THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
"Well?" I said, with some curiosity.
"Nothing. But I can think of some one not a hundred miles away."
Then she turned to Poirot suddenly.
"James sticks to it that you believe some one in the house committed the murder. All I can say is, you're wrong."
"I should not like to be wrong," said Poirot. "It is not—how do you say—my metier?"
"I've got the facts pretty clearly," continued Caroline, taking no notice of Poirot's remark, "from James and others. As far as I can see, of the people in the house, only two could have had the chance of doing it. Ralph Paton and Flora Ackroyd."
"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 good-night 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
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