And Then There Were None By Agatha C. - Reading Chapters 1-9

Welcome to Restful Journeys.

In this track I will begin reading,

And Then There Were None by Agatha Christie.

This will be chapter 1 through chapter 9.

Please find a comfortable place to sit or lie down and relax.

Take a few moments to clear your mind and allow yourself to listen to these words and help you become calm.

Let's begin our journey.

Epigraph Ten little soldier boys went out to dine.

One choked his little self,

And then there were nine.

Nine little soldier boys sat up very late.

One overslept himself,

And then there were eight.

Eight little soldier boys traveling in Devon.

One said he'd stay there,

And then there were seven.

Seven little soldier boys chopping up sticks.

One chopped himself in halves,

And then there were six.

Six little soldier boys playing with a hive.

A bumblebee stung one,

And then there were five.

Five little soldier boys going in for lull.

One got in chancery,

And then there were four.

Four little soldier boys going out to sea.

A red herring swallowed one,

And then there were three.

Three little soldier boys walking in the zoo.

A big bear hugged one,

And then there were two.

Two little soldier boys sitting in the sun.

One got frizzled up,

And then there was one.

One little soldier boy left all alone.

He went and hanged himself,

And then there were none.

Frank Green,

1869.

Chapter One In the comer of a first-class smoking carriage,

Mr.

Justice Wargrave,

Lately retired from the beach,

Puffed out a cigar and ran an interested eye to the political news in the Times.

He laid the paper down and glanced out of the window.

They were running now through Somerset.

He glanced at his watch,

Another two hours to go.

He went over in his mind all that had appeared in the papers about Soldier Island.

There had been its original purchase by an American millionaire who was crazy about yachting,

And an account of the luxurious modern house he had built on this little island off the Devon coast.

The unfortunate fact that the new third wife of the American millionaire was a bad sailor had led to the subsequent putting up the house and isle for sale.

Various glowing advertisements of it had appeared in the papers.

Then came the first bold statement that it had been bought by a Mr.

Owen.

After that,

The rumors of gossip writers had started.

Soldier Island had really been bought by Miss Gabrielle Turrell,

The Hollywood film star.

She wanted to spend some months there free from all publicity.

Busy B had hinted delicately that it was to be an abode for royalty.

Mr.

Merriweather had had it whispered to him that it had been bought for a honeymoon.

Young Lord L had surrendered to Cupid at last.

Jones knew for a fact that it had been purchased by the Admiralty with a view to carry out some very hush-hush experiments.

Definitely,

Soldier Island was news.

From his pocket,

Mr.

Justice Wargrave drew out a letter.

The handwriting was practically illegible,

But words here and there stood out with unexpected clarity.

Dearest Lawrence,

Such years since I heard anything of you.

Let's come to Soldier Island,

The most enchanting place.

So much to talk over.

Old days,

Communion with nature,

Bask in sunshine.

1240 from Paddington,

Meet you at Oak Bridge.

And his correspondent signed herself with a flourish,

His ever Constance Colmington.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave cast back in his mind to remember when exactly he had last seen Lady Constance Colmington.

It must have been seven,

No,

Eight years ago.

She had been going to Italy to bask in the sun and be at one with nature and the Contadini.

Later,

He had heard,

She had proceeded to Syria where she proposed to bask in yet stronger sun and live at one with nature and the Bedouin.

Constance Colmington,

He reflected to himself,

Was exactly the sort of woman who would buy an island and surround herself with mystery.

Nodding his head in gentle approval at his logic,

Mr.

Justice Wargrave allowed his head to nod.

He slept.

2.

Vera Claythorne,

In a third class carriage with five other travelers in it,

Leaned her head back and shut her eyes.

How hot it was traveling by train today.

It would be nice to get to the sea.

Really a great piece of luck getting this job.

When you wanted a holiday post,

It nearly always meant looking after a swarm of children.

Secretarial holiday posts were much more difficult to get.

Even the agency hadn't held out much hope.

And the letter had come.

I have received your name from the Skilled Woman's Agency,

Together with their recommendation.

I understand they know you personally.

I shall be glad to pay you the salary you ask,

And shall expect you to take up your duties on August 8th.

The train is 1240 from Paddington,

And you will be met at Oak Bridge Station.

I enclose five pound notes for expenses.

Yours truly,

Una Nancy Owen.

And at the top was the stamped address,

Soldier Island,

Sticklehaven,

Devon.

Soldier Island,

Why,

There had been nothing else in the papers lately.

All sorts of hints and interesting rumors,

Though probably that was mostly untrue.

But the house had certainly been built by a millionaire,

And was said to be absolutely the last word in luxury.

Vera Claythorne,

Tired by a recent strenuous term at school,

Thought to herself,

Being a games mistress in a third class school isn't much of a catch.

If only I could get a job at some decent school.

And then,

With a cold feeling around her heart,

She thought,

But I am lucky to have even this.

After all,

People don't like a coroner's inquest,

Even if the coroner did acquit me of all blame.

He had even complimented her on her presence of mind and courage,

She remembered.

But an inquest,

It couldn't have gone better,

And Mrs.

Hamilton had been kindness itself to her only Hugo,

But she wouldn't think of Hugo.

Suddenly,

In spite of the heat and the carriage,

She shivered and wished she wasn't going to the sea.

A picture rose clearly before her mind,

Cyril's head bobbing up and down,

Swimming to the rock,

Up and down,

Up and down,

And herself swimming in easy practice strokes after him,

Cleaving her way through the water,

But knowing only too surely that she wouldn't be in time.

The sea,

Its deep warm blue mornings spent lying out on the sands.

Hugo,

Hugo,

Who had said he loved her,

She must not think of Hugo.

She opened her eyes and frowned across at the man opposite her.

A tall man with a brown face,

Light eyes sat rather close together,

And an arrogant,

Almost cruel mouth,

She thought to herself.

I bet he's been to some interesting parts of the world and seen some interesting things.

3.

Philip Lombard,

Summing up the girl opposite in a mere flash of his quick moving eyes,

Thought to himself.

Quite attractive,

A bit school-mistress-y,

Perhaps.

A cool customer,

He should imagine,

And one who could hold her own,

In love or war.

He'd rather like to take her on.

He frowned.

No,

Cut out all that kind of stuff.

This was business.

He got to keep his mind on the job.

What exactly was up?

He wondered.

That little Jew had been damned mysterious.

Take it or leave it,

Captain Lombard,

He had said thoughtfully.

A hundred guineas,

Eh?

He had said it in a casual way,

As though a hundred guineas was nothing to him.

A hundred guineas when he was literally down to his last square meal.

He had fancied,

Though,

That the little Jew had not been deceived.

That was the damnable part about Jews.

You couldn't deceive them about money,

They knew.

He had said in the same casual tone.

And you can't give me any further information?

Mr.

Isaac Morris had shaken his little bald head very positively.

No,

Captain Lombard,

The matter rests there.

It is understood by my client that your reputation is that of a good man in a tight place.

I am empowered to hand you 100 guineas in return,

For which you will travel to Stricklehaven,

Devon.

The nearest station is Oakbridge.

You will be met there and motored to Sticklehaven,

Where a motor launch will convey you to Soldier Island.

There you will hold yourself at the disposal of my client.

Lombard had said abruptly,

For how long?

Not longer than a week at most.

Fingering his small mustache,

Captain Lombard said,

You understand I can't undertake anything illegal.

He had darted a very sharp glance at the other as he had spoken.

There had been a very faint smile on the thick,

Semitic lips of Mr.

Morris as he answered gravely,

If anything illegal is proposed,

You will,

Of course,

Be at perfect liberty to withdraw.

Damn the smooth little brute.

He had smiled.

It was as though he knew very well that in Lombard's past actions,

Legality had not always been a sine qua non.

Lombard's own lips parted in a grin.

By Jove,

He'd sailed pretty near the wind once or twice,

But he'd always got away with it.

There wasn't much he drew the line at,

Really.

No,

There wasn't much he'd draw the line at.

He fancied that he was going to enjoy himself at Soldier Island.

In a non-smoking carriage,

Miss Emily Brent sat very upright,

As was her custom.

She was sixty-five,

And she did not approve of lounging.

Her father,

A colonel of the old school,

Had been particular about deportment.

The present generation was seamlessly lax in their carriage,

And in every other way.

Enveloped in an aura of righteousness and unyielding principles,

Miss Brent sat in her crowded third-class carriage and triumphed over its discomfort and its heat.

Everyone made such a fuss over things nowadays.

They wanted injections before they had teeth pulled.

They took drugs if they couldn't sleep.

They wanted easy chairs and cushions,

And girls allowed their figures to slop about anyhow,

And lay about half-naked on the beaches in summer.

Miss Brent's lips set closely.

She would like to make an example of certain people.

She remembered last year's summer holiday.

This year,

However,

It would be quite different.

SOLDIER ISLAND Mentally,

She re-read the letter,

Which she had already read so many times.

Dear Miss Brent,

I do hope you remember me.

We were together at Belhaven Guesthouse in August some years ago,

And we seemed to have so much in common.

I am starting a guesthouse of my own on an island off the coast of Devon.

I think there is really an opening for a place where there is good plain cooking,

A nice old-fashioned type of person.

None of this nudity and gramophones half the night.

I shall be very glad if you could see your way to spending your summer holiday on SOLDIER ISLAND,

Quite free as my guest.

Would early in August suit you,

Perhaps the 8th?

Yours sincerely,

U.

N.

O.

What was the name?

The signature was rather difficult to read.

Emily Brent thought impatiently.

So many people write their signatures quite allegedly.

She let her mind run back over the people at Belhaven.

She had been there two summers running.

There had been that nice middle-aged woman.

Mrs.

.

.

Mrs.

.

.

Now,

What was her name?

Her father had been a cannon,

And there had been a Miss Olten Orman.

No,

Surely it was Oliver.

Yes,

Oliver.

SOLDIER ISLAND There had been things in the paper about SOLDIER ISLAND.

Something about a film star,

Or was it an American millionaire?

Of course,

Often those places went very cheap.

Islands didn't suit everybody.

They thought the idea was romantic,

But when they came to live there,

They realized the disadvantages,

And were only too glad to sell.

Emily Brent thought to herself,

I shall be getting a free holiday at any rate.

With her income so much reduced,

And so many dividends not being paid,

That was indeed something to take into consideration.

If only she could remember a little more about Mrs.

.

.

Or was it Miss Oliver?

FIVE General MacArthur looked out the carriage window.

The train was just coming into Exeter where it had to change.

Damnable,

These slow branch line trains.

This place,

SOLDIER ISLAND,

Was really no distance at all as the crow flies.

He hadn't got it clear who this fellow Owen was.

A friend of Spoof Leggard's,

Apparently,

And of John Dyer's.

One or two of your old cronies are coming,

Would like to have a talk over old times.

Well,

He'd enjoy a chat about old times.

He'd had a fancy lately that fellows were rather lightning shy of him.

All owing to that damned rumor.

By God,

It was pretty hard nearly thirty years ago now.

Armstrong had talked,

He supposed.

Damned young pup,

What did he know about it?

Oh well,

No good brooding about these things.

One fancied things sometimes fancied a fellow was looking at you queerly.

This SOLDIER ISLAND now,

He'd be interested to see it.

A lot of gossip flying about.

Looked as though there might be something in the rumor that the Admiralty or the War Office or the Air Force had got a hold of it.

Young Elmer Robson,

The American millionaire,

Had actually built the place.

Spent thousand on it,

So it was said.

Every mortal luxury.

Exeter,

And an hour to wait.

And he didn't want to wait,

He wanted to get on.

6.

Dr.

Armstrong was driving his Morse across Salisbury Plain.

He was very tired.

Success had its penalties.

There had been a time when he had sat in his consulting room in Harley Street,

Correctly appareled,

Surrounded with the most up-to-date appliances and the most luxurious furnishings and waited,

Waited through the empty days for his venture to succeed or fail.

Well,

It had succeeded.

He'd been lucky.

Lucky and skillful,

Of course.

He was a good man in his job,

But that wasn't enough for success.

You had to have luck as well.

And he'd had it.

An accurate diagnosis.

A couple of grateful women patients,

Women with money and position,

And word had got out.

You ought to try Armstrong,

Quite a young man,

But so clever.

Pam had been to all sorts of people for years,

And he put his finger on the trouble at once.

The ball had started rolling,

And now Dr.

Armstrong had definitely arrived.

His days were full,

He had little leisure.

And so,

On this August morning,

He was glad that he was leaving London and going to be,

For some days,

On an island off Devon Coast.

Not that it was exactly a holiday.

The letter he received had been rather vague in its terms,

But there was nothing vague about the accompanying check.

A whacking fee.

These Owens must be rolling in money.

Some little difficulty,

It seemed.

A husband who was worried about his wife's health and wanted a report on it without her being alarmed.

She wouldn't hear of seeing a doctor.

Her nerves.

Nerves.

The doctor's eyebrows went up.

These women and their nerves.

Well,

It was good for business after all.

Half the women who consulted him had nothing to matter with them.

But boredom.

But they wouldn't thank you for telling them so.

And one could usually find something.

A slightly uncommon condition.

Of the some long word,

Nothing at all serious.

But it just needs putting right.

A simple treatment.

Well,

Medicine was mostly faith healing when it came to it.

And he had had a good manner.

He could inspire hope and belief.

Luckily that he'd managed to pull himself together in time.

After that business ten,

No,

Fifteen years ago.

It had been a near thing that he'd been going to pieces.

The shock had pulled him together.

He'd cut out drinking altogether.

By Joe,

It had been a near thing though.

With a devastating splitting blast on the horn.

An enormous super sports,

Down lane car,

Rushed past him at 80 miles an hour.

Dr.

Armstrong nearly went into the hedge.

One of these young fools who tore around the country.

He hated them.

That had been a near shave too.

Damned young fool.

Seven.

Tony Marston,

Roaring down in Tamir,

Thought to himself.

The amount of cars crawling about the roads is frightful.

Always something blocking your way.

And they were driving to the middle of the road.

Pretty hopeless driving in England anyway.

Not like France where you really could let out.

Should he stop here for a drink or push on?

Heaps of time.

Only another hundred miles and a bit to go.

He'd have a gin and ginger beer.

Fizzing hot day.

This island place ought to be rather good fun.

If the weather lasted.

Who were these Owens?

He wondered.

Rich and stinking probably.

Badger was rather good at nosing people like that out.

Of course,

He had to.

Poor old chap.

With no money of his own.

Hoped they'd do one well in drinks.

Never knew it these fellows.

Who made their money and weren't born into it.

Pity that story about Gabriel Turrell having bought Soldier Island wasn't true.

He'd like to have been in with that film star crowd.

Oh well,

He supposed.

There'd be a few girls there.

Coming out of the hotel,

He stretched himself.

Yawned.

Looked up at the blue sky and climbed into the dowmain.

Several young women looked at him admiringly.

His six feet of well-proportioned body,

His crisp hair,

Tanned face and intensely blue eyes.

He let in the clutch with a roar and leapt up the narrow street.

Old men and errand boys jumped for safety.

The latter looked after the car admiringly.

Anthony Marston proceeded on his triumphal progress.

8.

Mr.

Bloor was in the slow train from Plymouth.

There was only one other person in his carriage.

An elderly seafaring gentleman with a blurry eye.

At the present moment,

He had dropped off to sleep.

Mr.

Bloor was writing carefully in his little notebook.

That's the lot,

He muttered to himself.

Emily Brent,

Vera Claythorne,

Dr.

Armstrong,

Anthony Marston,

Old Justice Wargrave,

Philip Lombard,

General MacArthur,

CMG,

DSO,

Manservant and Wife,

Mr.

And Mrs.

Rogers.

He closed the notebook and put it back in his pocket.

He glanced over at the corner and the slumbering man.

Had one over the eight,

Diagnosed Mr.

Bloor accurately.

He went over things carefully and conscientiously in his mind.

Job ought to be easy though,

He ruminated.

Don't see how I can slip up on it.

Hope I look alright.

He stood up and scrutinized himself anxiously in the glass.

The face reflected there was a slightly military cast with his mustache.

There was very little expression in it.

The eyes were grey and sat rather close together.

Might be a major,

Said Mr.

Bloor.

No,

I forgot,

There's that old military gent,

He'd spot me at once.

South Africa,

Said Mr.

Bloor.

That's my line,

None of these people have anything to do with South Africa and I've just been reading that travel folder so I can talk about it alright.

Fortunately,

There were all sorts and types of colonials.

As a man of means from South Africa,

Mr.

Bloor felt that he could enter into any society unchallenged.

Soldier Island,

He remembered Soldier Island as a boy.

Smelly sort of rock covered with gulls stood about a mile from the coast.

Funny idea,

To go and build a house on it.

Awful and bad weather,

The millionaires were full of whims.

The old man in the corner woke up and said,

You can't never tell at sea,

Never.

Mr.

Bloor said smoothingly,

That's right,

You can't.

The old man hiccuped twice and said plaintively,

There's a squall coming,

Mr.

Bloor said.

No,

No mate,

It's a lovely day.

The old man said angrily,

There's a squall ahead,

I can smell it.

Maybe you're right,

Said Bloor pacifically.

The train stopped at a station and the old fellow rose unsteadily.

This where I get out?

He fumbled with the window,

Mr.

Bloor helped him.

The old man stood in the doorway,

He raised a solemn hand and blinked his bleary eyes.

Watch and pray,

He said.

Watch and pray,

The day of judgment is at hand.

He collapsed through the doorway onto the platform.

From a recumbent position he looked up at Mr.

Bloor and said with immense dignity,

I'm talking to you young man,

The day of judgment is very close at hand.

Subsiding onto his seat,

Mr.

Bloor thought to himself,

He's nearer the judgment day than I am.

But there,

As it happens,

He was wrong.

That concludes chapter one.

Chapter Two One Outside Oakbridge station,

A little group of people stood in momentary uncertainty.

Behind them stood porters with suitcases.

One of these called,

Jim.

The driver of one of the taxis stepped forward.

You,

Um,

For Soldier Island,

Maybe?

He asked in a soft,

Devin voice.

Four voices gave assent and then immediately afterwards gave quick,

Surreptitious glances at each other.

The driver said,

Addressing his remarks to Mr.

Justice Wargrave as the senior member of the party.

There are two taxis here,

Sir.

One of them must wait till the slow train from Exeter gets in.

A matter of five minutes.

There's one gentleman coming by that.

Perhaps one of you wouldn't mind waiting?

You'd be more comfortable that way.

Vera Claythorne,

Her own secretarial position,

Clear in her mind,

Spoke at once.

I'll wait,

She said,

If you will go on.

She looked at the other three.

Her glance and voice had that slight suggestion of command in it that comes from having occupied a position of authority.

She might have been directing which tennis sets the girls were to play in.

Miss Brent said stiffly,

Thank you,

Bent her head and entered one of the taxis,

The door of which the driver was holding open.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave followed her.

Captain Lombard said,

I'll wait with Miss.

.

.

Claythorne,

Said Vera.

My name is Lombard,

Philip Lombard.

The porters were piling luggage on the taxi.

Inside,

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said with due legal caution,

Beautiful weather we are having.

Miss Brent said,

Yes,

Indeed.

A very distinguished old gentleman,

She thought to herself,

Quite unlike the usual type of man in seaside guest houses.

Evidently,

Mrs.

Or Miss Oliver had good connections.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave inquired,

Do you know this part of the world well?

I've been to Cornwall and to Torquay,

But this is my first visit to this part of Devon.

The judge said,

I am also unacquainted with this part of the world.

The taxi drove off.

The driver of the second taxi said,

Like to sit inside while you're waiting.

Vera said decisively,

Not at all.

Captain Lombard smiled.

He said,

That sunny wall looks more attractive,

Unless you'd rather go inside the station.

No,

Indeed.

It's so delightful to get out of that stuffy train.

He answered,

Yes,

Travels by train is rather trying in this weather.

Vera said conventionally,

I do hope it lasts.

The weather,

I mean,

Our English summers are so treacherous.

With a slight lack of originality,

Lombard asked,

Do you know this part of the world well?

No,

I've never been here before.

She added quickly,

Conscientiously determined to make her position clear at once.

I haven't even seen my employer yet.

Your employer?

Yes,

I'm Mrs.

Owen's secretary.

Oh,

I see.

Just imperceptibly his manner changed.

It was slightly more assured,

Easier in tone.

He said,

Isn't that rather unusual?

Vera laughed.

Oh,

No,

I don't think so.

Her own secretary was suddenly taken ill,

And she wired to the agency for a substitute,

And they sent me.

So that was it?

And suppose you don't like the post when you've got there?

Vera laughed again.

Oh,

It's only temporary,

A holiday post.

I've got a permanent job at the girls' school.

As a matter of fact,

I'm frightfully thrilled at the prospect of seeing Soldier Island.

There's been such a lot about it in the papers.

Is it really very fascinating?

Lombard said.

I don't know.

I haven't seen it.

Oh,

Really?

The Owens are frightfully keen on it,

I suppose.

What are they like?

Do tell me.

Lombard thought.

Awkward.

This?

Am I supposed to have met them or not?

He said quickly.

There's a wasp crawling up your arm.

No,

Keep quite still.

He made a convincing pounce.

There,

It's gone.

Oh,

Thank you.

There are a lot of wasps about this summer.

Yes,

I suppose it's the heat.

Who are you waiting for,

Do you know?

I haven't the least idea.

The loud drawn out scream of an approaching train was heard.

Lombard said.

That will be the train now.

It was a tall soldierly old man who appeared at the exit from the platform.

His gray hair was clipped close and he had a neatly trimmed white mustache.

His porter,

Staggering slightly under the weight of the solid leather suitcase,

Indicated Vera and Lombard.

Vera came forward in a competent manner.

She said.

I am Mrs.

Owen's secretary.

There is a car here waiting.

She added.

This is Mr.

Lombard.

The faded blue eyes,

Shrewd in spite of their age,

Sized up Lombard.

For a moment,

A judgment showed in them.

Had there been anyone to read it?

Good looking fellow.

Something just a little wrong about him.

The three of them got into the waiting taxi.

They drove through the sleepy streets of Little Oak Bridge and continued about a mile on the main Plymouth Road.

Then they plunged into a maze of cross country lanes,

Steep,

Green and narrow.

General MacArthur said.

Don't know this part of Devon at all.

My little place is in East Devon,

Just on the borderline of Dorset.

Vera said.

It really is lovely here.

The hills and the red earth and everything so green and luscious looking.

Philip Lombard said critically.

It's a bit shut in.

I like open country myself,

Where you can see what's coming.

General MacArthur said to him.

You've seen a bit of the world,

I fancy.

Lombard shrugged his shoulders disparagingly.

I've knocked about here and there,

Sir.

He thought to himself.

He'll ask me now if I was old enough to be in the war.

These old boys always do.

But General MacArthur did not mention the war.

Two They came up over a steep hill and down a zigzag track to Stickle Haven.

A mere cluster of cottages with a fishing boat or two drawn up on the beach.

Illuminated by the setting sun,

They had their first glimpse of Soldier Island,

Jutting up out of the sea to the south.

Vera said,

Surprised.

It's a long way out.

She had pictured it differently.

Close to shore,

Crowned with a beautiful white house.

But there was no house visible,

Only the boldly silhouetted rock with its faint resemblance to a giant head.

There was something sinister about it.

She shivered faintly.

Outside a little inn,

The Seven Stars,

Three people were sitting.

There was the hunched elderly figure of the Judge,

The upright form of Miss Brent,

And a third man,

A big bluff man who came forward and introduced himself.

Thought we might as well wait for you,

He said.

Make one trip of it.

Allow me to introduce myself.

Name's Davis.

Natal,

South Africa's my NATO spot.

He laughed breezily.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave looked at him with active malevolence.

He seemed to be wishing that he could order the court to be cleared.

Miss Emily Brent was clearly not sure if she liked colonials.

Anyone care for a little nip before we embark?

Asked Mr.

Davis hospitably.

Nobody assenting to this proposition,

Mr.

Davis turned and held up a finger.

Mustn't delay then.

Our good host and hostess will be expecting us,

He said.

He might have noticed that a curious constraint came over the other members of the party.

It was as though the mention of their host and hostess had a curiously paralyzing effect upon the guests.

In response to Davis's beckoning finger,

A man detached himself from a nearby wall against which he was leaning and came up to them.

His rolling gait proclaimed him as a man of the sea.

He had a weather-beaten face and dark eyes with a slightly evasive expression.

He spoke in his soft Devon voice.

Will you be ready to be starting for the island,

Ladies and gentlemen?

The boat's waiting.

There's two gentlemen coming by car,

But Mr.

Owen's orders was not to wait for them.

As they might arrive at any time.

The party got up.

Their guide led them along a small stone jetty.

Alongside it,

A motorboat was lying.

Emily Brent said,

That's a very small boat.

The boat's owner said persuasively,

She's a fine boat that,

Ma'am.

You could go to Plymouth in her as easy as winking.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said sharply,

There are a good many of us.

She'd take double the number,

Sir.

Philip Lombard said in his pleasant easy voice,

It's quite all right.

Glorious weather,

No swell.

Rather doubtfully,

Miss Brent permitted herself to be helped into the boat.

The others followed suit.

There was,

As yet,

No fraternization among the party.

It was as though each member of it was puzzled by the other members.

They were just about to cast loose when their guide paused,

Boathook in hand.

Down the steep track into the village,

A car was coming.

A car so fantastically powerful,

So superpretively beautiful,

That it had all the nature of an apparition.

At the wheel sat a young man,

His hair blown back by the wind.

In the gaze of the evening light he looked.

Not a man,

But a young god.

A hero god out of some northern saga.

He touched the horn and a great roar of sound echoed from the rocks of the bay.

It was a fantastic moment.

In it,

Anthony Marston seemed to be something more than mortal.

Afterwards,

More than one of those present remembered that moment.

Three Fred Naricot sat by the engine thinking to himself that this was a queer lot.

Not at all his idea of what Mr.

Owen's guests were likely to be.

He'd expected something altogether more classy.

Togged up women and gentlemen in yachting costume and all very rich and important looking.

Not at all like Mr.

Elmer Robinson's parties.

A faint grin came to Fred Naricot's lips as he remembered the millionaire's guests.

That had been a party if you like,

And the drink they'd got through.

This Mr.

Owen must be a very different sort of gentleman.

Funny it was,

Thought Fred,

That he'd never yet set eyes on Owen or his missus either.

Never been down here yet he hadn't.

Everything ordered and paid for by that Mr.

Morris.

Instructions always very clear and payment prompt,

But it was odd all the same.

The paper said there was some mystery about Owen.

Mr.

Naricot agreed with them.

Perhaps after all it was Miss Gabrielle Turrell who had bought the island.

But that theory departed from him as he surveyed his passengers.

Not this lot.

None of them looked likely to have anything to do with a film star.

He summed them up dispassionately.

One old maid,

The sour kind,

He knew them well enough.

She was a tartar he could beat.

Old military gentleman,

A real army look about him.

Nice looking young lady,

But the ordinary kind,

Not glamorous.

No Hollywood touch about her.

That bluff cherry gent,

He wasn't a real gentleman.

Retired tradesman,

That's what he is,

Thought Fred Naricot.

The other gentleman,

The lean hungry looking gentleman with the quick eyes,

He was a queer one,

He was.

Just possible he might have something to do with the pictures.

No,

There was only one satisfactory passenger in the boat.

The last gentleman,

The one who had arrived in the car.

And what a car.

A car such as,

Had never been seen in Sticklehaven before.

Must have cost hundreds and hundreds,

A car like that.

He was the right kind,

Born to money he was.

If the party had all been like him,

He'd understand it.

Queer business when you came to think of it.

The whole thing was queer,

Very queer.

4.

The boat churned its way around the rock.

Now at least the house came into view.

The south side of the island was quite different.

It shelved gently down into the sea.

The house was there,

Facing south,

Low and square and modern,

Looking with rounded windows,

Letting in all the light.

An exciting house,

A house that lived up to expectation.

Fred Naricot shut off the engine.

They nosed their way gently into a little natural inlet between rocks.

Philip Lombard said sharply,

Must be difficult to land here in dirty weather.

Fred Naricot said cheerfully,

Can't land on Soldier Island when there's a southeasterly.

Sometimes tis cut off for a week or more.

Vera Claythorne thought,

The catering must be very difficult.

That's the worst of an island.

All the domestic problems are so worrying.

The boat grated against the rocks.

Fred Naricot jumped out and he and Lombard helped the others to alight.

Naricot made the boat fast to a rig in the rock.

Then he led the way up the steps cut in the cliff.

General MacArthur said,

Huh,

Delightful spot.

But he felt uneasy.

Damned odd sort of place.

As the party ascended the steps and came out on a terrace above,

Their spirits revived.

In the open doorway of the house,

A correct butler was awaiting them,

And something about his gravity reassured them.

And then the house itself was really most attractive.

The view from the terrace,

Magnificent.

The butler came forward,

Bowing slightly.

He was a tall,

Link man,

Grey-haired and very respectable.

He said,

Will you come this way,

Please?

In the wide hall,

Drinks stood ready,

Rows of bottles.

Anthony Marston's spirits cheered up a little.

He'd just been thinking this was a rum kind of show,

None of his lot.

What could old Badger have been thinking about to let him in for this?

However,

The drinks were all right.

Plenty of ice,

Too.

What was it the butler chap was saying?

Mr.

Owen,

Unfortunately delayed,

Unable to get here till tomorrow.

Instructions,

Everything they wanted.

If they would like to go into their rooms,

Dinner would be at eight o'clock.

5.

Vera had followed Mrs.

Rogers upstairs.

The woman had thrown open a door at the end of a passage,

And Vera had walked into a delightful bedroom,

With a big window that opened wide upon the sea,

And another looking east.

She uttered a quick exclamation of pleasure.

Mrs.

Rogers was saying,

I hope you've got everything you want,

Miss.

Vera looked round.

Her luggage had been brought up and had been unpacked.

At one side of the room,

A door stood open into a pale,

Blue-tiled bathroom.

She said very quickly,

Yes,

Everything,

I think.

You'll ring the bell if you want anything,

Miss.

Mrs.

Rogers had a flat,

Monotonous voice.

Vera looked at her curiously.

What a white,

Bloodless ghost of a woman,

Very respectable looking,

With her hair dragged back from her face and her black dress.

Queer light eyes that shifted the whole time from place to place.

Vera thought,

She looks frightened of her own shadow.

Yes,

That was it,

Frightened.

She looked like a woman who walked into mortal fear.

A little shiver passed down Vera's back.

What on earth was the woman afraid of?

She said pleasantly,

I'm Mrs.

Owens' new secretary,

I expect you know that.

Mrs.

Rogers said,

No miss,

I don't know anything,

Just a list of ladies and gentlemen and what rooms they were to have.

Vera said,

Mrs.

Owens didn't mention me.

Mrs.

Rogers' eyelashes flickered.

I haven't seen Mrs.

Owens,

Not yet,

We only came here two days ago.

Extraordinary people,

These Owens,

Thought Vera.

Aloud she said,

What staff is there here?

Just me and Rogers,

Miss.

Vera frowned.

Eight people in the house,

Ten with the host and hostess,

And only one married couple to do for them.

Mrs.

Rogers said,

I'm a good cook and Rogers is handy about the house.

I didn't know,

Of course,

That there was to be such a large party.

Vera said,

But you can manage.

Oh yes,

Miss,

I can manage.

If there's to be large parties,

Often perhaps Mrs.

Owens could get extra help in.

Vera said,

I expect so.

Mrs.

Rogers turned to go.

Her feet moved noisily over the ground.

She drifted from the room like a shadow.

Vera went over to the window and sat down on the window seat.

She was faintly disturbed.

Everything,

Somehow,

Was a little queer.

The absence of the Owens,

The pale ghost-like Mrs.

Rogers,

And the guests.

Yes,

The guests were queer too.

An oddly assorted party.

Vera thought,

I wish I'd seen the Owens.

I wish I knew what they were like.

She got up and walked restlessly about the room.

A perfect bedroom,

Decorated throughout in the modern style.

Off-white rugs on the gleaming parquet floor,

Faintly tinted walls,

A long mirror surrounded by lights,

A mantelpiece bare of ornaments save for an enormous block of white marble shaped like a bear,

A piece of modern sculpture in which was inset a clock.

Over it,

In a gleaming chromium frame,

Was a big square of parchment.

A poem.

She stood at the front of the fireplace and read it.

It was the old nursery rhyme that she remembered from her childhood days.

Ten little soldier boys went out to dine.

One choked his little self and then there were nine.

Nine little soldier boys sat up very late.

One overslept himself and then there were eight.

Eight little soldier boys traveling in Devon.

One said he'd stay there and then there were seven.

Seven little soldier boys chopping up sticks.

One chopped himself in halves and then there were six.

Six little soldier boys playing with a hive.

A bumblebee stung one and then there were five.

Five little soldier boys going in for lull.

One got in chancery and then there were four.

Four little soldier boys going out to sea.

A red herring swallowed one and then there were three.

Three little soldier boys walking in the zoo.

A bear hugged one and then there were two.

Two little soldier boys sitting in the sun.

One got frizzled up and then there was one.

One little soldier boy left all alone.

He went and hanged himself and then there were none.

Vera smiled.

Of course,

This was Soldier Island.

She went and sat again by the window looking out to sea.

How big the sea was.

From here there was no land to be seen anywhere,

Just a vast expanse of blue water rippling in the evening sun.

The sea,

So peaceful today.

Sometimes so cruel.

The sea that dragged you down into its depths.

Drowned,

Found drowned,

Drowned at sea,

Drowned,

Drowned,

Drowned.

No,

She wouldn't remember.

She would not think of it.

All that was over.

Six.

Dr.

Armstrong came to Soldier Island just as the sun was sinking into the sea.

On the way across,

He had chatted to the boatman,

A local man.

He was anxious to find out a little about these people who owned Soldier Island.

But the man Narragot seemed curiously ill-formed,

Or perhaps unwilling to talk.

So,

Dr.

Armstrong chatted instead of the weather and of fishing.

He was tired after his long motor drive.

His eyeballs ached.

Driving west,

You were driving against the sun.

Yes,

He was very tired.

The sea and perfect peace.

That was what he needed.

He would like,

Really,

To take a long holiday.

But he could afford it,

Financially,

Of course.

But he couldn't afford to drop out.

You are soon forgotten nowadays.

No,

Now that he had arrived,

He must keep his nose to the grindstone.

He thought,

All the same,

This evening,

I'll imagine to myself that I'm not going back.

That I've done with London and Harley Street,

And all the rest of it.

There was something magical about an island.

The mere word suggested fantasy.

You lost touch with the world.

An island was a world of its own.

A world,

Perhaps,

From which you might never return.

He thought,

I'm leaving my ordinary life behind me.

And smiling to himself,

He began to make plans.

Fantastic plans of the future.

He was still smiling when he walked up to the rock-cut steps.

In a chair on the terrace,

An old gentleman was sitting,

And the sight of him was vaguely familiar to Dr.

Armstrong.

Where had he seen that frog-like face,

That tortoise-like neck,

That hunched-up attitude?

Yes,

In those pale,

Shrewd little eyes.

Of course,

Old Wargrave.

He'd given evidence once before him,

Always looked half-asleep,

But was shrewd as could be when it came to a point of law.

He had great power with a jury.

It was said he could make up their minds for them any day of the week.

He'd got one or two unlikely convictions out of them.

A hanging judge,

Some people said.

Funny place to meet him.

Here,

Out of the world.

7.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave thought to himself.

Armstrong?

Remember him in the witness box.

Very correct and cautious.

All doctors are damned fools.

Harley Street ones are the worst of the lot.

And his mind dwelt malevolently on a recent interview he had had with the suave personage in that very street.

Aloud he grunted,

Drinks are in the hall.

Dr.

Armstrong said,

I must go and pay my respects to my host and hostess.

Justice Wargrave closed his eyes again,

Looking decidedly reptilian,

And said,

You can't do that.

Dr.

Armstrong was startled.

Why not?

The judge said,

No host and hostess.

Very curious state of affairs.

Don't understand this place.

Dr.

Armstrong stared at him for a minute.

When he thought the old gentleman had actually gone to sleep,

Wargrave said suddenly,

Do you know Constance Comington?

Er,

No,

I'm afraid I don't.

It's of no consequence,

Said the judge.

Very vague woman and practically unreadable handwriting.

I was just wondering if I'd come to the wrong house.

Dr.

Armstrong shook his head and went on up to the house.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave reflected on the subject of Constance Comington.

Undependable,

Like all women.

His mind went on to the two women in the house,

The tight-lipped old maid and the girl.

He didn't care for the girl,

Cold-blooded young hussy.

No,

Three women,

If you counted the Rogers woman.

Odd creature.

She looked scared to death,

Respectable pair and knew their job.

Rogers coming out on the terrace that minute,

The judge asked him,

Is Lady Constance Comington expected?

Do you know?

Rogers stared at him.

No,

Sir,

Not to my knowledge.

The judge's eyebrows rose,

But he only grunted.

He thought,

Soldier Island,

Eh?

There's a fly in the ornament.

Eight Anthony Marston was in his bath.

He luxuriated in the steaming water.

His limbs had felt cramped after his long drive.

Very few thoughts passed through his mind.

Anthony was a creature of sensation and of action.

He thought to himself,

Must I go through with it?

I suppose.

And thereafter dismissed everything from his mind.

Warm steaming water,

Tired limbs,

Presently a shave,

A cocktail dinner,

And after.

.

.

Nine Mr.

Bloor was tying his tie.

He wasn't very good at this sort of thing.

Did he look alright?

He supposed so.

Nobody had been exactly cordial to him.

Funny the way they all eyed each other,

As though they.

.

.

Knew.

Well,

It was up to him.

He didn't mean to bungle his job.

He glanced up at the framed nursery rhyme over the mantelpiece.

Neat touch,

Having that there.

He thought,

Remember this island when I was a kid?

Never thought I'd be doing this sort of a job in a house here.

Good thing,

Perhaps,

That one can't foresee the future.

Ten General MacArthur was frowning to himself.

Damn it all,

The whole thing was juiced odd.

Not at all what he'd been led to expect.

For two pens he'd made an excuse and get away.

Throw up the whole business.

But the motorboat had gone back to the mainland.

He'd have to stay.

That fellow Lombard,

Now he was a queer chap.

Not straight.

He'd swear the man wasn't straight.

Eleven As the gong sounded,

Philip Lombard came out of his room and walked to the head of the stairs.

He moved like a panther,

Smoothly and noiselessly.

There was something of the panther about him altogether.

A beast of prey,

Pleasant to the eye.

He was smiling to himself.

A week,

Eh?

He was going to enjoy that week.

Twelve In her bedroom,

Emily Brent,

Dressed in black silk,

Ready for dinner,

Was reading her bible.

Her lips moved as she followed the words.

The heathen are sunk down in the pit that they made.

In the net which they hid is their own foot taken.

The Lord is known by the judgment which he executeth.

The wicked is snared in the work of his own hands.

The wicked shall be turned into hell.

Her lips tight closed,

She shut the bible.

Rising,

She pinned a cairngorn brooch to her neck and went down to dinner.

That concludes chapter two.

Chapter Three One Dinner was drawing to a close.

The food had been good,

The wine perfect.

Rogers waited well.

Everyone was in better spirits.

They had begun to talk to each other with more freedom and intimacy.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave,

Mellowed by the excellent port,

Was being amusing in a caustic fashion.

Dr.

Armstrong and Tony Marston were listening to him.

Miss Brent chatted to General MacArthur.

They had discovered some mutual friends.

Vera Claythorne was asking Mr.

Davis intelligent questions about South Africa.

Mr.

Davis was quite fluent on the subject.

Lombard listened to the conversation.

Once or twice he looked up quickly and his eyes narrowed.

Now and then his eyes played round the table,

Studying the others.

Anthony Marston said suddenly,

Quaint these things,

Aren't they?

In the center of the round table on a circular glass stand were some little china figures.

Soldiers,

Said Tony.

Soldier Island,

I suppose that's the idea.

Vera leaned forward.

I wonder how many there are.

Ten?

Yes,

Ten there are.

Vera cried.

What fun.

They're the ten little soldier boys of the nursery rhyme,

I suppose.

In my bedroom the rhyme is framed and hung up over the mantelpiece.

Lombard said,

In my room too.

And mine,

And mine.

Everybody joined in the chorus.

Vera said,

It's an amusing idea,

Isn't it?

Mr.

Justice Wargrave grunted,

Remarkably childish,

And helped himself to port.

Emily Brent looked at Vera Claythorne.

Vera Claythorne looked at Miss Brent.

The two women rose.

In the drawing room the French windows were open onto the terrace,

And the sound of the sea murmuring against the rocks came up to them.

Emily Brent said,

Pleasant sound.

Vera said sharply,

I hate it.

Miss Brent's eyes looked at her in surprise.

Vera flushed.

She said,

More composedly,

I don't think this place would be very agreeable in a storm.

Emily Brent agreed.

I've no doubt the house is shut up in winter,

She said.

You'd never get servants to stay here,

For one thing.

Vera murmured,

It must be difficult to get servants anyway.

Emily Brent said,

Miss Oliver's been lucky to get these two.

The woman's a cook.

Vera thought,

Funny how elderly people always get names wrong.

She said,

Yes,

I think Miss Owen had been very lucky indeed.

Emily Brent had brought a small piece of embroidery out of her bag.

Now,

As she was about to thread her needle,

She paused.

She said sharply,

Owen,

Did you say Owen?

Yes,

Emily Brent said sharply.

I've never met anyone called Owen in my life.

Vera stared,

But surely,

She did not finish her sentence.

The door opened and the men joined them.

Rogers followed them into the room with the coffee tray.

The judge came and sat down by Emily Brent.

Armstrong came up to Vera.

Tony Marston strolled to the open window.

Blore studied with naive surprise a statuette in brass,

Wondering perhaps if its bizarre angularities were really supposed to be the female figure.

General MacArthur stood with his back to the mantelpiece.

He pulled at his little white mustache.

That had been a damned good dinner.

His spirits were rising.

Lombard turned over the pages of punch that lay with other papers on a table by the wall.

Rogers went round with the coffee tray.

The coffee was good,

Really black and very hot.

The whole party had dined well.

They were satisfied with themselves and with life.

The hands of the clock pointed to twenty minutes past nine.

There was a silence,

A comfortable,

Replete silence.

Into that silence came the voice,

Without warning,

Inhuman,

Penetrating.

Ladies and gentlemen,

Silence please.

Everyone was startled.

They looked round at each other at the walls.

Who was speaking?

The voice went on in a high,

Clear voice.

You are charged with the following indictments.

Edward George Armstrong,

That you did upon the 14th day of March,

1925,

Caused the death of Louisa Mary Cleese.

Emily Caroline Brent,

That upon the 5th of November,

1931,

You were responsible for the death of Beatrice Taylor.

William Henry Bloor,

That you brought about the death of James Stephen Landor on October 10th,

1928.

Vera Elizabeth Claythorne,

That on the 11th day of August,

1935,

You killed Cyril Ogilvie Hamilton.

Philip Lombard,

That upon a date in February,

1932,

You were guilty of the death of twenty-one men,

Members of an East African tribe.

John Gordon MacArthur,

That on the 4th day of September,

1917,

You deliberately sent your wife's lover,

Arthur Richmond,

To his death.

Anthony James Marston,

That upon the 14th day of November last,

You were guilty of murder of John and Lucy Combs.

Thomas Roger and Ethel Rogers,

That on the 6th day of May,

1929,

You brought about the death of Jennifer Brady.

Lawrence John Wargrave,

That upon the 10th day of June,

1930,

You were guilty of murder of Edward Setton.

Prisoners at the bar,

Have you anything to say in your defense?

Two.

The voice had stopped.

There was a moment's petrified silence,

And then a resounding crash.

Rogers had dropped the coffee tray.

At the same moment,

From somewhere outside the room,

There came a scream and the sound of a thud.

Lombard was the first to move.

He leapt to the door and flung it open.

Outside,

Lying in a huddled mass,

Was Mrs.

Rogers.

Lombard called,

Marston.

Anthony sprang to help him.

Between them,

They lifted the woman and carried her into the drawing room.

Dr.

Armstrong came across quickly.

He helped them to lift her on the sofa and bent her over.

He said quickly,

It's nothing.

She fainted,

That's all.

She'll be round in a minute.

Lombard said to Rogers,

Get some brandy.

Rogers,

His white face,

His hand shaking,

Murmured.

Yes,

Sir.

And slipped quickly out of the room.

Vera cried out.

Who was that speaking?

Where was he?

It sounded.

It sounded.

General MacArthur spluttered out.

What's going on here?

What kind of practical joke was that?

His hand was shaking.

His shoulders sagged.

He looked suddenly ten years older.

Bloor was mopping his face with his handkerchief.

Only Mr.

Justice Wargrave and Miss Brent seemed comparatively unmoved.

Emily Brent sat upright,

Her head held high.

In both cheeks was a spot of hard color.

The judge sat in his habitual pose,

His head sunk down into his neck.

With one hand,

He gently scratched his ear.

Only his eyes were active,

Darting round and round the room,

Puzzled,

Alert with intelligence.

Again it was Lombard who acted,

Armstrong being busy with the collapsed woman.

Lombard was free once more to take the initiative.

He said.

That voice,

It sounded as though it were in the room.

Vera cried.

Who was that?

Who was that?

It wasn't one of us.

Like the judge,

Lombard's eyes wandered slowly round the room.

They rested a minute at the open window,

Then he shook his head decisively.

Suddenly,

His eyes lighted up.

He moved forward swiftly to where a door near the fireplace led into an adjoining room.

With a swift gesture,

He caught the handle and flung the door open.

He passed through and immediately uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.

He said.

Ah,

Here we are.

The others crowded after him.

Only Miss Print remained alone,

Sitting erect in her chair.

Inside the second room,

A table had been brought up close to the wall which adjoined the drawing room.

On the table was a gramophone,

An old-fashioned type with a large trumpet attached.

The mouth of the trumpet was against the wall,

And Lombard,

Pushing it aside,

Indicated where two or three small holes had been unobtrusively bored through the wall.

Adjusting the gramophone,

He replaced the needle on the record,

And immediately they heard again.

You are charged with the following indictments.

Vera cried.

Turn it off.

Turn it off.

It's horrible.

Lombard obeyed.

Dr.

Armstrong said,

With a sigh of relief.

A disgraceful and heartless practical joke,

I suppose.

The small,

Clear voice of Mr.

Justice Wargrave murmured.

So you think it's a joke,

Do you?

The doctor stared at him.

What else could it be?

The hand of the judge gently stroked his upper lip.

He said,

At the moment,

I'm not prepared to give an opinion.

Anthony Marston broke in.

He said,

Look here,

There's one thing you've forgotten.

Who the devil turned the thing on,

And what set it going?

Wargrave murmured.

Yes,

I think we must inquire into that.

He led the way back into the drawing room.

The others followed.

Rogers had just come in with a glass of brandy.

Miss Brent was bending over the moaning form of Mrs.

Rogers.

Adroitly,

Rogers slipped between the two men.

Allow me,

Madam.

I'll speak to her.

Ethel,

Ethel,

It's all right.

All right.

Do you hear?

Pull yourself together.

Mrs.

Rogers' breath came in quick gasps.

Her eyes,

Staring frightened eyes,

Went round and round the ring of faces.

There was urgency in Rogers' tone.

Pull yourself together,

Ethel.

Dr.

Armstrong spoke to her soothingly.

You'll be all right now,

Mrs.

Rogers.

Just a nasty turn.

She said,

Did I faint,

Sir?

Yes,

It was the voice,

That awful voice,

Like a judgment.

Her face turned green again.

Her eyelids fluttered.

Dr.

Armstrong said sharply,

Where's the brandy?

Rogers had put it down on a little table.

Someone handed it to the doctor,

And he bent over the grasping woman with it.

Drink this,

Mrs.

Rogers.

She drank,

Choking a little and gasping.

The spirit did her good.

The color returned to her face.

She said,

I'm all right now.

It just gave me a turn.

Rogers said quickly.

Of course it did.

It gave me a turn too.

Fair made me drop that tray.

Wicked lies it was.

I'd like to know.

He was interrupted.

It was only a cough,

A dry little cough,

But it had the effect of stopping him in full cry.

He stared at Mr.

Justice Wargrave,

And the latter coughed again.

Then he said,

Who put that record on the gramophone?

Was it you,

Rogers?

Rogers cried.

I didn't know what it was.

Before God,

I didn't know what it was,

Sir.

If I had,

I'd never done it.

The judge said dryly,

That is probably true,

But I think you'd better explain,

Rogers.

The butler wiped his face with his handkerchief.

He said earnestly,

I was just obeying orders,

Sir.

That's all.

Whose orders?

Mr.

Owens.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said,

Let me get this quite clear.

Mr.

Owens' orders were they?

What exactly?

Rogers said,

I was to put a record on the gramophone.

I'd find the record in the drawer,

And my wife was to start the gramophone when I'd gone into the drawing room with the coffee tray.

The judge murmured,

A very remarkable story.

Rogers cried,

It's the truth,

Sir.

I swear to God it's the truth.

I didn't know what it was.

Not for a moment.

It had a name on it.

I thought it was just a piece of music.

Wargrave looked at Lombard.

Was there a title on it?

Lombard nodded.

He grinned suddenly,

Showed his white pointed teeth.

He said,

Quite right,

Sir.

It was entitled Swan Song.

General MacArthur broke out suddenly.

He exclaimed,

The whole thing is preposterous.

Preposterous.

Slinging accusations about like this.

Something must be done about it.

This fellow Owen,

Whoever he is.

Emily Brent interrupted.

She said sharply,

That's just it.

Who is he?

The judge interposed.

He spoke with the authority that a lifetime in the courts had given him.

He said,

That is exactly what we must go into very carefully.

It should suggest that you get your wife to bed first of all,

Rogers,

Then come back here.

Yes,

Sir.

Dr.

Armstrong said.

I'll give you a hand,

Rogers.

Leaning on the two men,

Mrs.

Rogers tottered out of the room.

When they had gone,

Tony Marston said,

Don't know about you,

Sir,

But I could do with a drink.

Lombard said,

I agree.

Tony said,

I'll go and forage.

He went out of the room.

He returned a second or two later.

Found them all waiting on a tray outside,

Ready to be brought in.

He set down his burden carefully.

The next minute or two was spent in dispensing drinks.

General MacArthur had a stiff whiskey,

And so did the judge.

Everyone felt the need of a stimulant.

Only Emily Brent demanded and obtained a glass of water.

Dr.

Armstrong re-entered the room.

She's all right,

He said.

I've given her a sedative to take.

What's that,

A drink?

I could do with one.

Several of the men refilled their glasses.

A moment or two later,

Rogers re-entered the room.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave took charge of the proceedings.

The room became an impromptu court of law.

The judge said,

Now then,

Rogers,

We must get to the bottom of this.

Who is this Mr.

Owen?

Rogers stared.

He owns the place,

Sir.

I am aware of that fact.

What I want you to tell me is what you yourself know about the man.

Rogers shook his head.

I can't see,

Sir.

You see,

I've never seen him.

There was a faint stir in the room.

General MacArthur said,

You've never seen him?

What do you mean?

We've only been here just under a week,

Sir,

My wife and I.

We were engaged by letter,

Through an agency,

The Regina Agency in Plymouth.

Blore nodded.

Old established firm,

He volunteered.

Wargrave said,

Have you got that letter?

The letter engaging us?

No,

Sir.

I didn't keep it.

Go on with your story.

You were engaged,

As you say,

By letter?

Yes,

Sir.

We were to arrive on a certain day.

We did.

Everything was in order here.

Plenty of food and stock,

And everything was very nice.

Just needed dusting and that.

What next?

Nothing,

Sir.

We got orders,

By letter again,

To prepare the rooms for a house party.

And then yesterday,

By the afternoon post,

I got another letter from Mr.

Owen,

And it said he and Mrs.

Owen were detained,

And to do the best we could.

And it gave the instructions about dinner and coffee and putting on the gramophone record.

The judge said sharply,

Surely you've got that letter?

Yes,

Sir.

I've got it here.

He produced it from his pocket.

The judge took it.

Hmm,

He said.

Headed Ritz Hotel and typewritten.

With a quick movement,

Bloor was beside him.

He said,

If you'll just let me take a look.

He twisted out of the other's hand and ran his eye over it.

He murmured,

Coronation machine.

Quite new.

No defects.

Insigned paper.

The most widely used to make.

You won't get anything out of that.

Might be fingerprints,

But I doubt it.

Wargrave stared at him with sudden attention.

Anthony Marston was standing beside Bloor,

Looking over his shoulder.

He said,

Got some fancy Christian names,

Hasn't he?

Eulach Norman Owen.

Quite a mouthful.

The old judge said with a slight start,

I'm obliged to you,

Mr Marston.

You have drawn my attention to a curious and suggestive point.

He looked around at the others and thrusting his neck forward like an angry tortoise.

He said,

I think the time has come for us to pull our information.

It would be well,

I think,

For everybody to come forward with all the information they have regarding the owner of this house.

He paused and then went on.

We are all his guests.

I think it would be profitable if each one of us were to explain exactly how that came about.

There was a moment's pause and then Emily Brent spoke with decision.

There's something very peculiar about all this.

She said,

I received a letter with a signature that was not easy to read.

It purported to be from a woman I had met at a certain summer resort two or three years ago.

I took the name to be either Ogden or Oliver.

I am acquainted with a Mrs.

Oliver and also with a Miss Ogden.

I am quite certain that I have never met or become friendly with anyone of the name of Owen.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said,

You have that letter,

Miss Brent?

Yes,

I will fetch it for you.

She went away and returned a minute later with a letter.

The judge read it.

He said,

I begin to understand.

Miss Claythorne?

Vera explained the circumstances of her secretarial engagement.

The judge said,

Marston?

Anthony said,

Got a wire from a pal of mine,

Badger Berkeley.

Surprised me at the time because I had an idea the old horse had gone to Norway.

Told me to roll up here.

Again,

Wargrave nodded.

He said,

Dr.

Armstrong?

I was called in professionally.

I see.

You have no previous acquaintance with the family?

No.

A colleague of mine was mentioned in the letter.

The judge said,

To give verisimilitude.

Yes.

And that colleague,

I presume,

Was momentarily out of touch with you?

Well,

Er,

Yes.

Lombard,

Who had been staring at Bloor,

Said suddenly,

Look here,

I've just thought of something.

The judge lifted a hand.

In a minute.

But I.

.

.

We will take one thing at a time,

Mr.

Lombard.

We are,

At present,

Inquiring into the causes which have resulted in our being assembled here tonight.

General MacArthur,

Pulling at his mustache,

The general muttered,

Got a letter from this fellow Owen.

Mentioned something old pals of mine who were to be here.

Hoped I'd excuse informal invitation.

Haven't kept a letter,

I'm afraid.

Wargrave said,

Mr.

Lombard.

Lombard's brain had been active.

Was he to come out in the open,

Or not?

He made up his mind.

Same sort of thing,

He said.

Invitation,

Mention of mutual friends.

I fell for it,

All right.

I've torn up the letter.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave turned his attention to Mr.

Bloor.

His forefinger stroked his upper lip,

And his voice was dangerously polite.

He said,

Just now,

We had a somewhat disturbing experience.

An apparently disembodied voice spoke to us all by name,

Uttering certain precise accusations against us.

We would deal with those accusations presently.

At the moment,

I am interested in a minor point.

Amongst the names recited was that of William Henry Bloor,

But as far as we know,

There is no one named Bloor amongst us.

The name of Davis was not mentioned.

What have you to say about that,

Mr.

Davis?

Bloor sank sulkily.

Cat's out of the bag,

It seems.

I suppose I'd better admit that my name isn't Davis.

You are William Henry Bloor?

That's right.

I will add something,

Said Lombard.

Not only here are you under a false name,

Mr.

Bloor,

But in addition,

I've noticed this evening that you're a first-class liar.

You claim to have come from Natal,

South Africa.

I know South Africa and Natal,

And I am prepared to swear that you've never set foot in South Africa in your life.

All eyes turned on Bloor.

Angry,

Suspicious eyes.

Anthony Marston moved a step nearer to him.

His fists clenched themselves.

Now then,

You swine,

He said.

In the explanation,

Bloor flung back his head and set his square jaw.

You gentlemen have got me wrong,

He said.

I've got my credentials,

And you can see them.

I'm an ex-CID man.

I run a detective agency in Plymouth.

I was put on this job,

Mr.

Justice Wargrave asked.

By whom?

This man,

Owen,

Enclosed a handsome money order for expenses and instructed me as to what he wanted done.

I was to join the house party,

Posing as a guest.

I was given all your names.

I was to watch you all.

Any given reason?

Bloor said bitterly.

Mrs.

Owen's jewels.

Mrs.

Owen,

My foot.

I don't believe there's any such person.

Again,

The forefinger of the judge stroked his lip,

This time appreciatively.

Your conclusions are,

I think,

Justified,

He said.

Eulach Norman Owen.

In Miss Brent's letter,

Though the signature of the surname was a mere scrawl,

The Christian names are reasonably clear.

Una Nancy.

In either case,

You notice the same initials.

Eulach Norman Owen.

Una Nancy Owen.

Each time,

That is to say,

U.

N.

Owen.

Or,

By a slight stretch of fancy,

Unknown.

Vera cried.

But this is fantastic.

Mad.

The judge nodded gently.

He said,

Oh yes,

I've no doubt in my mind that we have been invited here by a madman.

Probably a dangerous homicidal lunatic.

That concludes Chapter 3.

Chapter 4.

1.

There was a moment's silence.

A silence of dismay and bewilderment.

Then the judge's small clear voice took up the thread once more.

We will now proceed to the next stage of our inquiry.

First,

However,

I would just add my own credentials to the list.

He took a letter from his pocket and tossed it on the table.

This purports to be from an old friend of mine,

Lady Constance Colmington.

I've not seen her for years now.

She went to the East.

It is exactly the kind of vague and coherent letter she would write,

Urging me to join her here,

And referring her to the host and hostess in the vaguest of terms.

The same technique you will observe.

I only mention it because it agrees with the other evidence,

From all of which emerges one interesting point.

Whoever it was who enticed us here,

That person knows or has taken the trouble to find out a good deal about us all.

He,

Whoever he may be,

Is aware of my friendship for Lady Constance and is familiar with her epistolary style.

He knows something about Dr.

Armstrong's colleagues and their present whereabouts.

He knows the nickname of Mr.

Marston's friend and the kind of telegrams he sends.

He knows exactly where Miss Brent was two years ago for her holiday and the kind of people she met there.

He knows all about General MacArthur's old cronies.

He paused.

Then he said,

He knows,

You see,

A good deal,

And out of his knowledge concerning us,

He has made certain definitive accusations.

Immediately a babble broke out.

General MacArthur shouted,

A pack of damn lies,

Slander.

Vera cried out,

It's inquisitive.

Her breath came fast.

Wicked.

Rogers said hoarsely,

A lie,

A wicked lie.

We never did,

Neither of us.

Anthony Marston growled,

Don't know what the damned fool was getting at.

The unpraised hand of Mr.

Justice Wargrave calmed the tumult.

He said,

Picking his words with care,

I wish to say this.

Our unknown friend accuses me of murder of one Edward Setton.

I remember Setton perfectly well.

He came up before me for trial in June of the year 1930.

He was charged with the murder of an elderly woman.

He was very ably defended and made a good impression on the jury in the witness box.

Nevertheless,

On the evidence,

He was certainly guilty.

I summed up accordingly and the jury brought in a verdict of guilty.

In passing sentence of death,

I concurred with the verdict.

An appeal was lodged on the grounds of misdirection.

The appeal was rejected and the man was duly executed.

I wish to say before you all that my conscience is perfectly clear on the matter.

I did my duty and nothing more.

I pass sentence on a rightly convicted murderer.

Armstrong was remembering now the Setton case.

The verdict had come as a great surprise.

He had met Matthews,

KC on one of the days of the trial,

Dining at a restaurant.

Matthews had been confident,

Not a doubt of the verdict,

Acquittal practically certain.

And then,

Afterwards,

He had heard comments.

Judge was dead against him.

Turned the jury right round and they brought him in guilty.

Quite legal though.

Old Wargrave knows his law.

And it was almost as though he had a private down on the fellow.

All these memories rushed through the doctor's mind.

Before he could consider the wisdom of the question,

He had asked impulsively,

Did you know Setton at all?

I mean,

Previous to the case?

The hooded reptilian eyes met his.

In a clear cold voice,

The judge said,

I knew nothing of Setton previous to the case.

Armstrong said to himself,

The fellow's lying.

I know he's lying.

Vera Claythorne spoke in a trembling voice.

She said,

I'd like to tell you about that child,

Cyril Hamilton.

I was nursery governess to him.

He was forbidden to swim out that far.

One day,

When my attention was distracted,

He started off.

I swam after him.

I couldn't get there in time.

It was awful,

But it was my fault.

At the inquest,

The coroner exonerated me.

And his mother,

She was so kind.

If even she didn't blame me,

Why should this awful thing be said?

It's not fair.

Not fair.

She broke down,

Weeping bitterly.

General MacArthur patted her shoulder.

He said,

There,

There,

My dear.

Of course it's not true.

Fellow's a madman.

A madman.

Gotta be in his bonnet.

Got hold of the wrong end of the stick all round.

He stood erect,

Squaring his shoulders.

He barked out.

Best really to leave this sort of thing unanswered.

However,

Feel I ought to say no truth.

No truth whatever in what he said about her young Arthur Richmond.

Richmond was one of my officers.

I sent him on a reconnaissance.

He was killed.

Natural course of events in wartime.

Wish to say resent very much.

Slurrah my wife.

Best woman in the world.

Absolutely Caesar's wife.

General MacArthur sat down.

His shaking hand pulled at his mustache.

The effort to speak had cost him a good deal.

Lombard spoke.

His eyes were amused.

He said,

About those natives.

Marston said,

What about them?

Philip Lombard grinned.

Story's quite true.

I left them.

Matter of self-preservation.

We were lost in the bush.

I and a couple of other fellows took what food there was and cleared out.

General MacArthur said sternly,

You abandon your men,

Left them to starve?

Lombard said,

Not quite the act of a puka sahib,

I'm afraid.

But self-preservation's a man's first duty.

And natives don't mind dying.

You know,

They don't feel about it as Europeans do.

Vera lifted her face from her hands.

She said,

Staring at him,

You left them to die?

Lombard answered,

I left them to die.

His amused eyes looked into her horrified ones.

Anthony Marston said,

In a slow,

Puzzled voice,

I've just been thinking.

John and Lucy Combs.

Must have been a couple of kids I ran over near Cambridge.

Beastly bad luck.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said acidly,

For them or for you?

Anthony said,

Well,

I was thinking for me.

But of course,

You're right,

Sir.

It was damned bad luck on them.

Of course it was a pure accident that rushed out of some cottage or other.

I had my license suspended for a year.

Beastly nuisance.

Dr.

Armstrong said warmly,

This beating's all wrong.

All wrong.

Young men like you are a danger to the community.

Anthony shrugged his shoulders.

He said,

Speeds come to stay.

English roads are hopeless,

Of course.

Can't get up a decent pace on them.

He looked around vaguely for his glass,

Picked it up off a table and went over to the side table and helped himself to another whiskey and soda.

He said over his shoulder,

Well,

Anyway,

It wasn't my fault.

Just an accident.

Three.

The manservant,

Rogers,

Had been moistening his lips and twisting his hands.

He said now,

In a low,

Differential voice,

If I might just say a word,

Sir.

Lombard said,

Go ahead,

Rogers.

Rogers cleared his throat and passed his tongue once more over his dry lips.

There was a mention,

Sir,

Of me and Mrs.

Rogers,

And of Miss Brady.

There isn't a word of truth in it,

Sir.

My wife and I were with Miss Brady till she died.

She was always in poor health,

Sir,

Always from the time we came to her.

There was a storm,

Sir,

That night,

The night she was taken bad.

The telephone was out of order.

We couldn't get the doctor to her.

I went for him,

Sir,

On foot,

But he got there too late.

We'd done everything possible for her,

Sir.

Devoted to her we were.

Anyone would tell you the same.

There was never a word said against us.

Not a word.

Lombard looked thoughtfully at the mans twitching face,

His dry lips,

The fright in his eyes.

He remembered the crash of the fallen coffee tray.

He thought,

But he did not say.

Oh,

Yeah.

Blore spoke,

Spoke in his hearty,

Bullying,

Official manner.

He said,

Came into a little something at her death,

Though,

Eh?

Rogers drew himself up.

He said stiffly,

Miss Brady gave us a legacy and recognition of our faithful services,

And why not?

I'd like to know.

Lombard said,

What about yourself,

Mr.

Blore?

What about me?

Your name was included in the list.

Blore went purple.

Landor,

You mean.

That was the bank robbery.

London and commercial.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave stirred.

He said,

I remember.

It didn't come before me,

But I remember the case.

Landor was convicted on your evidence.

You were the police officer in charge of the case,

Blore said.

I was.

Landor got penal servitude for life and died on Dartmoor a year later.

He was a delicate man,

Blore said.

He was a crook.

It was he who knocked out the night watchman.

The case was quite clear against him,

Wargrave said slowly.

You were complimented,

I think,

On your able handling of the case,

Blore said sulkily.

I got my promotion,

He added in a thick voice.

I was only doing my duty.

Lombard laughed a sudden ringing laugh.

He said,

What a duty-loving law-abiding law we all seem to be.

Myself accepted.

What about you,

Doctor,

And your little professional mistake?

Illegal operation,

Was it?

Emily Brent glanced at him in sharp distaste and drew herself away a little.

Dr.

Armstrong,

Very much master of himself,

Shook his head good humoredly.

I'm at a loss to understand the matter,

He said.

The name meant nothing to me when it was spoken.

What was it?

Cleese?

Close?

I really can't remember having a patient of that name,

Or being connected with a death in any way.

The thing's a complete mystery to me.

Of course,

It's a long time ago.

It might possibly be one of my operation cases in a hospital.

They come too late,

So many of these people.

Then,

When the patient dies,

They always consider it's the surgeon's fault.

He sighed,

Shaking his head.

He thought.

Drunk,

That's what it was.

Drunk,

And I operated.

Nerves all to pieces,

Hands shaking.

I killed her alright.

Poor devil,

Elderly woman.

Simple job if I'd been sober.

Lucky for me,

There's loyalty in our profession.

The sister knew,

Of course,

But she held her tongue.

God,

It gave me a shock.

Pulled me up.

But who could have known about it,

After all these years?

4.

There was a silence in the room.

Everybody was looking,

Covertly or openly,

At Emily Brent.

It was a minute or two before she came aware of the expectation.

Her eyebrows rose on her narrow forehead.

She said,

Are you waiting for me to say something?

I have nothing to say.

The judge said,

Nothing,

Miss Brent?

Nothing.

Her lips closed tightly.

The judge stroked his face.

He said,

Mildly.

You reserve your defense,

Miss Brent said coldly.

There is no question of defense.

I have always acted in accordance with the dictates of my conscience.

I have nothing with which to reproach myself.

There was an unsatisfied feeling in the air.

But Emily Brent was not one to be swayed by public opinion.

She sat,

Unyielding.

The judge cleared his throat once or twice.

Then he said,

Our inquiry rests there.

Now,

Rogers,

Who else is there on this island besides ourselves and you and your wife?

Nobody,

Sir.

Nobody at all.

You're sure of that?

Quite sure,

Sir.

Wargrove said,

I am not yet clear of the purpose of our unknown host in getting us to assemble here.

But in my opinion,

This person,

Whoever he may be,

Is not sane in the accepted sense of the word.

He may be dangerous.

In my opinion,

It would be well for us to leave this place as soon as possible.

I suggest that we leave tonight.

Rogers said,

I beg your pardon,

Sir,

But there is no boat on the island.

No boat at all?

No,

Sir.

How do you communicate with the mainland?

Fred Naricot.

He comes over every morning,

Sir.

He brings the bread and the milk and the post and takes the orders.

Mr.

Justice Wargrove said.

Then,

In my opinion,

It would be well if we all left tomorrow morning as soon as Naricot's boat arrives.

There was a course of agreement with only one dissident voice.

It was Anthony Marston who disagreed with the majority.

A bit unsporting,

What?

He said.

We ought to ferret out the mystery before we go.

Hold things like a detective story positively thrilling,

The judge said acidly.

In my time in life,

I have no desire for thrills as you call them,

Anthony said with a grin.

The legal life's narrowing.

I'm all in for crime.

Here's to it.

He picked up his drink and drank it off at a gulp.

Too quickly,

Perhaps.

He choked,

Choked badly.

His face contorted,

Turned purple.

He gasped for breath,

Then slid down off his chair,

The glass falling from his hand.

It was so sudden and so unexpected that it took everyone's breath away.

There remained stupidly staring at the crumpled figure on the ground.

Then Dr.

Armstrong jumped up and went over to him,

Kneeling beside him.

When he raised his head,

His eyes were bewildered.

He said in a low,

Awestruck whisper,

My God,

He's dead.

They didn't take it in.

Not at once.

Dead,

Dead.

That young Norse god in the prime of his health and strength,

Struck down all in a moment.

Healthy young men didn't die like that,

Choking over whiskey and soda.

No,

They couldn't take it in.

Dr.

Armstrong was peering into the dead man's face.

He sniffed at the blue,

Twisted lips.

Then he picked up the glass from which Anthony Marston had been drinking.

General MacArthur said,

Dead?

Do you mean the fellow just choked and died?

The physician said,

You can call it choking if you like.

He died of asphyxiation right enough.

He was sniffing now at the glass.

He dipped a finger into the dregs and very cautiously just touched the finger with the tip of his tongue.

His expression altered.

General MacArthur said,

Never knew a man could die like that,

Just of a choking fit.

Emily Brent said in a clear voice,

In the midst of life,

We are in death.

Dr.

Armstrong stood up.

He said briskly,

No,

A man doesn't die of a mere choking fit.

Marston's death wasn't what we call a natural death.

Vera said almost in a whisper,

Was there something in the whiskey?

Armstrong nodded.

Yes,

Can't say exactly.

Everything points to one of the cyanides.

No distinct smell of prussic acid,

Probably potassium cyanide.

It acts pretty well instantaneously.

The judge said sharply,

It was in his glass?

Yes.

The doctor strode to the table where the drinks were.

He removed the stopper from the whiskey and smelt and tasted it.

Then he tasted the soda water.

He shook his head.

They're both all right,

Lombard said.

You mean he must have put the stuff in his glass himself?

Armstrong nodded with a curiously dissatisfied expression.

He said,

Seems like it.

Bloor said,

Suicide,

Eh?

That's a queer go.

Vera said slowly,

You'd never think that he would kill himself.

He was so alive.

He was,

Oh,

Enjoying himself.

When he came down the hill in his car this evening,

He looked.

He looked.

Oh,

I can't explain.

But they knew what she meant.

Anthony Marston,

In the height of his youth and manhood,

Had seemed like a being who was immortal.

And now,

Crumpled and broken,

He lay on the floor.

Dr.

Armstrong said,

Is there any possibility other than suicide?

Slowly,

Everyone shook their heads.

There could be no other explanation.

The drinks themselves were untampered with.

They'd all seen Anthony Marston go across and help himself.

It followed,

Therefore,

That any cyanide in the drink must have been put there by Anthony Marston himself.

And yet,

Why would Anthony Marston commit suicide?

Bloor said thoughtfully,

You know,

Doctor,

It doesn't seem right to me.

I shouldn't have said Mr.

Marston was a suicidal type of gentleman.

Armstrong answered,

I agree.

2.

They had left it like that.

What else was there to say?

Together,

Armstrong and Lombard had carried the inert body of Anthony Marston to his bedroom and laid him there,

Covered with a sheet.

When they came downstairs again,

The others were standing in a group,

Shivering a little,

Though the night was not cold.

Emily Brent said,

We'd better go to bed.

It's late.

It was past twelve o'clock.

The suggestion was a wise one,

Yet everyone hesitated.

It was as though they clung to each other's company for reassurance.

3.

The judge said,

Yes,

We must get some sleep.

Rogers said,

I haven't cleared yet,

In the dining room.

Lombard said curtly,

Do it in the morning.

Armstrong said to him,

Is your wife all right?

I'll go see,

Sir.

He returned a minute or two later.

Sleeping beautiful she is.

Good,

Said the doctor.

Don't disturb her.

No,

Sir.

I'll just put things straight in the dining room and make sure everything's locked upright,

And then I'll turn in.

He went across the hall into the dining room.

The others went upstairs.

A slow,

Unwilling procession.

If this had been an old house with creaking wood and dark shadows and heavily paneled walls,

There might have been an eerie feeling.

But this house was the essence of modernity.

There were no dark corners,

No possible sliding panels.

It was flooded with electric light.

Everything was new and bright and shining.

There was nothing hidden in this house,

Nothing concealed.

It had no atmosphere about it.

Somehow,

That was the most frightening thing of all.

They exchanged goodnights on the upper landing.

Each of them went into his or her own room,

And each of them automatically,

Almost without conscious thought,

Locked the door.

3.

In his pleasant,

Softly tinted room,

Mr.

Justice Wargrave removed his garments and prepared himself for bed.

He was thinking about Edward Setton.

He remembered Setton very well.

His fair hair,

His blue eyes,

His habit of looking you straight in the face with a pleasant air of straightforwardness.

That was what had made so good an impression on the jury.

Llewellyn,

For the crown,

Had bungled it a bit.

He had been over-vehement,

Tried to prove too much.

Matthews,

On the other hand,

For the defense,

Had been good.

His points had told.

His cross-examinations had been deadly.

His handling of his client in the witness box had been masterly.

And Setton had come through the ordeal of cross-examination well.

He had not got excited or over-vehement.

The jury had been impressed.

It had seemed to Matthews,

Perhaps,

As though everything had been over-barred the shouting.

The judge wound up his watch carefully and placed it by the bed.

He remembered exactly how he felt sitting there,

Listening,

Making notes,

Appreciating everything,

Tabulating every scrap of evidence that told against the prisoner.

He had enjoyed that case.

Matthews' final speech had been first-class.

Llewellyn,

Coming after it,

Had failed to remove the good impression that the defending counsel had made.

And then had come his own summing up.

Carefully,

Mr.

Justice Wargrave removed his false teeth and dropped them into a glass of water.

The shrunken lips fell in.

It was a cruel mouth now,

Cruel and predatory.

Hooding his eyes,

The judge smiled to himself.

He'd cooked Setton's goose all right.

With a slightly rheumatic grunt,

He climbed into bed and turned out the electric light.

4.

Downstairs in the dining room,

Rogers stood puzzled.

He was staring at the china figures in the center of the table.

He muttered to himself,

That's a rum go.

I could have sworn there were ten of them.

5.

General MacArthur tossed from side to side.

Sleep would not come to him.

In the darkness,

He kept seeing Arthur Richman's face.

He'd liked Arthur.

He'd been damned fond of Arthur.

He'd been pleased that Leslie liked him too.

Leslie was so capricious.

Lots of good fellows that Leslie would turn up her nose at and pronounce Dole,

Dole,

Just like that.

But she hadn't found Arthur Richman Dole.

They'd got on well together from the beginning.

They'd talked of plays and music and pictures together.

She'd teased him,

Made fun of him,

Ragged him.

And he,

MacArthur,

Had been delighted at the thought that Leslie took quite a motherly interest in a boy.

Motherly indeed.

Damn fool not to remember that Richman was twenty-eight to Leslie's twenty-nine.

He'd loved Leslie.

He could see her now.

Her heart-shaped face and her deep dancing gray eyes and the brown curling mass of her hair.

He loved Leslie and he'd believed in her,

Absolutely.

Out there in France,

In the middle of all the hell of it,

He'd sat thinking of her,

Taken her picture out of the breast pocket of his tunic,

And then he found out.

It had come about exactly in the way things happened in books.

The letter in the wrong envelope.

She'd been writing to them both and she'd put her letter to Richman in the envelope addressed to her husband.

Even now,

All these years after,

He could feel the shock of it.

The pain.

God,

It had hurt.

And the business had been going on some time.

The letter made that clear.

Weekends.

Richman's last leave.

Leslie,

Leslie,

And Arthur.

God dang the fellow.

Dang his smiling face.

His brisk,

Yes sir,

Liar and hypocrite,

Stealer of another man's wife.

It had gathered slowly that cold,

Murderous rage.

He'd managed to carry on as usual,

To show nothing.

He'd tried to make his manner to Richman just the same.

Had he succeeded?

He thought so.

Richman hadn't suspected.

Inequalities of temper were easily accounted for out there,

Where men's nerves were continually snapping under the strain.

Only young Armitage had looked at him curiously once or twice.

Quite a young chap,

But he'd had perceptions,

That boy.

Armitage,

Perhaps,

Had guessed when the time came.

He'd sent Richman deliberately to death.

Only a miracle could have brought him through unhurt.

That miracle didn't happen.

Yes,

He'd sent Richman to his death and he wasn't sorry.

It had been easy enough.

Mistakes were being made all the time.

Officers being sent to death needlessly.

All was confusion,

Panic.

People might say afterwards,

Old MacArthur lost his nerve a bit,

Made some colossal blunders,

Sacrificed some of his best men.

They couldn't say more.

But young Armitage was different.

He'd looked at his commanding officer very oddly.

He'd known,

Perhaps,

That Richman was being deliberately sent to death.

After the war was over,

Had Armitage talked?

Leslie hadn't known.

Leslie had wept for her lover,

He supposed,

But her weeping was over by the time he'd come back to England.

He'd never told her that he'd found out.

They'd gone on together.

Only,

Somehow,

She hadn't seemed very real anymore.

And then,

Three or four years later,

She'd got double pneumonia and died.

That had been a long time ago.

Fifteen years.

Sixteen years.

And he'd left the army and come to live in Devon.

Bought the sort of little place he'd always meant to live.

Nice neighbors,

Pleasant part of the world.

There was a bit of shooting and fishing.

He'd gone to church on Sundays,

But not the day that the lesson was read about David putting Uriah in the forefront of the battle.

Somehow,

He couldn't face that.

Gave him an uncomfortable feeling.

Everybody had been very friendly,

At first,

That is.

Later,

He'd had an uneasy feeling that people were talking about him behind his back.

They eyed him differently,

Somehow,

As though they heard something,

Some lying rumor.

Armitage?

Supposing Armitage had talked.

He avoided people after that,

Withdrawn into himself.

Unpleasant to feel that people were discussing you,

And all so long ago.

So,

So purposeless now.

Leslie had faded into the distance,

And Arthur Richmond,

Too.

Nothing of what had happened seemed to matter anymore.

It made life lonely,

Though.

He'd taken to shunning his old army friends.

If Armitage had talked,

They'd know about it.

And now,

This evening,

A hidden voice had blared out that old hidden story.

Had he dealt with it all right?

Kept a stiff upper lip?

Betrayed the right amount of feeling?

Indignation?

Disgust?

But no guilt?

No disconfiture?

Difficult to tell?

Surely,

Somebody could have taken this accusation seriously.

There'd been a pack of other nonsense,

Just as far-fetched.

That charming girl,

The voice had accused her of drowning a child.

Idiotic.

Some madam throwing crazy accusations about.

Emily Brent,

Too.

Actually a niece of old Tom Brent of the regiment.

It had accused her of murder.

Anyone can see with half an eye that the woman was as pious as could be.

That kind was hand-in-glove with Parsons.

Damned curious business,

The whole thing.

Crazy,

Nothing less.

Ever since they had got here,

When was that?

Why,

Dang it,

It was only this afternoon.

Seemed a good bit longer than that.

He thought,

I wonder when we shall get away again.

Tomorrow,

Of course,

When the motorboat came from the mainland.

Funny,

Just this minute he didn't want much to get away from the island.

To go back to the mainland.

Back to his little house.

Back to all the troubles and worries.

Through the open door,

He could hear the waves breaking on the rocks.

A little louder now than earlier in the evening.

Wind was getting up,

Too.

He thought,

Peaceful sound,

Peaceful place.

He thought,

Best of an island is once you get there.

You can't go any farther.

You've come to the end of things.

He knew,

Suddenly,

That he didn't want to leave the island.

6.

Vera Claythorne lay in bed,

Wide awake,

Staring up at the ceiling.

The light beside her was on.

She was frightened of the dark.

She was thinking,

Hugo,

Hugo,

Why do I feel you so near me tonight?

Somewhere quite close.

Where is he,

Really?

I don't know.

I shall never know.

He just went away,

Right away,

Out of my life.

It was no good trying not to think of Hugo.

He was close to her.

She had to think of him,

To remember.

Cornwall,

The black rocks,

The smooth yellow sand.

Mrs.

Hamilton,

Stout,

Good humored.

Cyril,

Whining a little away,

Pulling at her hand.

I want to swim out to the rock,

Miss Claythorne.

Why can't I swim out to the rock?

Looking up,

Meeting Hugo's eyes watching her.

The evenings,

After Cyril was in bed.

Come out for a stroll,

Miss Claythorne.

I think perhaps I will.

The decor strolled down the beach.

The moonlight,

The soft Atlantic air.

And then,

Hugo's arms around her.

I love you.

I love you.

You know I love you,

Vera.

Yes,

She knew.

Or,

Thought she knew.

I can't ask you to marry me.

I've not got a penny.

It's all I can do to keep myself.

Queer,

You know.

Once,

For three months,

I had the chance of being a rich man,

To look forward to.

Cyril wasn't born until three months after Maurice died.

If the child had been a girl,

Hugo would have come into everything.

He'd been disappointed,

He admitted.

I hadn't built on it,

Of course,

But it was a bit of a knock.

Oh well,

Luck's luck.

Cyril's a nice kid.

I'm awfully fond of him.

And he was fond of him,

Too.

Always ready to play games or amuse his small nephew.

No rancor in Hugo's nature.

Cyril wasn't really strong.

A puny child.

No stamina.

The kind of child,

Perhaps,

Who wouldn't live to grow up.

And then,

Miss Claythorne,

Why can't I swim to the rock?

Irritating,

Whiny repetition.

It's too far,

Cyril.

But,

Miss Claythorne… Vera got up.

She went to the dressing table and swallowed three aspirins.

She thought,

I wish I had some proper sleeping stuff.

She thought,

If I were doing away with myself,

I'd take an overdose of Veronal.

Something like that.

Not cyanide.

She shuddered as she remembered Anthony Marston's convulsed purple face.

As she passed the mantelpiece,

She looked up at the framed dog earl.

Ten little soldier boys went out to dine.

One choked his little self.

Then,

There were nine.

She thought to herself,

It's horrible.

Just like us this evening.

Why had Anthony Marston wanted to die?

She didn't want to die.

She couldn't imagine wanting to die.

Death was for the other people.

That concludes Chapter 5.

Chapter 6.

One.

Dr.

Armstrong was dreaming.

It was very hot in the operating room.

Surely they got the temperature too high.

The sweat was rolling down his face.

His hands were clammy,

Difficult to hold the scalpel firmly.

How beautifully sharp it was.

Easy to do a murder with a knife like that.

And,

Of course,

He was doing a murder.

The woman's body looked different.

It had been a large,

Wieldy body.

This was a spare mager body,

And the face was hidden.

Who was it that he had to kill?

He couldn't remember,

But he must know.

Should he ask sister?

Sister was watching him.

No,

He couldn't ask her.

She was suspicious.

He could see that.

But who was it on the operating table?

They shouldn't have covered up the face like that.

If he could only see the face.

Ah,

That was better.

A young probationer was pulling off the handkerchief.

Emily Brent.

Of course.

It was Emily Brent he had to kill.

How malicious her eyes were.

Her lips were moving.

What was she saying?

In the midst of life,

We are in death.

She was laughing now.

No,

Nurse,

Don't put the handkerchief back.

I've got to see.

I've got to give the anesthetic.

Where's the ether?

I must have brought the ether with me.

What have you done with the ether,

Sister?

Chateauneuf de Papay?

Yes,

That will do quite as well.

Take the handkerchief away,

Nurse.

Of course.

I knew it all the time.

It's Anthony Marston.

His face is purple and convulsed.

But he's not dead.

He's laughing.

I tell you he's laughing.

He's shaking the operating table.

Look out,

Man.

Look out.

Nurse,

Steady it.

Steady it.

With a start,

Dr.

Armstrong woke up.

It was morning.

Sunlight was pouring into the room.

And someone was leaning over him,

Shaking him.

It was Rogers.

Rogers with a white face saying,

Doctor,

Doctor.

Dr.

Armstrong woke up completely.

He sat up in bed.

He said sharply,

What is it?

It's the wife,

Doctor.

I can't get her to wake.

My God,

I can't get her to wake.

And and she don't look right to me.

Dr.

Armstrong was quick and efficient.

He wrapped himself in his dressing gown and followed Rogers.

He bent over the bed where the woman was lying peacefully on her side.

He lifted the cold hand,

Raised the eyelid.

It was some few minutes before he straightened himself and turned from the bed.

Rogers whispered,

Is she?

Is she?

Passing a tongue over dry lips,

Armstrong nodded.

Yes,

She's gone.

His eyes rested thoughtfully on the man before him.

Then they went to the table by the bed,

To the washstand,

Then back to the sleeping woman.

Rogers said,

Was it?

Was it her art,

Doctor?

Dr.

Armstrong was a minute or two before replying.

Then he said,

What was her health like normally?

Rogers said,

She was a bit rheumatic-y.

Any doctor been attending to her recently?

Doctor?

Rogers stared.

Not been to a doctor for years,

Neither of us.

You've no reason to believe she suffered from heart trouble?

No,

Doctor,

I never knew of anything.

Armstrong said,

Did she sleep well?

Now Rogers' eyes evaded his.

The man's hands came together and turned and twisted uneasily.

He muttered,

She didn't sleep extra well,

No.

The doctor said sharply,

Did she take things to make her sleep?

Rogers stared at him,

Surprised.

Take things?

To make her sleep?

Not that I knew of.

I'm sure she didn't.

Armstrong went over to the washstand.

There were a certain number of bottles on it.

Air lotion,

Lavender water,

Cascara,

Glycerin of cucumber for the hands,

A mouthwash,

Toothpaste,

And some elements.

Rogers helped by pulling out the drawers of the dressing table.

From there,

They moved on to the chest of drawers,

But there was no sign of sleeping draughts or tablets.

Rogers said,

She didn't have nothing last night,

Sir,

Except for what you gave her.

Two.

When the gong sounded for breakfast at nine o'clock,

It found everyone up and awaiting the summons.

General MacArthur and the judge had been pacing the terrace outside,

Exchanging desolatory comments on the political situation.

Vera Claythorne and Philip Lombard had been up to the summit of the island behind the house.

There,

They had discovered William Henry Bloor standing,

Staring at the mainland.

He said,

No sign of that motorboat yet.

I've been watching for it.

Vera said,

Smiling,

Devon's a sleepy county.

Things are usually late.

Philip Lombard was looking the other way,

Out to sea.

He said abruptly,

What do you think of the weather?

Glancing up at the sky,

Bloor remarked,

Looks alright to me.

Lombard pursed up his mouth into a whistle.

He said,

It will come on to blow before the day's out.

Bloor said,

Squally,

Eh?

From below them came the boom of a gong.

Philip Lombard said,

Breakfast?

Well,

I could do with some.

As they went down the steep slope,

Bloor said to Lombard in a ruminating voice,

You know,

It beats me why that young fellow wanted to do himself in.

I've been worrying about it all night.

Vera was a little ahead,

Lombard hung back slightly.

He said,

Got an alternate theory?

I'd want some proof,

Motive to begin with.

Well,

Off I should say he was.

Emily Brent came out of the drawing room window to meet them.

She said sharply,

Is the boat coming?

Not yet,

Said Vera.

They went into breakfast.

There was a vast dish of eggs and bacon on the sideboard,

And tea and coffee.

Rogers held the door open for them to pass in,

Then shut it from the outside.

Emily Brent said,

That man looks ill this morning.

Dr.

Armstrong,

Who was standing by the window,

Cleared his throat.

He said,

You may excuse any,

Er,

Shortcomings this morning.

Rogers has had to do the best he can for breakfast single-handed.

Mrs.

Rogers has,

Er,

Not been able to carry on this morning.

Emily Brent said sharply,

What's the matter with the woman?

Dr.

Armstrong said easily,

Let us start our breakfast.

The eggs will be cold.

Afterwards,

There are several matters I want to discuss with you all.

They took the hint.

Plates were filled.

Coffee and tea was poured.

The meal began.

Discussion of the island was,

By mutual consent,

Tabooed.

They spoke instead of the desolatory fashion of current events.

The news from abroad.

Events in the world of sport.

The latest reappearance of the Loch Ness Monster.

Then,

When plates were cleared,

Dr.

Armstrong moved back his chair a little,

Cleared his throat importantly,

And spoke.

He said,

I thought it better to wait until you had had your breakfast before telling you of a sad piece of news.

Mrs.

Rogers died in her sleep.

There were startled and shocked ejaculations.

Vera exclaimed,

How awful!

Two deaths on this island since we arrived!

Mr.

Justice Wargrave,

His eyes narrowed,

Said in a small,

Precise,

Clear voice,

Hm,

Very remarkable.

What was the cause of death?

Armstrong shrugged his shoulders.

Impossible to say offhand.

There must be an autopsy.

I certainly couldn't give a certificate.

I have no knowledge whatsoever of the woman's state of health,

Vera said.

She was a very nervous-looking creature,

And she had a shock last night.

It might have been heart failure,

I suppose.

Dr.

Armstrong said dryly,

Her heart certainly failed to beat,

But what caused it to fail is the question.

One word fell from Emily Brent.

It fell hard and clear into the listening group.

Conscious,

She said.

Armstrong turned to her.

What exactly do you mean by that,

Miss Brent?

Emily Brent,

Her lips tight and hard,

Said,

You all heard?

She was accused,

Together with her husband,

Of having deliberately murdered her former employer,

An old lady?

And you think?

Emily Brent said.

I think that the accusation was true.

You all saw her last night.

She broke down completely and fainted.

The shock of having her wickedness brought home to her was too much for her.

She literally died of fear.

Dr.

Armstrong shook his head doubtfully.

It is a possible theory,

He said.

One cannot adopt it without more exact knowledge of her state of health,

If there was cardiac weakness,

Emily Brent said quietly.

Call it if you prefer an act of God.

Everyone looked shocked.

Mr.

Bloor said uneasily.

That's caring of things a bit too far,

Miss Brent.

She looked at them with shining eyes.

Her chin went up.

She said,

You regard it as impossible that a sinner should be struck down by the wrath of God?

I do not.

The judge stroked his chin.

He murmured in a slightly ironic voice.

My dear lady,

In my experience of ill-doing,

Providence leaves the work of conviction and chastisement to us mortals,

And the process is often fraught with difficulties.

There are no shortcuts.

Emily Brent shrugged her shoulders.

Bloor said sharply.

What did she have to eat and drink last night after she went up to bed?

Armstrong said,

Nothing.

She didn't take anything?

A cup of tea,

A drink of water.

I'll bet you she had a cup of tea.

That sort always does.

Rogers assures me she had nothing whatsoever.

Ah,

Said Bloor.

But he might say so.

His tone was so significant that the doctor looked at him sharply.

Philip Lombard said,

So that's your idea?

Bloor said aggressively.

Well,

Why not?

We all heard the accusation last night.

Maybe sheer moonshine,

Just plain lunacy.

On the other hand,

It may not.

Allow for the moment that it's true.

Rogers and his missus polished off that old lady.

Well,

What does that get you?

They've been feeling quite safe and happy about it.

Vera interrupted.

In a low voice,

She said,

No,

I don't think Mrs.

Rogers ever felt safe.

Bloor looked slightly annoyed at the interruption.

Just like a woman,

His glance said.

He resumed.

That's as may be.

Anyway,

There's no act of danger to them as far as they know.

Then,

Last night,

Some unknown lunatic spills the beans.

What happens?

The woman cracks.

She goes to pieces.

Notice how her husband hung over her as she was coming round.

Not all husbandly solicitude.

Not on your life.

He was like a cat on hot bricks,

Scared out of his life as to what she might say.

And there's the position for you.

They've done a murder and got away with it.

But if the whole thing's going to be raked up,

What's going to happen?

Ten to one,

The woman will give the show away.

She hasn't got the nerve to stand up and brazen it out.

She's a living danger to her husband.

That's what she is.

He's all right.

He'll lie with a straight face till kingdom comes.

But he can't be sure of her.

And if she goes to pieces,

His neck's in danger.

So,

He slips something into a cup of tea and makes sure that her mouth is shut permanently.

Armstrong said slowly.

There was no empty cup beside her bedside.

There was nothing there at all.

I looked.

Bloor snorted.

Of course there wouldn't be.

First thing he'd do when she drunk it would be to take that cup and saucer away and wash it up carefully.

There was a pause.

Then General MacArthur said doubtfully.

It may be so,

But I should hardly think it possible that a man would do that to his wife.

Bloor gave a short laugh.

He said,

When a man's neck's in danger,

He doesn't stop to think too much about sentiment.

There was a pause.

Before anyone could speak,

The door opened and Rogers came in.

He said,

Looking from one to the other,

Is there anything more I can get you?

Mr.

Justice Wargrave stirred a little in his chair.

He asked,

What time does the motorboat usually come over?

Between seven and eight,

Sir.

Sometimes it's a bit after eight.

Don't know what Fred Naricot can be doing this morning.

If he's ill,

He'd send his brother.

Philip Lombard said,

What time's it now?

Ten minutes to ten,

Sir.

Lombard's eyebrows rose.

He nodded slowly to himself.

Rogers waited a minute or two.

General MacArthur spoke suddenly and explosively.

Sorry to hear about your wife,

Rogers.

Doctor's just been telling us.

Rogers inclined his head.

Yes,

Sir.

Thank you,

Sir.

He took up the empty bacon dish and went out.

Again,

There was a silence.

Three.

On the terrace outside,

Philip Lombard said,

About this motorboat.

Bloor looked at him.

Bloor nodded his head.

He said,

I know what you're thinking,

Mr.

Lombard.

I've asked myself the same question.

Motorboat ought to have been here nigh on two hours ago.

It hasn't come.

Why?

Found the answer,

Asked Lombard.

It's not an accident.

That's what I say.

It's part and parcel of the whole business.

It's all bound up together,

Lombard said.

It won't come,

You think?

A voice spoke behind him.

A testy,

Impatient voice.

The motorboat's not coming,

It said.

Bloor turned his square shoulder slightly and viewed the last speaker thoughtfully.

You think not too,

General?

General MacArthur said sharply.

Of course it won't come.

We're counting on the motorboat to take us off the island.

That's the meaning of the whole business.

We're not going to leave the island.

None of us will ever leave.

It's the end,

You see.

The end of everything.

He hesitated,

Then he said in a low,

Strange voice.

That's peace.

Real peace.

To come to the end,

Not to have to go on.

Yes,

Peace.

He turned abruptly and walked away,

Along the terrace,

Then down the slope towards the sea.

Obliquely to the end of the island where loose rocks went out into the water.

He walked a little unsteadily,

Like a man who was only half awake,

Bloor said.

There goes another one who's blarmy.

Looks as though it'll end with the whole lot going that way,

Lombard said.

I don't fancy you will,

Bloor.

The ex-inspector laughed.

It would take a lot to send me off my head,

He added dryly.

And I don't think you'll be going that way either,

Mr.

Lombard,

Philip Lombard said.

I feel quite sane at the minute,

Thank you.

4.

Dr.

Armstrong came out onto the terrace.

He stood there,

Hesitating.

To his left were Bloor and Lombard.

To his right was Wargrave,

Slowly pacing up and down,

His head bent down.

Armstrong,

After a moment of indecision,

Turned towards the ladder.

At that moment,

Rogers came quickly out of the house.

Could I have a word with you,

Sir,

Please?

Armstrong turned.

He was startled at what he saw.

Rogers' face was working.

Its color was grayish-green.

His hands shook.

It was such a contrast to his restraint of a few minutes ago that Armstrong was quite taken aback.

Please,

Sir,

If I could have a word with you.

Inside,

Sir?

The doctor turned back and re-entered the house with this frenzied butler.

He said,

What's the matter,

Man?

Pull yourself together.

In here,

Sir.

Come in here.

He opened the dining room door.

The doctor passed in.

Rogers followed him and shut the door behind him.

Well,

Said Armstrong,

What is it?

The muscles of Rogers' throat weren't working.

He was swallowing.

He jerked out.

There's things going on,

Sir,

That I don't understand.

Armstrong said sharply.

Things?

What things?

You'll think I'm crazy,

Sir.

You'll say it isn't anything,

But it's got to be explained,

Sir.

It's got to be explained,

Because it doesn't make any sense.

Well,

Man,

Tell me what it is.

Don't go on talking in riddles.

Rogers swallowed again.

He said,

It's those little figures,

Sir.

In the middle of the table.

The little china figures.

Ten of them there were.

I'll swear to that.

Ten of them.

Armstrong said,

Yes,

Ten.

We counted them last night at dinner.

Rogers came nearer.

That's just it,

Sir.

Last night,

When I was clearing up,

There wasn't but nine,

Sir.

I noticed it and thought it queer,

But that's all I thought.

And now,

Sir,

This morning,

I didn't notice when I laid the breakfast.

I was all upset and all that.

But now,

Sir,

When I came to clear away,

See for yourself if you don't believe me.

There's only eight,

Sir.

Only eight.

It doesn't make sense,

Does it?

Only eight?

That concludes chapter six.

Chapter Seven.

One.

After breakfast,

Emily Brent had suggested to Vera Claythorne that they should walk to the summit again and watch for the boat.

Vera acquiesced.

The wind had freshened.

Small white crests were appearing on the sea.

There were no fishing boats out and no sign of the motorboat.

The actual village of Stricklehaven could not be seen,

Only the hill above it,

A jutting out cliff of red rock concealed by the actual bay.

Emily Brent said,

The man who brought us out here yesterday seemed a dependable sort of person.

Is it really very odd that he should be so late this morning?

Vera did not answer.

She was fighting down a razing feeling of panic.

She said to herself angrily,

You must keep cool.

This isn't like you.

You've always had excellent nerves.

A loud she said after a minute or two.

I wish he would come.

I want to get away.

Emily Brent said dryly,

I've no doubt we all do.

Vera said,

It's all so extraordinary.

There seems no meaning in it at all.

The elderly woman beside her said briskly,

I'm very annoyed with myself for being so easily taken in.

Really,

That letter is absurd when one comes to examine it.

But I had no doubts at the time.

None at all.

Vera murmured mechanically,

I suppose not.

One takes things for granted too much,

Said Emily Brent.

Vera drew a deep shuddering breath.

She said,

Do you really think what you said at breakfast?

Be a little more precise,

My dear.

To what in particular are you referring?

Vera said in a low voice,

Do you really think that Rogers and his wife did away with that old lady?

Emily Brent grazed thoughtfully out to sea.

Then she said,

Personally,

I'm quite sure of it.

What do you think?

I don't know what to think.

Emily Brent said,

Everything goes to support the idea.

The way the woman fainted and the man dropped the coffee tray.

Remember?

Then the way he spoke about it.

It didn't ring true.

Oh,

Yes,

I'm afraid they did it.

Vera said the way she looked scared of her own shadow.

I've never seen a woman look so frightened.

She must have been always haunted by it.

Miss Brent murmured.

I remember a text that hung in my nursery as a child.

Be sure thy sin will find thee out.

It's very true that.

Be sure thy sin will find thee out.

Vera scrambled to her feet.

She said,

But Miss Brent,

Miss Brent,

In that case.

Yes,

My dear.

The others.

What about the others?

I don't quite understand you.

All the other accusations.

They they weren't true.

But if it's true about the Rogers.

She stopped,

Unable to make her chaotic thought clear.

Emily Brent's brow,

Which had been frowning perplexedly,

Cleared.

She said,

Ah,

I understand now.

Well,

There is that Mr.

Lombard.

He admits to having abandoned 20 men in their deaths.

Vera said they were only natives.

Emily Brent said sharply.

Black or white,

They are our brothers.

Vera thought.

Our black brothers,

Our black brothers.

Oh,

I'm going to laugh.

I'm hysterical.

I'm not myself.

Emily Brent continued thoughtfully.

Of course,

Some of the other accusations were very far-fetched and ridiculous.

Against the judge,

For instance,

Who was only doing his duty in his public capacity and the ex-Scotland Yard man.

My own case,

Too.

She paused,

Then went on.

Naturally,

Considering the circumstances,

I was not going to say anything last night.

It was not a fit subject to discuss before gentlemen.

No.

Vera listened with interest.

Miss Brent continued serenely.

Beatrice Taylor was in service with me.

Not a nice girl,

As I found out too late.

I was very much deceived by her.

She had nice manners and was very clean and willing.

I was very pleased with her,

Of course.

All that was the sheerest hypocrisy.

She was a loose girl with no morals.

Disgusting.

It was some time before I found out that she was what they call in trouble.

She paused,

Her delicate nose wrinkling itself in distaste.

It was a great shock to me.

Her parents were decent folks too,

Who had brought her up very strictly.

I'm glad to say they did not condone her behavior.

Vera said,

Staring at Miss Brent.

What happened?

Naturally,

I did not keep her an hour under my roof.

No one shall ever say that I condone immorality,

Vera said in a low voice.

What happened to her?

Miss Brent said,

The abandoned creature,

Not content with having one cent on her conscience,

Committed a still graver sin.

She took her own life,

Vera whispered,

Horror struck.

She killed herself?

Yes,

She threw herself into the river.

Vera shivered.

She stared at the calm,

Delicate profile of Miss Brent.

She said,

What did you feel like when you knew she'd done that?

Weren't you sorry?

Didn't you blame yourself?

Emily Brent drew herself up.

I,

I had nothing with which to reproach myself,

Vera said.

But if your hardness drove her to it,

Emily Brent said sharply.

Her own action,

Her own sin,

That was what drove her to it.

If she had behaved like a decent,

Modest young woman,

None of this would have happened.

She turned her face to Vera.

There was no self-reproach,

No uneasiness in those eyes.

They were hard and self-righteous.

Emily Brent sat on the summit of Soldier's Island,

Encased in her own armor of virtue.

The little elderly Spencer was no longer slightly ridiculous to Vera.

Suddenly,

She was terrible.

Dr.

Armstrong came out of the dining room and once more came out on the terrace.

The judge was sitting in a chair now,

Gazing placidly out to sea.

Lombard and Bloor were over to the left,

Smoking but not talking.

As before,

The doctor hesitated for a moment.

His eyes rested speculatively on Mr.

Justice Wargrave.

He wanted to consult with someone.

He was conscious of the judge's acute logical brain,

But nevertheless,

He wavered.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave might have a good brain,

But he was an elderly man.

At this juncture,

Armstrong felt what was needed was a man of action.

He made up his mind.

Lombard,

Can I speak to you for a minute?

Philip started.

Of course.

The two men left the terrace.

They strolled down the slope towards the water.

When they were out of earshot,

Armstrong said,

I want a consultation.

Lombard's eyebrows went up.

He said,

My dear fellow,

I have no medical knowledge.

No,

No,

I mean as to the general situation.

Oh,

That's different,

Armstrong said.

Frankly,

What do you think of the position?

Lombard reflected for a minute.

Then he said,

It's rather suggestive,

Isn't it?

What are your ideas on the subject of that woman?

Do you accept Bloor's theory?

Philip puffed smoke into the air.

He said,

It's perfectly feasible,

Taken alone.

Exactly.

Armstrong's tone sounded relieved.

Philip Lombard was no fool.

The latter went on.

That is,

Accepting the premise that Mr.

And Mrs.

Rogers have successfully got away with murder in their time.

And I don't see why they shouldn't.

What do you think they did exactly?

Poison the old lady?

Armstrong said slowly.

It might be simpler than that.

I asked Rogers this morning what this Miss Brady had suffered from.

His answer was enlightening.

I don't need to go into medical details,

But in a certain form of cardiac trouble,

Amyl nitrate is used.

When an attack comes on,

An ampule of amyl nitrate is broken and it is inhaled.

If amyl nitrate were withheld,

Well,

The consequences might easily be fatal.

Philip Lombard said thoughtfully.

As simple as that.

It must have been rather tempting.

The doctor nodded.

Yes,

No positive action,

No arsenic to obtain and administer,

Nothing definite,

Just negation.

And Rogers hurried through the night to fetch a doctor,

And they both felt confident that no one would ever know.

And even if anyone knew,

Nothing could ever be proved against them,

Added Philip Lombard.

He frowned suddenly.

Of course,

That explains a good deal,

Armstrong said,

Puzzled.

I beg your pardon,

Lombard said.

I mean,

It explains Soldier Island.

There are crimes that cannot be brought home to their perpetrators.

Instance the Rogers.

Another instance,

Old Wargrave,

Who committed his murder strictly within the law.

Armstrong said sharply.

You believe that story?

Philip Lombard smiled.

Oh yes,

I believe it.

Wargrave murdered Edward Setton all right,

Murdered him as surely as if he'd stuck a stiletto through him.

But he was clever enough to do it from the judge's seat in wig and gown.

So in the ordinary way,

You can't bring this little crime home to him.

A sudden flash passed like lightning through Armstrong's mind.

Murder in hospital,

Murder on the operating table.

Safe,

Yes,

Safe as houses.

Philip Lombard was saying,

Hence Mr.

Owen,

Hence Soldier Island.

Armstrong drew a deep breath.

Now we're getting down to it.

What's the real purpose of getting us all here?

Philip Lombard said.

What do you think?

Armstrong said abruptly.

Let's go back a minute to this woman's death.

What are the possible theories?

Rogers killed her because he was afraid she would give the show away?

Second possibility,

She lost her nerve and took an easy way out herself.

Philip Lombard said.

Suicide,

Eh?

What do you say to that?

Lombard said.

It could have been,

Yes,

If it hadn't been for Marston's death.

Two suicides within 12 hours is a little too much,

Too shallow.

And if you tell me that Anthony Marston,

A young bull with no nerves and precious little brains,

Got the wind up over having mowed down a couple of kids and deliberately put himself out of the way,

Well,

That idea is laughable.

And anyway,

How did he get hold of the stuff?

From all I've ever heard,

Potassium cyanide isn't the kind of stuff you take about with you in your waistcoat pocket.

But that's your line of country,

Armstrong said.

Nobody in their senses carries potassium cyanide.

It might be done by someone who is going to take a wasp nest,

The ardent gardener or landowner,

In fact.

Again,

Not Anthony Marston.

It strikes me that that cyanide is going to need a bit of explaining.

Either Anthony Marston meant to do away with himself before he came here and therefore came prepared,

Or else,

Armstrong prompted him,

Or else,

Philip Lombard grinned.

Why make me say it when it's on the tip of your own tongue?

Anthony Marston was murdered,

Of course.

3.

Dr.

Armstrong drew a deep breath.

And Mrs.

Rogers?

Lombard said slowly,

I could believe in Anthony's suicide with difficulty if it weren't for Mrs.

Rogers.

I could believe in Mrs.

Rogers' suicide easily if it weren't for Anthony Marston.

I can believe that Rogers put his wife out of the way if it were not for the unexpected death of Anthony Marston.

But what we need is a theory to explain two deaths following rapidly on each other.

Armstrong said,

I can perhaps give you some help towards that theory.

And he repeated the facts that Rogers had given him about the disappearance of the two little China figures.

4.

Lombard said,

Yes,

Little China figures.

There were certainly ten last night at dinner,

And now there are eight,

You say?

Dr.

Armstrong recited,

Ten little soldier boys going out to dine.

One went and choked himself,

And then there were nine.

Nine little soldier boys sat up very late.

One overslept himself,

And then there were eight.

The two men looked at each other.

Philip Lombard grinned and flung away a cigarette.

Fits too damn well to be a coincidence.

Anthony Marston dies of asphyxiation or choking last after dinner,

And Mother Rogers oversleeps herself with a vengeance.

And therefore,

Said Armstrong.

Lombard took him up.

And therefore another kind of soldier,

The unknown soldier,

Ex.

Mr.

Owen,

U.

N.

Owen,

One unknown lunatic at large.

Ah,

Armstrong breathed a sigh of relief.

You agree,

But you see what it involves.

Rogers swore that there was no one but ourselves,

And he and his wife on the island.

Rogers is wrong,

Or possibly Rogers is lying.

Armstrong shook his head.

I don't think he's lying.

The man's scared.

He's scared nearly out of his senses.

Philip Lombard nodded.

He said,

No motorboat this morning.

That fits in.

Mr.

Owen's little arrangements again to the fore.

Soldier Island is to be isolated until Mr.

Owen has finished his job.

Armstrong had gone pale.

He said,

You realize the man must be a raving maniac.

Philip Lombard said,

And there was a new ring in his voice.

There's one thing Mr.

Owen didn't realize.

What's that?

This island's more or less a bare rock.

We shall make short work of searching it.

We'll soon ferret out U.

N.

Owen Esquire.

Dr.

Armstrong said warningly,

He'll be dangerous.

Philip Lombard laughed.

Dangerous?

Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?

I'll be dangerous when I get a hold of him.

He paused and said,

We'd better rope in Blore to help us.

He'll be a good man in a pinch.

Better not tell the women.

As for the others,

The General's gaga,

I think,

And old Wargrave's forte is masterly inactive.

The three of us can attend to this job.

That concludes Chapter 7.

Chapter 8.

One.

One.

Blore was easily roped in.

He expressed immediate agreement with their arguments.

What you've said about those China figures,

Sir,

Makes all the difference.

That's crazy,

That is.

There's only one thing.

You don't think this Owen's idea might be to do with the job by proxy,

As it were?

Explain yourself,

Man.

Well,

I mean like this.

After the racket last night,

This young Marston gets the wind up and poisons himself.

And Rogers,

He gets the wind up too and bumps off his wife,

All according to Uno's plan.

Armstrong shook his head.

He stressed the point about the cyanide.

Blore agreed.

Yes,

I'd forgotten that.

Not a natural thing to be caring about with you.

But how did it get into his drink,

Sir?

Lombard said.

I've been thinking about that.

Marston had several drinks that night,

Between the time he had got his last one and the time he finished the one before it.

There was quite a gap.

During that time,

His glass was lying about on some table or other.

I think,

Though I can't be sure,

It was on the little bar table near the window.

The window was open.

Somebody could have slipped a dose of cyanide into the glass.

Blore said unbelievingly.

Without all our seeing him,

Sir.

Lombard said dryly.

We were all rather concerned elsewhere.

Armstrong said slowly.

That's true.

We'd all been attacked.

We were walking about,

Moving about the room,

Arguing,

Indignant,

Intent on their own business.

I think it could have been done.

Blore shrugged his shoulders.

Fact is,

It might have been done.

Now then,

Gentlemen,

Let's make a start.

Nobody's got a revolver by any chance.

I suppose that's too much to hope for.

Lombard said.

I've got one.

He patted his pocket.

Blore's eyes opened very wide.

He said in an over casual tone.

Always carrying that about with you,

Sir?

Lombard said.

Usually.

I've been in some tight places,

You know.

Oh,

Said Blore and added.

Well,

You've probably never been in a tighter place than you are today.

If there's a lunatic hiding on this island,

He's probably got a young arsenal on him.

To say nothing of a knife or dagger or two.

Armstrong coughed.

You may be wrong there,

Blore.

Many homicidal lunatics are very quite unassuming people.

Delightful fellows,

Blore said.

I don't feel this one is going to be that kind,

Dr.

Armstrong.

Two.

The three men started on their tour of the island.

It proved unexpectedly simple.

On the northwest side,

Towards the coast,

The cliffs fell sheer to the sea below,

Their surface unbroken.

On the rest of the island were no trees and very little cover.

The three men worked carefully and methodically,

Beating up and down from the highest point to the water's edge,

Narrowly scanning the least irregularity in the rock which might point to the entrance to a cave.

But there were no caves.

They came at last,

Skirting the water's edge to where General MacArthur sat looking out to sea.

It was very peaceful here,

With a lap of waves breaking over the rocks.

The old man sat very upright,

His eyes fixed on the horizon.

He paid no attention to the approach of the searchers.

His oblivion of them made one of the least faintly uncomfortable.

Blore thought to himself,

"'Tis unnatural.

Looks as though I'd gone into a trance or something.

" He cleared his throat and said in a would-be conversational tone,

"'Nice peaceful spot you found yourself,

Sir.

" The General frowned.

He cast a quick look over his shoulder.

He said,

"'There is so little time.

So little time.

I really must insist that no one disturbs me.

" Blore said genially,

"'We won't disturb you.

We're just making a tour of the island,

So to speak.

Just wondered,

You know,

If someone might be hiding on it.

'" The General frowned and said,

"'You don't understand.

You don't understand at all.

Please go away.

'" Blore retreated.

He said as he joined the other two,

"'He's crazy.

It's no good talking to him.

'" Lombard asked with some curiosity,

"'What did he say?

' Blore shrugged his shoulders.

"'Something about there being no time and that he didn't want to be disturbed.

'" Dr.

Armstrong frowned.

He murmured,

"'I wonder now.

'" The search of the island was practically completed.

The three men stood on the highest point looking over towards the mainland.

There were no boats out.

The wind was freshening.

Lombard said,

"'No fishing boats out.

There's a storm coming.

Damned nuisance you can't see the village from here.

We could signal or do something.

'" Blore said,

"'We might light a bonfire tonight.

'" Lombard said,

Frowning.

"'The devil of it is that,

That's all probably been provided for.

'" "'In what way,

Sir?

' "'How do I know?

Practical joke,

Perhaps.

We're to be marooned here.

No attention is to be paid to signals,

Etc.

Possibly the village has been told there's a wager on.

Some damn fool story anyway.

'" Blore said dubiously,

"'Think they'd swallow that?

' Lombard said dryly,

"'It's easier of belief than the truth.

If the village were told that the island was to be isolated until Mr.

Unknown Owen had quietly murdered all his guests,

Do you think they'd believe that?

' Dr.

Armstrong said,

"'There are moments when I can't believe it myself.

And yet.

'" Philip Lombard,

His lips curling back from his teeth,

Said,

"'And yet.

That's just it.

You've said it,

Doctor.

'" Blore was gazing down into the water.

He said,

"'Nobody could have clambered down here,

I suppose.

'" Armstrong shook his head.

"'I doubt it.

It's pretty sheer.

And where could he hide?

' Blore said,

"'There might be a hole in the cliff.

If we'd had a boat now,

We could row round the island,

' Lombard said.

"'If we had a boat,

We'd all be halfway to the mainland by now.

'" "'True enough,

Sir,

' Lombard said suddenly.

"'We can make sure of this cliff.

There's only one place where there could be recess,

Just a little to the right below here.

If you fellows can get a hold of a rope,

You can let me down to make sure,

' Blore said.

"'Might as well be sure,

Though it seems absurd on the face of it.

I'll see if I can get a hold of something.

'" He started off briskly down to the house.

Lombard stared up at the sky.

The clouds were beginning to mass themselves together.

The wind was increasing.

He shot a sideways look at Armstrong.

He said,

"'You're very silent,

Doctor.

What are you thinking?

' Armstrong said slowly,

"'I was wondering how mad old MacArthur was.

'" 4.

Vera had been restless all morning.

She had avoided Emily Brent with a kind of shuddering aversion.

Miss Brent herself had taken a chair just round the corner of the house so as to be out of the wind.

She sat there,

Knitting.

Every time Vera thought of her,

She seemed to see a pale drowned face with seaweed entangled in the hair.

A face that had once been pretty,

Impudently pretty perhaps,

And which now was being beyond the reach of pity or terror.

And Emily Brent,

Placid and righteous,

Sat knitting.

On the main terrace,

Mr.

Justice Wargrave sat huddled in a porter's chair.

His head was poked down well into his neck.

When Vera looked at him,

She saw a man standing in the dock,

A young man with fair hair and blue eyes and a bewildered,

Frightened face,

Edward Setton.

And in imagination,

She saw the judge's old hands put the black cap on his head and begin to pronounce sentence.

After a while,

Vera strolled slowly down to the sea.

She walked along towards the extreme end of the island where an old man sat staring out to the horizon.

General MacArthur stirred at her approach.

His head turned.

There was a queer mixture of questioning and apprehension in his look.

It startled her.

He stared intently at her for a minute or two.

She thought to herself,

How queer.

It's almost as though he knew.

He said,

Ah,

It's you.

You've come.

Vera sat down beside him.

She said,

Do you like sitting here looking out to sea?

He nodded his head gently.

Yes,

He said.

It's pleasant.

It's a good place,

I think,

To wait.

To wait?

Vera said sharply.

What are you waiting for?

He said gently.

The end.

But I think you know that,

Don't you?

It's true,

Isn't it?

We're all waiting for the end?

She said unsteadily.

What do you mean?

General MacArthur said gravely.

None of us are going to leave the island.

That's the plan.

You know it,

Of course.

Perfectly.

What,

Perhaps,

You can't understand,

Is the relief?

Vera said wonderingly.

The relief?

He said.

Yes.

Of course,

You're very young.

You haven't got to that yet.

But it does come.

The blessed relief when you know that you've done with it all.

That you haven't got to carry the burden any longer.

You'll feel that too,

Someday.

Vera said hoarsely.

I don't understand you.

Her fingers worked spasmodically.

She felt suddenly afraid of this quiet old soldier.

He said musingly.

You see,

I loved Leslie.

I loved her very much.

Vera said questioningly.

Was Leslie your wife?

Yes,

My wife.

I loved her and I was very proud of her.

She was so pretty and so gay.

He was silent for a minute or two.

Then he said.

Yes,

I loved Leslie.

That's why I did it.

Vera said.

You mean.

.

.

And paused.

General MacArthur nodded his head gently.

It's not much good denying it now.

Not when we're all going to die.

I sent Richmond to his death.

I suppose,

In a way,

It was murder.

Curious.

Murder.

And I've always been such a law-abiding man.

But it didn't seem like that at the time.

I had no regrets.

Serves him damned well right.

That's what I thought.

But afterwards.

.

.

In a hard voice,

Vera said.

Well,

Afterwards?

He shook his head vaguely.

He looked puzzled and a little distressed.

I don't know.

I don't know.

It was all different,

You see.

I don't know if Leslie ever guessed.

I don't think so.

But,

You see,

I didn't know about her anymore.

She'd gone far away where I couldn't reach her.

And then she died and I was alone.

Vera said.

Alone?

Alone?

And the echo of her voice came back to her from the rocks.

General MacArthur said.

You'll be glad to,

When the end comes.

Vera got up,

Said sharply.

I don't know what you mean.

He said.

I know,

My child.

I know.

You don't?

You don't understand at all.

General MacArthur looked out to see again.

He seemed unconscious of her presence behind him.

He said very gently and softly.

Leslie?

Five.

When Blore returned from the house with a rope coiled up over his arm,

He found Armstrong,

Where he had left him,

Staring down into the depths.

Blore said breathlessly.

Where's Lombard?

Armstrong said carelessly.

Gone to test some theory or other.

He'll be back in a minute.

Look here,

Blore.

I'm worried.

I should say we're all worried.

The doctor waved an impatient hand.

Of course,

Of course.

I don't mean it in that way.

I'm thinking of old MacArthur.

What about him,

Sir?

Dr.

Armstrong said grimly.

What we're looking for is a madman.

What price,

MacArthur?

Blore said incredulously.

You mean he's homicidal?

Armstrong said doubtfully.

I shouldn't have said so.

Not for a minute.

But,

Of course.

I'm not a specialist in mental diseases.

I haven't really had any conversation with him.

I haven't studied him from that point of view.

Blore said doubtfully.

Gaga?

Yes.

But I wouldn't have said.

Armstrong cut in with a slight effort,

As of a man who pulls himself together.

You're probably right.

Damn it all.

There must be something hiding on the island.

Ah,

Here comes Lombard.

They fastened the rope carefully.

Lombard said,

I'll help myself while I can.

Keep a lookout for a sudden strain on the rope.

After a minute or two,

While they stood together watching Lombard's progress,

Blore said,

Climbs like a cat,

Doesn't he?

There was something odd in his voice.

Dr.

Armstrong said,

I should think he must have done some mountaineering in his time.

Maybe.

There was a silence and the ex-inspector said,

Funny sort of cove altogether.

Do you know what I think?

What?

He's a wrong'un.

Armstrong said doubtfully.

In what way?

Blore grunted.

Then he said,

I don't know exactly,

But I wouldn't trust him a yard.

Dr.

Armstrong said,

I suppose he's led an adventurous life.

Blore said,

I bet some of his adventures have had to be kept pretty dark.

He paused and then went on.

Did you happen to bring a revolver along with you,

Doctor?

Armstrong stared.

Me?

Good Lord,

No.

Why should I?

Blore said,

Why did Mr.

Lombard?

Armstrong said doubtfully.

I suppose habit.

Blore snorted.

A sudden pull came on the rope.

For some moments they had their hands full.

Presently,

When the strain relaxed,

Blore said,

There are habits and habits.

Mr.

Lombard takes a revolver to out of the way places,

Right enough.

And a primus and a sleeping bag and a supply of bug powder,

No doubt.

But habit wouldn't make him bring the whole outfit down here.

It's only in books people carry revolvers around as a matter of course.

Dr.

Armstrong shook his head perplexedly.

They leaned over and watched Lombard's progress.

His search was thorough and they could see at once that it was futile.

Presently,

He came up over the edge of the cliff.

He wiped the perspiration from his forehead.

Well,

He said,

We're up against it.

It's the house or nowhere.

Six.

The house was easily searched.

They went through the few of the outbuildings first and then turned their attention to the building itself.

Mrs.

Rogers' yard measure,

Discovered in the kitchen dresser,

Assisted them.

But there was no hidden spaces left unaccounted for.

Everything was plain and straightforward.

A modern structure devoid of concealments.

Six.

They went through the ground floor first.

As they mounted to the bedroom floor,

They saw through the landing window,

Rogers carrying out a tray of cocktails to the terrace.

Philip Lombard said lightly,

Wonderful animal,

The good servant,

Carries on with an impassive countenance.

Armstrong said appreciatively,

Rogers is a first class butler.

I'll say that for him.

Bloor said his wife was a pretty good cook too.

That dinner last night,

They turned into the first bedroom.

Five minutes later,

They faced each other on the landing.

No one hiding,

No possible hiding place.

Bloor said,

There's a little stair here.

Dr.

Armstrong said,

It leads up to the servant's room.

Bloor said,

There must be a place under the roof for cisterns,

Water tank,

Etc.

It's the best chance and the only one.

And it was then,

As they stood there,

That they heard the sound from above.

A soft,

Furtive football overhead.

They all heard it.

Armstrong grasped Bloor's arm.

Lombard held up an admonitory finger.

Quiet,

Listen.

It came again.

Someone moving softly,

Furtively overhead.

Armstrong whispered,

He's actually in the bedroom itself,

The room where Mrs.

Rogers' body is.

Bloor whispered back,

Of course,

Best hiding place he could have chosen.

Nobody likely to go there.

Now then,

Quiet as you can.

They crept stealthily upstairs.

On the little landing outside the door of the bedroom,

They paused again.

Yes,

Someone was in the room.

There was a faint creak from within.

Bloor whispered,

Now!

He flung the door open and rushed in,

The other two close behind him.

Then all three stopped,

Dead.

Rogers was in the room,

His hands full of garments.

Seven.

Bloor recovered himself first.

He said,

Sorry,

Er,

Rogers,

Heard someone moving about in here and thought it,

Well.

He stopped.

Rogers said,

I'm sorry,

Gentlemen,

I was just moving my things.

I take it there will be no objection if I take one of the vacant guest chambers on the floor below?

The smallest room?

It was to Armstrong that he spoke,

And Armstrong replied,

Of course,

Of course,

Get on with it.

He avoided looking at the sheeted figure lying on the bed.

Rogers said,

Thank you,

Sir.

He went out of the room with his arms full of belongings and went down the stairs to the floor below.

Armstrong moved over the bed and lifting the sheet,

Looked down on the peaceful face of the dead woman.

There was no fear now,

Just emptiness.

Armstrong said,

Wish I'd got my stuff here.

I'd like to know what drug it was.

Then he turned to the other two.

Let's get finished.

I feel it in my bones we're not going to find anything.

Bloor was wrestling with the bolts of a low manhole.

He said,

That chap moves damned quietly.

A minute or two ago we saw him in the garden.

None of us heard him coming upstairs.

Lombard said,

I suppose that's why we assumed it must be a stranger moving about up here.

Bloor disappeared into a cavernous darkness.

Lombard pulled a torch from his pocket and followed.

Five minutes later,

Three men stood on an upper landing and looked at each other.

They were dirty and festooned with cobwebs,

And their faces were grim.

There was no one on the island but their eight selves.

That concludes chapter eight.

Chapter nine.

One.

Lombard said slowly.

So we've been wrong?

Wrong all along?

Built up in a nightmare of superstition and fantasy,

All because the coincidence of two deaths?

Armstrong said gravely.

And yet,

You know,

The argument holds.

Hang it all.

I'm a doctor.

I know something about suicides.

Anthony Marston wasn't the suicidal type.

Lombard said doubtfully.

It couldn't,

I suppose,

Have been an accident?

Bloor snorted,

Unconvinced.

Damned queer sort of accident,

He grunted.

There was a pause.

Then Bloor said,

About the woman.

And stop.

Mrs.

Rogers?

Yes.

Is it possible it isn't?

That might have been an accident?

Philip Lombard said.

An accident?

In what way?

Bloor looked slightly embarrassed.

His red brick face grew a little deeper in hue.

He said,

Almost blurting out his words.

Look here,

Doctor.

You did give her some dope,

You know.

Armstrong stared at him.

Dope?

What do you mean?

Last night,

You said yourself you'd given her something to make her sleep.

Oh,

That.

Yes.

A harmless sedative.

What was it exactly?

I gave her a mild dose of trionyl,

A perfectly harmless preparation.

Bloor grew redder still.

He said,

Look here,

Not to mince matters.

You didn't give her an overdose,

Did you?

Dr.

Armstrong said angrily,

I don't know what you mean.

Bloor said,

It's possible,

Isn't it?

That you may have made a mistake?

These things do happen once in a while.

Armstrong said sharply,

I did nothing of the sort.

The suggestion is ridiculous.

He stopped and added in a cold,

Biting tone.

Or do you suggest that I gave her an overdose on purpose?

Philip Lombard said quickly,

Look here,

You two.

Got to keep our heads.

Don't let's start slinging accusations about.

Bloor said sullenly,

I only suggested the doctor had made a mistake.

Dr.

Armstrong smiled with effort.

He said,

Showing his teeth in a somewhat mirthless smile.

Doctors can afford to make mistakes of that kind,

My friend.

Bloor said deliberately,

It wouldn't be the first you've made,

If that gramophone record is to be believed.

Armstrong went white.

Philip Lombard said quickly and angrily to Bloor,

What's the sense of making yourself offensive?

We're all in the boat.

We've got to pull together.

What about your own petty little spot of perjury?

Bloor took a step forward.

His hands clenched.

He said in a thick voice,

Perjury be damned.

That's a foul lie.

You may try and shut me up,

Mr.

Lombard,

But there's things I want to know,

And one of them is about you.

Lombard's eyebrows rose.

About me?

Yes,

I want to know why you brought a revolver down here on a pleasant social visit.

Lombard said,

You do,

Do you?

Yes,

I do,

Mr.

Lombard.

Lombard said unexpectedly,

You know,

Bloor,

You're not nearly such a fool as you look.

That's a maybe.

What about that revolver?

Lombard smiled.

I brought it because I expected to run into a spot of trouble,

Bloor said suspiciously.

You didn't tell us that night.

Lombard shook his head.

You were holding out on us,

Bloor persisted.

In a way,

Yes,

Said Lombard.

Well,

Come on,

Out with it,

Lombard said slowly.

I allowed you all to think that I was asked here in the same way as most of the others.

That's not quite true.

As a matter of fact,

I was approached by a little Jew boy,

Morris was his name.

He offered me a hundred guineas to come down here and keep my eyes open,

Said I'd got a reputation for being a good man in a tight place.

Well,

Bloor prompted impatiently.

Lombard said with a grin,

That's all.

Dr.

Armstrong said,

But surely he told you more than that.

Oh,

No,

He didn't.

Just shut up like a clam.

I could take it or leave it.

Those were his words.

I was hard up.

I took it.

Bloor looked unconvinced.

He said,

Why didn't you tell us all this last night?

My dear man,

Lombard shrugged eloquent shoulders.

How was I to know that last night wasn't exactly the eventuality I was here to cope with?

I lay low and told a noncommittal story.

Dr.

Armstrong said shrewdly,

But now you think differently?

Lombard's face changed.

It darkened and hardened.

He said,

Yes,

I believe now that I'm in the same boat as the rest of you.

That hundred guineas was just Mr.

Owen's little bit of cheese to get me into the trap along with the rest of you.

He said slowly,

For we are in a trap.

I'll take my oath on that.

Mrs.

Rogers' death,

Tony Marston's,

The disappearing soldier boys on the dinner table.

Oh,

Yes,

Mr.

Rowan's hand is plainly seen,

But where the devil is Mr.

Owen himself?

Downstairs the gong pealed,

A solemn call to lunch.

Two.

Rogers was standing by the dining room door.

As the three men descended the stairs,

He moved a step or two forward.

He said in a low anxious voice,

I hope lunch will be satisfactory.

There is a cold ham and cold tongue and I've boiled some potatoes and there's cheese and biscuits and some tinned fruit.

Lombard said,

Sounds all right.

Stores are holding out then.

There is plenty of food,

Sir,

Of a tinned variety.

The larder is very well stocked,

A necessity that I should say,

Sir,

On an island where one may be cut off from the mainland for a considerable period.

Lombard nodded.

Rogers murmured as he followed the three men into the dining room.

It worries me that Fred Naricot hasn't been over today.

Is peculiarly unfortunate,

As you might say?

Yes,

Said Lombard.

Peculiarly unfortunate describes it very well.

Miss Brent came into the room.

She had just dropped a ball of wool and was carefully rewinding the end of it.

As she took her seat at the table,

She remarked,

The weather is changing.

The wind is quite strong and there are white horses on the sea.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave came in.

He walked with a slow measured tread.

He darted quick looks from under his bushy eyebrows at the other occupants of the dining room.

He said,

You have had an active morning.

There was a faint malicious pleasure in his voice.

Vera Claythorne hurried in.

She was a little out of breath.

She said quickly,

I hope you didn't wait for me.

Am I late?

Emily Brent said,

You're not the last.

The general isn't here yet.

They sat round the table.

Rogers addressed Miss Brent.

Will you begin,

Madam,

Or will you wait?

Vera said,

General MacArthur is sitting right down by the sea.

I don't expect he would hear the gong there anyway.

She hesitated.

He's a little vague today,

I think.

Rogers said quickly,

I will go down and inform him luncheon is ready.

Dr.

Armstrong jumped up.

I'll go,

He said.

You others start lunch.

He left the room.

Behind him,

He heard Rogers' voice.

Will you take cold tongue or cold ham,

Madam?

Three.

The five people sitting round the table seemed to find conversation difficult.

Outside,

Sudden gust of wind came up and died away.

Vera shivered a little and said,

There's a storm coming.

Bloor made a contribution to the discourse.

He said,

Conversationally,

There was an old fellow in the train from Plymouth yesterday.

He kept saying a storm was coming.

Wonderful how they know weather,

These old salts.

Rogers went round the table collecting the meat plates.

Suddenly,

With the plates held in his hands,

He stopped.

He said in an odd scared voice,

There's somebody running.

They could all hear it,

Running feet along the terrace.

In that minute,

They knew,

Knew without being told.

As by common accord,

They all rose to their feet.

They stood looking towards the door.

Dr.

Armstrong appeared,

His breath coming fast.

He said,

General MacArthur,

Dead.

The word burst from Vera explosively.

Armstrong said,

Yes,

He's dead.

There was a pause,

A long pause.

Seven people looked at each other and could find no words to say.

The storm broke just as the old man's body was borne in through the door.

The others were standing in the hall.

There was a sudden hiss and roar as the rain came down.

As Bloor and Armstrong passed up the stairs with their burden,

Vera Claythorne turned suddenly and went into the deserted dining room.

It was as they had left it.

The sweet course stood ready on the sideboard,

Untasted.

Vera went up to the table.

She was there a minute or two later when Rogers came softly into the room.

He started when he saw her,

Then his eyes asked a question.

He said,

Oh,

Miss,

I just came to see.

In a lard harsh voice that surprised herself,

Vera said,

You're quite right,

Rogers.

Look for yourself.

There are only seven.

Five.

General MacArthur had been laid on his bed.

After making a last examination,

Armstrong left the room and came downstairs.

He found the others assembled in the drawing room.

Miss Brent was knitting.

Vera Claythorne was standing by the window,

Looking out at the hissing rain.

Bloor was sitting squarely in a chair,

His hands on his knees.

Lombard was walking restlessly up and down.

At the far end of the room,

Mr.

Justice Wargrave was sitting in a grandfather chair.

His eyes were half closed.

They opened as the doctor came into the room.

He said in a clear,

Penetrating voice,

Well,

Doctor,

Armstrong was very pale.

He said,

No question of heart failure or anything like that.

MacArthur was hit with a life preserver or some such thing on the back of the head.

A little murmur went round,

But the clear voice of the judge was raised once more.

Did you find the actual weapon used?

No.

Nevertheless,

You are sure of your facts?

I am quite sure.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said quietly,

We now know exactly where we are.

There was no doubt now who was in charge of the situation.

This morning,

Wargrave had sat huddled in his chair on the terrace,

Refraining from overt activity.

Now he assumed command with the ease born of a long habit of authority.

He definitely presided over the court.

Clearing his throat,

He once more spoke.

This morning,

Gentlemen,

Whilst I was sitting on the terrace,

I was an observer of your activities.

There could be little doubt of your purpose.

You were searching the island for an unknown murderer.

Quite right,

Sir,

Said Philip Lombard.

The judge went on.

You had come,

Doubtless,

To the same conclusion that I had,

Namely that the deaths of Anthony Marston and Mrs.

Rogers were neither accidental nor were they suicides.

No doubt you could also reach a certain conclusion as to the purpose of Mr.

Owen in enticing us to this island.

Blore said hoarsely,

He's a madman,

A loony.

The judge coughed.

That almost certainly,

But it hardly affects the issue.

Our main preoccupation is this,

To save our lives.

Armstrong said in a trembling voice,

There's no one on the island.

I tell you,

No one.

The judge stroked his jaw.

He said gently,

In this sense you mean?

No,

I came to that conclusion early this morning.

I could have told you that your search would be fruitless.

Nevertheless,

I am strongly of the opinion that Mr.

Owen,

To give him the name he himself has adopted,

Is on the island.

Very much so,

Given the scheme in question,

Which is either more nor less than the execution of justice upon certain individuals for offenses which the law cannot touch.

There is only one way in which that scheme could be accomplished.

Mr.

Owen could only come to the island in one way.

It is perfectly clear.

Mr.

Owen is one of us.

6.

Oh,

No,

No,

No.

It was Vera who burst out,

Almost in a moan.

The judge turned a keen eye on her.

He said,

My dear young lady,

This is no time for refusing to look facts in the face.

We are all in grave danger.

One of us is you and Owen,

And we do not know which of us.

Of the ten people who came to this island,

Three are definitely cleared.

Anthony Marston,

Mrs.

Rogers,

And General MacArthur have gone beyond suspicion.

There are seven of us left.

Of those seven,

One is,

If I may so express myself,

A bogus little soldier boy.

He paused and looked round.

Do I take it that you all agree?

Armstrong said,

It's fantastic,

But I suppose you're right.

Bloor said,

Not a doubt of it,

And if you ask me,

I've a very good idea.

A quick gesture of Mr.

Justice Wargrave's hand stopped him.

The judge said quietly,

We will come to that presently.

At the moment,

All I wish to establish is that we are in agreement on all the facts.

Emily Brent,

Still knitting,

Said,

Your argument seems logical.

I agree that one of us is possessed by the devil.

Vera murmured,

I can't believe it.

I can't.

Wargrave said,

Lombard,

I agree,

Sir,

Absolutely.

The judge nodded his head in a satisfied manner.

He said,

Now,

Let us examine the evidence.

To begin with,

Is there any reason for suspecting one particular person?

Mr.

Bloor,

You have,

I think,

Something to say.

Bloor was breathing hard.

He said,

Lombard's got a revolver.

He didn't tell the truth last night.

He admits it.

Philip Lombard smiled scornfully.

He said,

I suppose I'd better explain again.

He did so,

Telling the story briefly and succinctly.

Bloor said sharply,

What's to prove it?

There's nothing to corroborate your story.

The judge coughed.

Unfortunately,

He said,

We are all in that position.

There is only our word to go upon.

He leaned forward.

You,

Have none of you yet grasped what a very peculiar situation this is?

To my mind,

There is only one course of procedure to adopt.

Is there anyone whom we can definitely eliminate from suspicion on the evidence which is in our possession?

Dr.

Armstrong said quickly,

I am a well-known professional man.

The mere idea that I can be suspected of.

Again,

A gesture of the judge's hand arrested a speaker before he finished his speech.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said in a small,

Clear voice,

I too,

A well-known person,

But my dear sir,

That proves less than nothing.

Doctors have gone mad before now.

Judges have gone mad.

So,

He added,

Looking at Bloor,

Half policeman.

Lombard said,

At any rate,

I suppose you'll leave the women out of it?

The judge's eyebrows rose.

He said in the famous acid tones that counsel knew so well.

Do I understand you to assert that women are not subject to homicidal mania?

Lombard said irritably.

Of course not.

But all the same,

It hardly seems possible.

He stopped.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave,

Still in the same thin,

Sour voice,

Addressed Armstrong.

I take it,

Dr.

Armstrong,

That a woman would have been practically capable of striking the blow that killed poor MacArthur?

The doctor said calmly,

Perfectly capable,

Given a suitable instrument,

Such as a rubber truncheon or cosh.

It would require no undue exertion of force?

Not at all.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave wriggled his tortoise-like neck.

He said,

The other two deaths have resulted from the administration of drugs.

That,

No one would dispute,

Is easily compassed by a person of the smallest physical strength.

Vera cried angrily.

I think you're mad.

His eyes turned slowly till they rested on her.

It was the dispassionate stare of a man well used to weighing humanity and the balance.

She thought,

He's just seeing me as a as a specimen.

And the thought came to her with real surprise.

He doesn't like me much.

In a measured tone,

The judge was saying,

My dear young lady,

Do try and restrain your feelings.

I am not accusing you.

He bowed to Miss Brent.

I hope,

Miss Brent,

That you are not offended by my insistence that all of us are equally under suspicion.

Emily Brent was knitting.

She did not look up.

In a cold voice,

She said,

The idea that I should be accused of taking a fellow creature's life,

Not to speak of the lives of three fellow creatures,

Is,

Of course,

Quite absurd to anyone who knows anything about my character.

But I quite appreciate the fact that we are all strangers to one another and that,

In those circumstances,

Nobody can be exonerated without the fullest proof.

There is,

As I have said,

A devil amongst us.

The judge said,

Then we are agreed.

There can be no elimination on the ground of character or position alone.

Lombard said,

What about Rogers?

The judge looked at him unblinking.

What about him?

Lombard said,

Well,

To my mind,

Rogers seems pretty well ruled out.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said,

Indeed,

On what grounds?

Lombard said,

He hasn't got the brains for one thing,

And for another,

His wife was one of the victims.

The judge's heavy eyebrows rose once more.

He said,

In my time,

Young man,

Several people have come before me accused of the murder of their wives and have been found guilty.

Oh,

I agree.

Wife murder is perfectly possible,

Almost natural,

Let's say,

But not this particular kind.

I can believe in Rogers killing his wife because he was scared of her breaking down and giving him away,

Or because he'd taken a dislike to her,

Or because he'd wanted to link up with some nice little bit rather less long in the tooth.

But I can't see him as the lunatic Mr.

Rowan,

Dealing out crazy justice and starting on his own wife for a crime they both committed.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said,

You are assuming hearsay to be evidence.

We do not know that Rogers and his wife conspired to murder their employer.

That may have been a false statement,

Made so that Rogers should appear to be in the same position as ourselves.

Mrs.

Rogers' terror last night may have been due to the fact that she realized her husband was mentally unhinged.

Lombard said,

Well,

Have it your own way.

You and Owen is one of us.

No exceptions allowed.

We all qualify.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said,

My point is that there can be no exceptions allowed on the score of character,

Position,

Or probability.

What we must now examine is the possibility of eliminating one or more persons on the facts.

To put it simply,

Is there among us one or more persons who could not possibly have administered either cyanide to Anthony Marston or an overdose of sleeping draught to Mrs.

Rogers,

And who had no opportunity of striking the blow that killed General MacArthur?

Bloor's rather heavy face lit up.

He leant forward.

Now you're talking,

Sir.

He said,

That's the stuff.

Let's go into it.

As regards to young Marston,

I don't think there's anything to be done.

It's already been suggested that someone from outside slipped something into the dregs of his glass before he refilled it for the last time.

A person actually in the room could have done that even more easily.

I can't remember if Rogers was in the room,

But any of the rest of us could certainly have done it.

He paused,

Then went on.

Now,

Take the woman Rogers.

The people who stand out there are her husband and the doctor.

Either of them could have done it as easy as winking.

Armstrong sprang to his feet.

He was trembling.

I protest.

This is absolutely uncalled for.

I swear that the dose I gave the woman was perfectly.

Dr.

Armstrong.

The small sour voice was compelling.

The doctor stopped with a jerk in the middle of his sentence.

The small cold voice went on.

Your indignation is very natural.

Nevertheless,

You must admit the facts have got to be faced.

Either you or Rogers could have administered a fatal dose with the greatest ease.

Let us now consider the position of the other people present.

What chance had I?

Had Inspector Bloor?

Had Miss Brent?

Had Miss Claythorne?

Had Mr.

Lombard of administering poison?

Can any one of us be completely and entirely eliminated?

He paused.

I think not.

Vera said angrily.

I was nowhere near the woman.

All of you can swear to that.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave waited a minute.

Then he said,

As far as my memory serves me,

The facts were these.

Will anyone please correct me if I make a misstatement?

Mrs.

Rogers was lifted on the by Anthony Marston and Mr.

Lombard and Dr.

Armstrong went to her.

He sent Rogers for brandy.

There was then a question raised as to where the voice we had just heard had come from.

We all went into the next room with the exception of Miss Brent who remained in this room,

Alone with the unconscious woman.

A spot of color came to Emily Brent's cheeks.

She stopped knitting.

She said,

This is outrageous.

The remorseless small voice went on.

When we returned to this room,

You,

Miss Brent,

Were bending over the woman on the sofa.

Emily Brent said,

Is common humanity a criminal offense?

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said,

I'm only establishing facts.

Rogers then entered the room with the brandy,

Which,

Of course,

He could quite well have doctored before entering the room.

The brandy was administered to the woman and shortly afterwards,

Her husband and Dr.

Armstrong had assisted her up to bed,

Where Dr.

Armstrong gave her a sedative.

Blore said,

That's what happened?

Absolutely.

And that lets out the judge,

Mr.

Lombard,

Myself,

And Miss Claythorne.

His voice was loud and jubilant.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave,

Bringing a cold eye to bear upon him,

Murmured,

Ah,

But does it?

We must take into account every possible eventuality.

Blore stared.

He said,

I don't get you.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said,

Upstairs in her room,

Mrs.

Rogers is lying in bed.

The sedative that the doctor has given her begins to take effect.

She is vaguely sleepy and acquiescent,

Supposing that at that moment,

There was a tap on the door and someone enters,

Bringing her,

Shall we say,

A tablet or a draught with the message that the doctor says you're to take this.

Do you imagine for one minute that she would have not swallowed it obediently without thinking twice about it?

There was a silence.

Blore shifted his feet and frowned.

Philip Lombard said,

I don't believe in that story for a minute.

Besides,

None of us left this room for hours afterwards.

There was Marston's death and all the rest of it.

The judge said,

Someone could have left his or her bedroom later.

Lombard objected.

But then Rogers would have been up there.

Dr.

Armstrong stirred.

No,

He said.

Rogers went downstairs to clear up in the dining room and pantry.

Anyone could have gone up to the woman's bedroom then without being seen.

Emily Brent said,

Surely,

Doctor,

The woman could have been fast asleep by then under the influence of the drug you had administered.

In all likelihood,

Yes,

But it is not a certainty.

Until you have prescribed for a patient more than once,

You cannot tell their reaction to different drugs.

There is,

Sometimes,

A considerable period before a sedative takes effect.

It depends on the personal idiosyncrasy of the patient towards that particular drug.

Lombard said,

Of course,

You would say that,

Doctor.

Suit your book,

Eh?

Again,

Armstrong's face darkened with anger.

But again,

That passionless,

Cold little voice stopped the words on his lips.

No good result can come from recrimination.

Facts are what we have to deal with.

It is established,

I think,

That there is a possibility of such a thing as I have outlined occurring.

I agree that its probability value is not high,

Though,

There again,

It depends on who that person might have been.

The appearance of Miss Brent or of Miss Claythorne on such an errand would have occasioned no surprise in the patient's mind.

I agree that the appearance of myself or of Mr.

Bloor or of Mr.

Lombard would have been,

To say the least of it,

Unusual.

But I still think the visit would have been received without the awakening of any real suspicion,

Bloor said.

And that gets us where?

7.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave,

Stroking his lips and looking quite passionless and inhuman,

Said,

We have now dealt with the second killing and have established the facts that no one of us can be completely exonerated from suspicion.

He paused and went on.

We come now to the death of General MacArthur.

That took place this morning.

I will ask anyone who considers that he or she has an alibi to state it in so many words.

I myself was stated at once that I have no valid alibi.

I spent the morning sitting on the terrace and meditating on the singular position in which we all find ourselves.

I sat on that chair on the terrace for the whole morning until the gong went,

But there were,

I should imagine,

Several periods during the morning when I was quite unobserved,

And during which it would have been possible for me to walk down to the sea,

Kill the general,

And return to my chair.

There is only my word for the fact that I never left the terrace.

In the circumstances,

That is not enough.

There must be proof.

Blore said,

I was with Mr.

Lombard and Dr.

Armstrong all the morning.

They'll bear me out.

Dr.

Armstrong said,

You went to the house for a rope.

Blore said,

Of course I did.

Went straight there and straight back.

You know I did.

Armstrong said,

You were a long time.

Blore turned crimson.

He said,

What the hell do you mean by that,

Dr.

Armstrong?

Armstrong repeated,

I only said you were a long time.

Had to find it,

Didn't I?

Can't lay your hands on a coil of rope all in a minute.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave said,

During Inspector Blore's absence,

Were you two gentlemen together?

Armstrong said hotly,

Certainly.

That is,

Lombard went off for a few minutes.

I remained where I was.

Lombard said with a smile,

I wanted to test the possibilities of heliographing to the mainland.

Wanted to find the best spot.

I was only absent for a minute or two.

Armstrong nodded.

He said,

That's right.

Not long enough to do a murder.

I assure you.

The judge said,

Did either of you glance at your watches?

Well,

No.

Philip Lombard said,

I wasn't wearing one.

The judge said evenly,

A minute or two is a vague expression.

He turned his head to the upright figure with the knitting lying on her lap.

Miss Brent?

Emily Brent said,

I took a walk with Miss Claythorne up to the top of the island.

Afterwards,

I sat on the terrace in the sun.

The judge said,

I don't think I noticed you there.

No,

I was around the corner of the house to the east.

It was out of the wind there.

And you sat there till lunchtime?

Yes.

Miss Claythorne?

Vera answered readily and clearly.

I was with Miss Brent early this morning.

After that,

I wondered about a bit.

Then I went down and talked to General MacArthur.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave interrupted.

He said,

What time was that?

Vera,

For the first time,

Was vague.

She said,

I don't know.

About an hour before lunch,

I think.

Or it might have been less.

Blore asked,

Was it after we'd spoken to him or before?

Vera said,

I don't know.

He was very queer.

She shivered.

In what way was he queer?

The judge wanted to know.

Vera said in a low voice,

He said we were all going to die.

He said he was waiting for the end.

He frightened me.

The judge nodded.

He said,

What did you do next?

I went back to the house.

Then,

Just before lunch,

I went out again and up behind the house.

I've been terribly restless all day.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave stroked his chin.

He said,

There remains Rogers,

Though I doubt if his evidence will add anything to our sum of knowledge.

Rogers,

Summoned before the court,

Had very little to tell.

He had been busy all morning about household duties and with the preparation of lunch.

He had taken cocktails out to the terrace before lunch and had then gone up to remove his things from the attic to the other room.

He had not looked out the window during the morning and had seen nothing that could have had any bearing upon the death of General MacArthur.

He would swear definitely that there had been eight china figures upon the dining table when he had laid the table for lunch.

At the conclusion of Rogers' evidence,

There was a pause.

Mr.

Justice Wargrave cleared his throat.

Lombard murmured to Vera Claythorne,

The summing up will now take place.

The judge said,

We have inquired into the circumstances of these three deaths to the best of our ability.

Whilst probability in some cases is against certain people being implicated,

Yet we cannot say definitely that any one person can be considered as cleared of all complicity.

I reiterate to my positive belief that of the seven persons assembled in this room,

One is dangerous and probably insane criminal.

There is no evidence before us as to who that person is.

All we can do at the present juncture is to consider what measures we can take for communicating with the mainland for help,

And in the event of help being delayed,

As is only too possible given the state of the weather,

What measures we must adopt to ensure our safety.

I would ask you all to consider this carefully and to give me any suggestions that may occur to you.

In the meantime,

I warn everybody to be upon his or her guard.

So far,

The murderer has had an easy task since his victims have been unsuspicious.

From now on,

It is our task to suspect each and everyone amongst us.

Forewarned is forearmed.

Take no risk and be alert to danger.

That is all.

" Philip Lombard murmured beneath his breath.

The court will now adjourn.

That concludes Chapter 9,

From the Story,

And Then There Were None,

By Agatha Christie.

Thank you for listening.

I hope you have enjoyed this story.

Become relaxed and possibly fallen asleep.