“As for that,” remarked Poirot nonchalantly, “there is a saying, is there not,

that Englishmen conceal only one thing—their love? And Major Blunt, I should

say, is not good at concealments.”

 

“Sometimes,” I said, “I wonder if we haven’t rather jumped to conclusions on one

point.”

 

“What is that?”

 

“We’ve assumed that the blackmailer of Mrs. Ferrars is necessarily the murderer

of Mr. Ackroyd. Mightn’t we be mistaken?”

 

Poirot nodded energetically.

 

“Very good. Very good indeed. I wondered if that idea would come to you. Of

course it is possible. But we must remember one point. The letter disappeared.

Still, that, as you say, may not necessarily mean that the murderer took it.

When you first found the body, Parker may have abstracted the letter unnoticed

by you.”

 

“Parker?”

 

“Yes, Parker. I always come back to Parker—not as the murderer—no, he did not

commit the murder; but who is more suitable than he as the mysterious scoundrel