The murder of Roger Ackroyd
“His meaning. Of course Ralph is in Cranchester.”
It was at that moment that I knocked down the rack that held my pieces.
My sister immediately reproved me for clumsiness, but half-heartedly.
She was intent on her theory.
“Cranchester, Miss Caroline?” said Colonel Carter. “Surely not
Cranchester! It’s so near.”
“That’s exactly it,” cried Caroline triumphantly. “It seems quite clear
by now that he didn’t get away from here by train. He must simply have
walked into Cranchester. And I believe he’s there still. No one would
dream of his being so near at hand.”
I pointed out several objections to the theory, but when once Caroline
has got something firmly into her head, nothing dislodges it.
“And you think M. Poirot has the same idea,” said Miss Ganett
thoughtfully. “It’s a curious coincidence, but I was out for a walk
this afternoon on the Cranchester road, and he passed me in a car
coming from that direction.”
We all looked at each other.
“Why, dear me,” said Miss Ganett suddenly, “I’m Mah Jong all the time,
and I never noticed it.”
Caroline’s attention was distracted from her own inventive exercises.
She pointed out to Miss Ganett that a hand consisting of mixed suits
and too many Chows was hardly worth going Mah Jong on. Miss Ganett
listened imperturbably and collected her counters.
“Yes, dear, I know what you mean,” she said. “But it rather depends on
what kind of a hand you have to start with, doesn’t it?”
“You’ll never get the big hands if you don’t go for them,” urged
Caroline.
“Well, we must all play our own way, mustn’t we?” said Miss Ganett. She
looked down at her counters. “After all, I’m up, so far.”
Caroline, who was considerably down, said nothing.
East Wind passed, and we set to once more. Annie brought in the tea
things. Caroline and Miss Ganett were both slightly ruffled as is
often the case during one of these festive evenings.
“If you would only play a leetle quicker, dear,” said Caroline, as Miss
Ganett hesitated over her discard. “The Chinese put down the tiles so
quickly it sounds like little birds pattering.”
For some few minutes we played like the Chinese.
“You haven’t contributed much to the sum of information, Sheppard,”
said Colonel Carter genially. “You’re a sly dog. Hand in glove with the
great detective, and not a hint as to the way things are going.”
“James is an extraordinary creature,” said Caroline. “He can _not_
bring himself to part with information.”
She looked at me with some disfavor.
“I assure you,” I said, “that I don’t know anything. Poirot keeps his
own counsel.”
“Wise man,” said the colonel with a chuckle. “He doesn’t give himself
away. But they’re wonderful fellows, these foreign detectives. Up to
all sorts of dodges, I believe.”
“Pung,” said Miss Ganett, in a tone of quiet triumph. “And Mah Jong.”
The situation became more strained. It was annoyance at Miss Ganett’s
going Mah Jong for the third time running which prompted Caroline to
say to me as we built a fresh wall:—
“You are too tiresome, James. You sit there like a dead head, and say
nothing at all!”
“But, my dear,” I protested, “I have really nothing to say—that is, of
the kind you mean.”
“Nonsense,” said Caroline, as she sorted her hand. “You _must_ know
something interesting.”
I did not answer for a moment. I was overwhelmed and intoxicated. I had
read of there being such a thing as the Perfect Winning—going Mah Jong
on one’s original hand. I had never hoped to hold the hand myself.
With suppressed triumph I laid my hand face upwards on the table.
“As they say in the Shanghai Club,” I remarked, “Tin-ho—the Perfect
Winning!”
The colonel’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head.
“Upon my soul,” he said. “What an extraordinary thing. I never saw that
happen before!”
It was then that I went on, goaded by Caroline’s gibes, and rendered
reckless by my triumph.
“And as to anything interesting,” I said. “What about a gold wedding
ring with a date and ‘From R.’ inside.”
I pass over the scene that followed. I was made to say exactly where
this treasure was found. I was made to reveal the date.
“March 13th,” said Caroline. “Just six months ago. Ah!”
Out of the babel of excited suggestions and suppositions three theories
were evolved:—
1. That of Colonel Carter: that Ralph was secretly married to Flora.
The first or most simple solution.
2. That of Miss Ganett: that Roger Ackroyd had been secretly married to
Mrs. Ferrars.
3. That of my sister: that Roger Ackroyd had married his housekeeper,
Miss Russell.
A fourth or super-theory was propounded by Caroline later as we went up
to bed.
“Mark my words,” she said suddenly, “I shouldn’t be at all surprised if
Geoffrey Raymond and Flora weren’t married.”
“Surely it would be ‘From G,’ not ‘From R’ then,” I suggested.
“You never know. Some girls call men by their surnames. And you heard
what Miss Ganett said this evening—about Flora’s carryings on.”
Strictly speaking, I had not heard Miss Ganett say anything of the
kind, but I respected Caroline’s knowledge of innuendoes.
“How about Hector Blunt,” I hinted. “If it’s anybody——”
“Nonsense,” said Caroline. “I dare say he admires her—may even be in
love with her. But depend upon it a girl isn’t going to fall in love
with a man old enough to be her father when there’s a good-looking
young secretary about. She may encourage Major Blunt just as a blind.
Girls are very artful. But there’s one thing I _do_ tell you, James
Sheppard. Flora Ackroyd does not care a penny piece for Ralph Paton,
and never has. You can take it from me.”
I took it from her meekly.
CHAPTER XVII
PARKER
It occurred to me the next morning that under the exhilaration
produced by Tin-ho, or the Perfect Winning, I might have been slightly
indiscreet. True, Poirot had not asked me to keep the discovery of
the ring to myself. On the other hand, he had said nothing about it
whilst at Fernly, and as far as I knew, I was the only person aware
that it had been found. I felt distinctly guilty. The fact was by now
spreading through King’s Abbot like wildfire. I was expecting wholesale
reproaches from Poirot any minute.
The joint funeral of Mrs. Ferrars and Roger Ackroyd was fixed for
eleven o’clock. It was a melancholy and impressive ceremony. All the
party from Fernly were there.
After it was over, Poirot, who had also been present, took me by the
arm, and invited me to accompany him back to The Larches. He was
looking very grave, and I feared that my indiscretion of the night
before had got round to his ears. But it soon transpired that his
thoughts were occupied by something of a totally different nature.
“See you,” he said. “We must act. With your help I propose to examine a
witness. We will question him, we will put such fear into him that the
truth is bound to come out.”
“What witness are you talking of?” I asked, very much surprised.
“Parker!” said Poirot. “I asked him to be at my house this morning at
twelve o’clock. He should await us there at this very minute.”
“What do you think,” I ventured, glancing sideways at his face.
“I know this—that I am not satisfied.”
“You think that it was he who blackmailed Mrs. Ferrars?”
“Either that, or——”
“Well?” I said, after waiting a minute or two.
“My friend, I will say this to you—I hope it was he.”
The gravity of his manner, and something indefinable that tinged it,
reduced me to silence.
On arrival at The Larches, we were informed that Parker was already
there awaiting our return. As we entered the room, the butler rose
respectfully.
“Good morning, Parker,” said Poirot pleasantly. “One instant, I pray of
you.”
He removed his overcoat and gloves.
“Allow me, sir,” said Parker, and sprang forward to assist him. He
deposited the articles neatly on a chair by the door. Poirot watched
him with approval.
“Thank you, my good Parker,” he said. “Take a seat, will you not? What
I have to say may take some time.”
Parker seated himself with an apologetic bend of the head.
“Now what do you think I asked you to come here for this morning—eh?”
Parker coughed.
“I understood, sir, that you wished to ask me a few questions about my
late master—private like.”
“_Précisément_,” said Poirot, beaming. “Have you made many experiments
in blackmail?”
“Sir!”
The butler sprang to his feet.
“Do not excite yourself,” said Poirot placidly. “Do not play the farce
of the honest, injured man. You know all there is to know about the
blackmail, is it not so?”
“Sir, I—I’ve never—never been——”
“Insulted,” suggested Poirot, “in such a way before. Then why, my
excellent Parker, were you so anxious to overhear the conversation in
Mr. Ackroyd’s study the other evening, after you had caught the word
blackmail?”
“I wasn’t—I——”
“Who was your last master?” rapped out Poirot suddenly.
“My last master?”
“Yes, the master you were with before you came to Mr. Ackroyd.”
“A Major Ellerby, sir——”
Poirot took the words out of his mouth.
“Just so, Major Ellerby. Major Ellerby was addicted to drugs, was he
not? You traveled about with him. When he was in Bermuda there was some
trouble—a man was killed. Major Ellerby was partly responsible. It was
hushed up. But you knew about it. How much did Major Ellerby pay you to
keep your mouth shut?”
Parker was staring at him open-mouthed. The man had gone to pieces, his
cheeks shook flabbily.
“You see, me, I have made inquiries,” said Poirot pleasantly. “It is
as I say. You got a good sum then as blackmail, and Major Ellerby went
on paying you until he died. Now I want to hear about your latest
experiment.”
Parker still stared.
“It is useless to deny. Hercule Poirot _knows_. It is so, what I have
said about Major Ellerby, is it not?”
As though against his will, Parker nodded reluctantly once. His face
was ashen pale.
“But I never hurt a hair of Mr. Ackroyd’s head,” he moaned. “Honest to
God, sir, I didn’t. I’ve been afraid of this coming all the time. And I
tell you I didn’t—I didn’t kill him.”
His voice rose almost to a scream.
“I am inclined to believe you, my friend,” said Poirot. “You have not
the nerve—the courage. But I must have the truth.”
“I’ll tell you anything, sir, anything you want to know. It’s true that
I tried to listen that night. A word or two I heard made me curious.
And Mr. Ackroyd’s wanting not to be disturbed, and shutting himself up
with the doctor the way he did. It’s God’s own truth what I told the
police. I heard the word blackmail, sir, and well——”
He paused.
“You thought there might be something in it for you?” suggested Poirot
smoothly.
“Well—well, yes, I did, sir. I thought that if Mr. Ackroyd was being
blackmailed, why shouldn’t I have a share of the pickings?”
A very curious expression passed over Poirot’s face. He leaned forward.
“Had you any reason to suppose before that night that Mr. Ackroyd was
being blackmailed?”
“No, indeed, sir. It was a great surprise to me. Such a regular
gentleman in all his habits.”
“How much did you overhear?”
“Not very much, sir. There seemed what I might call a spite against me.
Of course I had to attend to my duties in the pantry. And when I did
creep along once or twice to the study it was no use. The first time
Dr. Sheppard came out and almost caught me in the act, and another time
Mr. Raymond passed me in the big hall and went that way, so I knew it
was no use; and when I went with the tray, Miss Flora headed me off.”
Poirot stared for a long time at the man, as if to test his sincerity.
Parker returned his gaze earnestly.
“I hope you believe me, sir. I’ve been afraid all along the police
would rake up that old business with Major Ellerby and be suspicious of