‘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 arm-chair. ‘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. Detemined 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 the love affair which culminated in a secret marriage. Ralph had persuaded her into that, somewhat against her will. He had declared that his stepfather would not hear of his marrying a penniless girl. Better to be married secretly, and break the news to him at some later and more favourable minute.
And so the deed was done, and Ursula Bourne became Ursula Paton. Ralph had declared that he meant to pay off his debts, find a job, and then, when he was in a position to support her, and independent of his adopted father, they would break the news to him.
But to people like Ralph Paton, turning over a new leaf is easier in theory than in practice. He hoped that his stepfather, whilst still in ignorance of the marriage, might be persuaded to pay his debts and put him on his feet again.
But the revelation of the amount of Ralph’s liabilities merely enraged Roger Ackroyd, and he refused to do anything at all. Some months passed, and then Ralph was bidden once more to Fernly. Roger Ackroyd did not beat about the bush. It was the desire of his heart that Ralph should marry Flora, and he put the matter plainly before the young man.