THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
“Thank you, mister.” He paused, and then added, quite unnecessarily, “I'm a stranger in these parts, you see.”
He went on, passing through the gates as I turned to look after him.
The odd thing was that his voice reminded me of some one’s voice that I knew, but whose it was I could not think.
Ten minutes later I was at home once more. Caroline was full of curiosity to know why I had returned so early. I had to make up a slightly fictitious account of the evening in order to satisfy her, and I had an uneasy feeling that she saw through the transparent device.
At ten o’clock I rose, yawned, and suggested bed. Caroline acquiesced.
It was Friday night, and on Friday night I wind the clocks. I did it as usual, whilst Caroline satisfied herself that the servants had locked up the kitchen properly.
It was a quarter past ten as we went up the stairs. I had just reached the top when the telephone rang in the hall below.
“Mrs. Bates,” said Caroline immediately.
“I’m afraid so,” I said ruefully.
I ran down the stairs and took up the receiver.
“What?” I said. “What? Certainly, I'll come at once.”
I ran upstairs, caught up my bag, and stuffed a few extra dressings into it.
“Parker telephoning,” I shouted to Caroline, “from Fernly. They've just found Roger Ackroyd murdered.”
[48]
