“The cook has been here seven years, the parlormaid eighteen months, and Parker just over a year. The others are new. Except for something fishy about Parker, they all seem quite all right.”
“A very complete list,” said Poirot, handing it back to him. “I am quite sure that Parker did not do the murder,” he added gravely.
“So is my sister,” I struck in. “And she’s usually right.” Nobody paid any attention to my interpolation.
“That disposes pretty effectually of the household,” continued the inspector. “Now we come to a very grave point. The woman at the lodge—Mary Black—was pulling the curtains last night when she saw Ralph Paton turn in at the gate and go up towards the house.”
“She is sure of that?” I asked sharply.
“Quite sure. She knows him well by sight. He went past very quickly and turned off by the path to the right, which is a short cut to the terrace.”
“And what time was that?” asked Poirot, who had sat with an immovable face.
“Exactly twenty-five minutes past nine,” said the inspector gravely.
There was a silence. Then the inspector spoke again.
“It’s all clear enough. It fits in without a flaw. At twenty-five minutes past nine, Captain Paton is seen passing the lodge; at nine-thirty or thereabouts, Mr. Geoffrey Raymond hears some one in here asking for money and Mr. Ackroyd refusing. What happens next? Captain Paton leaves the same way—through the window. He walks along the terrace, angry and baffled. He comes to the open drawing-room window. Say it’s now a quarter to ten. Miss Flora Ackroyd is saying good-night to her uncle. Major Blunt, Mr. Raymond, and Mrs. Ackroyd are in the billiard room. The drawing-room is empty. He steals in, takes the dagger from the silver table, and returns to the study window. He slips off his shoes, climbs in, and—well, I don’t need to go into details. Then he slips out again and goes off. Hadn’t the nerve to go back to the inn. He makes for the station, rings up from there——”