‘But I was held up by one point. The times did not fit. Ursula Bourne could certainly not have gone to the summer-house before nine-thirty, whereas the man must have got there by a few minutes past nine. I could, of course, assume that he waited there for half an hour. The only alternative supposition was that there had been two separate meetings in the summer-house that night. Eh bien, as soon as I went into that alternative I found several significant facts. I discovered that Miss Russell, the housekeeper, had visited Dr Sheppard that morning, and had displayed a good deal of interest in cures for victims of the drug habit. Taking that in conjunction with the goose quill, I assumed that the man in question came to Fernly to meet the housekeeper, and not Ursula Bourne. Who, then, did Ursula Bourne come to the rendezvous to meet? I was not long in doubt. First I found a ring – a wedding ring – with “From R.” and a date inside it. Then I learnt that Ralph Paton had been seen coming up the path which led to the summer-house at twenty-five minutes past nine, and I also heard of a certain conversation which had taken place in the wood near the village that very afternoon – a conversation between Ralph Paton and some unknown girl. So I had my facts succeeding each other in a neat and orderly manner. A secret marriage, an engagement announced on the day of the tragedy, the stormy interview in the wood, and the meeting arranged for the summer-house that night.
‘Incidentally this proved to me one thing, that both Ralph Paton and Ursula Bourne (or Paton) had the strongest motives for wishing Mr Ackroyd out of the way. And it also made one other point unexpectedly clear. It could not have been Ralph Paton who was with Mr Ackroyd in the study at nine-thirty.
‘So we come to another and most interesting aspect of the crime. Who was it in the room with Mr Ackroyd at nine-thirty?
Not Ralph Paton, who was in the summer-house with his wife.
Not Charles Kent, who had already left. Who, then? I posed my cleverest – my most audacious question: Was anyone with him?’ Poirot leaned forward and shot the last words triumphantly at us, drawing back afterwards with the air of one who has made a decided hit.
Raymond, however, did not seem impressed, and lodged a mild protest.
‘I don’t know if you’re trying to make me out a liar, M.
Poirot, but the matter does not rest on my evidence alone except perhaps as to the exact words used. Remember, Major Blunt also heard Mr Ackroyd talking to someone. He was on the terrace outside, and couldn’t catch the words clearly, but he distinctly heard the voices.’ Poirot nodded.
‘I have not forgotten,’ he said quietly. ‘But Major Blunt was under the impression that it wasyou to whom Mr Ackroyd was speaking.’ For a moment Raymond seemed taken aback. Then he recovered himself.
‘Blunt knows now that he was mistaken,’ he said.
‘Exactly,’ agreed the other man.
‘Yet there must have been some reason for his thinking so,’ mused Poirot. ‘Oh! no,’ he held up his hand in protest, ‘I know the reason you will give – but it is not enough. We must seek elsewhere. I will put it this way. From the beginning of the case I have been struck by one thing – the nature of those words which Mr Raymond overheard. It has been amazing to me that no one has commented on them has seen anything odd about them.’ He paused a minute, and then quoted softly: ‘… the calb on my purse have been so frequent of late that I fear it is impossible for me to accede to your request. Does nothing strike you as odd about that?’ ‘I don’t think so,’ said Raymond. ‘He has frequently dictated letters to me, using almost exactly those same words.’ ‘Exactly,’ cried Poirot. ‘That is what I seek to arrive at.
Would any man use such a prase in talking to another?
Impossible that that should be part of a real conversation.