With a cry Mrs. Ackroyd sprang up, her throat working.

 

“I don’t like it,” she wailed. “I don’t like it. I would much prefer to go

home.”

 

“You cannot go home, madame,” said Poirot sternly, “until you have heard what I

have to say.”

 

He paused a moment, then cleared his throat.

 

“I will start at the beginning. When Miss Ackroyd asked me to investigate the

case, I went up to Fernly Park with the good Dr.

 

Sheppard. I walked with him along the terrace, where I was shown the footprints

on the window-sill. From there Inspector Raglan took me along the path which

leads to the drive. My eye was caught by a little summer-house, and I searched

it thoroughly. I found two things—a scrap of starched cambric and an empty goose

quill. The scrap of cambric immediately suggested to me a maid’s apron. When

Inspector Raglan showed me his list of the people in the house, I noticed at

once that one of the maids—Ursula Bourne, the parlormaid—had no real alibi.

 

According to her own story, she was in her bedroom from nine-thirty until ten.

But supposing that instead she was in the summer-house?