And Then There Were None

by Agatha Christie

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.

“Emily 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.”

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

“Watch and pray,” he said. “Watch and pray. The day of judgment is at hand.”

It was a fantastic moment. In it, Anthony Marston seemed to be something more than mortal.

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

“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.”

“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 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?”

Whoever it was who enticed us here, that person knows or has taken the trouble to find out a good deal about us all.

“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.”

“In the midst of life we are in death.”

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.

Carefully, Mr. Justice Wargrave removed his false teeth and dropped them into a glass of water. The shrunken lips fell in. It was a cruel mouth now, cruel and predatory. Hooding his eyes, the judge smiled to himself. He’d cooked Seton’s goose all right! With a slightly rheumatic grunt, he climbed into bed and turned out the electric light.

Best of an island is once you get there—you can’t go any farther … you’ve come to the end of things….