Agatha Christie, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, 1926
What can I say about what is widely considered the greatest mystery written by the greatest mystery writer to have ever lived? An author who has sold a couple billion books? A book that has what is considered the greatest twist ending in all of fiction?
Agatha Christie as a child looking unimpressed.
Here's something I can say: I still find Hercule Poirot one of the most annoying characters in detective fiction. That's my view and I'm willing to stand by it. Oh, is the fact that the "grandfather chair" was pulled 2 feet from the wall important? Is it also important that it was pushed back? Are you not going to tell us why it is important, you rotten Belgian? Fine!
The internet was unwilling to tell me what a grandfather chair is, so I'm thinking it must be like this.
On the other hand, I was delighted with Caroline, the sister of our narrator, Dr. James Sheppard. To her brother's embarrassment, Caroline is the town gossip. To his annoyance, Poirot finds Caroline a value resource in his investigations and pays her a visit so she can dish. James is put out by this:
“Why did he come?” I asked.
“To see me, of course. He said that knowing my brother so well, he hoped he might be permitted to make the acquaintance of his charming sister—your charming sister, I’ve got mixed up, but you know what I mean.”
“What did he talk about?” I asked.
“He told me a lot about himself and his cases. You know that Prince Paul of Mauretania—the one who’s just married a dancer?”
“Yes?”
“I saw a most intriguing paragraph about her in Society Snippets the other day, hinting that she was really a Russian Grand Duchess—one of the Czar’s daughters who managed to escape from the Bolsheviks. Well, it seems that M. Poirot solved a baffling murder mystery that threatened to involve them both. Prince Paul was beside himself with gratitude.”
“Did he give him an emerald tie pin the size of a plover’s egg?” I inquired sarcastically.
“He didn’t mention it. Why?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I thought it was always done. It is in detective fiction anyway. The super detective always has his rooms littered with rubies and pearls and emeralds from grateful Royal clients.”
“It’s very interesting to hear about these things from the inside,” said my sister complacently.
It would be—to Caroline. I could not but admire the ingenuity of M. Hercule Poirot, who had selected unerringly the case of all others that would most appeal to an elderly maiden lady living in a small village.
“Did he tell you if the dancer was really a Grand Duchess?” I inquired.
“He was not at liberty to speak,” said Caroline importantly.
I wondered how far Poirot had strained the truth in talking to Caroline—probably not at all. He had conveyed his innuendoes by means of his eyebrows and his shoulders.
“And after all this,” I remarked, “I suppose you were ready to eat out of his hand.”
“Don’t be coarse, James. I don’t know where you get these vulgar expressions from.”
“Probably from my only link with the outside world—my patients. Unfortunately my practice does not lie amongst Royal princes and interesting Russian émigrés.”
Caroline pushed her spectacles up and looked at me.
“You seem very grumpy, James. It must be your liver. A blue pill, I think, to-night.”
To see me in my own home, you would never imagine that I was a doctor of medicine. Caroline does the home prescribing both for herself and me.
“Damn my liver,” I said irritably. “Did you talk about the murder at all?”
“Well, naturally, James. What else is there to talk about locally? I was able to set M. Poirot right upon several points. He was very grateful to me. He said I had the makings of a born detective in me—and a wonderful psychological insight into human nature.”
Caroline was exactly like a cat that is full to overflowing with rich cream. She was positively purring.
“He talked a lot about the little gray cells of the brain, and of their functions. His own, he says, are of the first quality.”
“He would say so,” I remarked bitterly. “Modesty is certainly not his middle name.”
“I wish you would not be so horribly American, James. He thought it very important that Ralph should be found as soon as possible, and induced to come forward and give an account of himself. He says that his disappearance will produce a very unfortunate impression at the inquest.”
“And what did you say to that?”
“I agreed with him,” said Caroline importantly. “And I was able to tell him the way people were already talking about it.”
Just as I'm not sure what a grandfather's chair is, I'm not entirely sure how big a plover's egg is. From context clues, my guess is it is small for a bird's egg but big for an emerald.
As the title indicates, Roger Ackroyd was murdered. Yes, the room was locked. Yes, the dagger found in his throat was a rare African dagger. Yes, snatches of conversations were heard just before the murder. Yes, the damn chair was important. Yes, there was a mysterious phone call. Yes, the prime suspect disappears mysteriously. Yes, there is a butler with a shady past. Yes, Poirot gathers all the suspects into the drawing room at the end of the book.
But there is a twist at the end. No spoilers here. Instead, I'll offer a nice picture of a Mary Battersby Ring Plover:
Neither Mary Battersby nor her Ring Plover is the murderer. Who was Mary Battersby? According to Wikipedia, "Investigations into Mary Battersby have concluded that 'nothing is known' about her". Oh, if only Poirot were here to solve the mystery of Mary Battersby. He'd put his "little gray cells" (yuck) to work on the case and annoy everyone until they confessed.
Free ebook: https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/69087
Free Audiobook:https://archive.org/details/the-murder-of-roger-ackroyd-by-agatha-christie-read-by-sean-pratt
Free BBC Radio Dramatization: https://archive.org/details/agatha-christie-the-murder-of-roger-ackroyd
Free radio play, with Orson Welles as Poirot: https://archive.org/details/CampbellPlayhouse391112TheMurderOfRogerAckroyd
Reading Gutenberg by John Jackson is licensed under CC BY-SA 4.0
