Chapter 16 I

Chapter 16 I Aeons passed . . . worlds spun and whirled . . . Time was motionless . . . It stood still – it passed through a thousand ages . . . No, it was only a minute or so . . . Two people were standing looking down on a dead man . . . Slowly, very slowly, Vera Claythorne and Philip Lombard lifted their heads and looked into each other's eyes . . . II Lombard laughed. 'So that's it, is it, Vera?' 277

No, it should not be the end. She looked down at the dead man. She said: 'Poor Dr Armstrong . . .' Lombard sneered. 'What's this? Womanly pity?' 'Why not? Haven't you any pity?' 'I've no pity for you. Don't expect it!' Vera looked down again at the body. She said: 'We must move him. Carry him up to the house.' 'To join the other victims, I suppose? All neat and tidy. As far as I'm concerned he can stay where he is.' 'At any rate let's get him out of the reach of the sea.' Lombard laughed. He said: 'If you like.' He bent – tugging at the body. Vera leaned against him, helping him. She pulled and tugged with all her might. Lombard panted: 'Not such an easy job.' They managed it, however, drawing the body clear of high water mark. Lombard said as he straightened up: 279

IV The sun was setting when Vera moved at last. Sheer reaction had kept her immobile. There had been no room in her for anything but the glorious sense of safety. She realized now that she was hungry and sleepy. Principally sleepy. She wanted to throw herself on her bed and sleep and sleep and sleep . . . Tomorrow, perhaps, they would come and rescue her – but she didn't really mind. She didn't mind staying here. Not now that she was alone . . . Oh! blessed, blessed peace . . . She got to her feet and glanced up at the house. Nothing to be afraid of any longer! No terrors waiting for her! Just an ordinary well-built modern house. And yet, a little earlier in the day, she had not been able to look at it without shivering . . . Fear – what a strange thing fear was . . . Well, it was over now. She had conquered – had triumphed over the most deadly peril. By her own quick-wittedness and adroitness she had turned the tables on her would-be destroyer. She began to walk up towards the house. The sun was setting, the sky to the west was streaked with red and orange. It was beautiful and peaceful . . . 282

Hugo was waiting for her inside – she was quite sure of it. She opened the door . . . She gave a gasp . . . What was that – hanging from the hook in the ceiling? A rope with a noose all ready? And a chair to stand upon – a chair that could be kicked away . . . That was what Hugo wanted . . . And of course that was the last line of the rhyme. 'He went and hanged himself and then there were None . . .' The little china figure fell from her hand. It rolled unheeded and broke against the fender. Like an automaton Vera moved forward. This was the end – here where the cold wet hand (Cyril's hand, of course) had touched her throat . . . 'You can go to the rock, Cyril . . .' That was what murder was – as easy as that! But afterwards you went on remembering . . . She climbed up on the chair, her eyes staring in front of her like a sleepwalker's . . . She adjusted the noose round her neck. Hugo was there to see she did what she had to do. She kicked away the chair . . . 285

B L N K P G E 286 286

Epilogue Sir Thomas Legge, Assistant Commissioner at Scot- land Yard, said irritably: 'But the whole thing's incredible!' Inspector Maine said respectfully: 'I know, sir.' The AC went on: 'Ten people dead on an island and not a living soul on it. It doesn't make sense!' Inspector Maine said stolidly: 'Nevertheless, it happened, sir.' Sir Thomas Legge said: 'Dam' it all, Maine, somebody must have killed 'em.' 'That's just our problem, sir.' 'Nothing helpful in the doctor's report?' 'No, sir. Wargrave and Lombard were shot, the first through the head, the second through the heart. Miss 287

Brent and Marston died of cyanide poisoning. Mrs Rogers died of an overdose of chloral. Rogers' head was split open. Blore's head was crushed in. Armstrong died of drowning. Macarthur's skull was fractured by a blow on the back of the head and Vera Claythorne was hanged.' The AC winced. He said: 'Nasty business – all of it.' He considered for a minute or two. He said irri- tably: 'Do you mean to say that you haven't been able to get anything helpful out of the Sticklehaven people? Dash it, they must know something.' Inspector Maine shrugged his shoulders. 'They're ordinary decent seafaring folk. They know that the island was bought by a man called Owen – and that's about all they do know.' 'Who provisioned the island and made all the neces- sary arrangements?' 'Man called Morris. Isaac Morris.' 'And what does he say about it all?' 'He can't say anything, sir, he's dead.' The AC frowned. 'Do we know anything about this Morris?' 'Oh yes, sir, we know about him. He wasn't a very savoury gentleman, Mr Morris. He was implicated in that share-pushing fraud of Bennito's three years ago 288

– we're sure of that though we can't prove it. And he was mixed up in the dope business. And again we can't prove it. He was a very careful man, Morris.' 'And he was behind this island business?' 'Yes, sir, he put through the sale – though he made it clear that he was buying Soldier Island for a third party, unnamed.' 'Surely there's something to be found out on the financial angle, there?' Inspector Maine smiled. 'Not if you knew Morris! He can wangle figures until the best chartered accountant in the country wouldn't know if he was on his head or his heels! We've had a taste of that in the Bennito business. No, he covered his employer's tracks all right.' The other man sighed. Inspector Maine went on: 'It was Morris who made all the arrangements down at Sticklehaven. Represented himself as acting for "Mr Owen". And it was he who explained to the people down there that there was some experiment on – some bet about living on a "desert island" for a week – and that no notice was to be taken of any appeal for help from out there.' Sir Thomas Legge stirred uneasily. He said: 'And you're telling me that those people didn't smell a rat? Not even then?' Maine shrugged his shoulders. He said: 289

certainly didn't poison her, or anything like that, but his personal belief is that there was some funny business – that she died as the result of neglect on their part. Says it's the sort of thing that's quite impossible to prove. 'Then there is Mr Justice Wargrave. That's OK. He was the judge who sentenced Seton. 'By the way, Seton was guilty – unmistakably guilty. Evidence turned up later, after he was hanged, which proved that beyond any shadow of doubt. But there was a good deal of comment at the time – nine people out of ten thought Seton was innocent and that the judge's summing up had been vindictive. 'The Claythorne girl, I find, was governess in a family where a death occurred by drowning. However, she doesn't seem to have had anything to do with it, and as a matter of fact she behaved very well, swam out to the rescue and was actually carried out to sea and only just rescued in time.' 'Go on,' said the AC with a sigh. Maine took a deep breath. 'Dr Armstrong now. Well-known man. Had a consulting-room in Harley Street. Absolutely straight and above-board in his profession. Haven't been able to trace any record of an illegal operation or anything of that kind. It's true that there was a woman called Clees who was operated on by him way back in 1925 at Leithmore, when he was attached to the hospital 292

there. Peritonitis and she died on the operating-table. Maybe he wasn't very skilful over the op – after all he hadn't much experience – but after all clumsiness isn't a criminal offence. There was certainly no motive. 'Then there's Miss Emily Brent. Girl, Beatrice Taylor, was in service with her. Got pregnant, was turned out by her mistress and went and drowned herself. Not a nice business – but again not criminal.' 'That,' said the AC, 'seems to be the point. U. N. Owen dealt with cases that the law couldn't touch.' Maine went stolidly on with his list. 'Young Marston was a fairly reckless car driver – had his licence endorsed twice and he ought to have been prohibited from driving in my opinion. That's all there is to him. The two names John and Lucy Combes were those of two kids he knocked down and killed near Cambridge. Some friends of his gave evidence for him and he was let off with a fine. 'Can't find anything definite about General Macarthur. Fine record – war service – all the rest of it. Arthur Richmond was serving under him in France and was killed in action. No friction of any kind between him and the General. They were close friends as a matter of fact. There were some blunders made about that time – commanding officers sacrificed men unnecessarily – possibly this was a blunder of that kind.' 'Possibly,' said the AC. 293

There wasn't anything to show whether it was accident or suicide.' Legge said slowly: 'Care to know what I think, Maine?' 'Perhaps I can guess, sir.' Legge said heavily: 'That death of Morris's is a damned sight too oppor- tune!' Inspector Maine nodded. He said: 'I thought you'd say that, sir.' The Assistant Commissioner brought down his fist with a bang on the table. He cried out: 'The whole thing's fantastic – impossible. Ten people killed on a bare rock of an island – and we don't know who did it, or why, or how.' Maine coughed. He said: 'Well, it's not quite like that, sir. We do know why, more or less. Some fanatic with a bee in his bonnet about justice. He was out to get people who were beyond the reach of the law. He picked ten people – whether they were really guilty or not doesn't matter –' The Commissioner stirred. He said sharply: 'Doesn't it? It seems to me –' He stopped. Inspector Maine waited respectfully. With a sigh Legge shook his head. 'Carry on,' he said. 'Just for a minute I felt I'd got 295

somewhere. Got, as it were, the clue to the thing. It's gone now. Go ahead with what you were saying.' Maine went on: 'There were ten people to be – executed, let's say. They were executed. U. N. Owen accomplished his task. And somehow or other he spirited himself off that island into thin air.' 'First-class vanishing trick. But you know, Maine, there must be an explanation.' Maine said: 'You're thinking, sir, that if the man wasn't on the island, he couldn't have left the island, and according to the account of the interested parties he never was on the island. Well, then the only explanation possible is that he was actually one of the ten.' The AC nodded. Maine said earnestly: 'We thought of that, sir. We went into it. Now, to begin with, we're not quite in the dark as to what happened on Soldier Island. Vera Claythorne kept a diary, so did Emily Brent. Old Wargrave made some notes – dry legal cryptic stuff, but quite clear. And Blore made notes too. All those accounts tally. The deaths occurred in this order. Marston, Mrs Rogers, Macarthur, Rogers, Miss Brent, Wargrave. After his death Vera Claythorne's diary states that Armstrong 296

left the house in the night and that Blore and Lombard had gone after him. Blore has one more entry in his notebook. Just two words. "Armstrong disappeared." 'Now, sir, it seemed to me, taking everything into account, that we might find here a perfectly good solution. Armstrong was drowned, you remember. Granting that Armstrong was mad, what was to prevent him having killed off all the others and then committed suicide by throwing himself over the cliff, or perhaps while trying to swim to the mainland? 'That was a good solution – but it won't do. No, sir, it won't do. First of all there's the police surgeon's evidence. He got to the island early on the morning of August 13. He couldn't say much to help us. All he could say was that all the people had been dead at least thirty-six hours and probably a good deal longer. But he was fairly definite about Armstrong. Said he must have been from eight to ten hours in the water before his body was washed up. That works out at this, that Armstrong must have gone into the sea sometime during the night of the 10th–11th – and I'll explain why. We found the point where the body was washed up – it had been wedged between two rocks and there were bits of cloth, hair, etc., on them. It must have been deposited there at high water on the 11th – that's to say round about 11 o'clock a.m. After that, 297

the storm subsided, and succeeding high water marks are considerably lower. 'You might say, I suppose, that Armstrong managed to polish off the other three before he went into the sea that night. But there's another point and one you can't get over. Armstrong's body had been dragged above high water mark. We found it well above the reach of any tide. And it was laid out straight on the ground – all neat and tidy. 'So that settles one point definitely. Someone was alive on the island after Armstrong was dead.' He paused and then went on. 'And that leaves – just what exactly? Here's the posi- tion early on the morning of the 11th. Armstrong has "disappeared" (drowned ). That leaves us three people. Lombard, Blore and Vera Claythorne. Lombard was shot. His body was down by the sea – near Armstrong's. Vera Claythorne was found hanged in her own bed- room. Blore's body was on the terrace. His head was crushed in by a heavy marble clock that it seems reasonable to suppose fell on him from the window above.' The AC said sharply: 'Whose window?' 'Vera Claythorne's. Now, sir, let's take each of these cases separately. First Philip Lombard. Let's say he pushed over that lump of marble on to Blore – then 298

he doped Vera Claythorne and strung her up. Lastly, he went down to the seashore and shot himself. 'But if so, who took away the revolver from him? For that revolver was found up in the house just inside the door at the top of the stairs – Wargrave's room.' 'Any fingerprints on it?' 'Yes, sir, Vera Claythorne's.' 'But, man alive, then –' 'I know what you're going to say, sir. That it was Vera Claythorne. That she shot Lombard, took the revolver back to the house, toppled the marble block on to Blore and then – hanged herself. 'And that's quite all right – up to a point. There's a chair in her bedroom and on the seat of it there are marks of seaweed same as on her shoes. Looks as though she stood on the chair, adjusted the rope round her neck and kicked away the chair. 'But that chair wasn't found kicked over. It was, like all the other chairs, neatly put back against the wall. That was done after Vera Claythorne's death – by someone else. 'That leaves us with Blore and if you tell me that after shooting Lombard and inducing Vera Claythorne to hang herself he then went out and pulled down a whacking great block of marble on himself by tying a string to it or something like that – well, I simply don't 299

believe you. Men don't commit suicide that way – and what's more Blore wasn't that kind of man. We knew Blore – and he was not the man that you'd ever accuse of a desire for abstract justice.' The Assistant Commissioner said: 'I agree.' Inspector Maine said: 'And therefore, sir, there must have been someone else on the island. Someone who tidied up when the whole business was over. But where was he all the time – and where did he go to? The Sticklehaven people are absolutely certain that no one could have left the island before the rescue boat got there. But in that case –' He stopped. The Assistant Commissioner said: 'In that case –' He sighed. He shook his head. He leaned forward. 'But in that case,' he said, 'who killed them?' 300

A manuscript document sent to Scotland Yard by the master of the Emma Jane fishing trawler From my earliest youth I realized that my nature was a mass of contradictions. I have, to begin with, an incur- ably romantic imagination. The practice of throwing a bottle into the sea with an important document inside was one that never failed to thrill me when reading adventure stories as a child. It thrills me still – and for that reason I have adopted this course – writing my confession, enclosing it in a bottle, sealing the latter, and casting it into the waves. There is, I suppose, a hundred to one chance that my confession may be found – and then (or do I flatter myself ?) a hitherto unsolved murder mystery will be explained. I was born with other traits besides my romantic fancy. I have a definite sadistic delight in seeing or causing death. I remember experiments with wasps – with various garden pests . . . From an early age I knew very strongly the lust to kill. 301

But side by side with this went a contradictory trait – a strong sense of justice. It is abhorrent to me that an innocent person or creature should suffer or die by any act of mine. I have always felt strongly that right should prevail. It may be understood – I think a psychologist would understand – that with my mental make-up being what it was, I adopted the law as a profession. The legal profession satisfied nearly all my instincts. Crime and its punishment has always fascinated me. I enjoy reading every kind of detective story and thriller. I have devised for my own private amusement the most ingenious ways of carrying out a murder. When in due course I came to preside over a court of law, that other secret instinct of mine was encouraged to develop. To see a wretched criminal squirming in the dock, suffering the tortures of the damned, as his doom came slowly and slowly nearer, was to me an exquisite pleasure. Mind you, I took no pleasure in seeing an innocent man there. On at least two occasions I stopped cases where to my mind the accused was palpably innocent, directing the jury that there was no case. Thanks, however, to the fairness and efficiency of our police force, the majority of the accused persons who have come before me to be tried for murder, have been guilty. I will say here that such was the case with the man 302

Edward Seton. His appearance and manner were mis- leading and he created a good impression on the jury. But not only the evidence, which was clear, though unspectacular, but my own knowledge of criminals told me without any doubt that the man had actually committed the crime with which he was charged, the brutal murder of an elderly woman who trusted him. I have a reputation as a hanging judge, but that is unfair. I have always been strictly just and scrupulous in my summing up of a case. All I have done is to protect the jury against the emotional effect of emotional appeals by some of our more emotional counsel. I have drawn their attention to the actual evidence. For some years past I have been aware of a change within myself, a lessening of control – a desire to act instead of to judge. I have wanted – let me admit it frankly – to commit a murder myself. I recognized this as the desire of the artist to express himself ! I was, or could be, an artist in crime! My imagination, sternly checked by the exigencies of my profession, waxed secretly to colossal force. I must – I must – I must – commit a murder! And what is more, it must be no ordinary murder! It must be a fantastical crime – something stupendous – out of the common! In that one respect, I have still, I think, an adolescent's imagination. 303

I wanted something theatrical, impossible! I wanted to kill . . . Yes, I wanted to kill . . . But – incongruous as it may seem to some – I was restrained and hampered by my innate sense of justice. The innocent must not suffer. And then, quite suddenly, the idea came to me – started by a chance remark uttered during casual conversation. It was a doctor to whom I was talking – some ordinary undistinguished GP. He mentioned casually how often murder must be committed which the law was unable to touch. And he instanced a particular case – that of an old lady, a patient of his who had recently died. He was, he said, himself convinced that her death was due to the withholding of a restorative drug by a married couple who attended on her and who stood to benefit very substantially by her death. That sort of thing, he explained, was quite impossible to prove, but he was nevertheless quite sure of it in his own mind. He added that there were many cases of a similar nature going on all the time – cases of deliberate murder – and all quite untouchable by the law. That was the beginning of the whole thing. I sud- denly saw my way clear. And I determined to commit not one murder, but murder on a grand scale. A childish rhyme of my infancy came back into my mind – the rhyme of the ten little soldier boys. It 304

had fascinated me as a child of two – the inexorable diminishment – the sense of inevitability. I began, secretly, to collect victims . . . I will not take up space here by going into details of how this was accomplished. I had a certain routine line of conversation which I employed with nearly every one I met – and the results I got were really surprising. During the time I was in a nursing home I collected the case of Dr Armstrong – a violently teetotal Sister who attended on me being anxious to prove to me the evils of drink by recounting to me a case many years ago in hospital when a doctor under the influence of alcohol had killed a patient on whom he was operating. A careless question as to where the Sister in question had trained, etc., soon gave me the necessary data. I tracked down the doctor and the patient mentioned without difficulty. A conversation between two old military gossips in my Club put me on the track of General Macarthur. A man who had recently returned from the Amazon gave me a devastating re´sume´ of the activities of one Philip Lombard. An indignant memsahib in Majorca recounted the tale of the Puritan Emily Brent and her wretched servant girl. Anthony Marston I selected from a large group of people who had committed similar offences. His complete callousness and his inability to feel any responsibility for the lives he had taken 305

made him, I considered, a type dangerous to the com- munity and unfit to live. Ex-Inspector Blore came my way quite naturally, some of my professional brethren discussing the Landor case with freedom and vigour. I took a serious view of his offence. The police, as servants of the law, must be of a high order of integrity. For their word is perforce believed by virtue of their profession. Finally there was the case of Vera Claythorne. It was when I was crossing the Atlantic. At a late hour one night the sole occupants of the smoking-room were myself and a good-looking young man called Hugo Hamilton. Hugo Hamilton was unhappy. To assuage that unhappiness he had taken a considerable quantity of drink. He was in the maudlin confidential stage. Without much hope of any result I automatically started my routine conversational gambit. The response was startling. I can remember his words now. He said: 'You're right. Murder isn't what most people think – giving someone a dollop of arsenic – pushing them over a cliff – that sort of stuff.' He leaned forward, thrusting his face into mine. He said, 'I've known a murderess – known her, I tell you. And what's more I was crazy about her . . . God help me, sometimes I think I still am . . . It's hell, I tell you – hell. You see, she did it more or less for me . . . Not that I ever dreamed . . . 306

Women are fiends – absolute fiends – you wouldn't think a girl like that – a nice straight jolly girl – you wouldn't think she'd do that, would you? That she'd take a kid out to sea and let it drown – you wouldn't think a woman could do a thing like that?' I said to him: 'Are you sure she did do it?' He said and in saying it he seemed suddenly to sober up: 'I'm quite sure. Nobody else ever thought of it. But I knew the moment I looked at her – when I got back – after . . . And she knew I knew . . . What she didn't realize was that I loved that kid . . .' He didn't say any more, but it was easy enough for me to trace back the story and reconstruct it. I needed a tenth victim. I found him in a man named Morris. He was a shady little creature. Amongst other things he was a dope pedlar and he was respon- sible for inducing the daughter of friends of mine to take to drugs. She committed suicide at the age of twenty-one. During all this time of search my plan had been gradually maturing in my mind. It was now complete and the coping stone to it was an interview I had with a doctor in Harley Street. I have mentioned that I underwent an operation. My interview in Harley Street told me that another operation would be useless. 307

My medical adviser wrapped up the information very prettily, but I am accustomed to getting at the truth of a statement. I did not tell the doctor of my decision – that my death should not be a slow and protracted one as it would be in the course of nature. No, my death should take place in a blaze of excitement. I would live before I died. And now to the actual mechanics of the crime of Soldier Island. To acquire the island, using the man Morris to cover my tracks, was easy enough. He was an expert in that sort of thing. Tabulating the information I had collected about my prospective victims, I was able to concoct a suitable bait for each. None of my plans miscarried. All my guests arrived at Soldier Island on the 8th of August. The party included myself. Morris was already accounted for. He suffered from indigestion. Before leaving London I gave him a cap- sule to take last thing at night which had, I said, done wonders for my own gastric juices. He accepted un- hesitatingly – the man was a slight hypochondriac. I had no fear that he would leave any compromising documents or memoranda behind. He was not that sort of man. The order of death upon the island had been sub- jected by me to special thought and care. There were, I considered, amongst my guests, varying degrees of 308

guilt. Those whose guilt was the lightest should, I decided, pass out first, and not suffer the prolonged mental strain and fear that the more cold-blooded offenders were to suffer. Anthony Marston and Mrs Rogers died first, the one instantaneously the other in a peaceful sleep. Marston, I recognized, was a type born without that feeling of moral responsibility which most of us have. He was amoral – pagan. Mrs Rogers, I had no doubt, had acted very largely under the influence of her husband. I need not describe closely how those two met their deaths. The police will have been able to work that out quite easily. Potassium cyanide is easily obtained by householders for putting down wasps. I had some in my possession and it was easy to slip it into Marston's almost empty glass during the tense period after the gramophone recital. I may say that I watched the faces of my guests closely during that indictment and I had no doubt whatever, after my long court experience, that one and all were guilty. During recent bouts of pain, I had been ordered a sleeping draught – Chloral Hydrate. It had been easy for me to suppress this until I had a lethal amount in my possession. When Rogers brought up some brandy for his wife, he set it down on a table and in passing that table I put the stuff into the brandy. 309

It was easy, for at that time suspicion had not begun to set in. General Macarthur met his death quite painlessly. He did not hear me come up behind him. I had, of course, to choose my time for leaving the terrace very carefully, but everything was successful. As I had anticipated, a search was made of the island and it was discovered that there was no one on it but our seven selves. That at once created an atmosphere of suspicion. According to my plan I should shortly need an ally. I selected Dr Armstrong for that part. He was a gullible sort of man, he knew me by sight and reputation and it was inconceivable to him that a man of my standing should actually be a murderer! All his suspicions were directed against Lombard and I pretended to concur in these. I hinted to him that I had a scheme by which it might be possible to trap the murderer into incriminating himself. Though a search had been made of everyone's room, no search had as yet been made of the persons themselves. But that was bound to come soon. I killed Rogers on the morning of August 10th. He was chopping sticks for lighting the fire and did not hear me approach. I found the key to the dining-room door in his pocket. He had locked it the night before. In the confusion attending the finding of Rogers' body I slipped into Lombard's room and abstracted 310

his revolver. I knew that he would have one with him – in fact I had instructed Morris to suggest as much when he interviewed him. At breakfast I slipped my last dose of chloral into Miss Brent's coffee when I was refilling her cup. We left her in the dining-room. I slipped in there a little while later – she was nearly unconscious and it was easy to inject a strong solution of cyanide into her. The bumble bee business was really rather childish – but somehow, you know, it pleased me. I liked adhering as closely as possible to my nursery rhyme. Immediately after this what I had already foreseen happened – indeed I believe I suggested it myself. We all submitted to a rigorous search. I had safely hidden away the revolver, and had no more cyanide or chloral in my possession. It was then that I intimated to Armstrong that we must carry our plan into effect. It was simply this – I must appear to be the next victim. That would perhaps rattle the murderer – at any rate once I was supposed to be dead I could move about the house and spy upon the unknown murderer. Armstrong was keen on the idea. We carried it out that evening. A little plaster of red mud on the forehead – the red curtain and the wool and the stage was set. The lights of the candles were very flickering and 311

uncertain and the only person who would examine me closely was Armstrong. It worked perfectly. Miss Claythorne screamed the house down when she found the seaweed which I had thoughtfully arranged in her room. They all rushed up, and I took up my pose of a murdered man. The effect on them when they found me was all that could be desired. Armstrong acted his part in the most professional manner. They carried me upstairs and laid me on my bed. Nobody worried about me, they were all too deadly scared and terrified of each other. I had a rendezvous with Armstrong outside the house at a quarter to two. I took him up a little way behind the house on the edge of the cliff. I said that here we could see if any one else approached us, and we should not be seen from the house as the bedrooms faced the other way. He was still quite unsuspicious – and yet he ought to have been warned – if he had only remembered the words of the nursery rhyme. 'A red herring swallowed one . . .' He took the red herring all right. It was quite easy. I uttered an exclamation, leant over the cliff, told him to look, wasn't that the mouth of a cave? He leant right over. A quick vigorous push sent him off his balance and splash into the heaving sea below. I returned to the house. It must have been my footfall that Blore heard. A few minutes after I had returned to Armstrong's room I left it, this time making 312

a certain amount of noise so that someone should hear me. I heard a door open as I got to the bottom of the stairs. They must have just glimpsed my figure as I went out of the front door. It was a minute or two before they followed me. I had gone straight round the house and in at the dining-room window which I had left open. I shut the window and later I broke the glass. Then I went upstairs and laid myself out again on my bed. I calculated that they would search the house again, but I did not think they would look closely at any of the corpses, a mere twitch aside of the sheet to satisfy themselves that it was not Armstrong masquerading as a body. This is exactly what occurred. I forgot to say that I returned the revolver to Lombard's room. It may be of interest to someone to know where it was hidden during the search. There was a big pile of tinned food in the larder. I opened the bottommost of the tins – biscuits I think it contained, bedded in the revolver and replaced the strip of adhesive tape. I calculated, and rightly, that no one would think of working their way through a pile of apparently untouched foodstuffs, especially as all the top tins were soldered. The red curtain I had concealed by laying it flat on the seat of one of the drawing-room chairs under the 313

chintz cover and the wool in the seat cushion, cutting a small hole. And now came the moment that I had anticipated – three people who were so frightened of each other that anything might happen – and one of them had a revolver. I watched them from the windows of the house. When Blore came up alone I had the big marble clock poised ready. Exit Blore . . . From my window I saw Vera Claythorne shoot Lombard. A daring and resourceful young woman. I always thought she was a match for him and more. As soon as that had happened I set the stage in her bedroom. It was an interesting psychological experiment. Would the consciousness of her own guilt, the state of nervous tension consequent on having just shot a man, be sufficient, together with the hypnotic suggestion of the surroundings, to cause her to take her own life? I thought it would. I was right. Vera Claythorne hanged herself before my eyes where I stood in the shadow of the wardrobe. And now for the last stage. I came forward, picked up the chair and set it against the wall. I looked for the revolver and found it at the top of the stairs where the girl had dropped it. I was careful to preserve her fingerprints on it. And now? 314

I shall finish writing this. I shall enclose it and seal it in a bottle and I shall throw the bottle into the sea. Why? Yes, why? It was my ambition to invent a murder mystery that no one could solve. But no artist, I now realize, can be satisfied with art alone. There is a natural craving for recognition which cannot be gainsaid. I have, let me confess it in all humility, a pitiful human wish that someone should know just how clever I have been . . . In all this, I have assumed that the mystery of Soldier Island will remain unsolved. It may be, of course, that the police will be cleverer than I think. There are, after all, three clues. One: the police are perfectly aware that Edward Seton was guilty. They know, therefore, that one of the ten people on the island was not a murderer in any sense of the word, and it follows, paradoxically, that that person must logically be the murderer. The second clue lies in the seventh verse of the nursery rhyme. Armstrong's death is associated with a 'red herring' which he swallowed – or rather which resulted in swallowing him! That is to say that at that stage of the affair some hocus-pocus is clearly indicated – and that Armstrong was deceived by it and sent to his death. That might start a promising 315

line of inquiry. For at that period there are only four persons and of those four I am clearly the only one likely to inspire him with confidence. The third is symbolical. The manner of my death marking me on the forehead. The brand of Cain. There is, I think, little more to say. After entrusting my bottle and its message to the sea I shall go to my room and lay myself down on the bed. To my eyeglasses is attached what seems a length of fine black cord – but it is elastic cord. I shall lay the weight of the body on the glasses. The cord I shall loop round the door-handle and attach it, not too solidly, to the revolver. What I think will happen is this. My hand, protected with a handkerchief, will press the trigger. My hand will fall to my side, the revolver, pulled by the elastic, will recoil to the door, jarred by the door-handle it will detach itself from the elastic and fall. The elastic, released, will hang down innocently from the eyeglasses on which my body is lying. A handkerchief lying on the floor will cause no comment whatever. I shall be found, laid neatly on my bed, shot through the forehead in accordance with the record kept by my fellow victims. Times of death cannot be stated with any accuracy by the time our bodies are examined. When the sea goes down, there will come from the mainland boats and men. 316

And they will find ten dead bodies and an unsolved problem on Soldier Island. Signed: Lawrence Wargrave. 317

B L N K P G E 318 318

About Agatha Christie Agatha Christie is known throughout the world as the Queen of Crime. Her books have sold over a billion copies in English and another billion in 100 foreign languages. She is the most widely published author of all time and in any lan- guage, outsold only by the Bible and Shakespeare. Mrs Christie is the author of eighty crime novels and short story collections, nineteen plays, and six novels written under the name of Mary Westmacott. Agatha Christie's first novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles, was written towards the end of World War I (during which she served in the Voluntary Aid Detachments). In it she created Hercule Poirot, the little Belgian investigator who was destined to become the most popular detective in crime fiction since Sherlock Holmes. After having been rejected by a number of houses, The Mysterious Affair at Styles was even- tually published by The Bodley Head in 1920. In 1926, now averaging a book a year, Agatha Christie wrote her masterpiece. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd was the first of her books to be published by William Collins and marked the beginning of an author-publisher relationship that lasted for fifty years and produced over seventy books. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd was also the first of Agatha Christie's works to be dramatised — as Alibi — and to have a successful run in London's West End. The Mousetrap, her most famous play, opened in 1952 and runs to this day at St Martin's Theatre in the West End; it is the longest-running play in history.

Agatha Christie was made a Dame in 1971. She died in 1976, since when a number of her books have been pub- lished: the bestselling novel Sleeping Murder appeared in 1976, followed by An Autobiography and the short story col- lections Miss Marple's Final Cases; Problem at Pollensa Bay; and While the Light Lasts. In 1998, Black Coffee was the first of her plays to be novelised by Charles Osborne, Mrs Christie's biographer.

2 The Agatha Christie Collection Christie Crime Classics The Man in the Brown Suit The Secret of Chimneys The Seven Dials Mystery The Mysterious Mr Quin The Sittaford Mystery The Hound of Death The Listerdale Mystery Why Didn't They Ask Evans? Parker Pyne Investigates Murder Is Easy Towards Zero Death Comes as the End Sparkling Cyanide Crooked House They Came to Baghdad Destination Unknown Spider's Web * The Unexpected Guest * Ordeal by Innocence The Pale Horse Endless Night Passenger To Frankfurt Problem at Pollensa Bay While the Light Lasts Hercule Poirot Investigates The Mysterious Affair at Styles The Murder on the Links Poirot Investigates The Murder of Roger Ackroyd The Big Four The Mystery of the Blue Train Black Coffee * Peril at End House Lord Edgware Dies Murder on the Orient Express Three-Act Tragedy Death in the Clouds The ABC Murders Murder in Mesopotamia Cards on the Table Murder in the Mews Dumb Witness Death on the Nile Appointment with Death Hercule Poirot's Christmas Sad Cypress One, Two, Buckle My Shoe Evil Under the Sun Five Little Pigs * novelised by Charles Osborne The Hollow The Labours of Hercules Taken at the Flood Mrs McGinty's Dead After the Funeral Hickory Dickory Dock Dead Man's Folly Cat Among the Pigeons The Adventure of the Christmas Pudding The Clocks Third Girl Hallowe'en Party Elephants Can Remember Poirot's Early Cases Curtain: Poirot's Last Case Miss Marple Mysteries The Murder at the Vicarage The Thirteen Problems The Body in the Library The Moving Finger A Murder Is Announced They Do It with Mirrors A Pocket Full of Rye 4.50 from Paddington The Mirror Crack'd from Side to Side A Caribbean Mystery At Bertram's Hotel Nemesis Sleeping Murder Miss Marple's Final Cases Tommy & Tuppence The Secret Adversary Partners in Crime N or M? By the Pricking of My Thumbs Postern of Fate Published as Mary Westmacott Giant's Bread Unfinished Portrait Absent in the Spring The Rose and the Yew Tree A Daughter's a Daughter The Burden Memoirs An Autobiography Come, Tell Me How You Live Play Collections The Mousetrap and Selected Plays Witness for the Prosecution and Selected Plays

For more information about Agatha Christie, please visit the official website.

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AND THEN THERE WERE NONE by Agatha Christie Copyright © 1939 Agatha Christie Limited (a Chorion company) All rights reserved under International and Pan- American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non- exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of PerfectBound™. PerfectBound™ and the PerfectBound™ logo are trademarks of HarperCollins Publishers, Inc. Adobe Reader edition published December 2003 ISBN 0-06-073633-X This e-book was set from the Agatha Christie Signature Edition published by HarperCollins Publishers, London. First published in Great Britain by Collins 1939 For more information about Agatha Christie e-books visit

About the Publisher Australia HarperCollins Publishers (Australia) Pty. Ltd. 25 Ryde Road (PO Box 321) Pymble, NSW 2073, Australia http:// Canada HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 55 Avenue Road, Suite 2900 Toronto, ON, M5R, 3L2, Canada http:// New Zealand HarperCollinsPublishers (New Zealand) Limited P.O. Box 1 Auckland, New Zealand http:// United Kingdom HarperCollins Publishers Ltd. 77-85 Fulham Palace Road London, W6 8JB, UK http:// United States HarperCollins Publishers Inc. 10 East 53rd Street New York, NY 10022 http:// For more information about Agatha Christie e-books visit