‘I don’t think there’s anything wrong with her,’ observed the inspector, after he had dismissed her. ‘What about Parker?’ Miss Russell pursed her lips together and made no reply.
‘I’ve a feeling there’s something wrong about that man,’ the inspector continued thoughtfully. ‘The trouble is that I don’t quite see when he got his opportunity. He’d be busy with his duties immediately after dinner, and he’d got a pretty good alibi all through the evening. I know, for I’ve been devoting particular attention to it. Well, thank you very much. Miss Russell. We’ll leave things as they are for the present. It’s highly probable Mr Ackroyd paid that money away himself.’ The housekeeper bade us a dry good afternoon, and we took our leave.
I left the house with Poirot.
‘I wonder,’ I said, breaking the silence, ‘what the papers the girl disarranged could have been for Ackroyd to have got into such a state about them? I wonder if there is any clue there to the mystery.’ ‘The secretary said there were no papers of particular importance on the desk,’ said Poirot quietly.
‘Yes, but -‘ I paused.
‘It strikes you as odd that Ackroyd should have flown into a rage about so trivial a matter?’ ‘Yes, it does rather.’ ‘But was it a trivial matter?’ ‘Of course,’ I admitted, ‘we don’t know what those papers may have been. But Raymond certainly said ‘ ‘Leave M. Raymond out of it for a minute. What did you think of that girl?’ ‘Which girl? The parlourmaid?’ ‘Yes, the parlourmaid. Ursula Bourne.’ ‘She seemed a nice girl,’ I said hesitatingly.
Poirot repeated my words, but whereas I had laid a slight stress on the fourth word, he put it on the second.
‘She seemed a nice girl – yes.’ Then, after a minute’s silence, he took something from his pocket and handed it to me.
‘See, my friend, I will show you something. Look there.’ The paper he had handed me was that compiled by the inspector and given by him to Poirot that morning.
Following the pointing finger, I saw a small cross marked in pencil opposite the name Ursula Bourne.
‘You may not have noticed it at the time, my good friend, but there was one person on this list whose alibi had no kind of confirmation. Ursula Bourne.’ ‘You don’t think-?’ ‘Dr Sheppard, I dare to think anything. Ursula Bourne may have killed Mr Ackroyd, but I confess I can see no motive for her doing so. Can you?’ He looked at me very hard – so hard that I felt uncomfortable.
‘Can you?’ he repeated.
‘No motive whatsoever,’ I said firmly.
His gaze relaxed. He frowned and murmured to himself: ‘Since the blackmailer was a man, it follows that she cannot be the blackmailer, then ‘ I coughed.
‘As far as that goes -‘ I began doubtfully.
He spun round on me.
‘What? What are you going to say?’ ‘Nothing, Nothing. Only that, strictly speaking, Mrs Ferrars in her letter mentioned a person – she didn’t actually specify a man. But we took it for granted, Ackroyd and I, that it was a man.’ Poirot did not seem to be listening to me. He was muttering to himself again.
‘But then it is possible after all – yes, certainly it is possible – but then – ah! I must rearrange my ideas.
Method, order, never have I needed them more. Everything must fit in – in its appointed place – otherwise I am on the wrong track.’ He broke off, and whirled round upon me again.
‘Where is Marby?’ ‘It’s on the other side of Cranchester.’ ‘How far away?’ ‘Oh! – fourteen miles, perhaps.’ ‘Would it be possible for you to go there? Tomorrow, say?’ Tomorrrow? Let me see, that’s Sunday. Yes, I could arrange it. What do you want me to do there?’ ‘See this Mrs Folliott. Find out all you can about Ursula Bourne.’ ‘Very well. But – I don’t much care for the job.’ ‘It is not the time to make difficulties. A man’s life may hang on this.’ ‘Poor Ralph,’ I said with a sigh. ‘You believe him to be innocent, though?’ Poirot looked at me very gravely.