‘Had you seen her since you’d been down this time?’ ‘Went with Ackroyd to call. Last Tuesday, think it was.
Fascinating woman – but something queer about her. Deep – one would never know what she was up to.’ I looked into his steady grey eyes. Nothing there surely. I went on: ‘I suppose you’d met her before?’ ‘Last time I was here – she and her husband had just come here to live.’ He paused a minute and then added: ‘Rum thing, she had changed a lot between then and now.’ ‘How – changed?’ I asked.
‘Looked ten years older.’ ‘Were you down here when her husband died?’ I asked, trying to make the question sound as casual as possible.
‘No. From all I heard it would be good riddance. Uncharitable, perhaps, but the truth.’ I agreed.
‘Ashley Ferrars was by no means a pattern husband,’ I said cautiously.
‘Blackguard, I thought,’ said Blunt.
‘No,’ I said, ‘only a man with more money than was good for him.’ ‘Oh! money! All the troubles in the world can be put down to money – or the lack of it.’ ‘Which has been your particular trouble?’ I asked.
‘Enough for what I want. I’m one of the lucky ones.’ ‘Indeed.’ ‘I’m not too flush just now, as a matter of fact. Came into a legacy a year ago, and like a fool let myself be persuaded into putting it into some wild-cat scheme.’ I sympathized, and narrated my own similar trouble.
Then the gong pealed out, and we all went in to lunch.
Poirot drew me back a little.
Why shouldn’t he? I’ll swear the man is perfectly square and above board.’ ‘Without doubt, without doubt,’ said Poirot soothingly.
‘Do not upset yourself.’ He spoke as though to a fractious child.
We all trooped into the dining-room. It seemed incredible that less than twenty-four hours had passed since I last sat at that table.
Afterwards, Mrs Ackroyd took me aside and sat down with me on a sofa.
‘I can’t help feeling a little hurt,’ she murmured, producing a handkerchief of the kind obviously not meant to be cried into. ‘Hurt, I mean, by Roger’s lack of confidence in me. That twenty thousand pounds ought to have been left to me – not to Flora. A mother could be trusted to safeguard the interests of her child. A lack of trust, I call it.’ ‘You forget, Mrs Ackroyd,’ I said, ‘Flora was Ackroyd’s own niece, a blood relation. It would have been different had you been his sister instead of his sister-in-law.’ ‘As poor Cecil’s widow, I think my feelings ought to have been considered,’ said the lady, touching her eyelashes gingerly with the handkerchief. ‘But Roger was always most peculiar – not to say mean – about money matters. It has been a most difficult position for both Flora and myself. He did not even give the poor child an allowance. He would pay her bills, you know, and even that with a good deal of reluctance and asking what she wanted all those fal-lals for so like a man – but – now I’ve forgotten what it was I was going to say! Oh, yes, not a penny we could call our own, you know. Flora resented it – yes, I must say she resented it – very strongly. Though devoted to her uncle, of course.
But any girl would have resented it. Yes, I must say Roger had very strange ideas about money. He wouldn’t even buy new face towels, though I told him the old ones were in boles. And then,’ proceeded Mrs Ackroyd, with a sudden leap highly characteristic of her conversation, ‘to leave all that money – a thousand pounds, fancy, a thousand pounds!
– to that woman.’ ‘What woman?’ ‘That Russell woman. Something very queer about her, and so I’ve always said. But Roger wouldn’t hear a word against her. Said she was a woman of great force of character, and that he admired and respected her. He was always going on about her rectitude and independence and moral worth. / think there’s something fishy about her. She was certainly doing her best to marry Roger. But I soon put a stop to that. She always hated me. Naturally. / saw through her.’ I began to wonder if there was any chance of stemming Mrs Ackroyd’s eloquence, and getting away.