The Murder of Roger Ackroyd Read Online Free PDF

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 coloured, and is peculiarly expressionless. He has grey 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 armchair in front of the fire.
    The study was a comfortable apartment. Bookshelves lined one wall of it. The chairs were big and