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The murder of Roger Ackroyd
Agatha Christie

The murder of Roger Ackroyd

Agatha Christie · 1890–1976

4.2· 79 ratings on Open Library
Available in:English
Words
70,135
Est. time
~1h 57m
Status
Public Library
Gutenberg reads
20,912
BelgiansEnglandFictionDetective and mystery storiesMurderInvestigationPoirot, Hercule (Fictitious character)Private investigators
About this book

Belgian Inspector Hercule Poirot has retired to the countryside in the small English village of King's Abbot. Dr. Sheppard, observing his new neighbor, is sure that he must be a former hairdresser. But the brutal murder of a local squire reveals the truth: the peculiar little man is actually a detective par excellence. The Murder of the wealthy industrialist Roger Ackroyd begins the night before with the suicide of Mrs. Ferrars, a wealthy widow. Her death is believed to be an accident, until Roger Ackroyd is stabbed to death in his locked study. There are rumors she poisoned her first husband, rumors that she was being blackmailed, rumors that her secret lover was Roger Ackroyd, a man who knew too much, but no one is sure. There's no shortage of suspects, all the members of the household stand to gain from his death, from Roger's neurotic sister-in-law who has accumulated personal debts, to a parlormaid with an uncertain history who resigned her post the afternoon of the murder. But the police focus on Ralph Paton, Ackroyd's stepson and heir, and the person with the most to gain from Roger's death. When sleuth Hercule Poirot, who is living quietly in King's Abbot, agrees to inv

How it begins

Mrs. Ferrars died on the night of the 16th–17th September—a Thursday. I was sent for at eight o’clock on the morning of Friday the 17th. There was nothing to be done. She had been dead some hours.

It was just a few minutes after nine when I reached home once more. I opened the front door with my latch-key, and purposely delayed a few moments in the hall, hanging up my hat and the light overcoat that I had deemed a wise precaution against the chill of an early autumn morning. To tell the truth, I was considerably upset and worried. I am not going to pretend that at that moment I foresaw the events of the next few weeks. I emphatically did not do so. But my instinct told me that there were stirring times ahead.

From the dining-room on my left there came the rattle of tea-cups and the short, dry cough of my sister Caroline.

Source: Project Gutenberg #69087 ↗
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