Chapter - 13 | And Then There Were None

I
‘One of us . . . One of us . . . One of us . . .’
Three words, endlessly repeated, dinning themselves
hour after hour into receptive brains.
Five people – ﬁve frightened people. Five people
who watched each other, who now hardly troubled to
hide their state of nervous tension.
There was little pretence now – no formal veneer of
conversation. They were ﬁve enemies linked together
by a mutual instinct of self-preservation.
And all of them, suddenly, looked less like human
beings. They were reverting to more bestial types.
Like a wary old tortoise, Mr Justice Wargrave sat
hunched up, his body motionless, his eyes keen and
alert. Ex-Inspector Blore looked coarser and clumsier
in build. His walk was that of a slow padding animal.
His eyes were bloodshot. There was a look of mingled
ferocity and stupidity about him. He was like a beast
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at bay ready to charge its pursuers. Philip Lombard’s
senses seemed heightened, rather than diminished. His
ears reacted to the slightest sound. His step was lighter
and quicker, his body was lithe and graceful. And
he smiled often, his lips curling back from his long
white teeth.
Vera Claythorne was very quiet. She sat most of
the time huddled in a chair. Her eyes stared ahead
of her into space. She looked dazed. She was like a
bird that has dashed its head against glass and that
has been picked up by a human hand. It crouches
there, terriﬁed, unable to move, hoping to save itself
by its immobility.
Armstrong was in a pitiable condition of nerves. He
twitched and his hands shook. He lighted cigarette after
cigarette and stubbed them out almost immediately.
The forced inaction of their position seemed to gall
him more than the others. Every now and then he
broke out into a torrent of nervous speech.
‘We – we shouldn’t just sit here doing nothing! There
must be something – surely, surely there is something that
we can do? If we lit a bonﬁre –?’
Blore said heavily:
‘In this weather?’
The rain was pouring down again. The wind came
in ﬁtful gusts. The depressing sound of the pattering
rain nearly drove them mad.
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And Then There Were None
By tacit consent, they had adopted a plan of cam-
paign. They all sat in the big drawing-room. Only one
person left the room at a time. The other four waited
till the ﬁfth returned.
Lombard said:
‘It’s only a question of time. The weather will clear.
Then we can do something – signal – light ﬁres – make
a raft – something!’
Armstrong said with a sudden cackle of laughter:
‘A question of time – time? We can’t afford time!
We shall all be dead . . .’
Mr Justice Wargrave said and his small clear voice
was heavy with passionate determination:
‘Not if we are careful. We must be very careful .. .’
The midday meal had been duly eaten – but there
had been no conventional formality about it. All ﬁve
of them had gone to the kitchen. In the larder they had
found a great store of tinned foods. They had opened
a tin of tongue and two tins of fruit. They had eaten
standing round the kitchen table. Then, herding close
together, they had returned to the drawing-room – to
sit there – sit, watching each other.
And by now the thoughts that ran through their
brains were abnormal, feverish, diseased . . .
‘It’s Armstrong . . . I saw him looking at me sideways
just then . . . his eyes are mad . . . quite mad . . . Per-
haps he isn’t a doctor at all . . . That’s it, of course! . . .
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He’s a lunatic, escaped from some doctor’s house –
pretending to be a doctor . . . It’s true . . . shall I
tell them? . . . Shall I scream out? . . . No, it won’t
do to put him on his guard . . . Besides he can seem
so sane . . . What time is it? . . . Only a quarter past
three! . . . Oh, God, I shall go mad myself . . . Yes, it’s
Armstrong . . . He’s watching me now . . .’
‘They won’t get me! I can take care of myself . . .
I’ve been in tight places before . . . Where the hell
is that revolver? . . . Who took it? . . . Who’s got
it? . . . Nobody’s got it – we know that. We were
all searched . . . Nobody can have it . . . But someone
knows where it is ...’
‘They’re going mad . . . They’ll all go mad . . . Afraid
of death . . . we’re all afraid of death . . . I ’m afraid of
death . . . Yes, but that doesn’t stop death coming . . .
“The hearse is at the door, sir.” Where did I read that?
The girl . . . I’ll watch the girl. Yes, I’ll watch the
girl . . .’
‘Twenty to four . . . only twenty to four . . . per-
haps the clock has stopped . . . I don’t understand –
no, I don’t understand . . . This sort of thing can’t
happen . . . it is happening . . . Why don’t we wake
up? Wake up – Judgment Day – no, not that! If only I
could think . . . My head – something’s happening in
my head – it’s going to burst – it’s going to split . . .
This sort of thing can’t happen . . . What’s the time?
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And Then There Were None
Oh, God, it’s only a quarter to four.’
‘I must keep my head . . . I must keep my head . . .
If only I keep my head . . . It’s all perfectly clear –
all worked out. But nobody must suspect. It may
do the trick. It must! Which one? That’s the ques-
tion – which one? I think – yes, I rather think –
yes – him.’
When the clock struck ﬁve they all jumped.
Vera said:
‘Does anyone – want tea?’
There was a moment’s silence. Blore said:
‘I’d like a cup.’
Vera rose. She said:
‘I’ll go and make it. You can all stay here.’
Mr Justice Wargrave said gently:
‘I think, my dear young lady, we would all prefer to
come and watch you make it.’
Vera stared, then gave a short rather hysterical laugh.
She said:
‘Of course! You would!’
Five people went into the kitchen. Tea was made and
drunk by Vera and Blore. The other three had whisky –
opening a fresh bottle and using a siphon from a nailed
up case.
The judge murmured with a reptilian smile:
‘We must be very careful . . .’
They went back again to the drawing-room. Although
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it was summer the room was dark. Lombard switched
on the lights but they did not come on. He said:
‘Of course! The engine’s not been run today since
Rogers hasn’t been there to see to it.’
He hesitated and said:
‘We could go out and get it going, I suppose.’
Mr Justice Wargrave said:
‘There are packets of candles in the larder, I saw
them, better use those.’
Lombard went out. The other four sat watching
each other.
He came back with a box of candles and a pile
of saucers. Five candles were lit and placed about
the room.
The time was a quarter to six.
II
At twenty past six, Vera felt that to sit there longer was
unbearable. She would go to her room and bathe her
aching head and temples in cold water.
She got up and went towards the door. Then she
remembered and came back and got a candle out of
the box. She lighted it, let a little wax pour into a saucer
and stuck the candle ﬁrmly to it. Then she went out of
the room, shutting the door behind her and leaving the
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And Then There Were None
four men inside. She went up the stairs and along the
passage to her room.
As she opened her door, she suddenly halted and
stood stock still.
Her nostrils quivered.
The sea . . . The smell of the sea at St Tredennick.
That was it. She could not be mistaken. Of course,
one smelt the sea on an island anyway, but this was
different. It was the smell there had been on the beach
that day – with the tide out and the rocks covered with
seaweed drying in the sun.
‘Can I swim out to the island, Miss Claythorne?’
‘Why can’t I swim out to the island? . . .’
Horrid whiney spoilt little brat! If it weren’t for him,
Hugo would be rich . . . able to marry the girl he
loved . . .
Hugo . . .
Surely – surely – Hugo was beside her? No, waiting for
her in the room . . .
She made a step forward. The draught from the
window caught the ﬂame of the candle. It ﬂickered
and went out . . .
In the dark she was suddenly afraid . . .
‘Don’t be a fool,’ Vera Claythone urged herself. ‘It’s
all right. The others are downstairs. All four of them.
There’s no one in the room. There can’t be. You’re
imagining things, my girl.’
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But that smell – that smell of the beach at St
Tredennick . . . That wasn’t imagined. It was true.
And there was someone in the room . . . She had
heard something – surely she had heard something . . .
And then, as she stood there, listening – a cold,
clammy hand touched her throat – a wet hand, smelling
of the sea . . .
III
Vera screamed. She screamed and screamed – screams
of the utmost terror – wild desperate cries for help.
She did not hear the sounds from below, of a chair
being overturned, of a door opening, of men’s feet run-
ning up the stairs. She was conscious only of supreme
terror.
Then, restoring her sanity, lights ﬂickered in the
doorway – candles – men hurrying into the room.
‘What the devil?’ ‘What’s happened?’ ‘Good God,
what is it?’
She shuddered, took a step forward, collapsed on
the ﬂoor.
She was only half aware of someone bending over
her, of someone forcing her head down between her
knees.
Then at a sudden exclamation, a quick ‘My God,
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And Then There Were None
look at that!’ her senses returned. She opened her eyes
and raised her head. She saw what it was the men with
the candles were looking at.
A broad ribbon of wet seaweed was hanging down
from the ceiling. It was that which in the darkness had
swayed against her throat. It was that which she had
taken for a clammy hand, a drowned hand come back
from the dead to squeeze the life out of her!
She began to laugh hysterically. She said:
‘It was seaweed – only seaweed – and that’s what the
smell was . . .’
And then the faintness came over her once more –
waves upon waves of sickness. Again someone took her
head and forced it between her knees.
Aeons of time seemed to pass. They were offering
her something to drink – pressing the glass against her
lips. She smelt brandy.
She was just about to gulp the spirit gratefully
down when, suddenly, a warning note – like an alarm
bell – sounded in her brain. She sat up, pushing the
glass away.
She said sharply: ‘Where did this come from?’
Blore’s voice answered. He stared a minute before
speaking. He said:
‘I got it from downstairs.’
Vera cried:
‘I won’t drink it . . .’
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There was a moment’s silence, then Lombard laughed.
He said with appreciation:
‘Good for you, Vera. You’ve got your wits about you
– even if you have been scared half out of your life. I’ll
get a fresh bottle that hasn’t been opened.’
He went swiftly out.
Vera said uncertainly:
‘I’m all right now. I’ll have some water.’
Armstrong supported her as she struggled to her feet.
She went over to the basin, swaying and clutching at
him for support. She let the cold tap run and then ﬁlled
the glass.
Blore said resentfully:
‘That brandy’s all right.’
Armstrong said:
‘How do you know?’
Blore said angrily:
‘I didn’t put anything in it. That’s what you’re getting
at I suppose.’
Armstrong said:
‘I’m not saying you did. You might have done, or
someone might have tampered with the bottle for just
this emergency.’
Lombard came swiftly back into the room.
He had a new bottle of brandy in his hands and a
corkscrew.
He thrust the sealed bottle under Vera’s nose.
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And Then There Were None
‘There you are, my girl. Absolutely no deception.’
He peeled off the tin foil and drew the cork. ‘Lucky
there’s a good supply of spirits in the house. Thought-
ful of U. N. Owen.’
Vera shuddered violently.
Armstrong held the glass while Philip poured the
brandy into it. He said:
‘You’d better drink this, Miss Claythorne. You’ve
had a nasty shock.’
Vera drank a little of the spirit. The colour came
back to her face.
Philip Lombard said with a laugh:
‘Well, here’s one murder that hasn’t gone according
to plan!’
Vera said almost in a whisper:
‘You think – that was what was meant?’
Lombard nodded.
‘Expected you to pass out through fright! Some
people would have, wouldn’t they, doctor?’
Armstrong did not commit himself. He said doubt-
fully:
‘H’m, impossible to say. Young healthy subject – no
cardiac weakness. Unlikely. On the other hand –’
He picked up the glass of brandy that Blore had
brought. He dipped a ﬁnger in it, tasted it gingerly.
His expression did not alter. He said dubiously: ‘H’m,
tastes all right.’
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Blore stepped forward angrily. He said:
‘If you’re saying that I tampered with that, I’ll knock
your ruddy block off.’
Vera, her wits revived by the brandy, made a diver-
sion by saying:
‘Where’s the judge?’
The three men looked at each other.
‘That’s odd . . . Thought he came up with us.’
Blore said:
‘So did I . . . What about it, doctor, you came up the
stairs behind me?’
Armstrong said:
‘I thought he was following me . . . Of course,
he’d be bound to go slower than we did. He’s an
old man.’
They looked at each other again.
Lombard said:
‘It’s damned odd . . .’
Blore cried:
‘We must look for him.’
He started for the door. The others followed him,
Vera last.
As they went down the stairs Armstrong said over
his shoulder:
‘Of course he may have stayed in the living-room.’
They crossed the hall. Armstrong called out loudly:
‘Wargrave, Wargrave, where are you?’
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And Then There Were None
There was no answer. A deadly silence ﬁlled the
house apart from the gentle patter of the rain.
Then in the entrance to the drawing-room door,
Armstrong stopped dead. The others crowded up and
looked over his shoulder.
Somebody cried out.
Mr Justice Wargrave was sitting in his high-backed
chair at the end of the room. Two candles burnt on
either side of him. But what shocked and startled the
onlookers was the fact that he sat there robed in scarlet
with a judge’s wig upon his head . . .
Dr Armstrong motioned to the others to keep back.
He himself walked across to the silent staring ﬁgure,
reeling a little as he walked like a drunken man.
He bent forward, peering into the still face. Then,
with a swift movement he raised the wig. It fell to the
ﬂoor revealing the high bald forehead with, in the very
middle, a round stained mark from which something
had trickled.
Dr Armstrong lifted the lifeless hand and felt for the
pulse. Then he turned to the others.
He said – and his voice was expressionless, dead, far
away . . .
‘He’s been shot . . .’
Blore said:
‘God – the revolver!’
The doctor said, still in the same lifeless voice:
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‘Got him through the head. Instantaneous.’
Vera stooped to the wig. She said, and her voice
shook with horror:
‘Miss Brent’s missing grey wool . . .’
Blore said:
‘And the scarlet curtain that was missing from the
bathroom . . .’
Vera whispered:
‘So this is what they wanted them for . . .’
Suddenly Philip Lombard laughed – a high unnatu-
ral laugh.
‘Five little soldier boys going in for law; one got in
Chancery and then there were Four. That’s the end of
Mr Bloody Justice Wargrave. No more pronouncing
sentence for him! No more putting on of the black
cap! Here’s the last time he’ll ever sit in court! No more
summing up and sending innocent men to death. How
Edward Seton would laugh if he were here! God, how
he’d laugh!’
His outburst shocked and startled the others.
Vera cried:
‘Only this morning you said he was the one!’
Philip Lombard’s face changed – sobered.
He said in a low voice:
‘I know I did . . . Well, I was wrong. Here’s one more
of us who’s been proved innocent – too late!’
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