“I thought, doctor, that you might put it to M. Poirot⁠—explain it, you know⁠—because it’s so difficult for a foreigner to see our point of view. And you don’t know⁠—nobody could know⁠—what I’ve had to contend with. A martyrdom⁠—a long martyrdom. That’s what my life has been. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead⁠—but there it is. Not the smallest bill but it had all to be gone over⁠—just as though Roger had had a few miserly hundreds a year instead of being (as Mr. Hammond told me yesterday) one of the wealthiest men in these parts.”

Mrs. Ackroyd paused to dab her eyes with the frilled handkerchief.

“Yes,” I said encouragingly. “You were talking about bills?”