The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

Caroline, of course, had not failed to see Miss Russell come to the surgery door. I had anticipated this, and had ready an elaborate account of the lady’s bad knee. But Caroline was not in a cross-questioning mood. Her point of view was that she knew what Miss Russell had really come for and that I didn’t.
“Pumping you, James,” said Caroline. “Pumping you in the most shameless manner, I’ve no doubt. It’s no good interrupting. I dare say you hadn’t the least idea she was doing it even. Men are so simple. She knows that you are in M. Poirot’s confidence, and she wants to find out things. Do you know what I think, James?”
“I couldn’t begin to imagine. You think so many extraordinary things.”
“It’s no good being sarcastic. I think Miss Russell knows more about Mr. Ackroyd’s death than she is prepared to admit.”
Caroline leaned back triumphantly in her chair.
“Do you really think so?” I said absently.
“You are very dull today, James. No animation about you. It’s that liver of yours.”
Our conversation then dealt with purely personal matters.
The paragraph inspired by Poirot duly appeared in our daily paper the next morning. I was in the dark as to its purpose, but its effect on Caroline was immense.
She began by stating, most untruly, that she had said as much all along. I raised my eyebrows, but did not argue. Caroline, however, must have felt a prick of conscience, for she went on:
“I mayn’t have actually mentioned Liverpool, but I knew he’d try to get away to America. That’s what Crippen did.”
“Without much success,” I reminded her.
“Poor boy, and so they’ve caught him. I consider, James, that it’s your duty to see that he isn’t hung.”
“What do you expect me to do?”
“Why, you’re a medical man, aren’t you? You’ve known him from a boy upwards. Not mentally responsible. That’s the line to take, clearly. I read only the other day that they’re very happy in Broadmoor⁠—it’s quite like a high-class club.”
But Caroline’s words had reminded me of something.
“I never knew that Poirot had an imbecile nephew?” I said curiously.
“Didn’t you? Oh, he told me all about it. Poor lad. It’s a great grief to all the family. They’ve kept him at home so far, but it’s getting to such a pitch that they’re afraid he’ll have to go into some kind of institution.”
“I suppose you know pretty well everything there is to know about Poirot’s family by this time,” I said, exasperated.

“Pretty well,” said Caroline complacently. “It’s a great relief to people to be able to tell all their troubles to someone.”
“It might be,” I said, “if they were ever allowed to do so spontaneously. Whether they enjoy having confidences screwed out of them by force is another matter.”
Caroline merely looked at me with an air of a Christian martyr enjoying martyrdom.
“You are so self-contained, James,” she said. “You hate speaking out, or parting with any information yourself, and you think everybody else must be just like you. I should hope that I never screw confidences out of anybody. For instance, if M. Poirot comes in this afternoon, as he said he might do, I shall not dream of asking him who it was arrived at his house early this morning.”
“Early this morning?” I queried.
“Very early,” said Caroline. “Before the milk came. I just happened to be looking out of the window⁠—the blind was flapping. It was a man. He came in a closed car, and he was all muffled up. I couldn’t get a glimpse of his face. But I will tell you my idea, and you’ll see that I’m right.”
“What’s your idea?”
Caroline dropped her voice mysteriously.
“A Home Office expert,” she breathed.
“A Home Office expert,” I said, amazed. “My dear Caroline!”
“Mark my words, James, you’ll see that I’m right. That Russell woman was here that morning after your poisons. Roger Ackroyd might easily have been poisoned in his food that night.”
I laughed out loud.
“Nonsense,” I cried. “He was stabbed in the neck. You know that as well as I do.”
“After death, James,” said Caroline; “to make a false clue.”
“My good woman,” I said, “I examined the body, and I know what I’m talking about. That wound wasn’t inflicted after death⁠—it was the cause of death, and you need make no mistake about it.”
Caroline merely continued to look omniscient, which so annoyed me that I went on:
“Perhaps you will tell me, Caroline, if I have a medical degree or if I have not?”
“You have the medical degree, I dare say, James⁠—at least, I mean I know you have. But you’ve no imagination whatever.”
“Having endowed you with a treble portion, there was none left over for me,” I said drily.
I was amused to see Caroline’s manoeuvres that afternoon when Poirot duly arrived. My sister, without asking a direct question, skirted the subject of the mysterious guest in every way imaginable. By the twinkle in Poirot’s eyes, I saw that he realized her object. He remained blandly impervious, and blocked her bowling so successfully that she herself was at a loss how to proceed.

Having, I suspect, quietly enjoyed the little game, he rose to his feet and suggested a walk.
“It is that I need to reduce the figure a little,” he explained. “You will come with me, doctor? And perhaps later, Miss Caroline will give us some tea.”
“Delighted,” said Caroline. “Won’t your⁠—er⁠—guest come in also?”
“You are too kind,” said Poirot. “But no, my friend reposes himself. Soon you must make his acquaintance.”
“Quite an old friend of yours, so somebody told me,” said Caroline, making one last valiant effort.
“Did they?” murmured Poirot. “Well, we must start.”
Our tramp took us in the direction of Fernly. I had guessed beforehand that it might do so. I was beginning to understand Poirot’s methods. Every little irrelevancy had a bearing upon the whole.
“I have a commission for you, my friend,” he said at last. “Tonight, at my house. I desire to have a little conference. You will attend, will you not?”
“Certainly,” I said.
“Good. I need also those in the house⁠—that is to say: Mrs. Ackroyd, Mademoiselle Flora, Major Blunt, M. Raymond. I want you to be my ambassador. This little reunion is fixed for nine o’clock. You will ask them⁠—yes?”
“With pleasure; but why not ask them yourself?”
“Because they will then put the questions: Why? What for? They will demand what my idea is. And, as you know, my friend, I much dislike to have to explain my little ideas until the time comes.”
I smiled a little.
“My friend Hastings, he of whom I told you, used to say of me that I was the human oyster. But he was unjust. Of facts, I keep nothing to myself. But to everyone his own interpretation of them.”
“When do you want me to do this?”
“Now, if you will. We are close to the house.”
“Aren’t you coming in?”
“No, me, I will promenade myself in the grounds. I will rejoin you by the lodge gates in a quarter of an hour’s time.”
I nodded, and set off on my task. The only member of the family at home proved to be Mrs. Ackroyd, who was sipping an early cup of tea. She received me very graciously.
“So grateful to you, doctor,” she murmured, “for clearing up that little matter with M. Poirot. But life is one trouble after another. You have heard about Flora, of course?”
“What exactly?” I asked cautiously.
“This new engagement. Flora and Hector Blunt. Of course not such a good match as Ralph would have been. But after all, happiness comes first. What dear Flora needs is an older man⁠—someone steady and reliable, and then Hector is really a very distinguished man in his way. You saw the news of Ralph’s arrest in the paper this morning?”