The Murder of Roger Ackroyd quotes

The motto of the mongoose family, so Mr. Kipling tells us, is: “Go and find out.” If Caroline ever adopts a crest, I should certainly suggest a mongoose rampant. One might omit the first part of the motto.

Caroline can do any amount of finding out by sitting placidly at home.

I don’t know how she manages it, but there it is. I suspect that the servants and the tradesmen constitute her Intelligence Corps. When she goes out, it is not to gather in information, but to spread it. At that, too, she is amazingly expert.

One might omit the first part of the motto. Caroline can do any amount of finding out by sitting placidly at home. I don’t know how she manages it, but there it is. I suspect that the servants and the tradesmen constitute her Intelligence Corps.

When she goes out, it is not to gather in information, but to spread it.

At that, too, she is amazingly expert.

“It wasn’t Annie who told me. It was the milkman. He had it from the Ferrars’ cook.”

As I say, there is no need for Caroline to go out to get information. She sits at home and it comes to her.

My sister continued: “What did she die of? Heart failure?”

“Didn’t the milkman tell you that?” I inquired sarcastically.

Sarcasm is wasted on Caroline. She takes it seriously and answers accordingly.

“He didn’t know,” she explained.

I don’t think Caroline ever felt sorry for Mrs. Ferrars whilst she was alive.

Now that she has gone where (presumably) Paris frocks can no longer be worn, Caroline is prepared to indulge in the softer emotions of pity and comprehension.

I told her firmly that her whole idea was nonsense. I was all the more firm because I secretly agreed with some part, at least, of what she had said.

Our big town is Cranchester, nine miles away. We have a large railway station, a small post office, and two rival “General Stores.” Able-bodied men are apt to leave the place early in life, but we are rich in unmarried ladies and retired military officers.

Our hobbies and recreations can be summed up in the one word, “gossip.”

There are only two houses of any importance in King’s Abbot. One is King’s Paddock, left to Mrs. Ferrars by her late husband. The other, Fernly Park, is owned by Roger Ackroyd.

Ferrars’s death. Had she taken her own life? Surely, if she had done so, she would have left some word behind to say what she contemplated doing?

Women, in my experience, if they once reach the determination to commit suicide, usually wish to reveal the state of mind that led to the fatal action. They covet the limelight.

When had I last seen her? Not for over a week. Her manner then had been normal enough considering—well considering everything.

She wants to know where he comes from, what he does, whether he is married, what his wife was, or is, like, whether he has children, what his mother’s maiden name was—and so on.

Somebody very like Caroline must have invented the questions on passports, I think.

“My dear Caroline,” I said. “There’s no doubt at all about what the man’s profession has been. He’s a retired hairdresser. Look at that moustache of his.”

I began to be more interested in our mysterious neighbour.

A man who is capable of shutting up Caroline and sending her, like the Queen of Sheba, empty away must be something of a personality.

“I believe,” said Caroline, “that he’s got one of those new vacuum cleaners—”

“Nonsense,” said my sister. “

People ought to know things. I consider it my duty to tell them.

Mr. Ackroyd was very grateful to me.”

Caroline had the grace to blush. “It was such a lovely day,” she exclaimed. “I thought I would make a little round. The woods with their autumnal tints are so perfect at this time of year.”

Caroline does not care a hang for woods at any time of year.

Normally she regards them as places where you get your feet damp, and where all kinds of unpleasant things may drop on your head. No, it was good sound mongoose instinct which took her to our local wood.

I am sorry to say I detest Mrs. Ackroyd.

She is all chains and teeth and bones. A most unpleasant woman.

She has small pale flinty blue eyes, and however gushing her words may be, those eyes of hers always remain coldly speculative.

“Yes,” I said mildly. “I guessed that.”

I do not see why I should be supposed to be totally devoid of intelligence.

After all, I read detective stories, and the newspapers, and am a man of quite average ability. If there had been toe marks on the dagger handle, now, that would have been quite a different thing.

“Of course she hasn’t,” said Caroline. “I haven’t either.”

Anyone would have thought it was Caroline’s uncle who had been murdered.

“And how do you know he would take up the case?” I asked. “Remember he has retired from active work.”

Not that I do not care for money.” His eyes showed a momentary twinkle. “Money, it means much to me and always has done. No, if I go into this, you must understand one thing clearly. I shall go through with it to the end.

The good dog, he does not leave the scent, remember!

You may wish that, after all, you had left it to the local police.”

“

Everyone concerned in them has something to hide.

”

“

Everything is simple, if you arrange the facts methodically.

We are concerned now with the personality of the person who was with him at nine-thirty last night. Everything goes to show that that was the individual admitted by the window, and though Mr.

“Ah!” cried the other. “

That, too, is my watchword. Method, order, and the little grey cells.

”

“Oh! I don’t mind answering them. I assure you I don’t. Why should I? It—it just seemed a little odd, you know. That’s all. A little odd.”

One advantage of being a medical practitioner is that you can usually tell when people are lying to you.

I should have known from Mrs. Folliott’s manner, if from nothing else, that she did mind answering my questions—minded intensely. She was thoroughly uncomfortable and upset, and there was plainly some mystery in the background.

Caroline pushed her spectacles up and looked at me. “You seem very grumpy, James. It must be your liver. A blue pill, I think, tonight.”

To see me in my own home, you would never imagine that I was a doctor of medicine. Caroline does the home prescribing both for herself and me.

“Damn my liver,” I said irritably. “Did you talk about the murder at all?”

What else is there to talk about locally? I was able to set M. Poirot straight upon several points. He was very grateful to me. He said I had the makings of a born detective in me—and a wonderful psychological insight into human nature.”

Caroline was exactly like a cat that is full to overflowing with rich cream. She was positively purring.

“He talked a lot about the little grey cells of the brain, and of their functions. His own, he says, are of the first quality.”

“He would say so,” I remarked bitterly. “

Modesty is certainly not his middle name.

”

I put some coal on the fire and went upstairs obediently.

It is well at any price to have peace in the home.

“

Surely you don’t make the Almighty directly responsible for thick ankles, Mrs. Ackroyd, do you?

” asked Geoffrey Raymond, his irresponsible laugh ringing out.

“And now, messieurs et mesdames,” said Poirot rapidly, “I will continue with what I was about to say. Understand this: I mean to arrive at the truth.

The truth, however ugly in itself, is always curious and beautiful to the seeker after it.

I am much aged, my powers may not be what they were.” Here he clearly expected a contradiction. “In all probability this is the last case I shall ever investigate. But Hercule Poirot does not end with a failure.

“Les femmes,” generalized Poirot. “They are marvelous! They invent haphazard—and by miracle they are right. Not that it is that, really.

Women observe subconsciously a thousand little details, without knowing that they are doing so.

Their subconscious mind adds these little things together—and they call the result intuition. Me, I am very skilled in psychology. I know these things.”

She glanced sideways at me. The position was now very delicate indeed.

Fortunately words, ingeniously used, will serve to mask the ugliness of naked facts.

“I could only tell this to you, dear Dr. Sheppard,” said Mrs. Ackroyd rapidly. “I can trust you not to misjudge me, and to represent the matter in the right light to M. Poirot. It was on Friday afternoon—”

“Mr. Raymond wanted to see him very particularly,” said Caroline. “You might hear what it’s all about.”

“Curiosity is not my besetting sin,” I remarked coldly. “I can exist comfortably without knowing exactly what my neighbours are doing and thinking.”

“Stuff and nonsense, James,” said my sister. “You want to know just as much as I do. You’re not so honest, that’s all. You always have to pretend.”

“Stuff and nonsense, James,” said my sister. “You want to know just as much as I do.

You’re not so honest, that’s all. You always have to pretend.

”

“The English people, they have a mania for the fresh air,” declared Poirot. “

The big air, it is all very well outside, where it belongs. Why admit it to the house?

But let us not discuss such banalities. You have something for me, yes?”

“Yes,” agreed Poirot. “A mere bagatelle—but if he had not been in the billiard room—who knows? After all, many crimes have been committed for the sake of less than five hundred pounds.

It all depends on what sum is sufficient to break a man.

A question of relativity, is it not so? Have you reflected, my friend, that many people in that house stood to benefit by Mr. Ackroyd’s death? Mrs. Ackroyd, Miss Flora, young Mr. Raymond, the housekeeper, Miss Russell. Only one, in fact, does not, Major Blunt.”

More, that he has never been farther east than India, where he juggled with tins of bully beef and plum and apple jam during the Great War.

But the colonel is determinedly military, and in King’s Abbot we permit people to indulge their little idiosyncrasies freely.

“Shall we begin?” said Caroline.

“Four Circles,” said Caroline. “Where did you see her?”

“She didn’t see me,” said Miss Gannett, with that tremendous significance only to be met with in small villages.

“Ah!” said Caroline interestedly. “Chow.”

The colonel’s story was one of interminable length, and of curiously little interest.

A thing that happened in India many years ago cannot compare for a moment with an event that took place in King’s Abbot the day before yesterday.

It was Caroline who brought the colonel’s story to a close by fortunately going mah-jongg. After the slight unpleasantness always caused by my corrections of Caroline’s somewhat faulty arithmetic, we started a new hand.

We all looked at each other.

“Why, dear me,” said Miss Gannett suddenly, “I’m mah-jongg all the time, and I never noticed it.”

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-jongg on. Miss Gannett listened imperturbably and collected her counters.

Poirot laughed.

“The wise man does not commit himself,” he observed.

“Is not that so? But here we are at Mr. Hammond’s.”

We had just arrived at my house, and on the spur of the moment I invited Poirot to come in and take pot luck.

I thought Caroline would be pleased with me, but it is hard to satisfy one’s womenfolk.

It appears that we were eating chops for lunch—the kitchen staff being regaled on tripe and onions. And two chops set before three people are productive of embarrassment.

“A weak nature,” I insisted. “But not a vicious one.”

“Ah!” said Poirot. “But weakness, where does it end?”

“Exactly,” said Caroline. “Take James here—weak as water, if I weren’t about to look after him.”

“Eight years older. But I’ve always considered it my duty to look after you. With a bad bringing up, Heaven knows what mischief you might have got into by now.”

“I might have married a beautiful adventuress,” I murmured, gazing at the ceiling, and blowing smoke rings.

“Adventuress!” said Caroline, with a snort. “If we’re talking of adventuresses—”

He becomes greedy. And in his greed he overreaches himself. One can press a man as far as one likes—but with a woman one must not press too far. For a woman has at heart a great desire to speak the truth.

How many husbands who have deceived their wives go comfortably to their graves, carrying their secret with them!

How many wives who have deceived their husbands wreck their lives by throwing the fact in those same husbands’ teeth! They have been pressed too far.

That is the beginning. The desire for money grows. He must have more—and more! He is intoxicated by the gold mine which has opened at his feet. He becomes greedy. And in his greed he overreaches himself.

One can press a man as far as one likes⁠—but with a woman one must not press too far.

For a woman has at heart a great desire to speak the truth. How many husbands who have deceived their wives go comfortably to their graves, carrying their secret with them!

“You mock yourself at me,” said Poirot, smiling; “but never mind.

The old ones they laugh last sometimes, when the young, clever ones do not laugh at all.

”

My chief puzzle was what the man Charles Kent could have been doing at Fernly. Again and again I put the question to myself and could get no satisfactory reply. At last I ventured a tentative query to Poirot. His reply was immediate.

“Mon ami, I do not think; I know.”

“Yes, indeed. I suppose now that to you it would not make sense if I said that he went to Fernly that night because he was born in Kent?”

Really, Caroline is amazing.

She never rests until she knows the last details of everybody’s family secrets. Unfortunately, I have never been able to instil into her the decency of keeping them to herself.

“Jump in, Inspector,” I said, opening the door of the car. “We’ll go up to The Larches together, and acquaint our Belgian friend with the latest news.”

Naturally she jumps to the conclusion that the theft of the money has been discovered. Her one idea is to stick to her story. When she learns that her uncle is dead she is panic-stricken.

Young women do not faint nowadays, monsieur, without considerable provocation.

Eh bien! there it is. She is bound to stick to her story, or else confess everything. And a young and pretty girl does not like to admit that she is a thief—especially before those whose esteem she is anxious to retain.”

“D’you really think—” he began, and stopped.

He is one of those inarticulate men who find it hard to put things into words.

Poirot knows no such disability.

He took Poirot’s hand and gave it a grip which caused the other to wince in anguish. Then he strode to the side-door and passed out into the garden.

“Not every kind of a fool,” murmured Poirot, tenderly nursing the injured member. “Only one kind⁠—the fool in love.”

“It beats me,” I said at last, “what you expect to get out of that.”

“You should employ your little grey cells,” said Poirot gravely.

He rose and came across to the bench.

Poirot shook his head. A faint twinkle came into his eye.

“Not again today. I should not like to force Mademoiselle Caroline to adopt a vegetarian diet two days in succession.”

It occurred to me that there was not much which escaped Hercule Poirot.

“Pretty well,” said Caroline complacently.

“It’s a great relief to people to be able to tell all their troubles to someone.”

“It might be,” I said, “if they were ever allowed to do so spontaneously. Whether they enjoy having confidences screwed out of them by force is another matter.”

“You have the medical degree, I dare say, James—at least, I mean I know you have. But you’ve no imagination whatever.”

“Having endowed you with a treble portion, there was none left over for me,” I said drily.

I was amused to see Caroline’s manoeuvres that afternoon when Poirot duly arrived. My sister, without asking a direct question, skirted the subject of the mysterious guest in every way imaginable. By the twinkle in Poirot’s eyes, I saw that he realized her object.

“My friend Hastings, he of whom I told you, used to say of me that I was the human oyster. But he was unjust.

Of facts, I keep nothing to myself. But to everyone his own interpretation of them.

”

“There, there, my dear,” she said soothingly, “it will be all right. You’ll see—everything will be all right.”

Buried under curiosity and scandal-mongering there is a lot of kindness in Caroline.

For the moment, even the interest of Poirot’s revelation was lost in the sight of the girl’s distress.

“Do him no harm,” said Caroline. “

Never worry about what you say to a man. They’re so conceited that they never believe you mean it if it’s unflattering.

”

Poirot sprang from his chair.

I had a moment’s terror that he was going to embrace me French fashion, but mercifully he refrained.

“But this is magnificent—you have then written down your impressions of the case as you went along?”

“You are ready, my child?” said Poirot. “That is good. We will go to my house together. Mademoiselle Caroline, believe me, I do everything possible to render you service. Good evening.”

We went off, leaving Caroline rather like a dog who has been refused a walk, standing on the front door step gazing after us.

The sitting room at The Larches had been got ready. On the table were various sirops and glasses. Also a plate of biscuits. Several chairs had been brought in from the other room.

“I thought, perhaps, that by making him believe you knew, you might force him out into the open—not necessarily by confession. He might try to silence you as he formerly silenced Mr. Ackroyd—before you could act tomorrow morning.”

“A trap with myself as the bait! Merci, mon ami, but I am not sufficiently heroic for that.”

“Then I fail to understand you. Surely you are running the risk of letting the murderer escape by thus putting him on his guard?”

Poirot shook his head.

“He cannot escape,” he said gravely. “There is only one way out⁠—and that way does not lead to freedom.”

“You really believe that one of those people here tonight committed the murder?” I asked incredulously.