The Murder of Roger Ackroyd / Убийство Роджера Экройда

I had no cases of special interest to attend, which was, perhaps, as well, for my thoughts returned again and again to the mystery of Mrs Ferrars’s death. had she taken her own life? Surely, if she had done so, she would have left some word behind to say what she contemplated doing? Women, in my experience, if they once reach the determination to commit suicide, usually wish to reveal the state of mind that led to the fatal action. They covet the limelight.

When had I last seen her? Not for over a week.

Then I suddenly remembered that I had seen her, though not to speak to, only yesterday. She had been walking with ralph Paton, and I had been surprised because I had had no idea that he was likely to be in king’s Abbot. I thought, indeed, that he had quarrelled finally with his stepfather. Nothing had been seen of him down here for nearly six months. They had been walking along, side by side, their heads close together, and she had been talking very earnestly.

I think I can safely say that it was at this moment that a foreboding of the future first swept over me. Nothing tangible as yet – but a vague premonition of the way things were setting. That earnest t?te-?-t?te between ralph Paton and Mrs ferrars the day before struck me disagreeably.

I was still thinking of it when I came face to face with Roger Ackroyd.

‘Sheppard!’ he exclaimed. ‘Just the man I wanted to get hold of.

‘You’ve heard then?’

He nodded. he had felt the blow keenly, I could see. his big red cheeks seemed to have fallen in, and he looked a positive wreck of his usual jolly, healthy self.

‘It’s worse than you know,’ he said quietly. ‘Look here, Sheppard, I’ve got to talk to you. can you come back with me now?’

‘hardly. I’ve got three patients to see still, and I must be back by twelve to see my surgery patients.’

‘Then this afternoon – no, better still, dine tonight.

‘Yes, I can manage that all right. What’s wrong? Is it Ralph?’

I hardly knew why I said that – except, perhaps, that it had so often been Ralph.

Ackroyd stared blankly at me as though he hardly understood. I began to realize that there must be something very wrong indeed somewhere. I had never seen Ackroyd so upset before.

‘Ralph?’ he said vaguely. ‘oh! no, it’s not Ralph.