He seemed to find even greater difficulty in framing his next question.
“Did you never suspect—did it ever enter your head—that—well, that he might have been poisoned?”
I was silent for a minute or two. Then I made up my mind what to say. Roger Ackroyd was not Caroline.
“I’ll tell you the truth,” I said. “At the time I had no suspicion whatever, but since—well, it was mere idle talk on my sister’s part that first put the idea into my head. Since then I haven’t been able to get it out again. But, mind you, I’ve no foundation whatever for that suspicion.”
“He was poisoned,” said Ackroyd.
He spoke in a dull heavy voice.
“Who by?” I asked sharply.
“His wife.”
“How do you know that?”
“She told me so herself.”