“Doctor, how can you? Have you forgotten? That dreadful little Frenchman⁠—or Belgian⁠—or whatever he is. Bullying us all like he did. It has quite upset me. Coming on the top of Roger’s death.”

“I’m very sorry, Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said.

“I don’t know what he meant⁠—shouting at us like he did. I should hope I know my duty too well to dream of concealing anything. I have given the police every assistance in my power.”

Mrs. Ackroyd paused, and I said, “Quite so.” I was beginning to have a glimmering of what all the trouble was about.