Murder of Roger Ackroyd - Agatha Christie [11]
“I suppose you never read such old out-of-date stuff, Miss Flora?”
“You’re wrong, Dr. Sheppard. I love The Mill on the Floss.”
I was rather pleased to hear it. The things young women read nowadays and profess to enjoy positively frighten me.
“You haven’t congratulated me yet, Dr. Sheppard,” said Flora. “Haven’t you heard?”
She held out her left hand. On the third finger of it was an exquisitely set single pearl.
“I’m going to marry Ralph, you know,” she went on. “Uncle is very pleased. It keeps me in the family, you see.”
I took both her hands in mine.
My dear,” I said, “I hope you’ll be very happy.”
“We’ve been engaged for about a month,” continued Flora in her cool voice, “but it was only announced yesterday. Uncle is going to do up Cross-stones, and give it to us to live in, and we’re going to pretend to farm. Really, we shall hunt all the winter, town for the season, and then go yachting. I love the sea. And, of course, I shall take a great interest in the parish affairs, and attend all the Mothers’ Meetings.”
Just then Mrs. Ackroyd rustled in, full of apologies for being late.
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 how ever gushing her words may be, those eyes of hers always remain coldly speculative.
I went across to her, leaving Flora by the window. She gave me a handful of assorted knuckles and rings to squeeze, and began talking volubly.
Had I heard about Flora’s engagement? So suitable in every way. The dear young things had fallen in love at first sight. Such a perfect pair, he so dark and she so fair.
“I can’t tell you, my dear Dr. Sheppard, the relief to a mother’s heart.”
Mrs. Ackroyd sighed—a tribute to her mother’s heart, whilst her eyes remained shrewdly observant of me.
“I was wondering. You are such an old friend of dear Roger’s. We know how much he trusts to your judgment. So difficult for me—in my position as poor Cecil’s widow. But there are so many tiresome things—settlements, you know—all that. I fully believe that Roger intends to make settlements upon dear Flora, but, as you know, he is just a leetle peculiar about money. Very usual, I’ve heard, amongst men who are captains of industry. I wondered, you know, if you could just sound him on the subject? Flora is so fond of you. We feel you are quite an old friend, although we have only really known you just over two years.”
Mrs. Ackroyd’s eloquence was cut short as the drawing room door opened once more. I was pleased at the interruption. I hate interfering in other people’s affairs, and I had not the least intention of tackling Ackroyd on the subject of Flora’s settlements. In another moment I should have been forced to tell Mrs. Ackroyd as much.
“You know Major Blunt, don’t you, doctor?”
“Yes, indeed,” I said.
A lot of people know Hector Blunt—at least by repute. He has shot more wild animals in unlikely places than any man living, I suppose. When you mention him, people say: “Blunt—you don’t mean the big game man, do you?”
His friendship with Ackroyd has always puzzled me a little. The two men are so totally dissimilar. Hector Blunt is perhaps five years Ackroyd’s junior. They made friends early in life, and though their ways have diverged, the friendship still holds. About once in two years Blunt spends a fortnight at Fernly, and an immense animal’s head, with an amazing number of horns which fixes you with a glazed stare as soon as you come inside the front door, is a permanent reminder of the friendship.
Blunt had entered the room now with his own peculiar, deliberate, yet soft-footed tread. He is a man of medium height, sturdily and rather