Roger Mystery

Chapter 23 Mrs Ackroyd (1)
After the above-mentioned evening conversation I recorded, the case seemed to me to enter a new stage.The course of the case can be divided into two, very clear and well-defined.The first half runs from Friday night Aykroyd's death to Monday night of the second week.My account of this period is completely straightforward, consistent with what Hercule Poirot saw and heard.I had been following Poirot closely, seeing and hearing exactly as he had done, and trying to read his mind as best I could—but now it seemed that my efforts were in vain.While Poirot was generous with sharing his discoveries with me—the engagement ring, for example—the key pieces of information he valued and the logical consequences of them were never said.Later I learned that he has always been very tight-lipped, and he may throw out some hints and suggestions, but that's all.

As I just said, until Monday night, the whole story of the case I described could be replaced by Poirot's own perspective. He is Holmes, and I am Watson beside him.But after Monday we split up and Poirot went about his own business.I've heard a lot about his actions, too, because in Kings Abbott everything goes public.But he no longer tells me what to do in advance, and I have things to do.

Looking back now, what impresses me the most is that that time was a time of intricacies and intricacies.Everyone has their own idea of ​​the murder, like a jigsaw puzzle, everyone can contribute a little wit or discovery.But they couldn't go any further. Only Poirot could assemble the countless fragments into a complete picture.

Some trifles seemed irrelevant and meaningless at the time, such as the question of black boots.But that's for a while... I'll stick to the exact chronological order, starting with Mrs. Ackroyd's invitation to the doctor.

She sent for it early Tuesday morning, and it seemed that her condition was urgent.I hurried over, thinking she was dying.

Mrs. Ackroyd was bedridden, so the ceremonies were spared.She stretched out her thin hand and pointed to a chair, which meant that I should pull the chair to the side of the bed and sit down.

"Well, Mrs Ackroyd," said I, "what's wrong with you?"

I pretended to show the concern that a general practitioner should have for patients.

"I'm all broken," said Mrs. Ackroyd feebly. "I'm totally broken. Poor Roger's death has hit me hard. Well, it's said, it doesn't usually come right away." , it will show up after a while."

Unfortunately, due to the professional position of a doctor, I cannot speak freely.I would do anything if I could say "Nonsense!" in return.

I swallowed the words abruptly and suggested a tonic to her, which she readily accepted.This is the end of the first act of the play.I can't believe at all that she was frightened by Ackroyd's death when she asked me to come.But Mrs. Ackroyd, no matter what the subject is, never opens the skylight to speak honestly, and always makes a few detours.I really want to know what is the purpose of her coming to me.

"And that scene—yesterday's scene," continued the patient.

She paused, as if expecting me to catch the overtones.

"What scene?"

"Doctor, what's the matter with you? Have you forgotten? That dreadful little Frenchman—French or Belgian?—whoever he is, is pissing me off for threatening us like that. His death still hurts me."

"Too bad, Mrs Ackroyd," I said.

"I really don't know what he wants to do - yelling like that. I fully understand my responsibility, how can I hide the truth? I have done my best to cooperate with the police investigation."

Seeing Mrs. Ackroyd stop talking, I agreed with a "yes".Now I gradually understand what she wants to say.

"No one can blame me for not doing my best," repeated Mrs. Ackroyd. "Inspector Raglan must be very satisfied. Why should this foreign nouveau riche come here to make trouble? Not to mention his ridiculous appearance-it looks like a comic." The French buffoon in the play. I can't figure out why Flora had to hire him. She made her own decision without consulting me first. Flora is too headstrong. Mother, she should have asked my opinion first."

I listened silently.

"What the hell is he thinking? That's all I want to know. Does he really think I'm hiding something? He...he...he accused me categorically yesterday."

I shrugged.

"Certainly it doesn't matter, Mrs Ackroyd," I said, "since you're not hiding anything, what he said was not directed at you."

Mrs Ackroyd changed the subject abruptly, as was her custom.

"The servants are annoying," she said, "every day a little gossip is passed around privately, and then it spreads—most of it is nothing."

"The servants gossiping?" I asked, "about what?"

Mrs Ackroyd gave me a sly look which made me uncomfortable.

"Doctor, if everyone knows it, you must know it too. Haven't you been with M. Poirot all the time?"

"Yes."

"Then you must be clear. That girl named Ursula Byrne? That's all right—she's going to leave anyway, and she must be trying to get into trouble. These servants are very mean-spirited." It's all the same. Well, since you're here, doctor, you must have heard her sophistry? I'm afraid that rumors will spread around and people will believe it. Anyway, you can't just say Tell the police all the details? It's mostly just housework—it has nothing to do with the murder. But if the girl has a grudge against us, she might continue to spread rumors."

Through her eloquent narration, I keenly grasped the bursts of anxiety hidden behind.Poirot's assumption turned out to be correct. Among the six people sitting around the table yesterday, at least Mrs. Ackroyd had something to hide.Now it's my turn to reveal her cards.

"If I were you, Mrs. Ackroyd," I said sharply, "I'd tell it all."

She suddenly exclaimed softly.

"Oh! Doctor, you are so rude! It sounds like...it seems... Anyway, I can explain it in a few words."

"Then why don't you just say something straight?" I urged.

Mrs Ackroyd produced a lace handkerchief and wiped her tears.

"Perhaps you can pass a message to M. Poirot, doctor—explain it to me—it's hard for foreigners to see things in our shoes. And you don't understand—no one understands—I've had Suffering, my life is suffering year after year. I shouldn't speak ill of dead people, but it is what it is. Roger checks even the smallest bills, as if he A wretched income of a few hundred pounds, not one of the wealthiest magnates around here--so Mr Hammond told me yesterday."

Mrs Ackroyd paused, dabbing her eyes with a lace handkerchief.

"Ah," I guided her on, "you mean the reimbursement bill?"

"Those horrible bills! There are a few I don't want to show Roger. There are some things that a man won't understand at all. He will say that there is no need to buy those things. Of course, the bills always pile up. Oh, and Sending endlessly—”

She looked at me earnestly, as if she wanted me to comfort her with the bill's astonishing quality.

"Bills are like this," I agreed.

Her tone suddenly became rather rude: "I assure you, doctor, I am going to have a nervous breakdown. I can't sleep at night, my heart is beating wildly. Also, I have a letter from a Mr. Scotch— —actually there were two letters—both from Scots, one by Mr. Bruce Macpherson, the other by the name of Colin Macdonald. What a coincidence."

"Not necessarily," I replied grimly. "People of this kind often call themselves Scots, but I suspect they have Jewish ancestry."

"The promissory note alone ranged from ten to ten thousand pounds," murmured Mrs. Ackroyd, recalling it. "I wrote to one of the gentlemen, but it was not settled."

She stopped.

I guess this conversation is finally going to enter the substantive stage.I've never met anyone who can run more circles than her.

"You see," murmured Mrs. Ackroyd, "isn't it all my fault for expecting too much? I was hoping for my share of the inheritance. Of course, although I expected Roger to leave me some money, I didn't think so. I thought it would be nice to have a peek at his will--not a furtive peep--just to see it so I could make plans."

(End of this chapter)