Murder of Roger Ackroyd - Agatha Christie [80]
“In the dining room?” asked Poirot.
“This way,” I said, and flung open the door.
Ursula Bourne was sitting by the table. Her arms were spread out in front of her, and she had evidently just lifted her head from where it had been buried. Her eyes were red with weeping.
“Ursula Bourne,” I murmured.
But Poirot went past me with outstretched hands.
“No,” he said, “that is not quite right, I think. It is not Ursula Bourne, is it, my child—but Ursula Paton? Mrs. Ralph Paton.”
Twenty-two
URSULA’S STORY
For a moment or two the girl looked mutely at Poirot. Then, her reserve breaking down completely, she nodded her head once, and burst into an outburst of sobs.
Caroline pushed past me, and putting her arm round the girl, patted her on the shoulder.
“There, there, my dear,” she said soothingly, “it will be all right. You’ll see—everything will be all right.”
Buried under curiosity and scandal-mongering there is a lot of kindness in Caroline. For the moment, even the interest of Poirot’s revelation was lost in the sight of the girl’s distress.
Presently Ursula sat up and wiped her eyes.
“This is very weak and silly of me,” she said.
“No, no, my child,” said Poirot kindly. “We can all realize the strain of this last week.”
“It must have been a terrible ordeal,” I said.
“And then to find that you knew,” continued Ursula. “How did you know? Was it Ralph who told you?”
Poirot shook his head.
“You know what brought me to you tonight,” went on the girl. “This—”
She held out a crumpled piece of newspaper, and I recognized the paragraph that Poirot had had inserted.
“It says that Ralph has been arrested. So everything is useless. I need not pretend any longer.”
“Newspaper paragraphs are not always true, mademoiselle,” murmured Poirot, having the grace to look ashamed of himself. “All the same, I think you will do well to make a clean breast of things. The truth is what we need now.”
The girl hesitated, looking at him doubtfully.
“You do not trust me,” said Poirot gently. “Yet all the same you came here to find me, did you not? Why was that?”
“Because I don’t believe that Ralph did it,” said the girl in a very low voice. “And I think that you are clever, and will find out the truth. And also—”
“Yes?”
“I think you are kind.”
Poirot nodded his head several times.
“It is very good that—yes, it is very good. Listen, I do in verity believe that this husband of yours is innocent—but the affair marches badly. If I am to save him, I must know all there is to know—even if it should seem to make the case against him blacker than before.”
“How well you understand,” said Ursula.
“So you will tell me the whole story, will you not? From the beginning.”
“You’re not going to send me away, I hope,” said Caroline, settling herself comfortably in an armchair. “What I want to know,” she continued, “is why this child was masquerading as a parlourmaid?”
“Masquerading?” I queried.
“That’s what I said. Why did you do it, child? For a wager?”
“For a living,” said Ursula drily.
And encouraged, she began the story which I reproduce here in my own words.
Ursula Bourne, it seemed, was one of a family of seven—impoverished Irish gentlefolk. On the death of her father, most of the girls were cast out into the world to earn their own living. Ursula’s eldest sister was married to Captain Folliott. It was she whom I had seen that Sunday, and the cause of her embarrassment was clear enough now. Determined to earn her living and not attracted to the idea of being a nursery governess—the one profession open to an untrained girl—Ursula preferred the job of parlourmaid. She scorned to label herself a “lady parlourmaid.” She would be the real thing, her reference being supplied by her sister. At Fernly, despite an aloofness which, as has been seen, caused some comment, she was a success at her job—quick, competent and thorough.
“I enjoyed the work,” she explained. “And I had plenty of time to myself.”
And then came her meeting with Ralph Paton, and