The Murder of Roger Ackroyd Agatha Christie (e book free reading TXT) đ
- Author: Agatha Christie
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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.
âIâve had a return of that pain after food lately,â remarked Ackroyd calmly, as he helped himself to coffee. âYou must give me some more of those tablets of yours.â
It struck me that he was anxious to convey the impression that our conference was a medical one. I played up accordingly.
âI thought as much. I brought some up with me.â
âGood man. Hand them over now.â
âTheyâre in my bag in the hall. Iâll get them.â
Ackroyd arrested me. âDonât you trouble. Parker will get them. Bring in the doctorâs bag, will you, Parker?â
âVery good, sir.â
Parker withdrew. As I was about to speak, Ackroyd threw up his hand.
âNot yet. Wait. Donât you see Iâm in such a state of nerves that I can hardly contain myself?â
I saw that plainly enough. And I was very uneasy. All sorts of forebodings assailed me.
Ackroyd spoke again almost immediately. âMake certain that windowâs closed, will you,â 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 re-entered the room with my bag while I was still at the window.
âThatâs all right,â I said, emerging again into the room.
âYouâve put the latch across?â
âYes, yes. Whatâs the matter with you, Ackroyd?â
The door had just closed behind Parker, or I would not have put the question.
Ackroyd waited just a minute before replying.
âIâm in hell,â he said slowly, after a minute. âNo, donât bother with those damn tablets. I only said that for Parker. Servants are so curious. Come here and sit down. The doorâs closed too, isnât it?â
âYes. Nobody can overhear; donât be uneasy.â
âSheppard, nobody knows what Iâve gone through in the last twenty-four hours. If a manâs house ever fell in ruin about him, mine has about me. This business of Ralphâs is the last straw. But we wonât talk about that now. Itâs the otherâ âthe otherâ â! I donât know what to do about it. And Iâve got to make up my mind soon.â
âWhatâs the trouble?â
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.
âSheppard, you attended Ashley Ferrars in his last illness, didnât you?â
âYes, I did.â
He seemed to find even greater difficulty in framing his next question.
âDid you ever suspectâ âdid it ever enter your headâ âthatâ âwell, that he might have been poisoned?â
I was silent for a minute or two. Then I made up my mind as to what to say. Roger Ackroyd was not Caroline.
âIâll tell you the truth,â I said. âAt the time I had no suspicion whatever, but sinceâ âwell, it was mere idle talk on my sisterâs part that first put the idea into my head. Since then I havenât been able to get it out again. But mind you, Iâve no foundation whatever for that suspicion.â
âHe was poisoned,â said Ackroyd. He spoke in a dull heavy voice.
âWho by?â I asked sharply.
âHis wife.â
âHow do you know that?â
âShe told me so herself.â
âWhen?â
âYesterday! My God! Yesterday! It seems ten years ago.â
I waited a minute, and then he went on.
âYou understand, Sheppard, Iâm telling you this in confidence. Itâs to go no further. I want your adviceâ âI canât carry the whole weight by myself. As I said just now, I donât know what to do.â
âCan you tell me the whole story?â I said. âIâm still in the dark. How did Mrs. Ferrars come to make this confession to you?â
âItâs 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 husbandâs 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. Sheâ âshe told me everything. Her hatred of her brute of a husband, her growing love for me, and theâ âthe dreadful means she had taken. Poison! My God! It was murder in cold blood.â
I saw the repulsion, the horror, in Ackroydâs face. So Mrs. Ferrars must have seen it. Ackroydâs is not the type of the great lover who can forgive all for loveâs 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.
âYes,â he went on, in a low, monotonous voice, âshe confessed everything. It seems that there is one person who has known all alongâ âwho has been blackmailing her for huge sums. It was the strain of that that drove her nearly mad.â
âWho was the man?â
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. Supposingâ âoh! but surely that was impossible. I remembered the frankness of Ralphâs greeting that very afternoon. Absurd!
âShe wouldnât tell me his name,â said Ackroyd slowly. âAs a matter of fact, she didnât
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