The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

On the following morning I hurried unforgivably over my round. My excuse can be that I had no very serious cases to attend. On my return Caroline came into the hall to greet me.
“Flora Ackroyd is here,” she announced in an excited whisper.
“What?” I concealed my surprise as best as I could.
“She’s very anxious to see you. She’s been here half an hour.”
Caroline led the way into our small sitting room, and I followed.
Flora was sitting on the sofa by the window. She was in black and she sat nervously twisting her hands together. I was shocked by the sight of her face. All the colour had faded away from it. But when she spoke her manner was as composed and resolute as possible.
“Dr. Sheppard, I have come to ask you to help me.”
“Of course he’ll help you, my dear,” said Caroline.
I don’t think Flora really wished Caroline to be present at the interview. She would, I am sure, have infinitely preferred to speak to me privately. But she also wanted to waste no time, so she made the best of it.
“I want you to come to The Larches with me.”
“The Larches?” I queried, surprised.
“To see that funny little man?” exclaimed Caroline.
“Yes. You know who he is, don’t you?”
“We fancied,” I said, “that he might be a retired hairdresser.”
Flora’s blue eyes opened very wide. “Why, he’s Hercule Poirot! You know who I mean⁠—the private detective. They say he’s done the most wonderful things⁠—just like detectives do in books. A year ago he retired and came to live down here. Uncle knew who he was, but he promised not to tell anyone, because M. Poirot wanted to live quietly without being bothered by people.”
“So that’s who he is,” I said slowly.
“You’ve heard of him, of course?”
“I’m rather an old fogey, as Caroline tells me,” I said, “but I have just heard of him.”
“Extraordinary!” commented Caroline.
I don’t know what she was referring to⁠—possibly her own failure to discover the truth.
“You want to go and see him?” I asked slowly. “Now why?”
“To get him to investigate this murder, of course,” said Caroline sharply. “Don’t be so stupid, James.”
I was not really being stupid. Caroline does not always understand what I am driving at.
“You haven’t got confidence in Inspector Davis?” I went on.
“Of course she hasn’t,” said Caroline. “I haven’t either.”
Anyone would have thought it was Caroline’s uncle who had been murdered.
“And how do you know he would take up the case?” I asked. “Remember he has retired from active work.”

“That’s just it,” said Flora simply. “I’ve got to persuade him.”
“You are sure you are doing wisely?” I asked gravely.
“Of course she is,” said Caroline. “I’ll go with her myself if she likes.”
“I’d rather the doctor came with me, if you don’t mind, Miss Sheppard,” said Flora.
She knows the value of being direct on certain occasions. Any hints would certainly have been wasted on Caroline.
“You see,” she explained, following directness with tact, “Dr. Sheppard being the doctor, and having found the body, he would be able to give all the details to M. Poirot.”
“Yes,” said Caroline grudgingly, “I see that.”
I took a turn or two up and down the room.
“Flora,” I said gravely, “be guided by me. I advise you not to drag this detective into the case.”
Flora sprang to her feet. The colour rushed into her cheeks.
“I know why you say that,” she cried. “But it’s exactly for that reason I’m so anxious to go. You’re afraid! But I’m not. I know Ralph better than you do.”
“Ralph!” said Caroline. “What has Ralph got to do with it?”
Neither of us heeded her.
“Ralph may be weak,” continued Flora. “He may have done foolish things in the past⁠—wicked things even⁠—but he wouldn’t murder anyone.”
“No, no,” I exclaimed. “I never thought it of him.”
“Then why did you go to the Three Boars last night?” demanded Flora, “on your way home⁠—after uncle’s body was found?”
I was momentarily silenced. I had hoped that that visit of mine would remain unnoticed.
“How did you know about that?” I countered.
“I went there this morning,” said Flora. “I heard from the servants that Ralph was staying there⁠—”
I interrupted her. “You had no idea that he was in King’s Abbot?”
“No. I was astounded. I couldn’t understand it. I went there and asked for him. They told me, what I suppose they told you last night, that he went out at about nine o’clock yesterday evening⁠—and⁠—and never came back.”
Her eyes met mine defiantly, and as though answering something in my look, she burst out: “Well, why shouldn’t he? He might have gone⁠—anywhere. He may even have gone back to London.”
“Leaving his luggage behind?” I asked gently.
Flora stamped her foot. “I don’t care. There must be a simple explanation.”
“And that’s why you want to go to Hercule Poirot? Isn’t it better to leave things as they are? The police don’t suspect Ralph in the least, remember. They’re working on quite another tack.”
“But that’s just it,” cried the girl. “They do suspect him. A man from Cranchester turned up this morning⁠—Inspector Raglan, a horrid, weaselly little man. I found he had been to the Three Boars this morning before me. They told me all about his having been there, and the questions he had asked. He must think Ralph did it.”

“That’s a change of mind from last night, if so,” I said slowly. “He doesn’t believe in Davis’s theory that it was Parker then?”
“Parker indeed,” said my sister, and snorted.
Flora came forward and laid her hand on my arm. “Oh! Dr. Sheppard, let us go at once to this M. Poirot. He will find out the truth.”
“My dear Flora,” I said gently, laying my hand on hers. “Are you quite sure it is the truth we want?”
She looked at me, nodding her head gravely. “You’re not sure,” she said. “I am. I know Ralph better than you do.”
“Of course he didn’t do it,” said Caroline, who had been keeping silent with great difficulty. “Ralph may be extravagant, but he’s a dear boy, and has the nicest manners.”
I wanted to tell Caroline that large numbers of murderers have had nice manners, but the presence of Flora restrained me. Since the girl was determined, I was forced to give in to her and we started at once, getting away before my sister was able to fire off any more pronouncements beginning with her favourite words, “Of course.”
An old woman with an immense Breton cap opened the door of The Larches to us. M. Poirot was at home, it seemed.
We were ushered into a little sitting room arranged with formal precision, and there, after a lapse of a minute or so, my friend of yesterday came to us.
“Monsieur le docteur,” he said, smiling. “Mademoiselle.”
He bowed to Flora.
“Perhaps,” I began, “you have heard of the tragedy which occurred last night.”
His face grew grave. “But certainly I have heard. It is horrible. I offer mademoiselle all my sympathy. In what way can I serve you?”
“Miss Ackroyd,” I said, “wants you to⁠—to⁠—”
“To find the murderer,” said Flora in a clear voice.
“I see,” said the little man. “But the police will do that, will they not?”
“They might make a mistake,” said Flora. “They are on their way to make a mistake now, I think. Please, M. Poirot, won’t you help us? If⁠—if it is a question of money⁠—”