The Murder of Roger Ackroyd Agatha Christie (e book free reading TXT) 📖

will be there at nine o’clock.”

Thereupon I took my leave, and joined Poirot at the agreed meeting place.

“I’ve been longer than a quarter of an hour, I’m afraid,” I remarked. “But once that good lady starts talking it’s a matter of the utmost difficulty to get a word in edgeways.”

“It is of no matter,” said Poirot. “I have been well amused. This park is magnificent.”

We set off homewards. When we arrived, to our great surprise Caroline, who had evidently been watching for us, herself opened the door.

She put her finger to her lips. Her face was full of importance and excitement.

“Ursula Bourne,” she said, “the parlour maid from Fernly. She’s here! I’ve put her in the dining room. She’s in a terrible way, poor thing. Says she must see M. Poirot at once. I’ve done all I could. Taken her a cup of hot tea. It really goes to one’s heart to see anyone in such a state.”

“In the dining-room?” asked Poirot.

“This way,” I said, and flung open the door.

Ursula Bourne was sitting by the table. Her arms were spread out in front of her, and she had evidently just lifted her head from where it had been buried. Her eyes were red with weeping.

“Ursula Bourne,” I murmured.

But Poirot went past me with outstretched hands.

“No,” he said, “that is not quite right, I think. It is not Ursula Bourne, is it my child⁠—but Ursula Paton? Mrs. Ralph Paton.”

XXII Ursula’s Story

For a moment or two the girl looked mutely at Poirot. Then, her reserve breaking down completely, she nodded her head once, and burst into an outburst of sobs.

Caroline pushed past me, and putting her arm round the girl, patted her on the shoulder.

“There, there, my dear,” she said soothingly, “it will be all right. You’ll see⁠—everything will be all right.”

Buried under curiosity and scandal-mongering there is a lot of kindness in Caroline. For the moment, even the interest of Poirot’s revelation was lost in the sight of the girl’s distress.

Presently Ursula sat up and wiped her eyes.

“This is very weak and silly of me,” she said.

“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 armchair. “What I want to know,” she continued, “is why this child was masquerading as a parlour maid?”

“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. Determined 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 parlour maid. She scorned to label herself a “lady parlour maid.” 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