I don’t know exactly what a ‘proper place’ constitutes – it sounds chilly and unpleasant – but I know that Miss Russell goes about with pinched lips, and what I can only describe as an acid smile, and that she professes the utmost sympathy for ‘poor Mrs Ackroyd – dependent on the charity of her husband’s brother. The bread of charity is so bitter, is it not? / should be quite miserable if I did not work for my living.’ I don’t know what Mrs Cecil Ackroyd thought of the Ferrars affair when it came on the tapis. It was clearly to her advantage that Ackroyd should remain unmarried. She was always very charming – not to say gushing – to Mrs Ferrars when they met. Caroline says that proves less than nothing.
Such have been our preoccupations in King’s Abbot for the last few years. We have discussed Ackroyd and his affairs from every standpoint. Mrs Ferrars has fitted into her place in the scheme.
Now there has been a rearrangement of the kaleidoscope.
From a mild discussion of probable wedding presents, we had been jerked into the midst of tragedy.
Revolving these and sundry other matters in my mind, I went mechanically on my round. I had no cases of special interest to attend, which was, perhaps, as well, for my thoughts returned again and again to the mystery of Mrs Ferrars’s death. Had she taken her own life? Surely, if she had done so, she would have left some word behind to say what she contemplated doing? Women, in my experience, if they once reach the determination to commit suicide, usually wish to reveal the state of mind that led to the fatal action. They covet the limelight.
When had I last seen her? Not for over a week. Her manner then had been normal enough considering – well considering everything.
Then I suddenly remembered that I had seen her, though not to speak to, only yesterday. She had been walking with Ralph Paton, and I had been surprised because I had had no idea that he was likely to be in King’s Abbot. I thought, indeed, that he had quarrelled finally with his stepfather.
Nothing had been seen of him down here for nearly six months. They had been walking along, side by side, their heads close together, and she had been talking very earnestly.
I think I can safely say that it was at this moment that a foreboding of the future first swept over me. Nothing tangible as yet – but a vague premonition of the way things were setting. That earnest tete-a-tete between Ralph Paton and Mrs Ferrars the day before struck me disagreeably.
I was still thinking of it when I came face to face with Roger Ackroyd.
‘Sheppard!’ he exclaimed. ‘Just the man I wanted to get hold of. This is a terrible business.’ ||^ ‘You’ve heard then?’ He nodded. He had felt the blow keenly, I could see. His big red cheeks seemed to have fallen in, and he looked a positive wreck of his usual jolly, healthy self.
‘It’s worse than you know,’ he said quietly. ‘Look here, Sheppard, I’ve got to talk to you. Can you come back with me now?’ ‘Hardly. I’ve got three patients to see still, and I must be back by twelve to see my surgery patients.’ ‘Then this afternoon – no, better still, dine tonight. At 7.30. Will that suit you?’ ‘Yes, I can manage that all right. What’s wrong? Is it Ralph?’ I hardly knew why I said that – except, perhaps, that it had so often been Ralph.
Ackroyd stared blankly at me as though he hardly understood.
I began to realize that there must be something very I’m sure Miss Russell knows far more about high society than I do. I didn’t attempt to argue with her.
‘Just tell me this, doctor,’ said Miss Russell. ‘Suppose you are really a slave of the drug habit, is there any cure?’ One cannot answer a question like that off-hand. I gave her a short lecture on the subject, and she listened with close attention. I still suspected her of seeking information about Mrs Ferrars.