“My dear Caroline—”
“Now, James, don’t interrupt me. I know what I’m talking about. Parker met her outside the door, didn’t he? He didn’t hear her uncle saying goodnight to her. She could have killed him then and there.”
“Caroline.”
“I’m not saying she did , James. I’m saying she could have done. As a matter of fact, though Flora is like all these young girls nowadays, with no veneration for their betters and thinking they know best on every subject under the sun, I don’t for a minute believe she’d kill even a chicken. But there it is. Mr. Raymond and Major Blunt have alibis. Mrs. Ackroyd’s got an alibi. Even that Russell woman seems to have one—and a good job for her it is she has. Who is left? Only Ralph and Flora! And say what you will, I don’t believe Ralph Paton is a murderer. A boy we’ve known all our lives.”
Poirot was silent for a minute, watching the curling smoke rise from his cigarette. When at last he spoke, it was in a gentle faraway voice that produced a curious impression. It was totally unlike his usual manner.
“Let us take a man—a very ordinary man. A man with no idea of murder in his heart. There is in him somewhere a strain of weakness—deep down. It has so far never been called into play. Perhaps it never will be—and if so he will go to his grave honoured and respected by everyone. But let us suppose that something occurs. He is in difficulties—or perhaps not that even. He may stumble by accident on a secret—a secret involving life or death to someone. And his first impulse will be to speak out—to do his duty as an honest citizen. And then the strain of weakness tells: Here is a chance of money—a great amount of money. He wants