“As I say, it’s nothing of consequence—just this. I was in debt—badly, and that legacy came in the nick of time. Five hundred pounds puts me on my feet again with a little to spare.”
He smiled at us both with that engaging frankness that made him such a likable youngster.
“You know how it is. Suspicious looking policeman—don’t like to admit you were hard up for money—think it will look bad to them. But I was a fool, really, because Blunt and I were in the billiard room from a quarter to ten onwards, so I’ve got a watertight alibi and nothing to fear. Still, when you thundered out that stuff about concealing things, I felt a nasty prick of conscience, and I thought I’d like to get it off my mind.”
He got up again and stood smiling at us.
“You are a very wise young man,” said Poirot, nodding at him with approval. “See you, when I know that any one is hiding things from me, I suspect that the thing hidden may be something very bad indeed. You have done well.”
“I’m glad I’m cleared from suspicion,” laughed Raymond. “I’ll be off now.”
“So that is that,” I remarked, as the door closed behind the young secretary.
“Yes,” agreed Poirot. “A mere bagatelle—but if he had not been in the billiard room—who knows? After all, many crimes have been committed for the sake of less than five hundred pounds. It all depends on what sum is sufficient to break a man. A question of the relativity, is it not so? Have you reflected, my friend, that many people in that house stood to benefit by Mr. Ackroyd’s death? Mrs. Ackroyd, Miss Flora, young Mr. Raymond, the housekeeper, Miss Russell. Only one, in fact, does not, Major Blunt.”
His tone in uttering that name was so peculiar that I looked up, puzzled.
“I don’t quite understand you?” I said.