The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie Read Free Book Online

‘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.
    ‘Key is in the lock all right, sir,’ he said, rising. ‘On the inside. Mr Ackroyd must have locked himself in and possibly just dropped off to sleep.’ I bent down and verified Parker’s statement.
    ‘It seems all right,’ I said, ‘but, all the same, Parker, I’m going to wake your master up. I shouldn’t be satisfied to go home without hearing from his own lips that he’s quite all right.’ So saying, I rattled the handle and called out, ‘Ackroyd, Ackroyd, just a minute.’ But still there was no answer. I glanced over my shoulder.
    ‘I don’t want to alarm the household,’ I said hesitatingly.
    Parker went across and shut the door from the big hall through which we had come.
    ‘I think that will be all right now, sir. The billiard room is at the other side of the house, and so are the kitchen quarters and the ladies’ bedrooms.’ I nodded comprehendingly. Then I banged once more frantically on the door, and stooping down, fairly bawled through the keyhole: ‘Ackroyd, Ackroyd! It’s Sheppard. Let me in.’ And still - silence. Not a sign of life from within the locked room. Parker and I glanced at each other.
    ‘Look here, Parker,’ I said, ‘I’m going to break this door in - or rather, we are. I’ll take the responsibility.’ ‘If you say so, sir,’ said Parker, rather doubtfully.
    ‘I do say so. I’m seriously alarmed about Mr Ackroyd.’ ‘I looked round the small lobby and picked up a heavy oak chair. Parker and I held it between us and advanced to the assault. Once, twice, and three times we hurled it against the lock. At the third blow it gave, and we staggered into the room.
    Ackroyd was sitting as I had left him in the armchair before the fire. His head had fallen sideways, and clearly visible, just below the collar of his coat, was a shining piece of twisted metalwork.
    Parker and I advanced till we stood over the recumbent figure. I heard the butler draw in his breath with a sharp hiss.
    ‘Stabbed from be’ind,’ he murmured. ‘ ‘Orrible!’ He wiped his moist brow with his handkerchief, then stretched out a gingerly hand towards the hilt of the dagger.
    ‘You mustn’t touch that,’ I said sharply. ‘Go at once to the telephone and ring up the police station. Inform them of what has happened. Then tell Mr Raymond and Major Blunt.’ ‘Very good, sir.’ Parker hurried away, still wiping his perspiring brow.
    I did what little had to be done. I was careful not to disturb the position of the body, and not to handle the dagger at all. No object was to be attained by moving it.
    Ackroyd had clearly been dead some little time.
    Then I heard young Raymond’s voice, horrorstricken and incredulous, outside.
    ‘What do you say? Oh! impossible! Where’s the doctor?’ He appeared impetuously in the doorway, then stopped dead, his face very white. A hand put him aside, and Hector Blunt came past him into the room.
    ‘My God!’ said Raymond from behind him; ‘it’s true, then.’ Blunt came straight on till he reached the chair. He bent over the body, and I thought that, like Parker, he was going to lay hold of the dagger hilt. I drew him back with one hand.
    ‘Nothing must be moved,’ I explained. ‘The police must see him exactly as he is now.’ Blunt nodded in instant comprehension. His face was expressionless as ever, but I thought I detected signs of emotion beneath the stolid mask. Geoffrey Raymond had joined us now, and stood peering over Blunt’s shoulder at the body.
    ‘This is terrible,’ he said in a low voice.
    He had regained his composure, but as he took