The Murder of Roger Ackroyd / Убийство Роджера Экройда

For the first time I found myself appraising the house-keeper and thinking what a handsome woman she must once have been – indeed, as far as that goes, still was. her dark hair was unstreaked with grey, and when she had a colour, as she had at this minute, the stern quality of her looks was not so apparent.

Quite subconsciously I wondered whether she had been out, for she was breathing hard, as though she had been running.

‘I’m afraid I’m a few minutes early,’ I said.

‘Oh! I don’t think so. It’s gone half-past seven, dr Sheppard.’ She paused a minute before saying, ‘I – didn’t know you were expected to dinner tonight. Mr Ackroyd didn’t mention it.’

I received a vague impression that my dining there displeased her in some way, but I couldn’t imagine why.

‘How’s the knee?’ I inquired.

‘Much the same, thank you, doctor. I must be going now. Mrs Ackroyd will be down in a moment. I–I only came in here to see if the flowers were all right.’

She passed quickly out of the room. I strolled to the window, wondering at her evident desire to justify her presence in the room. As I did so, I saw what, of course, I might have known all the time had I troubled to give my mind to it, namely, that the windows were long french ones opening on the terrace. The sound I had heard, therefore, could not have been that of a window being shut down.