I 181 ‘I admit everything; I was at my wits’ end for money. I never saw my uncle that evening after he left the dinnertable.
As to the money, you can take what steps you please.
Nothing could be worse than it is now!’ Suddenly she broke down again, hid her face in her hands, and rushed from the room.
‘Well,’ said the inspector in a flat tone, ‘so that’s that.’ He seemed rather at a loss what to do next.
Blunt came forward.
‘Inspector Raglan,’ he said quietly, ‘that money was given to me by Mr Ackroyd for a special purpose. Miss Ackroyd never touched it. When she says she did, she is lying with the idea of shielding Captain Paton. The truth is as I said, and I am prepared to go into the witness-box and swear to it.’ He made a kind of jerky bow, then turning abruptly he left the room.
Poirot was after him in a flash. He caught the other up in the hall.
‘Monsieur – a moment, I beg of you, if you will be so good.’ ‘Well, sir?’ Blunt was obviously impatient. He stood frowning down on Poirot.
‘It is this,’ said Poirot rapidly: ‘I am not deceived by your little fantasy. No, indeed. It was truly Miss Flora who took the money. All the same it is well imagined what you say – it pleases me. It is very good what you have done there. You are a man quick to think and to act.’ ‘I’m not in the least anxious for your opinion, thank you,’ said Blunt coldly.
He made once more as though to pass on, but Poirot, not at all offended, laid a detaining hand on his arm.
‘Ah! but you are to listen to me. I have more to say. The other day I spoke of concealments. Very well, all along I have seen what you are concealing. Mademoiselle Flora, you love her with all your heart. From the first moment you saw her, is it not so? Oh! let us not mind saying these things – why must one in England think it necessary to mention love as though it were some disgraceful secret? You love Mademoiselle Flora. You seek to conceal that fact from all the world. That is very good – that is as it should be. But take the advice of Hercule Poirot – do not conceal it from mademoiselle herself.’ Blunt had shown several signs of restlessness whilst Poirot was speaking, but the closing words seemed to rivet his attention.
‘What d’you mean by that?’ he said sharply.
‘You think that she loves the Capitaine Ralph Paton – but I, Hercule Poirot, tell you that that is not so. Mademoiselle Flora accepted Captain Paton to please her uncle, and because she saw in the marriage a way of escape from her life here which was becoming frankly insupportable to her. She liked him, and there was much sympathy and understanding between them.
But love – no! It is not Captain Paton Mademoiselle Flora loves.’ ‘What the devil do you mean?’ asked Blunt.
I saw the dark flush under his tan.
‘You have been blind, monsieur. Blind! She is loyal, the little one. Ralph Paton is under a cloud, she is bound in honour to stick by him.’ I felt it was time I put in a word to help on the good work.
‘My sister told me the other night,’ I said encouragingly, ‘that Flora had never cared a penny piece for Ralph Paton, and never would. My sister is always right about these things.’ Blunt ignored my well-meant offers. He spoke to Poirot.
‘D’you really think -‘ he began, and stopped.
He is one of those inarticulate men who find it hard to put things into words.
Poirot knows no such disability.
‘If you doubt me, ask her yourself, monsieur. But perhaps you no longer care to – the affair of the money ‘ Blunt gave a sound like an angry laugh.
‘Think I’d hold that against her? Roger was always a queer chap about money. She got in a mess and didn’t dare tell him.
Poor kid. Poor lonely kid.’ Poirot looked thoughtfully at the side door.