The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Агата Кристи

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СКАЧАТЬ 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’s 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.

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