The Murder of Roger Ackroyd / Убийство Роджера Экройда - стр. 20
Ackroyd waited just a minute before replying.
‘I’m in hell,’ he said slowly, after a minute. ‘No, don’t bother with those damn tablets. I only said that for Parker. Servants are so curious. come here and sit down. The door’s closed too, isn’t it?’
‘Yes. Nobody can overhear; don’t be uneasy.’
‘Sheppard, nobody knows what I’ve gone through in the last twenty-four hours. If a man’s house ever fell in ruin about him, mine has about me. This business of Ralph’s is the last straw. But we won’t talk about that now. It’s the other – the other – ! I don’t know what to do about it. And I’ve got to make up my mind soon.’
‘What’s the trouble?’
Ackroyd remained silent for a minute or two. he seemed curiously averse to begin. When he did speak, the question he asked came as a complete surprise. It was the last thing I expected.
‘Sheppard, you attended Ashley Ferrars in his last illness, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, I did.’
he seemed to find even greater difficulty in framing his next question.
‘Did you ever suspect – did it ever enter your head – that – well, that he might have been poisoned?’
I was silent for a minute or two. Then I made up my mind what to say. Roger Ackroyd was not Caroline.
‘I’ll tell you the truth,’ I said. ‘At the time I had no suspicion whatever, but since – well, it was mere idle talk on my sister’s part that first put the idea into my head. Since then I haven’t been able to get it out again. But, mind you, I’ve no foundation whatever for that suspicion.’
‘He was poisoned,’ said Ackroyd.
He spoke in a dull heavy voice.
‘Who by?’ I asked sharply.
‘His wife.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘She told me so herself.’
‘When?’
‘Yesterday! My god! Yesterday! It seems ten years ago.’
I waited a minute, then he went on.
‘You understand, Sheppard, I’m telling you this in confidence. It’s to go no further. I want your advice – I can’t carry the whole weight by myself. As I said just now, I don’t know what to do.’
‘Can you tell me the whole story?’ I said. ‘I’m still in the dark. How did Mrs Ferrars come to make this confession to you?’
‘It’s like this. Three months ago I asked Mrs Ferrars to marry me. She refused. I asked her again and she consented, but she refused to allow me to make the engagement public until her year of mourning was up. Yesterday I called upon her, pointed out that a year and three weeks had now elapsed since her husband’s death, and that there could be no further objection to making the engagement public property. I had noticed that she had been very strange in her manner for some days. Now, suddenly, without the least warning, she broke down completely. She – she told me everything. Her hatred of her brute of a husband, her growing love for me, and the – the dreadful means she had taken. Poison! My god! It was murder in cold blood.’