The murder of Roger Ackroyd
niece and stepson with him. Ackroyd extends a genial patronage to the
lower orders, but he has a very great sense of his own dignity. I began
to think that Porrott couldn’t be a hairdresser after all.
To hide my confusion, I said the first thing that came into my head.
“What made you notice Ralph Paton? His good looks?”
“No, not that alone—though he is unusually good-looking for an
Englishman—what your lady novelists would call a Greek God. No, there
was something about that young man that I did not understand.”
He said the last sentence in a musing tone of voice which made an
indefinable impression upon me. It was as though he was summing up the
boy by the light of some inner knowledge that I did not share. It was
that impression that was left with me, for at that moment my sister’s
voice called me from the house.
I went in. Caroline had her hat on, and had evidently just come in from
the village. She began without preamble.
“I met Mr. Ackroyd.”
“Yes?” I said.
“I stopped him, of course, but he seemed in a great hurry, and anxious
to get away.”
I have no doubt but that that was the case. He would feel towards
Caroline much as he had felt towards Miss Ganett earlier in the
day—perhaps more so. Caroline is less easy to shake off.
“I asked him at once about Ralph. He was absolutely astonished. Had no
idea the boy was down here. He actually said he thought I must have
made a mistake. I! A mistake!”
“Ridiculous,” I said. “He ought to have known you better.”
“Then he went on to tell me that Ralph and Flora are engaged.”
“I know that too,” I interrupted, with modest pride.
“Who told you?”
“Our new neighbor.”
Caroline visibly wavered for a second or two, much as a roulette ball
might coyly hover between two numbers. Then she declined the tempting
red herring.
“I told Mr. Ackroyd that Ralph was staying at the Three Boars.”
“Caroline,” I said, “do you never reflect that you might do a lot of
harm with this habit of yours of repeating everything indiscriminately?”
“Nonsense,” said my sister. “People ought to know things. I consider it
my duty to tell them. Mr. Ackroyd was very grateful to me.”
“Well?” I said, for there was clearly more to come.
“I think he went straight off to the Three Boars, but if so he didn’t
find Ralph there.”
“No?”
“No. Because as I was coming back through the wood——”
“Coming back through the wood?” I interrupted.
Caroline had the grace to blush.
“It was such a lovely day,” she exclaimed. “I thought I would make a
little round. The woods with their autumnal tints are so perfect at
this time of year.”
Caroline does not care a hang for woods at any time of year. Normally
she regards them as places where you get your feet damp, and where all
kinds of unpleasant things may drop on your head. No, it was good sound
mongoose instinct which took her to our local wood. It is the only
place adjacent to the village of King’s Abbot where you can talk with
a young woman unseen by the whole of the village. It adjoins the Park
of Fernly.
“Well,” I said, “go on.”
“As I say, I was just coming back through the wood when I heard voices.”
Caroline paused.
“Yes?”
“One was Ralph Paton’s—I knew it at once. The other was a girl’s. Of
course I didn’t mean to listen——”
“Of course not,” I interjected, with patent sarcasm—which was, however,
wasted on Caroline.
“But I simply couldn’t help overhearing. The girl said something—I
didn’t quite catch what it was, and Ralph answered. He sounded very
angry. ‘My dear girl,’ he said. ‘Don’t you realize that it is quite
on the cards the old man will cut me off with a shilling? He’s been
pretty fed up with me for the last few years. A little more would do
it. And we need the dibs, my dear. I shall be a very rich man when
the old fellow pops off. He’s mean as they make ’em, but he’s rolling
in money really. I don’t want him to go altering his will. You leave
it to me, and don’t worry.’ Those were his exact words. I remember
them perfectly. Unfortunately, just then I stepped on a dry twig or
something, and they lowered their voices and moved away. I couldn’t, of
course, go rushing after them, so wasn’t able to see who the girl was.”
“That must have been most vexing,” I said. “I suppose, though, you
hurried on to the Three Boars, felt faint, and went into the bar for a
glass of brandy, and so were able to see if both the barmaids were on
duty?”
“It wasn’t a barmaid,” said Caroline unhesitatingly. “In fact, I’m
almost sure that it was Flora Ackroyd, only——”
“Only it doesn’t seem to make sense,” I agreed.
“But if it wasn’t Flora, who could it have been?”
Rapidly my sister ran over a list of maidens living in the
neighborhood, with profuse reasons for and against.
When she paused for breath, I murmured something about a patient, and
slipped out.
I proposed to make my way to the Three Boars. It seemed likely that
Ralph Paton would have returned there by now.
I knew Ralph very well—better, perhaps, than any one else in King’s
Abbot, for I had known his mother before him, and therefore I
understood much in him that puzzled others. He was, to a certain
extent, the victim of heredity. He had not inherited his mother’s
fatal propensity for drink, but nevertheless he had in him a strain
of weakness. As my new friend of this morning had declared, he was
extraordinarily handsome. Just on six feet, perfectly proportioned,
with the easy grace of an athlete, he was dark, like his mother,
with a handsome, sunburnt face always ready to break into a smile.
Ralph Paton was of those born to charm easily and without effort. He
was self-indulgent and extravagant, with no veneration for anything
on earth, but he was lovable nevertheless, and his friends were all
devoted to him.
Could I do anything with the boy? I thought I could.
On inquiry at the Three Boars I found that Captain Paton had just come
in. I went up to his room and entered unannounced.
For a moment, remembering what I had heard and seen, I was doubtful of
my reception, but I need have had no misgivings.
“Why, it’s Sheppard! Glad to see you.”
He came forward to meet me, hand outstretched, a sunny smile lighting
up his face.
“The one person I am glad to see in this infernal place.”
I raised my eyebrows.
“What’s the place been doing?”
He gave a vexed laugh.
“It’s a long story. Things haven’t been going well with me, doctor. But
have a drink, won’t you?”
“Thanks,” I said, “I will.”
He pressed the bell, then, coming back, threw himself into a chair.
“Not to mince matters,” he said gloomily, “I’m in the devil of a mess.
In fact, I haven’t the least idea what to do next.”
“What’s the matter?” I asked sympathetically.
“It’s my confounded stepfather.”
“What has he done?”
“It isn’t what he’s done yet, but what he’s likely to do.”
The bell was answered, and Ralph ordered the drinks. When the man had
gone again, he sat hunched in the arm-chair, frowning to himself.
“Is it really—serious?” I asked.
He nodded.
“I’m fairly up against it this time,” he said soberly.
The unusual ring of gravity in his voice told me that he spoke the
truth. It took a good deal to make Ralph grave.
“In fact,” he continued, “I can’t see my way ahead.... I’m damned if I
can.”
“If I could help——” I suggested diffidently.
But he shook his head very decidedly.
“Good of you, doctor. But I can’t let you in on this. I’ve got to play
a lone hand.”
He was silent a minute and then repeated in a slightly different tone
of voice:—
“Yes—I’ve got to play a lone hand....”
CHAPTER IV
DINNER AT FERNLY
It was just a few minutes before half-past seven when I rang the
front door bell of Fernly Park. The door was opened with admirable
promptitude by Parker, the butler.
The night was such a fine one that I had preferred to come on foot. I
stepped into the big square hall and Parker relieved me of my overcoat.
Just then Ackroyd’s secretary, a pleasant young fellow by the name of
Raymond, passed through the hall on his way to Ackroyd’s study, his
hands full of papers.
“Good-evening, doctor. Coming to dine? Or is this a professional call?”
The last was in allusion to my black bag, which I had laid down on the
oak chest.
I explained that I expected a summons to a confinement case at any
moment, and so had come out prepared for an emergency call. Raymond
nodded, and went on his way, calling over his shoulder:—
“Go into the drawing-room. You know the way. The ladies will be down in
a minute. I must just take these papers to Mr. Ackroyd, and I’ll tell
him you’re here.”
On Raymond’s appearance Parker had withdrawn, so I was alone in the
hall. I settled my tie, glanced in a large mirror which hung there, and
crossed to the door directly facing me, which was, as I knew, the door
of the drawing-room.
I noticed, just as I was turning the handle, a sound from within—the
shutting down of a window, I took it to be. I noted it, I may say,
quite mechanically, without attaching any importance to it at the time.
I opened the door and walked in. As I did so, I almost collided with
Miss Russell, who was just coming out. We both apologized.
For the first time I found myself appraising the housekeeper and
thinking what a handsome woman she must once have been—indeed, as far
as that goes, still was. Her dark hair was unstreaked with gray, and
when she had a color, as she had at this minute, the stern quality of
her looks was not so apparent.
Quite subconsciously I wondered whether she had been out, for she was
breathing hard, as though she had been running.
“I’m afraid I’m a few minutes early,” I said.
“Oh! I don’t think so. It’s gone half-past seven, Dr. Sheppard.” She
paused a minute before saying, “I—didn’t know you were expected to
dinner to-night. Mr. Ackroyd didn’t mention it.”
I received a vague impression that my dining there displeased her in
some way, but I couldn’t imagine why.
“How’s the knee?” I inquired.
“Much the same, thank you, doctor. I must be going now. Mrs. Ackroyd
will be down in a moment. I—I only came in here to see if the flowers
were all right.”
She passed quickly out of the room. I strolled to the window,
wondering at her evident desire to justify her presence in the room. As
I did so, I saw what, of course, I might have known all the time had
I troubled to give my mind to it, namely, that the windows were long
French ones opening on the terrace. The sound I had heard, therefore,
could not have been that of a window being shut down.
Quite idly, and more to distract my mind from painful thoughts than for
any other reason, I amused myself by trying to guess what could have
caused the sound in question.
Coals on the fire? No, that was not the kind of noise at all. A drawer
of the bureau pushed in? No, not that.
Then my eye was caught by what, I believe, is called a silver table,
the lid of which lifts, and through the glass of which you can see the
contents. I crossed over to it, studying the things. There were one
or two pieces of old silver, a baby shoe belonging to King Charles
the First, some Chinese jade figures, and quite a number of African
implements and curios. Wanting to examine one of the jade figures more
closely, I lifted the lid. It slipped through my fingers and fell.
At once I recognized the sound I had heard. It was this same table lid
being shut down gently and carefully. I repeated the action once or
twice for my own satisfaction. Then I lifted the lid to scrutinize the
contents more closely.
I was still bending over the open silver table when Flora Ackroyd came
into the room.
Quite a lot of people do not like Flora Ackroyd, but nobody can help