CHAPTER IV

DINNER AT FERNLY

It was just a few minutes before half-past seven when I rang the

front door bell of Fernly Park. The door was opened with admirable

promptitude by Parker, the butler.

The night was such a fine one that I had preferred to come on foot. I

stepped into the big square hall and Parker relieved me of my overcoat.

Just then Ackroyd’s secretary, a pleasant young fellow by the name of

Raymond, passed through the hall on his way to Ackroyd’s study, his

hands full of papers.

“Good-evening, doctor. Coming to dine? Or is this a professional call?”

The last was in allusion to my black bag, which I had laid down on the

oak chest.

I explained that I expected a summons to a confinement case at any

moment, and so had come out prepared for an emergency call. Raymond

nodded, and went on his way, calling over his shoulder:—

“Go into the drawing-room. You know the way. The ladies will be down in

a minute. I must just take these papers to Mr. Ackroyd, and I’ll tell

him you’re here.”

On Raymond’s appearance Parker had withdrawn, so I was alone in the

hall. I settled my tie, glanced in a large mirror which hung there, and

crossed to the door directly facing me, which was, as I knew, the door

of the drawing-room.

I noticed, just as I was turning the handle, a sound from within—the

shutting down of a window, I took it to be. I noted it, I may say,

quite mechanically, without attaching any importance to it at the time.

I opened the door and walked in. As I did so, I almost collided with

Miss Russell, who was just coming out. We both apologized.

For the first time I found myself appraising the housekeeper and

thinking what a handsome woman she must once have been—indeed, as far

as that goes, still was. Her dark hair was unstreaked with gray, and

when she had a color, as she had at this minute, the stern quality of

her looks was not so apparent.

Quite subconsciously I wondered whether she had been out, for she was

breathing hard, as though she had been running.

“I’m afraid I’m a few minutes early,” I said.

“Oh! I don’t think so. It’s gone half-past seven, Dr. Sheppard.” She

paused a minute before saying, “I—didn’t know you were expected to

dinner to-night. Mr. Ackroyd didn’t mention it.”

I received a vague impression that my dining there displeased her in

some way, but I couldn’t imagine why.

“How’s the knee?” I inquired.

“Much the same, thank you, doctor. I must be going now. Mrs. Ackroyd

will be down in a moment. I—I only came in here to see if the flowers

were all right.”

She passed quickly out of the room. I strolled to the window,

wondering at her evident desire to justify her presence in the room. As

I did so, I saw what, of course, I might have known all the time had

I troubled to give my mind to it, namely, that the windows were long

French ones opening on the terrace. The sound I had heard, therefore,

could not have been that of a window being shut down.

Quite idly, and more to distract my mind from painful thoughts than for

any other reason, I amused myself by trying to guess what could have

caused the sound in question.

Coals on the fire? No, that was not the kind of noise at all. A drawer

of the bureau pushed in? No, not that.

Then my eye was caught by what, I believe, is called a silver table,

the lid of which lifts, and through the glass of which you can see the

contents. I crossed over to it, studying the things. There were one

or two pieces of old silver, a baby shoe belonging to King Charles

the First, some Chinese jade figures, and quite a number of African

implements and curios. Wanting to examine one of the jade figures more

closely, I lifted the lid. It slipped through my fingers and fell.

At once I recognized the sound I had heard. It was this same table lid

being shut down gently and carefully. I repeated the action once or

twice for my own satisfaction. Then I lifted the lid to scrutinize the

contents more closely.

I was still bending over the open silver table when Flora Ackroyd came

into the room.

Quite a lot of people do not like Flora Ackroyd, but nobody can help

admiring her. And to her friends she can be very charming. The first

thing that strikes you about her is her extraordinary fairness. She has

the real Scandinavian pale gold hair. Her eyes are blue—blue as the

waters of a Norwegian fiord, and her skin is cream and roses. She has

square, boyish shoulders and slight hips. And to a jaded medical man it

is very refreshing to come across such perfect health.

A simple straight-forward English girl—I may be old-fashioned, but I

think the genuine article takes a lot of beating.

Flora joined me by the silver table, and expressed heretical doubts as

to King Charles I ever having worn the baby shoe.

“And anyway,” continued Miss Flora, “all this making a fuss about

things because some one wore or used them seems to me all nonsense.

They’re not wearing or using them now. The pen that George Eliot wrote

_The Mill on the Floss_ with—that sort of thing—well, it’s only just a

pen after all. If you’re really keen on George Eliot, why not get _The

Mill on the Floss_ in a cheap edition and read it.”

“I suppose you never read such old out-of-date stuff, Miss Flora?”

“You’re wrong, Dr. Sheppard. I love _The Mill on the Floss_.”

I was rather pleased to hear it. The things young women read nowadays

and profess to enjoy positively frighten me.

“You haven’t congratulated me yet, Dr. Sheppard,” said Flora. “Haven’t

you heard?”

She held out her left hand. On the third finger of it was an

exquisitely set single pearl.

“I’m going to marry Ralph, you know,” she went on. “Uncle is very

pleased. It keeps me in the family, you see.”

I took both her hands in mine.

“My dear,” I said, “I hope you’ll be very happy.”

“We’ve been engaged for about a month,” continued Flora in her cool

voice, “but it was only announced yesterday. Uncle is going to do up

Cross-stones, and give it to us to live in, and we’re going to pretend

to farm. Really, we shall hunt all the winter, town for the season, and

then go yachting. I love the sea. And, of course, I shall take a great

interest in the parish affairs, and attend all the Mothers’ Meetings.”

Just then Mrs. Ackroyd rustled in, full of apologies for being late.

I am sorry to say I detest Mrs. Ackroyd. She is all chains and teeth

and bones. A most unpleasant woman. She has small pale flinty blue

eyes, and however gushing her words may be, those eyes of hers always

remain coldly speculative.

I went across to her, leaving Flora by the window. She gave me a

handful of assorted knuckles and rings to squeeze, and began talking

volubly.

Had I heard about Flora’s engagement? So suitable in every way. The

dear young things had fallen in love at first sight. Such a perfect

pair, he so dark and she so fair.

“I can’t tell you, my dear Dr. Sheppard, the relief to a mother’s

heart.”

Mrs. Ackroyd sighed—a tribute to her mother’s heart, whilst her eyes

remained shrewdly observant of me.

“I was wondering. You are such an old friend of dear Roger’s. We

know how much he trusts to your judgment. So difficult for me—in

my position, as poor Cecil’s widow. But there are so many tiresome

things—settlements, you know—all that. I fully believe that Roger

intends to make settlements upon dear Flora, but, as you know, he is

just a _leetle_ peculiar about money. Very usual, I’ve heard, amongst

men who are captains of industry. I wondered, you know, if you could

just _sound_ him on the subject? Flora is so fond of you. We feel you

are quite an old friend, although we have only really known you just

over two years.”

Mrs. Ackroyd’s eloquence was cut short as the drawing-room door opened

once more. I was pleased at the interruption. I hate interfering in

other people’s affairs, and I had not the least intention of tackling

Ackroyd on the subject of Flora’s settlements. In another moment I

should have been forced to tell Mrs. Ackroyd as much.

“You know Major Blunt, don’t you, doctor?”

“Yes, indeed,” I said.

A lot of people know Hector Blunt—at least by repute. He has shot more

wild animals in unlikely places than any man living, I suppose. When

you mention him, people say: “Blunt—you don’t mean the big game man, do

you?”

His friendship with Ackroyd has always puzzled me a little. The two men

are so totally dissimilar. Hector Blunt is perhaps five years Ackroyd’s

junior. They made friends early in life, and though their ways have

diverged, the friendship still holds. About once in two years Blunt

spends a fortnight at Fernly, and an immense animal’s head, with an

amazing number of horns which fixes you with a glazed stare as soon

as you come inside the front door, is a permanent reminder of the

friendship.

Blunt had entered the room now with his own peculiar, deliberate, yet

soft-footed tread. He is a man of medium height, sturdily and rather

stockily built. His face is almost mahogany-colored, and is peculiarly

expressionless. He has gray eyes that give the impression of always

watching something that is happening very far away. He talks little,

and what he does say is said jerkily, as though the words were forced

out of him unwillingly.

He said now: “How are you, Sheppard?” in his usual abrupt fashion, and

then stood squarely in front of the fireplace looking over our heads as

though he saw something very interesting happening in Timbuctoo.

“Major Blunt,” said Flora, “I wish you’d tell me about these African

things. I’m sure you know what they all are.”

I have heard Hector Blunt described as a woman hater, but I noticed

that he joined Flora at the silver table with what might be described

as alacrity. They bent over it together.

I was afraid Mrs. Ackroyd would begin talking about settlements again,

so I made a few hurried remarks about the new sweet pea. I knew there

was a new sweet pea because the _Daily Mail_ had told me so that

morning. Mrs. Ackroyd knows nothing about horticulture, but she is the

kind of woman who likes to appear well-informed about the topics of the

day, and she, too, reads the _Daily Mail_. We were able to converse

quite intelligently until Ackroyd and his secretary joined us, and

immediately afterwards Parker announced dinner.

My place at table was between Mrs. Ackroyd and Flora. Blunt was on Mrs.

Ackroyd’s other side, and Geoffrey Raymond next to him.

Dinner was not a cheerful affair. Ackroyd was visibly preoccupied. He

looked wretched, and ate next to nothing. Mrs. Ackroyd, Raymond, and

I kept the conversation going. Flora seemed affected by her uncle’s

depression, and Blunt relapsed into his usual taciturnity.

Immediately after dinner Ackroyd slipped his arm through mine and led

me off to his study.

“Once we’ve had coffee, we shan’t be disturbed again,” he explained. “I

told Raymond to see to it that we shouldn’t be interrupted.”

I studied him quietly without appearing to do so. He was clearly under

the influence of some strong excitement. For a minute or two he paced

up and down the room, then, as Parker entered with the coffee tray, he

sank into an arm-chair in front of the fire.

The study was a comfortable apartment. Book-shelves lined one wall of

it. The chairs were big and covered in dark blue leather. A large desk

stood by the window and was covered with papers neatly docketed and

filed. On a round table were various magazines and sporting papers.

“I’ve had a return of that pain after food lately,” remarked Ackroyd

casually, as he helped himself to coffee. “You must give me some more

of those tablets of yours.”

It struck me that he was anxious to convey the impression that our

conference was a medical one. I played up accordingly.

“I thought as much. I brought some up with me.”

“Good man. Hand them over now.”

“They’re in my bag in the hall. I’ll get them.”

Ackroyd arrested me.

“Don’t you trouble. Parker will get them. Bring in the doctor’s bag,

will you, Parker?”

“Very good, sir.”

Parker withdrew. As I was about to speak, Ackroyd threw up his hand.

“Not yet. Wait. Don’t you see I’m in such a state of nerves that I can

hardly contain myself?”

I saw that plainly enough. And I was very uneasy. All sorts of

forebodings assailed me.

Ackroyd spoke again almost immediately.

“Make certain that window’s closed, will you?” he asked.

Somewhat surprised, I got up and went to it. It was not a French

window, but one of the ordinary sash type. The heavy blue velvet

curtains were drawn in front of it, but the window itself was open at

the top.

Parker reëntered the room with my bag while I was still at the window.

“That’s all right,” I said, emerging again into the room.

“You’ve put the latch across?”

“Yes, yes. What’s the matter with you, Ackroyd?”

The door had just closed behind Parker, or I would not have put the

question.

Ackroyd waited just a minute before replying.

“I’m in hell,” he said slowly, after a minute. “No, don’t bother with

those damned 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 ruins 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 never 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, and 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.”

I saw the repulsion, the horror, in Ackroyd’s face. So Mrs. Ferrars

must have seen it. Ackroyd is not the type of the great lover who can

forgive all for love’s sake. He is fundamentally a good citizen. All

that was sound and wholesome and law-abiding in him must have turned

from her utterly in that moment of revelation.

“Yes,” he went on, in a low, monotonous voice, “she confessed

everything. It seems that there is one person who has known all

along—who has been blackmailing her for huge sums. It was the strain of

that that drove her nearly mad.”

“Who was the man?”

Suddenly before my eyes there arose the picture of Ralph Paton and Mrs.

Ferrars side by side. Their heads so close together. I felt a momentary

throb of anxiety. Supposing—oh! but surely that was impossible. I

remembered the frankness of Ralph’s greeting that very afternoon.

Absurd!

“She wouldn’t tell me his name,” said Ackroyd slowly. “As a matter of

fact, she didn’t actually say that it was a man. But of course——”

“Of course,” I agreed. “It must have been a man. And you’ve no

suspicion at all?”

For answer Ackroyd groaned and dropped his head into his hands.

“It can’t be,” he said. “I’m mad even to think of such a thing. No, I

won’t even admit to you the wild suspicion that crossed my mind. I’ll

tell you this much, though. Something she said made me think that the

person in question might be actually among my household—but that can’t

be so. I must have misunderstood her.”

“What did you say to her?” I asked.

“What could I say? She saw, of course, the awful shock it had been to

me. And then there was the question, what was my duty in the matter?

She had made me, you see, an accessory after the fact. She saw all

that, I think, quicker than I did. I was stunned, you know. She asked

me for twenty-four hours—made me promise to do nothing till the end

of that time. And she steadfastly refused to give me the name of the

scoundrel who had been blackmailing her. I suppose she was afraid that

I might go straight off and hammer him, and then the fat would have

been in the fire as far as she was concerned. She told me that I should

hear from her before twenty-four hours had passed. My God! I swear to

you, Sheppard, that it never entered my head what she meant to do.

Suicide! And I drove her to it.”

“No, no,” I said. “Don’t take an exaggerated view of things. The

responsibility for her death doesn’t lie at your door.”

“The question is, what am I to do now? The poor lady is dead. Why rake

up past trouble?”

“I rather agree with you,” I said.

“But there’s another point. How am I to get hold of that scoundrel who

drove her to death as surely as if he’d killed her. He knew of the

first crime, and he fastened on to it like some obscene vulture. She’s

paid the penalty. Is he to go scot-free?”

“I see,” I said slowly. “You want to hunt him down? It will mean a lot

of publicity, you know.”

“Yes, I’ve thought of that. I’ve zigzagged to and fro in my mind.”

“I agree with you that the villain ought to be punished, but the cost

has got to be reckoned.”

Ackroyd rose and walked up and down. Presently he sank into the chair

again.

“Look here, Sheppard, suppose we leave it like this. If no word comes

from her, we’ll let the dead things lie.”

“What do you mean by word coming from her?” I asked curiously.

“I have the strongest impression that somewhere or somehow she must

have left a message for me—before she went. I can’t argue about it, but

there it is.”

I shook my head.

“She left no letter or word of any kind. I asked.”

“Sheppard, I’m convinced that she did. And more, I’ve a feeling that by

deliberately choosing death, she wanted the whole thing to come out, if

only to be revenged on the man who drove her to desperation. I believe

that if I could have seen her then, she would have told me his name and

bid me go for him for all I was worth.”

He looked at me.

“You don’t believe in impressions?”

“Oh, yes, I do, in a sense. If, as you put it, word should come from

her——”

I broke off. The door opened noiselessly and Parker entered with a

salver on which were some letters.

“The evening post, sir,” he said, handing the salver to Ackroyd.

Then he collected the coffee cups and withdrew.

My attention, diverted for a moment, came back to Ackroyd. He was

staring like a man turned to stone at a long blue envelope. The other

letters he had let drop to the ground.

“_Her writing_,” he said in a whisper. “She must have gone out and

posted it last night, just before—before——”

He ripped open the envelope and drew out a thick enclosure. Then he

looked up sharply.

“You’re sure you shut the window?” he said.

“Quite sure,” I said, surprised. “Why?”

“All this evening I’ve had a queer feeling of being watched, spied

upon. What’s that——?”

He turned sharply. So did I. We both had the impression of hearing the

latch of the door give ever so slightly. I went across to it and opened

it. There was no one there.

“Nerves,” murmured Ackroyd to himself.

He unfolded the thick sheets of paper, and read aloud in a low voice.

“_My dear, my very dear Roger,—A life calls for a life. I see

that—I saw it in your face this afternoon. So I am taking the only

road open to me. I leave to you the punishment of the person who

has made my life a hell upon earth for the last year. I would not

tell you the name this afternoon, but I propose to write it to you

now. I have no children or near relations to be spared, so do not

fear publicity. If you can, Roger, my very dear Roger, forgive me

the wrong I meant to do you, since when the time came, I could not

do it after all...._”

Ackroyd, his finger on the sheet to turn it over, paused.

“Sheppard, forgive me, but I must read this alone,” he said unsteadily.

“It was meant for my eyes, and my eyes only.”

He put the letter in the envelope and laid it on the table.

“Later, when I am alone.”

“No,” I cried impulsively, “read it now.”

Ackroyd stared at me in some surprise.

“I beg your pardon,” I said, reddening. “I do not mean read it aloud to

me. But read it through whilst I am still here.”

Ackroyd shook his head.

“No, I’d rather wait.”

But for some reason, obscure to myself, I continued to urge him.

“At least, read the name of the man,” I said.

Now Ackroyd is essentially pig-headed. The more you urge him to do a

thing, the more determined he is not to do it. All my arguments were in

vain.

The letter had been brought in at twenty minutes to nine. It was just

on ten minutes to nine when I left him, the letter still unread. I

hesitated with my hand on the door handle, looking back and wondering

if there was anything I had left undone. I could think of nothing. With

a shake of the head I passed out and closed the door behind me.

I was startled by seeing the figure of Parker close at hand. He looked

embarrassed, and it occurred to me that he might have been listening at

the door.

What a fat, smug, oily face the man had, and surely there was something

decidedly shifty in his eye.

“Mr. Ackroyd particularly does not want to be disturbed,” I said

coldly. “He told me to tell you so.”

“Quite so, sir. I—I fancied I heard the bell ring.”

This was such a palpable untruth that I did not trouble to reply.

Preceding me to the hall, Parker helped me on with my overcoat, and I

stepped out into the night. The moon was overcast and everything seemed

very dark and still. The village church clock chimed nine o’clock

as I passed through the lodge gates. I turned to the left towards

the village, and almost cannoned into a man coming in the opposite

direction.

“This the way to Fernly Park, mister?” asked the stranger in a hoarse

voice.

I looked at him. He was wearing a hat pulled down over his eyes, and

his coat collar turned up. I could see little or nothing of his face,

but he seemed a young fellow. The voice was rough and uneducated.

“These are the lodge gates here,” I said.

“Thank you, mister.” He paused, and then added, quite unnecessarily,

“I’m a stranger in these parts, you see.”

He went on, passing through the gates as I turned to look after him.

The odd thing was that his voice reminded me of some one’s voice that I

knew, but whose it was I could not think.

Ten minutes later I was at home once more. Caroline was full of

curiosity to know why I had returned so early. I had to make up a

slightly fictitious account of the evening in order to satisfy her, and

I had an uneasy feeling that she saw through the transparent device.

At ten o’clock I rose, yawned, and suggested bed. Caroline acquiesced.

It was Friday night, and on Friday night I wind the clocks. I did it as

usual, whilst Caroline satisfied herself that the servants had locked

up the kitchen properly.

It was a quarter past ten as we went up the stairs. I had just reached

the top when the telephone rang in the hall below.

“Mrs. Bates,” said Caroline immediately.

“I’m afraid so,” I said ruefully.

I ran down the stairs and took up the receiver.

“What?” I said. “_What?_ Certainly, I’ll come at once.”

I ran upstairs, caught up my bag, and stuffed a few extra dressings

into it.

“Parker telephoning,” I shouted to Caroline, “from Fernly. They’ve just

found Roger Ackroyd murdered.”