I
Dinner was drawing to a close.
The food had been good, the wine perfect. Rogers
waited well.
Every one was in better spirits. They had begun to
talk to each other with more freedom and intimacy.
Mr Justice Wargrave, mellowed by the excellent
port, was being amusing in a caustic fashion, Dr
Armstrong and Tony Marston were listening to him.
Miss Brent chatted to General Macarthur, they had
discovered some mutual friends. Vera Claythorne was
asking Mr Davis intelligent questions about South
Africa. Mr Davis was quite fluent on the subject.
Lombard listened to the conversation. Once or twice
he looked up quickly, and his eyes narrowed. Now
and then his eyes played round the table, studying
the others.
Anthony Marston said suddenly:
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‘Quaint, these things, aren’t they?’
In the centre of the round table, on a circular glass
stand, were some little china figures.
‘Soldiers,’ said Tony. ‘Soldier Island. I suppose that’s
the idea.’
Vera leaned forward.
‘I wonder. How many are there? Ten?’
‘Yes – ten there are.’
Vera cried:
‘What fun! They’re the ten little soldier boys of the
nursery rhyme, I suppose. In my bedroom the rhyme
is framed and hung up over the mantelpiece.’
Lombard said:
‘In my room, too.’
‘And mine.’
‘And mine.’
Everybody joined in the chorus. Vera said:
‘It’s an amusing idea, isn’t it?’
Mr Justice Wargrave grunted:
‘Remarkably childish,’ and helped himself to port.
Emily Brent looked at Vera Claythorne. Vera
Claythorne looked at Miss Brent. The two women rose.
In the drawing-room the French windows were open
on to the terrace and the sound of the sea murmuring
against the rocks came up to them.
Emily Brent said, ‘Pleasant sound.’
Vera said sharply, ‘I hate it.’
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And Then There Were None
Miss Brent’s eyes looked at her in surprise. Vera
flushed. She said, more composedly:
‘I don’t think this place would be very agreeable in
a storm.’
Emily Brent agreed.
‘I’ve no doubt the house is shut up in winter,’
she said. ‘You’d never get servants to stay here for
one thing.’
Vera murmured:
‘It must be difficult to get servants anyway.’
Emily Brent said:
‘Mrs Oliver has been lucky to get these two. The
woman’s a good cook.’
Vera thought:
‘Funny how elderly people always get names wrong.’
She said:
‘Yes, I think Mrs Owen has been very lucky indeed.’
Emily Brent had brought a small piece of embroidery
out of her bag. Now, as she was about to thread her
needle, she paused.
She said sharply:
‘Owen? Did you say Owen?’
‘Yes.’
Emily Brent said sharply:
‘I’ve never met anyone called Owen in my life.’
Vera stared.
‘But surely –’
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She did not finish her sentence. The door opened
and the men joined them. Rogers followed them into
the room with the coffee tray.
The judge came and sat down by Emily Brent.
Armstrong came up to Vera. Tony Marston strolled
to the open window. Blore studied with naı¨ve surprise
a statuette in brass – wondering perhaps if its bizarre
angularities were really supposed to be the female
figure. General Macarthur stood with his back to the
mantelpiece. He pulled at his little white moustache.
That had been a damned good dinner! His spirits were
rising. Lombard turned over the pages of Punch that
lay with other papers on a table by the wall.
Rogers went round with the coffee tray. The coffee
was good – really black and very hot.
The whole party had dined well. They were satisfied
with themselves and with life. The hands of the clock
pointed to twenty minutes past nine. There was a
silence – a comfortable replete silence.
Into that silence came The Voice. Without warning,
inhuman, penetrating . . .
‘Ladies and gentlemen! Silence please!’
Everyone was startled. They looked round – at each
other, at the walls. Who was speaking?
The Voice went on – a high clear voice:
‘You are charged with the following indictments:
‘Edward George Armstrong, that you did upon the
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And Then There Were None
14th day of March, 1925, cause the death of Louisa
Mary Clees.
‘Emily Caroline Brent, that upon the 5th of November,
1931, you were responsible for the death of Beatrice
Taylor.
‘William Henry Blore, that you brought about the death
of James Stephen Landor on October 10th, 1928.
‘Vera Elizabeth Claythorne, that on the 11th day of
August, 1935, you killed Cyril Ogilvie Hamilton.
‘Philip Lombard, that upon a date in February, 1932,
you were guilty of the death of twenty-one men, members
of an East African tribe.
‘John Gordon Macarthur, that on the 4th of January,
1917, you deliberately sent your wife’s lover, Arthur
Richmond, to his death.
‘Anthony James Marston, that upon the 14th day of
November last, you were guilty of the murder of John and
Lucy Combes.
‘Thomas Rogers and Ethel Rogers, that on the 6th of
May, 1929, you brought about the death of Jennifer
Brady.
‘Lawrence John Wargrave, that upon the 10th day of
June, 1930, you were guilty of the murder of Edward
Seton.
‘Prisoners at the bar, have you anything to say in your
defence?’
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II
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The voice had stopped.
There was a moment’s petrified silence and then
a resounding crash! Rogers had dropped the coffee
tray!
At the same moment, from somewhere outside the
room there came a scream and the sound of a thud.
Lombard was the first to move. He leapt to the door
and flung it open. Outside, lying in a huddled mass,
was Mrs Rogers.
Lombard called:
‘Marston.’
Anthony sprang to help him. Between them, they
lifted up the woman and carried her into the drawing-
room.
Dr Armstrong came across quickly. He helped them
to lift her on to the sofa and bent over her. He said
quickly:
‘It’s nothing. She’s fainted, that’s all. She’ll be round
in a minute.’
Lombard said to Rogers:
‘Get some brandy.’
Rogers, his face white, his hands shaking, mur-
mured:
‘Yes, sir,’ and slipped quickly out of the room.
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And Then There Were None
Vera cried out:
‘Who was that speaking? Where was he? It sounded
– it sounded –’
General Macarthur spluttered out:
‘What’s going on here? What kind of a practical joke
was that?’
His hand was shaking. His shoulders sagged. He
looked suddenly ten years older.
Blore was mopping his face with a handkerchief.
Only Mr Justice Wargrave and Miss Brent seemed
comparatively unmoved. Emily Brent sat upright, her
head held high. In both cheeks was a spot of hard
colour. The judge sat in his habitual pose, his head sunk
down into his neck. With one hand he gently scratched
his ear. Only his eyes were active, darting round and
round the room, puzzled, alert with intelligence.
Again it was Lombard who acted. Armstrong being
busy with the collapsed woman, Lombard was free
once more to take the initiative.
He said:
‘That voice? It sounded as though it were in the
room.’
Vera cried:
‘Who was it? Who was it? It wasn’t one of us.’
Like the judge, Lombard’s eyes wandered slowly
round the room. They rested a minute on the open
window, then he shook his head decisively. Suddenly
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his eyes lighted up. He moved forward swiftly to where
a door near the fireplace led into an adjoining room.
With a swift gesture, he caught the handle and flung
the door open. He passed through and immediately
uttered an exclamation of satisfaction.
He said:
‘Ah, here we are.’
The others crowded after him. Only Miss Brent
remained alone sitting erect in her chair.
Inside the second room a table had been brought
up close to the wall which adjoined the drawing-room.
On the table was a gramophone – an old-fashioned
type with a large trumpet attached. The mouth of the
trumpet was against the wall, and Lombard, pushing
it aside indicated where two or three small holes had
been unobtrusively bored through the wall.
Adjusting the gramophone he replaced the needle
on the record and immediately they heard again ‘You
are charged with the following indictments –’
Vera cried:
‘Turn it off ! Turn it off ! It’s horrible!’
Lombard obeyed.
Dr Armstrong said, with a sigh of relief:
‘A disgraceful and heartless practical joke, I sup-
pose.’
The small clear voice of Mr Justice Wargrave mur-
mured:
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And Then There Were None
‘So you think it’s a joke, do you?’
The doctor stared at him.
‘What else could it be?’
The hand of the judge gently stroked his upper lip.
He said:
‘At the moment I’m not prepared to give an opinion.’
Anthony Marston broke in. He said:
‘Look here, there’s one thing you’ve forgotten. Who
the devil turned the thing on and set it going?’
Wargrave murmured:
‘Yes, I think we must inquire into that.’
He led the way back into the drawing-room. The
others followed.
Rogers had just come in with a glass of brandy.
Miss Brent was bending over the moaning form of
Mrs Rogers.
Adroitly Rogers slipped between the two women.
‘Allow me, Madam, I’ll speak to her. Ethel – Ethel
– it’s all right. All right, do you hear? Pull yourself
together.’
Mrs Rogers’ breath came in quick gasps. Her eyes,
staring frightened eyes, went round and round the ring
of faces. There was urgency in Rogers’ tone.
‘Pull yourself together, Ethel.’
Dr Armstrong spoke to her soothingly:
‘You’ll be all right now, Mrs Rogers. Just a nasty
turn.’ She said:
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‘Did I faint, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘It was the voice – that awful voice – like a judgment –’
Her face turned green again, her eyelids fluttered.
Dr Armstrong said sharply:
‘Where’s that brandy?’
Rogers had put it down on a little table. Someone
handed it to the doctor and he bent over the gasping
woman with it.
‘Drink this, Mrs Rogers.’
She drank, choking a little and gasping. The spirit did
her good. The colour returned to her face. She said:
‘I’m all right now. It just – gave me a turn.’
Rogers said quickly:
‘Of course it did. It gave me a turn, too. Fair made me
drop that tray. Wicked lies, it was! I’d like to know –’
He was interrupted. It was only a cough – a dry little
cough but it had the effect of stopping him in full
cry. He stared at Mr Justice Wargrave and the latter
coughed again. Then he said:
‘Who put on that record on the gramophone. Was
it you, Rogers?’
Rogers cried:
‘I didn’t know what it was. Before God, I didn’t
know what it was, sir. If I had I’d never have done
it.’
The judge said dryly:
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And Then There Were None
‘That is probably true. But I think you’d better
explain, Rogers.’
The butler wiped his face with a handkerchief. He
said earnestly:
‘I was just obeying orders, sir, that’s all.’
‘Whose orders?’
‘Mr Owen’s.’
Mr Justice Wargrave said:
‘Let me get this quite clear. Mr Owen’s orders were
– what exactly?’
Rogers said:
‘I was to put a record on the gramophone. I’d find
the record in the drawer and my wife was to start the
gramophone when I’d gone into the drawing-room
with the coffee tray.’
The judge murmured:
‘A very remarkable story.’
Rogers cried:
‘It’s the truth, sir. I swear to God it’s the truth. I
didn’t know what it was – not for a moment. It had a
name on it – I thought it was just a piece of music.’
Wargrave looked at Lombard.
‘Was there a title on it?’
Lombard nodded. He grinned suddenly, showed his
white pointed teeth. He said:
‘Quite right, sir. It was entitled Swan Song .. .’
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III
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General Macarthur broke out suddenly. He exclaimed:
‘The whole thing is preposterous – preposterous!
Slinging accusations about like this! Something must
be done about it. This fellow Owen whoever he is –’
Emily Brent interrupted. She said sharply:
‘That’s just it, who is he?’
The judge interposed. He spoke with the authority
that a lifetime in the courts had given him. He said:
‘That is exactly what we must go into very carefully.
I should suggest that you get your wife to bed first of
all, Rogers. Then come back here.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Dr Armstrong said:
‘I’ll give you a hand, Rogers.’
Leaning on the two men, Mrs Rogers tottered out of
the room. When they had gone Tony Marston said:
‘Don’t know about you, sir, but I could do with
a drink.’
Lombard said:
‘I agree.’
Tony said:
‘I’ll go and forage.’
He went out of the room.
He returned a second or two later.
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And Then There Were None
‘Found them all waiting on a tray outside ready to
be brought in.’
He set down his burden carefully. The next min-
ute or two was spent in dispensing drinks. General
Macarthur had a stiff whisky and so did the judge.
Every one felt the need of a stimulant. Only Emily
Brent demanded and obtained a glass of water.
Dr Armstrong re-entered the room.
‘She’s all right,’ he said. ‘I’ve given her a sedative to
take. What’s that, a drink? I could do with one.’
Several of the men refilled their glasses. A moment
or two later Rogers re-entered the room.
Mr Justice Wargrave took charge of the proceedings.
The room became an impromptu court of law.
The judge said:
‘Now then, Rogers, we must get to the bottom of
this. Who is this Mr Owen?’
Rogers stared.
‘He owns this place, sir.’
‘I am aware of that fact. What I want you to tell me
is what you yourself know about the man.’
Rogers shook his head.
‘I can’t say, sir. You see, I’ve never seen him.’
There was a faint stir in the room.
General Macarthur said:
‘You’ve never seen him? What d’yer mean?’
‘We’ve only been here just under a week, sir, my wife
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and I. We were engaged by letter, through an agency.
The Regina Agency in Plymouth.’
Blore nodded.
‘Old established firm,’ he volunteered.
Wargrave said:
‘Have you got that letter?’
‘The letter engaging us? No, sir. I didn’t keep it.’
‘Go on with your story. You were engaged, as you
say, by letter.’
‘Yes, sir. We were to arrive on a certain day. We
did. Everything was in order here. Plenty of food in
stock and everything very nice. Just needed dusting
and that.’
‘What next?’
‘Nothing, sir. We got orders – by letter again – to
prepare the rooms for a house-party, and then yester-
day by the afternoon post I got another letter from Mr
Owen. It said he and Mrs Owen were detained and to
do the best we could, and it gave the instructions about
dinner and coffee and putting on the gramophone
record.’
The judge said sharply:
‘Surely you’ve got that letter?’
‘Yes, sir, I’ve got it here.’
He produced it from a pocket. The judge took it.
‘H’m,’ he said. ‘Headed Ritz Hotel and typewritten.’
With a quick movement Blore was beside him.
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He said:
‘If you’ll just let me have a look.’
He twitched it out of the other’s hand, and ran his
eye over it. He murmured:
‘Coronation machine. Quite new – no defects.
Ensign paper – the most widely used make. You won’t
get anything out of that. Might be fingerprints, but I
doubt it.’
Wargrave stared at him with sudden attention.
Anthony Marston was standing beside Blore looking
over his shoulder. He said:
‘Got some fancy Christian names, hasn’t he? Ulick
Norman Owen. Quite a mouthful.’
The old judge said with a slight start:
‘I am obliged to you, Mr Marston. You have drawn
my attention to a curious and suggestive point.’
He looked round at the others and thrusting his neck
forward like an angry tortoise, he said:
‘I think the time has come for us all to pool our
information. It would be well, I think, for everybody
to come forward with all the information they have
regarding the owner of this house.’ He paused and
then went on: ‘We are all his guests. I think it would
be profitable if each one of us were to explain exactly
how that came about.’
There was a moment’s pause and then Emily Brent
spoke with decision.
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‘There’s something very peculiar about all this,’ she
said. ‘I received a letter with a signature that was not
very easy to read. It purported to be from a woman I
had met at a certain summer resort two or three years
ago. I took the name to be either Ogden or Oliver. I
am acquainted with a Mrs Oliver and also with a Miss
Ogden. I am quite certain that I have never met, or
become friendly with any one of the name of Owen.’
Mr Justice Wargrave said:
‘You have that letter, Miss Brent?’
‘Yes, I will fetch it for you.’
She went away and returned a minute later with
the letter.
The judge read it. He said:
‘I begin to understand . . . Miss Claythorne?’
Vera explained the circumstances of her secretarial
engagement.
The judge said:
‘Marston?’
Anthony said:
‘Got a wire. From a pal of mine. Badger Berkeley.
Surprised me at the time because I had an idea the
old horse had gone to Norway. Told me to roll up
here.’
Again Wargrave nodded. He said:
‘Dr Armstrong?’
‘I was called in professionally.’
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‘I see. You had no previous acquaintanceship with
the family?’
‘No. A colleague of mine was mentioned in the
letter.’
The judge said:
‘To give verisimilitude . . . Yes, and that colleague,
I presume, was momentarily out of touch with you?’
‘Well – er – yes.’
Lombard, who had been staring at Blore, said sud-
denly:
‘Look here, I’ve just thought of something –’
The judge lifted a hand.
‘In a minute –’
‘But I –’
‘We will take one thing at a time, Mr Lombard. We
are at present inquiring into the causes which have
resulted in our being assembled here tonight. General
Macarthur?’
Pulling at his moustache, the General muttered:
‘Got a letter – from this fellow Owen – mentioned
some old pals of mine who were to be here – hoped
I’d excuse informal invitation. Haven’t kept the letter,
I’m afraid.’
Wargrave said: ‘Mr Lombard?’
Lombard’s brain had been active. Was he to come
out in the open, or not? He made up his mind.
‘Same sort of thing,’ he said. ‘Invitation, mention
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of mutual friends – I fell for it all right. I’ve torn up
the letter.’
Mr Justice Wargrave turned his attention to Mr
Blore. His forefinger stroked his upper lip and his
voice was dangerously polite.
He said:
‘Just now we had a somewhat disturbing experience.
An apparently disembodied voice spoke to us all by
name, uttering certain precise accusations against us.
We will deal with those accusations presently. At the
moment I am interested in a minor point. Amongst the
names recited was that of William Henry Blore. But as
far as we know there is no one named Blore amongst
us. The name of Davis was not mentioned. What have
you to say about that, Mr Davis?’
Blore said sulkily:
‘Cat’s out of the bag, it seems. I suppose I’d better
admit that my name isn’t Davis.’
‘You are William Henry Blore?’
‘That’s right.’
‘I will add something,’ said Lombard. ‘Not only are
you here under a false name, Mr Blore, but in addition
I’ve noticed this evening that you’re a first-class liar.
You claim to have come from Natal, South Africa.
I know South Africa and Natal and I’m prepared to
swear that you’ve never set foot in South Africa in
your life.’
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All eyes were turned on Blore. Angry suspicious
eyes. Anthony Marston moved a step nearer to him.
His fists clenched themselves.
‘Now then, you swine,’ he said. ‘Any explanation?’
Blore flung back his head and set his square jaw.
‘You gentlemen have got me wrong,’ he said. ‘I’ve
got my credentials and you can see them. I’m an
ex-CID man. I run a detective agency in Plymouth.
I was put on this job.’
Mr Justice Wargrave asked:
‘By whom?’
‘This man Owen. Enclosed a handsome money order
for expenses and instructed me as to what he wanted
done. I was to join the house-party, posing as a guest.
I was given all your names. I was to watch you all.’
‘Any reason given?’
Blore said bitterly:
‘Mrs Owen’s jewels. Mrs Owen my foot! I don’t
believe there’s any such person.’
Again the forefinger of the judge stroked his lip, this
time appreciatively.
‘Your conclusions are, I think, justified,’ he said.
‘Ulick Norman Owen! In Miss Brent’s letter, though
the signature of the surname is a mere scrawl the
Christian names are reasonably clear – Una Nancy
– in either case you notice, the same initials. Ulick
Norman Owen – Una Nancy Owen – each time, that
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is to say, U. N. Owen. Or by a slight stretch of fancy,
UNKNOWN!’
Vera cried:
‘But this is fantastic – mad!’
The judge nodded gently.
He said:
‘Oh, yes. I’ve no doubt in my own mind that we have
been invited here by a madman – probably a dangerous
homicidal lunatic.’
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