The Murder of Roger Ackroyd / Убийство Роджера Экройда

Mrs Ackroyd’s eloquence was cut short as the drawingroom door opened once more. I was pleased at the interruption. I hate interfering in other people’s affairs, and I had not the least intention of tackling Ackroyd on the subject of flora’s settlements. In another moment I should have been forced to tell Mrs Ackroyd as much.

‘You know Major Blunt, don’t you, doctor?’

‘Yes, indeed,’ I said.

A lot of people know hector Blunt – at least by repute. He has shot more wild animals in unlikely places than any man living, I suppose. When you mention him, people say: ‘Blunt – you don’t mean the big game man, do you?’

His friendship with Ackroyd has always puzzled me a little. The two men are so totally dissimilar. Hector Blunt is perhaps five years Ackroyd’s junior. They made friends early in life, and though their ways have diverged, the friendship still holds. About once in two years Blunt spends a fortnight at Fernly, and an immense animal’s head, with an amazing number of horns which fixes you with a glazed stare as soon as you come inside the front door, is a permanent reminder of the friendship.