was up, have told his accomplice so, and the latter did the crime with the dagger which Parker gave him.”
“It is a theory that,” admitted Poirot. “Decidedly you have cells of a kind. But it leaves a good deal unaccounted for.”
“Such as---”
“The telephone call, the pushed-out chair---”
“Do you really think that latter important?” I interrupted.
“Perhaps not,” admitted my friend. “It may have been pulled out by accident, and Raymond or Blunt may have shoved it into place unconsciously under the stress of emotion. Then there is the missing forty pounds.”
“Given by Ackroyd to Ralph,” I suggested. “He may have reconsidered his first refusal.”
“That still leaves one thing unexplained.”
“What?”
“Why was Blunt so certain in his own mind that it was Raymond with Mr. Ackroyd at nine-thirty?”
“He explained that,” I said
“You think so? I will not press the point. Tell me, instead, what were Ralph Paton's reasons for disappearing?”
“That's rather more difficult,” I said slowly. “I shall have to speak as a medical man. Ralph's nerves must have gone phut! If he suddenly found out that his uncle had been murdered within a few minutes of his leaving him---after, perhaps, a rather stormy interview---well, he might get the wind up and clear right out. Men have been known to do that---act guiltily when they're perfectly innocent.”
“Yes, that is true,” said Poirot. “But we must not lose sight of one thing.”
“I know what you're going to say,” I remarked: “motive. Ralph Paton inherits a great fortune by his uncle's death.”
“That is one motive,” agreed Poirot.
“One?”
”Mais oui. Do you realize that there are three separate motives staring us in the face. Somebody certainly stole the blue envelope and its contents. That is one motive. Blackmail! Ralph Paton may have been the man who blackmailed Mrs. Ferrars. Remember, as far as Hammond knew, Ralph Paton had not applied to his uncle for help of late. That looks as though he were being supplied with money elsewhere. Then there is the fact that he was in some---how do you say---scrape?---which he feared might get to his uncle's ears. And finally there is the one you have just mentioned.”
“Dear me,” I said, rather taken aback. “The case does seem black against him.”
“Does it?” said Poirot. “That is where we disagree, you and I. Three motives---it is almost too much. I am inclined to believe that, after all, Ralph Paton is innocent.”
Agatha Christie
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd (1926)
To Punkie, who likes an orthodox detective story, murder, inquest, and suspicion falling on everyone in turn! 14
Mrs. Ackroyd
AFTER the evening talk I have just chronicled, the affair seemed to me to enter on a different phase. The whole thing can be divided into two parts, each clear and distinct from the other. Part 1 ranges from Ackroyd's death on the Friday evening to the following Monday night. It is the straightforward narrative of what occurred, as presented to Hercule Poirot. I was at Poirot's elbow the whole time. I saw what he saw. I tried my best to read his mind. As I know now, I failed in this latter task. Though Poirot showed me all his discoveries---as, for instance, the gold wedding-ring---he held back the vital and yet logical impressions that he formed. As I came to know later, this secrecy was characteristic of him. He would throw out hints and suggestions, but beyond that he would not go.
As I say, up till the Monday evening, my narrative might have been that of Poirot himself. I played Watson to his Sherlock. But after Monday our ways diverged. Poirot was busy on his own account. I got to hear of what he was doing, because in King's Abbot, you get to hear of everything, but he did not take me into his confidence beforehand. And I, too, had my own preoccupations.
On looking back, the thing that strikes me most is the piece-meal character of this period. Everyone had a hand in the elucidation of the mystery. It was rather like a jig-saw puzzle to which everyone contributed their own little piece of knowledge or discovery. But their task ended there. To Poirot alone belongs the renown of fitting those pieces into their correct place.
Some of the incidents seemed at the time irrelevant and unmeaning. There was, for instance, the question of the black boots. But that comes later... To take things strictly in chronological order, I must begin with the summons from Mrs. Ackroyd.
She sent for me early on Tuesday morning, and since the summons sounded an urgent one, I hastened there, expecting to find her in extremis.
The lady was in bed. So much did she concede to the etiquette of the situation. She gave me her bony hand, and indicated a chair drawn up to the bedside.
“Well, Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said, “and what's the matter with you?”
I spoke with that kind of spurious geniality which seems to be expected of general practitioners.
“I'm prostrated,” said Mrs. Ackroyd in a faint voice. “Absolutely prostrated. It's the shock of poor Roger's death. They say these things often aren't felt at the time, you know. It's the reaction afterwards.”
It is a pity that a doctor is precluded by his profession from being able sometimes to say what he really thinks.
I would have given anything to be able to answer “Bunkum!”
Instead, I suggested a tonic. Mrs. Ackroyd accepted the tonic. One move in the game seemed now to be concluded. Not for a moment did I imagine that I had been sent for because of the shock occasioned by Ackroyd's death. But Mrs. Ackroyd is totally incapable of pursuing a straightforward course on any subject. She always approaches her object by tortuous means. I wondered very much why it was she had sent for me.
“And then that scene---yesterday,” continued my patient.
