Agatha Christie

And Then There Were None

To Carlo and Mary
This is their book, dedicated to them
with much affection.

Authorâ€™s Note

I had written this book because it was so difficult to do that the idea had fascinated me. Ten people had to die without it becoming ridiculous or the murderer being obvious. I wrote the book after a tremendous amount of planning, and I was pleased with what I had made of it. It was clear, straightforward, baffling, and yet had a perfectly reasonable explanation; in fact it had to have an epilogue in order to explain it. It was well received and reviewed, but the person who was really pleased with it was myself, for I knew better than any critic how difficult it had been.

from An Autobiography

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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 travelling in Devon;

One said heâ€™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 bumble bee stung one and then there were Five.

Five little soldier boys going in for law;

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

One

I

In the corner of a first-class smoking carriage, Mr. Justice Wargrave, lately retired from the bench, puffed at a cigar and ran an interested eye through 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 watchâanother 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 yachtingâand 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 of the house and island for sale. Various glowing advertisements of it had appeared in the papers. Then came the first bald statement that it had been boughtâby a Mr. Owen. After that the rumours of the gossip writers had started. Soldier Island had really been bought by Miss Gabrielle Turl, the Hollywood film star! She wanted to spend some months there free from all publicity! Busy Bee had hinted delicately that it was to be an abode for Royalty??! Mr. Merryweather had had it whispered to him that it had been bought for a honeymoonâYoung Lord Lâhad surrendered to Cupid at last! Jonas knew for a fact that it had been purchased by the Admiralty with a view to carrying 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 â¦ such years since I heard anything of you â¦ must come to Soldier Island â¦ the most enchanting place â¦ so much to talk over â¦ old days â¦ communion with nature â¦ bask in sunshine â¦12.40 from Paddington â¦ meet you at Oakbridge â¦ and his correspondent signed herself with a flourish his ever Constance Culmington.

Mr. Justice Wargrave cast back in his mind to remember when exactly he had last seen Lady Constance Culmington. It must be sevenâno, eight years ago. She had then 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 a yet stronger sun and live at one with Nature and the bedouin.

Constance Culmington, 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 of his logic, Mr. Justice Wargrave allowed his head to nodâ¦.

He sleptâ¦.

II

Vera Claythorne, in a third-class carriage with five other travellers in it, leaned her head back and shut her eyes. How hot it was travelling 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 childrenâsecretarial holiday posts were much more difficult to get. Even the agency hadnât held out much hope.

And then the letter had come.

âI have received your name from the Skilled Womenâs 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 the 12.40 from Paddington and you will be met at Oakbridge station. I enclose five Â£1 notes for expenses.

Yours truly,
Una Nancy Owen.â

And at the top was the stamped address, Soldier Island, Sticklehaven, Devonâ¦.

Soldier Island! Why, there had been nothing else in the papers lately! All sorts of hints and interesting rumours. Though probably they were 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, âBeing a games mistress in a third-class school isnât much of a catch â¦ If only I could get a job at some decent school.â

And then, with a cold feeling round her heart, she thought: âBut Iâm lucky to have even this. After all, people donât like a Coronerâs Inquest, even if the Coroner did acquit me of all blame!â

He had even complimented her on her presence of mind and courage, she remembered. For an inquest it couldnât have gone better. And Mrs. Hamilton had been kindness itself to herâonly Hugoâbut she wouldnât think of Hugo!

Suddenly, in spite of the heat in the carriage she shivered and wished she wasnât going to the sea. A picture rose clearly before her mind. Cyrilâs head, bobbing up and down, swimming to the rock â¦ up and downâup and down â¦ and herself, swimming in easy practised strokes after himâcleaving her way through the water but knowing, only too surely, that she wouldnât be in timeâ¦.

The seaâits deep warm blueâmornings spent lying out on the sandsâHugoâHugo who had said he loved herâ¦.

She must not think of Hugoâ¦.

She opened her eyes and frowned across at the man opposite her. A tall man with a brown face, light eyes set rather close together and an arrogant, almost cruel mouth.

She thought to herself:

I bet heâs been to some interesting parts of the world and seen some interesting thingsâ¦.

III

Philip Lombard, summing up the girl opposite in a mere flash of his quick moving eyes thought to himself:

âQuite attractiveâa bit schoolmistressy perhaps.â

A cool customer, he should imagineâand one who could hold her ownâin love or war. Heâd rather like to take her onâ¦.

He frowned. No, cut out all that kind of stuff. This was business. Heâd got to keep his mind on the job.

What exactly was up, he wondered? That little Jew had been damned mysterious.

âTake it or leave it, Captain Lombard.â

He had said thoughtfully:

âA hundred guineas, eh?â

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 deceivedâthat was the damnable part about Jews, you couldnât deceive them about moneyâthey knew!

He said in the same casual tone:

âAnd you canât give me any further information?â

Mr. Isaac Morris had shaken his little bald head very positively.

âNo, 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 one hundred guineas in return for which you will travel to Sticklehaven, 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.â

Lombard had said abruptly:

âFor how long?â

âNot longer than a week at most.â

Fingering his small moustache, Captain Lombard said:

âYou understand I canât undertake anythingâillegal?â

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:

âIf anything illegal is proposed, you will, of course, be at perfect liberty to withdraw.â

Damn the smooth little brute, he had smiled! It was as though he knew very well that in Lombardâs past actions legality had not always been a sine qua nonâ¦.

Lombardâs own lips parted in a grin.

By Jove, heâd sailed pretty near the wind once or twice! But heâd always got away with it! There wasnât much he drew the line at reallyâ¦.

No, there wasnât much heâd draw the line at. He fancied that he was going to enjoy himself at Soldier Islandâ¦.

IV

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 shamelessly laxâin their carriage, and in every other wayâ¦.

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 pulledâthey took drugs if they couldnât sleepâthey wanted easy chairs and cushions and the girls allowed their figures to slop about anyhow and lay about half naked on the beaches in summer.

Miss Brentâs lips set closely. She would like to make an example of certain people.

She remembered last yearâs summer holiday. This year, however, it would be quite different. Soldier Islandâ¦.

Mentally she re-read the letter which she had already read so many times.

âDear Miss Brent,

I do hope you remember me? We were together at Belhaven Guest House in August some years ago, and we seemed to have so much in common.

I am starting a guest house 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 and 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 Islandâquite freeâas my guest. Would early in August suit you? Perhaps the 8th.

Yours sincerely,
U.N.Oâ.â

What was the name? The signature was rather difficult to read. Emily Brent thought impatiently: âSo many people write their signatures quite illegibly.â

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 womanâMissâMissânow what was her name?âher father had been a Canon. And there had been a Mrs. OltonâOrmenâNo, surely it was Oliver! YesâOliver.

Soldier Island! There had been things in the paper about Soldier Islandâsomething about a film starâor was it an American millionaire?

Of course often those places went very cheapâislands didnât 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: âI shall be getting a free holiday at any rate.â

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.âor was it MissâOliver?

V

General Macarthur looked out of the carriage window. The train was just coming into Exeter, where he had to change. Damnable, these slow branch line trains! This place, Soldier Island, was really no distance at all as the crow flies.

He hadnât got it clear who this fellow Owen was. A friend of Spoof Leggardâs, apparentlyâand of Johnnie Dyerâs.

ââOne or two of your old cronies are comingâwould like to have a talk over old times.â

Well, heâd enjoy a chat about old times. Heâd had a fancy lately that fellows were rather fighting shy of him. All owing to that damned rumour! By God, it was pretty hardânearly thirty years ago now! Armitage had talked, he supposed. Damned young pup! What did he know about it? Oh, well, no good brooding about these things! One fancied things sometimesâfancied a fellow was looking at you queerly.

This Soldier Island, now, heâd be interested to see it. A lot of gossip flying about. Looked as though there might be something in the rumour that the Admiralty or the War Office or the Air Force had got hold of itâ¦.

Young Elmer Robson, the American millionaire, had actually built the place. Spent thousands on it, so it was said. Every mortal luxuryâ¦.

Exeter! And an hour to wait! And he didnât want to wait. He wanted to get onâ¦.

VI

Dr. Armstrong was driving his Morris across Salisbury Plain. He was very tired â¦ Success had its penalties. There had been a time when he had sat in his consulting room in Harley Street, correctly apparelled, surrounded with the most up to date appliances and the most luxurious furnishings and waitedâwaited through the empty days for his venture to succeed or failâ¦.

Well, it had succeeded! Heâd been lucky! Lucky and skilful of course. He was a good man at his jobâbut that wasnât enough for success. You had to have luck as well. And heâd had it! An accurate diagnosis, a couple of grateful women patientsâwomen with money and positionâand word had got about. âYou ought to try Armstrongâquite a young manâbut so cleverâPam had been to all sorts of people for years and he put his finger on the trouble at once!â 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 the Devon coast. Not that it was exactly a holiday. The letter he had received had been rather vague in its terms, but there was nothing vague about the accompanying cheque. A whacking fee. These Owens must be rolling in money. Some little difficulty, it seemed, a husband who was worried about his wifeâs health and wanted a report on it without her being alarmed. She wouldnât hear of seeing a doctor. Her nervesâ

Nerves! The doctorâs eyebrows went up. These women and their nerves! Well, it was good for business after all. Half the women who consulted him had nothing the matter with them but boredom, but they wouldnât thank you for telling them so! And one could usually find something.

âA slightly uncommon condition of the (some long word) nothing at all seriousâbut it needs just putting right. A simple treatment.â

Well, medicine was mostly faith-healing when it came to it. And he had a good mannerâhe could inspire hope and belief.

Lucky that heâd managed to pull himself together in time after that business tenâno, fifteen years ago. It had been a near thing, that! Heâd been going to pieces. The shock had pulled him together. Heâd cut out drink altogether. By Jove, it had been a near thing, thoughâ¦.

With a devastating ear-splitting blast on the horn an enormous Super-Sports Dalmain car rushed past him at eighty miles an hour. Dr. Armstrong nearly went into the hedge. One of these young fools who tore round the country. He hated them. That had been a near shave, too. Damned young fool!

VII

Tony Marston, roaring down into Mere, thought to himself:

âThe amount of cars crawling about the roads is frightful. Always something blocking your way. And they will drive in the middle of the road! Pretty hopeless driving in England, anywayâ¦. Not like France where you really could let outâ¦.â

Should he stop here for a drink, or push on? Heaps of time! Only another hundred miles and a bit to go. Heâd have a gin and ginger beer. Fizzing hot day!

This island place ought to be rather good funâif 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 ownâ¦.

Hope theyâd do one well in drinks. Never knew with these fellows whoâd made their money and werenât born to it. Pity that story about Gabrielle Turl having bought Soldier Island wasnât true. Heâd like to have been in with that film star crowd.

Oh, well, he supposed thereâd be a few girls thereâ¦.

Coming out of the hotel, he stretched himself, yawned, looked up at the blue sky and climbed into the Dalmain.

Several young women looked at him admiringlyâhis 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.

VIII

Mr. Blore was in the slow train from Plymouth. There was only one other person in his carriage, an elderly seafaring gentleman with a bleary eye. At the present moment he had dropped off to sleep.

Mr. Blore was writing carefully in a little notebook.

âThatâs the lot,â he muttered to himself. âEmily Brent, Vera Claythorne, Dr. Armstrong, Anthony Marston, old Justice Wargrave, Philip Lombard, General Macarthur, C.M.G., D.S.O. Manservant and wife: Mr. and Mrs. Rogers.â

He closed the notebook and put it back in his pocket. He glanced over at the corner and the slumbering man.

âHad one over the eight,â diagnosed Mr. Blore accurately.

He went over things carefully and conscientiously in his mind.

âJob ought to be easy enough,â he ruminated. âDonât see how I can slip up on it. Hope I look all right.â

He stood up and scrutinized himself anxiously in the glass. The face reflected there was of a slightly military cast with a moustache. There was very little expression in it. The eyes were grey and set rather close together.

âMight be a Major,â said Mr. Blore. âNo, I forgot. Thereâs that old military gent. Heâd spot me at once.â

âSouth Africa,â said Mr. Blore, âthatâs my line! None of these people have anything to do with South Africa, and Iâve just been reading that travel folder so I can talk about it all right.â

Fortunately there were all sorts and types of colonials. As a man of means from South Africa, Mr. Blore felt that he could enter into any society unchallenged.

Soldier Island. He remembered Soldier Island as a boy â¦ Smelly sort of rock covered with gullsâstood about a mile from the coast.

Funny idea to go and build a house on it! Awful in bad weather! But millionaires were full of whims!

The old man in the corner woke up and said:

âYou canât never tell at seaânever!â

Mr. Blore said soothingly, âThatâs right. You canât.â

The old man hiccupped twice and said plaintively:

âThereâs a squall coming.â

Mr. Blore said:

âNo, no, mate, itâs a lovely day.â

The old man said angrily:

âThereâs a squall ahead. I can smell it.â

âMaybe youâre right,â said Mr. Blore pacifically.

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

âThish where I get out.â He fumbled with the window. Mr. Blore helped him.

The old man stood in the doorway. He raised a solemn hand and blinked his bleary eyes.

âWatch and pray,â he said. âWatch and pray. The day of judgment is at hand.â

He collapsed through the doorway on to the platform. From a recumbent position he looked up at Mr. Blore and said with immense dignity:

âIâm talking to you, young man. The day of judgment is very close at hand.â

Subsiding on to his seat Mr. Blore thought to himself: Heâs nearer the day of judgment than I am!

But there, as it happens, he was wrongâ¦.

Two

I

Outside Oakbridge station a little group of people stood in momentary uncertainty. Behind them stood porters with suitcases. One of these called, âJim!â

The driver of one of the taxis stepped forward.

âYouâm for Soldier Island, maybe?â he asked in a soft Devon voice. Four voices gave assentâand 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:

âThere are two taxis here, sir. One of them must wait till the slow train from Exeter gets inâa matter of five minutesâthereâs one gentleman coming by that. Perhaps one of you wouldnât mind waiting? Youâd be more comfortable that way.â

Vera Claythorne, her own secretarial position clear in her mind, spoke at once.

âIâll wait,â she said, âif you will go on?â 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, âThank you,â 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:

âIâll wait with Missââ

âClaythorne,â said Vera.

âMy name is Lombard, Philip Lombard.â

The porters were piling luggage on the taxi. Inside, Mr. Justice Wargrave said with due legal caution:

âBeautiful weather we are having.â

Miss Brent said:

âYes, indeed.â

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 connectionsâ¦.

Mr. Justice Wargrave inquired:

âDo you know this part of the world well?â

âI have been to Cornwall and to Torquay, but this is my first visit to this part of Devon.â

The judge said:

âI also am unacquainted with this part of the world.â

The taxi drove off.

The driver of the second taxi said:

âLike to sit inside while youâre waiting?â

Vera said decisively:

âNot at all.â

Captain Lombard smiled. He said:

âThat sunny wall looks more attractive. Unless youâd rather go inside the station?â

âNo, indeed. Itâs so delightful to get out of that stuffy train.â

He answered:

âYes, travelling by train is rather trying in this weather.â

Vera said conventionally:

âI do hope it lastsâthe weather, I mean. Our English summers are so treacherous.â

With a slight lack of originality Lombard asked:

âDo you know this part of the world well?â

âNo, Iâve never been here before.â She added quickly, conscientiously determined to make her position clear at once, âI havenât even seen my employer yet.â

âYour employer?â

âYes, Iâm Mrs. Owenâs secretary.â

âOh, I see.â Just imperceptibly his manner changed. It was slightly more assuredâeasier in tone. He said: âIsnât that rather unusual?â

Vera laughed.

âOh, no, I donât think so. Her own secretary was suddenly taken ill and she wired to an agency for a substitute and they sent me.â

âSo that was it. And suppose you donât like the post when youâve got there?â

Vera laughed again.

âOh, itâs only temporaryâa holiday post. Iâve got a permanent job at a girlsâ school. As a matter of fact, Iâm frightfully thrilled at the prospect of seeing Soldier Island. Thereâs been such a lot about it in the papers. Is it really very fascinating?â

Lombard said:

âI donât know. I havenât seen it.â

âOh, really? The Owens are frightfully keen on it, I suppose. What are they like? Do tell me.â

Lombard thought: Awkward, thisâam I supposed to have met them or not? He said quickly:

âThereâs a wasp crawling up your arm. Noâkeep quite still.â He made a convincing pounce. âThere. Itâs gone!â

âOh, thank you. There are a lot of wasps about this summer.â

âYes, I suppose itâs the heat. Who are we waiting for, do you know?â

âI havenât the least idea.â

The loud drawn-out scream of an approaching train was heard. Lombard said:

âThat will be the train now.â

It was a tall soldierly old man who appeared at the exit from the platform. His grey hair was clipped close and he had a neatly trimmed white moustache.

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:

âI am Mrs. Owenâs secretary. There is a car here waiting.â She added, âThis is Mr. Lombard.â

The faded blue eyes, shrewd in spite of their age, sized up Lombard. For a moment a judgment showed in themâhad there been any one to read it.

âGood-looking fellow. Something just a little wrong about himâ¦.â

The three of them got into the waiting taxi. They drove through the sleepy streets of little Oakbridge 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:

âDonât know this part of Devon at all. My little place is in East Devonâjust on the borderline of Dorset.â

Vera said:

âIt really is lovely here. The hills and the red earth and everything so green and luscious-looking.â

Philip Lombard said critically:

âItâs a bit shut in â¦ I like open country myself. Where you can see whatâs comingâ¦.â

General Macarthur said to him:

âYouâve seen a bit of the world, I fancy?â

Lombard shrugged his shoulders disparagingly.

âIâve knocked about here and there, sir.â

He thought to himself: âHeâll ask me now if I was old enough to be in the War. These old boys always do.â

But General Macarthur did not mention the War.

II

They came up over a steep hill and down a zigzag track to Sticklehavenâa 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:

âItâs a long way out.â

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 manâa big bluff man who came forward and introduced himself.

âThought we might as well wait for you,â he said. âMake one trip of it. Allow me to introduce myself. Nameâs Davis. Natal, South Africaâs my natal spot, ha, ha!â

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.

âAny one care for a little nip before we embark?â asked Mr. Davis hospitably.

Nobody assenting to this proposition, Mr. Davis turned and held up a finger.

âMustnât delay, then. Our good host and hostess will be expecting us,â 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 paralysing effect upon the guests.

In response to Davisâs 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.

âWill you be ready to be starting for the island, ladies and gentlemen? The boatâs waiting. Thereâs two gentlemen coming by car but Mr. Owenâs orders was not to wait for them as they might arrive at any time.â

The party got up. Their guide led them along a small stone jetty. Alongside it a motorboat was lying.

Emily Brent said:

âThatâs a very small boat.â

The boatâs owner said persuasively:

âSheâs a fine boat that, Maâam. You could go to Plymouth in her as easy as winking.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said sharply:

âThere are a good many of us.â

âSheâd take double the number, sir.â

Philip Lombard said in his pleasant easy voice:

âItâs quite all right. Glorious weatherâno swell.â

Rather doubtfully, Miss Brent permitted herself to be helped into the boat. The others followed suit. There was as yet no fraternizing 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, boat-hook in hand.

Down the steep track into the village a car was coming. A car so fantastically powerful, so superlatively 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 blaze 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.

III

Fred Narracott sat by the engine thinking to himself that this was a queer lot. Not at all his idea of what Mr. Owenâs guests were likely to be. Heâd 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 Robsonâs parties. A faint grin came to Fred Narracottâs lips as he remembered the millionaireâs guests. That had been a party if you likeâand the drink theyâd got through!

This Mr. Owen must be a very different sort of gentleman. Funny, it was, thought Fred, that heâd never yet set eyes on Owenâor his Missus either. Never been down here yet he hadnât. Everything ordered and paid for by that Mr. Morris. Instructions always very clear and payment prompt, but it was odd, all the same. The papers said there was some mystery about Owen. Mr. Narracott agreed with them.

Perhaps after all, it was Miss Gabrielle Turl who had bought the island. But that theory departed from him as he surveyed his passengers. Not this lotânone of them looked likely to have anything to do with a film star.

He summed them up dispassionately.

One old maidâthe sour kindâhe knew them well enough. She was a tartar he could bet. Old military gentlemanâreal Army look about him. Nice-looking young ladyâbut the ordinary kind, not glamorousâno Hollywood touch about her. That bluff cheery gentâhe wasnât a real gentleman. Retired tradesman, thatâs what he is, thought Fred Narracott. 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 been all like him â¦ heâd understand itâ¦.

Queer business when you came to think of itâthe whole thing was queerâvery queerâ¦.

IV

The boat churned its way round the rock. Now at last the house came into view. The south side of the island was quite different. It shelved gently down to the sea. The house was there facing southâlow and square and modern looking with rounded windows letting in all the light.

An exciting houseâa house that lived up to expectation!

Fred Narracott shut off the engine, they nosed their way gently into a little natural inlet between rocks.

Philip Lombard said sharply:

âMust be difficult to land here in dirty weather.â

Fred Narracott said cheerfully:

âCanât land on Soldier Island when thereâs a southeasterly. Sometimes âtis cut off for a week or more.â

Vera Claythorne thought:

âThe catering must be very difficult. Thatâs the worst of an island. All the domestic problems are so worrying.â

The boat grated against the rocks. Fred Narracott jumped out and he and Lombard helped the others to alight. Narracott made the boat fast to a ring in the rock. Then he led the way up steps cut in the cliff.

General Macarthur said:

âHa! delightful spot!â

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 magnificentâ¦.

The butler came forward bowing slightly. He was a tall lank man, grey-haired and very respectable. He said:

âWill you come this way, please.â

In the wide hall drinks stood ready. Rows of bottles. Anthony Marstonâs spirits cheered up a little. Heâd 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. Owenâunfortunately delayedâunable to get here till tomorrow. Instructionsâeverything they wantedâif they would like to go to their rooms? â¦ dinner would be at eight oâclockâ¦.

V

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:

âI hope youâve got everything you want, Miss?â

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 quickly:

âYes, everything, I think.â

âYouâll ring the bell if you want anything, Miss?â

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:

âShe looks frightened of her own shadow.â

Yes, that was itâfrightened!

She looked like a woman who walked in mortal fearâ¦.

A little shiver passed down Veraâs back. What on earth was the woman afraid of?

She said pleasantly:

âIâm Mrs. Owenâs new secretary. I expect you know that.â

Mrs. Rogers said:

âNo, Miss, I donât know anything. Just a list of the ladies and gentlemen and what rooms they were to have.â

Vera said:

âMrs. Owen didnât mention me?â

Mrs. Rogersâ eyelashes flickered.

âI havenât seen Mrs. Owenânot yet. We only came here two days ago.â

Extraordinary people, these Owens, thought Vera. Aloud she said:

âWhat staff is there here?â

âJust me and Rogers, Miss.â

Vera frowned. Eight people in the houseâten with the host and hostessâand only one married couple to do for them.

Mrs. Rogers said:

âIâm a good cook and Rogers is handy about the house. I didnât know, of course, that there was to be such a large party.â

Vera said:

âBut you can manage?â

âOh yes, Miss, I can manage. If thereâs to be large parties often perhaps Mrs. Owen could get extra help in.â

Vera said, âI expect so.â

Mrs. Rogers turned to go. Her feet moved noiselessly 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. Everythingâsomehowâwas a little queer. The absence of the Owens, the pale ghostlike Mrs. Rogers. And the guests! Yes, the guests were queer, too. An oddly assorted party.

Vera thought:

âI wish Iâd seen the Owens â¦ I wish I knew what they were like.â

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 floorâfaintly tinted wallsâa 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 parchmentâa poem.

She stood in 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 travelling in Devon;

One said heâd 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 bumble bee stung one and then there were Five.

Five little soldier boys going in for law;

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.

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

The sea â¦ So peaceful todayâsometimes so cruel â¦ The sea that dragged you down to its depths. Drowned â¦Found drowned â¦ Drowned at sea â¦ Drownedâdrownedâdrownedâ¦.

No, she wouldnât remember â¦ She would not think of it!

All that was overâ¦.

VI

Dr. Armstrong came to Soldier Island just as the sun was sinking into the sea. On the way across he had chatted to the boatmanâa local man. He was anxious to find out a little about these people who owned Soldier Island, but the man Narracott seemed curiously ill-informed, 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 peaceâthat was what he needed. He would like, really, to take a long holiday. But he couldnât afford to do that. He could afford it financially, of course, but he couldnât afford to drop out. You were soon forgotten nowadays. No, now that he had arrived, he must keep his nose to the grindstone.

He thought:

âAll the same, this evening, Iâll imagine to myself that Iâm not going backâthat Iâve done with London and Harley Street and all the rest of it.â

There was something magical about an islandâthe mere word suggested fantasy. You lost touch with the worldâan island was a world of its own. A world, perhaps, from which you might never return.

He thought:

âIâm leaving my ordinary life behind me.â

And, smiling to himself, he began to make plans, fantastic plans for the future. He was still smiling when he walked up 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 attitudeâyes and those pale shrewd little eyes? Of courseâold Wargrave. Heâd given evidence once before him. Always looked half asleep, but was shrewd as could be when it came to a point of law. Had great power with a juryâit was said he could make their minds up for them any day of the week. Heâd got one or two unlikely convictions out of them. A hanging judge, some people said.

Funny place to meet him â¦ hereâout of the world.

VII

Mr. Justice Wargrave thought to himself:

âArmstrong? Remember him in the witness-box. Very correct and cautious. All doctors are damned fools. Harley Street ones are the worst of the lot.â And his mind dwelt malevolently on a recent interview he had had with a suave personage in that very street.

Aloud he grunted:

âDrinks are in the hall.â

Dr. Armstrong said:

âI must go and pay my respects to my host and hostess.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave closed his eyes again, looking decidedly reptilian, and said:

âYou canât do that.â

Dr. Armstrong was startled.

âWhy not?â

The judge said:

âNo host and hostess. Very curious state of affairs. Donât understand this place.â

Dr. Armstrong stared at him for a minute. When he thought the old gentleman had actually gone to sleep, Wargrave said suddenly:

âDâyou know Constance Culmington?â

âErâno, Iâm afraid I donât.â

âItâs of no consequence,â said the judge. âVery vague womanâand practically unreadable handwriting. I was just wondering if Iâd come to the wrong house.â

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

Mr. Justice Wargrave reflected on the subject of Constance Culmington. Undependable like all women.

His mind went on to the two women in the house, the tight-lipped old maid and the girl. He didnât 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:

âIs Lady Constance Culmington expected, do you know?â

Rogers stared at him.

âNo, sir, not to my knowledge.â

The judgeâs eyebrows rose. But he only grunted.

He thought:

âSoldier Island, eh? Thereâs a fly in the ointment.â

VIII

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 head. Anthony was a creature of sensationâand of action.

He thought to himself:

âMust go through with it, I suppose,â and thereafter dismissed everything from his mind.

Warm steaming waterâtired limbsâpresently a shaveâa cocktailâdinner.

And afterâ?

IX

Mr. Blore was tying his tie. He wasnât very good at this sort of thing.

Did he look all right? He supposed so.

Nobody had been exactly cordial to him â¦ Funny the way they all eyed each otherâas though they knew.â¦

Well, it was up to him.

He didnât 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 Iâd be doing this sort of a job in a house here. Good thing, perhaps, that one canât foresee the future.

X

General Macarthur was frowning to himself.

Damn it all, the whole thing was deuced odd! Not at all what heâd been led to expectâ¦.

For two pins heâd make an excuse and get away â¦ Throw up the whole businessâ¦.

But the motorboat had gone back to the mainland.

Heâd have to stay.

That fellow Lombard now, he was a queer chap.

Not straight. Heâd swear the man wasnât straight.

XI

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 preyâpleasant to the eye.

He was smiling to himself.

A weekâeh?

He was going to enjoy that week.

XII

In her bedroom, Emily Brent, dressed in black silk ready for dinner, was reading her Bible.

Her lips moved as she followed the words:

âThe 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.â

Her lips tight closed. She shut the Bible.

Rising, she pinned a cairngorm brooch at her neck, and went down to dinner.

Three

I

Dinner was drawing to a close.

The food had been good, the wine perfect. Rogers waited well.

Every one 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:

âQuaint, these things, arenât they?â

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

âSoldiers,â said Tony. âSoldier Island. I suppose thatâs the idea.â

Vera leaned forward.

âI wonder. How many are there? Ten?â

âYesâten there are.â

Vera cried:

âWhat fun! Theyâre the ten little soldier boys of the nursery rhyme, I suppose. In my bedroom the rhyme is framed and hung up over the mantelpiece.â

Lombard said:

âIn my room, too.â

âAnd mine.â

âAnd mine.â

Everybody joined in the chorus. Vera said:

âItâs an amusing idea, isnât it?â

Mr. Justice Wargrave grunted:

âRemarkably childish,â 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 on to the terrace and the sound of the sea murmuring against the rocks came up to them.

Emily Brent said, âPleasant sound.â

Vera said sharply, âI hate it.â

Miss Brentâs eyes looked at her in surprise. Vera flushed. She said, more composedly:

âI donât think this place would be very agreeable in a storm.â

Emily Brent agreed.

âIâve no doubt the house is shut up in winter,â she said. âYouâd never get servants to stay here for one thing.â

Vera murmured:

âIt must be difficult to get servants anyway.â

Emily Brent said:

âMrs. Oliver has been lucky to get these two. The womanâs a good cook.â

Vera thought:

âFunny how elderly people always get names wrong.â

She said:

âYes, I think Mrs. Owen has been very lucky indeed.â

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:

âOwen? Did you say Owen?â

âYes.â

Emily Brent said sharply:

âIâve never met anyone called Owen in my life.â

Vera stared.

âBut surelyââ

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 naÃ¯ve surprise a statuette in brassâwondering 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 moustache. 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 goodâreally 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 silenceâa comfortable replete silence.

Into that silence came The Voice. Without warning, inhuman, penetratingâ¦.

âLadies and gentlemen! Silence please!â

Everyone was startled. They looked roundâat each other, at the walls. Who was speaking?

The Voice went onâa high clear voice:

âYou are charged with the following indictments:

âEdward George Armstrong, that you did upon the 14th day of March, 1925, cause the death of Louisa Mary Clees.

âEmily Caroline Brent, that upon the 5th of November, 1931, you were responsible for the death of Beatrice Taylor.

âWilliam Henry Blore, that you brought about the death of James Stephen Landor on October 10th, 1928.

âVera Elizabeth Claythorne, that on the 11th day of August, 1935, you killed Cyril Ogilvie Hamilton.

âPhilip Lombard, that upon a date in February, 1932, you were guilty of the death of twenty-one men, members of an East African tribe.

âJohn Gordon Macarthur, that on the 4th of January, 1917, you deliberately sent your wifeâs lover, Arthur Richmond, to his death.

âAnthony James Marston, that upon the 14th day of November last, you were guilty of the murder of John and Lucy Combes.

âThomas Rogers and Ethel Rogers, that on the 6th of May, 1929, you brought about the death of Jennifer Brady.

âLawrence John Wargrave, that upon the 10th day of June, 1930, you were guilty of the murder of Edward Seton.

âPrisoners at the bar, have you anything to say in your defence?â

II

The voice had stopped.

There was a momentâs 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:

âMarston.â

Anthony sprang to help him. Between them, they lifted up the woman and carried her into the drawing room.

Dr. Armstrong came across quickly. He helped them to lift her on to the sofa and bent over her. He said quickly:

âItâs nothing. Sheâs fainted, thatâs all. Sheâll be round in a minute.â

Lombard said to Rogers:

âGet some brandy.â

Rogers, his face white, his hands shaking, murmured:

âYes, sir,â and slipped quickly out of the room.

Vera cried out:

âWho was that speaking? Where was he? It soundedâit soundedââ

General Macarthur spluttered out:

âWhatâs going on here? What kind of a practical joke was that?â

His hand was shaking. His shoulders sagged. He looked suddenly ten years older.

Blore was mopping his face with a 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 colour. 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:

âThat voice? It sounded as though it were in the room.â

Vera cried:

âWho was it? Who was it? It wasnât one of us.â

Like the judge, Lombardâs eyes wandered slowly round the room. They rested a minute on 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:

âAh, here we are.â

The others crowded after him. Only Miss Brent 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 gramophoneâan 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 âYou are charged with the following indictmentsââ

Vera cried:

âTurn it off! Turn it off! Itâs horrible!â

Lombard obeyed.

Dr. Armstrong said, with a sigh of relief:

âA disgraceful and heartless practical joke, I suppose.â

The small clear voice of Mr. Justice Wargrave murmured:

âSo you think itâs a joke, do you?â

The doctor stared at him.

âWhat else could it be?â

The hand of the judge gently stroked his upper lip.

He said:

âAt the moment Iâm not prepared to give an opinion.â

Anthony Marston broke in. He said:

âLook here, thereâs one thing youâve forgotten. Who the devil turned the thing on and set it going?â

Wargrave murmured:

âYes, I think we must inquire into that.â

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 women.

âAllow me, Madam, Iâll speak to her. EthelâEthelâitâs all right. All right, do you hear? Pull yourself together.â

Mrs. Rogersâ breath came in quick gasps. Her eyes, staring frightened eyes, went round and round the ring of faces. There was urgency in Rogersâ tone.

âPull yourself together, Ethel.â

Dr. Armstrong spoke to her soothingly:

âYouâll be all right now, Mrs. Rogers. Just a nasty turn.â She said:

âDid I faint, sir?â

âYes.â

âIt was the voiceâthat awful voiceâlike a judgmentââ

Her face turned green again, her eyelids fluttered.

Dr. Armstrong said sharply:

âWhereâs that brandy?â

Rogers had put it down on a little table. Someone handed it to the doctor and he bent over the gasping woman with it.

âDrink this, Mrs. Rogers.â

She drank, choking a little and gasping. The spirit did her good. The colour returned to her face. She said:

âIâm all right now. It justâgave me a turn.â

Rogers said quickly:

âOf course it did. It gave me a turn, too. Fair made me drop that tray. Wicked lies, it was! Iâd like to knowââ

He was interrupted. It was only a coughâa 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:

âWho put on that record on the gramophone. Was it you, Rogers?â

Rogers cried:

âI didnât know what it was. Before God, I didnât know what it was, sir. If I had Iâd never have done it.â

The judge said dryly:

âThat is probably true. But I think youâd better explain, Rogers.â

The butler wiped his face with a handkerchief. He said earnestly:

âI was just obeying orders, sir, thatâs all.â

âWhose orders?â

âMr. Owenâs.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said:

âLet me get this quite clear. Mr. Owenâs orders wereâwhat exactly?â

Rogers said:

âI was to put a record on the gramophone. Iâd find the record in the drawer and my wife was to start the gramophone when Iâd gone into the drawing room with the coffee tray.â

The judge murmured:

âA very remarkable story.â

Rogers cried:

âItâs the truth, sir. I swear to God itâs the truth. I didnât know what it wasânot for a moment. It had a name on itâI thought it was just a piece of music.â

Wargrave looked at Lombard.

âWas there a title on it?â

Lombard nodded. He grinned suddenly, showed his white pointed teeth. He said:

âQuite right, sir. It was entitled Swan Song.â¦â

III

General Macarthur broke out suddenly. He exclaimed:

âThe whole thing is preposterousâpreposterous! Slinging accusations about like this! Something must be done about it. This fellow Owen whoever he isââ

Emily Brent interrupted. She said sharply:

âThatâs just it, who is he?â

The judge interposed. He spoke with the authority that a lifetime in the courts had given him. He said:

âThat is exactly what we must go into very carefully. I should suggest that you get your wife to bed first of all, Rogers. Then come back here.â

âYes, sir.â

Dr. Armstrong said:

âIâll give you a hand, Rogers.â

Leaning on the two men, Mrs. Rogers tottered out of the room. When they had gone Tony Marston said:

âDonât know about you, sir, but I could do with a drink.â

Lombard said:

âI agree.â

Tony said:

âIâll go and forage.â

He went out of the room.

He returned a second or two later.

âFound them all waiting on a tray outside ready to be brought in.â

He set down his burden carefully. The next minute or two was spent in dispensing drinks. General Macarthur had a stiff whisky and so did the judge. Every one felt the need of a stimulant. Only Emily Brent demanded and obtained a glass of water.

Dr. Armstrong reentered the room.

âSheâs all right,â he said. âIâve given her a sedative to take. Whatâs that, a drink? I could do with one.â

Several of the men refilled their glasses. A moment or two later Rogers reentered the room.

Mr. Justice Wargrave took charge of the proceedings. The room became an impromptu court of law.

The judge said:

âNow then, Rogers, we must get to the bottom of this. Who is this Mr. Owen?â

Rogers stared.

âHe owns this place, sir.â

âI am aware of that fact. What I want you to tell me is what you yourself know about the man.â

Rogers shook his head.

âI canât say, sir. You see, Iâve never seen him.â

There was a faint stir in the room.

General Macarthur said:

âYouâve never seen him? What dâyer mean?â

âWeâve 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.â

Blore nodded.

âOld established firm,â he volunteered.

Wargrave said:

âHave you got that letter?â

âThe letter engaging us? No, sir. I didnât keep it.â

âGo on with your story. You were engaged, as you say, by letter.â

âYes, sir. We were to arrive on a certain day. We did. Everything was in order here. Plenty of food in stock and everything very nice. Just needed dusting and that.â

âWhat next?â

âNothing, sir. We got ordersâby letter againâto prepare the rooms for a house party, and then yesterday by the afternoon post I got another letter from Mr. Owen. 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.â

The judge said sharply:

âSurely youâve got that letter?â

âYes, sir, Iâve got it here.â

He produced it from a pocket. The judge took it.

âHâm,â he said. âHeaded Ritz Hotel and typewritten.â

With a quick movement Blore was beside him.

He said:

âIf youâll just let me have a look.â

He twitched it out of the otherâs hand, and ran his eye over it. He murmured:

âCoronation machine. Quite newâno defects. Ensign paperâthe most widely used make. You wonât get anything out of that. Might be fingerprints, but I doubt it.â

Wargrave stared at him with sudden attention.

Anthony Marston was standing beside Blore looking over his shoulder. He said:

âGot some fancy Christian names, hasnât he? Ulick Norman Owen. Quite a mouthful.â

The old judge said with a slight start:

âI am obliged to you, Mr. Marston. You have drawn my attention to a curious and suggestive point.â

He looked round at the others and thrusting his neck forward like an angry tortoise, he said:

âI think the time has come for us all to pool 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.â He paused and then went on: âWe are all his guests. I think it would be profitable if each one of us were to explain exactly how that came about.â

There was a momentâs pause and then Emily Brent spoke with decision.

âThereâs something very peculiar about all this,â she said. âI received a letter with a signature that was not very 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 any one of the name of Owen.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said:

âYou have that letter, Miss Brent?â

âYes, I will fetch it for you.â

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

The judge read it. He said:

âI begin to understand â¦ Miss Claythorne?â

Vera explained the circumstances of her secretarial engagement.

The judge said:

âMarston?â

Anthony said:

âGot 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.â

Again Wargrave nodded. He said:

âDr. Armstrong?â

âI was called in professionally.â

âI see. You had no previous acquaintanceship with the family?â

âNo. A colleague of mine was mentioned in the letter.â

The judge said:

âTo give verisimilitude â¦ Yes, and that colleague, I presume, was momentarily out of touch with you?â

âWellâerâyes.â

Lombard, who had been staring at Blore, said suddenly:

âLook here, Iâve just thought of somethingââ

The judge lifted a hand.

âIn a minuteââ

âBut Iââ

âWe 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?â

Pulling at his moustache, the General muttered:

âGot a letterâfrom this fellow Owenâmentioned some old pals of mine who were to be hereâhoped Iâd excuse informal invitation. Havenât kept the letter, Iâm afraid.â

Wargrave said: âMr. Lombard?â

Lombardâs brain had been active. Was he to come out in the open, or not? He made up his mind.

âSame sort of thing,â he said. âInvitation, mention of mutual friendsâI fell for it all right. Iâve torn up the letter.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave turned his attention to Mr. Blore. His forefinger stroked his upper lip and his voice was dangerously polite.

He said:

âJust now we had a somewhat disturbing experience. An apparently disembodied voice spoke to us all by name, uttering certain precise accusations against us. We will deal with those accusations presently. At the moment I am interested in a minor point. Amongst the names recited was that of William Henry Blore. But as far as we know there is no one named Blore amongst us. The name of Davis was not mentioned. What have you to say about that, Mr. Davis?â

Blore said sulkily:

âCatâs out of the bag, it seems. I suppose Iâd better admit that my name isnât Davis.â

âYou are William Henry Blore?â

âThatâs right.â

âI will add something,â said Lombard. âNot only are you here under a false name, Mr. Blore, but in addition Iâve noticed this evening that youâre a first-class liar. You claim to have come from Natal, South Africa. I know South Africa and Natal and Iâm prepared to swear that youâve never set foot in South Africa in your life.â

All eyes were turned on Blore. Angry suspicious eyes. Anthony Marston moved a step nearer to him. His fists clenched themselves.

âNow then, you swine,â he said. âAny explanation?â

Blore flung back his head and set his square jaw.

âYou gentlemen have got me wrong,â he said. âIâve got my credentials and you can see them. Iâm an ex-CID man. I run a detective agency in Plymouth. I was put on this job.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave asked:

âBy whom?â

âThis 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.â

âAny reason given?â

Blore said bitterly:

âMrs. Owenâs jewels. Mrs. Owen my foot! I donât believe thereâs any such person.â

Again the forefinger of the judge stroked his lip, this time appreciatively.

âYour conclusions are, I think, justified,â he said. âUlick Norman Owen! In Miss Brentâs letter, though the signature of the surname is a mere scrawl the Christian names are reasonably clearâUna Nancyâin either case you notice, the same initials. Ulick Norman OwenâUna Nancy Owenâeach time, that is to say, U. N. Owen. Or by a slight stretch of fancy, UNKNOWN!â

Vera cried:

âBut this is fantasticâmad!â

The judge nodded gently.

He said:

âOh, yes. Iâve no doubt in my own mind that we have been invited here by a madmanâprobably a dangerous homicidal lunatic.â

Four

I

There was a momentâs silence. A silence of dismay and bewilderment. Then the judgeâs small clear voice took up the thread once more.

âWe will now proceed to the next stage of our inquiry. First however, I will just add my own credentials to the list.â

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

âThis purports to be from an old friend of mine, Lady Constance Culmington. I have not seen her for some years. She went to the East. It is exactly the kind of vague incoherent letter she would write, urging me to join her here and referring to her host and hostess in the vaguest of terms. The same technique, you will observe. I only mention it because it agrees with the other evidenceâfrom 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 Constanceâand is familiar with her epistolary style. He knows something about Dr. Armstrongâs colleagues and their present whereabouts. He knows the nickname of Mr. Marstonâs 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 Macarthurâs old cronies.â

He paused. Then he said:

âHe knows, you see, a good deal. And out of his knowledge concerning us, he has made certain definite accusations.â

Immediately a babel broke out.

General Macarthur shouted:

âA pack of damâ lies! Slander!â

Vera cried out:

âItâs iniquitous!â Her breath came fast. âWicked!â

Rogers said hoarsely:

âA lieâa wicked lie â¦ we never didâneither of usâ¦.â

Anthony Marston growled:

âDonât know what the damned fool was getting at!â

The upraised hand of Mr. Justice Wargrave calmed the tumult.

He said, picking his words with care:

âI wish to say this. Our unknown friend accuses me of the murder of one Edward Seton. I remember Seton 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 passed sentence on a rightly convicted murderer.â

Armstrong was remembering now. The Seton 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. âNot a doubt of the verdict. Acquittal practically certain.â And then afterwards he had heard comments: âJudge was dead against him. Turned the jury right round and they brought him in guilty. Quite legal, though. Old Wargrave knows his law. It was almost as though he had a private down on the fellow.â

All these memories rushed through the doctorâs mind. Before he could consider the wisdom of the question he had asked impulsively:

âDid you know Seton at all? I mean previous to the case.â

The hooded reptilian eyes met his. In a clear cold voice the judge said:

âI knew nothing of Seton previous to the case.â

Armstrong said to himself:

âThe fellowâs lyingâI know heâs lying.â

II

Vera Claythorne spoke in a trembling voice.

She said:

âIâd like to tell you. About that childâCyril Hamilton. I was nursery governess to him. He was forbidden to swim out far. One day, when my attention was distracted, he started off. I swam after him â¦ I couldnât get there in time â¦ It was awful â¦ But it wasnât my fault. At the inquest the Coroner exonerated me. And his motherâshe was so kind. If even she didnât blame me, why shouldâwhy should this awful thing be said? Itâs not fairânot fairâ¦.â

She broke down, weeping bitterly.

General Macarthur patted her shoulder.

He said:

âThere there, my dear. Of course itâs not true. Fellowâs a madman. A madman! Got a bee in his bonnet! Got hold of the wrong end of the stick all round.â

He stood erect, squaring his shoulders. He barked out:

âBest really to leave this sort of thing unanswered. However, feel I ought to sayâno truthâno truth whatever in what he said aboutâerâyoung 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 muchâslur on my wife. Best woman in the world. AbsolutelyâCÃ¦sarâs wife!â

General Macarthur sat down. His shaking hand pulled at his moustache. The effort to speak had cost him a good deal.

Lombard spoke. His eyes were amused. He said:

âAbout those nativesââ

Marston said:

âWhat about them?â

Philip Lombard grinned.

âStoryâs quite true! I left âem! 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.â

General Macarthur said sternly:

âYou abandoned your menâleft them to starve?â

Lombard said:

âNot quite the act of a pukka sahib, Iâm afraid. But self-preservationâs a manâs first duty. And natives donât mind dying, you know. They donât feel about it as Europeans do.â

Vera lifted her face from her hands. She said, staring at him:

âYou left themâto die?â

Lombard answered:

âI left them to die.â

His amused eyes looked into her horrified ones.

Anthony Marston said in a slow puzzled voice:

âIâve just been thinkingâJohn and Lucy Combes. Must have been a couple of kids I ran over near Cambridge. Beastly bad luck.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said acidly:

âFor them, or for you?â

Anthony said:

âWell, I was thinkingâfor meâbut of course, youâre right, sir, it was damned bad luck on them. Of course it was a pure accident. They rushed out of some cottage or other. I had my licence suspended for a year. Beastly nuisance.â

Dr. Armstrong said warmly:

âThis speedingâs all wrongâall wrong! Young men like you are a danger to the community.â

Anthony shrugged his shoulders. He said:

âSpeedâs come to stay. English roads are hopeless, of course. Canât get up a decent pace on them.â

He looked round vaguely for his glass, picked it up off a table and went over to the side table and helped himself to another whisky and soda. He said over his shoulder:

âWell, anyway it wasnât my fault. Just an accident!â

III

The manservant, Rogers, had been moistening his lips and twisting his hands. He said now in a low deferential voice:

âIf I might just say a word, sir.â

Lombard said:

âGo ahead, Rogers.â

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

âThere was a mention, sir, of me and Mrs. Rogers. And of Miss Brady. There isnât 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 nightâthe night she was taken bad. The telephone was out of order. We couldnât get the doctor to her. I went for him, sir, on foot. But he got there too late. Weâd done everything possible for her, sir. Devoted to her, we were. Anyone will tell you the same. There was never a word said against us. Not a word.â

Lombard looked thoughtfully at the manâs twitching face, his dry lips, the fright in his eyes. He remembered the crash of the falling coffee tray. He thought, but did not say: âOh yeah?â

Blore spokeâspoke in his hearty bullying official manner.

He said:

âCame into a little something at her death, though? Eh?â

Rogers drew himself up. He said stiffly:

âMiss Brady left us a legacy in recognition of our faithful services. And why not, Iâd like to know?â

Lombard said:

âWhat about yourself, Mr. Blore?â

âWhat about me?â

âYour name was included in the list.â

Blore went purple.

âLandor, you mean? That was the bank robberyâLondon and Commercial.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave stirred. He said:

âI remember. It didnât come before me, but I remember the case. Landor was convicted on your evidence. You were the police officer in charge of the case?â

Blore said:

âI was.â

âLandor got penal servitude for life and died on Dartmoor a year later. He was a delicate man.â

Blore said:

âHe was a crook. It was he who knocked out the night watchman. The case was quite clear against him.â

Wargrave said slowly:

âYou were complimented, I think, on your able handling of the case.â

Blore said sulkily:

âI got my promotion.â

He added in a thick voice.

âI was only doing my duty.â

Lombard laughedâa sudden ringing laugh. He said:

âWhat a duty-loving law-abiding lot we all seem to be! Myself excepted. What about you, doctorâand your little professional mistake? Illegal operation, was it?â

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-humouredly.

âIâm at a loss to understand the matter,â he said. âThe name meant nothing to me when it was spoken. What was itâClees? Close? I really canât remember having a patient of that name, or being connected with a death in any way. The thingâs a complete mystery to me. Of course, itâs a long time ago. It might possibly be one of my operation cases in hospital. They come too late, so many of these people. Then, when the patient dies, they always consider itâs the surgeonâs fault.â

He sighed, shaking his head.

He thought:

Drunkâthatâs what it wasâdrunk â¦ And I operated! Nerves all to piecesâhands shaking. I killed her all right. Poor devilâelderly womanâsimple job if Iâd been sober. Lucky for me thereâs loyalty in our profession. The Sister knew, of courseâbut she held her tongue. God, it gave me a shock! Pulled me up. But who could have known about itâafter all these years?

IV

There was a silence in the room. Everybody was looking, covertly or openly, at Emily Brent. It was a minute or two before she became aware of the expectation. Her eyebrows rose on her narrow forehead. She said:

âAre you waiting for me to say something? I have nothing to say.â

The judge said: âNothing, Miss Brent?â

âNothing.â

Her lips closed tightly.

The judge stroked his face. He said mildly:

âYou reserve your defence?â

Miss Brent said coldly:

âThere is no question of defence. I have always acted in accordance with the dictates of my conscience. I have nothing with which to reproach myself.â

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: âOur inquiry rests there. Now Rogers, who else is there on this island besides ourselves and you and your wife?â

âNobody, sir. Nobody at all.â

âYouâre sure of that?â

âQuite sure, sir.â

Wargrave said:

âI am not yet clear as to 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.

âHe 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.â

Rogers said:

âI beg your pardon, sir, but thereâs no boat on the island.â

âNo boat at all?â

âNo, sir.â

âHow do you communicate with the mainland?â

âFred Narracott, he comes over every morning, sir. He brings the bread and the milk and the post, and takes the orders.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said:

âThen in my opinion it would be well if we all left tomorrow morning as soon as Narracottâs boat arrives.â

There was a chorus of agreement with only one dissentient voice. It was Anthony Marston who disagreed with the majority.

âA bit unsporting, what?â he said. âOught to ferret out the mystery before we go. Whole thingâs like a detective story. Positively thrilling.â

The judge said acidly:

âAt my time of life, I have no desire for âthrillsâ as you call them.â

Anthony said with a grin:

âThe legal lifeâs narrowing! Iâm all for crime! Hereâs to it.â

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

Too quickly, perhaps. He chokedâchoked badly. His face contorted, turned purple. He gasped for breathâthen slid down off his chair, the glass falling from his hand.

Five

I

It was so sudden and so unexpected that it took every oneâs breath away. They 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 awe-struck whisper:

âMy God! heâs dead.â

They didnât 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 didnât die like that, choking over a whisky and sodaâ¦.

No, they couldnât take it in.

Dr. Armstrong was peering into the dead manâs face. He sniffed at the blue twisted lips. Then he picked up the glass from which Anthony Marston had been drinking.

General Macarthur said:

âDead? Dâyou mean the fellow just choked andâand died?â

The physician said:

âYou can call it choking if you like. He died of asphyxiation right enough.â

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:

âNever knew a man could die like thatâjust of a choking fit!â

Emily Brent said in a clear voice:

âIn the midst of life we are in death.â

Dr. Armstrong stood up. He said brusquely:

âNo, a man doesnât die of a mere choking fit. Marstonâs death wasnât what we call a natural death.â

Vera said almost in a whisper:

âWas thereâsomethingâin the whisky?â

Armstrong nodded.

âYes. Canât say exactly. Everything points to one of the cyanides. No distinctive smell of Prussic Acid, probably Potassium Cyanide. It acts pretty well instantaneously.â

The judge said sharply:

âIt was in his glass?â

âYes.â

The doctor strode to the table where the drinks were. He removed the stopper from the whisky and smelt and tasted it. Then he tasted the soda water. He shook his head.

âTheyâre both all right.â

Lombard said:

âYou meanâhe must have put the stuff in his glass himself?â

Armstrong nodded with a curiously dissatisfied expression. He said:

âSeems like it.â

Blore said:

âSuicide, eh? Thatâs a queer go.â

Vera said slowly:

âYouâd never think that he would kill himself. He was so alive. He wasâohâenjoying himself! When he came down the hill in his car this evening he lookedâhe lookedâoh I canât explain!â

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:

âIs there any possibility other than suicide?â

Slowly every one shook their heads. There could be no other explanation. The drinks themselves were untampered with. They had 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 yetâwhy should Anthony Marston commit suicide?

Blore said thoughtfully:

âYou know, doctor, it doesnât seem right to me. I shouldnât have said Mr. Marston was a suicidal type of gentleman.â

Armstrong answered:

âI agree.â

II

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 had laid him there covered over 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:

âWeâd better go to bed. Itâs late.â

It was past twelve oâclock. The suggestion was a wise oneâyet every one hesitated. It was as though they clung to each otherâs company for reassurance.

The judge said:

âYes, we must get some sleep.â

Rogers said:

âI havenât cleared yetâin the dining room.â

Lombard said curtly:

âDo it in the morning.â

Armstrong said to him:

âIs your wife all right?â

âIâll go and see, sir.â

He returned a minute or two later.

âSleeping beautiful, she is.â

âGood,â said the doctor. âDonât disturb her.â

âNo, sir. Iâll just put things straight in the dining room and make sure everythingâs locked up right, and then Iâll turn in.â

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 panelled walls, there might have been an eerie feeling. But this house was the essence of modernity. There were no dark cornersâno possible sliding panelsâit was flooded with electric lightâeverything 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 allâ¦.

They exchanged good-nights 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 doorâ¦.

III

In his pleasant softly tinted room, Mr. Justice Wargrave removed his garments and prepared himself for bed.

He was thinking about Edward Seton.

He remembered Seton 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 overvehement, had tried to prove too much.

Matthews, on the other hand, for the Defence, 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 Seton had come through the ordeal of cross-examination well. He had not got excited or overvehement. The jury had been impressed. It had seemed to Matthews, perhaps, as though everything had been over bar the shouting.

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

He remembered exactly how he had felt sitting thereâlistening, making notes, appreciating everything, tabulating every scrap of evidence that told against the prisoner.

Heâd enjoyed that case! Matthewsâ 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 upâ¦.

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.

Heâd cooked Setonâs goose all right!

With a slightly rheumatic grunt, he climbed into bed and turned out the electric light.

IV

Downstairs in the dining room, Rogers stood puzzled.

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

He muttered to himself:

âThatâs a rum go! I could have sworn there were ten of them.â

V

General Macarthur tossed from side to side.

Sleep would not come to him.

In the darkness he kept seeing Arthur Richmondâs face.

Heâd liked Arthurâheâd been damned fond of Arthur. Heâd 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 dull. âDull!â Just like that.

But she hadnât found Arthur Richmond dull. Theyâd got on well together from the beginning. Theyâd talked of plays and music and pictures together. Sheâd 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 the boy.

Motherly indeed! Damnâ fool not to remember that Richmond was twenty-eight to Leslieâs twenty-nine.

Heâd loved Leslie. He could see her now. Her heart-shaped face, and her dancing deep grey eyes, and the brown curling mass of her hair. Heâd loved Leslie and heâd believed in her absolutely.

Out there in France, in the middle of all the hell of it, heâd sat thinking of her, taken her picture out of the breast pocket of his tunic.

And thenâheâd found out!

It had come about exactly in the way things happened in books. The letter in the wrong envelope. Sheâd been writing to them both and sheâd put her letter to Richmond in the envelope addressed to her husband. Even now, all these years after, he could feel the shock of itâthe painâ¦.

God, it had hurt!

And the business had been going on some time. The letter made that clear. Weekends! Richmondâs last leaveâ¦.

LeslieâLeslie and Arthur!

God damn the fellow! Damn his smiling face, his brisk âYes, sir.â Liar and hypocrite! Stealer of another manâs wife!

It had gathered slowlyâthat cold murderous rage.

Heâd managed to carry on as usualâto show nothing. Heâd tried to make his manner to Richmond just the same.

Had he succeeded? He thought so. Richmond hadnât suspected. Inequalities of temper were easily accounted for out there, where menâs nerves were continually snapping under the strain.

Only young Armitage had looked at him curiously once or twice. Quite a young chap, but heâd had perceptions, that boy.

Armitage, perhaps, had guessedâwhen the time came.

Heâd sent Richmond deliberately to death. Only a miracle could have brought him through unhurt. That miracle didnât happen. Yes, heâd sent Richmond to his death and he wasnât 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 âOld Macarthur lost his nerve a bit, made some colossal blunders, sacrificed some of his best men.â They couldnât say more.

But young Armitage was different. Heâd looked at his commanding officer very oddly. Heâd known, perhaps, that Richmond was being deliberately sent to death.

(After the War was overâhad Armitage talked?)

Leslie hadnât known. Leslie had wept for her lover (he supposed) but her weeping was over by the time heâd come back to England. Heâd never told her that heâd found her out. Theyâd gone on togetherâonly, somehow, she hadnât seemed very real anymore. And then, three or four years later sheâd got double pneumonia and died.

That had been a long time ago. Fifteen yearsâsixteen years?

And heâd left the Army and come to live in Devonâbought the sort of little place heâd always meant to have. Nice neighboursâpleasant part of the world. There was a bit of shooting and fishing. Heâd 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 couldnât face that. Gave him an uncomfortable feeling.)

Everybody had been very friendly. At first, that is. Later, heâd had an uneasy feeling that people were talking about him behind his back. They eyed him differently, somehow. As though theyâd heard somethingâsome lying rumourâ¦.

(Armitage? Supposing Armitage had talked.)

Heâd avoided people after thatâwithdrawn into himself. Unpleasant to feel that people were discussing you.

And all so long ago. Soâso 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. Heâd taken to shunning his old Army friends.

(If Armitage had talked, theyâd know about it.)

And nowâthis eveningâa 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 feelingâindignation, disgustâbut no guilt, no discomfiture? Difficult to tell.

Surely nobody could have taken the accusation seriously. There had been a pack of other nonsense, just as far-fetched. That charming girlâthe voice had accused her of drowning a child! Idiotic! Some madman throwing crazy accusations about!

Emily Brent, tooâactually a niece of old Tom Brent of the Regiment. It had accused her of murder! Any one could see with half an eye that the woman was as pious as could beâthe kind that was hand and glove with parsons.

Damned curious business the whole thing! Crazy, nothing less.

Ever since they had got hereâwhen was that? Why, damn it, it was only this afternoon! Seemed a good bit longer than that.

He thought: âI wonder when we shall get away again.â

Tomorrow, of course, when the motorboat came from the mainland.

Funny, just this minute he didnât want much to get away from the island â¦ To go back to the mainland, back to his little house, back to all the troubles and worries. Through the open window he could hear the waves breaking on the rocksâa little louder now than earlier in the evening. Wind was getting up, too.

He thought: Peaceful sound. Peaceful placeâ¦.

He thought: Best of an island is once you get thereâyou canât go any farther â¦ youâve come to the end of thingsâ¦.

He knew, suddenly, that he didnât want to leave the island.

VI

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:

âHugo â¦ Hugo â¦ Why do I feel youâre so near to me tonight? â¦ Somewhere quite closeâ¦.

âWhere is he really? I donât know. I never shall know. He just went awayâright awayâout of my life.â

It was no good trying not to think of Hugo. He was close to her. She had to think of himâto rememberâ¦.

Cornwallâ¦.

The black rocks, the smooth yellow sand. Mrs. Hamilton, stout, good-humoured. Cyril, whining a little always, pulling at her hand.

âI want to swim out to the rock, Miss Claythorne. Why canât I swim out to the rock?â

Looking upâmeeting Hugoâs eyes watching her.

The evenings after Cyril was in bedâ¦.

âCome out for a stroll, Miss Claythorne.â

âI think perhaps I will.â

The decorous stroll down to the beach. The moonlightâthe soft Atlantic air.

And then, Hugoâs arms round her.

âI love you. I love you. You know I love you, Vera?â

Yes, she knew.

(Or thought she knew.)

âI canât ask you to marry me. Iâve not got a penny. Itâs 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 wasnât born until three months after Maurice died. If heâd been a girlâ¦.â

If the child had been a girl, Hugo would have come into everything. Heâd been disappointed, he admitted.

âI hadnât built on it, of course. But it was a bit of a knock. Oh well, luckâs luck! Cyrilâs a nice kid. Iâm awfully fond of him.â And he was fond of him, too. Always ready to play games or amuse his small nephew. No rancour in Hugoâs nature.

Cyril wasnât really strong. A puny childâno stamina. The kind of child, perhaps, who wouldnât live to grow upâ¦.

And thenâ?

âMiss Claythorne, why canât I swim to the rock?â

Irritating whiney repetition.

âItâs too far, Cyril.â

âBut, Miss Claythorneâ¦.â

Vera got up. She went to the dressing table and swallowed three aspirins.

She thought:

âI wish I had some proper sleeping stuff.â

She thought:

âIf I were doing away with myself Iâd take an overdose of veronalâsomething like thatânot cyanide!â

She shuddered as she remembered Anthony Marstonâs convulsed purple face.

As she passed the mantelpiece, she looked up at the framed doggerel.

âTen little soldier boys went out to dine;

One choked his little self and then there were Nine.â

She thought to herself:

âItâs horribleâjust like us this evening.â¦â

Why had Anthony Marston wanted to die?

She didnât want to die.

She couldnât imagine wanting to dieâ¦.

Death was forâthe other peopleâ¦.

Six

I

Dr. Armstrong was dreamingâ¦.

It was very hot in the operating roomâ¦.

Surely theyâd got the temperature too high? The sweat was rolling down his face. His hands were clammy. Difficult to hold the scalpel firmlyâ¦.

How beautifully sharp it wasâ¦.

Easy to do a murder with a knife like that. And of course he was doing a murderâ¦.

The womanâs body looked different. It had been a large unwieldy body. This was a spare meagre body. And the face was hidden.

Who was it that he had to kill?

He couldnât remember. But he must know! Should he ask Sister?

Sister was watching him. No, he couldnât ask her. She was suspicious, he could see that.

But who was it on the operating table?

They shouldnât have covered up the face like thatâ¦.

If he could only see the faceâ¦.

Ah! that was better. A young probationer was pulling off the handkerchief.

Emily Brent, of course. It was Emily Brent that he had to kill. How malicious her eyes were! Her lips were moving. What was she saying?

âIn the midst of life we are in deathâ¦.â

She was laughing now. No, nurse, donât put the handkerchief back. Iâve got to see. Iâve got to give the anaesthetic. Whereâs the ether? I must have brought the ether with me. What have you done with the ether, Sister? ChÃ¢teauneuf-du-Pape? Yes, that will do quite as well.

Take the handkerchief away, nurse.

Of course! I knew it all the time! Itâs Anthony Marston! His face is purple and convulsed. But heâs not deadâheâs laughing. I tell you heâs laughing! Heâs shaking the operating table.

Look out, man, look out. Nurse, steady itâsteady itâ

With a start Dr. Armstrong woke up. It was morning. Sunlight was pouring into the room.

And someone was leaning over himâshaking him. It was Rogers. Rogers, with a white face, saying: âDoctorâdoctor!â

Dr. Armstrong woke up completely.

He sat up in bed. He said sharply:

âWhat is it?â

âItâs the wife, doctor. I canât get her to wake. My God! I canât get her to wake. Andâand she donât look right to me.â

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:

âIsâsheâis sheâ?â

He passed a tongue over dry lips.

Armstrong nodded.

âYes, sheâs gone.â

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:

âWas itâwas itââer âeart, doctor?â

Dr. Armstrong was a minute or two before replying. Then he said:

âWhat was her health like normally?â

Rogers said:

âShe was a bit rheumaticky.â

âAny doctor been attending her recently?â

âDoctor?â Rogers stared. âNot been to a doctor for yearsâneither of us.â

âYouâd no reason to believe she suffered from heart trouble?â

âNo, doctor. I never knew of anything.â

Armstrong said:

âDid she sleep well?â

Now Rogersâ eyes evaded his. The manâs hands came together and turned and twisted uneasily. He muttered:

âShe didnât sleep extra wellâno.â

The doctor said sharply:

âDid she take things to make her sleep?â

Rogers stared at him, surprised.

âTake things? To make her sleep? Not that I knew of. Iâm sure she didnât.â

Armstrong went over to the washstand.

There were a certain number of bottles on it. Hair lotion, lavender water, cascara, glycerine of cucumber for the hands, a mouth-wash, toothpaste and some Ellimanâs.

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:

âShe didnât have nothing last night, sir, except what you gave herâ¦.â

II

When the gong sounded for breakfast at nine oâclock it found everyone up and awaiting the summons.

General Macarthur and the judge had been pacing the terrace outside, exchanging desultory 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 Blore, standing staring at the mainland.

He said:

âNo sign of that motorboat yet. Iâve been watching for it.â

Vera said smiling:

âDevonâs a sleepy county. Things are usually late.â

Philip Lombard was looking the other way, out to sea.

He said abruptly:

âWhat dâyou think of the weather?â

Glancing up at the sky, Blore remarked:

âLooks all right to me.â

Lombard pursed up his mouth into a whistle.

He said:

âIt will come on to blow before the dayâs out.â

Blore said:

âSquallyâeh?â

From below them came the boom of a gong.

Philip Lombard said:

âBreakfast? Well, I could do with some.â

As they went down the steep slope Blore said to Lombard in a ruminating voice:

âYou know, it beats meâwhy that young fellow wanted to do himself in! Iâve been worrying about it all night.â

Vera was a little ahead. Lombard hung back slightly. He said:

âGot any alternative theory?â

âIâd want some proof. Motive, to begin with. Well-off I should say he was.â

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

She said sharply:

âIs the boat coming?â

âNot yet,â 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:

âThat man looks ill this morning.â

Dr. Armstrong, who was standing by the window, cleared his throat. He said:

âYou must excuse anyâerâshortcomings this morning. Rogers has had to do the best he can for breakfast single-handed. Mrs. Rogers hasâerânot been able to carry on this morning.â

Emily Brent said sharply:

âWhatâs the matter with the woman?â

Dr. Armstrong said easily:

âLet us start our breakfast. The eggs will be cold. Afterwards, there are several matters I want to discuss with you all.â

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 in a desultory 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:

âI 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.â

There were startled and shocked ejaculations.

Vera exclaimed:

âHow awful! Two deaths on this island since we arrived!â

Mr. Justice Wargrave, his eyes narrowed, said in his small precise clear voice:

âHâmâvery remarkableâwhat was the cause of death?â

Armstrong shrugged his shoulders.

âImpossible to say offhand.â

âThere must be an autopsy?â

âI certainly couldnât give a certificate. I have no knowledge whatsoever of the womanâs state of health.â

Vera said:

âShe was a very nervous-looking creature. And she had a shock last night. It might have been heart failure, I suppose?â

Dr. Armstrong said dryly:

âHer heart certainly failed to beatâbut what caused it to fail is the question.â

One word fell from Emily Brent. It fell hard and clear into the listening group.

âConscience!â she said.

Armstrong turned to her.

âWhat exactly do you mean by that, Miss Brent?â

Emily Brent, her lips tight and hard, said:

âYou all heard. She was accused, together with her husband, of having deliberately murdered her former employerâan old lady.â

âAnd you think?â

Emily Brent said:

âI 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.â

Dr. Armstrong shook his head doubtfully.

âIt is a possible theory,â he said. âOne cannot adopt it without more exact knowledge of her state of health. If there was cardiac weaknessââ

Emily Brent said quietly:

âCall it if you prefer, an Act of God.â

Everyone looked shocked. Mr. Blore said uneasily:

âThatâs carrying things a bit far, Miss Brent.â

She looked at them with shining eyes. Her chin went up. She said:

âYou regard it as impossible that a sinner should be struck down by the wrath of God! I do not!â

The judge stroked his chin. He murmured in a slightly ironic voice:

âMy dear lady, in my experience of ill-doing, Providence leaves the work of conviction and chastisement to us mortalsâand the process is often fraught with difficulties. There are no short cuts.â

Emily Brent shrugged her shoulders.

Blore said sharply:

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

Armstrong said:

âNothing.â

âShe didnât take anything? A cup of tea? A drink of water? Iâll bet you she had a cup of tea. That sort always does.â

âRogers assures me she had nothing whatsoever.â

âAh,â said Blore. âBut he might say so!â

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

Philip Lombard said:

âSo thatâs your idea?â

Blore said aggressively:

âWell, why not? We all heard that accusation last night. May be sheer moonshineâjust plain lunacy! On the other hand, it may not. Allow for the moment that itâs true. Rogers and his Missus polished off that old lady. Well, where does that get you? Theyâve been feeling quite safe and happy about itââ

Vera interrupted. In a low voice she said:

âNo, I donât think Mrs. Rogers ever felt safe.â

Blore looked slightly annoyed at the interruption.

âJust like a woman,â his glance said.

He resumed:

âThatâs as may be. Anyway thereâs no active danger to them as far as they know. Then, last night, some unknown lunatic spills the beans. What happens? The woman cracksâshe 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.

âAnd thereâs the position for you! Theyâve done a murder and got away with it. But if the whole thingâs going to be raked up, whatâs going to happen? Ten to one, the woman will give the show away. She hasnât got the nerve to stand up and brazen it out. Sheâs a living danger to her husband, thatâs what she is. Heâs all right. Heâll lie with a straight face till kingdom comesâbut he canât be sure of her! And if she goes to pieces, his neckâs in danger! So he slips something into a cup of tea and makes sure that her mouth is shut permanently.â

Armstrong said slowly:

âThere was no empty cup by her bedsideâthere was nothing there at all. I looked.â

Blore snorted.

âOf course there wouldnât be! First thing heâd do when sheâd drunk it would be to take that cup and saucer away and wash it up carefully.â

There was a pause. Then General Macarthur said doubtfully:

âIt may be so. But I should hardly think it possible that a man would do thatâto his wife.â

Blore gave a short laugh.

He said:

âWhen a manâs neckâs in danger, he doesnât stop to think too much about sentiment.â

There was a pause. Before any one could speak, the door opened and Rogers came in.

He said, looking from one to the other:

âIs there anything more I can get you?â

Mr. Justice Wargrave stirred a little in his chair. He asked:

âWhat time does the motorboat usually come over?â

âBetween seven and eight, sir. Sometimes itâs a bit after eight. Donât know what Fred Narracott can be doing this morning. If heâs ill heâd send his brother.â

Philip Lombard said:

âWhatâs the time now?â

âTen minutes to ten, sir.â

Lombardâs eyebrows rose. He nodded slowly to himself.

Rogers waited a minute or two.

General Macarthur spoke suddenly and explosively:

âSorry to hear about your wife, Rogers. Doctorâs just been telling us.â

Rogers inclined his head.

âYes, sir. Thank you, sir.â

He took up the empty bacon dish and went out. Again there was a silence.

III

On the terrace outside Philip Lombard said:

âAbout this motorboatââ

Blore looked at him.

Blore nodded his head.

He said:

âI know what youâre thinking, Mr. Lombard. Iâve asked myself the same question. Motorboat ought to have been here nigh on two hours ago. It hasnât come? Why?â

âFound the answer?â asked Lombard.

âItâs not an accidentâthatâs what I say. Itâs part and parcel of the whole business. Itâs all bound up together.â

Philip Lombard said:

âIt wonât come, you think?â

A voice spoke behind himâa testy impatient voice.

âThe motorboatâs not coming,â it said.

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

âYou think not too, General?â

General Macarthur said sharply:

âOf course it wonât come. Weâre counting on the motorboat to take us off the island. Thatâs the meaning of the whole business. Weâre not going to leave the islandâ¦ None of us will ever leave â¦ Itâs the end, you seeâthe end of everythingâ¦.â

He hesitated, then he said in a low strange voice:

âThatâs peaceâreal peace. To come to the endânot to have to go on â¦ Yes, peaceâ¦.â

He turned abruptly and walked away. Along the terrace, then down the slope towards the seaâobliquelyâto 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.

Blore said:

âThere goes another one whoâs barmy! Looks as though itâll end with the whole lot going that way.â

Philip Lombard said:

âI donât fancy you will, Blore.â

The ex-Inspector laughed.

âIt would take a lot to send me off my head.â He added dryly: âAnd I donât think youâll be going that way either, Mr. Lombard.â

Philip Lombard said:

âI feel quite sane at the minute, thank you.â

IV

Dr. Armstrong came out on to the terrace. He stood there hesitating. To his left were Blore 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 latter.

But at that moment Rogers came quickly out of the house.

âCould I have a word with you, sir, please?â

Armstrong turned.

He was startled at what he saw.

Rogersâ face was working. Its colour was greyish green. His hands shook.

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

âPlease sir, if I could have a word with you. Inside, sir.â

The doctor turned back and reentered the house with the frenzied butler. He said:

âWhatâs the matter, man, pull yourself together.â

âIn here, sir, come in here.â

He opened the dining room door. The doctor passed in. Rogers followed him and shut the door behind him.

âWell,â said Armstrong, âwhat is it?â

The muscles of Rogersâ throat were working. He was swallowing. He jerked out:

âThereâs things going on, sir, that I donât understand.â

Armstrong said sharply:

âThings? What things?â

âYouâll think Iâm crazy, sir. Youâll say it isnât anything. But itâs got to be explained, sir. Itâs got to be explained. Because it doesnât make any sense.â

âWell, man, tell me what it is. Donât go on talking in riddles.â

Rogers swallowed again.

He said:

âItâs those little figures, sir. In the middle of the table. The little china figures. Ten of them, there were. Iâll swear to that, ten of them.â

Armstrong said:

âYes, ten. We counted them last night at dinner.â

Rogers came nearer.

âThatâs just it, sir. Last night, when I was clearing up, there wasnât but nine, sir. I noticed it and thought it queer. But thatâs all I thought. And now, sir, this morning. I didnât notice when I laid the breakfast. I was upset and all that.

âBut now, sir, when I came to clear away. See for yourself if you donât believe me.

âThereâs only eight, sir! Only eight! It doesnât make sense, does it? Only eight.â¦â

Seven

I

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

The wind had freshened. Small white crests were appearing on the sea. There were no fishing boats outâand no sign of the motorboat.

The actual village of Sticklehaven could not be seen, only the hill above it, a jutting out cliff of red rock concealed the actual little bay.

Emily Brent said:

âThe man who brought us out yesterday seemed a dependable sort of person. It is really very odd that he should be so late this morning.â

Vera did not answer. She was fighting down a rising feeling of panic.

She said to herself angrily:

âYou must keep cool. This isnât like you. Youâve always had excellent nerves.â

Aloud she said after a minute or two:

âI wish he would come. IâI want to get away.â

Emily Brent said dryly:

âIâve no doubt we all do.â

Vera said:

âItâs all so extraordinary â¦ There seems noâno meaning in it all.â

The elderly woman beside her said briskly:

âIâm 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 timeânone at all.â

Vera murmured mechanically: âI suppose not.â

âOne takes things for granted too much,â said Emily Brent.

Vera drew a deep shuddering breath.

She said:

âDo you really thinkâwhat you said at breakfast?â

âBe a little more precise, my dear. To what in particular are you referring?â

Vera said in a low voice:

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

Emily Brent gazed thoughtfully out to sea. Then she said:

âPersonally, I am quite sure of it. What do you think?â

âI donât know what to think.â

Emily Brent said:

âEverything goes to support the idea. The way the woman fainted. And the man dropped the coffee tray, remember. Then the way he spoke about itâit didnât ring true. Oh, yes, Iâm afraid they did it.â

Vera said:

âThe way she lookedâscared of her own shadow! Iâve never seen a woman look so frightened â¦ She must have been always haunted by itâ¦.â

Miss Brent murmured:

âI remember a text that hung in my nursery as a child. âBe sure thy sin will find thee out.â Itâs very true, that. Be sure thy sin will find thee out.â

Vera scrambled to her feet. She said:

âBut, Miss BrentâMiss Brentâin that caseââ

âYes, my dear?â

âThe others? What about the others?â

âI donât quite understand you.â

âAll the other accusationsâtheyâthey werenât true? But if itâs true about the Rogersesââ She stopped, unable to make her chaotic thought clear.

Emily Brentâs brow, which had been frowning perplexedly, cleared.

She said:

âAh, I understand you now. Well, there is that Mr. Lombard. He admits to having abandoned twenty men to their deaths.â

Vera said: âThey were only nativesâ¦.â

Emily Brent said sharply:

âBlack or white, they are our brothers.â

Vera thought:

âOur black brothersâour black brothers. Oh, Iâm going to laugh. Iâm hysterical. Iâm not myselfâ¦.â

Emily Brent continued thoughtfully.

âOf 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.â

She paused and then went on:

âNaturally, considering the circumstances, I was not going to say anything last night. It was not a fit subject to discuss before gentlemen.â

âNo?â

Vera listened with interest. Miss Brent continued serenely.

âBeatrice Taylor was in service with me. Not a nice girlâas I found out too late. I was very much deceived in 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 âin trouble.ââ She paused, her delicate nose wrinkling itself in distaste. âIt was a great shock to me. Her parents were decent folk, too, who had brought her up very strictly. Iâm glad to say they did not condone her behaviour.â

Vera said, staring at Miss Brent:

âWhat happened?â

âNaturally I did not keep her an hour under my roof. No one shall ever say that I condoned immorality.â

Vera said in a lower voice:

âWhat happenedâto her?â

Miss Brent said:

âThe abandoned creature, not content with having one sin on her conscience, committed a still graver sin. She took her own life.â

Vera whispered, horror-struck:

âShe killed herself?â

âYes, she threw herself into the river.â

Vera shivered.

She stared at the calm delicate profile of Miss Brent. She said:

âWhat did you feel like when you knew sheâd done that? Werenât you sorry? Didnât you blame yourself?â

Emily Brent drew herself up.

âI? I had nothing with which to reproach myself.â

Vera said:

âBut if yourâhardnessâdrove her to it.â

Emily Brent said sharply:

âHer own actionâher own sinâthat was what drove her to it. If she had behaved like a decent modest young woman none of this would have happened.â

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 Island, encased in her own armour of virtue.

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

Suddenlyâshe was terrible.

II

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 Blore were over to the left, smoking but not talking.

As before, the doctor hesitated for a moment. His eye rested speculatively on Mr. Justice Wargrave. He wanted to consult with someone. He was conscious of the judgeâs 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.

âLombard, can I speak to you for a minute?â

Philip started.

âOf course.â

The two men left the terrace. They strolled down the slope towards the water. When they were out of earshot Armstrong said:

âI want a consultation.â

Lombardâs eyebrows went up. He said:

âMy dear fellow, Iâve no medical knowledge.â

âNo, no, I mean as to the general situation.â

âOh, thatâs different.â

Armstrong said:

âFrankly, what do you think of the position?â

Lombard reflected a minute. Then he said:

âItâs rather suggestive, isnât it?â

âWhat are your ideas on the subject of that woman? Do you accept Bloreâs theory?â

Philip puffed smoke into the air. He said:

âItâs perfectly feasibleâtaken alone.â

âExactly.â

Armstrongâs tone sounded relieved. Philip Lombard was no fool.

The latter went on:

âThat is, accepting the premise that Mr. and Mrs. Rogers have successfully got away with murder in their time. And I donât see why they shouldnât. What do you think they did exactly? Poisoned the old lady?â

Armstrong said slowly:

âIt might be simpler than that. I asked Rogers this morning what this Miss Brady had suffered from. His answer was enlightening. I donât need to go into medical details, but in a certain form of cardiac trouble, amyl nitrite is used. When an attack comes on an ampoule of amyl nitrite is broken and it is inhaled. If amyl nitrite were withheldâwell, the consequences might easily be fatal.â

Philip Lombard said thoughtfully:

âAs simple as that. It must have beenârather tempting.â

The doctor nodded.

âYes, no positive action. No arsenic to obtain and administerânothing definiteâjustânegation! And Rogers hurried through the night to fetch a doctor and they both felt confident that no one could ever know.â

âAnd even if any one knew, nothing could ever be proved against them,â added Philip Lombard.

He frowned suddenly.

âOf courseâthat explains a good deal.â

Armstrong said, puzzled:

âI beg your pardon.â

Lombard said:

âI meanâit explains Soldier Island. There are crimes that cannot be brought home to their perpetrators. Instance the Rogersesâ. Another instance, old Wargrave, who committed his murder strictly within the law.â

Armstrong said sharply: âYou believe that story?â

Philip Lombard smiled.

âOh, yes, I believe it. Wargrave murdered Edward Seton all right, murdered him as surely as if heâd stuck a stiletto through him! But he was clever enough to do it from the judgeâs seat in wig and gown. So in the ordinary way you canât bring his little crime home to him.â

A sudden flash passed like lightning through Armstrongâs mind.

âMurder in Hospital. Murder on the Operating table. Safeâyes, safe as houses!â

Philip Lombard was saying:

âHenceâMr. OwenâhenceâSoldier Island!â

Armstrong drew a deep breath.

âNow weâre getting down to it. Whatâs the real purpose of getting us all here?â

Philip Lombard said:

âWhat do you think?â

Armstrong said abruptly:

âLetâs go back a minute to this womanâs 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.â

Philip Lombard said:

âSuicide, eh?â

âWhat do you say to that?â

Lombard said:

âIt could have beenâyesâif it hadnât been for Marstonâs death. Two suicides within twelve hours is a little too much to swallow! 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 wayâwell, the ideaâs laughable! And anyway, how did he get hold of the stuff? From all Iâve ever heard, potassium cyanide isnât the kind of stuff you take about with you in your waistcoat pocket. But thatâs your line of country.â

Armstrong said:

âNobody in their senses carries potassium cyanide. It might be done by someone who was going to take a waspsâ nest.â

âThe 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 preparedâor elseâ.â

Armstrong prompted him.

âOr else?â

Philip Lombard grinned.

âWhy make me say it? When itâs on the tip of your own tongue. Anthony Marston was murdered, of course.â

III

Dr. Armstrong drew a deep breath.

âAnd Mrs. Rogers?â

Lombard said slowly:

âI could believe in Anthonyâs suicide (with difficulty) if it werenât for Mrs. Rogers. I could believe in Mrs. Rogersâ suicide (easily) if it werenât for Anthony Marston. I can believe that Rogers put his wife out of the wayâif 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.â

Armstrong said:

âI can perhaps give you some help towards that theory.â

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

Lombard said:

âYes, little china figures â¦ There were certainly ten last night at dinner. And now there are eight, you say?â

Dr. Armstrong recited:

âTen little soldier boys going out to dine;

One went and choked himself and then there were Nine.

âNine little soldier boys sat up very late;

One overslept himself and then there were Eight.â

The two men looked at each other. Philip Lombard grinned and flung away his cigarette.

âFits too damned well to be a coincidence! Anthony Marston dies of asphyxiation or choking last night after dinner, and Mother Rogers oversleeps herself with a vengeance.â

âAnd therefore?â said Armstrong.

Lombard took him up.

âAnd therefore another kind of soldier. The Unknown Soldier! X! Mr. Owen! U. N. Owen! One Unknown Lunatic at Large!â

âAh!â Armstrong breathed a sigh of relief. âYou agree. But you see what it involves? Rogers swore that there was no one but ourselves and he and his wife on the island.â

âRogers is wrong! Or possibly Rogers is lying!â

Armstrong shook his head.

âI donât think heâs lying. The manâs scared. Heâs scared nearly out of his senses.â

Philip Lombard nodded.

He said:

âNo motorboat this morning. That fits in. Mr. Owenâs little arrangements again to the fore. Soldier Island is to be isolated until Mr. Owen has finished his job.â

Armstrong had gone pale. He said:

âYou realizeâthe man must be a raving maniac!â

Philip Lombard said, and there was a new ring in his voice:

âThereâs one thing Mr. Owen didnât realize.â

âWhatâs that?â

âThis islandâs more or less a bare rock. We shall make short work of searching it. Weâll soon ferret out U. N. Owen, Esq.â

Dr. Armstrong said warningly:

âHeâll be dangerous.â

Philip Lombard laughed.

âDangerous? Whoâs afraid of the big bad wolf? Iâll be dangerous when I get hold of him!â

He paused and said:

âWeâd better rope in Blore to help us. Heâll be a good man in a pinch. Better not tell the women. As for the others, the Generalâs ga-ga, I think, and old Wargraveâs forte is masterly inactivity. The three of us can attend to this job.â

Eight

I

Blore was easily roped in. He expressed immediate agreement with their arguments.

âWhat youâve said about those china figures, sir, makes all the difference. Thatâs crazy, that is! Thereâs only one thing. You donât think this Owenâs idea might be to do the job by proxy, as it were?â

âExplain yourself, man.â

âWell, 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 U.N.Oâs plan.â

Armstrong shook his head. He stressed the point about the cyanide. Blore agreed.

âYes, Iâd forgotten that. Not a natural thing to be carrying about with you. But how did it get into his drink, sir?â

Lombard said:

âIâve been thinking about that. Marston had several drinks that night. Between the time he had 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 thinkâthough I canât be sure, it was on the little table near the window. The window was open. Somebody could have slipped a dose of the cyanide into the glass.â

Blore said unbelievingly:

âWithout our all seeing him, sir?â

Lombard said dryly:

âWe were allârather concerned elsewhere.â

Armstrong said slowly:

âThatâs true. Weâd all been attacked. We were walking about, moving about the room. Arguing, indignant, intent on our own business. I think it could have been doneâ¦.â

Blore shrugged his shoulders.

âFact is, it must have been done! Now then, gentlemen, letâs make a start. Nobodyâs got a revolver, by any chance? I suppose thatâs too much to hope for.â

Lombard said:

âIâve got one.â He patted his pocket.

Bloreâs eyes opened very wide. He said in an overcasual tone:

âAlways carry that about with you, sir?â

Lombard said:

âUsually. Iâve been in some tight places, you know.â

âOh,â said Blore and added: âWell, youâve probably never been in a tighter place than you are today! If thereâs a lunatic hiding on this island, heâs probably got a young arsenal on himâto say nothing of a knife or dagger or two.â

Armstrong coughed.

âYou may be wrong there, Blore. Many homicidal lunatics are very quiet unassuming people. Delightful fellows.â

Blore said:

âI donât feel this one is going to be of that kind, Dr. Armstrong.â

II

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 there were no trees and very little cover. The three men worked carefully and methodically, beating up and down from the highest point to the waterâs 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 waterâs edge, to where General Macarthur sat looking out to sea. It was very peaceful here with the lap of the 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 at least faintly uncomfortable.

Blore thought to himself:

â âTisnât naturalâlooks as though heâd gone into a trance or something.â

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

âNice peaceful spot youâve found for yourself, sir.â

The General frowned. He cast a quick look over his shoulder. He said:

âThere is so little timeâso little time. I really must insist that no one disturbs me.â

Blore said genially:

âWe wonât disturb you. Weâre just making a tour of the island so to speak. Just wondered, you know, if someone might be hiding on it.â

The General frowned and said:

âYou donât understandâyou donât understand at all. Please go away.â

Blore retreated. He said, as he joined the other two:

âHeâs crazy â¦ Itâs no good talking to him.â

Lombard asked with some curiosity:

âWhat did he say?â

Blore shrugged his shoulders.

âSomething about there being no time and that he didnât want to be disturbed.â

Dr. Armstrong frowned.

He murmured:

âI wonder nowâ¦.â

III

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:

âNo fishing boats out. Thereâs a storm coming. Damned nuisance you canât see the village from here. We could signal or do something.â

Blore said:

âWe might light a bonfire tonight.â

Lombard said, frowning:

âThe devil of it is that thatâs all probably been provided for.â

âIn what way, sir?â

âHow do I know? Practical joke, perhaps. Weâre to be marooned here, no attention is to be paid to signals, etc. Possibly the village has been told thereâs a wager on. Some damnâ fool story anyway.â

Blore said dubiously:

âThink theyâd swallow that?â

Lombard said dryly:

âItâs 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 guestsâdo you think theyâd believe that?â

Dr. Armstrong said:

âThere are moments when I canât believe it myself. And yetââ

Philip Lombard, his lips curling back from his teeth said:

âAnd yetâthatâs just it! Youâve said it, doctor!â

Blore was gazing down into the water.

He said:

âNobody could have clambered down here, I suppose?â

Armstrong shook his head.

âI doubt it. Itâs pretty sheer. And where could he hide?â

Blore said:

âThere might be a hole in the cliff. If we had a boat now, we could row round the island.â

Lombard said:

âIf we had a boat, weâd all be halfway to the mainland by now!â

âTrue enough, sir.â

Lombard said suddenly:

âWe can make sure of this cliff. Thereâs only one place where there could be a recessâjust a little to the right below here. If you fellows can get hold of a rope, you can let me down to make sure.â

Blore said:

âMight as well be sure. Though it seems absurdâon the face of it! Iâll see if I can get hold of something.â

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:

âYouâre very silent, doctor. What are you thinking?â

Armstrong said slowly:

âI was wondering exactly how mad old Macarthur wasâ¦.â

IV

Vera had been restless all the 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 â¦ A face that had once been prettyâimpudently pretty perhapsâand which was now 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 porterâs chair. His head was poked down well into his neck.

When Vera looked at him, she saw a man standing in the dockâa young man with fair hair and blue eyes and a bewildered frightened face. Edward Seton. And in imagination she saw the judgeâs old hands put the black cap on his head and begin to pronounce sentenceâ¦.

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 turnedâthere 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:

âHow queer. Itâs almost as though he knew.â¦â

He said:

âAh, itâs you! Youâve comeâ¦.â

Vera sat down beside him. She said:

âDo you like sitting here looking out to sea?â

He nodded his head gently.

âYes,â he said. âItâs pleasant. Itâs a good place, I think, to wait.â

âTo wait?â said Vera sharply. âWhat are you waiting for?â

He said gently:

âThe end. But I think you know that, donât you? Itâs true, isnât it? Weâre all waiting for the end.â

She said unsteadily:

âWhat do you mean?â

General Macarthur said gravely:

âNone of us are going to leave the island. Thatâs the plan. You know it, of course, perfectly. What, perhaps, you canât understand is the relief!â

Vera said wonderingly:

âThe relief?â

He said:

âYes. Of course, youâre very young â¦ you havenât got to that yet. But it does come! The blessed relief when you know that youâve done with it allâthat you havenât got to carry the burden any longer. Youâll feel that too, somedayâ¦.â

Vera said hoarsely:

âI donât understand you.â

Her fingers worked spasmodically. She felt suddenly afraid of this quiet old soldier.

He said musingly:

âYou see, I loved Leslie. I loved her very muchâ¦.â

Vera said questioningly:

âWas Leslie your wife?â

âYes, my wife â¦ I loved herâand I was very proud of her. She was so prettyâand so gay.â

He was silent for a minute or two, then he said:

âYes, I loved Leslie. Thatâs why I did it.â

Vera said:

âYou meanââ and paused.

General Macarthur nodded his head gently.

âItâs not much good denying it nowânot when weâre all going to die. I sent Richmond to his death. I suppose, in a way, it was murder. Curious. Murderâand Iâve always been such a law-abiding man! But it didnât seem like that at the time. I had no regrets. âServes him damned well right!ââthatâs what I thought. But afterwardsââ

In a hard voice, Vera said:

âWell, afterwards?â

He shook his head vaguely. He looked puzzled and a little distressed.

âI donât know. Iâdonât know. It was all different, you see. I donât know if Leslie ever guessed â¦ I donât think so. But, you see, I didnât know about her anymore. Sheâd gone far away where I couldnât reach her. And then she diedâand I was aloneâ¦.â

Vera said:

âAloneâaloneââ and the echo of her voice came back to her from the rocks.

General Macarthur said:

âYouâll be glad, too, when the end comes.â

Vera got up. She said sharply:

âI donât know what you mean!â

He said:

âI know, my child. I know.â¦â

âYou donât. You donât understand at allâ¦.â

General Macarthur looked out to sea again. He seemed unconscious of her presence behind him.

He said very gently and softly:

âLeslie â¦?â

V

When Blore returned from the house with a rope coiled over his arm, he found Armstrong where he had left him staring down into the depths.

Blore said breathlessly:

âWhereâs Mr. Lombard?â

Armstrong said carelessly:

âGone to test some theory or other. Heâll be back in a minute. Look here, Blore, Iâm worried.â

âI should say we were all worried.â

The doctor waved an impatient hand.

âOf courseâof course. I donât mean it that way. Iâm thinking of old Macarthur.â

âWhat about him, sir?â

Dr. Armstrong said grimly:

âWhat weâre looking for is a madman. What price Macarthur?â

Blore said incredulously:

âYou mean heâs homicidal?â

Armstrong said doubtfully:

âI shouldnât have said so. Not for a minute. But, of course, Iâm not a specialist in mental diseases. I havenât really had any conversation with himâI havenât studied him from that point of view.â

Blore said doubtfully:

âGa-ga, yes! But I wouldnât have saidââ

Armstrong cut in with a slight effort as of a man who pulls himself together.

âYouâre probably right! Damn it all, there must be someone hiding on the island! Ah! here comes Lombard.â

They fastened the rope carefully.

Lombard said:

âIâll help myself all I can. Keep a lookout for a sudden strain on the rope.â

After a minute or two, while they stood together watching Lombardâs progress, Blore said:

âClimbs like a cat, doesnât he?â

There was something odd in his voice.

Dr. Armstrong said:

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

âMaybe.â

There was a silence and the ex-Inspector said:

âFunny sort of cove altogether. Dâyou know what I think?â

âWhat?â

âHeâs a wrong âun!â

Armstrong said doubtfully:

âIn what way?â

Blore grunted. Then he said:

âI donât knowâexactly. But I wouldnât trust him a yard.â

Dr. Armstrong said:

âI suppose heâs led an adventurous life.â

Blore said:

âI bet some of his adventures have had to be kept pretty dark.â He paused and then went on: âDid you happen to bring a revolver along with you, doctor?â

Armstrong stared.

âMe? Good Lord, no. Why should I?â

Blore said:

âWhy did Mr. Lombard?â

Armstrong said doubtfully:

âI supposeâhabit.â

Blore snorted.

A sudden pull came on the rope. For some moments they had their hands full. Presently, when the strain relaxed, Blore said:

âThere 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 wouldnât make him bring the whole outfit down here! Itâs only in books people carry revolvers around as a matter of course.â

Dr. Armstrong shook his head perplexedly.

They leaned over and watched Lombardâs 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.

âWell,â he said. âWeâre up against it. Itâs the house or nowhere.â

VI

The house was easily searched. They went through the few out-buildings first and then turned their attention to the building itself. Mrs. Rogersâ yard measure discovered in the kitchen dresser assisted them. But there were no hidden spaces left unaccounted for. Everything was plain and straightforward, a modern structure devoid of concealments. 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:

âWonderful animal, the good servant. Carries on with an impassive countenance.â

Armstrong said appreciatively:

âRogers is a first-class butler, Iâll say that for him!â

Blore said:

âHis wife was a pretty good cook, too. That dinnerâlast nightââ

They turned in to the first bedroom.

Five minutes later they faced each other on the landing. No one hidingâno possible hiding place.

Blore said:

âThereâs a little stair here.â

Dr. Armstrong said:

âIt leads up to the servantsâ room.â

Blore said:

âThere must be a place under the roofâfor cisterns, water tank, etc. Itâs the best chanceâand the only one!â

And it was then, as they stood there, that they heard the sound from above. A soft furtive footfall overhead.

They all heard it. Armstrong grasped Bloreâs arm. Lombard held up an admonitory finger.

âQuietâlisten.â

It came againâsomeone moving softly, furtively, overhead.

Armstrong whispered:

âHeâs actually in the bedroom itself. The room where Mrs. Rogersâ body is.â

Blore whispered back:

âOf course! Best hidingplace he could have chosen! Nobody likely to go there. Now thenâquiet as you can.â

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.

Blore whispered:

âNow.â

He flung open the door and rushed in, the other two close behind him.

Then all three stopped dead.

Rogers was in the room, his hands full of garments.

VII

Blore recovered himself first. He said:

âSorryâerâRogers. Heard someone moving about in here, and thoughtâwellââ

He stopped.

Rogers said:

âIâm 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.â

It was to Armstrong that he spoke and Armstrong replied:

âOf course. Of course. Get on with it.â

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

Rogers said:

âThank you, sir.â

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

Armstrong moved over to the bed and, lifting the sheet, looked down on the peaceful face of the dead woman. There was no fear there now. Just emptiness.

Armstrong said:

âWish Iâd got my stuff here. Iâd like to know what drug it was.â

Then he turned to the other two.

âLetâs get finished. I feel it in my bones weâre not going to find anything.â

Blore was wrestling with the bolts of a low manhole.

He said:

âThat chap moves damned quietly. A minute or two ago we saw him in the garden. None of us heard him come upstairs.â

Lombard said:

âI suppose thatâs why we assumed it must be a stranger moving about up here.â

Blore 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.

Nine

I

Lombard said slowly:

âSo weâve been wrongâwrong all along! Built up a nightmare of superstition and fantasy all because of the coincidence of two deaths!â

Armstrong said gravely:

âAnd yet, you know, the argument holds. Hang it all, Iâm a doctor, I know something about suicides. Anthony Marston wasnât a suicidal type.â

Lombard said doubtfully:

âIt couldnât, I suppose, have been an accident?â

Blore snorted, unconvinced.

âDamned queer sort of accident,â he grunted.

There was a pause, then Blore said:

âAbout the womanââ and stopped.

âMrs. Rogers?â

âYes. Itâs possible, isnât it, that that might have been an accident?â

Philip Lombard said:

âAn accident? In what way?â

Blore looked slightly embarrassed. His red-brick face grew a little deeper in hue. He said, almost blurting out the words:

âLook here, doctor, you did give her some dope, you know.â

Armstrong stared at him.

âDope? What do you mean?â

âLast night. You said yourself youâd given her something to make her sleep.â

âOh that, yes. A harmless sedative.â

âWhat was it exactly?â

âI gave her a mild dose of trional. A perfectly harmless preparation.â

Blore grew redder still. He said:

âLook hereânot to mince mattersâyou didnât give her an overdose, did you?â

Dr. Armstrong said angrily:

âI donât know what you mean.â

Blore said:

âItâs possible, isnât it, that you may have made a mistake? These things do happen once in a while.â

Armstrong said sharply:

âI did nothing of the sort. The suggestion is ridiculous.â He stopped and added in a cold biting tone: âOr do you suggest that I gave her an overdose on purpose?â

Philip Lombard said quickly:

âLook here, you two, got to keep our heads. Donât letâs start slinging accusations about.â

Blore said sullenly:

âI only suggested the doctor had made a mistake.â

Dr. Armstrong smiled with an effort. He said, showing his teeth in a somewhat mirthless smile:

âDoctors canât afford to make mistakes of that kind, my friend.â

Blore said deliberately:

âIt wouldnât be the first youâve madeâif that gramophone record is to be believed!â

Armstrong went white. Philip Lombard said quickly and angrily to Blore:

âWhatâs the sense of making yourself offensive? Weâre all in the same boat. Weâve got to pull together. What about your own pretty little spot of perjury?â

Blore took a step forward, his hands clenched. He said in a thick voice:

âPerjury, be damned! Thatâs a foul lie! You may try and shut me up, Mr. Lombard, but thereâs things I want to knowâand one of them is about you!â

Lombardâs eyebrows rose.

âAbout me?â

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

Lombard said:

âYou do, do you?â

âYes, I do, Mr. Lombard.â

Lombard said unexpectedly:

âYou know, Blore, youâre not nearly such a fool as you look.â

âThatâs as may be. What about that revolver?â

Lombard smiled.

âI brought it because I expected to run into a spot of trouble.â

Blore said suspiciously:

âYou didnât tell us that last night.â

Lombard shook his head.

âYou were holding out on us?â Blore persisted.

âIn a way, yes,â said Lombard.

âWell, come on, out with it.â

Lombard said slowly:

âI allowed you all to think that I was asked here in the same way as most of the others. Thatâs not quite true. As a matter of fact I was approached by a little Jew-boyâMorris his name was. He offered me a hundred guineas to come down here and keep my eyes openâsaid Iâd got a reputation for being a good man in a tight place.â

âWell?â Blore prompted impatiently.

Lombard said with a grin:

âThatâs all.â

Dr. Armstrong said:

âBut surely he told you more than that?â

âOh no, he didnât. Just shut up like a clam. I could take it or leave itâthose were his words. I was hard up. I took it.â

Blore looked unconvinced. He said:

âWhy didnât you tell us all this last night?â

âMy dear manââ Lombard shrugged eloquent shoulders. âHow was I to know that last night wasnât exactly the eventuality I was here to cope with? I lay low and told a noncommittal story.â

Dr. Armstrong said shrewdly:

âBut nowâyou think differently?â

Lombardâs face changed. It darkened and hardened. He said:

âYes. I believe now that Iâm in the same boat as the rest of you. That hundred guineas was just Mr. Owenâs little bit of cheese to get me into the trap along with the rest of you.â

He said slowly:

âFor we are in a trapâIâll take my oath on that! Mrs. Rogersâ death! Tony Marstonâs! The disappearing soldier boys on the dinner table! Oh yes, Mr. Owenâs hand is plainly seenâbut where the devil is Mr. Owen himself?â

Downstairs the gong pealed a solemn call to lunch.

II

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:

âI hope lunch will be satisfactory. There is cold ham and cold tongue, and Iâve boiled some potatoes. And thereâs cheese and biscuits, and some tinned fruits.â

Lombard said:

âSounds all right. Stores are holding out, then?â

âThere is plenty of food, sirâof 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.â

Lombard nodded.

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

âIt worries me that Fred Narracott hasnât been over today. Itâs peculiarly unfortunate, as you might say.â

âYes,â said Lombard, âpeculiarly unfortunate describes it very well.â

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 table she remarked:

âThe weather is changing. The wind is quite strong and there are white horses on the sea.â

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:

âYou have had an active morning.â

There was a faint malicious pleasure in his voice.

Vera Claythorne hurried in. She was a little out of breath.

She said quickly:

âI hope you didnât wait for me. Am I late?â

Emily Brent said:

âYouâre not the last. The General isnât here yet.â

They sat round the table.

Rogers addressed Miss Brent.

âWill you begin, Madam, or will you wait?â

Vera said:

âGeneral Macarthur is sitting right down by the sea. I donât expect he would hear the gong there anywayââshe hesitatedââheâs a little vague today, I think.â

Rogers said quickly:

âI will go down and inform him luncheon is ready.â

Dr. Armstrong jumped up.

âIâll go,â he said. âYou others start lunch.â

He left the room. Behind him he heard Rogersâ voice.

âWill you take cold tongue or cold ham, Madam?â

III

The five people sitting round the table seemed to find conversation difficult. Outside, sudden gusts of wind came up and died away.

Vera shivered a little and said:

âThere is a storm coming.â

Blore made a contribution to the discourse. He said conversationally:

âThere 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.â

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:

âThereâs somebody runningâ¦.â

They could all hear itârunning feet along the terrace.

In that minute, they knewâknew without being toldâ¦.

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:

âGeneral Macarthurââ

âDead!â The word burst from Vera explosively.

Armstrong said:

âYes, heâs deadâ¦.â

There was a pauseâa long pause.

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

IV

The storm broke just as the old manâs 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 Blore 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:

âOh, Miss, IâI just came to seeâ¦.â

In a loud harsh voice that surprised herself Vera said:

âYouâre quite right, Rogers. Look for yourself. There are only seven.â¦â

V

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. Blore 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:

âWell, doctor?â

Armstrong was very pale. He said:

âNo 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.â

A little murmur went round, but the clear voice of the judge was raised once more.

âDid you find the actual weapon used?â

âNo.â

âNevertheless you are sure of your facts?â

âI am quite sure.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said quietly:

âWe know now exactly where we are.â

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 any 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.

âThis 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?â

âQuite right, sir,â said Philip Lombard.

The judge went on.

âYou had come, doubtless, to the same conclusion that I hadânamely that the deaths of Anthony Marston and Mrs. Rogers were neither accidental nor were they suicides. No doubt you also reached a certain conclusion as to the purpose of Mr. Owen in enticing us to this island?â

Blore said hoarsely:

âHeâs a madman! A loony.â

The judge coughed.

âThat almost certainly. But it hardly affects the issue. Our main preoccupation is thisâto save our lives.â

Armstrong said in a trembling voice:

âThereâs no one on the island, I tell you. No one!â

The judge stroked his jaw.

He said gently:

âIn the 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 âMr. Owenâ (to give him the name he himself has adopted) is on the island. Very much so. Given the scheme in question which is neither more nor less than the execution of justice upon certain individuals for offences 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.

âIt is perfectly clear. Mr. Owen is one of us.â¦â

VI

âOh, no, no, noâ¦.â

It was Vera who burst outâalmost in a moan. The judge turned a keen eye on her.

He said:

âMy 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 U. N. 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.â

He paused and looked round.

âDo I take it that you all agree?â

Armstrong said:

âItâs fantasticâbut I suppose youâre right.â

Blore said:

âNot a doubt of it. And if you ask me, Iâve a very good ideaââ

A quick gesture of Mr. Justice Wargraveâs hand stopped him. The judge said quietly:

âWe will come to that presently. At the moment all I wish to establish is that we are in agreement on the facts.â

Emily Brent, still knitting, said:

âYour argument seems logical. I agree that one of us is possessed by a devil.â

Vera murmured:

âI canât believe it â¦ I canâtâ¦.â

Wargrave said:

âLombard?â

âI agree, sir, absolutely.â

The judge nodded his head in a satisfied manner. He said:

âNow let us examine the evidence. To begin with, is there any reason for suspecting one particular person? Mr. Blore, you have, I think, something to say.â

Blore was breathing hard. He said:

âLombardâs got a revolver. He didnât tell the truthâlast night. He admits it.â

Philip Lombard smiled scornfully.

He said:

âI suppose Iâd better explain again.â

He did so, telling the story briefly and succinctly.

Blore said sharply:

âWhatâs to prove it? Thereâs nothing to corroborate your story.â

The judge coughed.

âUnfortunately,â he said, âwe are all in that position. There is only our own word to go upon.â

He leaned forward.

âYou 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 any one whom we can definitely eliminate from suspicion on the evidence which is in our possession?â

Dr. Armstrong said quickly:

âI, am a well-known professional man. The mere idea that I can be suspected ofââ

Again a gesture of the judgeâs hand arrested a speaker before he finished his speech. Mr. Justice Wargrave said in his small clear voice:

âI too, am a well-known person! But, my dear sir, that proves less than nothing! Doctors have gone mad before now. Judges have gone mad. So,â he added, looking at Blore, âhave policemen!â

Lombard said:

âAt any rate, I suppose youâll leave the women out of it.â

The judgeâs eyebrows rose. He said in the famous âacidâ tones that Counsel knew so well:

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

Lombard said irritably:

âOf course not. But all the same, it hardly seems possibleââ

He stopped. Mr. Justice Wargrave still in the same thin sour voice addressed Armstrong.

âI take it, Dr. Armstrong, that a woman would have been physically capable of striking the blow that killed poor Macarthur?â

The doctor said calmly:

âPerfectly capableâgiven a suitable instrument, such as a rubber truncheon or cosh.â

âIt would require no undue exertion of force?â

âNot at all.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave wriggled his tortoise-like neck. He said:

âThe other two deaths have resulted from the administration of drugs. That, no one will dispute, is easily compassed by a person of the smallest physical strength.â

Vera cried angrily:

âI think youâre mad!â

His eyes turned slowly till they rested on her. It was the dispassionate stare of a man well used to weighing humanity in the balance. She thought:

âHeâs just seeing me as aâas a specimen. Andââ the thought came to her with real surprise, âhe doesnât like me much!â

In a measured tone the judge was saying:

âMy dear young lady, do try and restrain your feelings. I am not accusing you.â He bowed to Miss Brent. âI hope, Miss Brent, that you are not offended by my insistence that all of us are equally under suspicion?â

Emily Brent was knitting. She did not look up. In a cold voice she said:

âThe idea that I should be accused of taking a fellow creatureâs lifeânot to speak of the lives of three fellow creaturesâis of course, quite absurd to any one who knows anything of 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.â

The judge said:

âThen we are agreed. There can be no elimination on the ground of character or position alone.â

Lombard said: âWhat about Rogers?â

The judge looked at him unblinkingly.

âWhat about him?â

Lombard said:

âWell, to my mind, Rogers seems pretty well ruled out.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said:

âIndeed, and on what grounds?â

Lombard said:

âHe hasnât got the brains for one thing. And for another his wife was one of the victims.â

The judgeâs heavy eyebrows rose once more. He said:

âIn my time, young man, several people have come before me accused of the murders of their wivesâand have been found guilty.â

âOh! I agree. Wife murder is perfectly possibleâalmost natural, letâs 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 heâd taken a dislike to her, or because he wanted to link up with some nice little bit rather less long in the tooth. But I canât see him as the lunatic Mr. Owen dealing out crazy justice and starting on his own wife for a crime they both committed.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said:

âYou 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. Rogersâ terror last night may have been due to the fact that she realized her husband was mentally unhinged.â

Lombard said:

âWell, have it your own way. U. N. Owen is one of us. No exceptions allowed. We all qualify.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said:

âMy 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?â

Bloreâs rather heavy face lit up. He leant forward.

âNow youâre talking, sir!â he said. âThatâs the stuff! Letâs go into it. As regards young Marston I donât think thereâs anything to be done. Itâs 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 canât remember if Rogers was in the room, but any of the rest of us could certainly have done it.â

He paused, then went on:

âNow 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 winkingââ

Armstrong sprang to his feet. He was trembling.

âI protestâthis is absolutely uncalled for! I swear that the dose I gave the woman was perfectlyââ

âDr. Armstrong.â

The small sour voice was compelling. The doctor stopped with a jerk in the middle of his sentence. The small cold voice went on:

âYour indignation is very natural. Nevertheless you must admit that 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 Blore, had Miss Brent, had Miss Claythorne, had Mr. Lombard of administering poison? Can any one of us be completely and entirely eliminated?â He paused. âI think not.â

Vera said angrily:

âI was nowhere near the woman! All of you can swear to that.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave waited a minute, then he said:

âAs far as my memory serves me the facts were theseâwill any one please correct me if I make a misstatement? Mrs. Rogers was lifted on to the sofa 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 roomâalone with the unconscious woman.â

A spot of colour came into Emily Brentâs cheeks. She stopped knitting. She said:

âThis is outrageous!â

The remorseless small voice went on:

âWhen we returned to this room, you, Miss Brent, were bending over the woman on the sofa.â

Emily Brent said:

âIs common humanity a criminal offence?â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said:

âI am 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 assisted her up to bed where Dr. Armstrong gave her a sedative.â

Blore said:

âThatâs what happened. Absolutely. And that lets out the judge, Mr. Lombard, myself and Miss Claythorne.â

His voice was loud and jubilant. Mr. Justice Wargrave, bringing a cold eye to bear upon him, murmured:

âAh, but does it? We must take into account every possible eventuality.â

Blore stared. He said:

âI donât get you.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said:

âUpstairs 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 is a tap on the door and someone enters bringing her, shall we say, a tablet, or a draught, with the message that âThe doctor says youâre to take this.â Do you imagine for one minute that she would not have swallowed it obediently without thinking twice about it?â

There was a silence. Blore shifted his feet and frowned. Philip Lombard said:

âI donât believe in that story for a minute. Besides none of us left this room for hours afterwards. There was Marstonâs death and all the rest of it.â

The judge said:

âSomeone could have left his or her bedroomâlater.â

Lombard objected:

âBut then Rogers would have been up there.â

Dr. Armstrong stirred.

âNo,â he said. âRogers went downstairs to clear up in the dining room and pantry. Anyone could have gone up to the womanâs bedroom then without being seen.â

Emily Brent said:

âSurely, doctor, the woman would have been fast asleep by then under the influence of the drug you had administered?â

âIn 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.â

Lombard said:

âOf course you would say that, doctor. Suits your bookâeh?â

Again Armstrongâs face darkened with anger.

But again that passionless cold little voice stopped the words on his lips.

âNo 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 patientâs mind. I agree that the appearance of myself, or of Mr. Blore, 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.â

Blore said:

âAnd that gets usâwhere?â

VII

Mr. Justice Wargrave, stroking his lip and looking quite passionless and inhuman, said:

âWe have now dealt with the second killing, and have established the fact that no one of us can be completely exonerated from suspicion.â

He paused and went on.

âWe 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 will state 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.

âI 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.â

Blore said:

âI was with Mr. Lombard and Dr. Armstrong all the morning. Theyâll bear me out.â

Dr. Armstrong said:

âYou went to the house for a rope.â

Blore said:

âOf course, I did. Went straight there and straight back. You know I did.â

Armstrong said:

âYou were a long timeâ¦.â

Blore turned crimson. He said:

âWhat the hell do you mean by that, Dr. Armstrong?â

Armstrong repeated:

âI only said you were a long time.â

âHad to find it, didnât I? Canât lay your hands on a coil of rope all in a minute.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said:

âDuring Inspector Bloreâs absence, were you two gentlemen together?â

Armstrong said hotly:

âCertainly. That is, Lombard went off for a few minutes. I remained where I was.â

Lombard said with a smile:

âI wanted to test the possibilities of heliographing to the mainland. Wanted to find the best spot. I was only absent a minute or two.â

Armstrong nodded. He said:

âThatâs right. Not long enough to do a murder, I assure you.â

The judge said:

âDid either of you two glance at your watches?â

âWell, no.â

Philip Lombard said:

âI wasnât wearing one.â

The judge said evenly:

âA minute or two is a vague expression.â

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

âMiss Brent?â

Emily Brent said:

âI took a walk with Miss Claythorne up to the top of the island. Afterwards I sat on the terrace in the sun.â

The judge said:

âI donât think I noticed you there.â

âNo, I was round the corner of the house to the east. It was out of the wind there.â

âAnd you sat there till lunchtime?â

âYes.â

âMiss Claythorne?â

Vera answered readily and clearly:

âI was with Miss Brent early this morning. After that I wandered about a bit. Then I went down and talked to General Macarthur.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave interrupted. He said:

âWhat time was that?â

Vera for the first time was vague. She said:

âI donât know. About an hour before lunch, I thinkâor it might have been less.â

Blore asked:

âWas it after weâd spoken to him or before?â

Vera said:

âI donât know. Heâhe was very queer.â

She shivered.

âIn what way was he queer?â the judge wanted to know.

Vera said in a low voice:

âHe said we were all going to dieâhe said he was waiting for the end. Heâhe frightened meâ¦.â

The judge nodded. He said:

âWhat did you do next?â

âI went back to the house. Then, just before lunch, I went out again and up behind the house. Iâve been terribly restless all day.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave stroked his chin. He said:

âThere remains Rogers. Though I doubt if his evidence will add anything to our sum of knowledge.â

Rogers, summoned before the court, had very little to tell. He had been busy all the morning about household duties and with the preparation of lunch. He had taken cocktails on to the terrace before lunch and had then gone up to remove his things from the attic to another room. He had not looked out of the window during the morning and had seen nothing that could have 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 laid the table for lunch.

At the conclusion of Rogersâ evidence there was a pause.

Mr. Justice Wargrave cleared his throat.

Lombard murmured to Vera Claythorne:

âThe summing up will now take place!â

The judge said:

âWe 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 my positive belief that of the seven persons assembled in this room one is a 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.

âI 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 every one amongst us. Forewarned is forearmed. Take no risks and be alert to danger. That is all.â

Philip Lombard murmured beneath his breath:

âThe court will now adjournâ¦.â

Ten

I

Do you believe it?â Vera asked.

She and Philip Lombard sat on the windowsill of the living room. Outside the rain poured down and the wind howled in great shuddering gusts against the windowpanes.

Philip Lombard cocked his head slightly on one side before answering. Then he said:

âYou mean, do I believe that old Wargrave is right when he says itâs one of us?â

âYes.â

Philip Lombard said slowly:

âItâs difficult to say. Logically, you know, heâs right, and yetââ

Vera took the words out of his mouth.

âAnd yet it seems so incredible!â

Philip Lombard made a grimace.

âThe whole thingâs incredible! But after Macarthurâs death thereâs no more doubt as to one thing. Thereâs no question now of accidents or suicides. Itâs definitely murder. Three murders up to date.â

Vera shivered. She said:

âItâs like some awful dream. I keep feeling that things like this canât happen!â

He said with understanding:

âI know. Presently a tap will come on the door, and early morning tea will be brought in.â

Vera said:

âOh, how I wish that could happen!â

Philip Lombard said gravely:

âYes, but it wonât! Weâre all in the dream! And weâve got to be pretty much upon our guard from now on.â

Vera said, lowering her voice:

âIfâif it is one of themâwhich do you think it is?â

Philip Lombard grinned suddenly. He said:

âI take it you are excepting our two selves? Well, thatâs all right. I know very well that Iâm not the murderer, and I donât fancy that thereâs anything insane about you, Vera. You strike me as being one of the sanest and most levelheaded girls Iâve come across. Iâd stake my reputation on your sanity.â

With a slightly wry smile, Vera said:

âThank you.â

He said: âCome now, Miss Vera Claythorne, arenât you going to return the compliment?â

Vera hesitated a minute, then she said:

âYouâve admitted, you know, that you donât hold human life particularly sacred, but all the same I canât see you asâas the man who dictated that gramophone record.â

Lombard said:

âQuite right. If I were to commit one or more murders it would be solely for what I could get out of them. This mass clearance isnât my line of country. Good, then weâll eliminate ourselves and concentrate on our five fellow prisoners. Which of them is U. N. Owen. Well, at a guess, and with absolutely nothing to go upon, Iâd plump for Wargrave!â

âOh!â Vera sounded surprised. She thought a minute or two and then said, âWhy?â

âHard to say exactly. But to begin with, heâs an old man and heâs been presiding over courts of law for years. That is to say, heâs played God Almighty for a good many months every year. That must go to a manâs head eventually. He gets to see himself as all powerful, as holding the power of life and deathâand itâs possible that his brain might snap and he might want to go one step farther and be Executioner and Judge Extraordinary.â

Vera said slowly:

âYes, I suppose thatâs possible.â¦â

Lombard said:

âWho do you plump for?â

Without any hesitation Vera answered:

âDr. Armstrong.â

Lombard gave a low whistle.

âThe doctor, eh? You know, I should have put him last of all.â

Vera shook her head.

âOh no! Two of the deaths have been poison. That rather points to a doctor. And then you canât get over the fact that the only thing we are absolutely certain Mrs. Rogers had was the sleeping draught that he gave her.â

Lombard admitted:

âYes, thatâs true.â

Vera persisted:

âIf a doctor went mad, it would be a long time before any one suspected. And doctors overwork and have a lot of strain.â

Philip Lombard said:

âYes, but I doubt if he could have killed Macarthur. He wouldnât have had time during that brief interval when I left himânot, that is, unless he fairly hared down there and back again, and I doubt if heâs in good enough training to do that and show no signs of it.â

Vera said:

âHe didnât do it then. He had an opportunity later.â

âWhen?â

âWhen he went down to call the General to lunch.â

Philip whistled again very softly. He said:

âSo you think he did it then? Pretty cool thing to do.â

Vera said impatiently:

âWhat risk was there? Heâs the only person here with medical knowledge. He can swear the bodyâs been dead at least an hour and whoâs to contradict him?â

Philip looked at her thoughtfully.

âYou know,â he said, âthatâs a clever idea of yours. I wonderââ

II

âWho is it, Mr. Blore? Thatâs what I want to know. Who is it?â

Rogersâ face was working. His hands were clenched round the polishing leather that he held in his hand.

Ex-Inspector Blore said:

âEh, my lad, thatâs the question!â

âOne of us, âis lordship said. Which one? Thatâs what I want to know. Whoâs the fiend in âuman form?â

âThat,â said Blore, âis what we all would like to know.â

Rogers said shrewdly:

âBut youâve got an idea, Mr. Blore. Youâve got an idea, âavenât you?â

âI may have an idea,â said Blore slowly. âBut thatâs a long way from being sure. I may be wrong. All I can say is that if Iâm right the person in question is a very cool customerâa very cool customer indeed.â

Rogers wiped the perspiration from his forehead. He said hoarsely:

âItâs like a bad dream, thatâs what it is.â

Blore said, looking at him curiously:

âGot any ideas yourself, Rogers?â

The butler shook his head. He said hoarsely:

âI donât know. I donât know at all. And thatâs whatâs frightening the life out of me. To have no ideaâ¦.â

III

Dr. Armstrong said violently:

âWe must get out of hereâwe mustâwe must! At all costs!â

Mr. Justice Wargrave looked thoughtfully out of the smoking room window. He played with the cord of his eyeglasses. He said:

âI do not, of course, profess to be a weather prophet. But I should say that it is very unlikely that a boat could reach usâeven if they knew of our plightâin under twenty-four hoursâand even then only if the wind drops.â

Dr. Armstrong dropped his head in his hands and groaned.

He said:

âAnd in the meantime we may all be murdered in our beds?â

âI hope not,â said Mr. Justice Wargrave. âI intend to take every possible precaution against such a thing happening.â

It flashed across Dr. Armstrongâs mind that an old man like the judge was far more tenacious of life than a younger man would be. He had often marvelled at that fact in his professional career. Here was he, junior to the judge by perhaps twenty years, and yet with a vastly inferior sense of self-preservation.

Mr. Justice Wargrave was thinking:

âMurdered in our beds! These doctors are all the sameâthey think in clichÃ©s. A thoroughly commonplace mind.â

The doctor said:

âThere have been three victims already, remember.â

âCertainly. But you must remember that they were unprepared for the attack. We are forewarned.â

Dr. Armstrong said bitterly:

âWhat can we do? Sooner or laterââ

âI think,â said Mr. Justice Wargrave, âthat there are several things we can do.â

Armstrong said:

âWeâve no idea, even, who it can beââ

The judge stroked his chin and murmured:

âOh, you know, I wouldnât quite say that.â

Armstrong stared at him.

âDo you mean you know?â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said cautiously:

âAs regards actual evidence, such as is necessary in court, I admit that I have none. But it appears to me, reviewing the whole business, that one particular person is sufficiently clearly indicated. Yes, I think so.â

Armstrong stared at him.

He said:

âI donât understand.â

IV

Miss Brent was upstairs in her bedroom.

She took up her Bible and went to sit by the window.

She opened it. Then, after a minuteâs hesitation, she set it aside and went over to the dressing table. From a drawer in it she took out a small black-covered notebook.

She opened it and began writing.

âA terrible thing has happened. General Macarthur is dead. (His cousin married Elsie MacPherson.) There is no doubt but that he was murdered. After luncheon the judge made us a most interesting speech. He is convinced that the murderer is one of us. That means that one of us is possessed by a devil. I had already suspected that. Which of us is it? They are all asking themselves that. I alone knowâ¦.â

She sat for some time without moving. Her eyes grew vague and filmy. The pencil straggled drunkenly in her fingers. In shaking loose capitals she wrote:

THE MURDERERâS NAME IS BEATRICE TAYLORâ¦.

Her eyes closed.

Suddenly, with a start, she awoke. She looked down at the notebook. With an angry exclamation she scored through the vague unevenly scrawled characters of the last sentence.

She said in a low voice:

âDid I write that? Did I? I must be going madâ¦.â

V

The storm increased. The wind howled against the side of the house.

Everyone was in the living room. They sat listlessly huddled together. And, surreptitiously, they watched each other.

When Rogers brought in the tea tray, they all jumped. He said:

âShall I draw the curtains? It would make it more cheerful like.â

Receiving an assent to this, the curtains were drawn and the lamps turned on. The room grew more cheerful. A little of the shadow lifted. Surely, by tomorrow, the storm would be over and someone would comeâa boat would arriveâ¦.

Vera Claythorne said:

âWill you pour out tea, Miss Brent?â

The elder woman replied:

âNo, you do it, dear. That teapot is so heavy. And I have lost two skeins of my grey knitting wool. So annoying.â

Vera moved to the tea table. There was a cheerful rattle and clink of china. Normality returned.

Tea! Bless ordinary everyday afternoon tea! Philip Lombard made a cheery remark. Blore responded. Dr. Armstrong told a humorous story. Mr. Justice Wargrave, who ordinarily hated tea, sipped approvingly.

Into this relaxed atmosphere came Rogers.

And Rogers was upset. He said nervously and at random:

âExcuse me, sir, but does any one know whatâs become of the bathroom curtain?â

Lombardâs head went up with a jerk.

âThe bathroom curtain? What the devil do you mean, Rogers?â

âItâs gone, sir, clean vanished. I was going round drawing all the curtains and the one in the lavâbathroom wasnât there any longer.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave asked:

âWas it there this morning?â

âOh yes, sir.â

Blore said:

âWhat kind of a curtain was it?â

âScarlet oilsilk, sir. It went with the scarlet tiles.â

Lombard said:

âAnd itâs gone?â

âGone, sir.â

They stared at each other.

Blore said heavily:

âWellâafter allâwhat of it? Itâs madâbut soâs everything else. Anyway it doesnât matter. You canât kill anybody with an oilsilk curtain. Forget about it.â

Rogers said:

âYes, sir, thank you, sir.â

He went out shutting the door behind him.

Inside the room, the pall of fear had fallen anew.

Again, surreptitiously, they watched each other.

VI

Dinner came, was eaten, and cleared away. A simple meal, mostly out of tins.

Afterwards, in the living room, the strain was almost too great to be borne.

At nine oâclock, Emily Brent rose to her feet.

She said:

âIâm going to bed.â

Vera said:

âIâll go to bed too.â

The two women went up the stairs and Lombard and Blore came with them. Standing at the top of the stairs, the two men watched the women go into their respective rooms and shut the doors. They heard the sound of two bolts being shot and the turning of two keys.

Blore said with a grin:

âNo need to tell âem to lock their doors!â

Lombard said:

âWell, theyâre all right for the night, at any rate!â

He went down again and the other followed him.

VII

The four men went to bed an hour later. They went up together. Rogers, from the dining room where he was setting the table for breakfast, saw them go up. He heard them pause on the landing above.

Then the judgeâs voice spoke.

âI need hardly advise you, gentlemen, to lock your doors.â

Blore said:

âAnd whatâs more, put a chair under the handle. There are ways of turning locks from the outside.â

Lombard murmured:

âMy dear Blore, the trouble with you is you know too much!â

The judge said gravely:

âGood night, gentlemen. May we all meet safely in the morning!â

Rogers came out of the dining room and slipped halfway up the stairs. He saw four figures pass through four doors and heard the turning of four locks and the shooting of four bolts.

He nodded his head.

âThatâs all right,â he muttered.

He went back into the dining room. Yes, everything was ready for the morning. His eye lingered on the centre plaque of looking glass and the seven little china figures.

A sudden grin transformed his face.

He murmured:

âIâll see no one plays tricks tonight, at any rate.â

Crossing the room he locked the door to the pantry. Then going through the other door to the hall he pulled the door to, locked it and slipped the key into his pocket.

Then, extinguishing the lights, he hurried up the stairs and into his new bedroom.

There was only one possible hiding place in it, the tall wardrobe, and he looked into that immediately. Then, locking and bolting the door, he prepared for bed.

He said to himself:

âNo more china-soldier tricks tonight. Iâve seen to thatâ¦.â

Eleven

I

Philip Lombard had the habit of waking at daybreak. He did so on this particular morning. He raised himself on an elbow and listened. The wind had somewhat abated but was still blowing. He could hear no sound of rainâ¦.

At eight oâclock the wind was blowing more strongly, but Lombard did not hear it. He was asleep again.

At nine-thirty he was sitting on the edge of his bed looking at his watch. He put it to his ear. Then his lips drew back from his teeth in that curious wolf-like smile characteristic of the man.

He said very softly:

âI think the time has come to do something about this.â

At twenty-five minutes to ten he was tapping on the closed door of Bloreâs room.

The latter opened it cautiously. His hair was tousled and his eyes were still dim with sleep.

Philip Lombard said affably:

âSleeping the clock round? Well, shows youâve got an easy conscience.â

Blore said shortly:

âWhatâs the matter?â

Lombard answered:

âAnybody called youâor brought you any tea? Do you know what time it is?â

Blore looked over his shoulder at a small travelling clock by his bedside.

He said:

âTwenty-five to ten. Wouldnât have believed I could have slept like that. Whereâs Rogers?â

Philip Lombard said:

âItâs a case of echo answers where.â

âWhat dâyou mean?â asked the other sharply.

Lombard said:

âI mean that Rogers is missing. He isnât in his room or anywhere else. And thereâs no kettle on and the kitchen fire isnât even lit.â

Blore swore under his breath. He said:

âWhere the devil can he be? Out on the island somewhere? Wait till I get some clothes on. See if the others know anything.â

Philip Lombard nodded. He moved along the line of closed doors.

He found Armstrong up and nearly dressed. Mr. Justice Wargrave, like Blore, had to be roused from sleep. Vera Claythorne was dressed. Emily Brentâs room was empty.

The little party moved through the house. Rogersâ room, as Philip Lombard had already ascertained, was untenanted. The bed had been slept in, and his razor and sponge and soap were wet.

Lombard said:

âHe got up all right.â

Vera said in a low voice which she tried to make firm and assured:

âYou donât think heâsâhiding somewhereâwaiting for us?â

Lombard said:

âMy dear girl, Iâm prepared to think anything of anyone! My advice is that we keep together until we find him.â

Armstrong said:

âHe must be out on the island somewhere.â

Blore, who had joined them, dressed, but still unshaved, said:

âWhereâs Miss Brent got toâthatâs another mystery?â

But as they arrived in the hall, Emily Brent came in through the front door. She had on a mackintosh. She said:

âThe sea is as high as ever. I shouldnât think any boat could put out today.â

Blore said:

âHave you been wandering about the island alone, Miss Brent? Donât you realize that thatâs an exceedingly foolish thing to do?â

Emily Brent said:

âI assure you, Mr. Blore, that I kept an extremely sharp look out.â

Blore grunted. He said:

âSeen anything of Rogers?â

Miss Brentâs eyebrows rose.

âRogers? No, I havenât seen him this morning. Why?â

Mr. Justice Wargrave, shaved, dressed and with his false teeth in position, came down the stairs. He moved to the open dining room door. He said:

âHa, laid the table for breakfast, I see.â

Lombard said:

âHe might have done that last night.â

They all moved inside the room, looking at the neatly set plates and cutlery. At the row of cups on the sideboard. At the felt mats placed ready for the coffee urn.

It was Vera who saw it first. She caught the judgeâs arm and the grip of her athletic fingers made the old gentleman wince.

She cried out:

âThe soldiers! Look!â

There were only six china figures in the middle of the table.

II

They found him shortly afterwards.

He was in the little washhouse across the yard. He had been chopping sticks in preparation for lighting the kitchen fire. The small chopper was still in his hand. A bigger chopper, a heavy affair, was leaning against the doorâthe metal of it stained a dull brown. It corresponded only too well with the deep wound in the back of Rogersâ headâ¦.

III

âPerfectly clear,â said Armstrong. âThe murderer must have crept up behind him, swung the chopper once and brought it down on his head as he was bending over.â

Blore was busy on the handle of the chopper and the flour sifter from the kitchen.

Mr. Justice Wargrave asked:

âWould it have needed great force, doctor?â

Armstrong said gravely:

âA woman could have done it if thatâs what you mean.â He gave a quick glance around. Vera Claythorne and Emily Brent had retired to the kitchen. âThe girl could have done it easilyâsheâs an athletic type. In appearance Miss Brent is fragile-looking, but that type of woman has often a lot of wiry strength. And you must remember that anyone whoâs mentally unhinged has a good deal of unsuspected strength.â

The judge nodded thoughtfully.

Blore rose to his knees with a sigh. He said:

âNo fingerprints. Handle was wiped afterwards.â

A sound of laughter was heardâthey turned sharply. Vera Claythorne was standing in the yard. She cried out in a high shrill voice, shaken with wild bursts of laughter:

âDo they keep bees on this island? Tell me that. Where do we go for honey? Ha! ha!â

They stared at her uncomprehendingly. It was as though the sane well-balanced girl had gone mad before their eyes. She went on in that high unnatural voice:

âDonât stare like that! As though you thought I was mad. Itâs sane enough what Iâm asking. Bees, hives, bees! Oh, donât you understand? Havenât you read that idiotic rhyme? Itâs up in all your bedroomsâput there for you to study! We might have come here straightaway if weâd had sense. Seven little soldier boys chopping up sticks. And the next verse. I know the whole thing by heart, I tell you! Six little soldier boys playing with a hive. And thatâs why Iâm askingâdo they keep bees on this island?âisnât it funny?âisnât it damned funny â¦?â

She began laughing wildly again. Dr. Armstrong strode forward. He raised his hand and struck her a flat blow on the cheek.

She gasped, hiccuppedâand swallowed. She stood motionless a minute, then she said:

âThank you â¦ Iâm all right now.â

Her voice was once more calm and controlledâthe voice of the efficient games mistress.

She turned and went across the yard into the kitchen saying: âMiss Brent and I are getting you breakfast. Can youâbring some sticks to light the fire?â

The marks of the doctorâs hand stood out red on her cheek.

As she went into the kitchen Blore said:

âWell, you dealt with that all right, doctor.â

Armstrong said apologetically:

âHad to! We canât cope with hysteria on the top of everything else.â

Philip Lombard said:

âSheâs not a hysterical type.â

Armstrong agreed.

âOh no. Good healthy sensible girl. Just the sudden shock. It might happen to anybody.â

Rogers had chopped a certain amount of firewood before he had been killed. They gathered it up and took it into the kitchen. Vera and Emily Brent were busy, Miss Brent was raking out the stove. Vera was cutting the rind off the bacon.

Emily Brent said:

âThank you. Weâll be as quick as we canâsay half an hour to three-quarters. The kettleâs got to boil.â

IV

Ex-Inspector Blore said in a low hoarse voice to Philip Lombard:

âKnow what Iâm thinking?â

Philip Lombard said:

âAs youâre just about to tell me, itâs not worth the trouble of guessing.â

Ex-Inspector Blore was an earnest man. A light touch was incomprehensible to him. He went on heavily:

âThere was a case in America. Old gentleman and his wifeâboth killed with an axe. Middle of the morning. Nobody in the house but the daughter and the maid. Maid, it was proved, couldnât have done it. Daughter was a respectable middle-aged spinster. Seemed incredible. So incredible that they acquitted her. But they never found any other explanation.â He paused. âI thought of that when I saw the axeâand then when I went into the kitchen and saw her there so neat and calm. Hadnât turned a hair! That girl, coming all over hystericalâwell, thatâs naturalâthe sort of thing youâd expectâdonât you think so?â

Philip Lombard said laconically:

âIt might be.â

Blore went on.

âBut the other! So neat and primâwrapped up in that apronâMrs. Rogersâ apron, I supposeâsaying: âBreakfast will be ready in half an hour or so.â If you ask me that womanâs as mad as a hatter! Lots of elderly spinsters go that wayâI donât mean go in for homicide on the grand scale, but go queer in their heads. Unfortunately itâs taken her this way. Religious maniaâthinks sheâs Godâs instrument, something of that kind! She sits in her room, you know, reading her Bible.â

Philip Lombard sighed and said:

âThatâs hardly proof positive of an unbalanced mentality, Blore.â

But Blore went on, ploddingly, perseveringly:

âAnd then she was outâin her mackintosh, said sheâd been down to look at the sea.â

The other shook his head.

He said:

âRogers was killed as he was chopping firewoodâthat is to say first thing when he got up. The Brent wouldnât have needed to wander about outside for hours afterwards. If you ask me, the murderer of Rogers would take jolly good care to be rolled up in bed snoring.â

Blore said:

âYouâre missing the point, Mr. Lombard. If the woman was innocent sheâd be too dead scared to go wandering about by herself. Sheâd only do that if she knew that she had nothing to fear. Thatâs to say if she herself is the criminal.â

Philip Lombard said:

âThatâs a good point â¦ yes, I hadnât thought of that.â

He added with a faint grin:

âGlad you donât still suspect me.â

Blore said rather shamefacedly:

âI did start by thinking of youâthat revolverâand the queer story you toldâor didnât tell. But Iâve realized now that that was really a bit too obvious.â He paused and said: âHope you feel the same about me.â

Philip said thoughtfully:

âI may be wrong, of course, but I canât feel that youâve got enough imagination for this job. All I can say is, if youâre the criminal, youâre a damned fine actor and I take my hat off to you.â He lowered his voice. âJust between ourselves, Blore, and taking into account that weâll probably both be a couple of stiffs before another day is out, you did indulge in that spot of perjury, I suppose?â

Blore shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. He said at last:

âDoesnât seem to make much odds now. Oh well, here goes, Landor was innocent right enough. The gang had got me squared and between us we got him put away for a stretch. Mind you, I wouldnât admit thisââ

âIf there were any witnesses,â finished Lombard with a grin. âItâs just between you and me. Well, I hope you made a tidy bit out of it.â

âDidnât make what I should have done. Mean crowd, the Purcell gang. I got my promotion, though.â

âAnd Landor got penal servitude and died in prison.â

âI couldnât know he was going to die, could I?â demanded Blore.

âNo, that was your bad luck.â

âMine? His, you mean.â

âYours, too. Because, as a result of it, it looks as though your own life is going to be cut unpleasantly short.â

âMe?â Blore stared at him. âDo you think Iâm going to go the way of Rogers and the rest of them? Not me! Iâm watching out for myself pretty carefully, I can tell you.â

Lombard said:

âOh wellâIâm not a betting man. And anyway if you were dead I wouldnât get paid.â

âLook here, Mr. Lombard, what do you mean?â

Philip Lombard showed his teeth. He said:

âI mean, my dear Blore, that in my opinion you havenât got a chance!â

âWhat?â

âYour lack of imagination is going to make you absolutely a sitting target. A criminal of the imagination of U. N. Owen can make rings round you any time heâor sheâwants to.â

Bloreâs face went crimson. He demanded angrily:

âAnd what about you?â

Philip Lombardâs face went hard and dangerous.

He said:

âIâve a pretty good imagination of my own. Iâve been in tight places before now and got out of them! I thinkâI wonât say more than that but I think Iâll get out of this one.â

V

The eggs were in the frying pan. Vera, toasting bread, thought to herself:

âWhy did I make a hysterical fool of myself? That was a mistake. Keep calm, my girl, keep calm.â

After all, sheâd always prided herself on her levelheadedness!

âMiss Claythorne was wonderfulâkept her headâstarted off swimming after Cyril at once.â

Why think of that now? All that was overâover â¦ Cyril had disappeared long before she got near the rock. She had felt the current take her, sweeping her out to sea. She had let herself go with itâswimming quietly, floatingâtill the boat arrived at lastâ¦.

They had praised her courage and her sangfroid.â¦

But not Hugo. Hugo had justâlooked at her.â¦

God, how it hurt, even now, to think of Hugoâ¦.

Where was he? What was he doing? Was he engagedâmarried?

Emily Brent said sharply:

âVera, that toast is burning.â

âOh sorry, Miss Brent, so it is. How stupid of me.â

Emily Brent lifted out the last egg from the sizzling fat.

Vera, putting a fresh piece of bread on the toasting fork, said curiously:

âYouâre wonderfully calm, Miss Brent.â

Emily Brent said, pressing her lips together:

âI was brought up to keep my head and never to make a fuss.â

Vera thought mechanically:

âRepressed as a child â¦ That accounts for a lotâ¦.â

She said:

âArenât you afraid?â

She paused and then added:

âOr donât you mind dying?â

Dying! It was as though a sharp little gimlet had run into the solid congealed mess of Emily Brentâs brain. Dying? But she wasnât going to die! The others would dieâyesâbut not she, Emily Brent. This girl didnât understand! Emily wasnât afraid, naturallyânone of the Brents were afraid. All her people were Service people. They faced death unflinchingly. They led upright lives just as she, Emily Brent, had led an upright life â¦ She had never done anything to be ashamed of â¦ And so, naturally, she wasnât going to dieâ¦.

âThe Lord is mindful of his own.â âThou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by dayâ¦.â It was daylight nowâthere was no terror. âWe shall none of us leave this island.â Who had said that? General Macarthur, of course, whose cousin had married Elsie MacPherson. He hadnât seemed to care. He had seemedâactuallyâto welcome the idea! Wicked! Almost impious to feel that way. Some people thought so little of death that they actually took their own lives. Beatrice Taylorâ¦ Last night she had dreamed of Beatriceâdreamt that she was outside pressing her face against the window and moaning, asking to be let in. But Emily Brent hadnât wanted to let her in. Because, if she did, something terrible would happenâ¦.

Emily came to herself with a start. That girl was looking at her very strangely. She said in a brisk voice:

âEverythingâs ready, isnât it? Weâll take the breakfast in.â

VI

Breakfast was a curious meal. Every one was very polite.

âMay I get you some more coffee, Miss Brent?â

âMiss Claythorne, a slice of ham?â

âAnother piece of toast?â

Six people, all outwardly self-possessed and normal.

And within? Thoughts that ran round in a circle like squirrels in a cageâ¦.

âWhat next? What next? Who? Which?â

âWould it work? I wonder. Itâs worth trying. If thereâs time. My God, if thereâs timeâ¦.â

âReligious mania, thatâs the ticket â¦ Looking at her, though, you can hardly believe it â¦ Suppose Iâm wrongâ¦.â

âItâs crazyâeverythingâs crazy. Iâm going crazy. Wool disappearingâred silk curtainsâit doesnât make sense. I canât get the hang of itâ¦.â

âThe damned fool, he believed every word I said to him. It was easy â¦ I must be careful, though, very careful.â

âSix of those little china figures â¦ only sixâhow many will there be by tonight? â¦â

âWhoâll have the last egg?â

âMarmalade?â

âThanks, can I cut you some bread?â

Six people, behaving normally at breakfastâ¦.

Twelve

I

The meal was over.

Mr. Justice Wargrave cleared his throat. He said in a small authoritative voice:

âIt would be advisable, I think, if we met to discuss the situation. Shall we say in half an hourâs time in the drawing room?â

Every one made a sound suggestive of agreement.

Vera began to pile plates together.

She said:

âIâll clear away and wash up.â

Philip Lombard said:

âWeâll bring the stuff out to the pantry for you.â

âThanks.â

Emily Brent, rising to her feet sat down again. She said:

âOh dear.â

The judge said:

âAnything the matter, Miss Brent?â

Emily said apologetically:

âIâm sorry. Iâd like to help Miss Claythorne, but I donât know how it is. I feel just a little giddy.â

âGiddy, eh?â Dr. Armstrong came towards her. âQuite natural. Delayed shock. I can give you something toââ

âNo!â

The word burst from her lips like an exploding shell.

It took every one aback. Dr. Armstrong flushed a deep red.

There was no mistaking the fear and suspicion in her face. He said stiffly:

âJust as you please, Miss Brent.â

She said:

âI donât wish to take anythingâanything at all. I will just sit here quietly till the giddiness passes off.â

They finished clearing away the breakfast things.

Blore said:

âIâm a domestic sort of man. Iâll give you a hand, Miss Claythorne.â

Vera said: âThank you.â

Emily Brent was left alone sitting in the dining room.

For a while she heard a faint murmur of voices from the pantry.

The giddiness was passing. She felt drowsy now, as though she could easily go to sleep.

There was a buzzing in her earsâor was it a real buzzing in the room?

She thought:

âItâs like a beeâa bumble bee.â

Presently she saw the bee. It was crawling up the windowpane.

Vera Claythorne had talked about bees this morning.

Bees and honeyâ¦.

She liked honey. Honey in the comb, and strain it yourself through a muslin bag. Drip, drip, dripâ¦.

There was somebody in the room â¦ somebody all wet and dripping â¦Beatrice Taylor come from the river.â¦

She had only to turn her head and she would see her.

But she couldnât turn her headâ¦.

If she were to call outâ¦.

But she couldnât call outâ¦.

There was no one else in the house. She was all aloneâ¦.

She heard footstepsâsoft dragging footsteps coming up behind her. The stumbling footsteps of the drowned girlâ¦.

There was a wet dank smell in her nostrilsâ¦.

On the windowpane the bee was buzzingâbuzzingâ¦.

And then she felt the prick.

The bee sting on the side of her neckâ¦.

II

In the drawing room they were waiting for Emily Brent.

Vera Claythorne said:

âShall I go and fetch her?â

Blore said quickly:

âJust a minute.â

Vera sat down again. Every one looked inquiringly at Blore. He said:

âLook here, everybody, my opinionâs this: we neednât look farther for the author of these deaths than the dining room at this minute. Iâd take my oath that womanâs the one weâre after!â

Armstrong said:

âAnd the motive?â

âReligious mania. What do you say, doctor?â

Armstrong said:

âItâs perfectly possible. Iâve nothing to say against it. But of course weâve no proof.â

Vera said:

âShe was very odd in the kitchen when we were getting breakfast. Her eyesââ She shivered.

Lombard said:

âYou canât judge her by that. Weâre all a bit off our heads by now!â

Blore said:

âThereâs another thing. Sheâs the only one who wouldnât give an explanation after that gramophone record. Why? Because she hadnât any to give.â

Vera stirred in her chair. She said:

âThatâs not quite true. She told meâafterwards.â

Wargrave said:

âWhat did she tell you, Miss Claythorne?â

Vera repeated the story of Beatrice Taylor.

Mr. Justice Wargrave observed:

âA perfectly straightforward story. I personally should have no difficulty in accepting it. Tell me, Miss Claythorne, did she appear to be troubled by a sense of guilt or a feeling of remorse for her attitude in the matter?â

âNone whatever,â said Vera. âShe was completely unmoved.â

Blore said:

âHearts as hard as flints, these righteous spinsters! Envy, mostly!â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said:

âIt is now five minutes to eleven. I think we should summon Miss Brent to join our conclave.â

Blore said:

âArenât you going to take any action?â

The judge said:

âI fail to see what action we can take. Our suspicions are, at the moment, only suspicions. I will, however, ask Dr. Armstrong to observe Miss Brentâs demeanour very carefully. Let us now go into the dining room.â

They found Emily Brent sitting in the chair in which they had left her. From behind they saw nothing amiss, except that she did not seem to hear their entrance into the room.

And then they saw her faceâsuffused with blood, with blue lips and starting eyes.

Blore said:

âMy God, sheâs dead!â

III

The small quiet voice of Mr. Justice Wargrave said:

âOne more of us acquittedâtoo late!â

Armstrong was bent over the dead woman. He sniffed the lips, shook his head, peered into the eyelids.

Lombard said impatiently:

âHow did she die, doctor? She was all right when we left her here!â

Armstrongâs attention was riveted on a mark on the right side of the neck.

He said:

âThatâs the mark of a hypodermic syringe.â

There was a buzzing sound from the window. Vera cried:

âLookâa beeâa bumble bee. Remember what I said this morning!â

Armstrong said grimly:

âIt wasnât that bee that stung her! A human hand held the syringe.â

The judge asked:

âWhat poison was injected?â

Armstrong answered:

âAt a guess, one of the cyanides. Probably potassium cyanide, same as Anthony Marston. She must have died almost immediately by asphyxiation.â

Vera cried:

âBut that bee? It canât be coincidence?â

Lombard said grimly:

âOh no, it isnât coincidence! Itâs our murdererâs touch of local colour! Heâs a playful beast. Likes to stick to his damnable nursery jingle as closely as possible!â

For the first time his voice was uneven, almost shrill. It was as though even his nerves, seasoned by a long career of hazards and dangerous undertakings, had given out at last.

He said violently:

âItâs mad!âabsolutely madâweâre all mad!â

The judge said calmly:

âWe have still, I hope, our reasoning powers. Did any one bring a hypodermic syringe to this house?â

Dr. Armstrong, straightening himself, said in a voice that was not too well assured:

âYes, I did.â

Four pairs of eyes fastened on him. He braced himself against the deep hostile suspicion of those eyes. He said:

âAlways travel with one. Most doctors do.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said calmly:

âQuite so. Will you tell us, doctor, where that syringe is now?â

âIn the suitcase in my room.â

Wargrave said:

âWe might, perhaps, verify that fact.â

The five of them went upstairs, a silent procession.

The contents of the suitcase were turned out on the floor.

The hypodermic syringe was not there.

IV

Armstrong said violently:

âSomebody must have taken it!â

There was silence in the room.

Armstrong stood with his back to the window. Four pairs of eyes were on him, black with suspicion and accusation. He looked from Wargrave to Vera and repeated helplesslyâweakly:

âI tell you someone must have taken it.â

Blore was looking at Lombard who returned his gaze.

The judge said:

âThere are five of us here in this room. One of us is a murderer. The position is fraught with grave danger. Everything must be done in order to safeguard the four of us who are innocent. I will now ask you, Dr. Armstrong, what drugs you have in your possession.â

Armstrong replied:

âI have a small medicine case here. You can examine it. You will find some sleeping stuffâtrional and sulphonal tabletsâa packet of bromide, bicarbonate of soda, aspirin. Nothing else. I have no cyanide in my possession.â

The judge said:

âI have, myself, some sleeping tabletsâsulphonal, I think they are. I presume they would be lethal if a sufficiently large dose were given. You, Mr. Lombard, have in your possession a revolver.â

Philip Lombard said sharply:

âWhat if I have?â

âOnly this. I propose that the doctorâs supply of drugs, my own sulphonal tablets, your revolver and anything else of the nature of drugs or firearms should be collected together and placed in a safe place. That after this is done, we should each of us submit to a searchâboth of our persons and of our effects.â

Lombard said:

âIâm damned if Iâll give up my revolver!â

Wargrave said sharply:

âMr. Lombard, you are a very strongly built and powerful young man, but ex-Inspector Blore is also a man of powerful physique. I do not know what the outcome of a struggle between you would be but I can tell you this. On Bloreâs side, assisting him to the best of our ability will be myself, Dr. Armstrong and Miss Claythorne. You will appreciate therefore, that the odds against you if you choose to resist will be somewhat heavy.â

Lombard threw his head back. His teeth showed in what was almost a snarl.

âOh, very well, then. Since youâve got it all taped out.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave nodded his head.

âYou are a sensible young man. Where is this revolver of yours?â

âIn the drawer of the table by my bed.â

âGood.â

âIâll fetch it.â

âI think it would be desirable if we went with you.â

Philip said with a smile that was still nearer a snarl:

âSuspicious devil, arenât you?â

They went along the corridor to Lombardâs room.

Philip strode across to the bed table and jerked open the drawer.

Then he recoiled with an oath.

The drawer of the bed table was empty.

V

âSatisfied?â asked Lombard.

He had stripped to the skin and he and his room had been meticulously searched by the other three men. Vera Claythorne was outside in the corridor.

The search proceeded methodically. In turn, Armstrong, the judge, and Blore submitted to the same test.

The four men emerged from Bloreâs room and approached Vera. It was the judge who spoke.

âI hope you will understand, Miss Claythorne, that we can make no exceptions. That revolver must be found. You have, I presume, a bathing dress with you?â

Vera nodded.

âThen I will ask you to go into your room and put it on and then come out to us here.â

Vera went into her room and shut the door. She reappeared in under a minute dressed in a tight-fitting silk rucked bathing dress.

Wargrave nodded approval.

âThank you, Miss Claythorne. Now if you will remain here, we will search your room.â

Vera waited patiently in the corridor until they emerged. Then she went in, dressed, and came out to where they were waiting.

The judge said:

âWe are now assured of one thing. There are no lethal weapons or drugs in the possession of any of us five. That is one point to the good. We will now place the drugs in a safe place. There is, I think, a silver chest, is there not, in the pantry?â

Blore said:

âThatâs all very well, but whoâs to have the key? You, I suppose.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave made no reply.

He went down to the pantry and the others followed him. There was a small case there designed for the purpose of holding silver and plate. By the judgeâs directions, the various drugs were placed in this and it was locked. Then, still on Wargraveâs instructions, the chest was lifted into the plate cupboard and this in turn was locked. The judge then gave the key of the chest to Philip Lombard and the key of the cupboard to Blore.

He said:

âYou two are the strongest physically. It would be difficult for either of you to get the key from the other. It would be impossible for any of us three to do so. To break open the cupboardâor the plate chestâwould be a noisy and cumbersome proceeding and one which could hardly be carried out without attention being attracted to what was going on.â

He paused, then went on:

âWe are still faced by one very grave problem. What has become of Mr. Lombardâs revolver?â

Blore said:

âSeems to me its owner is the most likely person to know that.â

A white dint showed in Philip Lombardâs nostrils. He said:

âYou damned pig-headed fool! I tell you itâs been stolen from me!â

Wargrave asked:

âWhen did you see it last?â

âLast night. It was in the drawer when I went to bedâready in case anything happened.â

The judge nodded.

He said:

âIt must have been taken this morning during the confusion of searching for Rogers or after his dead body was discovered.â

Vera said:

âIt must be hidden somewhere about the house. We must look for it.â

Mr. Justice Wargraveâs finger was stroking his chin. He said:

âI doubt if our search will result in anything. Our murderer has had plenty of time to devise a hiding place. I do not fancy we shall find that revolver easily.â

Blore said forcefully:

âI donât know where the revolver is, but Iâll bet I know where something else isâthat hypodermic syringe. Follow me.â

He opened the front door and led the way round the house.

A little distance away from the dining room window he found the syringe. Beside it was a smashed china figureâa sixth broken soldier boy.

Blore said in a satisfied voice:

âOnly place it could be. After heâd killed her, he opened the window and threw out the syringe and picked up the china figure from the table and followed on with that.â

There were no prints on the syringe. It had been carefully wiped.

Vera said in a determined voice:

âNow let us look for the revolver.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said:

âBy all means. But in doing so let us be careful to keep together. Remember, if we separate, the murderer gets his chance.â

They searched the house carefully from attic to cellars, but without result. The revolver was still missing.

Thirteen

I

One of us â¦ One of us â¦ One of usâ¦.â

Three words, endlessly repeated, dinning themselves hour after hour into receptive brains.

Five peopleâfive frightened people. Five people who watched each other, who now hardly troubled to hide their state of nervous tension.

There was little pretence nowâno formal veneer of conversation. They were five enemies linked together by a mutual instinct of self-preservation.

And all of them, suddenly, looked less like human beings. They were reverting to more bestial types. Like a wary old tortoise, Mr. Justice Wargrave sat hunched up, his body motionless, his eyes keen and alert. Ex-Inspector Blore looked coarser and clumsier in build. His walk was that of a slow padding animal. His eyes were bloodshot. There was a look of mingled ferocity and stupidity about him. He was like a beast at bay ready to charge its pursuers. Philip Lombardâs senses seemed heightened, rather than diminished. His ears reacted to the slightest sound. His step was lighter and quicker, his body was lithe and graceful. And he smiled often, his lips curling back from his long white teeth.

Vera Claythorne was very quiet. She sat most of the time huddled in a chair. Her eyes stared ahead of her into space. She looked dazed. She was like a bird that has dashed its head against glass and that has been picked up by a human hand. It crouches there, terrified, unable to move, hoping to save itself by its immobility.

Armstrong was in a pitiable condition of nerves. He twitched and his hands shook. He lighted cigarette after cigarette and stubbed them out almost immediately. The forced inaction of their position seemed to gall him more than the others. Every now and then he broke out into a torrent of nervous speech.

âWeâwe shouldnât just sit here doing nothing! There must be somethingâsurely, surely there is something that we can do? If we lit a bonfireâ?â

Blore said heavily:

âIn this weather?â

The rain was pouring down again. The wind came in fitful gusts. The depressing sound of the pattering rain nearly drove them mad.

By tacit consent, they had adopted a plan of campaign. They all sat in the big drawing room. Only one person left the room at a time. The other four waited till the fifth returned.

Lombard said:

âItâs only a question of time. The weather will clear. Then we can do somethingâsignalâlight firesâmake a raftâsomething!â

Armstrong said with a sudden cackle of laughter:

âA question of timeâtime? We canât afford time! We shall all be deadâ¦.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said and his small clear voice was heavy with passionate determination:

âNot if we are careful. We must be very careful.â¦â

The midday meal had been duly eatenâbut there had been no conventional formality about it. All five of them had gone to the kitchen. In the larder they had found a great store of tinned foods. They had opened a tin of tongue and two tins of fruit. They had eaten standing round the kitchen table. Then, herding close together, they had returned to the drawing roomâto sit thereâsit, watching each other.

And by now the thoughts that ran through their brains were abnormal, feverish, diseasedâ¦.

âItâs Armstrong â¦ I saw him looking at me sideways just then â¦ his eyes are mad â¦ quite mad â¦ Perhaps he isnât a doctor at all â¦ Thatâs it, of course!â¦ Heâs a lunatic, escaped from some doctorâs houseâpretending to be a doctor â¦ Itâs true â¦ shall I tell them? â¦ Shall I scream out? â¦ No, it wonât do to put him on his guard â¦ Besides he can seem so sane â¦ What time is it? â¦ Only a quarter past three!â¦ Oh, God, I shall go mad myself â¦Yes, itâs Armstrongâ¦ Heâs watching me nowâ¦.â

âThey wonât get me! I can take care of myself â¦ Iâve been in tight places before â¦ Where the hell is that revolver Who took it? â¦ Whoâs got it? â¦ Nobodyâs got itâwe know that. We were all searched â¦ Nobody can have it â¦But someone knows where it is.â¦â

âTheyâre going mad â¦ Theyâll all go mad â¦ Afraid of death â¦ weâre all afraid of death â¦Iâm afraid of death â¦ Yes, but that doesnât stop death coming â¦âThe hearse is at the door, sir.â Where did I read that? The girl â¦ Iâll watch the girl. Yes, Iâll watch the girlâ¦.â

âTwenty to four â¦ only twenty to four â¦ perhaps the clock has stopped â¦ I donât understandâno, I donât understand â¦ This sort of thing canât happen â¦it is happeningâ¦ Why donât we wake up? Wake upâJudgment Dayâno, not that! If only I could think â¦ My headâsomethingâs happening in my headâitâs going to burstâitâs going to split â¦ This sort of thing canât happen â¦ Whatâs the time? Oh, God, itâs only a quarter to four.â

âI must keep my head â¦ I must keep my head â¦ If only I keep my head â¦ Itâs all perfectly clearâall worked out. But nobody must suspect. It may do the trick. It must! Which one? Thatâs the questionâwhich one? I thinkâyes, I rather thinkâyesâhim.â

When the clock struck five they all jumped.

Vera said:

âDoes anyoneâwant tea?â

There was a momentâs silence. Blore said:

âIâd like a cup.â

Vera rose. She said:

âIâll go and make it. You can all stay here.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said gently:

âI think, my dear young lady, we would all prefer to come and watch you make it.â

Vera stared, then gave a short rather hysterical laugh.

She said:

âOf course! You would!â

Five people went into the kitchen. Tea was made and drunk by Vera and Blore. The other three had whiskyâopening a fresh bottle and using a siphon from a nailed up case.

The judge murmured with a reptilian smile:

âWe must be very carefulâ¦.â

They went back again to the drawing room. Although it was summer the room was dark. Lombard switched on the lights but they did not come on. He said:

âOf course! The engineâs not been run today since Rogers hasnât been there to see to it.â

He hesitated and said:

âWe could go out and get it going, I suppose.â

Mr. Justice Wargrave said:

âThere are packets of candles in the larder, I saw them, better use those.â

Lombard went out. The other four sat watching each other.

He came back with a box of candles and a pile of saucers. Five candles were lit and placed about the room.

The time was a quarter to six.

II

At twenty past six, Vera felt that to sit there longer was unbearable. She would go to her room and bathe her aching head and temples in cold water.

She got up and went towards the door. Then she remembered and came back and got a candle out of the box. She lighted it, let a little wax pour into a saucer and stuck the candle firmly to it. Then she went out of the room, shutting the door behind her and leaving the four men inside. She went up the stairs and along the passage to her room.

As she opened her door, she suddenly halted and stood stock still.

Her nostrils quivered.

The sea â¦ The smell of the sea at St. Tredennick.

That was it. She could not be mistaken. Of course, one smelt the sea on an island anyway, but this was different. It was the smell there had been on the beach that dayâwith the tide out and the rocks covered with seaweed drying in the sun.

âCan I swim out to the island, Miss Claythorne?â

âWhy canât I swim out to the island? â¦â

Horrid whiney spoilt little brat! If it werenât for him, Hugo would be rich â¦ able to marry the girl he lovedâ¦.

Hugo.â¦

SurelyâsurelyâHugo was beside her? No, waiting for her in the room.â¦

She made a step forward. The draught from the window caught the flame of the candle. It flickered and went outâ¦.

In the dark she was suddenly afraidâ¦.

âDonât be a fool,â Vera Claythorne urged herself. âItâs all right. The others are downstairs. All four of them. Thereâs no one in the room. There canât be. Youâre imagining things, my girl.â

But that smellâthat smell of the beach at St. Tredennick â¦ That wasnât imagined. It was true.

And there was someone in the room â¦ She had heard somethingâsurely she had heard somethingâ¦.

And then, as she stood there, listeningâa cold, clammy hand touched her throatâa wet hand, smelling of the seaâ¦.

III

Vera screamed. She screamed and screamedâscreams of the utmost terrorâwild desperate cries for help.

She did not hear the sounds from below, of a chair being overturned, of a door opening, of menâs feet running up the stairs. She was conscious only of supreme terror.

Then, restoring her sanity, lights flickered in the doorwayâcandlesâmen hurrying into the room.

âWhat the devil?â âWhatâs happened?â âGood God, what is it?â

She shuddered, took a step forward, collapsed on the floor.

She was only half aware of someone bending over her, of someone forcing her head down between her knees.

Then at a sudden exclamation, a quick âMy God, look at that!â her senses returned. She opened her eyes and raised her head. She saw what it was the men with the candles were looking at.

A broad ribbon of wet seaweed was hanging down from the ceiling. It was that which in the darkness had swayed against her throat. It was that which she had taken for a clammy hand, a drowned hand come back from the dead to squeeze the life out of her!

She began to laugh hysterically. She said:

âIt was seaweedâonly seaweedâand thatâs what the smell wasâ¦.â

And then the faintness came over her once moreâwaves upon waves of sickness. Again someone took her head and forced it between her knees.

Aeons of time seemed to pass. They were offering her something to drinkâpressing the glass against her lips. She smelt brandy.

She was just about to gulp the spirit gratefully down when, suddenly, a warning noteâlike an alarm bellâsounded in her brain. She sat up, pushing the glass away.

She said sharply: âWhere did this come from?â

Bloreâs voice answered. He stared a minute before speaking. He said:

âI got it from downstairs.â

Vera cried:

âI wonât drink itâ¦.â

There was a momentâs silence, then Lombard laughed.

He said with appreciation:

âGood for you, Vera. Youâve got your wits about youâeven if you have been scared half out of your life. Iâll get a fresh bottle that hasnât been opened.â

He went swiftly out.

Vera said uncertainly:

âIâm all right now. Iâll have some water.â

Armstrong supported her as she struggled to her feet. She went over to the basin, swaying and clutching at him for support. She let the cold tap run and then filled the glass.

Blore said resentfully:

âThat brandyâs all right.â

Armstrong said:

âHow do you know?â

Blore said angrily:

âI didnât put anything in it. Thatâs what youâre getting at I suppose.â

Armstrong said:

âIâm not saying you did. You might have done, or someone might have tampered with the bottle for just this emergency.â

Lombard came swiftly back into the room.

He had a new bottle of brandy in his hands and a corkscrew.

He thrust the sealed bottle under Veraâs nose.

âThere you are, my girl. Absolutely no deception.â He peeled off the tin foil and drew the cork. âLucky thereâs a good supply of spirits in the house. Thoughtful of U. N. Owen.â

Vera shuddered violently.

Armstrong held the glass while Philip poured the brandy into it. He said:

âYouâd better drink this, Miss Claythorne. Youâve had a nasty shock.â

Vera drank a little of the spirit. The colour came back to her face.

Philip Lombard said with a laugh:

âWell, hereâs one murder that hasnât gone according to plan!â

Vera said almost in a whisper:

âYou thinkâthat was what was meant?â

Lombard nodded.

âExpected you to pass out through fright! Some people would have, wouldnât they, doctor?â

Armstrong did not commit himself. He said doubtfully:

âHâm, impossible to say. Young healthy subjectâno cardiac weakness. Unlikely. On the other handââ

He picked up the glass of brandy that Blore had brought. He dipped a finger in it, tasted it gingerly. His expression did not alter. He said dubiously: âHâm, tastes all right.â

Blore stepped forward angrily. He said:

âIf youâre saying that I tampered with that, Iâll knock your ruddy block off.â

Vera, her wits revived by the brandy, made a diversion by saying:

âWhereâs the judge?â

The three men looked at each other.

âThatâs oddâ¦ Thought he came up with us.â

Blore said:

âSo did Iâ¦ What about it, doctor, you came up the stairs behind me?â

Armstrong said:

âI thought he was following me â¦ Of course, heâd be bound to go slower than we did. Heâs an old man.â

They looked at each other again.

Lombard said:

âItâs damned oddâ¦.â

Blore cried:

âWe must look for him.â

He started for the door. The others followed him, Vera last.

As they went down the stairs Armstrong said over his shoulder:

âOf course he may have stayed in the living room.â

They crossed the hall. Armstrong called out loudly:

âWargrave, Wargrave, where are you?â

There was no answer. A deadly silence filled the house apart from the gentle patter of the rain.

Then in the entrance to the drawing room door, Armstrong stopped dead. The others crowded up and looked over his shoulder.

Somebody cried out.

Mr. Justice Wargrave was sitting in his high-backed chair at the end of the room. Two candles burnt on either side of him. But what shocked and startled the onlookers was the fact that he sat there robed in scarlet with a judgeâs wig upon his headâ¦.

Dr. Armstrong motioned to the others to keep back. He himself walked across to the silent staring figure, reeling a little as he walked like a drunken man.

He bent forward, peering into the still face. Then, with a swift movement he raised the wig. It fell to the floor revealing the high bald forehead with, in the very middle, a round stained mark from which something had trickled.

Dr. Armstrong lifted the lifeless hand and felt for the pulse. Then he turned to the others.

He saidâand his voice was expressionless, dead, far awayâ¦.

âHeâs been shotâ¦.â

Blore said:

âGodâthe revolver!â

The doctor said, still in the same lifeless voice:

âGot him through the head. Instantaneous.â

Vera stooped to the wig. She said, and her voice shook with horror:

âMiss Brentâs missing grey woolâ¦.â

Blore said:

âAnd the scarlet curtain that was missing from the bathroomâ¦.â

Vera whispered:

âSo this is what they wanted them forâ¦.â

Suddenly Philip Lombard laughedâa high unnatural laugh.

âFive little soldier boys going in for law; one got in Chancery and then there were Four. Thatâs the end of Mr. Bloody Justice Wargrave. No more pronouncing sentence for him! No more putting on of the black cap! Hereâs the last time heâll ever sit in court! No more summing up and sending innocent men to death. How Edward Seton would laugh if he were here! God, how heâd laugh!â

His outburst shocked and startled the others.

Vera cried:

âOnly this morning you said he was the one!â

Philip Lombardâs face changedâsobered.

He said in a low voice:

âI know I did â¦ Well, I was wrong. Hereâs one more of us whoâs been proved innocentâtoo late!â

Fourteen

I

They had carried Mr. Justice Wargrave up to his room and laid him on the bed.

Then they had come down again and had stood in the hall looking at each other.

Blore said heavily:

âWhat do we do now?â

Lombard said briskly:

âHave something to eat. Weâve got to eat, you know.â

Once again they went into the kitchen. Again they opened a tin of tongue. They ate mechanically, almost without tasting.

Vera said:

âI shall never eat tongue again.â

They finished the meal. They sat round the kitchen table staring at each other.

Blore said:

âOnly four of us now â¦Whoâll be the next?â

Armstrong stared. He said, almost mechanically:

âWe must be very carefulââ and stopped.

Blore nodded.

âThatâs what he said â¦ and now heâs dead!â

Armstrong said:

âHow did it happen, I wonder?â

Lombard swore. He said:

âA damned clever doublecross! That stuff was planted in Miss Claythorneâs room and it worked just as it was intended to. Everyone dashes up there thinking sheâs being murdered. And soâin the confusionâsomeoneâcaught the old boy off his guard.â

Blore said:

âWhy didnât anyone hear the shot?â

Lombard shook his head.

âMiss Claythorne was screaming, the wind was howling, we were running about and calling out. No, it wouldnât be heard.â He paused. âBut that trickâs not going to work again. Heâll have to try something else next.â

Blore said:

âHe probably will.â

There was an unpleasant tone in his voice. The two men eyed each other.

Armstrong said:

âFour of us, and we donât know whichâ¦.â

Blore said:

âI knowâ¦.â

Vera said:

âI havenât the least doubtâ¦.â

Armstrong said slowly:

âI suppose I do know reallyâ¦.â

Philip Lombard said:

âI think Iâve got a pretty good idea nowâ¦.â

Again they all looked at each otherâ¦.

Vera staggered to her feet. She said:

âI feel awful. I must go to bed â¦ Iâm dead beat.â

Lombard said:

âMight as well. No good sitting watching each other.â

Blore said:

âIâve no objectionâ¦.â

The doctor murmured:

âThe best thing to doâalthough I doubt if any of us will sleep.â

They moved to the door. Blore said:

âI wonder where that revolver is now?â¦â

II

They went up the stairs.

The next move was a little like a scene in a farce.

Each one of the four stood with a hand on his or her bedroom door handle. Then, as though at a signal, each one stepped into the room and pulled the door shut. There were sounds of bolts and locks, of the moving of furniture.

Four frightened people were barricaded in until morning.

III

Philip Lombard drew a breath of relief as he turned from adjusting a chair under the door handle.

He strolled across to the dressing table.

By the light of the flickering candle he studied his face curiously.

He said softly to himself:

âYes, this business has got you rattled all right.â

His sudden wolf-like smile flashed out.

He undressed quickly.

He went over to the bed, placing his wristwatch on the table by the bed.

Then he opened the drawer of the table.

He stood there, staring down at the revolver that was inside itâ¦.

IV

Vera Claythorne lay in bed.

The candle still burned beside her.

And yet she could not summon the courage to put it out.

She was afraid of the darkâ¦.

She told herself again and again: âYouâre all right until morning. Nothing happened last night. Nothing will happen tonight. Nothing can happen. Youâre locked and bolted in. No one can come near youâ¦.â

And she thought suddenly:

âOf course! I can stay here! Stay here locked in! Food doesnât really matter! I can stay hereâsafelyâtill help comes! Even if itâs a dayâor two daysâ¦.â

Stay here. Yes, but could she stay here? Hour after hourâwith no one to speak to, with nothing to do but think.â¦

Sheâd begin to think of Cornwallâof Hugoâofâof what sheâd said to Cyril.

Horrid whiney little boy, always pestering herâ¦.

âMiss Claythorne, why canât I swim out to the rock? I can. I know I can.â

Was it her voice that had answered?

âOf course, you can, Cyril, really. I know that.â

âCan I go then, Miss Claythorne?â

âWell, you see, Cyril, your mother gets so nervous about you. Iâll tell you what. Tomorrow you can swim out to the rock. Iâll talk to your mother on the beach and distract her attention. And then, when she looks for you, there youâll be standing on the rock waving to her! It will be a surprise!â

âOh, good egg, Miss Claythorne! That will be a lark!â

Sheâd said it now. Tomorrow! Hugo was going to Newquay. When he came backâit would be all over.

Yes, but supposing it wasnât? Supposing it went wrong? Cyril might be rescued in time. And thenâthen heâd say, âMiss Claythorne said I could.â Well, what of it? One must take some risk! If the worst happened sheâd brazen it out. âHow can you tell such a wicked lie, Cyril? Of course, I never said any such thing!â Theyâd believe her all right. Cyril often told stories. He was an untruthful child. Cyril would know, of course. But that didnât matter â¦ and anyway nothing would go wrong. Sheâd pretend to swim out after him. But sheâd arrive too late â¦ Nobody would ever suspectâ¦.

Had Hugo suspected? Was that why he had looked at her in that queer far-off way?â¦ Had Hugo known?

Was that why he had gone off after the inquest so hurriedly?

He hadnât answered the one letter she had written to himâ¦.

Hugo.â¦

Vera turned restlessly in bed. No, no, she mustnât think of Hugo. It hurt too much! That was all over, over and done with â¦ Hugo must be forgotten.

Why, this evening, had she suddenly felt that Hugo was in the room with her?

She stared up at the ceiling, stared at the big black hook in the middle of the room.

Sheâd never noticed that hook before.

The seaweed had hung from that.

She shivered as she remembered that cold clammy touch on her neck.

She didnât like that hook on the ceiling. It drew your eyes, fascinated you â¦ a big black hookâ¦.

V

Ex-Inspector Blore sat on the side of his bed.

His small eyes, red-rimmed and bloodshot, were alert in the solid mass of his face. He was like a wild boar waiting to charge.

He felt no inclination to sleep.

The menace was coming very near now â¦ Six out of ten!

For all his sagacity, for all his caution and astuteness, the old judge had gone the way of the rest.

Blore snorted with a kind of savage satisfaction.

What was it the old geezer had said?

âWe must be very carefulâ¦.â

Self-righteous smug old hypocrite. Sitting up in court feeling like God Almighty. Heâd got his all right â¦ No more being careful for him.

And now there were four of them. The girl, Lombard, Armstrong and himself.

Very soon another of them would go â¦ But it wouldnât be William Henry Blore. Heâd see to that all right.

(But the revolver â¦ What about the revolver? That was the disturbing factorâthe revolver!)

Blore sat on his bed, his brow furrowed, his little eyes creased and puckered while he pondered the problem of the revolverâ¦.

In the silence he could hear the clocks strike downstairs.

Midnight.

He relaxed a little nowâeven went so far as to lie down on his bed. But he did not undress.

He lay there thinking. Going over the whole business from the beginning, methodically, painstakingly, as he had been wont to do in his police officer days. It was thoroughness that paid in the end.

The candle was burning down. Looking to see if the matches were within easy reach of his hand, he blew it out.

Strangely enough, he found the darkness disquieting. It was as though a thousand age-old fears woke and struggled for supremacy in his brain. Faces floated in the airâthe judgeâs face crowned with that mockery of grey woolâthe cold dead face of Mrs. Rogersâthe convulsed purple face of Anthony Marston.

Another faceâpale, spectacled, with a small straw-coloured moustache.

A face that he had seen sometime or otherâbut when? Not on the island. No, much longer ago than that.

Funny that he couldnât put a name to it â¦ Silly sort of face reallyâfellow looked a bit of a mug.

Of course!

It came to him with a real shock.

Landor!

Odd to think heâd completely forgotten what Landor looked like. Only yesterday heâd been trying to recall the fellowâs face, and hadnât been able to.

And now here it was, every feature clear and distinct, as though he had seen it only yesterday.

Landor had had a wifeâa thin slip of a woman with a worried face. Thereâd been a kid, too, a girl about fourteen. For the first time, he wondered what had become of them.

(The revolver. What had become of the revolver? That was much more important.)

The more he thought about it the more puzzled he was â¦ He didnât understand this revolver business.

Somebody in the house had got that revolverâ¦.

Downstairs a clock struck one.

Bloreâs thoughts were cut short. He sat up on the bed, suddenly alert. For he had heard a soundâa very faint soundâsomewhere outside his bedroom door.

There was someone moving about in the darkened house.

The perspiration broke out on his forehead. Who was it, moving secretly and silently along the corridors? Someone who was up to no good, heâd bet that!

Noiselessly, in spite of his heavy build, he dropped off the bed and with two strides was standing by the door listening.

But the sound did not come again. Nevertheless Blore was convinced that he was not mistaken. He had heard a footfall just outside his door. The hair rose slightly on his scalp. He knew fear againâ¦.

Someone creeping about stealthily in the night.

He listenedâbut the sound was not repeated.

And now a new temptation assailed him. He wanted, desperately, to go out and investigate. If he could only see who it was prowling about in the darkness.

But to open his door would be the action of a fool. Very likely that was exactly what the other was waiting for. He might even have meant Blore to hear what he had heard, counting on him coming out to investigate.

Blore stood rigidâlistening. He could hear sounds everywhere now, cracks, rustles, mysterious whispersâbut his dogged, realistic brain knew them for what they wereâthe creations of his own heated imagination.

And then suddenly he heard something that was not imagination. Footsteps, very soft, very cautious, but plainly audible to a man listening with all his ears as Blore was listening.

They came softly along the corridor (both Lombardâs and Armstrongâs rooms were farther from the stairhead than his). They passed his door without hesitating or faltering.

And as they did so, Blore made up his mind.

He meant to see who it was! The footsteps had definitely passed his door going to the stairs. Where was the man going?

When Blore acted, he acted quickly, surprisingly so for a man who looked so heavy and slow. He tiptoed back to the bed, slipped matches into his pocket, detached the plug of the electric lamp by his bed and picked it up, winding the flex round it. It was a chromium affair with a heavy ebonite baseâa useful weapon.

He sprinted noiselessly across the room, removed the chair from under the door handle and with precaution unlocked and unbolted the door. He stepped out into the corridor. There was a faint sound in the hall below. Blore ran noiselessly in his stockinged feet to the head of the stairs.

At that moment he realized why it was he had heard all these sounds so clearly. The wind had died down completely and the sky must have cleared. There was faint moonlight coming in through the landing window and it illuminated the hall below.

Blore had an instantaneous glimpse of a figure just passing out through the front door.

In the act of running down the stairs in pursuit, he paused.

Once again, he had nearly made a fool of himself! This was a trap, perhaps, to lure him out of the house!

But what the other man didnât realize was that he had made a mistake, had delivered himself neatly into Bloreâs hands.

For, of the three tenanted rooms upstairs, one must now be empty. All that had to be done was to ascertain which!

Blore went swiftly back along the corridor.

He paused first at Dr. Armstrongâs door and tapped. There was no answer.

He waited a minute, then went on to Philip Lombardâs room.

Here the answer came at once.

âWhoâs there?â

âItâs Blore. I donât think Armstrong is in his room. Wait a minute.â

He went on to the door at the end of the corridor. Here he tapped again.

âMiss Claythorne. Miss Claythorne.â

Veraâs voice, startled, answered him.

âWho is it? Whatâs the matter?â

âItâs all right, Miss Claythorne. Wait a minute. Iâll come back.â

He raced back to Lombardâs room. The door opened as he did so. Lombard stood there. He held a candle in his left hand. He had pulled on his trousers over his pyjamas. His right hand rested in the pocket of his pyjama jacket. He said sharply:

âWhat the hellâs all this?â

Blore explained rapidly. Lombardâs eyes lit up.

âArmstrongâeh? So heâs our pigeon!â He moved along to Armstrongâs door. âSorry, Blore, but I donât take anything on trust.â

He rapped sharply on the panel.

âArmstrongâArmstrong.â

There was no answer.

Lombard dropped to his knees and peered through the keyhole. He inserted his little finger gingerly into the lock.

He said:

âKeyâs not in the door on the inside.â

Blore said:

âThat means he locked it on the outside and took it with him.â

Philip nodded.

âOrdinary precaution to take. Weâll get him, Bloreâ¦ This time, weâll get him! Half a second.â

He raced along to Veraâs room.

âVera.â

âYes.â

âWeâre hunting Armstrong. Heâs out of his room. Whatever you do, donât open your door. Understand?â

âYes, I understand.â

âIf Armstrong comes along and says that Iâve been killed, or Bloreâs been killed, pay no attention. See? Only open your door if both Blore and I speak to you. Got that?â

Vera said:

âYes. Iâm not a complete fool.â

Lombard said:

âGood.â

He joined Blore. He said:

âAnd nowâafter him! The huntâs up!â

Blore said:

âWeâd better be careful. Heâs got a revolver, remember.â

Philip Lombard racing down the stairs chuckled.

He said:

âThatâs where youâre wrong.â He undid the front door, remarking, âLatch pushed backâso he could get in again easily.â

He went on:

âIâve got that revolver!â He took it half out of his pocket as he spoke. âFound it put back in my drawer tonight.â

Blore stopped dead on the doorstep. His face changed. Philip Lombard saw it.

âDonât be a damned fool, Blore! Iâm not going to shoot you! Go back and barricade yourself in if you like! Iâm off after Armstrong.â

He started off into the moonlight. Blore, after a minuteâs hesitation, followed him.

He thought to himself:

âI suppose Iâm asking for it. After allââ

After all he had tackled criminals armed with revolvers before now. Whatever else he lacked, Blore did not lack courage. Show him the danger and he would tackle it pluckily. He was not afraid of danger in the open, only of danger undefined and tinged with the supernatural.

VI

Vera, left to await results, got up and dressed.

She glanced over once or twice at the door. It was a good solid door. It was both bolted and locked and had an oak chair wedged under the handle.

It could not be broken open by force. Certainly not by Dr. Armstrong. He was not a physically powerful man.

If she were Armstrong intent on murder, it was cunning that she would employ, not force.

She amused herself by reflecting on the means he might employ.

He might, as Philip had suggested, announce that one of the other two men was dead. Or he might possibly pretend to be mortally wounded himself, might drag himself groaning to her door.

There were other possibilities. He might inform her that the house was on fire. More, he might actually set the house on fire â¦ Yes, that would be a possibility. Lure the other two men out of the house, then, having previously laid a trail of petrol, he might set light to it. And she, like an idiot, would remain barricaded in her room until it was too late.

She crossed over to the window. Not too bad. At a pinch one could escape that way. It would mean a dropâbut there was a handy flower bed.

She sat down and picking up her diary began to write in it in a clear flowing hand.

One must pass the time.

Suddenly she stiffened to attention. She had heard a sound. It was, she thought, a sound like breaking glass. And it came from somewhere downstairs.

She listened hard, but the sound was not repeated.

She heard, or thought she heard, stealthy sounds of footsteps, the creak of stairs, the rustle of garmentsâbut there was nothing definite and she concluded, as Blore had done earlier, that such sounds had their origin in her own imagination.

But presently she heard sounds of a more concrete nature. People moving about downstairsâthe murmur of voices. Then the very decided sound of someone mounting the stairsâdoors opening and shuttingâfeet going up to the attics overhead. More noises from there.

Finally the steps came along the passage. Lombardâs voice said:

âVera. You all right?â

âYes. What happened?â

Bloreâs voice said:

âWill you let us in?â

Vera went to the door. She removed the chair, unlocked the door and slid back the bolt. She opened the door. The two men were breathing hard, their feet and the bottom of their trousers were soaking wet.

She said again:

âWhatâs happened?â

Lombard said:

âArmstrongâs disappeared.â¦â

VII

Vera cried:

âWhat?â

Lombard said:

âVanished clean off the island.â

Blore concurred:

âVanishedâthatâs the word! Like some damned conjuring trick.â

Vera said impatiently:

âNonsense! Heâs hiding somewhere!â

Blore said:

âNo, he isnât! I tell you, thereâs nowhere to hide on this island. Itâs as bare as your hand! Thereâs moonlight outside. As clear as day it is. And heâs not to be found.â

Vera said:

âHe doubled back to the house.â

Blore said:

âWe thought of that. Weâve searched the house, too. You must have heard us. Heâs not here, I tell you. Heâs goneâclean vanished, vamoosedâ¦.â

Vera said incredulously:

âI donât believe it.â

Lombard said:

âItâs true, my dear.â

He paused and then said:

âThereâs one other little fact. A pane in the dining room window has been smashedâand there are only three little soldier boys on the table.â

Fifteen

I

Three people sat eating breakfast in the kitchen.

Outside, the sun shone. It was a lovely day. The storm was a thing of the past.

And with the change in the weather, a change had come in the mood of the prisoners on the island.

They felt now like people just awakening from a nightmare. There was danger, yes, but it was danger in daylight. That paralysing atmosphere of fear that had wrapped them round like a blanket yesterday while the wind howled outside was gone.

Lombard said:

âWeâll try heliographing today with a mirror from the highest point of the island. Some bright lad wandering on the cliff will recognize SOS when he sees it, I hope. In the evening we could try a bonfireâonly there isnât much woodâand anyway they might just think it was song and dance and merriment.â

Vera said:

âSurely someone can read Morse. And then theyâll come to take us off. Long before this evening.â

Lombard said:

âThe weatherâs cleared all right, but the sea hasnât gone down yet. Terrific swell on! They wonât be able to get a boat near the island before tomorrow.â

Vera cried:

âAnother night in this place!â

Lombard shrugged his shoulders.

âMay as well face it! Twenty-four hours will do it, I think. If we can last out that, weâll be all right.â

Blore cleared his throat. He said:

âWeâd better come to a clear understanding. Whatâs happened to Armstrong?â

Lombard said:

âWell, weâve got one piece of evidence. Only three little soldier boys left on the dinner table. It looks as though Armstrong had got his quietus.â

Vera said:

âThen why havenât you found his dead body?â

Blore said:

âExactly.â

Lombard shook his head. He said:

âItâs damned oddâno getting over it.â

Blore said doubtfully:

âIt might have been thrown into the sea.â

Lombard said sharply:

âBy whom? You? Me? You saw him go out of the front door. You come along and find me in my room. We go out and search together. When the devil had I time to kill him and carry his body round the island?â

Blore said:

âI donât know. But I do know one thing.â

Lombard said:

âWhatâs that?â

Blore said:

âThe revolver. It was your revolver. Itâs in your possession now. Thereâs nothing to show that it hasnât been in your possession all along.â

âCome now, Blore, we were all searched.â

âYes, youâd hidden it away before that happened. Afterwards you just took it back again.â

âMy good blockhead, I swear to you that it was put back in my drawer. Greatest surprise I ever had in my life when I found it there.â

Blore said:

âYou ask us to believe a thing like that! Why the devil should Armstrong, or anyone else for that matter, put it back?â

Lombard raised his shoulders hopelessly.

âI havenât the least idea. Itâs just crazy. The last thing one would expect. There seems no point in it.â

Blore agreed.

âNo, there isnât. You might have thought of a better story.â

âRather proof that Iâm telling the truth, isnât it?â

âI donât look at it that way.â

Philip said:

âYou wouldnât.â

Blore said:

âLook here, Mr. Lombard, if youâre an honest man, as you pretendââ

Philip murmured:

âWhen did I lay claims to being an honest man? No, indeed, I never said that.â

Blore went on stolidly:

âIf youâre speaking the truthâthereâs only one thing to be done. As long as you have that revolver, Miss Claythorne and I are at your mercy. The only fair thing is to put that revolver with the other things that are locked upâand you and I will hold the two keys still.â

Philip Lombard lit a cigarette.

As he puffed smoke, he said:

âDonât be an ass.â

âYou wonât agree to that?â

âNo, I wonât. That revolverâs mine. I need it to defend myselfâand Iâm going to keep it.â

Blore said:

âIn that case weâre bound to come to one conclusion.â

âThat Iâm U.N. Owen? Think what you damned well please. But Iâll ask you, if thatâs so, why I didnât pot you with the revolver last night? I could have, about twenty times over.â

Blore shook his head.

He said:

âI donât knowâand thatâs a fact. You must have had some reason.â

Vera had taken no part in the discussion. She stirred now and said:

âI think youâre both behaving like a pair of idiots.â

Lombard looked at her.

âWhatâs this?â

Vera said:

âYouâve forgotten the nursery rhyme. Donât you see thereâs a clue there?â

She recited in a meaning voice:

âFour little soldier boys going out to sea;

A red herring swallowed one and then there were Three.â

She went on:

âA red herringâthatâs the vital clue. Armstrongâs not deadâ¦ He took away the china soldier to make you think he was. You may say what you likeâArmstrongâs on the island still. His disappearance is just a red herring across the trackâ¦.â

Lombard sat down again.

He said:

âYou know, you may be right.â

Blore said:

âYes, but if so, where is he? Weâve searched the place. Outside and inside.â

Vera said scornfully:

âWe all searched for the revolver, didnât we, and couldnât find it? But it was somewhere all the time!â

Lombard murmured:

âThereâs a slight difference in size, my dear, between a man and a revolver.â

Vera said:

âI donât careâIâm sure Iâm right.â

Blore murmured:

âRather giving himself away, wasnât it? Actually mentioning a red herring in the verse. He could have written it up a bit different.â

Vera cried:

âBut donât you see, heâs mad? Itâs all mad! The whole thing of going by the rhyme is mad! Dressing up the judge, killing Rogers when he was chopping sticksâdrugging Mrs. Rogers so that she overslept herselfâarranging for a bumble bee when Miss Brent died! Itâs like some horrible child playing a game. Itâs all got to fit in.â

Blore said:

âYes, youâre right.â He thought a minute. âAt any rate thereâs no zoo on the island. Heâll have a bit of trouble getting over that.â

Vera cried:

âDonât you see? Weâre the Zooâ¦ Last night, we were hardly human anymore. Weâre the Zoo.â¦â

II

They spent the morning on the cliffs, taking it in turns to flash a mirror at the mainland.

There were no signs that any one saw them. No answering signals. The day was fine, with a slight haze. Below, the sea heaved in a gigantic swell. There were no boats out.

They had made another abortive search of the island. There was no trace of the missing physician.

Vera looked up at the house from where they were standing.

She said, her breath coming with a slight catch in it:

âOne feels safer here, out in the open â¦ Donât letâs go back into the house again.â

Lombard said:

âNot a bad idea. Weâre pretty safe here, no one can get at us without our seeing him a long time beforehand.â

Vera said:

âWeâll stay here.â

Blore said:

âHave to pass the night somewhere. Weâll have to go back to the house then.â

Vera shuddered.

âI canât bear it. I canât go through another night!â

Philip said:

âYouâll be safe enoughâlocked in your room.â

Vera murmured: âI suppose so.â

She stretched out her hands, murmuring:

âItâs lovelyâto feel the sun againâ¦.â

She thought:

âHow odd â¦ Iâm almost happy. And yet I suppose Iâm actually in danger â¦ Somehowânowânothing seems to matter â¦ not in daylight â¦ I feel full of powerâI feel that I canât dieâ¦.â

Blore was looking at his wristwatch. He said:

âItâs two oâclock. What about lunch?â

Vera said obstinately:

âIâm not going back to the house. Iâm going to stay hereâin the open.â

âOh come now, Miss Claythorne. Got to keep your strength up, you know.â

Vera said:

âIf I even see a tinned tongue, I shall be sick! I donât want any food. People go days on end with nothing sometimes when theyâre on a diet.â

Blore said:

âWell, I need my meals regular. What about you, Mr. Lombard?â

Philip said:

âYou know, I donât relish the idea of tinned tongue particularly. Iâll stay here with Miss Claythorne.â

Blore hesitated. Vera said:

âI shall be quite all right. I donât think heâll shoot me as soon as your back is turned if thatâs what youâre afraid of.â

Blore said:

âItâs all right if you say so. But we agreed we ought not to separate.â

Philip said:

âYouâre the one who wants to go into the lionâs den. Iâll come with you if you like.â

âNo, you wonât,â said Blore. âYouâll stay here.â

Philip laughed.

âSo youâre still afraid of me? Why, I could shoot you both this very minute if I liked.â

Blore said:

âYes, but that wouldnât be according to plan. Itâs one at a time, and itâs got to be done in a certain way.â

âWell,â said Philip, âyou seem to know all about it.â

âOf course,â said Blore, âitâs a bit jumpy going up to the house aloneââ

Philip said softly:

âAnd therefore, will I lend you my revolver? Answer, no, I will not! Not quite so simple as that, thank you.â

Blore shrugged his shoulders and began to make his way up the steep slope to the house.

Lombard said softly:

âFeeding time at the Zoo! The animals are very regular in their habits!â

Vera said anxiously:

âIsnât it very risky, what heâs doing?â

âIn the sense you meanâno, I donât think it is! Armstrongâs not armed, you know, and anyway Blore is twice a match for him in physique and heâs very much on his guard. And anyway itâs a sheer impossibility that Armstrong can be in the house. I know heâs not there.â

âButâwhat other solution is there?â

Philip said softly:

âThereâs Blore.â

âOhâdo you really thinkâ?â

âListen, my girl. You heard Bloreâs story. Youâve got to admit that if itâs true, I canât possibly have had anything to do with Armstrongâs disappearance. His story clears me. But it doesnât clear him. Weâve only his word for it that he heard footsteps and saw a man going downstairs and out at the front door. The whole thing may be a lie. He may have got rid of Armstrong a couple of hours before that.â

âHow?â

Lombard shrugged his shoulders.

âThat we donât know. But if you ask me, weâve only one danger to fearâand that danger is Blore! What do we know about the man? Less than nothing! All this ex-policeman story may be bunkum! He may be anybodyâa mad millionaireâa crazy businessmanâan escaped inmate of Broadmoor. One thingâs certain. He could have done every one of these crimes.â

Vera had gone rather white. She said in a slightly breathless voice:

âAnd supposing he getsâus?â

Lombard said softly, patting the revolver in his pocket:

âIâm going to take very good care he doesnât.â

Then he looked at her curiously.

âTouching faith in me, havenât you, Vera? Quite sure I wouldnât shoot you?â

Vera said:

âOne has got to trust someone â¦ As a matter of fact I think youâre wrong about Blore. I still think itâs Armstrong.â

She turned to him suddenly:

âDonât you feelâall the timeâthat thereâs someone. Someone watching and waiting?â

Lombard said slowly:

âThatâs just nerves.â

Vera said eagerly:

âThen you have felt it?â

She shivered. She bent a little closer.

âTell meâyou donât thinkââ she broke off, went on: âI read a story onceâabout two judges that came to a small American townâfrom the Supreme Court. They administered justiceâAbsolute Justice. Becauseâthey didnât come from this world at all.â¦â

Lombard raised his eyebrows.

He said:

âHeavenly visitants, eh? No, I donât believe in the supernatural. This business is human enough.â

Vera said in a low voice:

âSometimesâIâm not sureâ¦.â

Lombard looked at her. He said:

âThatâs conscience â¦â After a momentâs silence he said very quietly: âSo you did drown that kid after all?â

Vera said vehemently:

âI didnât! I didnât! Youâve no right to say that!â

He laughed easily.

âOh yes, you did, my good girl! I donât know why. Canât imagine. There was a man in it probably. Was that it?â

A sudden feeling of lassitude, of intense weariness, spread over Veraâs limbs. She said in a dull voice:

âYesâthere was a man in itâ¦.â

Lombard said softly:

âThanks. Thatâs what I wanted to knowâ¦.â

Vera sat up suddenly. She exclaimed:

âWhat was that? It wasnât an earthquake?â

Lombard said:

âNo, no. Queer, thoughâa thud shook the ground. And I thoughtâdid you hear a sort of cry? I did.â

They stared up at the house.

Lombard said:

âIt came from there. Weâd better go up and see.â

âNo, no, Iâm not going.â

âPlease yourself. I am.â

Vera said desperately:

âAll right. Iâll come with you.â

They walked up the slope to the house. The terrace was peaceful and innocuous-looking in the sunshine. They hesitated there a minute, then instead of entering by the front door, they made a cautious circuit of the house.

They found Blore. He was spreadeagled on the stone terrace on the east side, his head crushed and mangled by a great block of white marble.

Philip looked up. He said:

âWhose is that window just above?â

Vera said in a low shuddering voice:

âItâs mineâand thatâs the clock from my mantelpieceâ¦ I remember now. It wasâshaped like a bear.â

She repeated and her voice shook and quavered:

âIt was shaped like a bearâ¦.â

III

Philip grasped her shoulder.

He said, and his voice was urgent and grim:

âThis settles it. Armstrong is in hiding somewhere in that house. Iâm going to get him.â

But Vera clung to him. She cried:

âDonât be a fool. Itâs us now! Weâre next! He wants us to look for him! Heâs counting on it!â

Philip stopped. He said thoughtfully:

âThereâs something in that.â

Vera cried:

âAt any rate you do admit now I was right.â

He nodded.

âYesâyou win! Itâs Armstrong all right. But where the devil did he hide himself? We went over the place with a fine-tooth comb.â

Vera said urgently:

âIf you didnât find him last night, you wonât find him nowâ¦ Thatâs common sense.â

Lombard said reluctantly:

âYes, butââ

âHe must have prepared a secret place beforehandânaturallyâof course itâs just what he would do. You know, like a Priestâs Hole in old manor houses.â

âThis isnât an old house of that kind.â

âHe could have had one made.â

Philip Lombard shook his head. He said:

âWe measured the placeâthat first morning. Iâll swear thereâs no space unaccounted for.â

Vera said:

âThere must beâ¦.â

Lombard said:

âIâd like to seeââ

Vera cried:

âYes, youâd like to see! And he knows that! Heâs in thereâwaiting for you.â

Lombard said, half bringing out the revolver from his pocket:

âIâve got this, you know.â

âYou said Blore was all rightâthat he was more than a match for Armstrong. So he was physically, and he was on the look out too. But what you donât seem to realize is that Armstrong is mad! And a madman has all the advantages on his side. Heâs twice as cunning as any one sane can be.â

Lombard put back the revolver in his pocket. He said:

âCome on, then.â

IV

Lombard said at last:

âWhat are we going to do when night comes?â

Vera didnât answer. He went on accusingly:

âYou havenât thought of that?â

She said helplessly:

âWhat can we do? Oh, my God, Iâm frightened.â¦â

Philip Lombard said thoughtfully:

âItâs fine weather. There will be a moon. We must find a placeâup by the top cliffs perhaps. We can sit there and wait for morning. We mustnât go to sleepâ¦ We must watch the whole time. And if any one comes up toward us, I shall shoot!â

He paused:

âYouâll be cold, perhaps, in that thin dress?â

Vera said with a raucous laugh:

âCold? I should be colder if I were dead!â

Philip Lombard said quietly:

âYes, thatâs trueâ¦.â

Vera moved restlessly.

She said:

âI shall go mad if I sit here any longer. Letâs move about.â

âAll right.â

They paced slowly up and down, along the line of the rocks overlooking the sea. The sun was dropping towards the west. The light was golden and mellow. It enveloped them in a golden glow.

Vera said, with a sudden nervous little giggle:

âPity we canât have a batheâ¦.â

Philip was looking down towards the sea. He said abruptly:

âWhatâs that, there? You seeâby that big rock? Noâa little farther to the right.â

Vera stared. She said:

âIt looks like somebodyâs clothes!â

âA bather, eh?â Lombard laughed. âQueer. I suppose itâs only seaweed.â

Vera said:

âLetâs go and look.â

âIt is clothes,â said Lombard as they drew nearer. âA bundle of them. Thatâs a boot. Come on, letâs scramble along here.â

They scrambled over the rocks.

Vera stopped suddenly. She said:

âItâs not clothesâitâs a manâ¦.â

The man was wedged between two rocks, flung there by the tide earlier in the day.

Lombard and Vera reached it in a last scramble. They bent down.

A purple discoloured faceâa hideous drowned face.â¦

Lombard said:

âMy God! itâs Armstrong.â¦â

Sixteen

I

Aeons passed â¦ worlds spun and whirled â¦ Time was motionless â¦ It stood stillâit passed through a thousand agesâ¦.

No, it was only a minute or so â¦

Two people were standing looking down on a dead manâ¦.

Slowly, very slowly, Vera Claythorne and Philip Lombard lifted their heads and looked into each otherâs eyesâ¦.

II

Lombard laughed.

He said:

âSo thatâs it, is it, Vera?â

Vera said:

âThereâs no one on the islandâno one at allâexcept us twoâ¦.â

Her voice was a whisperânothing more.

Lombard said:

âPrecisely. So we know where we are, donât we?â

Vera said:

âHow was it workedâthat trick with the marble bear?â

He shrugged his shoulders.

âA conjuring trick, my dearâa very good oneâ¦.â

Their eyes met again.

Vera thought:

âWhy did I never see his face properly before? A wolfâthatâs what it isâa wolf âs face â¦ Those horrible teethâ¦.â

Lombard said, and his voice was a snarlâdangerousâmenacing:

âThis is the end, you understand. Weâve come to the truth now. And itâs the end.â¦â

Vera said quietly:

âI understandâ¦.â

She stared out to sea. General Macarthur had stared out to seaâwhenâonly yesterday? Or was it the day before? He too had said, âThis is the endâ¦.â

He had said it with acceptanceâalmost with welcome.

But to Vera the wordsâthe thoughtâbrought rebellion.

No, it should not be the end.

She looked down at the dead man. She said:

âPoor Dr. Armstrongâ¦.â

Lombard sneered.

He said:

âWhatâs this? Womanly pity?â

Vera said:

âWhy not? Havenât you any pity?â

He said:

âIâve no pity for you. Donât expect it!â

Vera looked down again at the body. She said:

âWe must move him. Carry him up to the house.â

âTo join the other victims, I suppose? All neat and tidy. As far as Iâm concerned he can stay where he is.â

Vera said:

âAt any rate letâs get him out of the reach of the sea.â

Lombard laughed. He said:

âIf you like.â

He bentâtugging at the body. Vera leaned against him, helping him. She pulled and tugged with all her might.

Lombard panted:

âNot such an easy job.â

They managed it, however, drawing the body clear of high water mark.

Lombard said as he straightened up:

âSatisfied?â

Vera said:

âQuite.â

Her tone warned him. He spun round. Even as he clapped his hand to his pocket he knew that he would find it empty.

She had moved a yard or two away and was facing him, revolver in hand.

Lombard said:

âSo thatâs the reason for your womanly solicitude! You wanted to pick my pocket.â

She nodded.

She held it steadily and unwaveringly.

Death was very near to Philip Lombard now. It had never, he knew, been nearer.

Nevertheless he was not beaten yet.

He said authoritatively:

âGive that revolver to me.â

Vera laughed.

Lombard said:

âCome on, hand it over.â

His quick brain was working. Which wayâwhich methodâtalk her overâlull her into security or a swift dashâ

All his life Lombard had taken the risky way. He took it now.

He spoke slowly, argumentatively:

âNow look here, my dear girl, you just listenââ

And then he sprang. Quick as a pantherâas any other feline creatureâ¦.

Automatically Vera pressed the triggerâ¦.

Lombardâs leaping body stayed poised in mid-spring then crashed heavily to the ground.

Vera came warily forward, the revolver ready in her hand.

But there was no need of caution.

Philip Lombard was deadâshot through the heartâ¦.

III

Relief possessed Veraâenormous exquisite relief.

At last it was over.

There was no more fearâno more steeling of her nervesâ¦.

She was alone on the islandâ¦.

Alone with nine dead bodiesâ¦.

But what did that matter? She was aliveâ¦.

She sat thereâexquisitely happyâexquisitely at peace â¦

No more fearâ¦.

IV

The sun was setting when Vera moved at last. Sheer reaction had kept her immobile. There had been no room in her for anything but the glorious sense of safety.

She realized now that she was hungry and sleepy. Principally sleepy. She wanted to throw herself on her bed and sleep and sleep and sleepâ¦.

Tomorrow, perhaps, they would come and rescue herâbut she didnât really mind. She didnât mind staying here. Not now that she was aloneâ¦.

Oh! blessed, blessed peaceâ¦.

She got to her feet and glanced up at the house.

Nothing to be afraid of any longer! No terrors waiting for her! Just an ordinary well-built modern house. And yet, a little earlier in the day, she had not been able to look at it without shiveringâ¦.

Fearâwhat a strange thing fear wasâ¦.

Well, it was over now. She had conqueredâhad triumphed over the most deadly peril. By her own quick-wittedness and adroitness she had turned the tables on her would-be destroyer.

She began to walk up towards the house.

The sun was setting, the sky to the west was streaked with red and orange. It was beautiful and peacefulâ¦.

Vera thoughtâ¦.

âThe whole thing might be a dreamâ¦.â

How tired she wasâterribly tired. Her limbs ached, her eyelids were dropping. Not to be afraid anymore â¦ To sleep. Sleep â¦ sleep â¦ sleepâ¦.

To sleep safely since she was alone on the island. One little soldier boy left all alone.

She smiled to herself.

She went in at the front door. The house, too, felt strangely peaceful.

Vera thought:

âOrdinarily one wouldnât care to sleep where thereâs a dead body in practically every bedroom!â

Should she go to the kitchen and get herself something to eat?

She hesitated a moment, then decided against it. She was really too tiredâ¦.

She paused by the dining room door. There were still three little china figures in the middle of the table.

Vera laughed.

She said:

âYouâre behind the times, my dears.â

She picked up two of them and tossed them out through the window. She heard them crash on the stone of the terrace.

The third little figure she picked up and held in her hand. She said:

âYou can come with me. Weâve won, my dear! Weâve won!â

The hall was dim in the dying light.

Vera, the little soldier clasped in her hand, began to mount the stairs. Slowly, because her legs were suddenly very tired.

âOne little soldier boy left all alone.â How did it end? Oh, yes! âHe got married and then there were none.â

Married â¦ Funny, how she suddenly got the feeling again that Hugo was in the houseâ¦.

Very strong. Yes, Hugo was upstairs waiting for her.

Vera said to herself:

âDonât be a fool. Youâre so tired that youâre imagining the most fantastic thingsâ¦.â

Slowly up the stairsâ¦.

At the top of them something fell from her hand making hardly any noise on the soft pile carpet. She did not notice that she had dropped the revolver. She was only conscious of clasping a little china figure.

How very quiet the house was. And yetâit didnât seem like an empty houseâ¦.

Hugo, upstairs, waiting for herâ¦.

âOne little soldier boy left all alone.â What was the last line again? Something about being marriedâor was it something else?

She had come now to the door of her room. Hugo was waiting for her insideâshe was quite sure of it.

She opened the doorâ¦.

She gave a gaspâ¦.

What was thatâhanging from the hook in the ceiling? A rope with a noose all ready? And a chair to stand uponâa chair that could be kicked away.â¦

That was what Hugo wanted.â¦

And of course that was the last line of the rhyme.

âHe went and hanged himself and then there were Noneâ¦.â

The little china figure fell from her hand. It rolled unheeded and broke against the fender.

Like an automaton Vera moved forward. This was the endâhere where the cold wet hand (Cyrilâs hand, of course) had touched her throatâ¦.

âYou can go to the rock, Cyrilâ¦.â

That was what murder wasâas easy as that!

But afterwards you went on rememberingâ¦.

She climbed up on the chair, her eyes staring in front of her like a sleepwalkerâs â¦ She adjusted the noose round her neck.

Hugo was there to see she did what she had to do.

She kicked away the chairâ¦.

Epilogue

Sir Thomas Legge, Assistant Commissioner at Scotland Yard, said irritably:

âBut the whole thingâs incredible!â

Inspector Maine said respectfully:

âI know, sir.â

The AC went on:

âTen people dead on an island and not a living soul on it. It doesnât make sense!â

Inspector Maine said stolidly:

âNevertheless, it happened, sir.â

Sir Thomas Legge said:

âDamâ it all, Maine, somebody must have killed âem.â

âThatâs just our problem, sir.â

âNothing helpful in the doctorâs report?â

âNo, sir. Wargrave and Lombard were shot, the first through the head, the second through the heart. Miss Brent and Marston died of cyanide poisoning. Mrs. Rogers died of an overdose of chloral. Rogersâ head was split open. Bloreâs head was crushed in. Armstrong died of drowning. Macarthurâs skull was fractured by a blow on the back of the head and Vera Claythorne was hanged.â

The AC winced. He said:

âNasty businessâall of it.â

He considered for a minute or two. He said irritably:

âDo you mean to say that you havenât been able to get anything helpful out of the Sticklehaven people? Dash it, they must know something.â

Inspector Maine shrugged his shoulders.

âTheyâre ordinary decent seafaring folk. They know that the island was bought by a man called Owenâand thatâs about all they do know.â

âWho provisioned the island and made all the necessary arrangements?â

âMan called Morris. Isaac Morris.â

âAnd what does he say about it all?â

âHe canât say anything, sir, heâs dead.â

The AC frowned.

âDo we know anything about this Morris?â

âOh yes, sir, we know about him. He wasnât a very savoury gentleman, Mr. Morris. He was implicated in that share-pushing fraud of Bennitoâs three years agoâweâre sure of that though we canât prove it. And he was mixed up in the dope business. And again we canât prove it. He was a very careful man, Morris.â

âAnd he was behind this island business?â

âYes, sir, he put through the saleâthough he made it clear that he was buying Soldier Island for a third party, unnamed.â

âSurely thereâs something to be found out on the financial angle, there?â

Inspector Maine smiled.

âNot if you knew Morris! He can wangle figures until the best chartered accountant in the country wouldnât know if he was on his head or his heels! Weâve had a taste of that in the Bennito business. No, he covered his employerâs tracks all right.â

The other man sighed. Inspector Maine went on:

âIt was Morris who made all the arrangements down at Sticklehaven. Represented himself as acting for âMr. Owen.â And it was he who explained to the people down there that there was some experiment onâsome bet about living on a âdesert islandâ for a weekâand that no notice was to be taken of any appeal for help from out there.â

Sir Thomas Legge stirred uneasily. He said:

âAnd youâre telling me that those people didnât smell a rat? Not even then?â

Maine shrugged his shoulders. He said:

âYouâre forgetting, sir, that Soldier Island previously belonged to young Elmer Robson, the American. He had the most extraordinary parties down there. Iâve no doubt the local peopleâs eyes fairly popped out over them. But they got used to it and theyâd begun to feel that anything to do with Soldier Island would necessarily be incredible. Itâs natural, that, sir, when you come to think of it.â

The Assistant Commissioner admitted gloomily that he supposed it was.

Maine said:

âFred Narracottâthatâs the man who took the party out thereâdid say one thing that was illuminating. He said he was surprised to see what sort of people these were. âNot at all like Mr. Robsonâs parties.â I think it was the fact that they were all so normal and so quiet that made him override Morrisâs orders and take out a boat to the island after heâd heard about the SOS signals.â

âWhen did he and the other men go?â

âThe signals were seen by a party of boy scouts on the morning of the 11th. There was no possibility of getting out there that day. The men got there on the afternoon of the 12th at the first moment possible to run a boat ashore there. Theyâre all quite positive that nobody could have left the island before they got there. There was a big sea on after the storm.â

âCouldnât someone have swum ashore?â

âItâs over a mile to the coast and there were heavy seas and big breakers inshore. And there were a lot of people, boy scouts and others on the cliffs looking out towards the island and watching.â

The AC sighed. He said:

âWhat about that gramophone record you found in the house? Couldnât you get hold of anything there that might help?â

Inspector Maine said:

âIâve been into that. It was supplied by a firm that do a lot of theatrical stuff and film effects. It was sent to U. N. Owen Esq., c/o Isaac Morris, and was understood to be required for the amateur performance of a hitherto unacted play. The typescript of it was returned with the record.â

Legge said:

âAnd what about the subject matter, eh?â

Inspector Maine said gravely:

âIâm coming to that, sir.â

He cleared his throat.

âIâve investigated those accusations as thoroughly as I can.

âStarting with the Rogerses who were the first to arrive on the island. They were in service with a Miss Brady who died suddenly. Canât get anything definite out of the doctor who attended her. He says they certainly didnât poison her, or anything like that, but his personal belief is that there was some funny businessâthat she died as the result of neglect on their part. Says itâs the sort of thing thatâs quite impossible to prove.

âThen there is Mr. Justice Wargrave. Thatâs OK. He was the judge who sentenced Seton.

âBy the way, Seton was guiltyâunmistakably guilty. Evidence turned up later, after he was hanged, which proved that beyond any shadow of doubt. But there was a good deal of comment at the timeânine people out of ten thought Seton was innocent and that the judgeâs summing up had been vindictive.

âThe Claythorne girl, I find, was governess in a family where a death occurred by drowning. However, she doesnât seem to have had anything to do with it, and as a matter of fact she behaved very well, swam out to the rescue and was actually carried out to sea and only just rescued in time.â

âGo on,â said the AC with a sigh.

Maine took a deep breath.

âDr. Armstrong now. Well-known man. Had a consulting-room in Harley Street. Absolutely straight and aboveboard in his profession. Havenât been able to trace any record of an illegal operation or anything of that kind. Itâs true that there was a woman called Clees who was operated on by him way back in 1925 at Leithmore, when he was attached to the hospital there. Peritonitis and she died on the operating table. Maybe he wasnât very skilful over the opâafter all he hadnât much experienceâbut after all clumsiness isnât a criminal offence. There was certainly no motive.

âThen thereâs Miss Emily Brent. Girl, Beatrice Taylor, was in service with her. Got pregnant, was turned out by her mistress and went and drowned herself. Not a nice businessâbut again not criminal.â

âThat,â said the AC, âseems to be the point. U. N. Owen dealt with cases that the law couldnât touch.â

Maine went stolidly on with his list.

âYoung Marston was a fairly reckless car driverâhad his licence endorsed twice and he ought to have been prohibited from driving in my opinion. Thatâs all there is to him. The two names John and Lucy Combes were those of two kids he knocked down and killed near Cambridge. Some friends of his gave evidence for him and he was let off with a fine.

âCanât find anything definite about General Macarthur. Fine recordâwar serviceâall the rest of it. Arthur Richmond was serving under him in France and was killed in action. No friction of any kind between him and the General. They were close friends as a matter of fact. There were some blunders made about that timeâcommanding officers sacrificed men unnecessarilyâpossibly this was a blunder of that kind.â

âPossibly,â said the AC.

âNow, Philip Lombard. Lombard has been mixed up in some very curious shows abroad. Heâs sailed very near the law once or twice. Got a reputation for daring and for not being overscrupulous. Sort of fellow who might do several murders in some quiet out of the way spot.

âThen we come to Blore.â Maine hesitated. âHe of course was one of our lot.â

The other man stirred.

âBlore,â said the Assistant Commissioner forcibly, âwas a bad hat!â

âYou think so, sir?â

The AC said:

âI always thought so. But he was clever enough to get away with it. Itâs my opinion that he committed black perjury in the Landor case. I wasnât happy about it at the time. But I couldnât find anything. I put Harris on to it and he couldnât find anything but Iâm still of the opinion that there was something to find if weâd known how to set about it. The man wasnât straight.â

There was a pause, then Sir Thomas Legge said:

âAnd Isaac Morris is dead, you say? When did he die?â

âI thought youâd soon come to that, sir. Isaac Morris died on the night of August 8th. Took an overdose of sleeping stuffâone of the barbiturates, I understand. There wasnât anything to show whether it was accident or suicide.â

Legge said slowly:

âCare to know what I think, Maine?â

âPerhaps I can guess, sir.â

Legge said heavily:

âThat death of Morrisâs is a damned sight too opportune!â

Inspector Maine nodded. He said:

âI thought youâd say that, sir.â

The Assistant Commissioner brought down his fist with a bang on the table. He cried out:

âThe whole thingâs fantasticâimpossible. Ten people killed on a bare rock of an islandâand we donât know who did it, or why, or how.â

Maine coughed. He said:

âWell, itâs not quite like that, sir. We do know why, more or less. Some fanatic with a bee in his bonnet about justice. He was out to get people who were beyond the reach of the law. He picked ten peopleâwhether they were really guilty or not doesnât matterââ

The Commissioner stirred. He said sharply:

âDoesnât it? It seems to meââ

He stopped. Inspector Maine waited respectfully. With a sigh Legge shook his head.

âCarry on,â he said. âJust for a minute I felt Iâd got somewhere. Got, as it were, the clue to the thing. Itâs gone now. Go ahead with what you were saying.â

Maine went on:

âThere were ten people to beâexecuted, letâs say. They were executed. U. N. Owen accomplished his task. And somehow or other he spirited himself off that island into thin air.â

The AC said:

âFirst-class vanishing trick. But you know, Maine, there must be an explanation.â

Maine said:

âYouâre thinking, sir, that if the man wasnât on the island, he couldnât have left the island, and according to the account of the interested parties he never was on the island. Well, then the only explanation possible is that he was actually one of the ten.â

The AC nodded.

Maine said earnestly:

âWe thought of that, sir. We went into it. Now, to begin with, weâre not quite in the dark as to what happened on Soldier Island. Vera Claythorne kept a diary, so did Emily Brent. Old Wargrave made some notesâdry legal cryptic stuff, but quite clear. And Blore made notes too. All those accounts tally. The deaths occurred in this order. Marston, Mrs. Rogers, Macarthur, Rogers, Miss Brent, Wargrave. After his death Vera Claythorneâs diary states that Armstrong left the house in the night and that Blore and Lombard had gone after him. Blore has one more entry in his notebook. Just two words. âArmstrong disappeared.â

âNow, sir, it seemed to me, taking everything into account, that we might find here a perfectly good solution. Armstrong was drowned, you remember. Granting that Armstrong was mad, what was to prevent him having killed off all the others and then committed suicide by throwing himself over the cliff, or perhaps while trying to swim to the mainland?

âThat was a good solutionâbut it wonât do. No, sir, it wonât do. First of all thereâs the police surgeonâs evidence. He got to the island early on the morning of August 13. He couldnât say much to help us. All he could say was that all the people had been dead at least thirty-six hours and probably a good deal longer. But he was fairly definite about Armstrong. Said he must have been from eight to ten hours in the water before his body was washed up. That works out at this, that Armstrong must have gone into the sea sometime during the night of the 10thâ11thâand Iâll explain why. We found the point where the body was washed upâit had been wedged between two rocks and there were bits of cloth, hair, etc., on them. It must have been deposited there at high water on the 11thâthatâs to say round about 11 oâclock a.m. After that, the storm subsided, and succeeding high water marks are considerably lower.

âYou might say, I suppose, that Armstrong managed to polish off the other three before he went into the sea that night. But thereâs another point and one you canât get over. Armstrongâs body had been dragged above high water mark. We found it well above the reach of any tide. And it was laid out straight on the groundâall neat and tidy.

âSo that settles one point definitely. Someone was alive on the island after Armstrong was dead.â

He paused and then went on.

âAnd that leavesâjust what exactly? Hereâs the position early on the morning of the 11th. Armstrong has âdisappearedâ (drowned). That leaves us three people. Lombard, Blore and Vera Claythorne. Lombard was shot. His body was down by the seaânear Armstrongâs. Vera Claythorne was found hanged in her own bedroom. Bloreâs body was on the terrace. His head was crushed in by a heavy marble clock that it seems reasonable to suppose fell on him from the window above.â

The AC said sharply:

âWhose window?â

âVera Claythorneâs. Now, sir, letâs take each of these cases separately. First Philip Lombard. Letâs say he pushed over that lump of marble on to Bloreâthen he doped Vera Claythorne and strung her up. Lastly, he went down to the seashore and shot himself.

âBut if so, who took away the revolver from him? For that revolver was found up in the house just inside the door at the top of the stairsâWargraveâs room.â

The AC said:

âAny fingerprints on it?â

âYes, sir, Vera Claythorneâs.â

âBut, man alive, thenââ

âI know what youâre going to say, sir. That it was Vera Claythorne. That she shot Lombard, took the revolver back to the house, toppled the marble block on to Blore and thenâhanged herself.

âAnd thatâs quite all rightâup to a point. Thereâs a chair in her bedroom and on the seat of it there are marks of seaweed same as on her shoes. Looks as though she stood on the chair, adjusted the rope round her neck and kicked away the chair.

âBut that chair wasnât found kicked over. It was, like all the other chairs, neatly put back against the wall. That was done after Vera Claythorneâs deathâby someone else.

âThat leaves us with Blore and if you tell me that after shooting Lombard and inducing Vera Claythorne to hang herself he then went out and pulled down a whacking great block of marble on himself by tying a string to it or something like thatâwell, I simply donât believe you. Men donât commit suicide that wayâand whatâs more Blore wasnât that kind of man. We knew Bloreâand he was not the man that youâd ever accuse of a desire for abstract justice.â

The Assistant Commissioner said:

âI agree.â

Inspector Maine said:

âAnd therefore, sir, there must have been someone else on the island. Someone who tidied up when the whole business was over. But where was he all the timeâand where did he go to? The Sticklehaven people are absolutely certain that no one could have left the island before the rescue boat got there. But in that caseââ

He stopped.

The Assistant Commissioner said:

âIn that caseââ

He sighed. He shook his head. He leaned forward.

âBut in that case,â he said, âwho killed them?â

A Manuscript Document Sent To Scotland Yard by the Master of the Emma Jane Fishing Trawler

From my earliest youth I realized that my nature was a mass of contradictions. I have, to begin with, an incurably romantic imagination. The practice of throwing a bottle into the sea with an important document inside was one that never failed to thrill me when reading adventure stories as a child. It thrills me stillâand for that reason I have adopted this courseâwriting my confession, enclosing it in a bottle, sealing the latter, and casting it into the waves. There is, I suppose, a hundred to one chance that my confession may be foundâand then (or do I flatter myself?) a hitherto unsolved murder mystery will be explained.

I was born with other traits besides my romantic fancy. I have a definite sadistic delight in seeing or causing death. I remember experiments with waspsâwith various garden pests â¦ From an early age I knew very strongly the lust to kill.

But side by side with this went a contradictory traitâa strong sense of justice. It is abhorrent to me that an innocent person or creature should suffer or die by any act of mine. I have always felt strongly that right should prevail.

It may be understoodâI think a psychologist would understandâthat with my mental makeup being what it was, I adopted the law as a profession. The legal profession satisfied nearly all my instincts.

Crime and its punishment has always fascinated me. I enjoy reading every kind of detective story and thriller. I have devised for my own private amusement the most ingenious ways of carrying out a murder.

When in due course I came to preside over a court of law, that other secret instinct of mine was encouraged to develop. To see a wretched criminal squirming in the dock, suffering the tortures of the damned, as his doom came slowly and slowly nearer, was to me an exquisite pleasure. Mind you, I took no pleasure in seeing an innocent man there. On at least two occasions I stopped cases where to my mind the accused was palpably innocent, directing the jury that there was no case. Thanks, however, to the fairness and efficiency of our police force, the majority of the accused persons who have come before me to be tried for murder, have been guilty.

I will say here that such was the case with the man Edward Seton. His appearance and manner were misleading and he created a good impression on the jury. But not only the evidence, which was clear, though unspectacular, but my own knowledge of criminals told me without any doubt that the man had actually committed the crime with which he was charged, the brutal murder of an elderly woman who trusted him.

I have a reputation as a hanging judge, but that is unfair. I have always been strictly just and scrupulous in my summing up of a case.

All I have done is to protect the jury against the emotional effect of emotional appeals by some of our more emotional counsel. I have drawn their attention to the actual evidence.

For some years past I have been aware of a change within myself, a lessening of controlâa desire to act instead of to judge.

I have wantedâlet me admit it franklyâto commit a murder myself. I recognized this as the desire of the artist to express himself! I was, or could be, an artist in crime! My imagination, sternly checked by the exigencies of my profession, waxed secretly to colossal force.

I mustâI mustâI mustâcommit a murder! And what is more, it must be no ordinary murder! It must be a fantastical crimeâsomething stupendousâout of the common! In that one respect, I have still, I think, an adolescentâs imagination.

I wanted something theatrical, impossible!

I wanted to kill â¦ Yes, I wanted to killâ¦.

Butâincongruous as it may seem to someâI was restrained and hampered by my innate sense of justice. The innocent must not suffer.

And then, quite suddenly, the idea came to meâstarted by a chance remark uttered during casual conversation. It was a doctor to whom I was talkingâsome ordinary undistinguished GP. He mentioned casually how often murder must be committed which the law was unable to touch.

And he instanced a particular caseâthat of an old lady, a patient of his who had recently died. He was, he said, himself convinced that her death was due to the withholding of a restorative drug by a married couple who attended on her and who stood to benefit very substantially by her death. That sort of thing, he explained, was quite impossible to prove, but he was nevertheless quite sure of it in his own mind. He added that there were many cases of a similar nature going on all the timeâcases of deliberate murderâand all quite untouchable by the law.

That was the beginning of the whole thing. I suddenly saw my way clear. And I determined to commit not one murder, but murder on a grand scale.

A childish rhyme of my infancy came back into my mindâthe rhyme of the ten little soldier boys. It had fascinated me as a child of twoâthe inexorable diminishmentâthe sense of inevitability.

I began, secretly, to collect victimsâ¦.

I will not take up space here by going into details of how this was accomplished. I had a certain routine line of conversation which I employed with nearly every one I metâand the results I got were really surprising. During the time I was in a nursing home I collected the case of Dr. Armstrongâa violently teetotal Sister who attended on me being anxious to prove to me the evils of drink by recounting to me a case many years ago in hospital when a doctor under the influence of alcohol had killed a patient on whom he was operating. A careless question as to where the Sister in question had trained, etc., soon gave me the necessary data. I tracked down the doctor and the patient mentioned without difficulty.

A conversation between two old military gossips in my Club put me on the track of General Macarthur. A man who had recently returned from the Amazon gave me a devastating rÃ©sumÃ© of the activities of one Philip Lombard. An indignant memsahib in Majorca recounted the tale of the Puritan Emily Brent and her wretched servant girl. Anthony Marston I selected from a large group of people who had committed similar offences. His complete callousness and his inability to feel any responsibility for the lives he had taken made him, I considered, a type dangerous to the community and unfit to live. Ex-Inspector Blore came my way quite naturally, some of my professional brethren discussing the Landor case with freedom and vigour. I took a serious view of his offence. The police, as servants of the law, must be of a high order of integrity. For their word is perforce believed by virtue of their profession.

Finally there was the case of Vera Claythorne. It was when I was crossing the Atlantic. At a late hour one night the sole occupants of the smoking room were myself and a good-looking young man called Hugo Hamilton.

Hugo Hamilton was unhappy. To assuage that unhappiness he had taken a considerable quantity of drink. He was in the maudlin confidential stage. Without much hope of any result I automatically started my routine conversational gambit. The response was startling. I can remember his words now. He said:

âYouâre right. Murder isnât what most people thinkâgiving someone a dollop of arsenicâpushing them over a cliffâthat sort of stuff.â He leaned forward, thrusting his face into mine. He said, âIâve known a murderessâknown her, I tell you. And whatâs more I was crazy about her â¦ God help me, sometimes I think I still am â¦ Itâs hell, I tell youâhell. You see, she did it more or less for me â¦ Not that I ever dreamed â¦ Women are fiendsâabsolute fiendsâyou wouldnât think a girl like thatâa nice straight jolly girlâyou wouldnât think sheâd do that, would you? That sheâd take a kid out to sea and let it drownâyou wouldnât think a woman could do a thing like that?â

I said to him:

âAre you sure she did do it?â

He said and in saying it he seemed suddenly to sober up:

âIâm quite sure. Nobody else ever thought of it. But I knew the moment I looked at herâwhen I got backâafter â¦ And she knew I knew â¦ What she didnât realize was that I loved that kidâ¦.â

He didnât say anymore, but it was easy enough for me to trace back the story and reconstruct it.

I needed a tenth victim. I found him in a man named Morris. He was a shady little creature. Amongst other things he was a dope pedlar and he was responsible for inducing the daughter of friends of mine to take to drugs. She committed suicide at the age of twenty-one.

During all this time of search my plan had been gradually maturing in my mind. It was now complete and the coping stone to it was an interview I had with a doctor in Harley Street. I have mentioned that I underwent an operation. My interview in Harley Street told me that another operation would be useless. My medical adviser wrapped up the information very prettily, but I am accustomed to getting at the truth of a statement.

I did not tell the doctor of my decisionâthat my death should not be a slow and protracted one as it would be in the course of nature. No, my death should take place in a blaze of excitement. I would live before I died.

And now to the actual mechanics of the crime of Soldier Island. To acquire the island, using the man Morris to cover my tracks, was easy enough. He was an expert in that sort of thing. Tabulating the information I had collected about my prospective victims, I was able to concoct a suitable bait for each. None of my plans miscarried. All my guests arrived at Soldier Island on the 8th of August. The party included myself.

Morris was already accounted for. He suffered from indigestion. Before leaving London I gave him a capsule to take last thing at night which had, I said, done wonders for my own gastric juices. He accepted unhesitatinglyâthe man was a slight hypochondriac. I had no fear that he would leave any compromising documents or memoranda behind. He was not that sort of man.

The order of death upon the island had been subjected by me to special thought and care. There were, I considered, amongst my guests, varying degrees of guilt. Those whose guilt was the lightest should, I decided, pass out first, and not suffer the prolonged mental strain and fear that the more cold-blooded offenders were to suffer.

Anthony Marston and Mrs. Rogers died first, the one instantaneously the other in a peaceful sleep. Marston, I recognized, was a type born without that feeling of moral responsibility which most of us have. He was amoralâpagan. Mrs. Rogers, I had no doubt, had acted very largely under the influence of her husband.

I need not describe closely how those two met their deaths. The police will have been able to work that out quite easily. Potassium cyanide is easily obtained by householders for putting down wasps. I had some in my possession and it was easy to slip it into Marstonâs almost empty glass during the tense period after the gramophone recital.

I may say that I watched the faces of my guests closely during that indictment and I had no doubt whatever, after my long court experience, that one and all were guilty.

During recent bouts of pain, I had been ordered a sleeping draughtâChloral Hydrate. It had been easy for me to suppress this until I had a lethal amount in my possession. When Rogers brought up some brandy for his wife, he set it down on a table and in passing that table I put the stuff into the brandy. It was easy, for at that time suspicion had not begun to set in.

General Macarthur met his death quite painlessly. He did not hear me come up behind him. I had, of course, to choose my time for leaving the terrace very carefully, but everything was successful.

As I had anticipated, a search was made of the island and it was discovered that there was no one on it but our seven selves. That at once created an atmosphere of suspicion. According to my plan I should shortly need an ally. I selected Dr. Armstrong for that part. He was a gullible sort of man, he knew me by sight and reputation and it was inconceivable to him that a man of my standing should actually be a murderer! All his suspicions were directed against Lombard and I pretended to concur in these. I hinted to him that I had a scheme by which it might be possible to trap the murderer into incriminating himself.

Though a search had been made of everyoneâs room, no search had as yet been made of the persons themselves. But that was bound to come soon.

I killed Rogers on the morning of August 10th. He was chopping sticks for lighting the fire and did not hear me approach. I found the key to the dining room door in his pocket. He had locked it the night before.

In the confusion attending the finding of Rogersâ body I slipped into Lombardâs room and abstracted his revolver. I knew that he would have one with himâin fact I had instructed Morris to suggest as much when he interviewed him.

At breakfast I slipped my last dose of chloral into Miss Brentâs coffee when I was refilling her cup. We left her in the dining room. I slipped in there a little while laterâshe was nearly unconscious and it was easy to inject a strong solution of cyanide into her. The bumble bee business was really rather childishâbut somehow, you know, it pleased me. I liked adhering as closely as possible to my nursery rhyme.

Immediately after this what I had already foreseen happenedâindeed I believe I suggested it myself. We all submitted to a rigorous search. I had safely hidden away the revolver, and had no more cyanide or chloral in my possession.

It was then that I intimated to Armstrong that we must carry our plan into effect. It was simply thisâI must appear to be the next victim. That would perhaps rattle the murdererâat any rate once I was supposed to be dead I could move about the house and spy upon the unknown murderer.

Armstrong was keen on the idea. We carried it out that evening. A little plaster of red mud on the foreheadâthe red curtain and the wool and the stage was set. The lights of the candles were very flickering and uncertain and the only person who would examine me closely was Armstrong.

It worked perfectly. Miss Claythorne screamed the house down when she found the seaweed which I had thoughtfully arranged in her room. They all rushed up, and I took up my pose of a murdered man.

The effect on them when they found me was all that could be desired. Armstrong acted his part in the most professional manner. They carried me upstairs and laid me on my bed. Nobody worried about me, they were all too deadly scared and terrified of each other.

I had a rendezvous with Armstrong outside the house at a quarter to two. I took him up a little way behind the house on the edge of the cliff. I said that here we could see if any one else approached us, and we should not be seen from the house as the bedrooms faced the other way. He was still quite unsuspiciousâand yet he ought to have been warnedâif he had only remembered the words of the nursery rhyme. âA red herring swallowed one â¦â He took the red herring all right.

It was quite easy. I uttered an exclamation, leant over the cliff, told him to look, wasnât that the mouth of a cave? He leant right over. A quick vigorous push sent him off his balance and splash into the heaving sea below. I returned to the house. It must have been my footfall that Blore heard. A few minutes after I had returned to Armstrongâs room I left it, this time making a certain amount of noise so that someone should hear me. I heard a door open as I got to the bottom of the stairs. They must have just glimpsed my figure as I went out of the front door.

It was a minute or two before they followed me. I had gone straight round the house and in at the dining room window which I had left open. I shut the window and later I broke the glass. Then I went upstairs and laid myself out again on my bed.

I calculated that they would search the house again, but I did not think they would look closely at any of the corpses, a mere twitch aside of the sheet to satisfy themselves that it was not Armstrong masquerading as a body. This is exactly what occurred.

I forgot to say that I returned the revolver to Lombardâs room. It may be of interest to someone to know where it was hidden during the search. There was a big pile of tinned food in the larder. I opened the bottommost of the tinsâbiscuits I think it contained, bedded in the revolver and replaced the strip of adhesive tape.

I calculated, and rightly, that no one would think of working their way through a pile of apparently untouched foodstuffs, especially as all the top tins were soldered.

The red curtain I had concealed by laying it flat on the seat of one of the drawing room chairs under the chintz cover and the wool in the seat cushion, cutting a small hole.

And now came the moment that I had anticipatedâthree people who were so frightened of each other that anything might happenâand one of them had a revolver. I watched them from the windows of the house. When Blore came up alone I had the big marble clock poised ready. Exit Blore.â¦

From my window I saw Vera Claythorne shoot Lombard. A daring and resourceful young woman. I always thought she was a match for him and more. As soon as that had happened I set the stage in her bedroom.

It was an interesting psychological experiment. Would the consciousness of her own guilt, the state of nervous tension consequent on having just shot a man, be sufficient, together with the hypnotic suggestion of the surroundings, to cause her to take her own life? I thought it would. I was right. Vera Claythorne hanged herself before my eyes where I stood in the shadow of the wardrobe.

And now for the last stage. I came forward, picked up the chair and set it against the wall. I looked for the revolver and found it at the top of the stairs where the girl had dropped it. I was careful to preserve her fingerprints on it.

And now?

I shall finish writing this. I shall enclose it and seal it in a bottle and I shall throw the bottle into the sea.

Why?

Yes, why?

It was my ambition to invent a murder mystery that no one could solve.

But no artist, I now realize, can be satisfied with art alone. There is a natural craving for recognition which cannot be gainsaid.

I have, let me confess it in all humility, a pitiful human wish that someone should know just how clever I have beenâ¦.

In all this, I have assumed that the mystery of Soldier Island will remain unsolved. It may be, of course, that the police will be cleverer than I think. There are, after all, three clues. One: the police are perfectly aware that Edward Seton was guilty. They know, therefore, that one of the ten people on the island was not a murderer in any sense of the word, and it follows, paradoxically, that that person must logically be the murderer. The second clue lies in the seventh verse of the nursery rhyme. Armstrongâs death is associated with a âred herringâ which he swallowedâor rather which resulted in swallowing him! That is to say that at that stage of the affair some hocus-pocus is clearly indicatedâand that Armstrong was deceived by it and sent to his death. That might start a promising line of inquiry. For at that period there are only four persons and of those four I am clearly the only one likely to inspire him with confidence.

The third is symbolical. The manner of my death marking me on the forehead. The brand of Cain.

There is, I think, little more to say.

After entrusting my bottle and its message to the sea I shall go to my room and lay myself down on the bed. To my eyeglasses is attached what seems a length of fine black cordâbut it is elastic cord. I shall lay the weight of the body on the glasses. The cord I shall loop round the door handle and attach it, not too solidly, to the revolver. What I think will happen is this.

My hand, protected with a handkerchief, will press the trigger. My hand will fall to my side, the revolver, pulled by the elastic, will recoil to the door, jarred by the door handle it will detach itself from the elastic and fall. The elastic, released, will hang down innocently from the eyeglasses on which my body is lying. A handkerchief lying on the floor will cause no comment whatever.

I shall be found, laid neatly on my bed, shot through the forehead in accordance with the record kept by my fellow victims. Times of death cannot be stated with any accuracy by the time our bodies are examined.

When the sea goes down, there will come from the mainland boats and men.

And they will find ten dead bodies and an unsolved problem on Soldier Island.

Signed:

Lawrence Wargrave.

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE HERCULE POIROT MYSTERIES

Match your wits with the famous Belgian detective.

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews and Other Stories

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

The Agatha Christie Collection

THE MISS MARPLE MYSTERIES

Join the legendary spinster sleuth from St. Mary Mead in solving murders far and wide.

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 From Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short Story Collection

THE TOMMY AND TUPPENCE MYSTERIES

Jump on board with the entertaining crime-solving couple from Young Adventurers Ltd.

Â 

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Â 

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

The Agatha Christie Collection

Donâ€™t miss a single one of Agatha Christieâ€™s stand-alone novels and short-story collections.

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

Explore more at www.AgathaChristie.com

About the Author

Agatha Christie is the most widely published author of all time and in any language, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Her books have sold more than a billion copies in English and another billion in a hundred foreign languages. She is the author of eighty crime novels and short-story collections, nineteen plays, two memoirs, and six novels written under the name Mary Westmacott.

She first tried her hand at detective fiction while working in a hospital dispensary during World War I, creating the now legendary Hercule Poirot with her debut novel The Mysterious Affair at Styles. With The Murder in the Vicarage, published in 1930, she introduced another beloved sleuth, Miss Jane Marple. Additional series characters include the husband-and-wife crime-fighting team of Tommy and Tuppence Beresford, private investigator Parker Pyne, and Scotland Yard detectives Superintendent Battle and Inspector Japp.

Many of Christieâ€™s novels and short stories were adapted into plays, films, and television series. The Mousetrap, her most famous play of all, opened in 1952 and is the longest-running play in history. Among her best-known film adaptations are Murder on the Orient Express (1974) and Death on the Nile (1978), with Albert Finney and Peter Ustinov playing Hercule Poirot, respectively. On the small screen Poirot has been most memorably portrayed by David Suchet, and Miss Marple by Joan Hickson and subsequently Geraldine McEwan and Julia McKenzie.

Christie was first married to Archibald Christie and then to archaeologist Sir Max Mallowan, whom she accompanied on expeditions to countries that would also serve as the settings for many of her novels. In 1971 she achieved one of Britainâ€™s highest honors when she was made a Dame of the British Empire. She died in 1976 at the age of eighty-five. Her one hundred and twentieth anniversary was celebrated around the world in 2010.

www.AgathaChristie.com

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THE AGATHA CHRISTIE COLLECTION

The Man in the Brown Suit

The Secret of Chimneys

The Seven Dials Mystery

The Mysterious Mr. Quin

The Sittaford Mystery

Parker Pyne Investigates

Why Didnâ€™t They Ask Evans?

Murder Is Easy

The Regatta Mystery and Other Stories

And Then There Were None

Towards Zero

Death Comes as the End

Sparkling Cyanide

The Witness for the Prosecution and
Â Â Â  Other Stories

Crooked House

Three Blind Mice and Other Stories

They Came to Baghdad

Destination Unknown

Ordeal by Innocence

Double Sin and Other Stories

The Pale Horse

Star over Bethlehem: Poems and
Â Â Â  Holiday Stories

Endless Night

Passenger to Frankfurt

The Golden Ball and Other Stories

The Mousetrap and Other Plays

The Harlequin Tea Set

The Hercule Poirot Mysteries

The Mysterious Affair at Styles

The Murder on the Links

Poirot Investigates

The Murder of Roger Ackroyd

The Big Four

The Mystery of the Blue Train

Peril at End House

Lord Edgware Dies

Murder on the Orient Express

Three Act Tragedy

Death in the Clouds

The A.B.C. Murders

Murder in Mesopotamia

Cards on the Table

Murder in the Mews and Other Stories

Dumb Witness

Death on the Nile

Appointment with Death

Hercule Poirotâ€™s Christmas

Sad Cypress

One, Two, Buckle My Shoe

Evil Under the Sun

Five Little Pigs

The Hollow

The Labors of Hercules

Taken at the Flood

The Underdog and Other Stories

Mrs. McGintyâ€™s Dead

After the Funeral

Hickory Dickory Dock

Dead Manâ€™s Folly

Cat Among the Pigeons

The Clocks

Third Girl

Halloweâ€™en Party

Elephants Can Remember

Curtain: Poirotâ€™s Last Case

The Miss Marple Mysteries

The Murder at the Vicarage

The Body in the Library

The Moving Finger

A Murder Is Announced

They Do It with Mirrors

A Pocket Full of Rye

4:50 from Paddington

The Mirror Crackâ€™d

A Caribbean Mystery

At Bertramâ€™s Hotel

Nemesis

Sleeping Murder

Miss Marple: The Complete Short
Â Â Â  Story Collection

The Tommy and Tuppence Mysteries

The Secret Adversary

Partners in Crime

N or M?

By the Pricking of My Thumbs

Postern of Fate

Credits

Cover design by Sara Wood

Copyright

This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the authorâ€™s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

This title was previously published as Ten Little Indians.

AGATHA CHRISTIEÂ® AND THEN THERE WERE NONE.â„¢ Copyright Â© 2011 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company). All rights reserved. And Then There Were None was first published in 1939.

AND THEN THERE WERE NONE Â© 1940. Published by permission of G.P. Putnamâ€™s Sons, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-06-207347-1

EPub Edition Â© MAY 2011 ISBN: 978-0-06-173925-5

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