I was silent for a minute or two. Then I made up my mind as to what to say. Roger Ackroyd was not Caroline.
“I’ll tell you the truth,” I said. “At the time I had no suspicion whatever, but since—well, it was mere idle talk on my sister’s part that first put the idea into my head. Since then I haven’t been able to get it out again. But mind you, I’ve no foundation whatever for that suspicion.”
“He was poisoned,” said Ackroyd. He spoke in a dull heavy voice.
“Who by?” I asked sharply.
“His wife.”
“How do you know that?”
“She told me so herself.”
“When?”
“Yesterday! My God! Yesterday! It seems ten years ago.”
I waited a minute, and then he went on.
“You understand, Sheppard, I’m telling you this in confidence. It’s to go no further. I want your advice—I can’t carry the whole weight by myself. As I said just now, I don’t know what to do.”
“Can you tell me the whole story?” I said. “I’m still in the dark. How did Mrs. Ferrars come to make this confession to you?”
“It’s like this. Three months ago I asked Mrs. Ferrars to marry me. She refused. I asked her again and she consented, but she refused to allow me to make the engagement public until her year of mourning was up. Yesterday I called upon her, pointed out that a year and three weeks had now elapsed since her husband’s death, and that there could be no