“Yes, indeed,” I said eagerly. “There’s nothing I should like better. You don’t know what a dull old fogey’s life I lead. Never anything out of the ordinary.”
“Good, we will be colleagues then. In a minute or two I fancy Major Blunt will join us. He is not happy with the good mamma. Now there are some things I want to know—but I do not wish to seem to want to know them. You comprehend? So it will be your part to ask the questions.”
“What questions do you want me to ask?” I asked apprehensively.
“I want you to introduce the name of Mrs. Ferrars.”
“Yes?”
“Speak of her in a natural fashion. Ask him if he was down here when her husband died. You understand the kind of thing I mean. And while he replies, watch his face without seeming to watch it. C’est compris? ”
There was no time for more, for at that minute, as Poirot had prophesied, Blunt left the others in his abrupt fashion and came over to us.
I suggested strolling on the terrace, and he acquiesced. Poirot stayed behind.
I stopped to examine a late rose.
“How things change in the course of a day or two,” I observed. “I was up here last Wednesday, I remember, walking up and down this same terrace. Ackroyd was with me—full of spirits. And now—three days later—Ackroyd’s dead, poor fellow. Mrs. Ferrar’s dead—you knew her, didn’t you? But of course you did.”
Blunt nodded his head.