The murder of Roger Ackroyd
that was sound and wholesome and law-abiding in him must have turned
from her utterly in that moment of revelation.
“Yes,” he went on, in a low, monotonous voice, “she confessed
everything. It seems that there is one person who has known all
along—who has been blackmailing her for huge sums. It was the strain of
that that drove her nearly mad.”
“Who was the man?”
Suddenly before my eyes there arose the picture of Ralph Paton and Mrs.
Ferrars side by side. Their heads so close together. I felt a momentary
throb of anxiety. Supposing—oh! but surely that was impossible. I
remembered the frankness of Ralph’s greeting that very afternoon.
Absurd!
“She wouldn’t tell me his name,” said Ackroyd slowly. “As a matter of
fact, she didn’t actually say that it was a man. But of course——”
“Of course,” I agreed. “It must have been a man. And you’ve no
suspicion at all?”
For answer Ackroyd groaned and dropped his head into his hands.
“It can’t be,” he said. “I’m mad even to think of such a thing. No, I
won’t even admit to you the wild suspicion that crossed my mind. I’ll
tell you this much, though. Something she said made me think that the
person in question might be actually among my household—but that can’t
be so. I must have misunderstood her.”
“What did you say to her?” I asked.
“What could I say? She saw, of course, the awful shock it had been to
me. And then there was the question, what was my duty in the matter?
She had made me, you see, an accessory after the fact. She saw all
that, I think, quicker than I did. I was stunned, you know. She asked
me for twenty-four hours—made me promise to do nothing till the end
of that time. And she steadfastly refused to give me the name of the
scoundrel who had been blackmailing her. I suppose she was afraid that
I might go straight off and hammer him, and then the fat would have
been in the fire as far as she was concerned. She told me that I should
hear from her before twenty-four hours had passed. My God! I swear to
you, Sheppard, that it never entered my head what she meant to do.
Suicide! And I drove her to it.”
“No, no,” I said. “Don’t take an exaggerated view of things. The
responsibility for her death doesn’t lie at your door.”
“The question is, what am I to do now? The poor lady is dead. Why rake
up past trouble?”
“I rather agree with you,” I said.
“But there’s another point. How am I to get hold of that scoundrel who
drove her to death as surely as if he’d killed her. He knew of the
first crime, and he fastened on to it like some obscene vulture. She’s
paid the penalty. Is he to go scot-free?”
“I see,” I said slowly. “You want to hunt him down? It will mean a lot
of publicity, you know.”
“Yes, I’ve thought of that. I’ve zigzagged to and fro in my mind.”
“I agree with you that the villain ought to be punished, but the cost
has got to be reckoned.”
Ackroyd rose and walked up and down. Presently he sank into the chair
again.
“Look here, Sheppard, suppose we leave it like this. If no word comes
from her, we’ll let the dead things lie.”
“What do you mean by word coming from her?” I asked curiously.
“I have the strongest impression that somewhere or somehow she must
have left a message for me—before she went. I can’t argue about it, but
there it is.”
I shook my head.
“She left no letter or word of any kind. I asked.”
“Sheppard, I’m convinced that she did. And more, I’ve a feeling that by
deliberately choosing death, she wanted the whole thing to come out, if
only to be revenged on the man who drove her to desperation. I believe
that if I could have seen her then, she would have told me his name and
bid me go for him for all I was worth.”
He looked at me.
“You don’t believe in impressions?”
“Oh, yes, I do, in a sense. If, as you put it, word should come from
her——”
I broke off. The door opened noiselessly and Parker entered with a
salver on which were some letters.
“The evening post, sir,” he said, handing the salver to Ackroyd.
Then he collected the coffee cups and withdrew.
My attention, diverted for a moment, came back to Ackroyd. He was
staring like a man turned to stone at a long blue envelope. The other
letters he had let drop to the ground.
“_Her writing_,” he said in a whisper. “She must have gone out and
posted it last night, just before—before——”
He ripped open the envelope and drew out a thick enclosure. Then he
looked up sharply.
“You’re sure you shut the window?” he said.
“Quite sure,” I said, surprised. “Why?”
“All this evening I’ve had a queer feeling of being watched, spied
upon. What’s that——?”
He turned sharply. So did I. We both had the impression of hearing the
latch of the door give ever so slightly. I went across to it and opened
it. There was no one there.
“Nerves,” murmured Ackroyd to himself.
He unfolded the thick sheets of paper, and read aloud in a low voice.
“_My dear, my very dear Roger,—A life calls for a life. I see
that—I saw it in your face this afternoon. So I am taking the only
road open to me. I leave to you the punishment of the person who
has made my life a hell upon earth for the last year. I would not
tell you the name this afternoon, but I propose to write it to you
now. I have no children or near relations to be spared, so do not
fear publicity. If you can, Roger, my very dear Roger, forgive me
the wrong I meant to do you, since when the time came, I could not
do it after all...._”
Ackroyd, his finger on the sheet to turn it over, paused.
“Sheppard, forgive me, but I must read this alone,” he said unsteadily.
“It was meant for my eyes, and my eyes only.”
He put the letter in the envelope and laid it on the table.
“Later, when I am alone.”
“No,” I cried impulsively, “read it now.”
Ackroyd stared at me in some surprise.
“I beg your pardon,” I said, reddening. “I do not mean read it aloud to
me. But read it through whilst I am still here.”
Ackroyd shook his head.
“No, I’d rather wait.”
But for some reason, obscure to myself, I continued to urge him.
“At least, read the name of the man,” I said.
Now Ackroyd is essentially pig-headed. The more you urge him to do a
thing, the more determined he is not to do it. All my arguments were in
vain.
The letter had been 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. I could think of nothing. With
a shake of the head I passed out and closed the door behind me.
I was startled by seeing the figure of Parker close at hand. He looked
embarrassed, and it occurred to me that he might have been listening at
the door.
What a fat, smug, oily face the man had, and surely there was something
decidedly shifty in his eye.
“Mr. Ackroyd particularly does not want to be disturbed,” I said
coldly. “He told me to tell you so.”
“Quite so, sir. I—I fancied I heard the bell ring.”
This was such a palpable untruth that I did not trouble to reply.
Preceding me to the hall, Parker helped me on with my overcoat, and I
stepped out into the night. The moon was overcast and everything seemed
very dark and still. The village church clock chimed nine o’clock
as I passed through the lodge gates. I turned to the left towards
the village, and almost cannoned into a man coming in the opposite
direction.
“This the way to Fernly Park, mister?” asked the stranger in a hoarse
voice.
I looked at him. He was wearing a hat pulled down over his eyes, and
his coat collar turned up. I could see little or nothing of his face,
but he seemed a young fellow. The voice was rough and uneducated.
“These are the lodge gates here,” I said.
“Thank you, mister.” He paused, and then added, quite unnecessarily,
“I’m a stranger in these parts, you see.”
He went on, passing through the gates as I turned to look after him.
The odd thing was that his voice reminded me of some one’s voice that I
knew, but whose it was I could not think.
Ten minutes later I was at home once more. Caroline was full of
curiosity to know why I had returned so early. I had to make up a
slightly fictitious account of the evening in order to satisfy her, and
I had an uneasy feeling that she saw through the transparent device.
At ten o’clock I rose, yawned, and suggested bed. Caroline acquiesced.
It was Friday night, and on Friday night I wind the clocks. I did it as
usual, whilst Caroline satisfied herself that the servants had locked
up the kitchen properly.
It was a quarter past ten as we went up the stairs. I had just reached
the top when the telephone rang in the hall below.
“Mrs. Bates,” said Caroline immediately.
“I’m afraid so,” I said ruefully.
I ran down the stairs and took up the receiver.
“What?” I said. “_What?_ Certainly, I’ll come at once.”
I ran upstairs, caught up my bag, and stuffed a few extra dressings
into it.
“Parker telephoning,” I shouted to Caroline, “from Fernly. They’ve just
found Roger Ackroyd murdered.”
CHAPTER V
MURDER
I got out the car in next to no time, and drove rapidly to Fernly.
Jumping out, I pulled the bell impatiently. There was some delay in
answering, and I rang again.
Then I heard the rattle of the chain and Parker, his impassivity of
countenance quite unmoved, stood in the open doorway.
I pushed past him into the hall.
“Where is he?” I demanded sharply.
“I beg your pardon, sir?”
“Your master. Mr. Ackroyd. Don’t stand there staring at me, man. Have
you notified the police?”
“The police, sir? Did you say the police?” Parker stared at me as
though I were a ghost.
“What’s the matter with you, Parker? If, as you say, your master has
been murdered——”
A gasp broke from Parker.
“The master? Murdered? Impossible, sir!”
It was my turn to stare.
“Didn’t you telephone to me, not five minutes ago, and tell me that Mr.
Ackroyd had been found murdered?”
“Me, sir? Oh! no indeed, sir. I wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing.”
“Do you mean to say it’s all a hoax? That there’s nothing the matter
with Mr. Ackroyd?”
“Excuse me, sir, did the person telephoning use my name?”
“I’ll give you the exact words I heard. ‘_Is that Dr. Sheppard? Parker,
the butler at Fernly, speaking. Will you please come at once, sir. Mr.
Ackroyd has been murdered._’”
Parker and I stared at each other blankly.
“A very wicked joke to play, sir,” he said at last, in a shocked tone.
“Fancy saying a thing like that.”
“Where is Mr. Ackroyd?” I asked suddenly.
“Still in the study, I fancy, sir. The ladies have gone to bed, and
Major Blunt and Mr. Raymond are in the billiard room.”
“I think I’ll just look in and see him for a minute,” I said. “I know
he didn’t want to be disturbed again, but this odd practical joke has
made me uneasy. I’d just like to satisfy myself that he’s all right.”
“Quite so, sir. It makes me feel quite uneasy myself. If you don’t
object to my accompanying you as far as the door, sir——?”
“Not at all,” I said. “Come along.”
I passed through the door on the right, Parker on my heels, traversed
the little lobby where a small flight of stairs led upstairs to
Ackroyd’s bedroom, and tapped on the study door.
There was no answer. I turned the handle, but the door was locked.
“Allow me, sir,” said Parker.
Very nimbly, for a man of his build, he dropped on one knee and applied
his eye to the keyhole.
“Key is in the lock all right, sir,” he said, rising. “On the inside.
Mr. Ackroyd must have locked himself in and possibly just dropped off
to sleep.”
I bent down and verified Parker’s statement.
“It seems all right,” I said, “but, all the same, Parker, I’m going