Free The Act of Roger Murgatroyd by Gilbert Adair Page A

Trubshawe, who visibly hadn’t expected such a revelation. ‘So the Yard actually knows your name?’
    ‘H’m?’
    ‘I said, the Yard knows your name?’
    ‘Well, in fact, no.’
    ‘But they must do, man, if, as you say, you have a criminal record.’
    ‘No, they don’t. Because Roger ffolkes isn’t my real name.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘Don’t you see, I had to change my name. After I’d – well, after I’d paid my debt to society, I left to make my fortune in America and, when I returned, I couldn’t take the risk of one of my former accomplices tracking me down. I’d done jolly well for myself in the States and I felt I deserved a new life. So, surely forgivably, I gave myself a new identity.’
    ‘Then what
is
your real name?’
    ‘It’s Roger all right – just not Roger ffolkes.’
    ‘Roger what?’
    ‘Well …’
    At this point, the Colonel slowly and almost conspiratorially began casting glances around the room, even though there was no one in it but himself and the Chief-Inspector.
    Then, just as he was about to speak, there was a knock at the door.
    ‘Er, yes, who is it?’
    ‘It’s Farrar, sir.’
    ‘Ah, Farrar. Come in, will you?’
    ‘Sorry to interrupt you, sir, but you should know – you and Mr Trubshawe – that your guests are already on their way downstairs.’
    ‘I see. Well, thank you. Ready for them, are you, Trubshawe?’
    ‘Yes, Colonel, I am. But you were going to –’
    ‘We’ll speak about that later, shall we? When we manage to have a private moment together.’
    ‘Just as you say, sir, just as you say.’

Chapter Five
    In ones and twos, confidently and timidly, the ffolkeses’ guests trooped into the library, its walls lined ceiling-high with identically bound volumes which, as most of them were not merely unread but unopened, made the shelving appear as though it were supporting row after row of cigar-boxes .
    Only Selina, still too distressed to make a re-appearance, was missing. But, in the twenty minutes which had elapsed since the others had retired to their rooms, they had all made themselves as presentable as they could for the trial they knew lay ahead of them.
    Clem Wattis, to be sure, still looked very much the English Vicar incarnate, with his dog-eared dog-collar and raggedy ill-fitting cardigan, its leather elbow-patches so threadbare they themselves seemed in urgent need of patching. The Doctor, for his part, had gone for a prudently countrified look – checked sports jacket, impeccably creased corduroy trousers and tan suede shoes. As for Don,his canary-yellow V-necked jumper and tartan bow-tie instantly identified him as your typically modern American college student.
    Evadne Mount, meanwhile, was wearing one of her yolk-of-egg tweed outfits, along with a pair of singularly unbecoming suet-coloured stockings and shoes so sensible, as they say, you felt like consulting them on whether you should cash in your shares in Amalgamated Copper. From her wardrobe Mary ffolkes had selected a flower-patterned taffeta dress that was unabashedly unfashionable but probably pricier than it looked. Madge Rolfe sported a stylishly plain frock of pale red crushed-velvet, a frock that, even if one had never set eyes on it before, one might have guessed had been worn more than once too often. And the Vicar’s wife had on a shabby brown cotton skirt with, over its matching blouse, a woollen cardigan nearly as shapeless as her husband’s.
    Then there was Cora Rutherford. Like all of her thespian ilk, she was always ‘on’, even in deepest Dartmoor. She had decked herself out in a tailored suit in pleated grey tweed and a high-collared silk shirt, around which she’d negligently flung a chic fox-fur throw. Though her eyes were lavish with mascara, and her lips with cyclamen, her only jewellery was a pair of virtually invisible pearl earrings. The actress herself – the message came across loud and clear – was the jewel.
    They were all requested to take seats around