Ackroyd arrested me.
“Don’t you trouble. Parker will get them. Bring in the doctor’s bag, will you, Parker?”
“Very good, sir.”
Parker withdrew. As I was about to speak, Ackroyd threw up his hand.
“Not yet. Wait. Don’t you see I’m in such a state of nerves that I can hardly contain myself?”
I saw that plainly enough. And I was very uneasy. All sorts of forebodings assailed me.
Ackroyd spoke again almost immediately.
“Make certain that window’s closed, will you,” he asked.
Somewhat surprised, I got up and went to it. It was not a french window, but one of the ordinary sash type. The heavy blue velvet curtains were drawn in front of it, but the window itself was open at the top.
Parker reentered the room with my bag while I was still at the window.
“That’s all right,” I said, emerging again into the room.
“You’ve put the latch across?”
“Yes, yes. What’s the matter with you, Ackroyd?”
The door had just closed behind Parker, or I would not have put the question.
Ackroyd waited just a minute before replying.
“I’m in hell,” he said slowly, after a minute. “No, don’t bother with those damn tablets. I only said that for Parker. Servants are so curious. Come here and sit down. The door’s closed too, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Nobody can overhear; don’t be uneasy.”
“Sheppard, nobody knows what I’ve gone through in the last twenty-four hours. If a man’s house ever fell in ruin about him, mine has about me. This business of Ralph’s is the last straw. But we won’t talk about that now. It’s the other—the other—! I don’t know what to do about it. And I’ve got to make up my mind soon.”
“What’s the trouble?”
Ackroyd remained silent for a minute or two. He seemed curiously averse to begin. When he did speak, the question he asked came as a complete surprise. It was the last thing I expected.
“Sheppard, you attended Ashley Ferrars in his last illness, didn’t you?”
“Yes, I did.”
He seemed to find even greater difficulty in framing his next question.
“Did you ever suspect—did it ever enter your head—that—well, that he might have been poisoned?”
I was silent for a minute or two. Then I made up my mind what to say. Roger Ackroyd was not Caroline.
“I’ll tell you the truth,” I said. “At the time I had no suspicion whatever, but since—well, it was mere idle talk on my sister’s part that first put the idea into my head. Since then I haven’t been able to get it out again. But, mind you, I’ve no foundation whatever for that suspicion.”
“He was poisoned,” said Ackroyd.
He spoke in a dull heavy voice.
“Who by?” I asked sharply.
“His wife.”
“How do you know that?”
“She told me so herself.”
“When?”
“Yesterday! My God! yesterday! It seems ten years ago.”
I waited a minute, then he went on.
“You understand, Sheppard, I’m telling you this in confidence. It’s to go no further. I want your advice—I can’t carry the whole weight by myself. As I said just now, I don’t know what to do.”
“Can you tell me the whole story?” I said. “I’m still in the dark. How did Mrs. Ferrars come to make this confession to you?”
“It’s like this. Three months ago I asked Mrs. Ferrars to marry me. She refused. I asked her again and she consented, but she refused to allow me to make the engagement public until her year of mourning was up. Yesterday I called upon her, pointed out that a year and three weeks had now elapsed since her husband’s death, and that there could be no further objection to making the engagement public property. I had noticed that she had been very strange in her manner for some days. Now, suddenly, without the least warning, she broke down completely. She—she told me everything. Her hatred of her brute of a husband, her growing love for me, and the—the dreadful means she had taken. Poison! My God! It was murder in cold blood.”
I saw the repulsion, the horror, in Ackroyd’s face. So Mrs. Ferrars must have seen it. Ackroyd’s is not the type of the great lover who can forgive all for love’s sake. He is fundamentally a good citizen. All 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 pigheaded. 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 every thing 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 someone’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.”
Five
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 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 armchair 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.
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd Page 4