I think the same thought must have occurred to colonel Melrose, for he frowned.
‘Anything more you want to see, M. Poirot?’ he inquired brusquely.
‘You would perhaps be so kind as to show me the silver table from which the weapon was taken? After that, I will trespass on your kindness no longer.’
We went to the drawing-room, but on the way the constable waylaid the colonel, and after a muttered conversation the latter excused himself and left us together. I showed Poirot the silver table, and after raising the lid once or twice and letting it fall, he pushed open the window and stepped out on the terrace. I followed him.
Inspector Raglan had just turned the corner of the house, and was coming towards us. His face looked grim and satisfied.
‘So there you are, M. Poirot,’ he said. ‘Well, this isn’t going to be much of a case. I’m sorry, too. A nice enough young fellow gone wrong.’
Poirot’s face fell, and he spoke very mildly.
‘I’m afraid I shall not be able to be of much aid to you, then?’
‘Next time, perhaps,’ said the inspector soothingly. ‘Though we don’t have murders every day in this quiet little corner of the world.’
Poirot’s gaze took on an admiring quality.
‘You have been of a marvellous promptness,’ he observed. ‘How exactly did you go to work, if I may ask?’ ‘certainly,’ said the inspector.
‘To begin with – method. That’s what I always say – method!’
‘Ah!’ cried the other. ‘That, too, is my watchword. Method, order, and the little grey cells.’
‘The cells?’ said the inspector, staring.
‘The little grey cells of the brain,’ explained the Belgian.
‘Oh, of course; well, we all use them, I suppose.’
‘In a greater or lesser degree,’ murmured Poirot. ‘And there are, too, differences in quality. Then there is the psychology of a crime. One must study that.’
‘Ah!’ said the inspector, ‘you’ve been bitten with all this psycho-analysis stuff? Now, I’m a plain man-’
‘Mrs Raglan would not agree, I am sure, to that,’ said Poirot, making him a little bow.
Inspector Raglan, a little taken aback, bowed.
‘You don’t understand,’ he said, grinning broadly. ‘Lord, what a lot of difference language makes. I’m telling you how I set to work. first of all, method. Mr Ackroyd was last seen alive at a quarter to ten by his niece, Miss Flora Ackroyd. That’s fact number one, isn’t it?’