I looked at Poirot, full of my discovery, and he gave me an imperceptible nod.
In answer to Miss Russell’s question, he threw out his hands in a thoroughly French gesture.
“I thought you might be interested, that is all,” he said mildly.
“Well I’m not particularly,” said Miss Russell. “Who is this Charles Kent anyway?”
“He is a man, mademoiselle, who was at Fernly on the night of the murder.”
“Really?”
“Fortunately for him, he has an alibi. At a quarter to ten he was at a public-house a mile from here.”
“Lucky for him,” commented Miss Russell.
“But we still do not know what he was doing at Fernly—who it was he went to meet, for instance.”
“I’m afraid I can’t help you at all,” said the housekeeper politely. “Nothing came to my ears. If that is all—”
She made a tentative movement as though to rise. Poirot stopped her.
“It is not quite all,” he said smoothly. “This morning fresh developments have arisen. It seems now that Mr. Ackroyd was murdered, not at a quarter to ten, but before . Between ten minutes to nine, when Dr. Sheppard left, and a quarter to ten.”
I saw the colour drain from the housekeeper’s face, leaving it dead white. She leaned forward, her figure swaying.