The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie (a court of thorns and roses ebook free .txt) 📕

Caroline’s attention was distracted from her own inventive exercises. She pointed out to Miss Gannett that a hand consisting of mixed suits and too many Chows was hardly worth going Mah Jong on. Miss Gannett listened imperturbably and collected her counters.

“Yes, dear, I know what you mean,” she said. “But it rather depends on what kind of a hand you have to start with, doesn’t it?”

“You’ll never get the big hands if you don’t go for them,” urged Caroline.

“Well, we must all play our own way, mustn’t we?” said Miss Gannett. She looked down at her counters. “After all, I’m up, so far.”

Caroline, who was considerably down, said nothing.

East Wind passed, and we set to once more. Annie brought in the tea things. Caroline and Miss Gannett were both slightly ruffled as is often the case during one of these festive evenings.

“If you would only play a little quicker, dear,” said Caroline, as Miss Gannett hesitated over her discard. “The Chinese put down the tiles so quickly it sounds like little birds pattering.”

For some minutes we played like the Chinese.

“You haven’t contributed much to the sum of information, Sheppard,” said Colonel Carter genially. “You’re a sly dog. Hand in glove with the great detective, and not a hint as to the way things are going.”

“James is an extraordinary creature,” said Caroline. “He cannot bring himself to part with information.”

She looked at me with some disfavour.

“I assure you,” I said, “that I don’t know anything. Poirot keeps his own counsel.”

“Wise man,” said the colonel with a chuckle. “He doesn’t give himself away. But they’re wonderful fellows, these foreign detectives. Up to all sorts of dodges, I believe.”

“Pung,” said Miss Gannett, in a tone of quiet triumph. “And Mah Jong.”

The situation became more strained. It was annoyance at Miss Gannett’s going Mah Jong for the third time running which prompted Caroline to say to me as we built a fresh wall: “You are too tiresome, James. You sit there like a deadhead, and say nothing at all!”

“But, my dear,” I protested, “I have really nothing to say⁠—that is, of the kind you mean.”

“Nonsense,” said Caroline, as she sorted her hand. “You must know something interesting.”

I did not answer for a moment. I was overwhelmed and intoxicated. I had read of there being such a thing as The Perfect Winning⁠—going Mah Jong on one’s original hand. I had never hoped to hold the hand myself.

With suppressed triumph I laid my hand face upwards on the table.

“As they say in the Shanghai Club,” I remarked⁠—“Tin-ho⁠—the Perfect Winning!”

The colonel’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head.

“Upon my soul,” he said. “what an extraordinary thing. I never saw that happen before!”

It was then that I went on, goaded by Caroline’s gibes, and rendered reckless by my triumph.

“And as to anything interesting,” I said. “What about a gold wedding ring with a date and ‘From R.’ inside.”

I pass over the scene that followed. I was made to say exactly where this treasure was found. I was made to reveal the date.

“March 13,” said Caroline. “Just six months ago. Ah!”

Out of a babel of excited suggestions and suppositions three theories were evolved:

1. That of Colonel Carter: that Ralph was secretly married to Flora. The first or most simple solution.

2. That of Miss Gannett: that Roger Ackroyd had been secretly married to Mrs. Ferrars.

3. That of my sister: that Roger Ackroyd had married his housekeeper, Miss Russell.

A fourth or super-theory was propounded by Caroline later as we went up to bed.

“Mark my words,” she said suddenly, “I shouldn’t be at all surprised if Geoffrey Raymond and Flora weren’t married.”

“Surely it would be ‘From G,’ not ‘From R’ then,” I suggested.

“You never know. Some girls call men by their surnames. And you heard what Miss Gannett said this evening⁠—about Flora’s carryings on.”

Strictly speaking, I had not heard Miss Gannett say anything of the kind, but I respected Caroline’s knowledge of innuendoes.

“How about Hector Blunt?” I hinted. “If it’s anybody⁠—”

“Nonsense,” said Caroline. “I dare say he admires her, may even be in love with her. But depend upon it a girl isn’t going to fall in love with a man old enough to be her father when there’s a good-looking secretary about. She may encourage Major Blunt just as a blind. Girls are very artful. But there’s one thing I do tell you, James Sheppard. Flora Ackroyd does not care a penny piece for Ralph Paton, and never has. You can take it from me.”

I took it from her meekly.

It occurred to me the next morning that under the exhilaration produced by Tin-ho or the Perfect Winning, I might have been slightly indiscreet. True, Poirot had not asked me to keep the discovery of the ring to myself. On the other hand, he had said nothing about it whilst at Fernly, and as far as I knew, I was the only person aware that it had been found. I felt distinctly guilty. The fact was by now spreading through King’s Abbot like wildfire. I was expecting wholesale reproaches from Poirot any minute.

The joint funeral of Mrs. Ferrars and Roger Ackroyd was fixed for eleven o’clock. It was a melancholy and impressive ceremony. All the party from Fernly were there.

After it was over, Poirot, who had also been present, took me by the arm, and invited me to accompany him back to The Larches. He was looking very grave, and I feared that my indiscretion of the night before had got round to his ears. But it soon transpired that his thoughts were occupied by something of a totally different nature.

“See you,” he said. “We must act. With your help I propose to examine a witness. We will question him, we will put such fear into him that the truth is bound to come out.”

“What witness are you talking about?” I asked, very much surprised.

“Parker!” said Poirot. “I asked him to be at my house this morning