The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Агата Кристи
another moment I should have been forced to tell Mrs Ackroyd as much.
“You know Major Blunt, don’t you, doctor?”
“Yes, indeed,” I said.
A lot of people know Hector Blunt—at least by repute. He has shot more wild animals in unlikely places than any man living, I suppose. When you mention him, people say: “Blunt—you don’t mean the big game man, do you?”
His friendship with Ackroyd has always puzzled me a little. The two men are so totally dissimilar. Hector Blunt is perhaps five years Ackroyd’s junior. They made friends early in life, and though their ways have diverged, the friendship still holds. About once in two years Blunt spends a fortnight at Fernly, and an immense animal’s head, with an amazing number of horns which fixes you with a glazed stare as soon as you come inside the front door, is a permanent reminder of the friendship.
Blunt had entered the room now with his own peculiar, deliberate, yet soft-footed tread. He is a man of medium height, sturdily and rather stockily built. His face is almost mahogany coloured, and is peculiarly expressionless. He has grey eyes that give the impression of always watching something that is happening very far away. He talks little, and what he does say is said jerkily, as though the words were forced out of him unwillingly.
He said now: “How are you, Sheppard?” in his usual abrupt fashion, and then stood squarely in front of the fireplace looking over our heads as though he saw something very interesting happening in Timbuctoo.
“Major Blunt,” said Flora, “I wish you’d tell me about these African things. I’m sure you know what they all are.”
I have heard Hector Blunt described as a woman hater, but I noticed that he joined Flora at the silver table with what might be described as alacrity. They bent over it together.
I was afraid Mrs Ackroyd would begin talking about settlements again, so I made a few hurried remarks about the new sweet pea. I knew there was a new sweet pea because the Daily Mail had told me so that morning. Mrs Ackroyd knows nothing about horticulture, but she is the kind of woman who likes to appear well-informed about the topics of the day, and she, too, reads the Daily Mail. We were able to converse quite intelligently until Ackroyd and his secretary joined us, and immediately afterwards Parker announced dinner.
My place at table was between Mrs Ackroyd and Flora. Blunt was on Mrs Ackroyd’s other side, and Geoffrey Raymond next to him.
Dinner was not a cheerful affair. Ackroyd was visibly preoccupied. He looked wretched, and ate next to nothing. Mrs Ackroyd, Raymond, and I kept the conversation going. Flora seemed affected by her uncle’s depression, and Blunt relapsed into his usual taciturnity.
II
Immediately after dinner Ackroyd slipped his arm through mine and led me off to his study.
“Once we’ve had coffee, we shan’t be disturbed again,” he explained. “I told Raymond to see to it that we shouldn’t be interrupted.”
I studied him quietly without appearing to do so. He was clearly under the influence of some strong excitement. For a minute or two he paced up and down the room, then, as Parker entered with the coffee tray, he sank into an armchair in front of the fire.
The study was a comfortable apartment. Bookshelves lined one wall of it. The chairs were big and covered in dark blue leather. A large desk stood by the window and was covered with papers neatly docketed and filed. On a round table were various magazines and sporting papers.
“I’ve had a return of that pain after food lately,” remarked Ackroyd calmly, as he helped himself to coffee. “You must give me some more of those tablets of yours.”
It struck me that he was anxious to convey the impression that our conference was a medical one. I played up accordingly.
“I thought as much. I brought some up with me.”
“Good man. Hand them over now.”
“They’re in my bag in the hall. I’ll get them.”
Ackroyd arrested me.
“Don’t you trouble. Parker will get them. Bring in the doctor’s bag, will you, Parker?”
“Very good, sir.”
Parker withdrew. As I was about to speak, Ackroyd threw up his hand.
“Not yet. Wait. Don’t you see I’m in such a state of nerves that I can hardly contain myself?”
I saw that plainly enough. And I was very uneasy. All sorts of forebodings assailed me.
Ackroyd spoke again almost immediately.
“Make certain that window’s closed, will you,” he asked.
Somewhat surprised, I got up and went to it. It was not a french window, but one of the ordinary sash type. The heavy blue velvet curtains were drawn in front of it, but the window itself was open at the top.
Parker re-entered the room with my bag while I was still at the window.
“That’s all right,” I said, emerging again into the room.
“You’ve put the latch across?”
“Yes, yes. What’s the matter with you, Ackroyd?”
The door had just closed behind Parker, or I would not have put the question.
Ackroyd waited just a minute before replying.
“I’m in hell,” he said slowly, after a minute. “No, don’t bother with those damn tablets. I only said that for Parker. Servants are so curious. Come here and sit down. The door’s closed too, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Nobody can overhear; don’t be uneasy.”
“Sheppard, nobody knows what I’ve gone through in the last twenty-four hours. If a man’s house ever fell in ruin about him, mine has about me. This business of Ralph’s is the last straw. But we won’t talk about that now. It’s the other—the other –! I don’t know what to do about it. And I’ve got to make up my mind soon.”
“What’s the trouble?”
Ackroyd remained silent for a minute or two. He seemed curiously averse to begin. When he did speak, the question he asked came as a complete surprise. It was the last thing I expected.
“Sheppard, you attended Ashley Ferrars in his last illness, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
He seemed to find even greater difficulty in framing his next question.
“Did you ever suspect—did it ever enter your head—that—well, that he might have been poisoned?”
I was silent for a minute or two. Then I made up my mind what to say. Roger Ackroyd was not Caroline.
“I’ll tell you the truth,” I said. “At the time I had no suspicion whatever, but since—well, it was mere idle talk on my sister’s part that first put the idea into my head. Since then I haven’t been able to get it out again. But, mind you, I’ve no foundation whatever for that suspicion.”
“He was poisoned,” said Ackroyd.
He spoke in a dull heavy voice.
“Who by?” I asked sharply.
“His wife.”
“How do you know that?”
“She told me so herself.”
“When?”
“Yesterday! My God! yesterday! It seems ten years ago.”
I waited a minute, then he went on.
“You understand, Sheppard, I’m telling you this in confidence. It’s to go no further. I want your advice—I can’t carry the whole weight by myself. As I said just now, I don’t know what to do.”