Roger Mystery

Chapter 39 Confession

It's five in the morning, I'm exhausted, but I'm done.After writing for so long, my arms are so sore that I can barely lift them.

I did not expect the manuscript to end in this way, and I had planned to publish it some day as a case of Poirot's failure!People are not as good as God.

From the moment I saw Ralph Paton and Mrs. Ferrars walking side by side, I had a premonition of impending doom.At the time I thought she was confiding in him, but later I realized that was not the case at all.But the idea was still on my mind when I walked into the study with Ackroyd that night, until he told me the truth.

Poor old Ackroyd.I've been glad I gave him another chance after all.I urged him to read the letter quickly, or he would regret it.But frankly speaking, it may be my subconscious mind reminding me that the more I urge him to read, the more he refuses to read.It is interesting to analyze his nervousness that night from a psychological point of view.He clearly knew that the danger was imminent, but he never suspected me.

I did not intend to use the dagger at first, for I was already carrying a very light weapon of murder.But as soon as I saw the short sword lying on the silver table, I immediately thought that if using a murder weapon that could not be traced to my head, it would be the best strategy.

I had already planned to get rid of Ackroyd.As soon as I heard of Mrs. Ferrars' death, I was convinced that she must have told Ackroyd everything before she died.When I met him, seeing him restless, I thought he had already learned the truth, but I couldn't believe it, and was just going to give me a chance to defend myself.

So after I got home, I made all kinds of preparations.If the reason for his restlessness was nothing more than Ralph's business—well, it wouldn't hurt to be prepared.Two days ago, Aykroyd's dictaphone had a little trouble, and I advised him to let me try to fix it before returning it if it didn't work.I fiddled with the tape recorder a bit, and I took it with me in my bag that night.

I am quite satisfied with my writing skills.For example, the following paragraph is particularly cleverly written:

The letter came in at eight forty.And when I left him at [-]:[-], the letter was still unread.I put my hand on the doorknob, hesitated, looked back, wondering if there was anything left to do.

See it or not, it's all true.But what if I put an ellipsis after the first sentence?Has anyone ever wondered what happened in those 10 minutes of blank space?

When I looked back at the study from the door, I was very satisfied.Everything that needs to be done is done.The dictaphone was on the table in front of the window, and the time was set at 09:30 (the little mechanism was ingenious, based on the principle of an alarm clock), and I pulled out the armchair so that I could see it from the door. No more dictating machines.

I have to admit, bumping into Parker at the door scared the hell out of me.I have also faithfully recorded this fact.

Later, after the body was found, I sent Parker to call the police.The words I put here in the manuscript are very strict: "I did a small thing that had to be done." It was a small thing-just stashed the dictaphone in the bag and pushed the chair back to its original position against the wall.I never dreamed that Parker would notice where the chair was.Logically speaking, the shock and panic after discovering the body should have left him with no time to think about other things.But I was mistaken for ignoring the instinctive reflexes of a well-trained servant.

If only I could have predicted that Flora would say that she had seen her uncle alive at nine forty-five.Her words completely confuse me.In fact, the endless mysteries of the whole case almost made me despair, and it seemed that everyone was involved.

I was most afraid of Caroline.I had thought that she might guess the real murderer.It felt weird the day she said I was going to "go the wrong way".

Well, she'll never know the truth anyway.As Poirot said, there was only one road before me...

I can trust him.He and Inspector Raglan would keep it a secret.I don't want Caroline to know I'm a murderer.She loves this brother so much, and has always been proud of me... My death will cause her great grief, but time will always dilute the sadness...

When I had finished writing, I would send the entire manuscript to Poirot in an envelope.

Next—how should we end it?Sleeping pills?What a poetic verdict.It's not that I want to be responsible for Mrs Ferrars' death.She is purely self-inflicted.I don't feel sorry for her at all.

I don't pity myself either.

Then let the sleeping pills put an end to it all.

If only Hercule Poirot hadn't retired here to grow zucchini.

(End of this chapter)