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Unformatted text preview: r big town is Cranchester,
nine miles away.
We have a large railway station, a small post office, and two rival 'General Stores.' Able-bodied men are
apt to leave the place early in life, but we are rich in unmarried ladies and retired military officers. Our
hobbies and recreations can be summed up in the one word, 'gossip.' There are only two houses of any importance in King's Abbot. One is King's Paddock, left to Mrs Ferrars by her late husband. The other,
Fernly Park, is owned by Roger Ackroyd. Ackroyd has always interested me by being a man more
impossibly like a country squire than any country squire could really be. He reminds one of the red-faced
sportsmen who always appeared early in the first act of an old-fashioned musical comedy, the setting
being the village green. They usually sang a song about going up to London.
Nowadays we have revues, and the country squire has died out of musical fashion.
Of course, Ackroyd is not really a country squire. He is an immensely successful manufacturer of (I think)
wagon wheels. He is a man of nearly fifty years of age, rubicund of face and genial of manner. He is hand
and glove with the vicar, subscribes liberally to parish funds (though rumour has it that he is extremely
mean in personal expenditure), encourages cricket matches. Lads' Clubs, and Disabled Soldiers'
Institutes. He is, in fact, the life and soul of our peaceful village of King's Abbot.
Now when Roger Ackroyd was a lad of twenty-one, he fell in love with, and married, a beautiful woman
some five or six years his senior. Her name was Paton, and she was a widow with one child. The history
of the marriage was short and painful. To put it bluntly, Mrs Ackroyd was a dipsomaniac. She succeeded
in drinking herself into her grave four years after her marriage.
In the years that followed, Ackroyd showed no disposition to make a second matrimonial adventure. His
wife's child by her first marriage was only seven years old when his mother died. He is now twenty-five.
Ackroyd has always regarded him as his own son, and has brought him up accordingly, but he has been
a wild lad and a continual source of worry and trouble to his stepfather. Nevertheless we are all very
fond of Ralph Paton in King's Abbot. He is such a good-looking youngster for one thing.
As I said before, we are ready enough to gossip in our village. Everybody noticed from the first that
Ackroyd and Mrs Ferrars got on very well together. After her husband's death, the intimacy became
more marked. They were always seen about together, and it was freely conjectured that at the end of her
period of mourning, Mrs Ferrars would become Mrs Roger Ackroyd. It was felt, indeed, that there was
a certain fitness in the thing. Roger Ackroyd's wife had admittedly died of drink. Ashley Ferrars had been
a drunkard for many years before his death. It was only fitting that these two victims of alcoholic excess
should make up to each other for all that they had previously endured at the hands of their former
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