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Everyone made such a fuss over things nowadays! They wanted injections before they had teeth pulled—they took drugs if they couldn’t sleep—they wanted easy chairs and cushions and the girls allowed their figures to slop about anyhow and lay about half naked on the beaches in summer.
Wild that anaesthic for dental procedures was seen as weak
What was the name? The signature was rather difficult to read. Emily Brent thought impatiently: “So many people write their signatures quite illegibly.”
She doesnt even know who the letter was supposed to be from
Nerves! The doctor’s eyebrows went up. These women and their nerves! Well, it was good for business after all. Half the women who consulted him had nothing the matter with them but boredom, but they wouldn’t thank you for telling them so! And one could usually find something.
Drs be like
A very distinguished old gentleman, she thought to herself.
Something chris would say
Lombard thought: Awkward, this—am I supposed to have met them or not?
There was as yet no fraternizing among the party. It was as though each member of it was puzzled by the other members.
Do none of them know each other?
Queer business when you came to think of it—the whole thing was queer—very queer….
Eight people in the house—ten with the host and hostess—and only one married couple to do for them.
One little soldier boy left all alone; He went and hanged himself and then there were None.
The sea … So peaceful today—sometimes so cruel … The sea that dragged you down to its depths. Drowned …Found drowned … Drowned at sea … Drowned—drowned—drowned…. No, she wouldn’t remember … She would not think of it! All that was over….
Mr. Justice Wargrave thought to himself: “Armstrong? Remember him in the witness-box. Very correct and cautious. All doctors are damned fools. Harley Street ones are the worst of the lot.” And his mind dwelt malevolently on a recent interview he had had with a suave personage in that very street.
Nobody had been exactly cordial to him … Funny the way they all eyed each other—as though they knew.…
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.
Mr bloire and mr lombard knkw something fo sho
“The heathen are sunk down in the pit that they made: in the net which they hid is their own foot taken. The Lord is known by the judgment which he executeth: the wicked is snared in the work of his own hands. The wicked shall be turned into hell.”
“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.”
“Ladies and gentlemen! Silence please!” Everyone 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 of 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
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“Who was that speaking? Where was he? It sounded—it sounded—”
“Who was it? Who was it? It wasn’t one of us.”
Probably was tho
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.
Lombard found the recording
“Who put on 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 dryly: “That is probably true. But I think you’d better explain, Rogers.”
“Was there a title on it?” Lombard nodded. He grinned suddenly, showed his white pointed teeth. He said: “Quite right, sir. It was entitled Swan Song.…”
“There’s something very peculiar about all this,” she said. “I 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.”
Lombard’s brain had been active. Was he to come out in the open, or not? He made up his mind. “Same sort of thing,” he said. “Invitation, mention of mutual friends—I fell for it all right. I’ve torn up the letter.”
hmmmmmmmmmm
Mr blore does not state how he came to be at the mansion
“Cat’s out of the bag, it seems. I suppose I’d better admit that my name isn’t Davis.” “You are William Henry Blore?” “That’s right.”
“Your conclusions are, I think, justified,” he said. “Ulick Norman Owen! In Miss Brent’s letter, though the signature of the surname is a mere scrawl the Christian names are reasonably clear—Una Nancy—in either case you notice, the same initials. Ulick Norman Owen—Una Nancy Owen—each time, that is to say, U. N. Owen. Or by a slight stretch of fancy, Unknown!”
Whoever it was who enticed us here, that person knows or has taken the trouble to find out a good deal about us all.
“I 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
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Judge Wargrave
“I knew nothing of Seton previous to the case.” Armstrong said to himself: “The fellow’s lying—I know he’s lying.”
Vera Claythorne spoke in a trembling voice. She said: “I’d like to tell you. About that child—Cyril Hamilton. I was nursery governess to him. He was forbidden to swim out far. One day, when my attention was distracted, he started off. I swam after him … I couldn’t get there in time … It was awful … But it wasn’t my fault. At the inquest the Coroner exonerated me. And his mother—she was so kind. If even she didn’t blame me, why should—why should this awful thing be said? It’s not fair—not fair….”
Vera
“Best really to leave this sort of thing unanswered. However, feel I ought to say—no truth—no truth whatever in what he said about—er—young Arthur Richmond. Richmond was one of my officers. I sent him on a reconnaissance. He was killed. Natural course of events in wartime. Wish to say resent very much—slur on my wife. Best woman in the world. Absolutely—Cæsar’s wife!”
General Macarthur
Philip Lombard grinned. “Story’s quite true! I left ’em! Matter of self-preservation. We were lost in the bush. I and a couple of other fellows took what food there was and cleared out.” General Macarthur said sternly: “You abandoned your men—left them to starve?” Lombard said: “Not quite the act of a pukka sahib, I’m afraid. But self-preservation’s a man’s first duty. And natives don’t mind dying, you know. They don’t feel about it as Europeans do.” Vera lifted her face from her hands. She said, staring at him: “You left them—to die?” Lombard answered: “I left them to die.”
Lombard
Philip Lombard grinned. “Story’s quite true! I left ’em! Matter of self-preservation. We were lost in the bush. I and a couple of other fellows took what food there was and cleared out.” General Macarthur said sternly: “You abandoned your men—left them to starve?” Lombard said: “Not quite the act of a pukka sahib, I’m afraid. But self-preservation’s a man’s first duty. And natives don’t mind dying, you know. They don’t feel about it as Europeans do.” Vera lifted her face from her hands. She said, staring at him: “You left them—to die?” Lombard answered: “I left them to die.”
Lombard- admited much more guilt than anyone else so far
Anthony Marston said in a slow puzzled voice: “I’ve just been thinking—John and Lucy Combes. Must have been a couple of kids I ran over near Cambridge. Beastly bad luck.” Mr. Justice Wargrave said acidly: “For them, or for you?” Anthony said: “Well, I was thinking—for me—but of course, you’re right, sir, it was damned bad luck on them. Of course it was a pure accident. They rushed out of some cottage or other. I had my licence suspended for a year. Beastly nuisance.”
Anthony Marston
Anthony Marston said in a slow puzzled voice: “I’ve just been thinking—John and Lucy Combes. Must have been a couple of kids I ran over near Cambridge. Beastly bad luck.” Mr. Justice Wargrave said acidly: “For them, or for you?” Anthony said: “Well, I was thinking—for me—but of course, you’re right, sir, it was damned bad luck on them. Of course it was a pure accident. They rushed out of some cottage or other. I had my licence suspended for a year. Beastly nuisance.”
Anthony Marston
“There was a mention, sir, of me and Mrs. Rogers. And of Miss Brady. There isn’t a word of truth in it, sir. My wife and I were with Miss Brady till she died. She was always in poor health, sir, always from the time we came to her. There was a storm, sir, that night—the night she was taken bad. The telephone was out of order. We couldn’t get the doctor to her. I went for him, sir, on foot. But he got there too late. We’d done everything possible for her, sir. Devoted to her, we were. Anyone will tell you the same. There was never a word said against us. Not a word.”
The Rogers
“What about yourself, Mr. Blore?” “What about me?” “Your name was included in the list.” Blore went purple. “Landor, you mean? That was the bank robbery—London and Commercial.” Mr. Justice Wargrave stirred. He said: “I remember. It didn’t come before me, but I remember the case. Landor was convicted on your evidence. You were the police officer in charge of the case?” Blore said: “I was.” “Landor got penal servitude for life and died on Dartmoor a year later. He was a delicate man.” Blore said: “He was a crook. It was he who knocked out the night watchman. The case was quite clear against
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Mr blore
Dr. Armstrong, very much master of himself, shook his head good-humouredly. “I’m at a loss to understand the matter,” he said. “The name meant nothing to me when it was spoken. What was it—Clees? Close? I really can’t remember having a patient of that name, or being connected with a death in any way. The thing’s a complete mystery to me. Of course, it’s a long time ago. It might possibly be one of my operation cases in hospital. They come too late, so many of these people. Then, when the patient dies, they always consider it’s the surgeon’s fault.” He sighed, shaking his head. He thought:
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Dr Armstrong
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: “Are you waiting for me to say something? I have nothing to say.” The judge said: “Nothing, Miss Brent?” “Nothing.” Her lips closed tightly. The judge stroked his face. He said mildly: “You reserve your defence?” Miss Brent said coldly: “There 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.”
Emily Brent (we later find out she was looking after a young woman who became pregnant out of wedlock and Emily Brent basically bullied her until she committed suicide.)
Anthony said with a grin: “The legal life’s narrowing! I’m all for crime! Here’s to it.” He picked up his drink and drank it off at a gulp. Too quickly, perhaps. He choked—choked badly. His face contorted, turned purple. He gasped for breath—then slid down off his chair, the glass falling from his hand.
And then there was nine
“Is there any possibility other than suicide?” 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.
It was past twelve o’clock. The suggestion was a wise one—yet every one hesitated. It was as though they clung to each other’s company for reassurance.
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 corners—no possible sliding panels—it was flooded with electric light—everything was new and bright and shining. There was nothing hidden in this house, nothing concealed. It had no atmosphere about it. Somehow, that was the most frightening thing of all…. They exchanged good-nights on the upper landing. Each of them went into his or her own
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He knew, suddenly, that he didn’t want to leave the island.
“Ten little soldier boys went out to dine; One choked his little self and then there were Nine.”
Why had Anthony Marston wanted to die? She didn’t want to die. She couldn’t imagine wanting to die…. Death was for—the other people….
Rogers whispered: “Is—she—is she—?” He passed a tongue over dry lips. Armstrong nodded. “Yes, she’s gone.”
And then there was eight
Rogers said: “She didn’t have nothing last night, sir, except what you gave her….”
Emily Brent said: “That man looks ill this morning.” Dr. Armstrong, who was standing by the window, cleared his throat. He said: “You must excuse any—er—shortcomings this morning. Rogers has had to do the best he can for breakfast single-handed. Mrs. Rogers has—er—not been able to carry on this morning.”
Emily Brent said quietly: “Call it if you prefer, an Act of God.”
