I
There was a moment’s silence. A silence of dismay and
bewilderment. Then the judge’s small clear voice took
up the thread once more.
‘We will now proceed to the next stage of our
inquiry. First however, I will just add my own cre-
dentials to the list.’
He took a letter from his pocket and tossed it on to
the table.
‘This purports to be from an old friend of mine,
Lady Constance Culmington. I have not seen her for
some years. She went to the East. It is exactly the kind
of vague incoherent letter she would write, urging me
to join her here and referring to her host and hostess
in the vaguest of terms. The same technique, you
will observe. I only mention it because it agrees with
the other evidence – from all of which emerges one
interesting point. Whoever it was who enticed us here,
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that person knows or has taken the trouble to find out a
good deal about us all. He, whoever he may be, is aware
of my friendship for Lady Constance – and is familiar
with her epistolary style. He knows something about Dr
Armstrong’s colleagues and their present whereabouts.
He knows the nickname of Mr Marston’s friend and
the kind of telegrams he sends. He knows exactly
where Miss Brent was two years ago for her holiday
and the kind of people she met there. He knows all
about General Macarthur’s old cronies.’
He paused. Then he said:
‘He knows, you see, a good deal. And out of his
knowledge concerning us, he has made certain de-
finite accusations.’
Immediately a babel broke out.
General Macarthur shouted:
‘A pack of dam’ lies! Slander!’
Vera cried out:
‘It’s iniquitous!’ Her breath came fast. ‘Wicked!’
Rogers said hoarsely:
‘A lie – a wicked lie . . . we never did – neither
of us . . .’
Anthony Marston growled:
‘Don’t know what the damned fool was getting at!’
The upraised hand of Mr Justice Wargrave calmed
the tumult.
He said, picking his words with care:
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And Then There Were None
‘I wish to say this. Our unknown friend accuses me
of the murder of one Edward Seton. I remember Seton
perfectly well. He came up before me for trial in June
of the year 1930. He was charged with the murder
of an elderly woman. He was very ably defended and
made a good impression on the jury in the witness-box.
Nevertheless, on the evidence, he was certainly guilty.
I summed up accordingly, and the jury brought in
a verdict of Guilty. In passing sentence of death I
concurred with the verdict. An appeal was lodged on
the grounds of misdirection. The appeal was rejected
and the man was duly executed. I wish to say before you
all that my conscience is perfectly clear on the matter. I
did my duty and nothing more. I passed sentence on a
rightly convicted murderer.’
Armstrong was remembering now. The Seton case!
The verdict had come as a great surprise. He had met
Matthews, KC on one of the days of the trial dining
at a restaurant. Matthews had been confident. ‘Not
a doubt of the verdict. Acquittal practically certain.’
And then afterwards he had heard comments: ‘Judge
was dead against him. Turned the jury right round
and they brought him in guilty. Quite legal, though.
Old Wargrave knows his law. It was almost as though
he had a private down on the fellow.’
All these memories rushed through the doctor’s
mind. Before he could consider the wisdom of the
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question he had asked impulsively:
‘Did you know Seton at all? I mean previous to
the case.’
The hooded reptilian eyes met his. In a clear cold
voice the judge said:
‘I knew nothing of Seton previous to the case.’
Armstrong said to himself:
‘The fellow’s lying – I know he’s lying.’
II
Vera Claythorne spoke in a trembling voice.
She said:
‘I’d like to tell you. About that child – Cyril Hamilton.
I was nursery governess to him. He was forbidden
to swim out far. One day, when my attention was
distracted, he started off. I swam after him . . . I
couldn’t get there in time . . . It was awful . . . But it
wasn’t my fault. At the inquest the Coroner exonerated
me. And his mother – she was so kind. If even she
didn’t blame me, why should – why should this awful
thing be said?
It’s not fair – not fair . . .’
She broke down, weeping bitterly.
General Macarthur patted her shoulder.
He said:
‘There there, my dear. Of course it’s not true.
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And Then There Were None
Fellow’s a madman. A madman! Got a bee in his
bonnet! Got hold of the wrong end of the stick all
round.’
He stood erect, squaring his shoulders. He barked
out:
‘Best really to leave this sort of thing unanswered.
However, feel I ought to say – no truth – no truth
whatever in what he said about – er – young Arthur
Richmond. Richmond was one of my officers. I sent
him on a reconnaissance. He was killed. Natural course
of events in wartime. Wish to say resent very much
– slur on my wife. Best woman in the world. Absolutely
– Cæsar’s wife!’
General Macarthur sat down. His shaking hand
pulled at his moustache. The effort to speak had cost
him a good deal.
Lombard spoke. His eyes were amused. He said:
‘About those natives –’
Marston said:
‘What about them?’
Philip Lombard grinned.
‘Story’s quite true! I left ’em! Matter of self-
preservation. We were lost in the bush. I and a
couple of other fellows took what food there was and
cleared out.’
General Macarthur said sternly:
‘You abandoned your men – left them to starve?’
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Lombard said:
‘Not quite the act of a pukka sahib, I’m afraid. But
self-preservation’s a man’s first duty. And natives
don’t mind dying, you know. They don’t feel about it as
Europeans do.’
Vera lifted her face from her hands. She said, staring
at him:
‘You left them – to die?’
Lombard answered:
‘I left them to die.’
His amused eyes looked into her horrified ones.
Anthony Marston said in a slow puzzled voice:
‘I’ve just been thinking – John and Lucy Combes.
Must have been a couple of kids I ran over near
Cambridge. Beastly bad luck.’
Mr Justice Wargrave said acidly:
‘For them, or for you?’
Anthony said:
‘Well, I was thinking – for me – but of course, you’re
right, sir, it was damned bad luck on them. Of course it
was a pure accident. They rushed out of some cottage
or other. I had my licence suspended for a year. Beastly
nuisance.’
Dr Armstrong said warmly:
‘This speeding’s all wrong – all wrong! Young men
like you are a danger to the community.’
