The Murder of Roger Ackroyd / Убийство Роджера Экройда

‘Did Poirot ask you any more questions?’ I inquired.

‘Only about the patients you had that morning.’

‘The patients?’ I demanded, unbelievingly.

‘Yes, your surgery patients. How many and who they were.’

‘Do you mean to say you were able to tell him that?’ I demanded.

Caroline is really amazing.

‘Why not?’ asked my sister triumphantly. ‘I can see the path up to the surgery door perfectly from this window. And I’ve got an excellent memory, James. Much better than yours, let me tell you.

‘I’m sure you have,’ I murmured mechanically.

My sister went on, checking the names on her fingers.

‘There was old Mrs Bennett, and that boy from the farm with the bad finger, Dolly Grice to have a needle out of her finger; that American steward off the liner. Let me see – that’s four. Yes, and old George Evans with his ulcer. And lastly-’

She paused significantly.

‘Well?’

Caroline brought out her climax triumphantly. She hissed it in the most approved style – aided by the fortunate number of s’s at her disposal.

‘Miss Russell!’

She sat back in her chair and looked at me meaningly, and when Caroline looks at you meaningly, it is impossible to miss it.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said, quite untruthfully. ‘Why shouldn’t Miss Russell consult me about her bad knee?’

‘Bad knee,’ said Caroline. ‘Fiddlesticks! No more bad knee than you and I. She was after something else.’

‘What?’ I asked.

Caroline had to admit that she didn’t know.

‘But depend upon it, that was what he was trying to get at – M. Poirot, I mean. There’s something fishy about that woman, and he knows it.’

‘Precisely the remark Mrs Ackroyd made to me yesterday,’ I said. ‘That there was something fishy about Miss Russell.’

‘Ah!’ said Caroline darkly, ‘Mrs Ackroyd! There’s another!’

‘Another what?’

Caroline refused to explain her remarks. She merely nodded her head several times, rolling up her knitting, and went upstairs to don the high mauve silk blouse and the gold locket which she calls dressing for dinner.

I stayed there staring into the fire and thinking over Caroline’s words. Had Poirot really come to gain information about Miss Russell, or was it only Caroline’s tortuous mind that interpreted everything according to her own ideas?

There had certainly been nothing in Miss Russell’s manner that morning to arouse suspicion.