The Murder of Roger Ackroyd Page 3

“I knew that, too,” I interrupted, with modest pride.

  “Who told you?”

  “Our new neighbour.”

  Caroline visibly wavered for a second or two, much as if 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 neighbourhood, 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 anyone 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 armchair, 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….”

  Four

  DINNER AT FERNLY

  I

  It was just a few minutes before half past seven when I rang the frontdoor 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. 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 noticed 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 collid
ed 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 grey, and when she had a colour, 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 tonight. 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 a 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 contents. 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 admiring her. And to her friends she can be very charming. The first thing that strikes you about her is her extraordinary fairness. She has the real Scandinavian pale gold hair. Her eyes are blue—blue as the waters of a Norwegian fiord, and her skin is cream and roses. She has square, boyish shoulders and slight hips. And to a jaded medical man it is very refreshing to come across such perfect health.

  A simple straightforward English girl—I may be old-fashioned, but I think the genuine article takes a lot of beating.

  Flora joined me by the silver table, and expressed heretical doubts as to King Charles I ever having worn the baby shoe.

  “And anyway,” continued Miss Flora, “all this making a fuss about things because someone wore or used them seems to me all nonsense. They’re not wearing or using them now. That pen that George Eliot wrote The Mill on the Floss with—that sort of thing—well, it’s only just a pen after all. If you’re really keen on George Eliot, why not get The Mill on the Floss in a cheap edition and read it.”

  “I suppose you never read such old out-of-date stuff, Miss Flora?”

  “You’re wrong, Dr. Sheppard. I love The Mill on the Floss.”

  I was rather pleased to hear it. The things young women read nowadays and profess to enjoy positively frighten me.

  “You haven’t congratulated me yet, Dr. Sheppard,” said Flora. “Haven’t you heard?”

  She held out her left hand. On the third finger of it was an exquisitely set single pearl.

  “I’m going to marry Ralph, you know,” she went on. “Uncle is very pleased. It keeps me in the family, you see.”

  I took both her hands in mine.

  My dear,” I said, “I hope you’ll be very happy.”

  “We’ve been engaged for about a month,” continued Flora in her cool voice, “but it was only announced yesterday. Uncle is going to do up Cross-stones, and give it to us to live in, and we’re going to pretend to farm. Really, we shall hunt all the winter, town for the season, and then go yachting. I love the sea. And, of course, I shall take a great interest in the parish affairs, and attend all the Mothers’ Meetings.”

  Just then Mrs. Ackroyd rustled in, full of apologies for being late.

  I am sorry to say I detest Mrs. Ackroyd. She is all chains and teeth and bones. A most unpleasant woman. She has small pale flinty blue eyes, and how ever gushing her words may be, those eyes of hers always remain coldly speculative.

  I went across to her, leaving Flora by the window. She gave me a handful of assorted knuckles and rings to squeeze, and began talking volubly.

  Had I heard about Flora’s engagement? So suitable in every way. The dear young things had fallen in love at first sight. Such a perfect pair, he so dark and she so fair.

  “I can’t tell you, my dear Dr. Sheppard, the relief to a mother’s heart.”

  Mrs. Ackroyd sighed—a tribute to her mother’s heart, whilst her eyes remained shrewdly observant of me.

  “I was wondering. You are such an old friend of dear Roger’s. We know how much he trusts to your judgment. So difficult for me—in my position as poor Cecil’s widow. But there are so many tiresome things—settlements, you know—all that. I fully believe that Roger intends to make settlements upon dear Flora, but, as you know, he is just a leetle peculiar about money. Very usual, I’ve heard, amongst men who are captains of industry. I wondered, you know, if you could just sound him on the subject? Flora is so fond of you. We feel you are quite an old friend, although we have only really known you just over two years.”

  Mrs. Ackroyd’s eloquence was cut short as the drawing room door opened once more. I was pleased at the interruption. I hate interfering in other people’s affairs, and I had not the least intention of tackling Ackroyd on the subject of Flora’s settlements. In another moment I should have been forced to tell Mrs. Ackroyd as much.

  “You know Major Blunt, don’t you, doctor?”

  “Yes, indeed,” I said.

  A lot of people know Hector Blunt—at least by repute. He has shot more wild animals in unlikely places than any man living, I suppose. When you mention him, people say: “Blunt—you don’t mean the big game man, do you?”

  His friendship with Ackroyd has always puzzled me a little. The two men are so totally dissimilar. Hector Blunt is perhaps five years Ackroyd’s junior. They made friends early in life, and though their ways have diverged, the friendship still holds. About once in two years Blunt spends a fortnight at Fernly, and an immense animal’s head, with an amazing number of horns which fixes you with a glazed stare as soon as you come inside the front door, is a permanent reminder of the friendship.

  Blunt had entered the room now with his own peculiar, deliberate, yet soft-footed tread. He is a man of medium height, sturdily and rather stockily built. His face is almost mahogany coloured, and is peculiarly expressionless. He has grey eyes that give the impression of always watching something that is happening very far away. He talks little, and what he does say is said jerkily, as though the words were forced out of him unwillingly.

  He said now: “How are you, Sheppard?” in his usual abrupt fashion, and then stood squarely in front of the fireplace looking over our heads as though he saw something very interesting happening in Timbuctoo.

  “Major Blunt,” said Flora, “I wish you’d tell me about these African things. I’m sure you know what they all are.”

  I have heard Hector Blunt described as a woman hater, but I noticed that he joined Flora a
t the silver table with what might be described as alacrity. They bent over it together.

  I was afraid Mrs. Ackroyd would begin talking about settlements again, so I made a few hurried remarks about the new sweet pea. I knew there was a newsweet pea because the Daily Mail had told me so that morning. Mrs. Ackroyd knows nothing about horticulture, but she is the kind of woman who likes to appear well-informed about the topics of the day, and she, too, reads the Daily Mail. We were able to converse quite intelligently until Ackroyd and his secretary joined us, and immediately afterwards Parker announced dinner.

  My place at table was between Mrs. Ackroyd and Flora. Blunt was on Mrs. Ackroyd’s other side, and Geoffrey Raymond next to him.

  Dinner was not a cheerful affair. Ackroyd was visibly preoccupied. He looked wretched, and ate next to nothing. Mrs. Ackroyd, Raymond, and I kept the conversation going. Flora seemed affected by her uncle’s depression, and Blunt relapsed into his usual taciturnity.

  II

  Immediately after dinner Ackroyd slipped his arm through mine and led me off to his study.

  “Once we’ve had coffee, we shan’t be disturbed again,” he explained. “I told Raymond to see to it that we shouldn’t be interrupted.”

  I studied him quietly without appearing to do so. He was clearly under the influence of some strong excitement. For a minute or two he paced up and down the room, then, as Parker entered with the coffee tray, he sank into an armchair in front of the fire.

  The study was a comfortable apartment. Bookshelves lined one wall of it. The chairs were big and covered in dark blue leather. A large desk stood by the window and was covered with papers neatly docketed and filed. On a round table were various magazines and sporting papers.

  “I’ve had a return of that pain after food lately,” remarked Ackroyd calmly, as he helped himself to coffee. “You must give me some more of those tablets of yours.”

  It struck me that he was anxious to convey the impression that our conference was a medical one. I played up accordingly.

  “I thought as much. I brought some up with me.”

  “Good man. Hand them over now.”

  “They’re in my bag in the hall. I’ll get them.”