She said in a low voice:
‘Did I write that? Did I? I must be going mad…’
V
The storm increased. The wind howled against the side of the house.
Everyone was in the living-room. They sat listlessly huddled together. And, surreptitiously, they watched each other.
When Rogers brought in the tea-tray, they all jumped. He said:
‘Shall I draw the curtains? It would make it more cheerful like.’
Receiving an assent to this, the curtains were drawn and the lamps turned on. The room grew more cheerful. A little of the shadow lifted. Surely, by tomorrow, the storm would be over and someone would come—a boat would arrive…
Vera Claythorne said:
‘Will you pour out tea, Miss Brent?’
The elder woman replied:
‘No, you do it, dear. That teapot is so heavy. And I have lost two skeins of my grey knitting-wool. So annoying.’
Vera moved to the tea-table. There was a cheerful rattle and clink of china. Normality returned.
Tea! Bless ordinary everyday afternoon tea! Philip Lombard made a cheery remark. Blore responded. Dr Armstrong told a humorous story. Mr Justice Wargrave, who ordinarily hated tea, sipped approvingly.
Into this relaxed atmosphere came Rogers.
And Rogers was upset. He said nervously and at random:
‘Excuse me, sir, but does any one know what’s become of the bathroom curtain?’
Lombard’s head went up with a jerk.
‘The bathroom curtain? What the devil do you mean, Rogers?’
‘It’s gone, sir, clean vanished. I was going round drawing all the curtains and the one in the lav—bathroom wasn’t there any longer.’
Mr Justice Wargrave asked:
‘Was it there this morning?’
‘Oh yes, sir.’
Blore said:
‘What kind of a curtain was it?’
‘Scarlet oilsilk, sir. It went with the scarlet tiles.’
Lombard said:
‘And it’s gone?’
‘Gone, sir.’
They stared at each other.
Blore said heavily:
‘Well—after all—what of it? It’s mad—but so’s everything else. Anyway it doesn’t matter. You can’t kill anybody with an oilsilk curtain. Forget about it.’
Rogers said:
‘Yes, sir, thank you, sir.’
He went out shutting the door behind him. Inside the room, the pall of fear had fallen anew. Again, surreptitiously, they watched each other.
VI
Dinner came, was eaten, and cleared away. A simple meal, mostly out of tins.
Afterwards, in the living-room, the strain was almost too great to be borne.
At nine o’clock, Emily Brent rose to her feet.
She said:
‘I’m going to bed.’
Vera said:
‘I’ll go to bed too.’
The two women went up the stairs and Lombard and Blore came with them. Standing at the top of the stairs, the two men watched the women go into their respective rooms and shut the doors. They heard the sound of two bolts being shot and the turning of two keys.
Blore said with a grin:
‘No need to tell ’em to lock their doors!’
Lombard said:
‘Well, they’re all right for the night, at any rate!’ He went down again and the other followed him.
VII
The four men went to bed an hour later. They went up together. Rogers, from the dining-room where he was setting the table for breakfast, saw them go up. He heard them pause on the landing above.
Then the judge’s voice spoke.
‘I need hardly advise you, gentlemen, to lock your doors.’
Blore said:
‘And what’s more, put a chair under the handle. There are ways of turning locks from the outside.’
Lombard murmured:
‘My dear Blore, the trouble with you is you know too much!’
The judge said gravely:
‘Good night, gentlemen. May we all meet safely in the morning!’
Rogers came out of the dining-room and slipped half-way up the stairs. He saw four figures pass through four doors and heard the turning of four locks and the shooting of four bolts.
He nodded his head.
‘That’s all right,’ he muttered.
He went back into the dining-room. Yes, everything was ready for the morning. His eye lingered on the centre plaque of looking-glass and the seven little china figures.
A sudden grin transformed his face.
He murmured:
‘I’ll see no one plays tricks tonight, at any rate.’
Crossing the room he locked the door to the pantry. Then going through the other door to the hall he pulled the door to, locked it and slipped the key into his pocket.
Then, extinguishing the lights, he hurried up the stairs and into his new bedroom.
There was only one possible hiding-place in it, the tall wardrobe, and he looked into that immediately. Then, locking and bolting the door, he prepared for bed.
He said to himself:
‘No more china-soldier tricks tonight. I’ve seen to that…’
Chapter 11
I
Philip Lombard had the habit of waking at daybreak. He did so on this particular morning. He raised himself on an elbow and listened. The wind had somewhat abated but was still blowing. He could hear no sound of rain…
At eight o’clock the wind was blowing more strongly, but Lombard did not hear it. He was asleep again.
At nine-thirty he was sitting on the edge of his bed looking at his watch. He put it to his ear. Then his lips drew back from his teeth in that curious wolf-like smile characteristic of the man.
He said very softly:
‘I think the time has come to do something about this.’
At twenty-five minutes to ten he was tapping on the closed door of Blore’s room.
The latter opened it cautiously. His hair was tousled and his eyes were still dim with sleep.
Philip Lombard said affably:
‘Sleeping the clock round? Well, shows you’ve got an easy conscience.’
Blore said shortly:
‘What’s the matter?’
Lombard answered:
‘Anybody called you—or brought you any tea? Do you know what time it is?’
Blore looked over his shoulder at a small travelling clock by his bedside.
He said:
‘Twenty-five to ten. Wouldn’t have believed I could have slept like that. Where’s Rogers?’
Philip Lombard said:
‘It’s a case of echo answers where.’
‘What d’you mean?’ asked the other sharply.
Lombard said:
‘I mean that Rogers is missing. He isn’t in his room or anywhere else. And there’s no kettle on and the kitchen fire isn’t even lit.’
Blore swore under his breath. He said:
‘Where the devil can he be? Out on the island somewhere? Wait till I get some clothes on. See if the others know anything.’
Philip Lombard nodded. He moved along the line of closed doors.
He found Armstrong up and nearly dressed. Mr Justice Wargrave, like Blore, had to be roused from sleep. Vera Claythorne was dressed. Emily Brent’s room was empty.
The little party moved through the house. Rogers’ room, as Philip Lombard had already ascertained, was untenanted. The bed had been slept in, and his razor and sponge and soap were wet.
Lombard said:
‘He got up all right.’
Vera said in a low voice which she tried to make firm and assured:
‘You don’t think he’s—hiding somewhere—waiting for us?’
Lombard said:
‘My dear girl, I’m prepared to think anything of anyone! My advice is that we keep together until we find him.’
Armstrong said:
‘He must be out on the isl
and somewhere.’
Blore, who had joined them, dressed, but still unshaved, said:
‘Where’s Miss Brent got to—that’s another mystery?’
But as they arrived in the hall, Emily Brent came in through the front door. She had on a mackintosh. She said:
‘The sea is as high as ever. I shouldn’t think any boat could put out today.’
Blore said:
‘Have you been wandering about the island alone, Miss Brent? Don’t you realize that that’s an exceedingly foolish thing to do?’
Emily Brent said:
‘I assure you, Mr Blore, that I kept an extremely sharp look out.’
Blore grunted. He said:
‘Seen anything of Rogers?’
Miss Brent’s eyebrows rose.
‘Rogers? No, I haven’t seen him this morning. Why?’
Mr Justice Wargrave, shaved, dressed and with his false teeth in position, came down the stairs. He moved to the open dining-room door. He said:
‘Ha, laid the table for breakfast, I see.’
Lombard said:
‘He might have done that last night.’
They all moved inside the room, looking at the neatly set plates and cutlery. At the row of cups on the sideboard. At the felt mats placed ready for the coffee urn.
It was Vera who saw it first. She caught the judge’s arm and the grip of her athletic fingers made the old gentleman wince.
She cried out:
‘The soldiers! Look!’
There were only six china figures in the middle of the table.
II
They found him shortly afterwards.
He was in the little wash-house across the yard. He had been chopping sticks in preparation for lighting the kitchen fire. The small chopper was still in his hand. A bigger chopper, a heavy affair, was leaning against the door—the metal of it stained a dull brown. It corresponded only too well with the deep wound in the back of Rogers’ head…
III
‘Perfectly clear,’ said Armstrong. ‘The murderer must have crept up behind him, swung the chopper once and brought it down on his head as he was bending over.’
Blore was busy on the handle of the chopper and the flour sifter from the kitchen.
Mr Justice Wargrave asked:
‘Would it have needed great force, doctor?’
Armstrong said gravely:
‘A woman could have done it if that’s what you mean.’ He gave a quick glance round. Vera Claythorne and Emily Brent had retired to the kitchen. ‘The girl could have done it easily—she’s an athletic type. In appearance Miss Brent is fragile-looking, but that type of woman has often a lot of wiry strength. And you must remember that anyone who’s mentally unhinged has a good deal of unsuspected strength.’
The judge nodded thoughtfully.
Blore rose to his knees with a sigh. He said:
‘No fingerprints. Handle was wiped afterwards.’
A sound of laughter was heard—they turned sharply. Vera Claythorne was standing in the yard. She cried out in a high shrill voice, shaken with wild bursts of laughter:
‘Do they keep bees on this island? Tell me that. Where do we go for honey? Ha! ha!’
They stared at her uncomprehendingly. It was as though the sane well-balanced girl had gone mad before their eyes. She went on in that high unnatural voice:
‘Don’t stare like that! As though you thought I was mad. It’s sane enough what I’m asking. Bees, hives, bees! Oh, don’t you understand? Haven’t you read that idiotic rhyme? It’s up in all your bedrooms—put there for you to study! We might have come here straightaway if we’d had sense. Seven little soldier boys chopping up sticks. And the next verse. I know the whole thing by heart, I tell you! Six little soldier boys playing with a hive. And that’s why I’m asking—do they keep bees on this island?—isn’t it funny?—isn’t it damned funny…?’
She began laughing wildly again. Dr Armstrong strode forward. He raised his hand and struck her a flat blow on the cheek.
She gasped, hiccupped—and swallowed. She stood motionless a minute, then she said:
‘Thank you…I’m all right now.’
Her voice was once more calm and controlled—the voice of the efficient games mistress.
She turned and went across the yard into the kitchen saying: ‘Miss Brent and I are getting you breakfast. Can you—bring some sticks to light the fire?’
The marks of the doctor’s hand stood out red on her cheek.
As she went into the kitchen Blore said:
‘Well, you dealt with that all right, doctor.’
Armstrong said apologetically:
‘Had to! We can’t cope with hysteria on the top of everything else.’
Philip Lombard said:
‘She’s not a hysterical type.’
Armstrong agreed.
‘Oh no. Good healthy sensible girl. Just the sudden shock. It might happen to anybody.’
Rogers had chopped a certain amount of firewood before he had been killed. They gathered it up and took it into the kitchen. Vera and Emily Brent were busy, Miss Brent was raking out the stove. Vera was cutting the rind off the bacon.
Emily Brent said:
‘Thank you. We’ll be as quick as we can—say half an hour to three-quarters. The kettle’s got to boil.’
IV
Ex-Inspector Blore said in a low hoarse voice to Philip Lombard:
‘Know what I’m thinking?’
Philip Lombard said:
‘As you’re just about to tell me, it’s not worth the trouble of guessing.’
Ex-Inspector Blore was an earnest man. A light touch was incomprehensible to him. He went on heavily:
‘There was a case in America. Old gentleman and his wife—both killed with an axe. Middle of the morning. Nobody in the house but the daughter and the maid. Maid, it was proved, couldn’t have done it. Daughter was a respectable middle-aged spinster. Seemed incredible. So incredible that they acquitted her. But they never found any other explanation.’ He paused. ‘I thought of that when I saw the axe—and then when I went into the kitchen and saw her there so neat and calm. Hadn’t turned a hair! That girl, coming all over hysterical—well, that’s natural—the sort of thing you’d expect—don’t you think so?’
Philip Lombard said laconically:
‘It might be.’
Blore went on.
‘But the other! So neat and prim—wrapped up in that apron—Mrs Rogers’ apron, I suppose—saying: “Breakfast will be ready in half an hour or so.” If you ask me that woman’s as mad as a hatter! Lots of elderly spinsters go that way—I don’t mean go in for homicide on the grand scale, but go queer in their heads. Unfortunately it’s taken her this way. Religious mania—thinks she’s God’s instrument, something of that kind! She sits in her room, you know, reading her Bible.’
Philip Lombard sighed and said:
‘That’s hardly proof positive of an unbalanced mentality, Blore.’
But Blore went on, ploddingly, perseveringly:
‘And then she was out—in her mackintosh, said she’d been down to look at the sea.’
The other shook his head.
He said:
‘Rogers was killed as he was chopping firewood—that is to say first thing when he got up. The Brent wouldn’t have needed to wander about outside for hours afterwards. If you ask me, the murderer of Rogers would take jolly good care to be rolled up in bed snoring.’
Blore said:
‘You’re missing the point, Mr Lombard. If the woman was innocent she’d be too dead scared to go wandering about by herself. She’d only do that if she knew that she had nothing to fear. That’s to say if she herself is the criminal.’
Philip Lombard said:
‘That’s a good point…yes, I hadn’t thought of that.’
He added with a faint grin:
‘Glad you don’t still suspect me.’
Blore said rather shamefacedly:
‘I did start by thinking
of you—that revolver—and the queer story you told—or didn’t tell. But I’ve realized now that that was really a bit too obvious.’ He paused and said: ‘Hope you feel the same about me.’
Philip said thoughtfully:
‘I may be wrong, of course, but I can’t feel that you’ve got enough imagination for this job. All I can say is, if you’re the criminal, you’re a damned fine actor and I take my hat off to you.’ He lowered his voice. ‘Just between ourselves, Blore, and taking into account that we’ll probably both be a couple of stiffs before another day is out, you did indulge in that spot of perjury, I suppose?’
Blore shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. He said at last:
‘Doesn’t seem to make much odds now. Oh well, here goes, Landor was innocent right enough. The gang had got me squared and between us we got him put away for a stretch. Mind you, I wouldn’t admit this—’
‘If there were any witnesses,’ finished Lombard with a grin. ‘It’s just between you and me. Well, I hope you made a tidy bit out of it.’
‘Didn’t make what I should have done. Mean crowd, the Purcell gang. I got my promotion, though.’
‘And Landor got penal servitude and died in prison.’
‘I couldn’t know he was going to die, could I?’ demanded Blore.
‘No, that was your bad luck.’
‘Mine? His, you mean.’
‘Yours, too. Because, as a result of it, it looks as though your own life is going to be cut unpleasantly short.’
‘Me?’ Blore stared at him. ‘Do you think I’m going to go the way of Rogers and the rest of them? Not me! I’m watching out for myself pretty carefully, I can tell you.’
Lombard said:
‘Oh well—I’m not a betting man. And anyway if you were dead I wouldn’t get paid.’
‘Look here, Mr Lombard, what do you mean?’
Philip Lombard showed his teeth. He said:
‘I mean, my dear Blore, that in my opinion you haven’t got a chance!’
‘What?’
‘Your lack of imagination is going to make you absolutely a sitting target. A criminal of the imagination of U. N. Owen can make rings round you any time he—or she—wants to.’
And Then There Were None Page 12
