Agatha Christie - The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

M rs. Ferrars died on the night of the 16th17th Septembera Thursday. I was sent for at eight oclock on the morning of Friday the 17th. There was nothing to be done. She had been dead some hours.

It was just a few minutes after nine when I reached home once more. I opened the front door with my latchkey, and purposely delayed a few moments in the hall, hanging up my hat and the light overcoat that I had deemed a wise precaution against the chill of an early autumn morning. To tell the truth, I was considerably upset and worried. I am not going to pretend that at that moment I foresaw the events of the next few weeks. I emphatically did not do so. But my instinct told me that there were stirring times ahead.

From the dining room on my left there came the rattle of teacups and the short, dry cough of my sister Caroline.

Is that you, James? she called.

An unnecessary question, since who else could it be? To tell the truth, it was precisely my sister Caroline who was the cause of my few minutes delay. The motto of the mongoose family, so Mr. Kipling tells us, is: Go and find out. If Caroline ever adopts a crest, I should certainly suggest a mongoose rampant. One might omit the first part of the motto. Caroline can do any amount of finding out by sitting placidly at home. I dont know how she manages it, but there it is. I suspect that the servants and the tradesmen constitute her Intelligence Corps. When she goes out, it is not to gather in information, but to spread it. At that, too, she is amazingly expert.

It was really this last named trait of hers which was causing me these pangs of indecision. Whatever I told Caroline now concerning the demise of Mrs. Ferrars would be common knowledge all over the village within the space of an hour and a half. As a professional man, I naturally aim at discretion. Therefore I have got into the habit of continually withholding all information possible from my sister. She usually finds out just the same, but I have the moral satisfaction of knowing that I am in no way to blame.

Mrs. Ferrars husband died just over a year ago, and Caroline has constantly asserted, without the least foundation for the assertion, that his wife poisoned him.

She scorns my invariable rejoinder that Mr. Ferrars died of acute gastritis, helped on by habitual overindulgence in alcoholic beverages. The symptoms of gastritis and arsenical poisoning are not, I agree, unlike, but Caroline bases her accusation on quite different lines.

Youve only got to look at her, I have heard her say.

Mrs. Ferrars, though not in her first youth, was a very attractive woman, and her clothes, though simple, always seemed to fit her very well, but all the same, lots of women buy their clothes in Paris, and have not, on that account, necessarily poisoned their husbands.

As I stood hesitating in the hall, with all this passing through my mind, Carolines voice came again, with a sharper note in it.

What on earth are you doing out there, James? Why dont you come and get your breakfast?

Just coming, my dear, I said hastily. Ive 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.

Youve had an early call, remarked Caroline.

Yes, I said. Kings 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 sisters 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 cant know, I snapped. I didnt know myself until I got there, and havent mentioned it to a soul yet. If that girl Annie knows, she must be a clairvoyant.

It wasnt 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?

Didnt the milkman tell you that? I inquired sarcastically.

Sarcasm is wasted on Caroline. She takes it seriously and answers accordingly.

He didnt 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. Shes been taking it lately for sleeplessness. Must have taken too much.

Nonsense, said Caroline immediately. She took it on purpose. Dont 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. Its absurd.

Not at all. Even you must have noticed how different she has been looking lately. Its been coming on for the last six months. Shes looked positively hag-ridden. And you have just admitted that she hasnt 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. Im more than ever convinced of it now.

I dont think youre very logical, I objected. Surely if a woman committed a crime like murder, shed 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 thatbut Mrs. Ferrars wasnt 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 cant endure suffering of any kind, and theres no doubt that the wife of a man like Ashley Ferrars must have had to suffer a good deal

I nodded.

And ever since shes been haunted by what she did. I cant help feeling sorry for her.

I dont 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 wasnt 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. Youll see. Ten to one shes left a letter confessing everything.

She didnt 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. Youre a precious old humbug.