Murder of Roger Ackroyd - Agatha Christie [65]
“And the amount?” asked Poirot.
“In all, I should say the various sums totalled at least twenty thousand pounds.”
“Twenty thousand pounds!” I exclaimed. “In one year!”
“Mrs. Ferrars was a very wealthy woman,” said Poirot drily. “And the penalty for murder is not a pleasant one.”
“Is there anything else that I can tell you?” inquired Mr. Hammond.
“I thank you, no,” said Poirot, rising. “All my excuses for having deranged you.”
“Not at all, not at all.”
“The word derange,” I remarked, when we were outside again, “is applicable to mental disorder only.”
“Ah!” cried Poirot. “Never will my English be quite perfect. A curious language. I should then have said disarranged, n’est-ce pas?”
“Disturbed is the word you had in mind.”
“I thank you, my friend. The word exact, you are zealous for it. Eh bien, what about our friend Parker now? With twenty thousand pounds in hand, would he have continued being a butler? Je ne pense pas. It is, of course, possible that he banked the money under another name, but I am disposed to believe he spoke the truth to us. If he is a scoundrel, he is a scoundrel on a mean scale. He has not the big ideas. That leaves us as a possibility, Raymond, or—well—Major Blunt.”
“Surely not Raymond,” I objected. “Since we know that he was desperately hard up for a matter of five hundred pounds.”
“That is what he says, yes.”
“And as to Hector Blunt—”
“I will tell you something as to the good Major Blunt,” interrupted Poirot. “It is my business to make inquiries. I make them. Eh bien—that legacy of which he speaks, I have discovered that the amount of it was close upon twenty thousand pounds. What do you think of that?”
I was so taken aback that I could hardly speak.
“It’s impossible,” I said at last. “A well-known man like Hector Blunt.”
Poirot shrugged his shoulders.
“Who knows? At least he is a man with big ideas. I confess that I hardly see him as a blackmailer, but there is another possibility that you have not even considered.”
“What is that?”
“The fire, my friend. Ackroyd himself may have destroyed that letter, blue envelope and all, after you left him.”
“I hardly think that likely,” I said slowly. “And yet—of course, it may be so. He might have changed his mind.”
We had just arrived at my house, and on the spur of the moment I invited Poirot to come in and take pot luck.
I thought Caroline would be pleased with me, but it is hard to satisfy one’s womenfolk. It appears that we were eating chops for lunch—the kitchen staff being regaled on tripe and onions. And two chops set before three people are productive of embarrassment.
But Caroline is seldom daunted for long. With magnificent mendacity, she explained to Poirot that although James laughed at her for doing so, she adhered strictly to a vegetarian diet. She descanted ecstatically on the delights of nut cutlets (which I am quite sure she has never tasted) and ate a Welsh rarebit with gusto and frequent cutting remarks as to the dangers of “flesh” foods.
Afterwards, when we were sitting in front of the fire and smoking, Caroline attacked Poirot directly.
“Not found Ralph Paton yet?” she asked.
“Where should I find him, mademoiselle?”
“I thought, perhaps, you’d found him in Cranchester,” said Caroline, with intense meaning in her tone.
Poirot looked merely bewildered.
“In Cranchester? But why in Cranchester?”
I enlightened him with a touch of malice.
“One of our ample staff of private detectives happened to see you in a car on the Cranchester road yesterday,” I explained.
Poirot’s bewilderment vanished. He laughed heartily.
“Ah, that! A simple visit to the dentist, c’est tout.