The Murder of Roger Ackroydby Agatha Christie
Dr. Sheppard has no idea his finicky, foreign neighbor is actually retired detective Hercule Poirot. When wealthy Roger Ackroyd is found brutally murdered, Poirot can’t resist stepping it to sort out clues and find the killer. This third Poirot mystery has all the author’s trademark touches — a pithy portrait of English village life, a cast of unforgettable characters… See more details below
Dr. Sheppard has no idea his finicky, foreign neighbor is actually retired detective Hercule Poirot. When wealthy Roger Ackroyd is found brutally murdered, Poirot can’t resist stepping it to sort out clues and find the killer. This third Poirot mystery has all the author’s trademark touches — a pithy portrait of English village life, a cast of unforgettable characters, and a plot of Byzantine complexity. Due to its shocking twist ending, the book remains one of the most controversial mysteries ever written.
Read an Excerpt
Mrs. Ferrars died on the night of the 16th-17th September--a Thursday. I was sent for at eight o'clock 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 latch-key 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 tea-cups 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 don't 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 information, but to spread it. At that, too, she is amazingly expert.
It was really this last named trait of hers which was causing methese 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 over-indulgence in alcoholic beverages. The symptoms of gastritis and arsenical poisoning are not, I agree, unlike, but Caroline bases her accusation on quite different lines.
"You've 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, Caroline's voice came again, with a sharper note in it.
"What on earth are you doing out there, James? Why don't you come and get your breakfast?"
"Just coming, my dear," I said hastily. "I've 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.
"You've had an early call," remarked Caroline.
"Yes," I said. "King's Paddock. Mrs. Ferrars."
"I know," said my sister.
"How did you know?"
"Annie told me."
Annie is the house parlormaid. A nice girl, but an inveterate talker.
There was a pause. I continued to eat eggs and bacon. My sister's 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 bad business. Nothing to be done. Must have died in her sleep."
"I know," said my sister again.
This time I was annoyed.
"You can't know," I snapped. "I didn't know myself until I got there, and I haven't mentioned it to a soul yet. If that girl Annie knows, she must be a clairvoyant."
"It wasn't Annie who told me. It was the milkman. He had it from the Ferrars' 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?"
"Didn't the milkman tell you that?" I inquired sarcastically.
Sarcasm is wasted on Caroline. She takes it seriously and answers accordingly.
"He didn't 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. She's been taking it lately for sleeplessness. Must have taken too much."
"Nonsense," said Caroline immediately. "She took it on purpose. Don't tell me!"
It is odd how, 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. It's absurd."
"Not at all. Even you must have noticed how different she has been looking lately. It's been coming on for the last six months. She's looked positively hag-ridden. And you have just admitted that she hasn't been able to sleep."
Meet the Author
Agatha Christie is the world's best known mystery writer. Her books have sold over a billion copies in the English language and another billion in 44 foreign languages. She is the most widely published author of all time in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare.
Her writing career spanned more than half a century, during which she wrote 79 novels and short story collections, as well as 14 plays, one of which, The Mousetrap, is the longest-running play in history. Two of the characters she created, the brilliant little Belgian Hercule Poirot and the irrepressible and relentless Miss Marple, went on to become world-famous detectives. Both have been widely dramatized in feature films and made-for-TV movies.
Agatha Christie also wrote six romantic novels under the pseudonym Mary Westmacott. As well, she wrote four nonfiction books including an autobiography and an entertaining account of the many expeditions she shared with her archaeologist husband Sir Max Mallowan.
Agatha Christie died in 1976.
- Date of Birth:
- September 15, 1890
- Date of Death:
- January 12, 1976
- Place of Birth:
- Torquay, Devon, England
- Home schooling
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