The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Агата Кристи

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      “Did he send her to you with that message?”

      “Not exactly, sir. I was bringing a tray with soda and whisky when Miss Flora, who was just coming out of this room, stopped me and said her uncle didn’t want to be disturbed.”

      The inspector looked at the butler with rather closer attention than he had bestowed on him up to now.

      “You’d already been told that Mr Ackroyd didn’t want to be disturbed, hadn’t you?”

      Parker began to stammer. His hands shook.

      “Yes, sir. Yes, sir. Quite so, sir.”

      “And yet you were proposing to do so?”

      “I’d forgotten, sir. At least I mean, I always bring the whisky and soda about that time, sir, and ask if there’s anything more, and I thought—well, I was doing as usual without thinking.”

      It was at this moment that it began to dawn upon me that Parker was most suspiciously flustered. The man was shaking and twitching all over.

      “H’m,” said the inspector. “I must see Miss Ackroyd at once. For the moment we’ll leave this room exactly as it is. I can return here after I’ve heard what Miss Ackroyd has to tell me. I shall just take the precaution of shutting and bolting the window.”

      This precaution accomplished, he led the way into the hall and we followed him. He paused a moment, as he glanced up at the little staircase, then spoke over his shoulder to the constable.

      “Jones, you’d better stay here. Don’t let anyone go into that room.”

      Parker interposed deferentially.

      “If you’ll excuse me, sir. If you were to lock the door into the main hall, nobody could gain access to this part. That staircase leads only to Mr Ackroyd’s bedroom and bathroom. There is no communication with the other part of the house. There once was a door through, but Mr Ackroyd had it blocked up. He liked to feel that his suite was entirely private.”

      To make things clear and explain the position, I have appended a rough sketch of the right-hand wing of the house. The small staircase leads, as Parker explained, to a big bedroom made by two being knocked into one, and an adjoining bathroom and lavatory.

      The inspector took in the position at a glance. We went through into the large hall and he locked the door behind him, slipping the key into his pocket. Then he gave the constable some low-voiced instructions, and the latter prepared to depart.

      “We must get busy on those shoe tracks,” explained the inspector. “But first of all, I must have a word with Miss Ackroyd. She was the last person to see her uncle alive. Does she know yet?”

      Raymond shook his head.

      “Well, no need to tell her for another five minutes. She can answer my questions better without being upset by knowing the truth about her uncle. Tell her there’s been a burglary, and ask her if she would mind dressing and coming down to answer a few questions.”

      It was Raymond who went upstairs on this errand.

      “Miss Ackroyd will be down in a minute,” he said, when he returned. “I told her just what you suggested.”

      In less than five minutes Flora descended the staircase. She was wrapped in a pale pink silk kimono. She looked anxious and excited.

      The inspector stepped forward.

      “Good evening, Miss Ackroyd,” he said civilly. “We’re afraid there’s been an attempt at robbery, and we want you to help us. What’s this room—the billiard room? Come in here and sit down.”

      Flora sat down composedly on the wide divan which ran the length of the wall, and looked up at the inspector.

      “I don’t quite understand. What has been stolen? What do you want me to tell you?”

      “It’s just this, Miss Ackroyd. Parker here says you came out of your uncle’s study at about a quarter to ten. Is that right?”

      “Quite right. I had been to say goodnight to him.”

      “And the time is correct?”

      “Well, it must have been about then. I can’t say exactly. It might have been later.”

      “Was your uncle alone, or was there anyone with him?”

      “He was alone. Dr Sheppard had gone.”

      “Did you happen to notice whether the window was open or shut?”

      Flora shook her head.

      “I can’t say. The curtains were drawn.”

      “Exactly. And your uncle seemed quite as usual?”

      “I think so.”

      “Do you mind telling us exactly what passed between you?”

      Flora paused a minute, as though to collect her recollections.

      “I went in and said, “Goodnight, Uncle, I’m going to bed now. I’m tired tonight.” He gave a sort of grunt, and—I went over and kissed him, and he said something about my looking nice in the frock I had on, and then he told me to run away as he was busy. So I went.”

      “Did he ask specially not to be disturbed?”

      “Oh! yes, I forgot. He said: “Tell Parker I don’t want anything more tonight, and that he’s not to disturb me.” I met Parker just outside the door and gave him Uncle’s message.”

      “Just so,” said the inspector.

      “Won’t you tell me what it is that has been stolen?”

      “We’re not quite—certain,” said the inspector hesitatingly.

      A wide look of alarm came into the girl’s eyes. She started up.

      “What is it? You’re hiding something from me?”

      Moving in his usual unobtrusive manner, Hector Blunt came between her and the inspector. She half stretched out her hand, and he took it in both of his, patting it as though she were a very small child, and she turned to him as though something in his stolid, rocklike demeanour promised comfort and safety.

      “It’s bad news, Flora,” he said quietly. “Bad news for all of us. Your Uncle Roger –”

      “Yes?”

      “It will be a shock to you. Bound to be. Poor Roger’s dead.”

      Flora drew away from him, her eyes dilating with horror.

      “When?” she whispered. “When?”

      “Very soon after you left him, I’m afraid,” said Blunt gravely.

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