Murder of Roger Ackroyd - Agatha Christie [62]
With suppressed triumph I laid my hand face upwards on the table.
“As they say in the Shanghai Club,” I remarked—“Tin-ho—the Perfect Winning!”
The colonel’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head.
“Upon my soul,” he said. “what an extraordinary thing. I never saw that happen before!”
It was then that I went on, goaded by Caroline’s gibes, and rendered reckless by my triumph.
“And as to anything interesting,” I said. “What about a gold wedding ring with a date and ‘From R.’ inside.”
I pass over the scene that followed. I was made to say exactly where this treasure was found. I was made to reveal the date.
“March 13th,” said Caroline. “Just six months ago. Ah!”
Out of a babel of excited suggestions and suppositions three theories were evolved:
1. That of Colonel Carter: that Ralph was secretly married to Flora. The first or most simple solution.
2. That of Miss Gannett: that Roger Ackroyd had been secretly married to Mrs. Ferrars.
3. That of my sister: that Roger Ackroyd had married his housekeeper, Miss Russell.
A fourth or super theory was propounded by Caroline later as we went up to bed.
“Mark my words,” she said suddenly, “I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Geoffrey Raymond and Flora weren’t married.”
“Surely it would be ‘From G.,’ not ‘From R.’ then,” I suggested.
“You never know. Some girls call men by their surnames. And you heard what Miss Gannett said this evening—about Flora’s carryings on.”
Strictly speaking, I had not heard Miss Gannett say anything of the kind, but I respected Caroline’s knowledge of innuendoes.
“How about Hector Blunt?” I hinted. “If it’s anybody—”
“Nonsense,” said Caroline. “I dare say he admires her—may even be in love with her. But depend upon it a girl isn’t going to fall in love with a man old enough to be her father when there’s a good-looking secretary about. She may encourage Major Blunt just as a blind. Girls are very artful. But there’s one thing I do tell you, James Sheppard. Flora Ackroyd does not care a penny piece for Ralph Paton, and never has. You can take it from me.”
I took it from her meekly.
Seventeen
PARKER
It occurred to me the next morning that under the exhilaration produced by Tin-ho or the Perfect Winning, I might have been slightly indiscreet. True, Poirot had not asked me to keep the discovery of the ring to myself. On the other hand, he had said nothing about it whilst at Fernly, and as far as I knew, I was the only person aware that it had been found. I felt distinctly guilty. The fact was by now spreading through King’s Abbot like wildfire. I was expecting wholesale reproaches from Poirot any minute.
The joint funeral of Mrs. Ferrars and Roger Ackroyd was fixed for eleven o’clock. It was a melancholy and impressive ceremony. All the party from Fernly were there.
After it was over, Poirot, who had also been present, took me by the arm, and invited me to accompany him back to The Larches. He was looking very grave, and I feared that my indiscretion of the night before had got round to his ears. But it soon transpired that his thoughts were occupied by something of a totally different nature.
“See you,” he said. “We must act. With your help I propose to examine a witness. We will question him, we will put such fear into him that the truth is bound to come out.”
“What witness are you talking about?” I asked, very much surprised.
“Parker!” said Poirot. “I asked him to be at my house this morning at twelve o’clock. He should await us there at this very minute.”
“What do you think?” I ventured, glancing sideways at his face.
“I know this—that I am not satisfied.”
“You think that it was he who blackmailed Mrs. Ferrars?”
“Either that, or—”
“Well?” I said, after waiting a minute or two.
“My friend, I will say this to you—I hope it was he.”
The gravity of his manner, and something indefinable that tinged it, reduced me to silence.
On arrival at The Larches, we were informed that Parker was already there awaiting our return. As we entered the room,