later. … To take things strictly in chronological order, I must begin with the summons from Mrs. Ackroyd.
She sent for me early on Tuesday morning, and since the summons sounded an urgent one, I hastened there, expecting to find her in extremis .
The lady was in bed. So much did she concede to the etiquette of the situation. She gave me her bony hand, and indicated a chair drawn up to the bedside.
“Well, Mrs. Ackroyd,” I said, “and what’s the matter with you?”
I spoke with that kind of spurious geniality which seems to be expected of general practitioners.
“I’m prostrated,” said Mrs. Ackroyd in a faint voice. “Absolutely prostrated. It’s the shock of poor Roger’s death. They say these things often aren’t felt at the time , you know. It’s the reaction afterwards.”
It is a pity that a doctor is precluded by his profession from being able sometimes to say what he really thinks. I would have given anything to be able to answer “Bunkum!”
Instead, I suggested a tonic. Mrs. Ackroyd accepted the tonic. One move in the game seemed now to be concluded. Not for a moment did I imagine that I had been sent for because of the shock occasioned by Ackroyd’s death. But Mrs. Ackroyd is totally incapable of pursuing a straightforward course on any subject. She always approaches her object by tortuous means. I wondered very much why it was she had sent for me.
“And then that scene—yesterday,” continued my patient. She paused as though expecting me to take up a cue.
“What scene?”