Chapter - 16 | And Then There Were None

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.
He said:
‘So that’s it, is it, Vera?’
Vera said:
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‘There’s no one on the island – no one at all – except
us two . . .’
Her voice was a whisper – nothing more.
Lombard said:
‘Precisely. So we know where we are, don’t we?’
Vera said:
‘How was it worked – that trick with the marble
bear?’
He shrugged his shoulders.
‘A conjuring trick, my dear – a very good one . . .’
Their eyes met again.
Vera thought:
‘Why did I never see his face properly before? A wolf
– that’s what it is – a wolf’s face . . . Those horrible
teeth . . .’
Lombard said, and his voice was a snarl – dangerous
– menacing:
‘This is the end, you understand. We’ve come to the
truth now. And it’s the end ...’
Vera said quietly:
‘I understand . . .’
She stared out to sea. General Macarthur had stared
out to sea – when – only yesterday? Or was it the day
before? He too had said, ‘This is the end . . .’
He had said it with acceptance – almost with welcome.
But to Vera the words – the thought – brought
rebellion.
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And Then There Were None
No, it should not be the end.
She looked down at the dead man. She said:
‘Poor Dr Armstrong . . .’
Lombard sneered.
He said:
‘What’s this? Womanly pity?’
Vera said:
‘Why not? Haven’t you any pity?’
He said:
‘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.’
Vera said:
‘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:
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‘Satisﬁed?’
Vera said:
‘Quite.’
Her tone warned him. He spun round. Even as he
clapped his hand to his pocket he knew that he would
ﬁnd it empty.
She had moved a yard or two away and was facing
him, revolver in hand.
Lombard said:
‘So that’s the reason for your womanly solicitude!
You wanted to pick my pocket.’
She nodded.
She held it steadily and unwaveringly.
Death was very near to Philip Lombard now. It had
never, he knew, been nearer.
Nevertheless he was not beaten yet.
He said authoritatively:
‘Give that revolver to me.’
Vera laughed.
Lombard said:
‘Come on, hand it over.’
His quick brain was working. Which way – which
method – talk her over – lull her into security or a
swift dash –
All his life Lombard had taken the risky way. He
took it now.
He spoke slowly, argumentatively:
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And Then There Were None
‘Now look here, my dear girl, you just listen –’
And then he sprang. Quick as a panther – as any
other feline creature . . .
Automatically Vera pressed the trigger . . .
Lombard’s leaping body stayed poised in mid-spring
then crashed heavily to the ground.
Vera came warily forward, the revolver ready in
her hand.
But there was no need of caution.
Philip Lombard was dead – shot through the heart . . .
III
Relief possessed Vera – enormous exquisite relief.
At last it was over.
There was no more fear – no more steeling of her
nerves . . .
She was alone on the island . . .
Alone with nine dead bodies . . .
But what did that matter? She was alive . . .
She sat there – exquisitely happy – exquisitely at
peace . . .
No more fear . . .
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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 . . .
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And Then There Were None
Vera thought:
‘The whole thing might be a dream . . .’
How tired she was – terribly tired. Her limbs ached,
her eyelids were dropping. Not to be afraid any
more . . . To sleep. Sleep . . . sleep . . . sleep . . .
To sleep safely since she was alone on the island.
One little soldier boy left all alone.
She smiled to herself.
She went in at the front door. The house, too, felt
strangely peaceful.
Vera thought:
‘Ordinarily one wouldn’t care to sleep where there’s
a dead body in practically every bedroom!’
Should she go to the kitchen and get herself some-
thing to eat?
She hesitated a moment, then decided against it. She
was really too tired . . .
She paused by the dining-room door. There were
still three little china ﬁgures in the middle of the table.
Vera laughed.
She said:
‘You’re behind the times, my dears.’
She picked up two of them and tossed them out
through the window. She heard them crash on the
stone of the terrace.
The third little ﬁgure she picked up and held in her
hand. She said:
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‘You can come with me. We’ve won, my dear!
We’ve won!’
The hall was dim in the dying light.
Vera, the little soldier clasped in her hand, began
to mount the stairs. Slowly, because her legs were
suddenly very tired.
‘One little soldier boy left all alone.’ How did it end?
Oh, yes! ‘He got married and then there were none.’
Married . . . Funny, how she suddenly got the feeling
again that Hugo was in the house . . .
Very strong. Yes, Hugo was upstairs waiting
for her.
Vera said to herself:
‘Don’t be a fool. You’re so tired that you’re imag-
ining the most fantastic things . . .’
Slowly up the stairs . . .
At the top of them something fell from her hand
making hardly any noise on the soft pile carpet. She
did not notice that she had dropped the revolver. She
was only conscious of clasping a little china ﬁgure.
How very quiet the house was. And yet – it didn’t
seem like an empty house . . .
Hugo, upstairs, waiting for her . . .
‘One little soldier boy left all alone.’ What was the last
line again? Something about being married – or was it
something else?
She had come now to the door of her room.
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And Then There Were None
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 . . .
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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
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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
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And Then There Were None
– 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:
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‘You’re forgetting, sir, that Soldier Island previously
belonged to young Elmer Robson, the American. He
had the most extraordinary parties down there. I’ve
no doubt the local people’s eyes fairly popped out
over them. But they got used to it and they’d begun
to feel that anything to do with Soldier Island would
necessarily be incredible. It’s natural, that, sir, when
you come to think of it.’
The Assistant Commissioner admitted gloomily that
he supposed it was.
Maine said:
‘Fred Narracott – that’s the man who took the party
out there – did say one thing that was illuminating. He
said he was surprised to see what sort of people these
were. “Not at all like Mr Robson’s parties.” I think it
was the fact that they were all so normal and so quiet
that made him override Morris’s orders and take out
a boat to the island after he’d heard about the SOS
signals.’
‘When did he and the other men go?’
‘The signals were seen by a party of boy scouts on
the morning of the 11th. There was no possibility of
getting out there that day. The men got there on the
afternoon of the 12th at the ﬁrst moment possible to
run a boat ashore there. They’re all quite positive that
nobody could have left the island before they got there.
There was a big sea on after the storm.’
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‘Couldn’t someone have swum ashore?’
‘It’s over a mile to the coast and there were heavy
seas and big breakers inshore. And there were a lot of
people, boy scouts and others on the cliffs looking out
towards the island and watching.’
The AC sighed. He said:
‘What about that gramophone record you found in
the house? Couldn’t you get hold of anything there
that might help?’
Inspector Maine said:
‘I’ve been into that. It was supplied by a ﬁrm that do
a lot of theatrical stuff and ﬁlm effects. It was sent to
U. N. Owen Esq., c/o Isaac Morris, and was under-
stood to be required for the amateur performance of a
hitherto unacted play. The typescript of it was returned
with the record.’
Legge said:
‘And what about the subject matter, eh?’
Inspector Maine said gravely:
‘I’m coming to that, sir.’
He cleared his throat.
‘I’ve investigated those accusations as thoroughly
as I can.
‘Starting with the Rogerses who were the ﬁrst to
arrive on the island. They were in service with a Miss
Brady who died suddenly. Can’t get anything deﬁnite
out of the doctor who attended her. He says they
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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
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And Then There Were None
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.
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‘Now, Philip Lombard. Lombard has been mixed
up in some very curious shows abroad. He’s sailed
very near the law once or twice. Got a reputation
for daring and for not being over-scrupulous. Sort of
fellow who might do several murders in some quiet out
of the way spot.
‘Then we come to Blore.’ Maine hesitated. ‘He of
course was one of our lot.’
The other man stirred.
‘Blore,’ said the Assistant Commissioner forcibly,
‘was a bad hat!’
‘You think so, sir?’
The AC said:
‘I always thought so. But he was clever enough to
get away with it. It’s my opinion that he committed
black perjury in the Landor case. I wasn’t happy
about it at the time. But I couldn’t ﬁnd anything.
I put Harris on to it and he couldn’t ﬁnd anything
but I’m still of the opinion that there was something
to ﬁnd if we’d known how to set about it. The man
wasn’t straight.’
There was a pause, then Sir Thomas Legge said:
‘And Isaac Morris is dead, you say? When did
he die?’
‘I thought you’d soon come to that, sir. Isaac Morris
died on the night of August 8th. Took an overdose of
sleeping stuff – one of the barbiturates, I understand.
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And Then There Were None
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
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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.’
The AC said:
‘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
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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,
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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
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And Then There Were None
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.’
The AC said:
‘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
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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 Janeﬁshing 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.
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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
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And Then There Were None
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

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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
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And Then There Were None
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

p q
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

And Then There Were None
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

p q
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

And Then There Were None
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

p q
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

And Then There Were None
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

p q
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

And Then There Were None
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

p q
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

And Then There Were None
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

p q
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 Then There Were None
And they will ﬁnd ten dead bodies and an unsolved
problem on Soldier Island.
Signed:
Lawrence Wargrave.
317

p q
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B
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A
N
K
P
A
G
E
318
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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
And Then There Were None
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
Nor 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

www.agathachristie.com
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)
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