Book review: “The Murder of Roger Ackroyd” by Agatha Christie

This month marks the 100^th anniversary of the publication of Agatha Christie’s The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, one of her best novels and one of the all-time best mysteries.

Christie was still fairly new to mystery-writing, but this book exploded the genre. It took deeply held expectations, traditions and assumptions and sent them spinning off into space.

In fact, the novel is so good that, essentially, it’s impossible to review without spoiling the surprise for first-time readers. I’ll do what I can.

In her long career (1920-1976), Christie wrote 66 mysteries, many of them featuring her distinctively quirky Belgian detective Hercule Poirot.  The Murder of Roger Ackroyd was only her sixth novel and only the third featuring Poirot.

In the previous two novels, The Mysterious Affair at Styles (1920) and The Murder on the Links (1923), Poirot had a sidekick named Arthur Hastings who also functioned as narrator. In this, Christie was following in the pattern of Arthur Conan Doyle who used Dr. John Watson, the sidekick of Sherlock Holmes, as the teller of his tales.

 

A new narrator

But, by the time of Ackroyd’s death, Hastings has married and moved to Argentina, and Poirot is retired, living quietly in King’s Abbot.

So, the narrating task is taken up by Dr. James Sheppard, a local man who was a friend of Ackroyd, had met with him on the night of his murder and was Poirot’s next-door neighbor.  Indeed, the two meet comically when Sheppard is nearly hit by a heavy squash, called a vegetable marrow, flying from Poirot’s side of the wall.

I looked up angrily. Over the wall, to my left, there appeared a face. An egg-shaped head, partially covered with suspiciously black hair, two immense mustaches, and a pair of watchful eyes. It was our mysterious neighbor, Mr. Porrott.

He broke at once into fluent apologies.

“I demand of you a thousand pardons, monsieur. I am without defense. For some months now I cultivate the marrows. This morning suddenly I enrage myself with these marrows. I send them to promenade themselves—alas! not only mentally but physically. I seize the biggest. I hurl him over the wall. Monsieur, I am ashamed. I prostrate myself.”

Before such profuse apologies, my anger was forced to melt. After all, the wretched vegetable hadn’t hit me. But I sincerely hoped that throwing large vegetables over walls was not our new friend’s hobby. Such a habit could hardly endear him to us as a neighbor.

 

“Dropped to his hands and knees”

Soon enough, Sheppard finds out that his neighbor’s name is Poirot and that he’s a famous detective.

And, after Ackroyd’s killing, Sheppard helps Poirot as much as he can with his inquiries — to the point that the detective says with a twinkling eye, “You must have indeed been sent from the good God to replace my friend Hastings.” And he goes on:

“I observe that you do not quit my side. How say you, Dr. Sheppard, shall we investigate that summer-house? It interests me.”

He went up to the door and opened it. Inside, the place was almost dark. There were one or two rustic seats, a croquet set, and some folded deck-chairs.

I was startled to observe my new friend. He had dropped to his hands and knees and was crawling about the floor. Every now and then he shook his head as though not satisfied. Finally, he sat back on his heels.

“Nothing,” he murmured. “Well, perhaps it was not to be expected. But it would have meant so much——”

He broke off, stiffening all over. Then he stretched out his hand to one of the rustic chairs. He detached something from one side of it.

“What is it?” I cried. “What have you found?”

He smiled, unclosing his hand so that I should see what lay in the palm of it. A scrap of stiff white cambric.

 

Clues and complications

As usual, in a Poirot story, the investigator finds or fixes on clues, such as the “stiff white cambric,” without explaining what his “little grey cells” are speculating about them.

And, as usual, the locked-room mystery of the slaying of Roger Ackroyd is made endlessly more complicated by stealthy acts which have nothing to do with the killing and by a variety of secrets that many of the characters try hard to keep concealed.

None, though, is seriously considered a suspect by the police since the timing of events seems to exonerate them and point instead to Roger’s stepson — and heir —Ralph Paton who hasn’t shown himself since Roger’s murder.

 

Lies and more lies

At the halfway point in the book, Poirot holds one of those group meetings that often occur in a Christie novel. Present are Poirot, Sheppard, Roger’s penniless sister-in-law Mrs. Cecil Ackroyd, her daughter Flora, Roger’s big-game hunter friend Major Blunt and Roger’s secretary Geoffrey Raymond.

“And now, messieurs et mesdames,” said Poirot rapidly, “I will continue with what I was about to say. Understand this, I mean to arrive at the truth. The truth, however ugly in itself, is always curious and beautiful to the seeker after it. I am much aged, my powers may not be what they were.” Here he clearly expected a contradiction. 

“In all probability this is the last case I shall ever investigate. But Hercule Poirot does not end with a failure. Messieurs et mesdames, I tell you, I mean to know. And I shall know—in spite of you all.”

He brought out the last words provocatively, hurling them in our face as it were. I think we all flinched back a little, excepting Geoffrey Raymond, who remained good humored and imperturbable as usual.

“How do you mean—in spite of us all?” he asked, with slightly raised eyebrows.

“But—just that, monsieur. Every one of you in this room is concealing something from me.” He raised his hand as a faint murmur of protest arose. “Yes, yes, I know what I am saying. It may be something unimportant—trivial—which is supposed to have no bearing on the case, but there it is. Each one of you has something to hide. Come, now, am I right?”

His glance, challenging and accusing, swept round the table. And every pair of eyes dropped before his. Yes, mine as well.

“I am answered,” said Poirot, with a curious laugh. He got up from his seat. “I appeal to you all. Tell me the truth—the whole truth.” There was a silence. “Will no one speak?”

 

The whole truth

The whole truth is that The Murder of Roger Ackroyd is quite a mystery novel.

That came home to me in a particular way when I re-read the book.

Even though I knew the key to the mystery, I was nonetheless caught up in the suspense of Christie’s story. I wanted to see what would happen — even though I knew what would happen.

There are times when Christie can seem like a fuddy-duddy, and moments in her novels when she can seem to be following a tired formula.

But here, in The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, she blew that formula to kingdom come and displayed her high talent as a popular writer.

 

Patrick T. Reardon

5.27.26