And Then There Were None (4 page)

He thought to himself:

“Must go through with it, I suppose,” and thereafter dismissed everything from his mind.

Warm steaming water - tired limbs - presently a shave - a cocktail - dinner.

And after -?

X

Mr. Blore was tying his tie. He wasn't very good at this sort of thing.

Did he look all right? He supposed so.

Nobody had been exactly cordial to him... Funny the way they all eyed each other - as though they knew...

Well, it was up to him. He didn't mean to bungle his job.

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

Neat touch, having that there!

He thought:

“Remember this island when I was a kid. Never thought I'd be doing this sort of a job in a house here. Good thing, perhaps, that one can't foresee the future...”

XI

General Macarthur was frowning to himself. Damn it all, the whole thing was deuced odd! Not at all what he'd been led to expect...

For two pins he'd make an excuse and get away... Throw up the whole business...

But the motor boat had gone back to the mainland.

He'd have to stay.

That fellow Lombard now, he was a queer chap.

Not straight. He'd swear the man wasn't straight.

XII

As the gong sounded, Philip Lombard came out of his room and walked to the head of the stairs. He moved like a panther, smoothly and noiselessly. There was something of the panther about him altogether. A beast of prey - pleasant to the eye.

He was smiling to himself.

A week - eh?

He was going to enjoy that week.

XIII

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

Her lips moved as she followed the words:

“The heathen are sunk down in the pit that they made: in the net which they hid is their own foot taken. The Lord is known by the judgement which he executeth: the wicked is snared in the work of his own hands. The wicked shall be turned into hell.”

Her tight lips closed. She shut the Bible.

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

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:

“Quaint, these things, aren't they?”

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

“Indians.” said Tony. “Indian Island. I suppose that's the idea.”

Vera leaned forward.

“I wonder. How many are there? Ten?”

“Yes - ten there are.”

Vera cried:

“What fun! They're the ten little Indian boys of the nursery rhyme, I suppose. In my bedroom the rhyme is framed and hung up over the mantelpiece.”

Lombard said:

“In my room, too.”

“And mine.”

“And mine.”

Everybody joined the chorus. Vera said:

“It's an amusing idea, isn't it?”

Mr. Justice Wargrave grunted:

“Remarkably childish,” and helped himself to port.

Emily Brent looked at Vera Claythorne. Vera Claythorne looked at Miss Brent. The two women rose.

In the drawing-room, the French windows were open onto the terrace and the sound of the sea murmuring against the rocks came up to them.

Emily Brent said: “Pleasant sound.”

Vera said sharply: “I hate it.”

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

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

Emily Brent agreed.

“I've no doubt the house is shut up in winter,” she said. “You'd never get servants to stay here for one thing.”

Vera murmured:

“It must be difficult to get servants anyway.”

Emily Brent said:

“Mrs. Oliver has been lucky to get these two. The woman's a good cook.”

Vera thought:

“Funny how elderly people always get names wrong.”

She said:

“Yes, I think Mrs. Owen has been very lucky indeed.”

Emily Brent had brought a small piece of embroidery out of her bag. Now, as she was about to thread her needle, she paused.

She said sharply:

“Owen? Did you say Owen?”

“Yes.”

Emily Brent said sharply:

“I've never met any one called Owen in my life.”

Vera stared.

“But surely -”

She did not finish her sentence. The door opened and the men joined them. Rogers followed them into the room with the coffee tray.

The judge came and sat down by Emily Brent. Armstrong came up to Vera. Tony Marston strolled to the open window. Blore studied with naïve surprise a statuette in brass - wondering perhaps if its bizarre angularities were really supposed to be the female figure. General Macarthur stood with his back to the mantelpiece. He pulled at his little white 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 good - really black and very hot.

The whole party had dined well. They were satisfied with themselves and with life. The hands of the clock pointed to twenty minutes past nine. There was a silence - a comfortable replete silence.

Into that silence came The Voice. Without warning, inhuman, penetrating...

“Ladies and gentlemen! Silence, please!”

Every one was startled. They looked round - at each other, at the walls. Who was speaking?

The Voice went on - a high clear voice.

You are charged with the following indictments:

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

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

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

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

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

John Gordon Macarthur, that on the 4th of January, 1917, you deliberately sent your wife's lover, Arthur Richmond, to his death.

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

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

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

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

II

The Voice had stopped.

There was a moment's petrified silence and then a resounding crash! Rogers had dropped the coffee tray!

At the same moment, from somewhere outside the room there came a scream and the sound of a thud.

Lombard was the first to move. He leapt to the door and flung it open. Outside, lying in a huddled mass, was Mrs. Rogers.

Lombard called:

“Marston.”

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

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

“It's nothing. She's fainted, that's all. She'll be round in a minute.”

Lombard said to Rogers:

“Get some brandy.”

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

“Yes, sir,” and slipped quickly out of the room.

Vera cried out:

“Who was that speaking? Where was he? It sounded - it sounded -”

General Macarthur spluttered out:

“What's going on here? What kind of a practical joke was that?”

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:

“That voice? It sounded as though it were in the room.”

Vera cried:

“Who was it? Who was it? It wasn't one of us.”

Like the judge, Lombard's 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:

“Ah, here we are.”

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 gramophone - an old-fashioned type with a large trumpet attached. The mouth of the trumpet was against the wall, and Lombard, pushing it aside, indicated where two or three small holes had been unobtrusively bored through the wall.

Adjusting the gramophone he replaced the needle on the record and immediately they heard again: “You are charged with the following indictments -”

Vera cried:

“Turn it off! Turn it off! It's horrible!”

Lombard obeyed.

Dr. Armstrong said, with a sigh of relief:

“A disgraceful and heartless practical joke, I suppose.”

The small clear voice of Mr. Justice Wargrave murmured:

“So you think it's a joke, do you?”

The doctor stared at him.

“What else could it be?”

The hand of the judge gently stroked his upper lip.

He said:

“At the moment I'm not prepared to give an opinion.”

Anthony Marston broke in. He said:

“Look here, there's one thing you've forgotten. Who the devil turned the thing on and set it going?”

Wargrave murmured:

“Yes, I think we must inquire into that.”

He led the way back into the drawing-room. The others followed.

Rogers had just come in with a glass of brandy. Miss Brent was bending over the moaning form of Mrs. Rogers.

Adroitly Rogers slipped between the two women.

“Allow me, Madam, I'll speak to her. Ethel - Ethel - it's all right. All right, do you hear? Pull yourself together.”

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

“Pull yourself together, Ethel.”

Dr. Armstrong spoke to her soothingly.

“You'll be all right now, Mrs. Rogers. Just a nasty turn.”

She said:

“Did I faint, sir?”

“Yes.”

“It was The Voice - that awful voice - like a judgement -”

Her face turned green again, her eyelids fluttered.

Dr. Armstrong said sharply:

“Where's that brandy?”

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

“Drink this, Mrs. Rogers.”

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

“I'm all right now. It just - gave me a turn.”

Rogers said quickly:

“Of course it did. It gave me a turn too. Fair made me drop that tray. Wicked lies, it was! I'd like to know -”

He was interrupted. It was only a cough - a dry little cough but it had the effect of stopping him in full cry. He stared at Mr. Justice Wargrave and the latter coughed again. Then he said:

“Who put that record on the gramophone? Was it you, Rogers?”

Rogers cried:

“I didn't know what it was. Before God, I didn't know what it was, sir. If I had I'd never have done it.”

The judge said drily:

“That is probably true. But I think you'd better explain, Rogers.”

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

“I was just obeying orders, sir, that's all.”

“Whose orders?”

“Mr. Owen's.”

Mr. Justice Wargrave said:

“Let me get this quite clear. Mr. Owen's orders were - what exactly?”

Rogers said:

“I was to put a record on the gramophone. I'd find the record in the drawer and my wife was to start the gramophone when I'd gone into the drawing-room with the coffee tray.”

The judge murmured:

“A very remarkable story.”

Rogers cried:

“It's the truth, sir. I swear to God it's the truth. I didn't know what it was - not for a moment. It had a name on it - I thought it was just a piece of music.”

Wargrave looked at Lombard.

“Was there a title on it?”

Lombard nodded. He grinned suddenly, showing his white pointed teeth.

He said:

“Quite right, sir. It was entitled Swan Song...”

III

General Macarthur broke out suddenly. He exclaimed:

“The whole thing is preposterous - preposterous! Slinging accusations about like this! Something must be done about it. This fellow Owen whoever he is -”