And Then There Were None

by Agatha Christie

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.

He thought: Best of an island is once you get there—you can’t go any farther … you’ve come to the end of things…. He knew, suddenly, that he didn’t want to leave the island.

“My dear lady, in my experience of ill-doing, Providence leaves the work of conviction and chastisement to us mortals—and the process is often fraught with difficulties. There are no short cuts.”

That’s the meaning of the whole business. We’re not going to leave the island… None of us will ever leave … It’s the end, you see—the end of everything….” He hesitated, then he said in a low strange voice: “That’s peace—real peace. To come to the end—not to have to go on … Yes, peace….”

Well, there is that Mr. Lombard. He admits to having abandoned twenty men to their deaths.” Vera said: “They were only natives….” Emily Brent said sharply: “Black or white, they are our brothers.”

“You may be wrong there, Blore. Many homicidal lunatics are very quiet unassuming people. Delightful fellows.”

“Yes,” he said. “It’s pleasant. It’s a good place, I think, to wait.” “To wait?” said Vera sharply. “What are you waiting for?” He said gently: “The end. But I think you know that, don’t you? It’s true, isn’t it? We’re all waiting for the end.” She said unsteadily: “What do you mean?” General Macarthur said gravely: “None of us are going to leave the island.

“Yes. Of course, you’re very young … you haven’t got to that yet. But it does come! The blessed relief when you know that you’ve done with it all—that you haven’t got to carry the burden any longer. You’ll feel that too, someday….”

It flashed across Dr. Armstrong’s 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.

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.

A childish rhyme of my infancy came back into my mind—the rhyme of the ten little soldier boys. It had fascinated me as a child of two—the inexorable diminishment—the sense of inevitability.