And Then There Were None (15 page)

The other shook his head.

He said:

“Rogers was killed as he was chopping firewood - that is to say first thing when he got up. The Brent woman wouldn't 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.”

Blore said:

“You're missing the point, Mr. Lombard. If the woman was innocent she'd be too dead scared to go wandering about by herself. She'd only do that if she knew that she had nothing to fear. That's to say if she herself is the criminal.”

Philip Lombard said:

“That's a good point... Yes, I hadn't thought of that.”

He added with a faint grin:

“Glad you don't still suspect me.”

Blore said rather shamefacedly:

“I did start by thinking of you - that revolver - and the queer story you told - or didn't tell. But I've realized now that that was really a bit too obvious,” He paused and said: “Hope you feel the same about me.”

Philip said thoughtfully:

“I may be wrong, of course, but I can't feel that you've got enough imagination for this job. All I can say is, if you're the criminal, you're a damned fine actor and I take my hat off to you.” He lowered his voice. “Just between ourselves, Blore, and taking into account that we'll probably both be a couple of stiffs before another day is out, you did indulge in that spot of perjury, I suppose?”

Blore shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. He said at last:

“Doesn't 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 wouldn't admit this -”

“If there were any witnesses,” finished Lombard with a grin. “It's just between you and me. Well, I hope you made a tidy bit out of it.”

“Didn't make what I should have done. Mean crowd, the Purcell gang. I got my promotion, though.”

“And Landor got penal servitude and died in prison.”

“I couldn't know he was going to die, could I?” demanded Blore.

“No, that was your bad luck.”

“Mine? His, you mean.”

“Yours, too. Because, as a result of it, it looks as though your own life is going to be cut unpleasantly short.”

“Me?” Blore stared at him. “Do you think I'm going to go the way of Rogers and the rest of them? Not me! I'm watching out for myself pretty carefully, I can tell you.”

Lombard said:

“Oh, well - I'm not a betting man. And anyway if you were dead I wouldn't get paid.”

“Look here, Mr. Lombard, what do you mean?”

Philip Lombard showed his teeth. He said:

“I mean, my dear Blore, that in my opinion you haven't got a chance!”

“What?”

“Your 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 he - or she - wants to.”

Blore's face went crimson. He demanded angrily:

“And what about you?”

Philip Lombard's face went hard and dangerous.

He said:

“I've a pretty good imagination of my own. I've been in tight places before now and got out of them! I think - I won't say more than that but I think I'll get out of this one.”

V

The eggs were in the frying-pan. Vera, at the stove, thought to herself:

“Why did I make a hysterical fool of myself? That was a mistake. Keep calm, my girl, keep calm.”

After all, she'd always prided herself on her levelheadedness!

“Miss Claythorne was wonderful - kept her head - started off swimming after Cyril at once.”

Why think of that now? All that was over - over... 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 it - swimming quietly, floating - till the boat arrived at last...

They had praised her courage and her sang-froid...

But not Hugo. Hugo had just - looked at her...

God, how it hurt, even now, to think of Hugo...

Where was he? What was he doing? Was he engaged - married?

Emily Brent said sharply:

“Vera, that bacon is burning.”

“Oh, sorry, Miss Brent, so it is. How stupid of me.”

Emily Brent lifted out the last egg from the sizzling fat.

Vera, putting fresh pieces of bacon in the frying-pan, said curiously:

“You're wonderfully calm, Miss Brent.”

Emily Brent said, pressing her lips together:

“I was brought up to keep my head and never to make a fuss.”

Vera thought mechanically:

“Repressed as a child... That accounts for a lot...”

She said:

“Aren't you afraid?”

She paused and then added:

“Or don't you mind dying?”

Dying! It was as though a sharp little gimlet had run into the solid congealed mass of Emily Brent's brain. Dying? But she wasn't going to die! The others would die - yes - but not she, Emily Brent. This girl didn't understand! Emily wasn't afraid naturally - none 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... She had never done anything to be ashamed of... And so, naturally, she wasn't going to die...

“The Lord is mindful of his own.” “Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night; nor for the arrow that flieth by day...” It was daylight now - there was no terror. "We shall none of us leave this island... Who had said that? General Macarthur, of course, whose cousin had married Elsie MacPherson. He hadn't seemed to care. He had seemed - actually - to 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 Taylor... Last night she had dreamed of Beatrice - dreamt that she was outside pressing her face against the window and moaning, asking to be let in. But Emily Brent hadn't wanted to let her in. Because, if she did, something terrible would happen...

Emily came to herself with a start. That girl was looking at her very strangely. She said in a brisk voice:

“Everything's ready, isn't it? We'll take the breakfast in.”

VI

Breakfast was a curious meal. Every one was very polite.

“May I get you some more coffee, Miss Brent?”

“Miss Claythorne, a slice of ham?”

“Another piece of bacon?”

Six people, all outwardly self-possessed and normal.

And within? Thoughts that ran round in a circle like squirrels in a cage...

“What next? What next? Who? Which?”

“Would it work? I wonder. It's worth trying. If there's time. My God, if there's time...”

“Religious mania, that's the ticket... Looking at her, though, you can hardly believe it... Suppose I'm wrong...”

“It's crazy - every thing's crazy. I'm going crazy. Wool disappearing - red silk curtains - it doesn't make sense. I can't get the hang of it...”

"The damned fool, he believed every word I said to him. It was easy... I must be careful, though, very careful...

“Six of those little china figures... only six - how many will there be by tonight?...”

“Who'll have the last egg?”

“Marmalade?”

“Thanks, can I give you some ham?”

Six people, behaving normally at breakfast...

The meal was over.

Mr. Justice Wargrave cleared his throat. He said in a small authoritative voice:

“It would be advisable, I think, if we met to discuss the situation. Shall we say in half an hour's time in the drawing-room?”

Every one made a sound suggestive of agreement.

Vera began to pile plates together.

She said:

“I'll clear away and wash up.”

Philip Lombard said:

“We'll bring the stuff out to the pantry for you.”

“Thanks.”

Emily Brent, rising to her feet; sat down again. She said:

“Oh, dear.”

The judge said:

“Anything the matter, Miss Brent?”

Emily said apologetically:

“I'm sorry. I'd like to help Miss Claythorne, but I don't know how it is. I feel just a little giddy.”

“Giddy, eh?” Dr. Armstrong came towards her. “Quite natural. Delayed shock. I can give you something to -”

“No!”

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:

“Just as you please, Miss Brent.”

She said:

“I don't wish to take anything - anything at all. I will just sit here quietly till the giddiness passes off.”

They finished clearing away the breakfast things. Blore said:

“I'm a domestic sort of man. I'll give you a hand, Miss Claythorne.”

Vera said: “Thank you.”

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 ears - or was it a real buzzing in the room?

She thought:

“It's like a bee - a bumblebee.”

Presently she saw the bee. It was crawling up the window-pane.

Vera Claythorne had talked about bees this morning.

Bees and honey...

She liked honey. Honey in the comb, and strain it yourself through a muslin bag. Drip, drip, drip...

There was somebody in the room... somebody all wet and dripping... Beatrice Taylor came from the river...

She had only to turn her head and she would see her.

But she couldn't turn her head...

If she were to call out...

But she couldn't call out...

There was no one else in the house. She was all alone...

She heard footsteps - soft dragging footsteps coming up behind her. The stumbling footsteps of the drowned girl...

There was a wet dank smell in her nostrils...

On the window-pane the bee was buzzing - buzzing...

And then she felt the prick.

The bee sting on the side of her neck...

II

In the drawing-room they were waiting for Emily Brent.

Vera Claythorne said:

“Shall I go and fetch her?”

Blore said quickly:

“Just a minute.”

Vera sat down again. Every one looked inquiringly at Blore.

He said:

“Look here, everybody, my opinion's this: we needn't look farther for the author of these deaths than the dining-room at this minute. I'd take my oath that woman's the one we're after!”

Armstrong said:

“And the motive?”

“Religious mania. What do you say, doctor?”

Armstrong said:

“It's perfectly possible. I've nothing to say against it. But of course we've no proof.”

Vera said:

“She was very odd in the kitchen when we were getting breakfast. Her eyes -” She shivered.

Lombard said:

“You can't judge her by that. We're all a bit off our heads by now!”

Blore said:

“There's another thing. She's the only one who wouldn't give an explanation after that gramophone record. Why? Because she hadn't any to give.”

Vera stirred in her chair. She said:

“That's not quite true. She told me - afterwards.”

Wargrave said:

“What did she tell you, Miss Claythorne?”

Vera repeated the story of Beatrice Taylor.

Mr. Justice Wargrave observed:

“A 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?”

“None whatever,” said Vera. “She was completely unmoved.”

Blore said:

“Hearts as hard as flints, these righteous spinsters! Envy, mostly!”

Mr. Justice Wargrave said:

“It is now five minutes to eleven. I think we should summon Miss Brent to join our conclave.”

Blore said:

“Aren't you going to take any action?”

The judge said:

“I 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 Brent's demeanour very carefully. Let us now go into the dining-room.”

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 face - suffused with blood, with blue lips and staring eyes.

Blore said:

“My God, she's dead!”

III

The small quiet voice of Mr. Justice Wargrave said:

“One more of us acquitted - too late!”

Armstrong was bent over the dead woman. He sniffed the lips, shook his head, peered into the eyelids.

Lombard said impatiently:

“How did she die, doctor? She was all right when we left her here!”

Armstrong's attention was riveted on a mark on the right side of the neck.

He said:

“That's the mark of a hypodermic syringe.”

There was a buzzing sound from the window. Vera cried:

“Look - a bee - a bumblebee. Remember what I said this morning!”

Armstrong said grimly:

“It wasn't that bee that stung her! A human hand held the syringe.”

The judge asked:

“What poison was injected?”

Armstrong answered:

“At a guess, one of the cyanides. Probably Potassium Cyanide, same as Anthony Marston. She must have died almost immediately by asphyxiation.”

Vera cried:

“But that bee? It can't be coincidence?”

Lombard said grimly:

“Oh, no, it isn't coincidence! It's our murderer's touch of local colour! He's a playful beast. Likes to stick to his damnable nursery jingle as closely as possible'”

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:

“It's mad! - absolutely mad - we're all mad!”