Chapter - 2 | And Then There Were None

I
Outside Oakbridge station a little group of people stood
in momentary uncertainty. Behind them stood porters
with suitcases. One of these called, ‘Jim!’
The driver of one of the taxis stepped forward.
‘You’m for Soldier Island, maybe?’ he asked in
a soft Devon voice. Four voices gave assent – and
then immediately afterwards gave quick surreptitious
glances at each other.
The driver said, addressing his remarks to Mr Justice
Wargrave as the senior member of the party:
‘There are two taxis here, sir. One of them must
wait till the slow train from Exeter gets in – a matter of
ﬁve minutes – there’s one gentleman coming by that.
Perhaps one of you wouldn’t mind waiting? You’d be
more comfortable that way.’
Vera Claythorne, her own secretarial position clear
in her mind, spoke at once.
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‘I’ll wait,’ she said, ‘if you will go on?’ She looked
at the other three, her glance and voice had that slight
suggestion of command in it that comes from having
occupied a position of authority. She might have been
directing which tennis sets the girls were to play in.
Miss Brent said stifﬂy, ‘Thank you,’ bent her head
and entered one of the taxis, the door of which the
driver was holding open.
Mr Justice Wargrave followed her.
Captain Lombard said:
‘I’ll wait with Miss –’
‘Claythorne,’ said Vera.
‘My name is Lombard, Philip Lombard.’
The porters were piling luggage on the taxi. Inside,
Mr Justice Wargrave said with due legal caution:
‘Beautiful weather we are having.’
Miss Brent said:
‘Yes, indeed.’
A very distinguished old gentleman, she thought to
herself. Quite unlike the usual type of man in seaside
guest houses. Evidently Mrs or Miss Oliver had good
connections . . .
Mr Justice Wargrave inquired:
‘Do you know this part of the world well?’
‘I have been to Cornwall and to Torquay, but this
is my ﬁrst visit to this part of Devon.’
The judge said:
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‘I also am unacquainted with this part of the world.’
The taxi drove off.
The driver of the second taxi said:
‘Like to sit inside while you’re waiting?’
Vera said decisively:
‘Not at all.’
Captain Lombard smiled. He said:
‘That sunny wall looks more attractive. Unless you’d
rather go inside the station?’
‘No, indeed. It’s so delightful to get out of that
stuffy train.’
He answered:
‘Yes, travelling by train is rather trying in this weather.’
Vera said conventionally:
‘I do hope it lasts – the weather, I mean. Our English
summers are so treacherous.’
With a slight lack of originality Lombard asked:
‘Do you know this part of the world well?’
‘No, I’ve never been here before.’ She added quickly,
conscientiously determined to make her position clear
at once, ‘I haven’t even seen my employer yet.’
‘Your employer?’
‘Yes, I’m Mrs Owen’s secretary.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Just imperceptibly his manner changed.
It was slightly more assured – easier in tone. He said:
‘Isn’t that rather unusual?’
Vera laughed.
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‘Oh, no, I don’t think so. Her own secretary was
suddenly taken ill and she wired to an agency for a
substitute and they sent me.’
‘So that was it. And suppose you don’t like the post
when you’ve got there?’
Vera laughed again.
‘Oh, it’s only temporary – a holiday post. I’ve got a
permanent job at a girls’ school. As a matter of fact,
I’m frightfully thrilled at the prospect of seeing Soldier
Island. There’s been such a lot about it in the papers.
Is it really very fascinating?’
Lombard said:
‘I don’t know. I haven’t seen it.’
‘Oh, really? The Owens are frightfully keen on it, I
suppose. What are they like? Do tell me.’
Lombard thought: Awkward, this – am I supposed
to have met them or not? He said quickly:
‘There’s a wasp crawling up your arm. No – keep
quite still.’ He made a convincing pounce. ‘There.
It’s gone!’
‘Oh, thank you. There are a lot of wasps about this
summer.’
‘Yes, I suppose it’s the heat. Who are we waiting for,
do you know?’
‘I haven’t the least idea.’
The loud drawn-out scream of an approaching train
was heard. Lombard said:
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‘That will be the train now.’
It was a tall soldierly old man who appeared at the
exit from the platform. His grey hair was clipped close
and he had a neatly trimmed white moustache.
His porter, staggering slightly under the weight of the
solid leather suitcase, indicated Vera and Lombard.
Vera came forward in a competent manner. She
said:
‘I am Mrs Owen’s secretary. There is a car here
waiting.’ She added, ‘This is Mr Lombard.’
The faded blue eyes, shrewd in spite of their age,
sized up Lombard. For a moment a judgment showed
in them – had there been any one to read it.
‘Good-looking fellow. Something just a little wrong
about him . . .’
The three of them got into the waiting taxi. They
drove through the sleepy streets of little Oakbridge
and continued about a mile on the main Plymouth
road. Then they plunged into a maze of cross-country
lanes, steep, green and narrow.
General Macarthur said:
‘Don’t know this part of Devon at all. My little place
is in East Devon – just on the border-line of Dorset.’
Vera said:
‘It really is lovely here. The hills and the red earth
and everything so green and luscious-looking.’
Philip Lombard said critically:
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‘It’s a bit shut in . . . I like open country myself.
Where you can see what’s coming . . .’
General Macarthur said to him:
‘You’ve seen a bit of the world, I fancy?’
Lombard shrugged his shoulders disparagingly.
‘I’ve knocked about here and there, sir.’
He thought to himself: ‘He’ll ask me now if I was old
enough to be in the War. These old boys always do.’
But General Macarthur did not mention the War.
II
They came up over a steep hill and down a zigzag
track to Sticklehaven – a mere cluster of cottages with
a ﬁshing boat or two drawn up on the beach.
Illuminated by the setting sun, they had their ﬁrst
glimpse of Soldier Island jutting up out of the sea to
the south.
Vera said, surprised:
‘It’s a long way out.’
She had pictured it differently, close to shore, crowned
with a beautiful white house. But there was no house
visible, only the boldly silhouetted rock with its faint
resemblance to a giant head. There was something
sinister about it. She shivered faintly.
Outside a little inn, the Seven Stars, three people
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were sitting. There was the hunched elderly ﬁgure
of the judge, the upright form of Miss Brent, and a
third man – a big bluff man who came forward and
introduced himself.
‘Thought we might as well wait for you,’ he said.
‘Make one trip of it. Allow me to introduce myself.
Name’s Davis. Natal, South Africa’s my natal spot,
ha, ha!’
He laughed breezily.
Mr Justice Wargrave looked at him with active
malevolence. He seemed to be wishing that he could
order the court to be cleared. Miss Emily Brent was
clearly not sure if she liked Colonials.
‘Any one care for a little nip before we embark?’
asked Mr Davis hospitably.
Nobody assenting to this proposition, Mr Davis
turned and held up a ﬁnger.
‘Mustn’t delay, then. Our good host and hostess will
be expecting us,’ he said.
He might have noticed that a curious constraint came
over the other members of the party. It was as though
the mention of their host and hostess had a curiously
paralysing effect upon the guests.
In response to Davis’s beckoning ﬁnger, a man
detached himself from a nearby wall against which
he was leaning and came up to them. His rolling
gait proclaimed him as a man of the sea. He had
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a weather-beaten face and dark eyes with a slightly
evasive expression. He spoke in his soft Devon voice.
‘Will you be ready to be starting for the island,
ladies and gentlemen? The boat’s waiting. There’s two
gentlemen coming by car but Mr Owen’s orders was
not to wait for them as they might arrive at any time.’
The party got up. Their guide led them along a small
stone jetty. Alongside it a motor boat was lying.
Emily Brent said:
‘That’s a very small boat.’
The boat’s owner said persuasively:
‘She’s a ﬁne boat that, Ma’am. You could go to
Plymouth in her as easy as winking.’
Mr Justice Wargrave said sharply:
‘There are a good many of us.’
‘She’d take double the number, sir.’
Philip Lombard said in his pleasant easy voice:
‘It’s quite all right. Glorious weather – no swell.’
Rather doubtfully, Miss Brent permitted herself to
be helped into the boat. The others followed suit.
There was as yet no fraternizing among the party. It
was as though each member of it was puzzled by the
other members.
They were just about to cast loose when their guide
paused, boat-hook in hand.
Down the steep track into the village a car was
coming. A car so fantastically powerful, so superlatively
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beautiful that it had all the nature of an apparition. At
the wheel sat a young man, his hair blown back by the
wind. In the blaze of the evening light he looked, not
a man, but a young God, a Hero God out of some
Northern Saga.
He touched the horn and a great roar of sound
echoed from the rocks of the bay.
It was a fantastic moment. In it, Anthony Marston
seemed to be something more than mortal. After-
wards more than one of those present remembered
that moment.
III
Fred Narracott sat by the engine thinking to himself
that this was a queer lot. Not at all his idea of what
Mr Owen’s guests were likely to be. He’d expected
something altogether more classy. Togged up women
and gentlemen in yachting costume and all very rich
and important-looking.
Not at all like Mr Elmer Robson’s parties. A faint
grin came to Fred Narracott’s lips as he remembered
the millionaire’s guests. That had been a party if you
like – and the drink they’d got through!
This Mr Owen must be a very different sort of
gentleman. Funny, it was, thought Fred, that he’d never
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yet set eyes on Owen – or his Missus either. Never been
down here yet he hadn’t. Everything ordered and paid
for by that Mr Morris. Instructions always very clear
and payment prompt, but it was odd, all the same. The
papers said there was some mystery about Owen. Mr
Narracott agreed with them.
Perhaps after all, it was Miss Gabrielle Turl who had
bought the island. But that theory departed from him as
he surveyed his passengers. Not this lot – none of them
looked likely to have anything to do with a ﬁlm star.
He summed them up dispassionately.
One old maid – the sour kind – he knew them well
enough. She was a tartar he could bet. Old military
gentleman – real Army look about him. Nice-looking
young lady – but the ordinary kind, not glamorous
– no Hollywood touch about her. That bluff cheery
gent – he wasn’t a real gentleman. Retired trades-
man, that’s what he is, thought Fred Narracott. The
other gentleman, the lean hungry-looking gentleman
with the quick eyes, he was a queer one, he was.
Just possible he might have something to do with the
pictures.
No, there was only one satisfactory passenger in the
boat. The last gentleman, the one who had arrived in
the car (and what a car! A car such as had never been
seen in Sticklehaven before. Must have cost hundreds
and hundreds, a car like that). He was the right kind.
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Born to money, he was. If the party had been all like
him . . . he’d understand it . . .
Queer business when you came to think of it – the
whole thing was queer – very queer . . .
IV
The boat churned its way round the rock. Now at last
the house came into view. The south side of the island
was quite different. It shelved gently down to the sea.
The house was there facing south – low and square
and modern-looking with rounded windows letting in
all the light.
An exciting house – a house that lived up to expec-
tation!
Fred Narracott shut off the engine, they nosed their
way gently into a little natural inlet between rocks.
Philip Lombard said sharply:
‘Must be difﬁcult to land here in dirty weather.’
Fred Narracott said cheerfully:
‘Can’t land on Soldier Island when there’s a south-
easterly. Sometimes ’tis cut off for a week or more.’
Vera Claythorne thought:
‘The catering must be very difﬁcult. That’s the
worst of an island. All the domestic problems are so
worrying.’
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The boat grated against the rocks. Fred Narracott
jumped out and he and Lombard helped the others
to alight. Narracott made the boat fast to a ring in
the rock. Then he led the way up steps cut in the
cliff.
General Macarthur said:
‘Ha! delightful spot!’
But he felt uneasy. Damned odd sort of place.
As the party ascended the steps and came out on a
terrace above, their spirits revived. In the open doorway
of the house a correct butler was awaiting them, and
something about his gravity reassured them. And then
the house itself was really most attractive, the view from
the terrace magniﬁcent . . .
The butler came forward bowing slightly. He was
a tall lank man, grey-haired and very respectable.
He said:
‘Will you come this way, please.’
In the wide hall drinks stood ready. Rows of bottles.
Anthony Marston’s spirits cheered up a little. He’d just
been thinking this was a rum kind of show. None of his
lot! What could old Badger have been thinking about to
let him in for this? However, the drinks were all right.
Plenty of ice, too.
What was it the butler chap was saying?
Mr Owen – unfortunately delayed – unable to get
here till tomorrow. Instructions – everything they
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wanted – if they would like to go to their rooms? . . .
dinner would be at eight o’clock . . .
V
Vera had followed Mrs Rogers upstairs. The woman
had thrown open a door at the end of a passage
and Vera had walked into a delightful bedroom with
a big window that opened wide upon the sea and
another looking east. She uttered a quick exclamation
of pleasure.
Mrs Rogers was saying:
‘I hope you’ve got everything you want, Miss?’
Vera looked round. Her luggage had been brought
up and had been unpacked. At one side of the room
a door stood open into a pale blue-tiled bathroom.
She said quickly:
‘Yes, everything, I think.’
‘You’ll ring the bell if you want anything, Miss?’
Mrs Rogers had a ﬂat monotonous voice. Vera
looked at her curiously. What a white bloodless ghost
of a woman! Very respectable-looking, with her hair
dragged back from her face and her black dress. Queer
light eyes that shifted the whole time from place to
place.
Vera thought:
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‘She looks frightened of her own shadow.’
Yes, that was it – frightened!
She looked like a woman who walked in mortal
fear . . .
A little shiver passed down Vera’s back. What on
earth was the woman afraid of ?
She said pleasantly:
‘I’m Mrs Owen’s new secretary. I expect you know
that.’
Mrs Rogers said:
‘No, Miss, I don’t know anything. Just a list of
the ladies and gentlemen and what rooms they were
to have.’
Vera said:
‘Mrs Owen didn’t mention me?’
Mrs Rogers’ eyelashes ﬂickered.
‘I haven’t seen Mrs Owen – not yet. We only came
here two days ago.’
Extraordinary people, these Owens, thought Vera.
Aloud she said:
‘What staff is there here?’
‘Just me and Rogers, Miss.’
Vera frowned. Eight people in the house – ten with
the host and hostess – and only one married couple to
do for them.
Mrs Rogers said:
‘I’m a good cook and Rogers is handy about the
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house. I didn’t know, of course, that there was to be
such a large party.’
Vera said:
‘But you can manage?’
‘Oh yes, Miss, I can manage. If there’s to be large
parties often perhaps Mrs Owen could get extra
help in.’
Vera said, ‘I expect so.’
Mrs Rogers turned to go. Her feet moved noiselessly
over the ground. She drifted from the room like a
shadow.
Vera went over to the window and sat down on
the window seat. She was faintly disturbed. Every-
thing – somehow – was a little queer. The absence
of the Owens, the pale ghostlike Mrs Rogers. And
the guests! Yes, the guests were queer, too. An oddly
assorted party.
Vera thought:
‘I wish I’d seen the Owens . . . I wish I knew what
they were like.’
She got up and walked restlessly about the room.
A perfect bedroom decorated throughout in the
modern style. Off-white rugs on the gleaming parquet
ﬂoor – faintly tinted walls – a long mirror surrounded
by lights. A mantelpiece bare of ornaments save for an
enormous block of white marble shaped like a bear, a
piece of modern sculpture in which was inset a clock.
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Over it, in a gleaming chromium frame, was a big
square of parchment – a poem.
She stood in front of the ﬁreplace and read it. It was
the old nursery rhyme that she remembered from her
childhood days.
Ten little soldier boys went out to dine;
One choked his little self and then there were Nine.
Nine little soldier boys sat up very late;
One overslept himself and then there were Eight.
Eight little soldier boys travelling in Devon;
One said he’d stay there and then there were Seven.
Seven little soldier boys chopping up sticks;
One chopped himself in halves and then there were Six.
Six little soldier boys playing with a hive;
A bumble bee stung one and then there were Five.
Five little soldier boys going in for law;
One got in Chancery and then there were Four.
Four little soldier boys going out to sea;
A red herring swallowed one and then there were Three.
Three little soldier boys walking in the Zoo;
A big bear hugged one and then there were Two.
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Two little soldier boys sitting in the sun;
One got frizzled up and then there was One.
One little soldier boy left all alone;
He went and hanged himself and then there were None.
Vera smiled. Of course! This was Soldier Island!
She went and sat again by the window looking
out to sea.
How big the sea was! From here there was no land
to be seen anywhere – just a vast expanse of blue water
rippling in the evening sun.
The sea . . . So peaceful today – sometimes so
cruel . . . The sea that dragged you down to its
depths. Drowned . . . Found drowned . . . Drowned
at sea . . . Drowned – drowned – drowned . . .
No, she wouldn’t remember . . . She would not
think of it!
All that was over . . .
VI
Dr Armstrong came to Soldier Island just as the sun
was sinking into the sea. On the way across he had
chatted to the boatman – a local man. He was anxious
to ﬁnd out a little about these people who owned
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Soldier Island, but the man Narracott seemed curiously
ill-informed, or perhaps unwilling to talk.
So Dr Armstrong chatted instead of the weather and
of ﬁshing.
He was tired after his long motor drive. His eye-
balls ached. Driving west you were driving against
the sun.
Yes, he was very tired. The sea and perfect peace –
that was what he needed. He would like, really, to take
a long holiday. But he couldn’t afford to do that. He
could afford it ﬁnancially, of course, but he couldn’t
afford to drop out. You were soon forgotten nowadays.
No, now that he had arrived, he must keep his nose to
the grindstone.
He thought:
‘All the same, this evening, I’ll imagine to myself that
I’m not going back – that I’ve done with London and
Harley Street and all the rest of it.’
There was something magical about an island – the
mere word suggested fantasy. You lost touch with the
world – an island was a world of its own. A world,
perhaps, from which you might never return.
He thought:
‘I’m leaving my ordinary life behind me.’
And, smiling to himself, he began to make plans,
fantastic plans for the future. He was still smiling when
he walked up the rock-cut steps.
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In a chair on the terrace an old gentleman was
sitting and the sight of him was vaguely familiar to
Dr Armstrong. Where had he seen that frog-like face,
that tortoise-like neck, that hunched up attitude –
yes and those pale shrewd little eyes? Of course – old
Wargrave. He’d given evidence once before him. Always
looked half-asleep, but was shrewd as could be when
it came to a point of law. Had great power with a jury –
it was said he could make their minds up for them any
day of the week. He’d got one or two unlikely con-
victions out of them. A hanging judge, some people
said.
Funny place to meet him . . . here – out of the
world.
VII
Mr Justice Wargrave thought to himself:
‘Armstrong? Remember him in the witness-box.
Very correct and cautious. All doctors are damned
fools. Harley Street ones are the worst of the lot.’
And his mind dwelt malevolently on a recent inter-
view he had had with a suave personage in that very
street.
Aloud he grunted:
‘Drinks are in the hall.’
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Dr Armstrong said:
‘I must go and pay my respects to my host and
hostess.’
Mr Justice Wargrave closed his eyes again, looking
decidedly reptilian, and said:
‘You can’t do that.’
Dr Armstrong was startled.
‘Why not?’
The judge said:
‘No host and hostess. Very curious state of affairs.
Don’t understand this place.’
Dr Armstrong stared at him for a minute. When he
thought the old gentleman had actually gone to sleep,
Wargrave said suddenly:
‘D’you know Constance Culmington?’
‘Er – no, I’m afraid I don’t.’
‘It’s of no consequence,’ said the judge. ‘Very vague
woman – and practically unreadable handwriting. I was
just wondering if I’d come to the wrong house.’
Dr Armstrong shook his head and went on up to
the house.
Mr Justice Wargrave reﬂected on the subject of
Constance Culmington. Undependable like all women.
His mind went on to the two women in the house,
the tight-lipped old maid and the girl. He didn’t care for
the girl, cold-blooded young hussy. No, three women,
if you counted the Rogers woman. Odd creature, she
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looked scared to death. Respectable pair and knew
their job.
Rogers coming out on the terrace that minute, the
judge asked him:
‘Is Lady Constance Culmington expected, do you
know?’
Rogers stared at him.
‘No, sir, not to my knowledge.’
The judge’s eyebrows rose. But he only grunted.
He thought:
‘Soldier Island, eh? There’s a ﬂy in the ointment.’
VIII
Anthony Marston was in his bath. He luxuriated in
the steaming water. His limbs had felt cramped after
his long drive. Very few thoughts passed through his
head. Anthony was a creature of sensation – and
of action.
He thought to himself:
‘Must go through with it, I suppose,’ and thereafter
dismissed everything from his mind.
Warm steaming water – tired limbs – presently a
shave – a cocktail – dinner.
And after –?
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Mr Blore was tying his tie. He wasn’t very good at this
sort of thing.
Did he look all right? He supposed so.
Nobody had been exactly cordial to him . . . Funny
the way they all eyed each other – as though they
knew ...
Well, it was up to him.
He didn’t mean to bungle his job.
He glanced up at the framed nursery rhyme over the
mantelpiece.
Neat touch, having that there!
He thought:
Remember this island when I was a kid. Never
thought I’d be doing this sort of a job in a house here.
Good thing, perhaps, that one can’t foresee the future.
X
General Macarthur was frowning to himself.
Damn it all, the whole thing was deuced odd! Not
at all what he’d been led to expect . . .
For two pins he’d make an excuse and get away . . .
Throw up the whole business . . .
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But the motor-boat had gone back to the mainland.
He’d have to stay.
That fellow Lombard now, he was a queer chap.
Not straight. He’d swear the man wasn’t straight.
XI
As the gong sounded, Philip Lombard came out of his
room and walked to the head of the stairs. He moved
like a panther, smoothly and noiselessly. There was
something of the panther about him altogether. A beast
of prey – pleasant to the eye.
He was smiling to himself.
A week – eh?
He was going to enjoy that week.
XII
In her bedroom, Emily Brent, dressed in black silk
ready for dinner, was reading her Bible.
Her lips moved as she followed the words:
‘The heathen are sunk down in the pit that they made: in
the net which they hid is their own foot taken. The Lord
is known by the judgment which he executeth: the wicked
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is snared in the work of his own hands. The wicked shall
be turned into hell.’
Her lips tight closed. She shut the Bible.
Rising, she pinned a cairngorm brooch at her neck,
and went down to dinner.
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