The murder of Roger Ackroyd
mechanical turn of mind, who had the opportunity to take the dagger
from the silver table before Miss Flora arrived, who had with him a
receptacle suitable for hiding the dictaphone—such as a black bag, and
who had the study to himself for a few minutes after the crime was
discovered while Parker was telephoning for the police. In fact—_Dr.
Sheppard!_”
CHAPTER XXVI
AND NOTHING BUT THE TRUTH
There was a dead silence for a minute and a half.
Then I laughed.
“You’re mad,” I said.
“No,” said Poirot placidly. “I am not mad. It was the little
discrepancy in time that first drew my attention to you—right at the
beginning.”
“Discrepancy in time?” I queried, puzzled.
“But yes. You will remember that every one agreed—you yourself
included—that it took five minutes to walk from the lodge to the
house—less if you took the short cut to the terrace. But you left the
house at ten minutes to nine—both by your own statement and that of
Parker, and yet it was nine o’clock as you passed through the lodge
gates. It was a chilly night—not an evening a man would be inclined to
dawdle; why had you taken ten minutes to do a five-minutes’ walk? All
along I realized that we had only your statement for it that the study
window was ever fastened. Ackroyd asked you if you had done so—he never
looked to see. Supposing, then, that the study window was unfastened?
Would there be time in that ten minutes for you to run round the
outside of the house, change your shoes, climb in through the window,
kill Ackroyd, and get to the gate by nine o’clock? I decided against
that theory since in all probability a man as nervous as Ackroyd was
that night would hear you climbing in, and then there would have been
a struggle. But supposing that you killed Ackroyd _before_ you left—as
you were standing beside his chair? Then you go out of the front door,
run round to the summer-house, take Ralph Paton’s shoes out of the bag
you brought up with you that night, slip them on, walk through the
mud in them, and leave prints on the window ledge, you climb in, lock
the study door on the inside, run back to the summer-house, change
back into your own shoes, and race down to the gate. (I went through
similar actions the other day, when you were with Mrs. Ackroyd—it took
ten minutes exactly.) Then home—and an alibi—since you had timed the
dictaphone for half-past nine.”
“My dear Poirot,” I said in a voice that sounded strange and forced to
my own ears, “you’ve been brooding over this case too long. What on
earth had I to gain by murdering Ackroyd?”
“Safety. It was you who blackmailed Mrs. Ferrars. Who could have had
a better knowledge of what killed Mr. Ferrars than the doctor who was
attending him? When you spoke to me that first day in the garden,
you mentioned a legacy received about a year ago. I have been unable
to discover any trace of a legacy. You had to invent some way of
accounting for Mrs. Ferrars’s twenty thousand pounds. It has not done
you much good. You lost most of it in speculation—then you put the
screw on too hard, and Mrs. Ferrars took a way out that you had not
expected. If Ackroyd had learnt the truth he would have had no mercy on
you—you were ruined for ever.”
“And the telephone call?” I asked, trying to rally. “You have a
plausible explanation of that also, I suppose?”
“I will confess to you that it was my greatest stumbling block when
I found that a call had actually been put through to you from King’s
Abbot station. I at first believed that you had simply invented the
story. It was a very clever touch, that. You must have some excuse for
arriving at Fernly, finding the body, and so getting the chance to
remove the dictaphone on which your alibi depended. I had a very vague
notion of how it was worked when I came to see your sister that first
day and inquired as to what patients you had seen on Friday morning. I
had no thought of Miss Russell in my mind at that time. Her visit was a
lucky coincidence, since it distracted your mind from the real object
of my questions. I found what I was looking for. Among your patients
that morning was the steward of an American liner. Who more suitable
than he to be leaving for Liverpool by the train that evening? And
afterwards he would be on the high seas, well out of the way. I noted
that the _Orion_ sailed on Saturday, and having obtained the name of
the steward I sent him a wireless message asking a certain question.
This is his reply you saw me receive just now.”
He held out the message to me. It ran as follows—
“Quite correct. Dr. Sheppard asked me to leave a note at a patient’s
house. I was to ring him up from the station with the reply. Reply was
‘No answer.’”
* * * * *
“It was a clever idea,” said Poirot. “The call was genuine. Your sister
saw you take it. But there was only one man’s word as to what was
actually said—your own!”
I yawned.
“All this,” I said, “is very interesting—but hardly in the sphere of
practical politics.”
“You think not? Remember what I said—the truth goes to Inspector Raglan
in the morning. But, for the sake of your good sister, I am willing to
give you the chance of another way out. There might be, for instance,
an overdose of a sleeping draught. You comprehend me? But Captain Ralph
Paton must be cleared—_ça va sans dire_. I should suggest that you
finish that very interesting manuscript of yours—but abandoning your
former reticence.”
“You seem to be very prolific of suggestions,” I remarked. “Are you
sure you’ve quite finished.”
“Now that you remind me of the fact, it is true that there is one thing
more. It would be most unwise on your part to attempt to silence me as
you silenced M. Ackroyd. That kind of business does not succeed against
Hercule Poirot, you understand.”
“My dear Poirot,” I said, smiling a little, “whatever else I may be, I
am not a fool.”
I rose to my feet.
“Well, well,” I said, with a slight yawn, “I must be off home. Thank
you for a most interesting and instructive evening.”
Poirot also rose and bowed with his accustomed politeness as I passed
out of the room.
CHAPTER XXVII
APOLOGIA
Five a.m. I am very tired—but I have finished my task. My arm aches
from writing.
A strange end to my manuscript. I meant it to be published some day as
the history of one of Poirot’s failures! Odd, how things pan out.
All along I’ve had a premonition of disaster, from the moment I saw
Ralph Paton and Mrs. Ferrars with their heads together. I thought then
that she was confiding in him; as it happened I was quite wrong there,
but the idea persisted even after I went into the study with Ackroyd
that night, until he told me the truth.
Poor old Ackroyd. I’m always glad that I gave him a chance. I urged him
to read that letter before it was too late. Or let me be honest—didn’t
I subconsciously realize that with a pig-headed chap like him, it was
my best chance of getting him _not_ to read it? His nervousness that
night was interesting psychologically. He knew danger was close at
hand. And yet he never suspected _me_.
The dagger was an afterthought. I’d brought up a very handy little
weapon of my own, but when I saw the dagger lying in the silver table,
it occurred to me at once how much better it would be to use a weapon
that couldn’t be traced to me.
I suppose I must have meant to murder him all along. As soon as I heard
of Mrs. Ferrars’s death, I felt convinced that she would have told him
everything before she died. When I met him and he seemed so agitated,
I thought that perhaps he knew the truth, but that he couldn’t bring
himself to believe it, and was going to give me the chance of refuting
it.
So I went home and took my precautions. If the trouble were after all
only something to do with Ralph—well, no harm would have been done. The
dictaphone he had given me two days before to adjust. Something had
gone a little wrong with it, and I persuaded him to let me have a go at
it, instead of sending it back. I did what I wanted to it, and took it
up with me in my bag that evening.
I am rather pleased with myself as a writer. What could be neater, for
instance, than the following:—
“_The letters were brought in at twenty minutes to nine. It was just
on ten minutes to nine when I left him, the letter still unread. I
hesitated with my hand on the door handle, looking back and wondering
if there was anything I had left undone._”
All true, you see. But suppose I had put a row of stars after the first
sentence! Would somebody then have wondered what exactly happened in
that blank ten minutes?
When I looked round the room from the door, I was quite satisfied.
Nothing had been left undone. The dictaphone was on the table by the
window, timed to go off at nine-thirty (the mechanism of that little
device was rather clever—based on the principle of an alarm clock), and
the arm-chair was pulled out so as to hide it from the door.
I must admit that it gave me rather a shock to run into Parker just
outside the door. I have faithfully recorded that fact.
Then later, when the body was discovered, and I had sent Parker to
telephone for the police, what a judicious use of words: “_I did
what little had to be done!_” It was quite little—just to shove the
dictaphone into my bag and push back the chair against the wall in
its proper place. I never dreamed that Parker would have noticed
that chair. Logically, he ought to have been so agog over the body
as to be blind to everything else. But I hadn’t reckoned with the
trained-servant complex.
I wish I could have known beforehand that Flora was going to say she’d
seen her uncle alive at a quarter to ten. That puzzled me more than
I can say. In fact, all through the case there have been things that
puzzled me hopelessly. Every one seems to have taken a hand.
My greatest fear all through has been Caroline. I have fancied she
might guess. Curious the way she spoke that day of my “strain of
weakness.”
Well, she will never know the truth. There is, as Poirot said, one way
out....
I can trust him. He and Inspector Raglan will manage it between them. I
should not like Caroline to know. She is fond of me, and then, too, she
is proud.... My death will be a grief to her, but grief passes....
When I have finished writing, I shall enclose this whole manuscript in
an envelope and address it to Poirot.
And then—what shall it be? Veronal? There would be a kind of poetic
justice. Not that I take any responsibility for Mrs. Ferrars’s death.
It was the direct consequence of her own actions. I feel no pity for
her.
I have no pity for myself either.
So let it be veronal.
But I wish Hercule Poirot had never retired from work and come here to
grow vegetable marrows.
THE END
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