THE MURDER OF ROGER ACKROYD
“Excuse me, sir, did the person telephoning use my name?”
“I’ll give you the exact words I heard. ‘Is that Dr. Sheppard? Parker, the butler at Fernly, speaking. Will you please come at once, sir. Mr. Ackroyd has been murdered.’ "
Parker and I stared at each other blankly.
“A very wicked joke to play, sir,” he said at last, in a shocked tone. “Fancy saying a thing like that.”
“Where is Mr. Ackroyd?” I asked suddenly.
“Still in the study, I fancy, sir. The ladies have gone to bed, and Major Blunt and Mr. Raymond are in the billiard room.”
“I think I’ll just look in and see him for a minute,” I said. “I know he didn’t want to be disturbed again, but this odd practical joke has made me uneasy. I'd just like to satisfy myself that he’s all right.”
“Quite so, sir. It makes me feel quite uneasy myself. If you don’t object to my accompanying you as far as the door, sir———?”’
“Not at all,” I said. “Come along.”
I passed through the door on the right, Parker on my heels, traversed the little lobby where a small flight of stairs led upstairs to Ackroyd’s bedroom, and tapped on the study door.
There was no answer. I turned the handle, but the door was locked.
“Allow me, sir,” said Parker.
Very nimbly, for a man of his build, he dropped on one knee and applied his eye to the keyhole.
[50]
