The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Агата Кристи
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are you doing out there, James? Why don’t you come and get your breakfast?”
“Just coming, my dear,” I said hastily. “I’ve been hanging up my overcoat.”
“You could have hung up half a dozen overcoats in this time.”
She was quite right. I could have.
I walked into the dining-room, gave Caroline the accustomed peck on the cheek, and sat down to eggs and bacon. The bacon was rather cold.
“You’ve had an early call,” remarked Caroline.
“Yes,” I said. “King’s Paddock. Mrs Ferrars.”
“I know,” said my sister.
“How did you know?”
“Annie told me.”
Annie is the house parlourmaid. A nice girl, but an inveterate talker.
There was a pause. I continued to eat eggs and bacon. My sister’s nose, which is long and thin, quivered a little at the tip, as it always does when she is interested or excited over anything.
“Well?” she demanded.
“A sad business. Nothing to be done. Must have died in her sleep.”
“I know,” said my sister again.
This time I was annoyed.
“You can’t know,” I snapped. “I didn’t know myself until I got there, and haven’t mentioned it to a soul yet. If that girl Annie knows, she must be a clairvoyant.”
“It wasn’t Annie who told me. It was the milkman. He had it from the Ferrarses’ cook.”
As I say, there is no need for Caroline to go out to get information. She sits at home and it comes to her.
My sister continued:
“What did she die of? Heart failure?”
“Didn’t the milkman tell you that?” I inquired sarcastically.
Sarcasm is wasted on Caroline. She takes it seriously and answers accordingly.
“He didn’t know,” she explained.
After all, Caroline was bound to hear sooner or later. She might as well hear from me.
“She died of an overdose of veronal. She’s been taking it lately for sleeplessness. Must have taken too much.”
“Nonsense,” said Caroline immediately. “She took it on purpose. Don’t tell me!”
It is odd, when you have a secret belief of your own which you do not wish to acknowledge, the voicing of it by someone else will rouse you to a fury of denial. I burst immediately into indignant speech.
“There you go again,” I said. “Rushing along without rhyme or reason. Why on earth should Mrs Ferrars wish to commit suicide? A widow, fairly young still, very well off, good health, and nothing to do but enjoy life. It’s absurd.”
“Not at all. Even you must have noticed how different she has been looking lately. It’s been coming on for the last six months. She’s looked positively hag-ridden. And you have just admitted that she hasn’t been able to sleep.”
“What is your diagnosis?” I demanded coldly. “An unfortunate love affair, I suppose?”
My sister shook her head.
“Remorse,” she said, with great gusto.
“Remorse?”
“Yes. You never would believe me when I told you she poisoned her husband. I’m more than ever convinced of it now.”
“I don’t think you’re very logical,” I objected. “Surely if a woman committed a crime like murder, she’d be sufficiently cold-blooded to enjoy the fruits of it without any weak-minded sentimentality such as repentance.”
Caroline shook her head.
“There probably are women like that—but Mrs Ferrars wasn’t one of them. She was a mass of nerves. An overmastering impulse drove her on to get rid of her husband because she was the sort of person who simply can’t endure suffering of any kind, and there’s no doubt that the wife of a man like Ashley Ferrars must have had to suffer a good deal –”
I nodded.
“And ever since she’s been haunted by what she did. I can’t help feeling sorry for her.”
I don’t think Caroline ever felt sorry for Mrs Ferrars whilst she was alive. Now that she has gone where (presumably) Paris frocks can no longer be worn, Caroline is prepared to indulge in the softer emotions of pity and comprehension.
I told her firmly that her whole idea was nonsense. I was all the more firm because I secretly agreed with some part, at least, of what she had said. But it is all wrong that Caroline should arrive at the truth simply by a kind of inspired guesswork. I wasn’t going to encourage that sort of thing. She will go round the village airing her views, and everyone will think that she is doing so on medical data supplied by me. Life is very trying.
“Nonsense,” said Caroline, in reply to my strictures. “You’ll see. Ten to one she’s left a letter confessing everything.”
“She didn’t leave a letter of any kind,” I said sharply, and not seeing where the admission was going to land me.
“Oh!” said Caroline. “So you did inquire about that, did you? I believe, James, that in your heart of hearts, you think very much as I do. You’re a precious old humbug.”
“One always has to take the possibility of suicide into consideration,” I said impressively.
“Will there be an inquest?”
“There may be. It all depends. If I am able to declare myself absolutely satisfied that the overdose was taken accidentally, an inquest might be dispensed with.”
“And are you absolutely satisfied?” asked my sister shrewdly.
I did not answer, but got up from the table.
Chapter 2 Who’s Who in King’s Abbot
Before I proceed further with what I said to Caroline and what Caroline said to me, it might be as well to give some idea of what I should describe as our local geography. Our village, King’s Abbot, is, I imagine, very much like any other village. Our big town is Cranchester, nine miles away. We have a large railway station, a small post office, and two rival “General Stores”. Able-bodied men are apt to leave the place early in life, but we are rich in unmarried ladies and retired military officers. Our hobbies and recreations can be summed up in the one word, “gossip”.
There are only two houses of any importance in King’s Abbot. One is King’s Paddock, left to Mrs Ferrars by her late husband. The other, Fernly Park, is owned by Roger Ackroyd. Ackroyd has always interested me by being a man more impossibly like a country squire than any country squire could really be. He reminds one of the red-faced sportsmen who always appeared early in the first act of an old-fashioned musical comedy, the setting being the village green. They usually sang a song about going up to London. Nowadays we have revues, and the country squire has died out of musical fashion.
Of course, Ackroyd is not really a country squire. He is an immensely successful manufacturer of (I think) wagon wheels. He is a man of nearly fifty years of age, rubicund of face and genial of manner. He is hand and glove with the vicar, subscribes liberally to parish funds (though rumour has it that he is extremely mean in personal expenditure), encourages cricket matches, Lads’ Clubs, and Disabled Soldiers’ Institutes. He is, in fact, the life and soul of our peaceful village of King’s Abbot.
Now when Roger Ackroyd was a lad of twenty-one, he fell in love with, and married, a beautiful woman some five or six years his senior.