‘The Murder of Roger Ackroyd’ was Agatha Christie’s third Hercule Poirot mystery. It was chosen in 2013 by the Crime Writer’s Association as the Best Ever Novel and was listed as #12 among the 100 best noted by the Mystery Writers of America.  It’s a great example of the ‘locked door mystery’ in which a victim is found in a locked room in a country house with a limited number of suspects all of whom appear to be innocent until the final page.

In this case, the narrator is Dr. James Sheppard, the GP in the small country village of Kings Abbot where he lives with his sister.  The book begins with the death of Mrs. Ferrar and moves on to the murder of Roger Ackroyd, Mrs. Ferrar’s fiance and the wealthiest citizen of Kings Abbot.  Found with a silver dagger in his neck in his locked study, his niece Flora asks for help from Dr. Sheppard’s neighbor, the recently retired Hercule Poirot who had moved there for a quiet respite.  Poirot is quickly on the case and off we go on a merry chase for the culprit.

The penultimate scene occurs in Poirot’s living room where he has gathered all the suspects along with Dr. Sheppard to review the facts and unmask the murderer.  Present are Mr. Ackroyd (sister-in-law to Roger), Fiona Ackroyd (Roger’s niece), Major Blunt (Ackroyd’s friend), Geoffrey Raymond (Ackroyd’s secretary), Mrs. Ralph Paton (Ackryoyd’s step-son’s secret wife), John Parker (the butler), and Elizabeth Russell (the housekeeper).  The murdered is revealed after that meeting.  Surprise!

This is one of those great British mysteries written by the doyen of British mystery writers whose 66 detective novels and 14 collections of short stories continue to be read.  Her play, The Mousetrap, is still playing in the West End where I saw it 53 years ago when we lived in London.

But the reality is that this genre can feel dated and a bit boring.  One has to really care ‘who done it’ and that depends on really caring about the characters, and in this case, my attention flagged.  The great mid-20th C critic, Edmund Wilson writing in The New Yorker in 1945 entitled his column, “Who Cares Who Killed Roger Ackroyd,” and I’d have to agree with him.

A lovely bit of distraction, but lost my interest about 3/4 through.  If you like British who-done-its, though, you’ll have fun with this suprise ending.