The Murder of Roger Ackroyd / Убийство Роджера Экройда

Mrs Folliott’s face wore more than ever its frozen look.

‘I don’t know at all.’

‘Who was she with before she came to you?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t remember.’

There was a spark of anger now underlying her nervousness. She flung up her head in a gesture that was vaguely familiar.

‘Is it really necessary to ask all these questions?’

‘Not at all,’ I said, with an air of surprise and a tinge of apology in my manner. ‘I had no idea you would mind answering them. I am very sorry.’

Her anger left her and she became confused again.

‘oh! I don’t mind answering them. I assure you I don’t. Why should I? It – it just seemed a little odd, you know. That’s all. A little odd.’

One advantage of being a medical practitioner is that you can usually tell when people are lying to you. I should have known from Mrs Folliott’s manner, if from nothing else, that she did mind answering my questions – minded intensely. She was thoroughly uncomfortable and upset, and there was plainly some mystery in the background. I judged her to be a woman quite unused to deception of any kind, and consequently rendered acutely uneasy when forced to practise it. A child could have seen through her.