The murder of Roger Ackroyd
to wake your master up. I shouldn’t be satisfied to go home without
hearing from his own lips that he’s quite all right.”
So saying, I rattled the handle and called out, “Ackroyd, Ackroyd, just
a minute.”
But still there was no answer. I glanced over my shoulder.
“I don’t want to alarm the household,” I said hesitatingly.
Parker went across and shut the door from the big hall through which we
had come.
“I think that will be all right now, sir. The billiard room is at
the other side of the house, and so are the kitchen quarters and the
ladies’ bedrooms.”
I nodded comprehendingly. Then I banged once more frantically on the
door, and stooping down, fairly bawled through the keyhole:—
“Ackroyd, Ackroyd! It’s Sheppard. Let me in.”
And still—silence. Not a sign of life from within the locked room.
Parker and I glanced at each other.
“Look here, Parker,” I said, “I’m going to break this door in—or
rather, we are. I’ll take the responsibility.”
“If you say so, sir,” said Parker, rather doubtfully.
“I do say so. I’m seriously alarmed about Mr. Ackroyd.”
I looked round the small lobby and picked up a heavy oak chair. Parker
and I held it between us and advanced to the assault. Once, twice, and
three times we hurled it against the lock. At the third blow it gave,
and we staggered into the room.
Ackroyd was sitting as I had left him in the arm-chair before the fire.
His head had fallen sideways, and clearly visible, just below the
collar of his coat, was a shining piece of twisted metalwork.
Parker and I advanced till we stood over the recumbent figure. I heard
the butler draw in his breath with a sharp hiss.
“Stabbed from be’ind,” he murmured. “’Orrible!”
He wiped his moist brow with his handkerchief, then stretched out a
hand gingerly towards the hilt of the dagger.
“You mustn’t touch that,” I said sharply. “Go at once to the telephone
and ring up the police station. Inform them of what has happened. Then
tell Mr. Raymond and Major Blunt.”
“Very good, sir.”
Parker hurried away, still wiping his perspiring brow.
I did what little had to be done. I was careful not to disturb the
position of the body, and not to handle the dagger at all. No object
was to be attained by moving it. Ackroyd had clearly been dead some
little time.
Then I heard young Raymond’s voice, horror-stricken and incredulous,
outside.
“What do you say? Oh! impossible! Where’s the doctor?”
He appeared impetuously in the doorway, then stopped dead, his face
very white. A hand put him aside, and Hector Blunt came past him into
the room.
“My God!” said Raymond from behind him; “it’s true, then.”
Blunt came straight on till he reached the chair. He bent over the
body, and I thought that, like Parker, he was going to lay hold of the
dagger hilt. I drew him back with one hand.
“Nothing must be moved,” I explained. “The police must see him exactly
as he is now.”
Blunt nodded in instant comprehension. His face was expressionless as
ever, but I thought I detected signs of emotion beneath the stolid
mask. Geoffrey Raymond had joined us now, and stood peering over
Blunt’s shoulder at the body.
“This is terrible,” he said in a low voice.
He had regained his composure, but as he took off the pince-nez he
habitually wore and polished them I observed that his hand was shaking.
“Robbery, I suppose,” he said. “How did the fellow get in? Through the
window? Has anything been taken?”
He went towards the desk.
“You think it’s burglary?” I said slowly.
“What else could it be? There’s no question of suicide, I suppose?”
“No man could stab himself in such a way,” I said confidently. “It’s
murder right enough. But with what motive?”
“Roger hadn’t an enemy in the world,” said Blunt quietly. “Must have
been burglars. But what was the thief after? Nothing seems to be
disarranged?”
He looked round the room. Raymond was still sorting the papers on the
desk.
“There seems nothing missing, and none of the drawers show signs of
having been tampered with,” the secretary observed at last. “It’s very
mysterious.”
Blunt made a slight motion with his head.
“There are some letters on the floor here,” he said.
I looked down. Three or four letters still lay where Ackroyd had
dropped them earlier in the evening.
But the blue envelope containing Mrs. Ferrars’s letter had disappeared.
I half opened my mouth to speak, but at that moment the sound of a bell
pealed through the house. There was a confused murmur of voices in the
hall, and then Parker appeared with our local inspector and a police
constable.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” said the inspector. “I’m terribly sorry for
this! A good kind gentleman like Mr. Ackroyd. The butler says it is
murder. No possibility of accident or suicide, doctor?”
“None whatever,” I said.
“Ah! A bad business.”
He came and stood over the body.
“Been moved at all?” he asked sharply.
“Beyond making certain that life was extinct—an easy matter—I have not
disturbed the body in any way.”
“Ah! And everything points to the murderer having got clear away—for
the moment, that is. Now then, let me hear all about it. Who found the
body?”
I explained the circumstances carefully.
“A telephone message, you say? From the butler?”
“A message that I never sent,” declared Parker earnestly. “I’ve not
been near the telephone the whole evening. The others can bear me out
that I haven’t.”
“Very odd, that. Did it sound like Parker’s voice, doctor?”
“Well—I can’t say I noticed. I took it for granted, you see.”
“Naturally. Well, you got up here, broke in the door, and found poor
Mr. Ackroyd like this. How long should you say he had been dead,
doctor?”
“Half an hour at least—perhaps longer,” I said.
“The door was locked on the inside, you say? What about the window?”
“I myself closed and bolted it earlier in the evening at Mr. Ackroyd’s
request.”
The inspector strode across to it and threw back the curtains.
“Well, it’s open now anyway,” he remarked.
True enough, the window was open, the lower sash being raised to its
fullest extent.
The inspector produced a pocket torch and flashed it along the sill
outside.
“This is the way he went all right,” he remarked, “_and_ got in. See
here.”
In the light of the powerful torch, several clearly defined footmarks
could be seen. They seemed to be those of shoes with rubber studs
in the soles. One particularly clear one pointed inwards, another,
slightly overlapping it, pointed outwards.
“Plain as a pikestaff,” said the inspector. “Any valuables missing?”
Geoffrey Raymond shook his head.
“Not so that we can discover. Mr. Ackroyd never kept anything of
particular value in this room.”
“H’m,” said the inspector. “Man found an open window. Climbed in, saw
Mr. Ackroyd sitting there—maybe he’d fallen asleep. Man stabbed him
from behind, then lost his nerve and made off. But he’s left his tracks
pretty clearly. We ought to get hold of _him_ without much difficulty.
No suspicious strangers been hanging about anywhere?”
“Oh!” I said suddenly.
“What is it, doctor?”
“I met a man this evening—just as I was turning out of the gate. He
asked me the way to Fernly Park.”
“What time would that be?”
“Just nine o’clock. I heard it chime the hour as I was turning out of
the gate.”
“Can you describe him?”
I did so to the best of my ability.
The inspector turned to the butler.
“Any one answering that description come to the front door?”
“No, sir. No one has been to the house at all this evening.”
“What about the back?”
“I don’t think so, sir, but I’ll make inquiries.”
He moved towards the door, but the inspector held up a large hand.
“No, thanks. I’ll do my own inquiring. But first of all I want to fix
the time a little more clearly. When was Mr. Ackroyd last seen alive?”
“Probably by me,” I said, “when I left at—let me see—about ten minutes
to nine. He told me that he didn’t wish to be disturbed, and I repeated
the order to Parker.”
“Just so, sir,” said Parker respectfully.
“Mr. Ackroyd was certainly alive at half-past nine,” put in Raymond,
“for I heard his voice in here talking.”
“Who was he talking to?”
“That I don’t know. Of course, at the time I took it for granted that
it was Dr. Sheppard who was with him. I wanted to ask him a question
about some papers I was engaged upon, but when I heard the voices I
remembered that he had said he wanted to talk to Dr. Sheppard without
being disturbed, and I went away again. But now it seems that the
doctor had already left?”
I nodded.
“I was at home by a quarter-past nine,” I said. “I didn’t go out again
until I received the telephone call.”
“Who could have been with him at half-past nine?” queried the
inspector. “It wasn’t you, Mr.—er——”
“Major Blunt,” I said.
“Major Hector Blunt?” asked the inspector, a respectful tone creeping
into his voice.
Blunt merely jerked his head affirmatively.
“I think we’ve seen you down here before, sir,” said the inspector.
“I didn’t recognize you for the moment, but you were staying with Mr.
Ackroyd a year ago last May.”
“June,” corrected Blunt.
“Just so, June it was. Now, as I was saying, it wasn’t you with Mr.
Ackroyd at nine-thirty this evening?”
Blunt shook his head.
“Never saw him after dinner,” he volunteered.
The inspector turned once more to Raymond.
“You didn’t overhear any of the conversation going on, did you, sir?”
“I did catch just a fragment of it,” said the secretary, “and,
supposing as I did that it was Dr. Sheppard who was with Mr. Ackroyd,
that fragment struck me as distinctly odd. As far as I can remember,
the exact words were these. Mr. Ackroyd was speaking. ‘The calls
on my purse have been so frequent of late’—that is what he was
saying—‘of late, that I fear it is impossible for me to accede to your
request....’ I went away again at once, of course, so did not hear any
more. But I rather wondered because Dr. Sheppard——”
“——Does not ask for loans for himself or subscriptions for others,” I
finished.
“A demand for money,” said the inspector musingly. “It may be that here
we have a very important clew.” He turned to the butler. “You say,
Parker, that nobody was admitted by the front door this evening?”
“That’s what I say, sir.”
“Then it seems almost certain that Mr. Ackroyd himself must have
admitted this stranger. But I don’t quite see——”
The inspector went into a kind of day-dream for some minutes.
“One thing’s clear,” he said at length, rousing himself from his
absorption. “Mr. Ackroyd was alive and well at nine-thirty. That is the
last moment at which he is known to have been alive.”
Parker gave vent to an apologetic cough which brought the inspector’s
eyes on him at once.
“Well?” he said sharply.
“If you’ll excuse me, sir, Miss Flora saw him after that.”
“Miss Flora?”
“Yes, sir. About a quarter to ten that would be. It was after that that
she told me Mr. Ackroyd wasn’t to be disturbed again to-night.”
“Did he send her to you with that message?”
“Not exactly, sir. I was bringing a tray with soda and whisky when Miss
Flora, who was just coming out of this room, stopped me and said her
uncle didn’t want to be disturbed.”
The inspector looked at the butler with rather closer attention than he
had bestowed on him up to now.
“You’d already been told that Mr. Ackroyd didn’t want to be disturbed,
hadn’t you?”
Parker began to stammer. His hands shook.
“Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Quite so, sir.”
“And yet you were proposing to do so?”
“I’d forgotten, sir. At least I mean, I always bring the whisky and
soda about that time, sir, and ask if there’s anything more, and I
thought—well, I was doing as usual without thinking.”
It was at this moment that it began to dawn upon me that Parker was