Agatha Christie - The Murder Of Roger Ackroyd - The End

Sit back and relax as I complete the reading of Agatha Christie's The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. This is chapters twenty-six & twenty-seven. A 17-minute story with an additional 6 minutes of relaxing music.

The story: The peaceful English village of King’s Abbot is stunned. The widow Ferrars dies from an overdose of Veronal. Not twenty-four hours later, Roger Ackroyd—the man she had planned to marry—is murdered. It is a baffling case involving blackmail and death that taxes Hercule Poirot’s “little grey cells” before he reaches one of the most startling conclusions of his career.

Transcript

Welcome to Restful Journeys.

In this track I will continue reading The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie.

This will be chapter 26,

Chapter 27.

Please find a comfortable place to sit or lie down and relax.

Take a few moments to clear your mind.

Allow yourself to listen to these words and help you become calm.

Let's continue with chapter 26 and Nothing but the Truth.

There was a dead silence for a minute and a half.

Then I laughed.

You're mad,

I said.

No,

Said Puro placidly.

I am not mad.

It was the little discrepancy in time that first drew my attention to you right at the beginning.

Discrepancy in time?

I queried,

Puzzled.

But,

Yes,

You will remember that everyone agreed,

You yourself included,

That it took five minutes to walk from the lodge to the house,

Less if you took the shortcut to the terrace.

But you left the house at ten minutes to nine,

Both by your own statement and that of Parker.

And yet it was nine o'clock as you passed through the lodge gates.

It was a chilly night,

Not an evening a man would be inclined to dwaddle.

Why had you taken ten minutes to do a five-minute walk?

All along I realized that we had only your statement for it,

That the study window was ever fastened.

Ackroyd asked you if you had done so.

He never looked to see.

Supposing,

Then,

That the study window was unfastened,

Would there be time in that ten minutes for you to run round the outside of the house,

Change your shoes,

Climb in through the window,

Kill Ackroyd,

And get to the gate by nine o'clock?

I decided against that theory,

Since in all probability a man as nervous as Ackroyd was that night would hear you climbing in,

And then there would have been a struggle.

But supposing that you killed Ackroyd before you left,

As you were standing beside his chair,

Then you go out through the front door,

Run round to the summer house,

Take Ralph Payton's shoes out of the bag you brought up with you that night,

Slip them on,

Walk through the mud in them,

And leave prints on the window ledge.

You climb in,

Lock the study door on the inside,

Run back to the summer house,

Change back into your own shoes,

And race down to the gate.

I went through similar actions the other day when you were with Mrs.

Ackroyd.

It took ten minutes exactly,

Then home,

And an alibi,

Since you had timed the dictaphone for half past nine.

My dear Pierrot,

I said in a voice that sounded strange and forced to my own ears,

You've been brooding over this case too long.

What on earth had I to gain by murdering Ackroyd?

Safety.

It was you who blackmailed Mrs.

Ferrars.

Who could have had a better knowledge of what killed Mr.

Ferrars than the doctor who was attending him?

When you spoke to me that day in the garden,

You mentioned a legacy received about a year ago.

I have been unable to discover any trace of a legacy.

You had to invent some way of accounting for Mrs.

Ferrars' twenty thousand pounds.

It has not done you much good.

You lost most of it in speculation.

Then you put the screw on too hard,

And Mrs.

Ferrars took a way out that you had not expected.

If Ackroyd had learnt the truth,

He would have had no mercy on you.

You were ruined forever.

And the telephone call?

I asked,

Trying to rally.

You have a plausible explanation of that also,

I suppose.

I will confess to you that it was my greatest stumbling block when I found that a call had actually been put through to you from King's Abbot Station.

I at first believed that you had simply invented the story.

It was a very clever touch,

That.

You must have had some excuse for arriving at Fernley,

Finding the body,

And so getting the chance to remove the dictaphone on which your alibi depended.

I had a very vague notion of how it was worked when I came to see your sister that day and inquired as to what patients you had seen on Friday morning.

I had no thought of Miss Russell in my mind at that time.

Her visit was a lucky coincidence,

Since it distracted your mind from the real object of my questions.

I found what I was looking for.

Among your patients that morning was the steward of an American liner.

Who more suitable than he to be leaving for Liverpool by train that evening,

And afterwards he would be on the high seas,

Well out of the way.

I noted that Orion sailed on Saturday,

And having obtained the name of the steward,

I sent him a wireless message asking a certain question.

This is his reply you saw me receive just now.

He held out the message to me.

It ran as follows.

Quite correct,

Dr.

Shepherd asked me to leave a note at a patient's house.

I was to ring him up from the station with the reply.

Reply was,

No answer.

It was a clever idea,

Said Pierrot.

The call was genuine.

Your sister saw you take it.

But there was only one man's word as to what was actually said.

Your own.

I yawned.

All this,

I said,

Is very interesting,

But hardly in the sphere of practical politics.

You think not.

Remember what I said.

The truth goes to Inspector Raglan in the morning.

But for the sake of your good sister,

I am willing to give you the chance of another way out.

There might be,

For instance,

An overdose of a sleeping drought.

You comprehend me?

But Captain Ralph Payton must be cleared.

Kava sends dire.

I should suggest that you finish that very interesting manuscript of yours,

But abandoning your former reticence.

You seem to be very prolific in your suggestions,

I remark.

Are you sure you've quite finished?

Now that you remind me of the fact,

It is true that there is one more thing.

It would be most unwise on your part to attempt to silence me as you silenced M.

Ackroyd.

That kind of business does not succeed against Hercule Pureau.

You understand?

My dear Pureau,

I said,

Smiling a little.

Whatever else I may be,

I am not a fool.

I rose to my feet.

Well,

Well,

I said with a slight yawn.

I must be off home.

Thank you for a most interesting and instructive evening.

Pureau also rose,

Embellished with his accustomed politeness,

As I passed out of the room.

And nothing but the truth.

Let's continue with chapter 27,

Apologia.

5 a.

M.

And I am very tired,

But I have finished my task.

My arms aching from writing.

A strange end to my manuscript.

I meant it to be published someday as the history of one of Pureau's failures.

Odd how things pan out.

All along I have had a premonition of disaster from the moment I saw Ralph Payton and Mrs.

Flores with their heads together.

I thought then that she was confiding in him.

As it happened,

I was quite wrong there.

But the idea persisted even after I went into the study with Mr.

Ackroyd that night.

Until he told me the truth.

Poor old Ackroyd.

I'm always glad that I gave him a chance.

I urged him to read that letter before it was too late.

Or let me be honest.

Didn't I subconsciously realize that with a pig-headed chap like him,

It was my best chance of getting him not to read it?

His nervousness that night was interesting psychology.

He knew danger was close at hand.

And yet,

He never suspected me.

The dagger was an afterthought.

I brought up a very handy little weapon of my own.

But when I saw the dagger lying on the silver table,

It occurred to me at once how much better it would be to use a weapon that couldn't be traced to me.

I suppose I must have meant to murder him all along.

As soon as I heard of Mrs.

Flores' death,

I felt convinced that she would have told him everything before she died.

When I met him,

And he seemed so agitated,

I thought that perhaps he knew the truth.

But couldn't bring himself to believe it,

And was going to give me the chance of refuting it.

So I went home and took my precautions.

If the trouble were,

After all,

Only something to do with Ralph,

Well,

No harm would have been done.

The dictaphone he had given me two days before to adjust.

Something had gone a little wrong with it,

And I persuaded him to let me have a go at it instead of sending it back.

I did what I wanted to it,

And took it up with me in my bag that evening.

I'm rather pleased with myself as a writer.

What could be neater,

For instance,

Than the following?

The letters were brought in at twenty minutes to nine.

It was just on ten minutes to nine when I left him,

The letter still unread.

I hesitated with my hand on the door handle,

Looking back and wondering if there was anything I had left undone.

All true,

You see,

But suppose I had put a row of stars after the first sentence.

Would somebody then have wondered what exactly happened in that blank ten minutes?

When I looked around the room from the door,

I was quite satisfied.

Nothing had been left undone.

The dictaphone was on the table by the window,

Timed to go off at nine thirty.

The mechanism of that little device was rather clever,

Based on the principle of an alarm clock.

And the armchair was pulled out so to hide it from the door.

I must admit that it gave me rather a shock to run into Parker just outside the door.

I have faithfully recorded that fact.

Then later,

When the body was discovered,

And I had sent Parker to telephone for the police,

What a judicious use of words.

I did what little had to be done.

It was quite little,

Just to shove the dictaphone into my bag and push back the chair against the wall in its proper place.

I never dreamed that Parker would have noticed that chair.

Logically,

He ought to have been so agog over the body as to be blind to everything else.

But I hadn't reckoned with the trained servant complex.

I wish I could have known beforehand that Flora was going to say she'd seen her uncle alive at a quarter to ten.

That puzzled me more than I can say.

In fact,

All through the case there have been many things that puzzled me hopelessly.

Everyone seems to have taken a hand.

My greatest fear all through has been Caroline.

I have fancied that she might guess,

Curious the way she spoke that day of my strain of weakness.

Well,

She will never know the truth.

There is,

As Pierrot said,

One way out.

I can trust him.

He and Inspector Raglan will manage it between them.

I should not like Caroline to know.

She is fond of me,

And then,

Too,

She is proud.

My death will be a grief to her.

But grief passes.

When I have finished writing,

I shall enclose this whole manuscript in an envelope and address it to Pierrot.

And then,

What shall it be?

Veronal?

There would be kind of a poetic justice.

Not that I take any responsibility for Mrs.

Farrar's death.

It was the direct consequence of her own actions.

I feel no pity for her.

I have no pity for myself,

Either.

So,

Let it be Veronal.

But I wish Hercule Pierrot had never retired from work and come here to grow vegetable morrows.

The End That concludes Chapter 27,

Apologia.

It is also the end of the story,

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd by Agatha Christie.

Thank you so very much for listening.

It has been a great joy and honor to read this story for you.

I hope over this time you have been able to relax and enjoy each of these chapters.

I hope that you continue to follow your journey to inner peace and relaxation.

I do hope you return and listen to other stories that I read.

Please take care of yourself and thank you for listening to Restful Journeys.

Reviews

Outstanding reading of a great story! Thank you for the relaxation and sleep I was able to obtain through your very effective technique. I look forward to your future story readings. Blessings 🙏✨🕊💕