WHO’S WHO IN KING’S ABBOT

Before I proceed further with what I said to Caroline and what Carolinernsaid to me, it might be as well to give some idea of what I shouldrndescribe as our local geography. Our village, King’s Abbot, is, Irnimagine, very much like any other village. Our big town is Cranchester,rnnine miles away. We have a large railway station, a small post office,rnand two rival “General Stores.” Able-bodied men are apt to leave thernplace early in life, but we are rich in unmarried ladies and retiredrnmilitary officers. Our hobbies and recreations can be summed up in thernone word, “gossip.”rnrnThere are only two houses of any importance in King’s Abbot. Onernis King’s Paddock, left to Mrs. Ferrars by her late husband. Thernother, Fernly Park, is owned by Roger Ackroyd. Ackroyd has alwaysrninterested me by being a man more impossibly like a country squirernthan any country squire could really be. He reminds one of thernred-faced sportsmen who always appeared early in the first act of anrnold-fashioned musical comedy, the setting being the village green. Theyrnusually sang a song about going up to London. Nowadays we have revues,rnand the country squire has died out of musical fashion.rnrnOf course, Ackroyd is not really a country squire. He is an immenselyrnsuccessful manufacturer of (I think) wagon wheels. He is a man ofrnnearly fifty years of age, rubicund of face and genial of manner.rnHe is hand and glove with the vicar, subscribes liberally to parishrnfunds (though rumor has it that he is extremely mean in personalrnexpenditure), encourages cricket matches, Lads’ Clubs, and DisabledrnSoldiers’ Institutes. He is, in fact, the life and soul of our peacefulrnvillage of King’s Abbot.rnrnNow when Roger Ackroyd was a lad of twenty-one, he fell in love with,rnand married, a beautiful woman some five or six years his senior. Herrnname was Paton, and she was a widow with one child. The history of thernmarriage was short and painful. To put it bluntly, Mrs. Ackroyd wasrna dipsomaniac. She succeeded in drinking herself into her grave fourrnyears after her marriage.rnrnIn the years that followed, Ackroyd showed no disposition to make arnsecond matrimonial adventure. His wife’s child by her first marriagernwas only seven years old when his mother died. He is now twenty-five.rnAckroyd has always regarded him as his own son, and has brought him uprnaccordingly, but he has been a wild lad and a continual source of worryrnand trouble to his stepfather. Nevertheless we are all very fond ofrnRalph Paton in King’s Abbot. He is such a good-looking youngster forrnone thing.rnrnAs I said before, we are ready enough to gossip in our village.rnEverybody noticed from the first that Ackroyd and Mrs. Ferrars got onrnvery well together. After her husband’s death, the intimacy becamernmore marked. They were always seen about together, and it was freelyrnconjectured that at the end of her period of mourning, Mrs. Ferrarsrnwould become Mrs. Roger Ackroyd. It was felt, indeed, that there was arncertain fitness in the thing. Roger Ackroyd’s wife had admittedly diedrnof drink. Ashley Ferrars had been a drunkard for many years before hisrndeath. It was only fitting that these two victims of alcoholic excessrnshould make up to each other for all that they had previously enduredrnat the hands of their former spouses.rnrnThe Ferrars only came to live here just over a year ago, but a halo ofrngossip has surrounded Ackroyd for many years past. All the time thatrnRalph Paton was growing up to manhood, a series of lady housekeepersrnpresided over Ackroyd’s establishment, and each in turn was regardedrnwith lively suspicion by Caroline and her cronies. It is not toornmuch to say that for at least fifteen years the whole village hasrnconfidently expected Ackroyd to marry one of his housekeepers. The lastrnof them, a redoubtable lady called Miss Russell, has reigned undisputedrnfor five years, twice as long as any of her predecessors. It is feltrnthat but for the advent of Mrs. Ferrars, Ackroyd could hardly havernescaped. That—and one other factor—the unexpected arrival of a widowedrnsister-in-law with her daughter from Canada. Mrs. Cecil Ackroyd, widowrnof Ackroyd’s ne’er-do-well younger brother, has taken up her residencernat Fernly Park, and has succeeded, according to Caroline, in puttingrnMiss Russell in her proper place.rnrnI don’t know exactly what a “proper place” constitutes—it sounds chillyrnand unpleasant—but I know that Miss Russell goes about with pinchedrnlips, and what I can only describe as an acid smile, and that shernprofesses the utmost sympathy for “poor Mrs. Ackroyd—dependent on therncharity of her husband’s brother. The bread of charity is so bitter, isrnit not? _I_ should be quite miserable if I did not work for my living.”rnrnI don’t know what Mrs. Cecil Ackroyd thought of the Ferrars affair whenrnit came on the tapis. It was clearly to her advantage that Ackroydrnshould remain unmarried. She was always very charming—not to sayrngushing—to Mrs. Ferrars when they met. Caroline says that proves lessrnthan nothing.rnrnSuch have been our preoccupations in King’s Abbot for the last fewrnyears. We have discussed Ackroyd and his affairs from every standpoint.rnMrs. Ferrars has fitted into her place in the scheme.rnrnNow there has been a rearrangement of the kaleidoscope. From a mildrndiscussion of probable wedding presents, we have been jerked into thernmidst of tragedy.rnrnRevolving these and sundry other matters in my mind, I wentrnmechanically on my round. I had no cases of special interest to attend,rnwhich was, perhaps, as well, for my thoughts returned again and againrnto the mystery of Mrs. Ferrars’s death. Had she taken her own life?rnSurely, if she had done so, she would have left some word behind tornsay what she contemplated doing? Women, in my experience, if they oncernreach the determination to commit suicide, usually wish to reveal thernstate of mind that led to the fatal action. They covet the limelight.rnrnWhen had I last seen her? Not for over a week. Her manner then had beenrnnormal enough considering—well—considering everything.rnrnThen I suddenly remembered that I had seen her, though not to speakrnto, only yesterday. She had been walking with Ralph Paton, and I hadrnbeen surprised because I had had no idea that he was likely to be inrnKing’s Abbot. I thought, indeed, that he had quarreled finally withrnhis stepfather. Nothing had been seen of him down here for nearly sixrnmonths. They had been walking along, side by side, their heads closerntogether, and she had been talking very earnestly.rnrnI think I can safely say that it was at this moment that a forebodingrnof the future first swept over me. Nothing tangible as yet—but a vaguernpremonition of the way things were setting. That earnest _tête-à-tête_rnbetween Ralph Paton and Mrs. Ferrars the day before struck merndisagreeably.rnrnI was still thinking of it when I came face to face with Roger Ackroyd.rnrn“Sheppard!” he exclaimed. “Just the man I wanted to get hold of. Thisrnis a terrible business.”rnrn“You’ve heard then?”rnrnHe nodded. He had felt the blow keenly, I could see. His big red cheeksrnseemed to have fallen in, and he looked a positive wreck of his usualrnjolly, healthy self.rnrn“It’s worse than you know,” he said quietly. “Look here, Sheppard, I’verngot to talk to you. Can you come back with me now?”rnrn“Hardly. I’ve got three patients to see still, and I must be back byrntwelve to see my surgery patients.”rnrn“Then this afternoon—no, better still, dine to-night. At 7.30? Willrnthat suit you?”rnrn“Yes—I can manage that all right. What’s wrong? Is it Ralph?”rnrnI hardly knew why I said that—except, perhaps, that it had so oftenrnbeen Ralph.rnrnAckroyd stared blankly at me as though he hardly understood. I began tornrealize that there must be something very wrong indeed somewhere. I hadrnnever seen Ackroyd so upset before.rnrn“Ralph?” he said vaguely. “Oh! no, it’s not Ralph. Ralph’s inrnLondon——Damn! Here’s old Miss Ganett coming. I don’t want to have torntalk to her about this ghastly business. See you to-night, Sheppard.rnSeven-thirty.”rnrnI nodded, and he hurried away, leaving me wondering. Ralph in London?rnBut he had certainly been in King’s Abbot the preceding afternoon. Hernmust have gone back to town last night or early this morning, and yetrnAckroyd’s manner had conveyed quite a different impression. He hadrnspoken as though Ralph had not been near the place for months.rnrnI had no time to puzzle the matter out further. Miss Ganett was uponrnme, thirsting for information. Miss Ganett has all the characteristicsrnof my sister Caroline, but she lacks that unerring aim in jumping tornconclusions which lends a touch of greatness to Caroline’s maneuvers.rnMiss Ganett was breathless and interrogatory.rnrnWasn’t it sad about poor dear Mrs. Ferrars? A lot of people were sayingrnshe had been a confirmed drug-taker for years. So wicked the wayrnpeople went about saying things. And yet, the worst of it was, therernwas usually a grain of truth somewhere in these wild statements. Nornsmoke without fire! They were saying too that Mr. Ackroyd had foundrnout about it, and had broken off the engagement—because there _was_ anrnengagement. She, Miss Ganett, had proof positive of that. Of course _I_rnmust know all about it—doctors always did—but they never tell?rnrnAnd all this with a sharp beady eye on me to see how I reacted tornthese suggestions. Fortunately long association with Caroline has ledrnme to preserve an impassive countenance, and to be ready with smallrnnon-committal remarks.rnrnOn this occasion I congratulated Miss Ganett on not joining inrnill-natured gossip. Rather a neat counterattack, I thought. It leftrnher in difficulties, and before she could pull herself together, I hadrnpassed on.rnrnI went home thoughtful, to find several patients waiting for me in thernsurgery.rnrnI had dismissed the last of them, as I thought, and was justrncontemplating a few minutes in the garden before lunch when I perceivedrnone more patient waiting for me. She rose and came towards me as Irnstood somewhat surprised.rnrnI don’t know why I should have been, except that there is a suggestionrnof cast iron about Miss Russell, a something that is above the ills ofrnthe flesh.rnrnAckroyd’s housekeeper is a tall woman, handsome but forbidding inrnappearance. She has a stern eye, and lips that shut tightly, and I feelrnthat if I were an under housemaid or a kitchenmaid I should run for myrnlife whenever I heard her coming.rnrn“Good morning, Dr. Sheppard,” said Miss Russell. “I should be muchrnobliged if you would take a look at my knee.”rnrnI took a look, but, truth to tell, I was very little wiser when I hadrndone so. Miss Russell’s account of vague pains was so unconvincing thatrnwith a woman of less integrity of character I should have suspected arntrumped-up tale. It did cross my mind for one moment that Miss Russellrnmight have deliberately invented this affection of the knee in orderrnto pump me on the subject of Mrs. Ferrars’s death, but I soon saw thatrnthere, at least, I had misjudged her. She made a brief reference to therntragedy, nothing more. Yet she certainly seemed disposed to linger andrnchat.rnrn“Well, thank you very much for this bottle of liniment, doctor,” shernsaid at last. “Not that I believe it will do the least good.”rnrnI didn’t think it would either, but I protested in duty bound. Afterrnall, it couldn’t do any harm, and one must stick up for the tools ofrnone’s trade.rnrn“I don’t believe in all these drugs,” said Miss Russell, her eyesrnsweeping over my array of bottles disparagingly. “Drugs do a lot ofrnharm. Look at the cocaine habit.”rnrn“Well, as far as that goes——”rnrn“It’s very prevalent in high society.”rnrnI’m sure Miss Russell knows far more about high society than I do. Irndidn’t attempt to argue with her.rnrn“Just tell me this, doctor,” said Miss Russell. “Suppose you are reallyrna slave of the drug habit. Is there any cure?”rnrnOne cannot answer a question like that offhand. I gave her a shortrnlecture on the subject, and she listened with close attention. I stillrnsuspected her of seeking information about Mrs. Ferrars.rnrn“Now, veronal, for instance——” I proceeded.rnrnBut, strangely enough, she didn’t seem interested in veronal. Insteadrnshe changed the subject, and asked me if it was true that there wererncertain poisons so rare as to baffle detection.rnrn“Ah!” I said. “You’ve been reading detective stories.”rnrnShe admitted that she had.rnrn“The essence of a detective story,” I said, “is to have a rarernpoison—if possible something from South America, that nobody has everrnheard of—something that one obscure tribe of savages use to poisonrntheir arrows with. Death is instantaneous, and Western science isrnpowerless to detect it. That is the kind of thing you mean?”rnrn“Yes. Is there really such a thing?”rnrnI shook my head regretfully.rnrn“I’m afraid there isn’t. There’s _curare_, of course.”rnrnI told her a good deal about curare, but she seemed to have lostrninterest once more. She asked me if I had any in my poison cupboard,rnand when I replied in the negative I fancy I fell in her estimation.rnrnShe said she must be getting back, and I saw her out at the surgeryrndoor just as the luncheon gong went.rnrnI should never have suspected Miss Russell of a fondness for detectivernstories. It pleases me very much to think of her stepping out of thernhousekeeper’s room to rebuke a delinquent housemaid, and then returningrnto a comfortable perusal of _The Mystery of the Seventh Death_, orrnsomething of the kind.