The Murder of Roger Ackroyd / Убийство Роджера Экройда
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‘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 weakminded 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. Her name was Paton, and she was a widow with one child. The history of the marriage was short and painful. To put it bluntly, Mrs Ackroyd was a dipsomaniac. She succeeded in drinking herself into her grave four years after her marriage.
In the years that followed, Ackroyd showed no disposition to make a second matrimonial adventure. his wife’s child by her first marriage was only seven years old when his mother died. He is now twenty-five. Ackroyd has always regarded him as his own son, and has brought him up accordingly, but he has been a wild lad and a continual source of worry and trouble to his stepfather. Nevertheless we are all very fond of ralph Paton in king’s Abbot. he is such a good-looking youngster for one thing.
As I said before, we are ready enough to gossip in our village. Everybody noticed from the first that Ackroyd and Mrs Ferrars got on very well together. After her husband’s death, the intimacy became more marked. They were always seen about together, and it was freely conjectured that at the end of her period of mourning, Mrs Ferrars would become Mrs Roger Ackroyd. It was felt, indeed, that there was a certain fitness in the thing. roger Ackroyd’s wife had admittedly died of drink. Ashley Ferrars had been a drunkard for many years before his death. It was only fitting that these two victims of alcoholic excess should make up to each other for all that they had previously endured at the hands of their former spouses.
The Ferrars only came to live here just over a year ago, but a halo of gossip has surrounded Ackroyd for many years past. All the time that ralph Paton was growing up to manhood a series of lady housekeepers presided over Ackroyd’s establishment, and each in turn was regarded with lively suspicion by Caroline and her cronies. It is not too much to say that for at least fifteen years the whole village has confidently expected Ackroyd to marry one of his housekeepers. The last of them, a redoubtable lady called Miss Russell, has reigned undisputed for five years, twice as long as any of her predecessors. It is felt that but for the advent of Mrs Ferrars, Ackroyd could hardly have escaped. That – and one other factor – the unexpected arrival of a widowed sister-in-law with her daughter from Canada. Mrs Cecil Ackroyd, widow of Ackroyd’s ne’er-dowell younger brother, has taken up her residence at Fernly Park, and has succeeded, according to Caroline, in putting Miss Russell in her proper place.