The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. Agatha Christie

evening, Miss Ackroyd,” he said civilly. “We’re afraid there’s been an attempt at robbery, and we want you to help us. What’s this room—the billiard room? Come in here and sit down.”

      Flora sat down composedly on the wide divan which ran the length of the wall, and looked up at the inspector.

      “I don’t quite understand. What has been stolen? What do you want me to tell you?”

      “It’s just this, Miss Ackroyd. Parker here says you came out of your uncle’s study at about a quarter to ten. Is that right?”

      “Quite right. I had been to say goodnight to him.”

      “And the time is correct?”

      “Well, it must have been about then. I can’t say exactly. It might have been later.”

      “Was your uncle alone, or was there anyone with him?”

      “He was alone. Dr Sheppard had gone.”

      “Did you happen to notice whether the window was open or shut?”

      Flora shook her head.

      “I can’t say. The curtains were drawn.”

      “Exactly. And your uncle seemed quite as usual?”

      “I think so.”

      “Do you mind telling us exactly what passed between you?”

      Flora paused a minute, as though to collect her recollections.

      “I went in and said, “Goodnight, Uncle, I’m going to bed now. I’m tired tonight.” He gave a sort of grunt, and—I went over and kissed him, and he said something about my looking nice in the frock I had on, and then he told me to run away as he was busy. So I went.”

      “Did he ask specially not to be disturbed?”

      “Oh! yes, I forgot. He said: “Tell Parker I don’t want anything more tonight, and that he’s not to disturb me.” I met Parker just outside the door and gave him Uncle’s message.”

      “Just so,” said the inspector.

      “Won’t you tell me what it is that has been stolen?”

      “We’re not quite—certain,” said the inspector hesitatingly.

      A wide look of alarm came into the girl’s eyes. She started up.

      “What is it? You’re hiding something from me?”

      Moving in his usual unobtrusive manner, Hector Blunt came between her and the inspector. She half stretched out her hand, and he took it in both of his, patting it as though she were a very small child, and she turned to him as though something in his stolid, rocklike demeanour promised comfort and safety.

      “It’s bad news, Flora,” he said quietly. “Bad news for all of us. Your Uncle Roger –”

      “Yes?”

      “It will be a shock to you. Bound to be. Poor Roger’s dead.”

      Flora drew away from him, her eyes dilating with horror.

      “When?” she whispered. “When?”

      “Very soon after you left him, I’m afraid,” said Blunt gravely.

      Flora raised her hand to her throat, gave a little cry, and I hurried to catch her as she fell. She had fainted, and Blunt and I carried her upstairs and laid her on her bed. Then I got him to wake Mrs Ackroyd and tell her the news. Flora soon revived, and I brought her mother to her, telling her what to do for the girl. Then I hurried downstairs again.